For the third morning in a row, I found myself awake before anything or anyone else in the campground.
The birds weren't awake.
The sheep weren't awake.
I'm not entirely convinced the sun was awake.
Yet there I was, sitting outside with a coffee wondering if sleeping past 7am is now a privilege reserved exclusively for younger people whose joints don't sound like a bowl of Rice Bubbles every time they stand up.
With Tully staring at me as though I'd personally organised the sunrise for her entertainment, I decided we'd go for a quick morning walk.
Now when normal people say "quick walk", they generally mean a gentle stroll around camp.
Apparently my definition is different.
One moment we were happily wandering along a track. The next thing I knew we were 3.2 kilometres from camp.
Which meant we were also 3.2 kilometres from getting back.
At that point I considered calling Tracy to come and collect us, but I wasn't sure my pride could survive the conversation.
So I soldiered on.
By the time I returned to camp, I'd completed a respectable 6.4km before breakfast.
For context, I work from home, spend most of my day within a ten metre radius of my desk, and the last exercise I can confidently remember doing was probably reaching for the TV remote.
This was not part of the plan.
I staggered back into camp just as everyone else was emerging from their vans, made coffee number two and collapsed into a chair.
It was at precisely that moment I remembered we were doing the Gorge walk.
Not the little walk.
Not the "there and back in half an hour" walk.
The proper gorge walk.
The one measured in hours rather than minutes.
As I sat there feeling every one of my approximately 147 leg muscles, I briefly considered my options.
Fake an injury?
Pretend I'd developed altitude sickness?
Claim I'd been traumatised by sheep during my morning expedition?
Unfortunately none seemed particularly convincing, so off we went.
The walk itself was spectacular.
Massive cliffs, ancient creek beds, towering gums and scenery that once again proved photos are little more than colourful lies when compared to seeing something in person.
My legs, however, had lodged a formal complaint.
Every step was accompanied by a reminder that the earlier walk had been a monumentally stupid decision.
Still, the kilometres rolled by surprisingly quickly as we chatted our way through the gorge.
Well, I chatted. Others occasionally got to chat.
Over the course of several hours I managed to discuss camping, caravanning, weather, food, fishing, 4WDs, politics, retirement plans, coffee and probably several topics that hadn't even been invented yet.
Anyone walking near me either willingly joined the conversation or simply couldn't escape.
Somewhere during the day we moved in and out of mobile coverage several times and I became convinced my Apple Watch had finally had enough.
After recording more than 14 kilometres of walking, it probably assumed it had been stolen.
I'd like to imagine a message was automatically sent somewhere:
"Alert. Regular owner Barry Weyland has been replaced. Current wearer appears active and motivated. Investigation recommended."
There is simply no historical data supporting that level of exercise.
Eventually we limped, shuffled and groaned our way back into camp where we immediately commenced the important process of replacing every calorie we'd just burned.
A few drinks appeared.
Then a cheese platter.
Then more drinks.
Science would probably argue this defeated the purpose of the walk entirely, but fortunately science wasn't invited.
As has become tradition on this trip, dinner was cooked directly over fire. Every meal so far has involved some combination of grill, hotplate, camp oven, flames, smoke and occasional panic.
Tonight also happened to be chocolate pudding night.
Or at least that was the intention.
Somewhere between preparing ingredients, consuming pre-dinner beverages and negotiating campfire cooking temperatures, things may have drifted slightly off course.
What emerged from the camp oven wasn't really pudding.
It wasn't entirely cake either.
It occupied a mysterious category somewhere between the two.
Now I'm certainly not pointing fingers at the person responsible for making the mixture. Nor am I suggesting the cook may have got the temperature slightly enthusiastic.
That would be unfair.
Let's simply say there were multiple contributing factors and move on.
The important thing is that the ice cream performed flawlessly all evening.
Sometimes one member of the team needs to carry the rest.
Eventually bedtime arrived and I collapsed into bed.
My legs were now communicating exclusively through pain.
They made it very clear that no further walking should occur tomorrow.
For once, I think I'm prepared to listen.
After all, 14 kilometres in one day is enough exercise for at least the next six to eight months.