Blog 331 – Chonny Sharp, Walking the Kokoda Track in 2025, Part 1 – 29 September 2025

My purpose is to give hope to those who have lost hope. Without hope, we remain lost in the Shadow Lands.

Australian infantry crossing a creek on the Kokoda Track in 1942.  Frequently, the enemy Japanese could not be seen because of the jungle; hand to hand combat was common, resulting in horrific wounds.  Many troops died from their wounds while waiting to be evacuated.  There were no helicopters in WW 2.  Photo from Kokoda by Paul Hams.

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This is a photo of Private George Whittington being led by Raphael Oimbari towards a field hospital at Dobodura in northern Papua on 25 December 1941.  Although Private Whittington recovered from his wounds, he died of typhus at Port Moresby on 12 February 1943.  Photo from Kokoda by Paul Hams.

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Elite Japanese troops of the Nankai Shitai or South Seas Detachment leaving Rabaul to invade Papua.  These were the troops confronted by and defeated by the citizen soldiers of the Australian 39th Battalion.

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This is a photo of 4 of some of my wonderful fellow trekkers.  Karen is on the left, Stephen is 2nd from the left, Chonny is 3rd from the left and Angus is on the right.

If any of my fellow trekkers had a single grain of unkindness inside them, they hid it so well they must have been master magicians.  These so-called “ordinary” people did the most extraordinary things on every day of our trek.

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Although the blood of the 39th Battalion literally flooded every kilometre of the Kokoda Track, we had no battles to fight.  Our sole task was to convince ourselves to keep going when we found the walking was so very hard.

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In 2025, the Kokoda Track remains a pedestrian artery in Papua New Guinea.  I was one of 20 Australians who started walking the Track on Sunday 3 August 2025.  One of my fellow trekkers was Chonny Sharp.

What follows is Chonny’s experience in her own words.

My boots sank deep into the mud, pack cutting into my shoulders, sweat stinging my eyes. Eight days in the jungle changes you. You go in thinking it’s about the training, the hills, the kilometres ahead. But Kokoda is so much more than that. It’s the weight of history under your boots, the stories that stay lodged in your chest long after they’re told, and the way it strips you back until you meet yourself again. By the time I stepped onto the track, I was already running on empty. The weeks before had been relentless. Parenting, work, crisis after crisis, all of it piling on until there was nothing left in the tank. My boss said to me, “It’s too much.” She was right. But it’s just me, so I kept going. Kokoda didn’t give me a gentle start. On Day 3, I tore my Achilles tendon. The pain was sharp and immediate. For a split second I thought, this is it. I’m done. But I didn’t stop. I strapped it, gritted my teeth, and kept moving. Every step hurt, but stopping would have hurt more. Descending was manageable. Climbing was brutal. Every push-off sent pain shooting through me. I learned to lead with my less dominant side, changing my footing over and over just to make progress. Sometimes the pain brought me to tears at the top. On the last day, I dosed myself heavily just to finish. But I finished. The people I walked with became my lifeline. Belly laughs over shared misery. Quiet words of encouragement. Stories of diggers that brought us all undone. Every single person admitted the track had broken them open at some point. We carried each other as much as we carried our packs. It all built towards Imitia Ridge, the last big climb. For us, it was the final push. For the 76 Australian soldiers who stood there in 1942, it was the final stand. They couldn’t be pushed back any further. Behind them was nothing. They knew they were likely going to die, but they fought with everything they had — and they won. Standing there after eight days of trekking, ankle screaming, body aching, I was broken open. I couldn’t fathom what those men had endured after eight weeks of fighting in the jungle. It humbled me to my core. When I came home, I thought the hardest part was behind me. I was wrong. The truth is, I hadn’t missed my kids. Not once. In the jungle, I was just me. No demands. No constant noise. Just silence, freedom, and breath. That freedom was intoxicating, and stepping back into my life felt like being dropped into deep water without a breath. And then the guilt came. Because what kind of mother feels freer ankle screaming, mud up to her shins, than in her own home? But I’ve realised it’s not about love. It’s about capacity. Women are told we can do it all. The truth is, we don’t want to do it all. We only do it because no one else is. People say, “Just reach out.” But reaching out is more work. A friend once offered to do my shopping. How do I explain that each kid eats a different brand of yoghurt, this specific bread, only that type of cereal? By the time I’ve given the instructions, I could have done it myself. That invisible knowledge we carry makes it easier to keep absorbing the load than to hand it over. Kokoda broke me open in ways I didn’t expect. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. And as much as I came home with mud-stained clothes and a busted ankle, I also came home with a truth I can’t unsee: I need more moments in my life that are mine.

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To be continued …

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By helping others to heal We help ourselves heal Remember those who preceded us. Give abundant Love Always The Chocolate Soldiers of the 39th Battalion always did.