I am sensationally terrible at planning things.
I love to dream about, write lists about, and even checklists about future adventures.
But actual nitty-gritty well-thought out plans? Nope.
Even though this method of living my life rarely pays out, and it is always a lot more trouble than it is worth, do you think I ever learn? Noope.
So, when I woke up one morning in the boot-turned-Mowgli-sized-bed of my tiny maroon car to the first cloudy grey sky I had seen on my multi-week trip, do you think I stopped for a moment and thought “huh, that’s odd. Maybe the weather is changing. I should check a forecast…”?
Of course I thought that.
Do you think I actually checked the forecast?
I just packed up my little camp, drove to the base of Mt Tibrogargan in the Glasshouse Mountains, and said “she’ll be right.”
Mt Tibrogargan is one of the more adventurous ‘hikes’ in the Glasshouse mountains area, with the majority of its 364m being more rock scrambling and climbing than hiking. There are plenty of opportunities to pretend you are really climbing while scrambling up the rocks just by holding on to some slopey polished handholds and turning to view the vertigo below.
I was the only one on the top of the mountain when I arrived, and I took a few minutes to enjoy the silence and the view down the way I had come, not noticing the rainstorm bulleting towards me from the coast on the other side of the mountain.
It was too late by the time I walked over to view the other side, and the rainstorm was touching the edges of the mountain.
I wasn’t looking forward to the down-climb from the mountain – I hate down-climbing at the best of times. Even in dry weather with ropes on and friends all around you to yell encouraging things at you and, in the event of your death, go home and tell your loved ones what befell you.
As I tried to move as quickly as I could down the rock scrambling surface – but not too quickly that I might slip and plummet to my death – I became acutely aware of my predicament. If my increasingly numb and wet fingers slipped on the polished slimy rock, there would be no rope to catch me and no friends to put a plaque up in my honor at the bottom of the mountain reading “Here lies the body of Tess, who died doing what she loved to hate the most: down-climbing slippery rocks in the rain.”
I then spent the rest of the slippery, cold and deceptively easy down-scramble verbally abusing myself out loud for not checking the weather, for never checking the weather, and for any future times that I don’t check the weather.
Needless to say, I made it back to the car, made myself a cup of tea out of my boot and vowed to always check the weather forecast.
That promise lasted nearly 24 hours.