Can we set up a parkrun course in the dark?

It’s 5:31 am and we walk out into the cold, dark night.

I have my bright headtorch on, and it’s a marked change from inky black that surrounds us.

I press familiar buttons on my watch and start a run.

Will we run while we set up our local parkrun in the dark? I don’t know, but realise that whether the activity is called a ‘walk’ or ‘run’ doesn’t matter as much as the fact that we’re getting it done.

We’ve walked or run these trails hundreds of times between us. We know them well.

But it’s rare for us to be out in the bush when it’s this dark, and so the oh-so-familiar trails feel somewhat different, novel, exciting.

I pull my gloves onto my hands. It’s cold. I’m so glad I checked the temperature before we left home.

11 degrees, feels like 8.

That’s cold for Brisbane.

I remember to appreciate the cold while we have it, since for much of the year it’s so humid that we regularly pray for reprieve.

We pass by the second gate, and we’re fully in the bush now. He turns left, and I turn right as we carry out our normal plan for efficiently setting up the parkrun.

I walk up the steep hill and feel almost swallowed by the dark, silence.

Having grown up with bush nearby for much of my childhood, being here is a familiar comfort to me. While I don’t feel scared being out of sight of my mister, I certainly notice it, especially when I realise that, for the first time in years, I’m too far away from him, in this dark, cold night, to yell if there was a problem.

To my left I hear a crash in the bushes. But my body knows that sound well: it’s a wallaby that I’ve just woken up. I’m not frightened by the familiar, expected sounds, just aware.

I say hello to the wallaby in the dark and keep walking further away from my partner along a path I know so well I could navigate by moonlight only, if necessary.

I turn the corner and head to the next spot that needs a sign. It’s the only turnaround on the parkrun course. I pop the cones down that Brad reminded me I needed, and then stick the sign into a piece of old wood.

It won’t stand up on its own here in the middle of this wide path, so I get more pieces of dead wood and stack them against each other. I assess its stability and decide it’s good enough.

I wonder how Brad is getting on.

I walk back down the hill, looking for his head lamp. It’s off in the distance, coming towards me. Though just as strong a feature in the dark is the waning crescent moon to my left, and a bright star to my right.

I see these beautiful features of the otherwise dark sky in between the branches of giant eucalypt trees. I ache to see the bush in the dark, so I turn my headtorch off and appreciate it the way I used to when I worked in the bush in my previous jobs.

I think to myself I should do this more often; drag myself out of my warm, comfortable bed and walk into the cold, dark bush on a clear night and just soak in the deep beauty of what’s only hundreds of metres from our home.

But the setup needs to be done, and for that we need light, so as Brad approaches, I turn my headtorch back on as he reminds me we need cones at this corner. Somehow I had forgotten, despite doing setup countless times already.

Everything looks so different in the dark. It’s amazing how much I rely on being able to see clearly as my cues for what to do.

We walk down the long, rolling hill. I can hear the kookaburras telling the world it’s time to wake up as they collectively laugh loud enough to be heard over traffic from the nearest major road.

As I pay attention to which sign needs to go where, I notice the soft glow of orange at the bottom of the hill. We are walking east, directly towards the rising sun.

At this time of year, the sun won’t have peeked over the horizon until the setup is complete, but on a clear day as we have coming, for the 30 minutes beforehand it will be light enough to see.

There is nothing quite so special as early morning light.

Photo credit: Jon Cartagena on Unsplash

As the light creeps in around us, I can start to make out more distinct shapes: where we are on the track, where there’s a grassy tuft for me to shove the spike of the sign into, where there are washouts on the track that we need to avoid.

We turn another corner, and I hear a new bird call. I don’t recognise this particular sound. I know it’s birds. I know there’s lots of them. I know they’re somewhere directly above us. But I don’t know what they look like or what they’re called.

I appreciate them anyway.

I pull the plastic protective tube off the end of the next sign, getting ready to spike it into the next grassy tuft.

I feel especially grateful that I thought to bring my gloves, as I can feel how painfully cold my fingertips are and realise they would feel much colder if they were bare.

I assess how the rest of my body is feeling: everything else is good. I dressed well for the conditions. We keep walking.

Minute upon minute, I hear more and see more. The light is increasing and, accordingly, the bush is waking up.

I recall that this is what I used to love about camping in the bush: being woken up by the natural light hitting my tent and the sounds of the birds as they started their day.

Another couple of minutes and I can make out the shapes of small plants and flowers. I can see the mud on the path and where best to step to avoid slipping. And not only can I see Brad easily next to me, but I can now see many, many metres ahead of me.

We turn another corner, and when I realise I can see all the way to the next corner, not because of my headlight but because of the sunlight, I turn the torch off.

It’s 6:17 am. A moment later my watch buzzes, telling me I’ve walked 3 km since leaving home.

I let a deep breath out. While the dark was wonderful, it’s also somehow a relief to be able to see more easily.

I’m down to the last few signs as the sun quickly rises.

I continue to throw sticks off the path, wanting to avoid any unnecessary trip hazards for the runners and walkers that will follow our footsteps before too long.

We cross the final creek, where we can clearly see the large, uneven rocks better than any of the others we crossed that morning and cruise uphill towards the start/finish area.

I see a woman I recognise with her rescue pup. She’s on her way out to a marshalling spot to volunteer.

We arrive at the briefing area where the rest of the team are setting up for the morning. The run director says hello and is happy to hear that “It’s all good out there”.

I tell him that I’ve done my parkrun for the morning and am heading home. Unlike others before him, he doesn’t try to convince me to stay and join them for the parkrun proper. He simply lets me do as I’ve said, and wishes me well for my weekend.

It’s my 95th time volunteering at a parkrun. And while I’ve done a wide range of roles at this point, I like being part of this setup team as it feels good to be able to part of a select crew who know this course well enough to do this role.

But it’s also nice to do something with my man, even if it’s just walking together, quietly in the dark.