Hiking the Bibbulmun Track changed my connection to Australia

After hiking the 1000-kilometre trail running from Perth to Albany, I feel as if I’ve developed a deep friendship with Western Australia and the land is no longer a stranger.

Writer Franchesca Walker. Source: Supplied

I ran out of water six kilometres before the next shelter.

Flies without any respect for personal space swarmed my face and crawled under my glasses. It was 26°C and there wasn’t any shade. Wildflowers had scratched the heck out of my legs, and I was carrying a pack so heavy I was one misstep away from toppling off the sandhill into the gully below.

In that moment, I could not have explained why I was hiking the Bibbulmun Track, a 1000-kilometre trail running from Perth to Albany on Western Australia’s southern coast. It was clear I didn’t belong. This place was not my country. It belongs to the Whadjuk, Binjareb, Wardandi, Ganeang, Bibelmen and Mineng Noongar people. People who had thousands of years of historical connection to Western Australia and knew it in ways I did not.

Franchesca, aged 17 months, being introduced to Aotearoa’s wind by her mum. Source: Supplied

I grew up in Aotearoa, New Zealand, part of a family closely connected to the environment. On my father’s side, we are tangata whenua, literally “people of the land”. When we introduce ourselves, we name the mountains and rivers within our tribal areas as a form of identification. On my mother’s, we are pākehā (New Zealand European) who have farmed parts of Aotearoa for more than 150 years.

I spent my childhood trailing across paddocks behind my maternal grandfather as he checked on pregnant ewes or fed newborn calves. At the beach behind my paternal grandparents’ house, I waded into the water at low tide and dug my toes into the sand until I felt pipi shells under my feet. I carried them to Dad, who ate them for lunch. I knew the parts of the river the eels favoured, when pōhutukawa flowered, the sound of a tūī in full song and the plants they liked to eat.

That all disappeared when I moved to Perth nine years ago. Suddenly, the references I used to understand the world were gone. As someone who was more familiar with overcast days than clear skies, I kept opening the blinds to welcome the sun, only for my then-boyfriend to scold me for letting in the summer heat. I couldn’t look up and know if it was about to rain. I kept getting caught without an umbrella.

Franchesca taking a break during a day hike, 2016. Source: Supplied

I made forays into nature. I hiked the trails within driving distance of Perth city, but they were usually so full of people who, like me, were seeking a break from urban life, that I often came away feeling as if I’d never left the city at all.

It didn’t really bother me at first. In the back of my mind, I always assumed I would return to Aotearoa one day. But then COVID happened, the borders shut, and I was faced with the reality that I would not be returning home anytime soon. It finally hit me that I had been living in Perth for almost a decade. This was my home now.

Franchesca with partner Alex on the track, their oversized packs, and an ever-present fly on top of Franchesca’s cap. Source: Supplied

I decided it was time Western Australia and I got to know each other better. I loaded a pack with dehydrated meals, a sleeping bag, mat, stove, cutlery, and every other thing I needed to brave the wilderness. With my partner, Alex, in tow, we set off to hike the Bibbulmun Track.

The first week gave me blisters. The second week we sweated through scorching heat and spent a day sheltering from storms. A mouse ate through our tent, a frog jumped on me while I was asleep. Mosquitoes dive-bombed me at night. I once went to relieve myself off the side of the track only to find a snake staring up at me from between my legs.

Along the Bibbulmun track. Source: Supplied

It was unrelenting: both the kilometres we covered each day and the never-ending exposure to climate, topography, the animals and plants. But as days turned into weeks, I found myself easing into the environment. I learned the fallen needles of a she-oak provided a soft place to pitch a tent. I learned how to tell the difference between jarrah and marri trees. I loved listening to the birds singing in the morning. I looked forward to watching the setting sun cast a golden tinge across the land. So many of us are disconnected from our environment – for me< the plants, earth and animals are what make a place home.

After hiking the Bibbulmun, I feel as if I have developed a deep friendship with Western Australia and the land is no longer a stranger.

Franchesca and Alex’s tent, moments before they discovered a mouse had gnawed on it. Source: Supplied

Aotearoa may have raised me, a third parent behind my mum and dad, but after hiking the Bibbulmun, Western Australia has become the friend I can grow old with.

A couple of weeks after Alex and I finished the Bibbulmun, I found myself sheltering under a tree with my sister in the middle of a downpour. She had recently moved to a new neighbourhood, and we were exploring a route to a nearby lake.

“Should we just head home?” my sister asked, peering at the stubbornly grey sky.

I assessed the clouds. “I reckon if we wait another five minutes, it’ll clear up.”

And for the first time in a long time, I was right.   

Franchesca Walker (she/her) (Ngāti Rakaipaaka, Ngāti Pāhauwera, Pākehā) is a writer and storyteller living on Whadjuk Noongar land. She was the 2022 ‘Writing Change, Writing Inclusion’ hot desk fellow at the Centre for Stories. You can follow her on Instagram @franchesca_walker_writer.

This article has been published in partnership with the Centre for Stories.