You should’ve seen me.

I caught a high bomb on the wing and blew past the approaching defender. There was space ahead so I accelerated. White lightning. I dummied right, stepped left, and threw a pinpoint pass before my ankle collapsed under me.

Like I said: You should’ve seen me.

A colleague helped me from the field and lowered me into a chair. We’d been camping on Guugu Yimithirr Country for four days and Auntie Dora – one of the Traditional Owners – had missed what many are calling the Miracle on Grass.

Dora asked what happened, so I gestured towards the game and painted a picture between pained breaths. I pointed to the uneven ground, to the large divot I’d stepped into. ‘For a brief moment I was invincible,’ I told her, becoming increasingly dizzy. ‘Shit, Auntie. You should’ve seen me.’

And then everything blurred.

~

I held out hope for a bad sprain. I held out hope for a bad sprain but three words – deformed left ankle – put an end to it. The registered nurse had knocked off for the day but he returned to the remote clinic to conduct an x-ray. He confirmed the fracture, made a phone call, and raised the possibility of an ankle realignment. He’d have to drive me to Cooktown Hospital. He could realign the ankle himself but couldn’t guarantee adequate sedation without a doctor present.

The doctor and nurses were waiting in Cooktown. My ankle jutted sideways at an unnatural angle, but contrary to so many first dates, they said it looked better than it did in the photos.

More conversations were had, this time with the orthopaedic team at Cairns Hospital. They decided against realignment as I’d almost certainly require surgery. It might be a 10-day wait for surgery in Cairns so they said to go home. After a night in Cooktown Hospital, a five-hour drive to Cairns and an evening flight to Melbourne, I arrived at the Alfred’s emergency department just before midnight.

It was a triumphant return to Ward 5 West, the epicentre of Victoria’s thriving trauma scene. I enjoyed a weeklong stint here when I broke both my arms and this felt like something of a homecoming, especially after the nurses threatened a ward mate with an enema. I have fond memories of cheering on Carl, my former ward mate, as he attempted – heroically, brutally, utterly unsuccessfully – to push through codeine-induced constipation.

I remember, too, the man opposite me – name unknown – who’d been stabbed in the stomach multiple times. He never slept and my housemate and I had been forced to call the nurse when he fell eerily silent for five or so minutes. A Code Something was called. A nurse wheeled me out and brought in a defibrillator. Returning to the ward, we were surprised to see him sitting up in bed. Bright and alert and eager to talk.

‘Did you hear I died?’ he said.

‘We were the ones who called the nurse. How was it?’

‘I met the devil.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We’re friends now.’

‘Okay.’

You can understand my trepidation, then, when the man now lying opposite me – Peter: walrus moustache, leather jacket over his gown – theatrically welcomed me to what he’d dubbed ‘The House of Bones’.

Fantastic.

Peter said he’d been in hospital for 22 days; for the first 12 of those, he was in a coma. He came off his motorbike at 80km/h. Trees to the left and right but he smashed into a stump instead. Punctured lungs, multiple fractures and a cut artery. A millimetre in any direction and he would’ve been dead. ‘It’s made me think about the bigger picture,’ he said, on his way downstairs for a smoke.

I was moved into a private room with a view of an apartment block. As a low-risk patient, I didn’t need to be in the nurses’ line of sight. My primary nurse told me about his recent trip home to the Philippines. We spent what some might call an unreasonable amount of time discussing his pre-trip Brazilian wax, eventually agreeing that despite the aesthetic benefits, it wasn’t worth the discomfort.

When darkness fell, I scanned the apartment block across the road and watched the residents go about their lives. A few worked late at their desks, others sat comatose in front of the TV. One man walked naked through his apartment and cooked his dinner at the stove. He ate alone at the table and occasionally checked his phone. I let the nurse know and he rushed to the window to see for himself; sadly, the man had already washed up. The nurse gave me my pain meds and ensured my call button was in reach. I was to buzz him if the naked man returned.

~

The surgeons repaired my ankle with plates and screws and a titanium ‘TightRope’ threaded through two newly drilled holes. My deformed left ankle was officially a comminuted Weber B fracture.

Nobody had mentioned the word ‘comminuted’ before. I learned that it’s a severe break where the bone – in this case the fibula – shatters into three or more pieces. These breaks are typically caused by high-impact trauma from a car crash or severe fall; in rare cases, they can also be the result of a 36-year-old man legend playing two minutes of touch football with the teenagers he was supposedly responsible for.

It’s now Tuesday: a week since the accident, four days since surgery. I’m in an abysmal mood and my recent calendar notifications – “Reminder: your flight to Madrid departs today”, “Reminder: Train to Oviedo tomorrow” – aren’t helping.

Had this accident not happened, I would, at this moment, be taking my first steps on the Camino Primitivo – a 320km walk from Oviedo, in northern Spain, to Santiago de Compostela. I’ve been thinking about this route, which crosses the Cantabrian Mountains, for a decade and was convinced that a spiritual awakening awaited somewhere along the lonely high plains. The third Camino is a charm, right?

There was also a wedding to attend in Bordeaux. Family to see in Belfast. An ungodly amount of Guinness to be consumed in the tiny towns dotting the Wild Atlantic Way. Instead, I am laid up in bed. My foot is elevated 23 hours a day and I’ve swapped vino tinto for a thrilling combination of oxycodone and laxatives, having declined the “mini enema” offered to me before leaving hospital.

The pain is worse, I think, than anything I’ve experienced. It’s a searing pain, a burning pain. It’s electric shocks and a thwump thwump thwump whenever I lower my leg and the blood rushes back to the wound. Apparently this is normal. Apparently an ankle fracture really is Quite Shit.

A kind friend messages to say his broken ankle was worse than his broken back. ‘Far more painful in the immediate aftermath and more physically limiting too,’ he confirms. ‘Thought you’d appreciate knowing that.’

It’s unhelpful, certainly, but he also invites me to test out his new metal detector once I’m capable of walking. I’m pleased to hear there is gold in the hills. There is still so much to live for.

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This was years ago, back when I had few reasons to say no to things. I’ve grown up now. We all have. I’m an expert at rationalising my way out of doing the things I enjoy. We all are. I posit that this is a problem. Let’s work on it together.

Handsome Phil and I went to university together. Physical attractiveness was not a course prerequisite. On the day he came by my apartment, I’d just dropped out of postgraduate study. He’d been hiking the Great South West Walk near the South Australian border. He told me it was insane. He hoped to return and paddle the Glenelg River, which he’d hiked beside for days. I said I wanted to get out of the city and a seed was sown. That seed was immediately fertilised and a plan(t) was born. We were motivated. We had time on our hands. What we didn’t have was a canoe or a kayak or anything resembling a seaworthy vessel.

One of us came up with an idea. The other said yes. I can’t remember who played which role – does it matter? What’s important is that the other person said yes. It takes two to tango. It takes two to split petrol. It certainly takes two to construct the most beautiful raft you’ve ever seen.

I feel an inordinate amount of pride thinking back on this. I’m proud of Handsome Phil and myself for having the confidence – the chutzpah – to believe in our plan, to take the first step assuming the rest would work itself out.

We drove west with the Glenelg River pinned on our map. I can’t tell you where we were heading, exactly. I can’t tell you where we stopped to salvage materials for the raft either. Was it a waste centre in Geelong? A dump in Colac? It’s not important. What matters is the haul: two wooden pallets, plastic drums for buoyancy, a square of AstroTurf for aesthetic purposes and rolls of tape and rope to hold the thing together.

We chose a launch point upriver. Again, I can’t remember where. It could’ve been any of the canoe camps accessible by car. Red Gum Landing, Skipworth Springs, Sapling Creek – the names all sound familiar. I imagine we began thirty or forty kilometres from the river mouth at Nelson. We spoke about reaching the ocean within four days. This seemed achievable. It still does.

I suppose I was the raft-building expert. After school, I worked at an outdoor camp in the UK and ran raft-building sessions in pelting rain. We were provided with plastic barrels, made-to-measure logs and just the right amount of rope to lash it all together. I remember a young boy getting his prosthetic leg caught in the ropes. He twisted around and lost the limb. Fortunately, it floated. Fortunately, he did too. What I’m trying to say is this: I can build a pretty strong raft.

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And build a raft we did. Lady Nuss – as Handsome Phil and I christened her – was a thing of beauty. We tied down our gear, carried her to the jetty, grabbed our paddles and pushed away from the bank.

Mates –

Believe me when I say she was glorious. Heed me when I say a ship in harbour is safe but that’s not what ships are for. We were Huck and Jim without the racist undertones. We were Moana and Maui without the Pasifika representation.

We were Shackleton’s Endurance.

Magellan’s Trinidad.

We were…

…we were…

…we were not actually moving.

Ah.

Handsome Phil may be easy on the eyes, but he’d failed to use his own. He spent days hiking beside the river but never noticed the distinct lack of current. On the day we launched, the wind barely blew. We had paddles made of sticks and Duct tape. We made painfully slow progress.

Did Handsome Phil’s tanned shoulders ripple in the afternoon light? Yes, yes. Of course they did. What kind of question is that? But alas, we went nowhere.

Lady Nuss had buoyancy issues. The deck was submerged in an inch of water. We couldn’t continue with both of us on board, so we took turns diving off the back of the raft and acting as a motor. We pushed with our hands. Kicked with our feet. Made puttering noises with our lips. Eventually, we tied up. We were wet, exhausted and further from the ocean than we could’ve imagined.

But all was not lost. Though we had a problem, we also had wine and snacks. We had copies of Harry Potter and a roaring fire to read beside. These were simpler times, too. J.K. Rowling was yet to develop a taste for controversy. I was yet to develop a taste for pinot noir. Merlot was swilled from the bottle. Purple thermals were worn.

O, Lord.

Forgive us our trespasses.

The second day mirrored the first. We paddled and swam and pushed and swore. Again we set up camp. Again we lit a fire. 100 points to Gryffindor. We feigned optimism, we pretended to hold out hope. Morning came and we made the heart-wrenching decision to leave Lady Nuss in our non-existent wake. It had taken two full days to travel that distance. It took less than two hours to walk back to the car.

Defeated, we drove to Nelson. We wanted to see the ocean. We owed that much to Lady Nuss. To celebrate – to commiserate – we stopped by the pub for a feed. Here, we were met by a man with a swastika tattooed on his face. A hulking frame in the doorway. A throbbing temporal vein.

Listen: his heavy breathing.

Listen: my pounding heart.

It sounds like the start of an erotic thriller.

When you’re with Handsome Phil, everything does.

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Stoked to share a newly published piece about Lake Mungo and Aunty Tanya Charles for We Are Explorers. I’ve worked with Tanya, a NPWS Discovery Ranger, on a number of student immersion programs and always find time spent with her to be incredibly informative and special. She sat with me to talk about what makes Mungo such a special place when we visited her in October last year.

Read it on We Are Explorers

It’s late afternoon and I’m walking through the lunettes in Mungo National Park with my partner and a small group of visitors. We’re following Aunty Tanya Charles, a proud Mutthi Mutthi woman and Discovery Ranger, across the parched earth that once formed the silty bottom of Lake Mungo.

Despite the lateness of the day, the heat is relentless. Sunset can’t come soon enough. We’re surrounded by dirt and dust. Fine sand and dry scrub. This all served with a side of disbelief as Tanya shares this Country’s stories with us.

Aunty Tanya knows Lake Mungo better than anyone. She’s worked as a Discovery Ranger for 20 years and been caring for this land even longer. For her, Mungo is one of the most sacred places in Australia.

‘You have to be a special person to come here’, she explains. ‘People are scared to travel on dirt roads. You wouldn’t believe how scared they can be. It’s all about the unknown but those that do come, I think they’re special people. They deserve to be here.’

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This is my fourth time on Country with Aunty Tanya. In the past, I’ve visited as part of my job facilitating student immersions on First Nations homelands. I remember walking through the lunettes with a ten-year-old boy on one of my first immersions. As we approached the eroded dunes that mark the lake’s eastern shore, he began crying. His teacher and I were quick to check in with him as we were concerned about heat exhaustion.

We asked if everything was okay and the boy nodded. ‘It’s just overwhelming’, he said. ‘Everything here is so old.’

The kid wasn’t wrong. The lakebed contains three distinct layers. The Zanci layer – a pale brown colour – is the most recent, deposited 15,000–25,000 years ago. The Mungo layer spans 25–50,000 years and the red Gol Gol layer, which is the oldest, dates back over 100,000 years. It’s no wonder Aunty Tanya describes this place as an ancient museum.

‘You’ve got your own museums in your cities and towns’, she says. ‘You’ve got things locked away. But out here, nothing’s locked away. It’s an education centre. It’s about, you know, passing our knowledge down.’

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A note on People & Places

You may have noticed this newsletter has a paid subscription option. This works as a kind of tip jar, I suppose, so if you’d like to offer monetary support, please consider becoming a paid subscriber below. For now there is no difference in what you receive as a free or paid subscriber. You’re appreciated either way, but becoming a paid subscriber will help me write more interesting things more often – thanks again for being here.

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I arrived home yesterday after a month of working with student groups in Fiji and New Zealand. Having spent these four weeks immersed in all things Gen Z, I am equal parts hopeful and terrified for the future. In other words: business as usual.

A few new articles were published while I was away, which you may have [seen/read/ignored/reported] already. I figured I’d share them below in case you’re yet to [see/read/ignore/report]. Big ups to We Are Explorers and Adventure.com for the opportunity to take them on. And to – the poor bastard – for taking photos and suffering through five days on the road with me.

I Lost the Crowds & Found Victoria’s Most Underrated Region on a Road Trip to Wimmera Mallee (for We Are Explorers)

…I want to talk about dachshunds. I want to know how the Wimmera Mallee became the sausage dog capital of Australia – possibly the world – yet nobody can tell me why. I want to understand the social, political, cultural, and economic conditions that led to Jake and me encountering more Wimmeran wieners than tourists over the course of our five-day road trip. In short, I want to know what the hot-dog hell is going on.

These dogs were everywhere. It’s as if they roamed wild. We visited Edenhope’s Dachshund Museum in search of answers but it was closed. I bailed up a local at the Pub in the Scrub and he became defensive. Swore there were no secrets. He said, ‘They’re just good dogs, aren’t they?’. It sounded more like a threat than a question.

I’m telling you this because you might love sausage dogs. The idea of travelling to Edenhope for the Day of the Dackel, during which ‘the fastest wiener in the west’ is crowned, might set your soul alight. It might even fill the sausage-shaped hole in your heart.

I’m also telling you this to illustrate a point: the Wimmera Mallee is full of surprises.

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In search of a mythical wave in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands (for Adventure.com)

Ben Weiland and Brian Davis are very comfortable being uncomfortable. Call it an unavoidable consequence of filming in the planet’s most remote reaches.

And though Iceland, Alaska and the Aleutian Islands are a far cry from San Diego, where the two are based, there’s something about these rugged, inhospitable landscapes that speaks to them. Their latest film, The Search for Volcano Island, is a testament to that.

The film, released in 2024, follows a group of Californian surfers trawling the Aleutian Islands, a remote archipelago in the north Pacific Ocean that stretches westward from the Alaskan Peninsula, in search of waves. One wave, in particular. These are wild waters, and Ricky McDevitt—the driving force of the surf group—is chasing a mythical wave he believes will break in the shadow of an Aleutian volcano.

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Road-tripping the Wimmera Mallee (for We Are Explorers)

…after a fun adventure clambering around Baileys Rocks, we continued to the Dergholm Hotel – AKA The Pub in the Scrub – and set up camp in an adjacent field. Having been informed that the best part of the Wimmera Mallee is the old-fashioned country hospitality, we joined the locals and enjoyed what some might consider one beer too many.

Isolation is a major issue for remote communities and while pubs like The Dergy can struggle financially, they play a crucial role. As one bloke put it, ‘The job will be there tomorrow, but you might not be, so come out for a beer’. He didn’t have to tell us twice.

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I mean, to think I existed as someone who had not …

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Have you always wanted to run a marathon as the front half of a t…

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Six weeks ago, I did what I do best: pulled the plug on a reasonably well-paying job to pursue other opportunities. I won’t bore you with the details, but I’m trying out this new thing called believing in myself. I am trying, as I enter the latter half of my thirties, to take some things seriously. And this is why I’m asking for your help.

Having created the conditions in which I have more time than ever to write what I want, I’m now experiencing what Kierkegaard called the “dizziness of freedom”. I’ve become overwhelmed by the infinite possibilities before me and can’t shake the feeling that I’m floating, untethered, through Australian Eastern Standard Time and space.

For the past two years I’ve sent out profiles of adventurous people, stories about my own experiences and – somewhat concerningly – interviews with myself.

Now, I’m genuinely curious to know which of these you’ve connected with. Or why you choose to open these emails instead of unsubscribing. I’ve never really asked, and according to the employer-funded “business coach” I treated as a therapist, my motivation for writing comes down to a desire to connect. So, uh, yeah. I guess I want to do more of that moving forward.

Please know this is not an exercise in narcissism; rest assured that if you do have something nice to say, there’s no way I’ll believe it. All I’m trying to do is decide where to focus my time and attention, so if you’ve got thoughts on what’s resonated – or why you’re still here reading instead of drafting a cease and desist letter – I’d be forever grateful. Even a quick “more profiles,” “more personal stuff,” or “become an accountant” (hi Dad!) would help me chart a path.

Yours qualitatively,

Patrick Box[w]all
Live from Melbourne

Lisa begins crying between the Twelve Apostles and our lunch stop. I suppose it's my fault. I asked the group to share their favourite apostle, both biblical and geological, and Lisa's contribution – 'Paul!' – was swiftly shot down by Rose, the woman next to her.

'Not Paul,' Rose groaned. 'He was the worst one. Misogynistic bastard.'

Unsurprisingly, this …

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I suppose I wanted to get under the skin of the city, to wear its skyline as a coat. I wanted to believe, deep in my bones, that I hadn’t made a mistake by moving. Which is why I put myself to task one autumn evening: I cut my toenails, gathered my strength and plunged headfirst into the Devil’s womb.

Whoa.

No shit. I navigated the River Styx, snuck past Cerberus, descended to the 7th Circle of Hell and crawled between Satan’s chafed red thighs to make my home in the spiciest incubator known to humankind – a hot yoga studio.

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I wasn’t the only one to have taken up residence in the offensively moist space. Bodies lay scattered in the darkness; big bodies, small bodies, bodies contorted into unnatural shapes. In the far corner, an elderly man’s soft moans provided a grounding vibration in the hellish landscape.

I’d tried yoga before, but never hot yoga. Walking home, I saw a cheap beginner’s deal and thought: fuck it. I was feeling my 26(ish) years, had little-to-no spiritual meaning in my life and, more importantly, I would’ve sold my soul to stretch another centimetre or two in height. What did I have to lose besides four kilos of water weight?

I was met at the womb’s entrance – Satan’s cervix, to be anatomically accurate – by a woman named Tina. She handed me a towel and reminded me that this would be a strenuous experience. Warned but not wary, I lay my towel on the pelvic floor and took a seat. Sweat sprang from a profusion of pores as Tina confirmed the temperature was 38 degrees. I let out a low whistle – a kettle on the boil – but was the only person in the room to be audibly impressed. Contrary to my first impression, the people around me appeared to be not only surviving, but thriving.

Tina encouraged us to close our eyes and listen to our natural rhythms.

“What is your body saying to you?” she said.

“Get out of here,” my soul whimpered back.

“Is there any chatter happening?”

“I’m drowning in my own juices.”

Hush, soul.

People will hear.

Confident we’d resolved our inner issues, Tina proceeded to take us through a range of asanas. I convulsed like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth and begging for water. Tina sensed my distress and instructed me to move from rabid to downward dog. I was relieved to feel the blood move to my already flushed face as efficiently as possible.

“Now hold your pose and raise your eyes,” she said. “Look to the side and say hello to your neighbour. Go on, give them a wink.”

No worries, Tina.

I turned to my left and dead-eyed the woman next to me. More of a spasm than a neighbourly greeting, but no harm done as she refused to acknowledge the heaving monstrosity beside her. I looked to my right and was thrilled to see a man who appeared to be even worse off than me. I winked and gave him a knowing smile, as if I was enjoying myself.

We’ve all been there, mate.

This, too, shall pass.

I lowered my gaze and blinked back a salty concoction of sweat and tears. I prayed the man next to me might go into cardiac arrest so I could sneak out Satan’s back door and never return. But the bastard kept breathing; in and out of his nose, as instructed by Tina – blessed Tina! – who was quick to remind us of the calmness, the clarity, the celestial high we were tapping into simply by being there.

“Turning up is half the battle,” she enthused, before inviting us to marinate in the space for as long as we wished.

I declined, opting to mop up the mess surrounding my mat instead. And having seen to my swampy surrounds, I made a break for freedom only to find my sweat-slicked soles sliding across the studio’s wooden floor. I knew not what awaited me in the Melbourne evening – a turmeric latté, perhaps – but anything, save for a shot of hot sauce, would’ve been an improvement.

I knew Tina was right, though. Turning up was half the battle. It still is. And as I exited Satan’s womb in one pliable – albeit swollen – piece, I delighted in the fiery sky guiding me home, in the way the last light danced across the discarded syringes decorating St Kilda’s streets.

I knew I would not be returning to this godforsaken place, but I would remain open, I promised, to possibility. To this new life and the potential of the city. Because I’d learned what it means to be born again in the fires of hell. I understood what it took to shed one’s blistered skin and rise blissed-out from the ashes.

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Ken fiddles with his glasses. Tugs at the frayed hem of his jumper. He fixes me with …

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Though I’ve outed myself as a pro-Putin puppet, Ben is willing to give me a second chance. And he’s quick to reassure me that he made the same mistake when he arrived in Kharkiv, the Ukraine’s second-largest city, in September last year. Just 10 kilometres from the frontline with Russia, Kharkiv is a far cry from Bordeaux, where Ben had been filming winemakers and mega-mansions only months earlier.

‘I love that life and it pays the bills,’ Ben says of his time immersed in vineyards and infinity pools, ‘but you need balance. Volunteering and the humanitarian side of things have always been pretty integral to my self-identity. And my happiness, to be honest. I don't really imagine a future where I have lots of money. My values system is based on: am I part of a community? Am I contributing to that space?’

It was this need for balance that motivated Ben, upon returning home to Melbourne, to put out a call for humanitarian work. Within 24 hours, an ex-military mate named Dave reached out. They’d met during the Mallacoota bushfires of 2019/20 while working on Operation Veteran Assist; a program in which veterans came together to help people protect their properties from the encroaching inferno. Dave told Ben he was travelling to Ukraine to work with a veteran-run training camp. Would he be interested in joining?

‘Dave spoke to the groups on the ground and they gave approval within 24 hours,’ Ben says. ‘And then I needed to make a decision. It was a big deal and the briefing was very loose. Kharkiv is one of the cities Putin wants and it’s been a massive target.’

Ben’s instinct was to go all in. He recognised, however, that this was an emotional response. He needed to relax, to think about it. He had family and friends to consider.

‘I have a pretty healthy – maybe unhealthy – appetite for risk, so I was talking through the idea with my close friends. I had lots of chats and 99% of them involved my friends saying, “You're an idiot.” But I love being in those environments and pushing my comfort zone. It’s when I feel the most calm and useful, the most like myself. And the most valuable, too, because my skill set is being used in the best way possible.’

As Ben weighed up his decision, Dave sent through more information about Allied Extract, the organisation they’d be working with. The base they’d be travelling to had been bombed twice already. People had died. It was a serious scenario, so the two agreed that if they went, they would stay in body armour the entire time, sleep in corridors, and have as much intel as possible before entering the red zone.

‘I wanted to go because it sounded like an adventure, but I was highly aware that this is a very selfish mindset,’ Ben says. ‘The pivot point came when I was talking to Hugh [the leader of Allied Extract]. He told me about the people on the ground – how Ukrainians felt like the world had forgotten about them. Like, a lot of the frontline soldiers were normal kids two years ago. Now they're getting shot at and their friends are being blown up. The morale boost from having foreigners come in, even if it’s just to prove that the world hasn't forgotten about them, was something that really stuck in my mind.’

Visualisation is an important part of Ben’s process. It’s something he’ll do constantly when he’s walking into a strange scenario; Afghanistan, for example, where he worked with World Vision to cover the development of women’s rights.

‘You need to be prepared, so that when things happen, you’ve got a basic plan. You don’t want to be left flat-footed. I imagined myself in certain situations and went through the process of what would happen if, you know, we were blown up, or we saw someone else getting blown up. There are fifteen air raids a day, but what if there’s a ground invasion?’

Dave didn’t beat around the bush. ‘We’ve just got to be prepared that a grenade might get thrown in and everyone gets shot.’

‘Everything shifts when you have a choice to say yes or no,’ Ben says, reflecting on his decision to go. ‘You question your identity and values. There’s this crazy internal conversation you’re constantly having, like I’m a horrible person if I don’t go into this war zone, even though I was the one who suggested going. After all of that, I was like, yeah, I’m going. There’s no way I’m not.’

With his decision made, Ben felt happier. Calmer. Like he was in control. A week-and-a-half later, he hopped on a plane to Poland. The only problem? Dave was stuck in Perth with their body armour.

‘Things got a bit chaotic,’ says Ben. ‘Everyone told me that if I was going to go, I should go with Dave because he was the best and could keep me as safe as possible. Then I found myself in Poland, and on my way to Kyiv, without body armour or the military contact who had organised the whole thing.’

Dave would be stuck for at least a couple of days. Ben had a tight time window so he chose to continue to Kharkiv on his own, arriving at the station at the beginning of an air raid.

‘Imagine pulling into Flinders Street [station, in Melbourne] and everyone’s phone is fucking blaring because there’s an emergency. We had to go under the station for safety and wait for something to hit or a green light to say it was clear.’

Once the all clear was given, Ben met up with Chris, a British veteran, who gave him a crash course on the sounds made by various missiles and drones. These ones are scary, these ones aren’t, and this is how you should respond to each.

‘I’d been in that kind of environment before,’ Ben says, ‘where you’re constantly pre-empting stress. Staying calm and relying on data, rather than emotions, is really important.’

Though his past experience was helpful, Ben found it was actually his lack of expertise that helped keep him calm. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

‘I’m not a soldier, so I don’t have all the information,’ he explains. ‘As people jumped to conclusions about this and that, I was like, I have no idea what’s happening, so there’s no point in me stressing about this. I found that made it a lot easier. You can only control what you can control. Otherwise, you try to make the right decisions and make sure you have exit strategies. There are simple things too, like knowing which side of the building you’re on. If Russia is to the north and there’s an air raid, make sure you’re not on the north side of the building.’

Ben linked up with Trident Defense Initiative (TDI), a subsidiary of Allied Extract that runs training for the treatment of medical issues on the frontline. His objective? Tell the human stories so that Allied Extract can approach more private donors to expand and continue TDI’s work, which extends to supporting orphanages and rescuing animals.

‘TDI is literally keeping people alive,’ Ben says. ‘The numbers are amazing. What it actually looks like is Ukrainian medics coming in to do a one or two-week course with professional soldiers from the US, Britain, Australia, or wherever. It's warfare emergency training that’s privately run on just $20,000 USD a month, which is [comparatively] nothing. But because of everything happening in the Middle East, a lot of this funding has been redirected.’

Ben’s brief was loose to the point of non-existent. The training is run for soldiers, by soldiers, so media fluency and storytelling remains a low priority. He was given full access and had to figure it out himself on the ground.

‘I wanted to get a cross-section of stories and perspectives,’ Ben says. ‘International volunteers, soldiers on the ground, locals – I didn’t have a strict agenda because we didn’t know what we would find. It was more about having conversations, experiencing it firsthand. I feel like I’ve only just started scratching the surface of these stories.’

From a professional perspective, Ben considers the project a success. They were able to deliver an outcome: stories, photos and videos. On a personal level, however, he feels like it was just the beginning; a brief glimpse into war and its impact on human beings from a non-military perspective.

‘It was more about the human experience than Ukraine vs Russia,’ he says. ‘How the war affects people and their communities. The stories we heard, and are now telling, are fundamentally the same as what's happening in the Middle East, Somalia or any conflict zone. That’s what I’m really interested in – reminding people that humans are living through this, instead of focusing on politics. The reality of war is that some poor guy is fighting another poor guy, and in any other scenario, they probably would have been mates.’

For Ben, it was the stories of the volunteers – foreign fighters who had flown in – that he found most incredible. Primarily because he had just asked himself the same questions they had, like “Why the fuck would I do this?” and “Why put yourself into this scenario when you don’t have to?”

Many of the volunteers had good lives back home. Partners and kids. But they told Ben they couldn’t sit by and watch what was happening. It was an honour thing.

‘They see this as World War III,’ Ben explains. ‘Every nation is represented on one side or the other. The repercussions of this war, along with what's happening in the Middle East, will shape the future we live in. In Australia, we have the luxury of pretending this doesn’t affect us. But we are heavily involved and have a say in how we respond. What are our values? Do we stand by, or do we take action? It’s relevant for everyone, especially now as we watch the atrocities in Gaza. It's one thing to have an opinion, but opinions are pointless without action.’

One of the more impactful interactions, which Ben shared on One Human Travels, was a conversation he had with a boy on the 32-hour bus journey back to Poland. The bus was mostly full of women, as no men can leave Ukraine because of conscription, but a 17-year-old boy took the seat next to him.

‘He was just the nicest kid,’ Ben says. ‘He realised I didn’t speak Ukrainian and started translating everything for me. The bus system was chaotic, as you might expect in Eastern Europe, but he took it upon himself to help me navigate everything. A good person, someone who saw a stranger struggling and decided to help. Without any common language, he started exchanging food with me, using Google Translate, and even gave me his hotspot when he saw my phone wasn’t working.’

Ben learned that the boy’s mother had sent him to Warsaw because he was 17. If he turned 18 in Ukraine, he’d be drafted into the army. His mother had left months earlier but couldn’t find a job; now, he was displaced too. He’d left his family, friends and girlfriend behind to try and find work.

‘It reminded me of the stories we hear about World War I and II,’ Ben says. ‘The ones we tend to romanticise. But these stories are happening every single day throughout the region right now. It’s a horrific scenario, but what was really profound, for me at least, was that this kid had been in a war zone the past few years and still had the humanity to help someone who was in a far more privileged position than himself. It put a human face to a really fucked and violent situation.’

The Ukrainian people proved to be incredibly optimistic and strong. Humour was at the centre of everything and Ben couldn’t believe how positive everyone was.

‘What I found incredible was the town square – you’ve got the post office, government building and banks, which have all been boarded up. You can see where the missile hit in Kharkiv and the street was destroyed. And then, on the next corner, you’ve got a cool, modern restaurant and a nightclub. It could be any affluent European city. The juxtaposition is striking – the reality of war and the reality of dealing with war. I found a great little café and some amazing restaurants. There’s a scene. Fashion is on-trend and the city feels alive. People are fighting through oppression.’

Though Ben has now returned to Melbourne, he says he’s itching get back to Ukraine. The project gave him an opportunity to refocus his life and reflect on what he considers important: storytelling focused on recovery and human spirit, on the people behind the conflict.

As he says in a video highlighting his time in Kyiv, ‘War doesn’t typically find the men who start it. War finds the children, it finds the women, it finds the old, and it finds the innocent – and it forces them underground.’

If nothing else, Ben’s work is bringing their stories to the surface.

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Ben McNamara is a 4x finalist in the National Portrait Prize and an 8x finalist in the Australian Photography Awards. His films have been screened at Cannes and Tribeca. Follow him and his work at One Human Travels and Benemac.com.

One moment I was bombing downhill through Melbourne’s tree-lined, tram-tracked suburbs; the next, I was soaring through the air – a flailing, flannel-clad Icarus – and greeting the bitumen like an old friend.

Miraculously, I was okay.

Or that’s what I told the man who rushed across the street to check on me. I sho…

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Sliding into your inbox today to share three pieces I’ve had published in recent months:

1. A profile of Tom Turcich (the 10th person to walk the world) for Adventure.com.

2. A reflection on walking pilgrimages for Freely Travel.

3. A guide to walking the Shikoku Henro for We Are Explorers.

I know, I know – it’s a lot of walking. In my defence, I really like walking and have been doing it for the majority of my life. I’ve shared some snippets below.

Meet the man who took his dog for a walk around the world

I was stoked to jump on a call with Tom Turcich, the 10th person to walk around the world, to talk about his seven-year stroll alongside Savannah, his dog.

Tom writes here on Substack and published his memoir The World Walk late last year. We spoke about a whole bunch of things for Adventure.com.

“I think the key is not having such high expectations of your life. And not expecting every day to fulfill your greatest desire or provide spiritual peace. The thing is to pay attention where you are. Be like Savannah, I guess. Take in the moment.” – Tom Turcich.

Read it on Adventure.com.

The magic of a bloody long walk

Last year I won the writing category of the Moments Competition, run by Aussie publishers We Are Explorers. The category was sponsored by Freely Travel, who asked if there was anything else I wanted to write. This story was the result – a short reflection on walking long distances for no particular reason.

“It’s addictive, this walking, in ways I still struggle to explain. Maybe it’s the forward momentum. The act of moving alongside others. Travelling in the same direction with the same intention.

Whatever it is, I’ve come to understand you can’t carry both armour and a backpack; to throw the latter over your shoulder, you have to discard the former.

It’s an invitation, I think, a way of letting the world know you’re open for business. And business – on these paths, at least – is booming.” – uh, me, lol.

Read the rest on Freely.

Shikoku Henro: walk the entire length of Japan’s ancient Buddhist pilgrimage

In March last year, I walked the 1200km Shikoku Henro pilgrimage around the Japanese island of Shikoku. The good folks at We Are Explorers agreed to let me write up a quick guide to walking the pilgrimage, if that’s of interest to you at all.

You can also read an interview I did about the walk here. And yes, I did interview myself. Get over it. Anyway – here are some snaps from the five-week walk, and here’s the how-to guide on We Are Explorers.

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We called him Naked Red Calf.

He fell from the top bunk and the slap of skin on concrete woke everyone in the room. I wasn’t there, but I’m told they turned on the lights and saw him splayed out on the ground, groaning.

He was naked.

He had sunburned calves.

He was – will always be – Naked Red Calf.

I met him in Pamplona. Day four of the Camino de Santiago. When I asked how he was going, he pulled a ziplock bag from his pocket and held it to the soft evening light. ‘I’ve been feeding my brother to the cows,’ he said, beaming. I slowly backed away.

We crossed paths often. Walked and talked. He came from North Carolina and had struggled, he said, with addiction issues. His brother had succumbed to them. The walk to Santiago was an opportunity to straighten himself out; to honour his brother, who no longer walked beside him.

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‘Can I be honest?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’

‘I’m not sure about the feeding-your-brother-to-the-cows thing.’

‘It’s what he would’ve wanted,’ he replied, no hint of a smile.

Many walk the path to Santiago as an exercise in healing. In shedding the past and stepping into whatever comes next. But the future, if it comes, doesn’t always come easy, and Naked Red Calf understood that better than any of us. He soon picked up an injury; an ankle, I think. We encouraged him to rest, to take some time, but he didn’t want to fall behind.

He was stubborn. He pushed his body to breaking point. Most evenings, I’d watch from a shaded table as he hobbled across a plaza in search of a place to crash. He’d eventually appear with a bottle of wine and a grin; no vino no camino, he’d joke.

He fell in love easily; with people, with places. The green Galician forests. The Meseta’s endless plains. He’d spend the morning walking with a stranger and have post-pilgrimage plans by evening. He’d go on to spend time in Finland, then a few weeks walking in Ireland. He was Irish in the way all Americans seem to be; a long-lost cousin in Skibbereen, a great aunt in Knocknagashel. Enough of a connection to get away with drinking Guinness by the gallon.

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We had a running joke that the towns along the Camino weren’t really towns at all. They were film sets populated by actors, the latest iteration of reality TV. Luke – an Irishman – and I grew increasingly paranoid, but Naked Red Calf was having none of it.

‘No,’ he said, waving his wooden staff at the surrounding farmlands. ‘This is it. This is real life.’ He wanted to know what was growing in the soil. He wanted a garden of his own once he returned home. A plot to grow food, a porch to play banjo – this, he said, was enough.

Luke and I spoke about epiphanies. He’d met someone who’d walked the Camino the previous summer and warned him about false epiphanies. After weeks of walking, this man convinced himself that he was born to be a farmer.

‘I had this overwhelming desire to get my hands in the dirt,’ he told Luke. ‘But then, once I made it home, I realised something. I fucking hate farms.’

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I can’t say whether Naked Red Calf had any epiphanies; if he did, he didn’t share them. What he did share was his bad days. He’d indulge in too much wine and stumble to a church to light a candle for his brother. And in Santiago, on the night we finished, he was overwhelmed with emotion. He fled the restaurant and left his wallet on the table. I searched streets filled with celebrating pilgrims and found him crying, alone, on a doorstep. He wasn’t ready for his walk to end.

I tried to calm him with a common saying: the Camino begins when you go home.

His response?

Don’t tell me how to Camino.

We stayed in touch. He’d call late to relive long, lively dinners and crisp mornings in the mountains. Over time, these calls became less frequent. I took it to mean he was doing well, but it didn’t come as a shock to hear he’d passed away.

There’d been no accident. No darkness. His body, we were told, simply gave up. His friends posted messages and photos. They spoke of his garden. Of his enormous pumpkins, his love for his chickens. How he’d sit on his porch and speak about red wine and Van Morrison. About really hard times and the good times that followed.

I can imagine sitting on his porch and telling him, in all seriousness, that he had taken a good path; literally, Buen Camino.

But I know, of course, what he’d say in response.

This story won the Moments travel writing competition run by We Are Explorers in 2024.

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No, no.

The miracle – the incontrovertible evidence of God’s presence on earth – was that Jake and I made a plan two months in advance and neither of us pulled out.

Two months!

In human years: an eternity.

In God years: still pretty fucking long.

We’d made a plan, back in August, to meet at Southern Cross Station on a Friday morning in October. We loaded our bikes onto the last carriage and the train whisked us west towards Warrnambool, mercifully stopping two stations short in Camperdown. It’s here that the Otway Rip – a 250km bike route – begins.

We cycled first to Timboon, then on to the Shipwreck Coast: Port Campbell, the Twelve Apostles, Princetown. We followed rail trails. Back roads. We swore up hills and squealed down them. We stopped for lunch. A beer. To cheer an echidna across the Great Ocean Road. We fell sixty kilometres short of our planned campsite and couldn’t care less because the beers we’d bought were still cold enough to drink. We paired them with noodles of the two-minute variety. Nutritious. Delicious. Packed with enough sodium to send legions of middle-aged men to their lycra-clad graves.

Throughout the day I found myself marvelling at what was happening. We were out there. In the world. Doing shit. Three years since I bought a bike specifically designed for touring, or bikepacking, or whatever you want to call it, and finally – finally! – it was happening. I was on a bike. With my shit. Going somewhere other than work.

Ass aching.

Legs shaking.

Joy? Is that you?

Jake – I met him through a handsome mutual friend (g’day Jim) and followed his 2023 cycle from Kazakhstan to Scotland closely. He was, I came to realise, a man with experience. A man with indomitable quads. A man who had crossed the barren steppes of Central Asia subsisting on fermented horse milk and a goddamn dream. Surely he could show me the ways of bikepacking. Surely he could – at the very least – assist me in changing a tyre.

On our second day, we set out from Princetown determined to cover the 100 kilometres separating us from Forrest Brewery. We took the Old Ocean Road through the greenest valley you’ve ever seen. Almost Irish in its verdure. It was a painting, a poem. It was, Jake pointed out, a reminder of the destructive nature of colonial pastoralism – but by god it was gorgeous.

We summited Lavers Hill. Cut through Beech Forest. Swooped down sealed roads surrounded by towering mountain ash and, er, other cool trees. We pedalled up the other side of the valley; chains slipped, knees screamed and Jake became a dot on the horizon as I reminded myself it was my choice to be there.

This is fun, I said to myself.

Shut the fuck up, I replied.

And it was so.

We reached the brewery by late afternoon. Timber tables and stumps for stools. The sun was out, the beers were cold – what more can one dream of? A drunken woman became convinced I was someone famous and for a moment I believed her. For a moment, anything seemed possible.

Jake and I stayed until close. We lapped up lagers as well as my celebrity status. Between contemplative sips of beer, we asked each other – again and again – how we got so lucky. What had we done to deserve such a day?

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I mean, it was only a bike ride. But for someone who has built a personality on being “there” rather than “here”, it was a gentle reminder that the things that make me feel something – anything! – can be found halfway to Warrnambool as well as the far side of the world. For someone who has spent an inordinate amount of time tinkering on a laptop, it was a gentle reminder that there are more important spaces to inhabit than the one behind a desk.

And now, a tenuous segue:

Back in Melbourne, a few days after finishing the ride, I wrapped up work and took my tender ass to a retirement home I’ve been volunteering at. I spent an hour having coffee with a new resident, a man who was moved from hospital a week or two prior. We spoke about his wine cellar, his parents, his childhood. Then he showed me photos; of his mum, his dad, of himself as an eight-year-old boy. It’s the only photo of himself he has kept, he said. It’s the only photo of himself that he likes.

After a brief silence, he told me he doesn’t want to wake up in the morning.

He told me he hasn’t for years.

Then he laughed a little and told me his parents would do this thing when he was a kid. They’d wake up and look at each other. They’d feign surprise, as if waking up was unexpected. They’d say to him: oh wow, we’ve got another day. They’d ask him: what should we do with it?

A gentle reminder, I suppose, that the real miracle is being able to do anything at all.

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Though Josh and I have spoken previously online, we meet for the first time at At the Above – a gallery space in Fitzroy, Melbourne. Josh is staying here as part of an artist residency. His project, A Note to the Runners, blends poetry and running with the aim, he says, of making running real again. 

The space is spartan – bed, table, books, chairs – and my eyes are drawn to a collection of running bibs pinned to an enormous sheet. Poems and messages have been scrawled across the bibs, and when I arrive, Josh is in the process of sorting and arranging them. He battles a light breeze blowing through large windows overlooking Gertrude Street.

The poems were written by those turning up for Josh’s weekly Notes Night Runs (NNR). Every Wednesday, Josh leads forty-plus participants on a five-kilometre route departing from – and returning to – At the Above. After the run, everyone is invited to stay for a cup of tea, a chat and, if they wish, a chance to contribute a poem. These poems will form part of an exhibition celebrating the launch of A Note to the Runners – a book of Josh’s own poetry – to coincide with the Melbourne Marathon. 

‘One of the [project’s] catchphrases is “make running real again”,’ says Josh. ‘When I introduce the run each week, I explain that in terms of making a connection to the ground or your body or someone around you. And rather than finishing the run and posting about it on your phone, or going straight to Strava or Instagram, it's like, let’s make something real.’

When Josh held his first NNR, he was careful not to be too prescriptive. There were no guidelines or required outcomes. He simply invited people to come up to the gallery, provided the tea and honey, and let the rest unfold naturally.

‘For the first five minutes there’s a buzz about the room,’ Josh says. ‘I go straight into boiling the kettle and getting everything prepared, but if you actually stop and listen, there’s a lot of laughter. Once everybody has had a glass of water and their tea, they dissipate around the room and find a nook and someone to talk to. Some people started bringing brownies and cookies too. There was another artist here during my last residency who was like, this is the most wholesome shit ever.’

A Note to the Runners was born out of Josh’s frustration in the wake of a number of unsuccessful pitches to brands in the wellness and running space. He wanted to interview athletes in unforgettable locations – a clifftop at sunset, for example – but logistical challenges and a lack of understanding made it difficult, he says, to bring the idea to life. Determined to validate his idea, Josh recorded himself performing his own poem, You don’t actually like running, on – you guessed it – a clifftop at sunset.

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‘I suppose the poem is a commentary on where running is at,’ Josh says. ‘It’s definitely having a moment. And I guess I was observing that lots of people have taken up running, which is an incredible thing, but I wanted people to be more conscious of why they are doing it. Is it because they want to be seen with a crowd? To be seen in an outfit? I was just like, here are my thoughts, you can have them for free. And that was the most traction I’ve had [online] for years.’

Buoyed by the response to his words, Josh doubled down on his idea. He continued writing poems and saw an opportunity to combine his love of poetry, running and building community as an exhibition. He emailed At the Above and A Note to the Runners began to take shape.

‘It’s about exploration,’ Josh says, when I ask what running means to him. ‘Going out on the trails and seeing a new place. Initially, that was why I loved running so much. You go to a new city and running is the best way to see it. And then the further you get into it, [the more] it becomes an exploration of your own mind, soul, values. Your dark thoughts, your best thoughts, and everything in-between. It’s curiosity and connection.’

It’s easy enough to draw a parallel with poetry; the curiosity and connection, the dark thoughts, the best thoughts and everything in between. And though Josh is quick to admit he hasn’t studied poetry and doesn’t know much about the form’s technical aspects, he believes poetry, like running, can be simple – in the end it’s about feeling something.

‘You might feel nostalgic, or really sad, or you might feel confused,’ he says, gesturing towards the poems written by runners. ‘Some of these poems are reflective. Some are grateful, some are funny and some are quite eloquent.’

Josh says his own poetry is inspired by a friend, Joshua Van Leader, who published three volumes of poetry and a book of illustrations before his death in 2022. He wrote about the magic of life, Josh says. About love and heartbreak and how beautiful and incredible life can be.

‘He was one of my best mates, an amazing poet, who is my biggest influence for poetry and anything creative. He said that if you have a talent, it’s your duty to put effort into it and give it to the world.’

What, then, would Josh consider his talent? Photography has long been his bread and butter, and writing a constant throughout his life, but Josh believes his real talent – and the way he can make the greatest impact – lies in creating spaces for people. It’s why he not only came up with Notes Night Run, but also facilitates The Sessions, a series of running retreats combining time on the trails with mindfulness.

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‘I like running, I like poetry, I like tea and I like bringing people together, so that’s how a night [at NNR] goes. And it’s the same with The Sessions. I like adventure, I like personal development, and I like running, so I’ll bring ten people together for a retreat. I try to do the things I love, and I think what most people need is space. Space, and to slow down.’

Josh is no psychologist. He’s not out to solve specific problems or give advice. Instead he hopes to provide a space for people to slow down, reflect on their lives and aspirations, and hopefully grow.

‘None of my questions are groundbreaking or revolutionary,’ Josh says, ‘but nobody is going to take a week off work to sit and be like, “Who are the five people I spend the most time with? Am I actually a good decision maker? What is my capacity for risk at the moment?” Most people won’t do that for themselves, or do it [in a] distraction-free [environment], unless a space is created. Not many people are going to finish a run and have the discipline or motivation to write a poem, or to not go on their phone, or to get home and sit down with their partner for a quality chat. There are too many distractions. All I’m trying to say is, “Hey, think about this. Here’s a space to do it.”’

These spaces Josh creates continue to be filled. And though it remains to be seen whether he is successful in making running real again, the messages from the Notes Night Run community suggest he has tapped into something powerful, something human. Something to run towards.

Interested in joining Notes Night Run? It departs from At the Above in Fitzroy, Melbourne, every Wednesday evening until October 4th. You can also preorder Josh’s book, A Note to the Runners, or stay up to date via Instagram.

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So here I am, in Orkney, to see the Northern Lights. And yes, I’m disappointed. The climate has been described as the most vile under …

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