There’s a profound truth hidden within challenging experiences: they reveal our resilience in ways we often never anticipated. But here’s where it gets controversial—sometimes, the stories we tell ourselves about weakness or inadequacy are just that—stories. This is the part most people overlook when they believe only the young or highly fit can conquer great adventures. Let me take you somewhere unexpected.
I find myself in a place that I will carry with me forever—a wild, fog-shrouded river that taught me I possess strength for nearly anything life throws at me.
At this moment, I am considerably older, undeniably out of shape for this undertaking, and colder than an icy winter’s night. Yet, I am also caught in a situation I cannot escape. A helicopter rescue isn’t an option because my injuries are minor—merely the aches of failing hips, muscles screaming from exertion, and a wounded pride far deeper than any physical wound.
There are countless miles and days ahead before I can rest again on a soft mattress with clean sheets, indulge in a hot shower, or move freely without relying solely on my arms. Yet, my stubborn streak refuses to give up. I have longed for the chance to experience the Franklin River. Back in 1982, amidst the fierce opposition to damming this iconic Tasmanian waterway, my father took me to witness Bob Brown speak. He showed a film about the river that completely captivated me.
As a teenager, I was still connected with the carefree spirit of childhood—exploring the creek beneath my family’s home on the outskirts of Toowoomba, Queensland. I remember clambering barefoot up a ten-meter waterfall, my kingdom formed by moss, ferns, tadpoles, and a hidden bowerbird nest. I whispered into hollow trees, climbed majestic oaks, and guarded a secret cave with fierce secrecy.
But life’s journey gradually caused me to lose that part of myself. The lush moss and delicate ferns faded from memory. Instead, I got caught up in high school, university, city life, trips abroad, and wearing a facade of sophistication that eventually obscured my true self.
Then, unexpectedly, an image of a misty Franklin River segment flashed across my social media feed. Intrigued, I reached out to a rafting company to ask if someone like me—an average middle-aged woman with limited fitness and no paddling skills—could join their eight-day expedition down a river known for its dangerous rapids and roaring whitewaters. To my surprise, they welcomed me. Without hesitation, I clicked ‘confirm’ on my payment.
Now, standing on a sandy patch beside a fallen Huon pine at dawn, shivering beneath my thin sleeping bag, I realize just how far I’ve come. As I pull on my wetsuit, I notice the impression of my body in the sand; soon, the river’s rising waters will gradually erase this mark, just as time erases old versions of ourselves.
A fellow camper, snoring nearby, teases, ‘Who do you think is older—me or you?’ I feel a flicker of annoyance, but I look at him—his grey hair, wind-beaten features, and confident tells of past adventures—and realize he’s far more practiced at this wilderness lifestyle. As the days progress, he embodies strength, confidence, and skill, while in my own mind I grapple with feelings of inadequacy.
But I am determined; I refuse to be defeated. During this journey, I learn that bravery often lies on a fine line between fear and excitement. The river’s drops—those moments when the boat hurtles over a nearly vertical spill—initially seemed terrifying. Yet, oddly, they turn into exhilarating, almost amusement-park-like experiences. Our guides share tales of the river’s destructive power—its boiling rapids, deadly holes, and the stories of those who have been caught, trapped, or worse for days before rescue. They speak of legs lost and lives altered forever. But I choose not to dwell on those dangers.
My real internal struggles are more subtle: hefting my overloaded pack—because I never know what I might need; climbing steep, rocky banks along the river with that weight while guides navigate the raft through shallow stretches; the fatigue from constantly getting in and out of the craft—pulling, pushing, and helping. I despise my cumbersome appearance, reminiscent of a Michelin man, and I feel mortified when I tumble into a whirlpool after a drop, only to have a guide haul me back to safety.
Yet, as we work together through the wilderness—facing obstacles like ‘Nasty Notch,’ ‘The Great Ravine,’ ‘The Corkscrew,’ and ‘Deception Gorge’—I discover something vital: mental strength can be just as crucial as physical power. There is a resilient force within me that propels me, much like a boat fighting against the current.
This journey sparks new thoughts—possibilities I hadn’t considered before. I realize I am capable of more incredible endeavors than I ever imagined—treks through the wilds of Alaska, wandering the tranquil forests of Canada, walking the pilgrimage routes across Japan, or exploring rainforests in Costa Rica. Or maybe, I could simply seek out what truly moves me—streams tumbling over stones in lush, misty valleys, the dawn’s river fog swirling over boulders the size of houses, ancient trees that have witnessed centuries, eagles soaring overhead, and the lush greenery of moss, lichen, and ferns.
The river has shown me that our true strength lies not just in muscle, but in resilience, courage, and a willingness to push beyond boundaries. And perhaps the most powerful realization is that age and physical limitations are relative—what matters most is the courage to pursue what genuinely matters.
So I ask you: Do you believe that age can be a barrier to adventure or that strength is solely physical? Or is the real adventure about discovering our hidden reserves, no matter where we are in life's journey? Share your thoughts—I'd love to hear your perspective.
