Having parents who run an adventure trekking company, I have listened to many enthusiastic descriptions of the spectacular and expansive scenery of the Kokoda Track. I’ve heard many stories of trekker’s adventures, moving accounts of emotional moments, and humorous anecdotes of their loyal friends, the fuzzy haired Nationals.

Their passion was infectious, and so it seemed that Kokoda was something I must do. This was a destination of adventure, beauty and serenity. It was a theatre of nobility, endurance and extreme sadness. This was a destination that I could give myself to.

What I didn’t realize then, was how much Kokoda would give to me.

The impact this eight-day trek had on me was significant. Fresh from a recent relationship breakdown, I began this trail with high expectations of recovery and clarity. After training solidly for three months and wearing in my boots by climbing every hill I could find, I felt fit, well equipped and mentally stable.

Along with my seven fellow trekkers, and led by my own mum, we commenced our trek at Kokoda, travelling south to Owers Corner. Starting only one week after two men had died tackling the trail gave us a healthy respect for what was ahead of us. Traveling with us were our eighteen Nationals, all hailing from the beach villages of Buna and Sanananda. Shyly introducing themselves, they were to carry the majority of our possessions while also directing us through the trail. And so we began, at first slowly and then increasing at abrupt inclines and rapid declines.

Little by little, the jungle overtook me. I felt supported as I took comfort in the rich landscape and history. Before long, the vast expanse of the forest became overwhelming, and all too soon, I was swallowed as the heavens opened and the valleys became unbeatable and hostile. Suddenly my whole world became very bleak – what was I doing? Stuck in the middle of this ferocious jungle, I was lost, physically strained and emotionally undone. I continually fought back tears, feeling my morale sink deeper and deeper into the mud beneath my boots. The very jungle that I thought would rescue me was becoming my demise and there was no end in sight.

Until little by little, our national carriers brought to me to life. Their strength became my salvation as they lead me through tree roots, vines and flowing rivers. Outstretched hands, both strong and gentle, pulled me over ledges and fallen trees. And their singing became a lifeline of its own, as their voices carried me through the torrential downpour, sweltering heat and continual false peaks.

And so, little by little, I succumbed to the magic of Kokoda.

Long before Courage, Endurance, Mateship and Sacrifice became the pillars of what we know as The Kokoda Trail, locals living in villages along this track have given and received support from their own and other villages, and become brothers and sisters with each and every member of their communities. Their survival has often depended on this reliance and so it would seem, would mine.

To say I completed the Kokoda trail would only be half the truth. It was in fact, we who completed the Kokoda Trail. From start to finish, the real strength was not found in the food we ate, the water we drank or the equipment we brought. It came from each and every member of our group, whatever their nationality. Completing this journey was made possible because we supported one another. And just as they worked for our Australian soldiers who fought so honorably for the track, it was the Fuzzy Wuzzy Nationals who brought us home.

Many talk of the Kokoda spirit upon their return. They speak of it in Isurava, Brigade Hill and Imita Ridge. They glow when mentioning Efogi, Naduri and Menari. It lives on in the people who live and work in the land. And it lives on in those who, after visiting the Kokoda Trail, choose to embody it.