A couple of weeks ago, I did something wildly ambitious (or wildly foolish, depending on how you look at it). I joined 160+ other slightly deranged individuals to tackle The Grand Traverse—a 32 km hike across Victoria’s stunning yet punishing alpine region, from Falls Creek to Mount Hotham.
Nine hours and twenty-six minutes later, my team crossed the finish line, patting ourselves on the back (while simultaneously massaging sore everything). It was an incredible achievement. That is, until we learned that the winning team had finished in three hours and twenty minutes. Three hours. For a 32 km alpine hike. Are they even human?
But this story isn’t about race times or fitness (trust me, I am not boasting about my athletic prowess). It’s about what this experience unexpectedly taught me. Because if there’s one thing I love almost as much as hiking, it’s self-help books that compare life to hiking.
You know those books that insist the struggle is the lesson? That the climb teaches you more than the summit? That you must walk before you run? Yeah. I get it now.
The Plan: Finding Clarity on the Trail
Before setting off, I had a mission. I wasn’t just hiking for the challenge—I was hiking for clarity. Specifically, I needed to decide whether to tender for a major NDIA software contract (for those following along, see my previous LinkedIn post—shoutout to everyone who weighed in!).
I had imagined myself trekking through breathtaking landscapes, deep in thought, coming to a profound realisation somewhere between Falls Creek and Mount Hotham. The solitude of nature, the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot—surely, the perfect environment for strategic contemplation.
The Reality: Survival Mode Trumps Strategy
So, did I use this time for deep reflection and business planning? Did I channel my inner philosopher and emerge enlightened?
Nope.
Instead, my brain was occupied with far more immediate concerns:
- Not falling over.
- Managing the revolting pain in my Achilles (blaming perimenopause).
- Breathing.
- Drinking enough water.
- Keeping up my calories.
- Marvelling at Croc Man—the legend who completed the entire 32 km in Crocs. I will never be the same.
- Avoiding red-bellied black snakes. (The organiser saw four the day before. FOUR.)
Turns out, survival mode doesn’t leave much room for corporate strategy.
The Breakthrough: When Clarity Strikes
At the time, I was frustrated. I had expected the hike to give me answers, but all it gave me were blisters and aching quads.
And yet, two days later, in the most unexpected of places—the shower—clarity hit me like a bolt of lightning. I bolted out, grabbed my sketchbook, and mapped out my vision for the software—something I’d been struggling to articulate for weeks.
The hike hadn’t given me the answers I was searching for, but it had given me something else: a reset. It had cleared out the mental clutter, forcing me to focus on the immediate moment. And once I was back in familiar surroundings, with my brain no longer preoccupied with basic survival, the ideas flowed effortlessly.
The Bigger Lesson: Walking Before Running
The Grand Traverse also taught me another lesson—one I hadn’t realised I needed.
I’m not ready to run.
Physically (obviously—walking was almost too much), emotionally, metaphorically. And that’s okay.
I have a habit of jumping into big ideas at full speed. When I’m excited about a project, I want to sprint. But this hike was a literal, painful reminder that small steps matter. That building something sustainable—whether it’s endurance or a business—requires patience, persistence, and a solid foundation.
Did I really need to hike 32 km uphill for nine hours to learn that lesson? Apparently, yes. Because sometimes, the most obvious truths need to be hammered home with a ridiculous endurance event.
The Decision: A New Perspective on the Tender
So, where does that leave the tender?
Thanks to sore quads and questionable life choices, I’ve realised that instead of fixating on a simple yes or no, I should focus on the next, small step.
…Preferably one that doesn’t involve 32 km of uphill suffering.