From "The Voyage" by Charles Baudelaire

Perhaps it all began the day I participated in a bush race in the Australian desert. I was invited to enter a horse race – me, the only woman and with white skin. Lost in the desert, in a furnace-like, dusty atmosphere, against all odds, I won the race in front of an audience of males who were stunned that a woman could beat them.

   Or perhaps it all started when I met my ex-partner, who introduced me to this country. It is thanks to him that I fell in love with the outback and decided to work with indigenous youth. These children seem neglected by the world, yet are still so enthusiastic and brimming with life. I tried for over ten years to give them the best of me, my energy, my imagination. I learned their language, traditions and way of life, especially their unique way of understanding nature and merging with the universe. Living in remote communities taught me to make do with little, to be self-sufficient and always find a solution. I have come to love this red dirt that I walk on with my bare feet. I am not scared of this nature – it never betrays me, even in the toughest situations. It is also thanks to this experience that I came across my first brumbies, these majestic wild horses, so resilient and tough but considered a pest by most. The desert is full of them. It was also in one of the indigenous communities that I adopted my dog, Foxy, a dingo cross (a cross with the Australian wild dog), my most precious friend.

  Shortly after I decided to trek the National Trail solo with three brumbies, Cooper, River and Roxanne, a journey of 5,330 kilometres across this raw continent from south to north, I stumbled by coincidence on the story of a woman, Robyn Davidson. She had walked across Australia from east to west with camels. If she could survive the trek across the deserts, I thought I should be able to manage my expedition along the spine of the east coast of Australia.

  After a year and a half of preparation, training wild horses, researching the trail, acquiring the right equipment and organizing the logistics, I set off. I spent 13 months trekking in all conditions imaginable – rough terrain, diverse weather and countless obstacles. One packhorse for all my camping and horse equipment and food rations, one riding horse and a horse at rest, rotating them every day. We became a family, my horses, my dog, Fox, and I. We created an intimate bond, travelling and living together. We shared camp life; they never trampled on anything. I came to know all of their intricate and different characters. At first it was very hard to find our pace, three horses travelling in harmony led by me, but after a few months and as the terrain eased we got better.

  I had to take a break to bypass a cyclone, endured a trip to a hospital in Townsville, experienced hunger from rationing supplies and the exhaustion and pain from the tropical fever which had started attacking my joints – I was diagnosed with Ross River fever but disregarded the doctor's advice to quit for a while. Just a week from finishing, my next challenge began: a throbbing, lightning-sharp pain in my heel, which instilled in me the fear of not being able to carry on.

  Cat, my amazing photographer friend, had joined me on foot for the last few weeks. I actually knew her for 5 minutes when I met her in London over a year ago through a common acquaintance. I had told her about my project and she volunteered to join me to document some of my expedition. It was a life gift to have met her and she followed through and came. She is the most resilient woman I know and a very talented photographer. Passionate about nomadic culture, she has had the experience of living with some of the last migratory tribes of the world. Her extraordinary ability to blend into people's lives and document their habits and culture is truly inspiring. During our time together on the trail, I walked on foot about a third of the day, but she walked all day every day with a backpack, enduring the heat, steep terrain and thick vegetation. We formed a really special friendship. She couldn't have arrived at a better time.

The fever makes me lethargic and weak but also gives me the most excruciating pain in my joints. In order just to function I take ridiculous amounts of painkillers and anti-inflammatory medication. I can hardly move my fingers, wrists and ankles. I resort to riding all day and falling off my horse in the late afternoon, screaming in pain as I try to stand with the immense pressure on my ankles. Cat's enthusiasm, help and easy-going attitude are a godsend. It's 15 June and I think, but with no certitude, that today marks the day we clock over 5,000 kilometres. I'm not attached to the number but the destination. Cooktown is my focus: it is the milestone in itself.

  That night we set up camp by a lake. Under a starry sky, next to the shimmering light of my campfire and with Fox's head on my lap, I anticipate my arrival in Cooktown. What will I do next? Three years of my life are coming to an end. I haven't thought beyond this point and the prospect of having a "normal life" is pretty daunting. In the morning, we are charmed by a beautiful sunrise reflecting in the lake, little clouds like a field of cotton against a soft light blue. Fifteen days from arriving in the town that has achieved mythical status in my imagination, I pull out my last guidebook of the National Trail. I am doing the trail backward, so I'm nearly at the start. After the ritual of 2 hours to pack down camp and get the horses ready, Cat and I are on the move again. The landscape is magic as we move along a ridge overlooking other mountains. This early in the morning the light is piercing through fog and shining on the bright, huge, white eucalyptus trunks and their umbrella of blue-green leaves. Scattered around like the indigenous elders of this country are a few "blackboys", or grass trees, which have this fascinating silhouette of a lean, black, charcoal-like trunk with a big, green, Afro-style hairdo. This native plant can grow to be hundreds of years old and, in some cases, up to 600 years old.

  We are coming down a mountain toward civilization, where I've organized a farrier to meet us and attend to my horses' feet. After 3,000 kilometres with the horses unshod or wearing "hoof boots" which can break easily, get lost and are extremely hard to put on, I decided to shoe them because they are footsore. If I had begun this journey with my horses shod, I would have had to include special stops for shoeing every six or so weeks. This is very costly and logistically not an easy task when you're in the middle of nowhere most of the time (the first three months were the most remote part of the trail).

  We negotiate the descent of the Great Dividing Range toward a small country town called Mutchilba, traversing old tobacco, fruit and rice plantations. Throughout the day I manage to forget the pain I am enduring by focusing on our navigation and surroundings. Every now and then I let out an uncontrollable scream of pain when I execute an unsuitable movement.

  Once at Mutchilba we wait for the farrier, grazing the horses on the roadside. After a short while, a Toyota four-wheel drive towing a trailer pulls up beside us. A gigantic long-bearded, red-haired brute with a cap and weird yellow glasses comes out to greet us. He is friendly enough, like most Australians, so all is good. He gets on with his job of caring for my horses' feet as a client of his pulls up to say hi. She seems intrigued by our journey and invites us to camp on her property nearby. The campsite mentioned in the guidebook didn't seem too appealing so we accept the kind offer.

  Cat jumps in with the farrier, along with our gear, and I take the opportunity to ride my horse bareback for a bit of a change. I am so happy to be able to trot and canter for once, bareback and leading a horse on either side of me. Cooper, River and Roxanne think it's fun too, to be free of the dead weight of the pack saddle that keeps us at a walk on the trail. When we arrive at the property I notice a smirk on Cat's face. She is the smiliest person I know, but this particular smile has a story. I find out later that the farrier's first question when she hopped into the car was: "So yous two are a bunch of carpet munchers?" with his real Queenslander accent. Cat got confused and responded that she had been eating fine on the trail but soon realized what he meant – his insinuation that two women travelling together in the bush had to be gay! I can't stop laughing. Carpet munchers – what a poet.

  Three days after leaving Mutchilba we climb the Great Dividing Range again in the most insane zigzags. It's quite common to be heading south at times before heading north again – the most frustrating feeling when you are so close to your goal and have been on the trail for over a year. We are heading toward Mount Molloy, winding through rugged and isolated old mining ranges, up and down a hundred gullies and bushy hills as far as the eye can see. It's becoming harder and harder to find our path as the "track" is increasingly overgrown. At a fork with several faint tracks, I hesitate and take a break to contemplate my navigation. Nothing makes sense. Reading the trail guidebooks backward has proven to be extremely challenging, especially when they read: "head west after the gully heading toward the next ridge, follow the top of the ridge heading north until a bunya pine, then follow the old fence…" but there's no fence any more!

  I waste time trying to make sense of these mud maps, or hand-drawn maps, and notes that are over 30 years old. Time is precious when you have to travel 30–40 kilometres a day at a walk, find water, find your next campsite, take care of your horses and make camp before dark. Frustrated and running out of sunlight, I decide to follow my nose and use my compass to head up a faint track in the direction we are supposed to be going. Cat trusts me so far – we never get lost.

  After a couple of hours of going up and down steep gullies, Cat and my horses are sweating profusely but don't complain. I can't walk because of the pain but after 3 hours and looking back at Cat's bright red face I get off and insist she takes my place on the horse. We are both as stubborn as each other. Luckily, I'm riding Roxanne today, my rock. I put Cat's backpack on and walk up a ridge, where I hope to see something and make sense of where we are. My nose hasn't been so good in this situation. The track I chose has taken us in the wrong direction for the last hour, but I had hoped it would change to a more favourable course. At the top of the ridge as we catch our breath, I look all around me and see nothing – nothing that looks like the old mining town we want to reach. Eventually I notice a tiny bit of smoke. Miles and miles away. That has to be it. There is no way we will get there in daylight. We need to find water before dark and backtrack tomorrow. I tell Cat we are not lost – we are just off track a little…

  I remember going across a gully a few kilometres back with a couple of puddles of water. Maybe I can find more water. When we arrive, I leave Cat and the horses and start up the rocky gully on foot. The Aborigines taught me that where there are big bulging rocks, there could be water… bingo! A nice waterhole with clear enough water for us and the horses – so lucky. Unfortunately, there is not much grass for the horses, but I fed them well at Mutchilba; they will cope. I am so relieved. We build camp in a hurry as the sun disappears behind the ranges. Tomorrow we will leave extra early and backtrack with the hope of finding our way to Kingsborough, a lost gold mine which counts one habitant, a gold prospector who arrived 30 years ago and remains part of the ruins.

  A couple of days on, we are still on our way to Mount Molloy, a historic mining site whose population has declined to 273 inhabitants. Mines are running out; young people are going to the cities. Mount Molloy has one main street, a few houses on either side and electric poles. In the past, a strong Chinese community cultivated vegetable gardens to feed miners.

  An update indicates that the trail to get to Mount Molloy is closed for the next three days. The trail is a living route and access changes according to the weather conditions and the owners of the large ranches. The route covered by maps nine to twelve in the guide is closed because of the lack of water and access to the route. More bushwhacking it is. As nerve-racking as it can be, it is also the most exhilarating and rewarding way to travel. When I find my way through the bush reading mud maps and relating them to the country it is very satisfying. East is our destination, across the divide again, toward the ocean. It's been long awaited! I've been longing to camp with my crew on the beach and this section of the trail is the only one close enough to the coast to allow it.

  Following a mostly dry riverbed, the area covered by map nine turns out to be OK in regard to navigation, but the only water available is less than appealing. A stagnant puddle of water and no grass is the only option for my companions. It's been a few days of very dry country and very little pasture for my dear friends. Rid of their loads, cleaned of their sweat, caressed and thanked, my steeds park themselves in front of us to beg as we have our little snack of sardines and biscuits. I explain to them that we've run out of treats and that I'll make it up to them in Mount Molloy. I am ashamed as I eat in front of them – it breaks my heart when I can't provide for them.

  The next morning, it's foggy, wet and hard to see the landscape around us. When bushwhacking I often follow cattle or wild-horse pads. ("Pads" is an Australian term for the tracks animals make through the bush to get from their grazing place to water or other grazing spots.) That way, if the terrain is challenging, like going through gullies or rivers, you know other animals have made it through. It's tough going in wet, thick, scrubby country and Cat, who's not very tall, loses our track from time to time and calls out to locate us. I stop regularly to study the landscape and choose our way, navigating through the bush. My horses travel in single file. We are all soaked. The gear gets heavier when it's wet, and my Driza-Bone feels like it weighs a tonne.

  After 6 hours of walking uninterrupted, I land exactly where I'd hoped! Back on an old stone path built long ago by pioneers. I can just see the remains of the path through the overgrown vegetation. We have been following this old route for a while when my horses come to a standstill with their ears pricked up in alert. Galloping out of the bushes ahead of us comes a mob of bay wild horses. Cat just misses them – she is too far back. It is such a beautiful experience to witness these animals in their environment, and I feel so grateful.

  We are almost out of the Hann Tableland National Park and this difficult section. What an epic few days. We've managed to get through despite the giant spear grass and the fact that this section of the trail is so isolated from mankind that nature has claimed it back. After a little break in Mount Molloy to fill my companions' bellies and pick up our food rations, we are a day away from the coast. The landscape has changed radically, from dry, hard and rocky into luxuriant tropical forests. We descend to the coast using an old coach road called the Bump Track. In the early days of colonization, it was a vital link for miners and settlers between Port Douglas and the hinterland after the discovery of gold in the area in 1877. All the artillery and explosives needed for the tin, copper and gold mines were transported by wagons pulled by horses and bullocks. A fourtonne wagon would have required 36 horses to pull it. Many of the livestock perished on this trek.

  The path sinks into a dense tropical jungle made up of gigantic trees. I feel miniature in this thick forest dotted with rays of light. Eventually a clearing through the trees offers a magnificent view of the ocean in the distance. This vision is overwhelmingly gratifying; up until this point the trail has sat 50–100 kilometres from the coast, so it's the first time I have seen the ocean since I left 13 months ago. Once we make it down the range, sugar cane, palm trees and civilization replace the bush.

  We are in a small town called Mossman, a week from Cooktown. After being stranded for four days under buckets of rain and camping in the stables of a rodeo ground, Cat helps me find a camping spot on the beach. Although locals have warned us about a 6-metre saltwater crocodile, I am determined to stay.

  Sadly, the next day Cat leaves us as she has other commitments and a plane to catch. We have trekked hard for six weeks with very little rest with the aim to reach the end together and the fever has really broken me. I need to recharge my batteries and there's nothing like the ocean for that. The scenery is magical and I jump on Cooper bareback for a gallop on the beach.

  Although the location is a fairy tale, I have pushed too far and my immune system is letting me down. I have this pain in my heel that hasn't gone away for a few days and is now throbbing terribly. The heat, redness and the abscess swelling suggest to me that it could be a staph infection. I know what it is because I have had it before, when living in remote Aboriginal communities, and they don't just go away. I have been ignoring it and it has got to the point where the throbbing pain keeps me up all night screaming. So close and yet still not there – I can't believe it. By the time I manage to get my horses to safety and seek help to get to hospital, the doctors tell me the infection is almost in the bone and could have been fatal.

  After a heavy dose of intravenous antibiotics, getting cut open and being forced to rest for four days, I disregard the doctors' advice of bed rest and leave to get back on my horses. My foot is strapped in a plastic bag and I'm unable to walk without a lot of pain, but I push on, trusting my horses through another tough section of the trail. The CREB Track, renowned for being a very challenging four-wheel-drive track, is closed due to rain. Being clay and extremely steep, the conditions are too dangerous for vehicles, but I have managed to get permission from the council to pass through on horseback. At my absolute wits' end, with two open wounds (on my heel and on my leg) in wet weather, I forge ahead. I have to cross a deep and wide river infested with crocodiles with my foot in a plastic bag and navigate the CREB Track in slippery conditions. I am joined by a film crew who want to capture the end of my odyssey. I hate them being there and it really slows me down. I am so determined to finish. So close. I am in a world of pain and I know ignoring the doctors' advice was not the safe option, but I have the end in sight.

  On 20 July I arrive in Cooktown. I get off my horse struggling to hold back a couple of tears, limping and staggering with my foot still in a plastic bag. I thank my horses, the heroes in this story who have carried me all this way. It is so surreal I don't know what words could best describe my emotions. A combination of happy, sad, utterly exhausted, lost, confused, proud and so relieved it is over. Three years of my life have come to an end.

It's only now, with some perspective, that I truly see and appreciate the growth, the experiences and the challenges the National Trail gave me. I used to say anyone could do this with the right preparation and yes, it was key for me to complete the entire trail with horses in such good condition, but it's a lot more than that. Anyone can prepare, but not everyone will actually go and finish a 13-month trek with all of the trials and tribulations that it presents. It took sheer determination and commitment. I fantasized that I had it before I left and, on reflection, I now know that I've honed it to a level I could never have expected.

  This wonderful experience cultivated within me an even deeper respect and connection with nature, animals and the planet we live on. The desire to thrive and nurture that in my everyday life has become paramount. The experience was enriching and fulfilling, providing countless challenges that have strengthened my character and emphasized my ability to push the boundaries. Some days I wanted to curl up under a tree and wait for someone to come and get me, but each and every time I restored my body just enough to keep going. Our comfort zone is all in the mind. Our bodies have the ability to excel way beyond the limits we initially set for ourselves.