It was about 13 years ago when I came of age. I did my first Otter Trail.
It was also my first hike in which I would carry all I needed for the 5 day trek.
I went in a bit blase, kicking a can down the road, causally whistling a Beatles tune, while clasping my hands behind my back.
Afterall, who trains when you're a road running machine mad rabid dog?
One guy's wife packed for him, she was surely an accountant, or she loved him dearly.
I guffawed, ha ha ha, and tossed my tuna cans into my backpack, packed a full tube of Colgate, never skimped on the snacks, and even had a change of draws.
That hike, the accountant guy made light of the terrain, navigating it like a stealthy mountain lion, winning each day's hike, hook, line and sinker, and the Yellow jersey.
Back then that hike snapped, snapped me like a toothpick between the teeth of a steroidal Schwarzenegger
After the hike, I lay on the beach of Nature's Valley, making sand angels, screaming for a beer, screaming ''take me home''.
In the intervening years I got schooled. I did the prep, read the blogs, asked blokes, wore through countless pairs of boots, chafed my thighs, punched animal carcasses till my knuckles bled, and hiked, hiked and more hiked.
I learned to pack light, I learned to eat easy, I learned that I don't need much luxury.
I learned to endure pain, I learned it's short lived, I learned to enjoy it.
This year, 2026, I did it again.
The gruelling hills were still herculean, the coast's razor edge still cut deep.
The stairs were still lunge-large, causing my heart to take a Conor-Macgregor-like beating in the rib cage-fight of its life.
The sea still crashed hard against the craggy coast-line like Gretzky in a tussle against the ice-rink-barrier, sending white water heavenwards.
The sun still baked my skin lobster red, then Venezuelan brown.
The Waterfall, hyperbole-high still cascaded down like a champagne castle, into a deep dark icey pool, enticing us to jump in, to cool hot heads, satiating us like an 80's Coke-is-it bottle of Coke.
Cola-tinted rivers still meander down to the coast, carving up the length of the trail, piercing the ocean, forming the Mouths we need to navigate, to cross.
There in the forests birds still swoop and caw, flutter and twitter, but now they are named Loerie, Warbler, Robin and Flycatcher.
The jet-black Oystercatcher still skims the rolling shore, settling on the rocky beach scuttling along, piercing edibles with its red spear-tipped beak.
Cormorants now, like then, perch upon giant ocean weathered, embedded boulders, swaying and whipping their elongated necks, stalking shiny shimmering fish in the ocean below.
As our headlamps shine a light on the velodrome of the night sky, satellites still zoom upon their predetermined orbit pinging our GPS watches, and self-driving Teslas.
The Milky Way still drips its heavy light upon the eyes of the curious genet slinking by in its leopard-like pelt, sniffing for a remnant of a rusk, a tomato, or the length of a pot noodle.
This time though the curious otter drew close, sniffing the sea salt air, bobbing and weaving like Ali in the Congo, diving in and amongst the lapping waves, its sleek oily pelt shimmering as the setting sun dips below the horizon.
Rounded, rolling stones still pave the way, clinking as we tread along them. Picking them up, polishing them clean, we pocket them as souvenirs for display alongside bathroom basins.
With all the years of experience the slice of sweaty cheese on a crispy cracker, a goose-bump-cold shower, a restful sleep on a sticky mattress, black instant in an enamel cup, a change of socks, silence and walking barefoot are now so very pleasurable.
Even though a short jaunt in an uber connects Storms River to Natures Valley, I'd rather take the long journey with my backpack, my snacks and my life's experience.
