© text Don Diespecker 2009
The Earthrise Diary
Don Diespecker
June 27 2009. Last weekend there were further prolonged showers and rain periods; the river got up dangerously high again and there was almost a fourth flood. Fortunately, the flood did not eventuate and the bridge remained passable.
At last I’ve completed a respectable draft (in my opinion) of my much too long piece describing my view(s) while sitting sunnily on my Belvedere. Now I have a fat folder of bits and pieces and am free to move on. The ‘essay’ has been cut from around 10-k words to little more than 7-k words and a print has been sent to a journal with my hopes that it may be carefully read and seriously considered. There were many difficulties in writing “About my View,” not the least of which were the floods that totally demanded attention; other difficulties (entirely of my own making) were those of taking responsibility for some of my ‘views’ on writing and literature. For example choosing to use or to not use an introductory epigraph or quotation by a famous writer (or even by an un-famous one like me) became a headache. I considered lines by Lao Tzu, Ernest Hemingway, William James, Martha Gellhorn and Julian Jaynes, and even some lines by yours truly. Finally I began the piece with a snappy one-liner by Michel de Montaigne, the formulator or ‘inventor’ of the essay (many thanks for the book, Bruno; I now run into M de M here there and everywhere!). The Earthrise view(s) couldn’t quite speak for their selves and I did so for them and was otherwise writing almost entirely about the stream of consciousness as I was experiencing it. Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching (as an English translation!) contains beautifully written lines. I was influenced by Hemingway’s first novel, ‘Fiesta’ The Sun Also Rises and that book has been my inspiration for more than 60 years. William James explained and named the stream of consciousness, thereby encouraging and motivating many fine writers. Julian Jaynes’s explanations of imagery marvellously explain us to ourselves, in particular, our ability to image our past experiences.
If you’ve followed this Diary recently you’ll be aware of the most recent floods here (The Three Floods). Last month’s Diary began with a short verse, since changed (yet again), because everything changes constantly and also because I managed an inspired burst of word herding and completed the memoir/essay that almost began with this:
In the riverside garden
March light’s softer
than summer’s glare
the river runs greenly
autumn thinking starts (and has become, instead, this):
In my riverside gardens
Autumn light’s softer
than summer’s glare
the river runs greenly
seasonal thinking begins
A while ago at lunchtime, half listening to the Science Show, I heard the presenter discussing planets and there also was included part of Holst’s ‘Saturn’ music (Saturn, the planet of growing old/approaching death, was how it was referred to, I think. We’re all doing it, so the notion wasn’t alarming in any way). Today is grey and almost entirely overcast except when there are sunny breaks and I can see patches of blue. It’s not all that cold today, but the air is heavy and damp and where I sit now is made warmer by the hearty breath of an electric blower/heater. The heater seems almost necessary so perhaps heating today may be related to aging. Had it been sunnier (as yesterday was) I’d have tottered outside to sit on the Belvedere reading in the sun, as I was able to do yesterday. I’m at last dipping carefully into Alberto Manguel’s The Library at Night, despite the beckoning attractions of The Literary Review (several issues) and even Quadrant, plus umpteen recent books, untouched. Floods have a bad reputation for upending and disrupting; clean-up chores and plumbing demands make reading of any kind seem a luxury. Yesterday, too and just before I went outside I watched a cormorant come in for a landing, downstream on the high river which was white-capped in waves. Do cormorants do this for fun, I wondered, or is that type of landing only expeditious? If humans can enjoy water sports like board riding and surfing, why not cormorants, also? All this by way of indicating something about the greyness of dull days being nullified by the colours of the river and also by the clean near-white look of river stones and gravel newly spread on the banks opposite. The river is presently showing her greenness: dark bottled greens that remind me of the worn glass pieces I used to pick up on the stone beach near the ocean-end of Cook Street in Victoria, BC in the 1930s and of paler greens that look almost as if diluted with something white (like milk, perhaps, or white sediments like those seen in some New Zealand rivers). The contrast between these beautiful greens and the ugly dark browns of the recent floods is considerable and, psychologically, I know how easy it is to enjoy greenness and how unpleasant are flooding browns. Colouring like those mentioned may set a mood or nudge motivations of one kind or another. And, yes, going outside in search of sufficiently dry flotsam for fire-starting (and there have again been showers) produces only mild enthusiasm; my psyche prefers other pursuits: reading and writing indoors rather than muddied chores on the ruined banks outside. Curling up by the fire with a book is something I did when very young; nowadays it’s a rare pastime.
For those of you who write daily diaries and who necessarily make short entries in small books, the first draft is the considered draft because revisiting the manuscript to make endless changes, corrections and further altered versions seldom seems appropriate. Writing via a keyboard is another matter: we may cheerfully uproot text and place it holus bolus in a different location, alter or improve syntax and grammar and even change tense. Drafting a ‘memoir’ that also has the form of a long essay seems best suited to the computer keyboard and no reader need ever know the number or kinds of changes the writer has made. (Now I’m reminded of a reproduced page I downloaded from the Web: a manuscript page by Grace Paley from the story “Friends” in Enormous Changes at the Last Minute. The page, typed in 2-space, was reproduced in The Paris Review and can be seen on the Internet. The text had been much altered in barely legible scribbles—which, hopefully, the author was later able to read. There’s also a reproduced page proof from James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake that includes some hackles-raising corrections and challenging corrections scrawled by the author to be seen in William Wiser’s book, The Twilight Years; Paris in the 1930s). –And there are pristinely attractive manuscript pages by famous British authors that are displayed beneath glass in the British Museum in London.
Monday June 29 2009. I was up early in winter darkness and drove to Bellingen, Coffs and Park Beach. The sun came up as I drove and I’ve not seen cloud all day. The light is magnificent. These last days of June mark the 25th anniversary of Jannelle and I coming to Earthrise in 1984. After a quarter century here (the longest I’ve lived anywhere) I feel almost a Local. To celebrate I sat in the sunlight and read for more than an hour (after typing and printing a page for my neighbour, unpacking my groceries and hastily eating the briefest of lunches). Then I chopped wood, cleaned out the heater and here I am in front of the computer again at a little after 15:00 hours. I hear there was a siege yesterday in Bellingen and that, earlier, in the Valley a certain motor vehicle was attacked and damaged (the two events unconnected). Here the sun still shines. Now it’s time to set a fire. Sunset is less than two hours away and there being no cloud cover the night will be cold.
The stone (ocean) beach (Victoria, BC) reminded me of Canadian summer evenings when our little family sometimes enjoyed a meal on that beach: my mother prepared a large saucepan of plain boiled rice and another of mutton stew, with the saucepan lids tied on tightly so that when they were opened the contents were still hot (we lived only a few minutes away by car: an old Paige sedan {?} I think it was). Those evenings were in the early 1930s when I was four or five and I well remember those suppertime tastes. There was perhaps some memory of those days when, yesterday, shopping in the supermarket, I searched for ox tail (a tasty staple of the Depression) and found instead, lamb neck chops for a stew (a well-remembered substitute).
I’ve leafed through rare copies of the June 1988 Diary that opened with this:
January 30 1988, on time for once…& it’s another superbly sunny day here; there have been quite a few this month. It was 3.5 degrees outside early this a.m. and about 9 inside [12.5 degrees today, June 30 2009]. The coldest morning was 2 degrees. There are many bids around these days: king parrots and magpies in the eucalypts, black plum and myrtle; magpies and smaller birds in the white cedars (which are now almost leafless). Some black cockatoos also, intent on chewing into cheese trees for grubs.
Twenty years ago we were writing on an Osborne portable computer (which soon afterwards began to fail) and there was no Internet. In the same Diary: a 2-m python had emerged through part of the floor (the floor not then completely sealed); wild dogs were howling in the scrub and a near neighbour had reputedly shot two that had killed a calf (our dogs stayed on their leashes at night); Jannelle was making baskets from Lawyer vines and artificial butterflies from stained glass; I was building stone walls and we were also gardening—all these activities followed a morning’s work on the house. We worked hard every day.
The pipelines have been repaired and I now have two operating systems (one as back-up): the large electric Italian pump (fixed in place on the East deck) drives the larger system, as required; a small Honda fire-fighting petrol driven portable (just) pump drives the smaller system. Either can lift water from the river to the much higher storage tank next to the carport.
Thoughts about summer suppers in the 1930s now provoke some other old images. Now I remember our kitchen in the big old timber house at 1129 Oxford Street in the ‘30s. And now I’m visualizing an image of myself sitting at table with the family. A favourite meal was boiled beef and dumplings with vegetables, the dumplings looked like fluffy snowballs. Another favourite was steamed syrup pudding. Now I can see myself watching my mother in the pantry preserving vegetables. She used crockery jars about 120-mm in diameter, filled them with green beans and some salt, topped up the contents with water and sealed each container: fresh green beans for midwinter. Although these remembrances of times past have nothing to do with Earthrise in 2009, the 1930s can never be irrelevant to me simply because I was there. Yesterday I looked for quinces in the supermarket, but there were none (but I did find another old favourite: fresh rhubarb). There’s still an old quince tree growing here in Cedar Grove, but it no longer produces fruit. Sometimes, when I buy these hard-skinned fruits in the supermarket I’m asked at the checkout to identify them. They’re very familiar to me; not always recognised by others, perhaps because the quince may be regarded as ‘old-fashioned’ fruit. Try some. Quarter them carefully with a sharp knife and peel them even more carefully. Place the pieces in a saucepan; add some sugar and no more than 25-mm of water. Stew to taste. Delicious. I’ll assume that stewed rhubarb and custard is still popular).
June 30 2009. Suddenly mid afternoon arrives and the sky is all cloudy again.
This Diary is # 19 in the New Series (previously 1107, 108, 208, 308, 408, 508, 608, 708, 808, 908, 1008, 1108, 1208, 109, 209, 309, 409; this is 609). DDD June 30 2009.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Earthrise Diary 509
© text Don Diespecker 2009
The Earthrise Diary
Don Diespecker
In the riverside garden
March light’s softer
than summer’s glare
the river runs greenly
autumn thinking starts
The little ‘verse’ or epigram (above) that starts this Diary entry is part of a memoir piece that once aspired to be only an essay, but it keeps growing and now consumes far too much of my time as it lumbers on hoping for inspirational fluency. I mention this self-indulgence because the piece (now in excess of 8-k words) has continued playing in my mind even during The Three Floods and that seems sufficient justification for me to keep plugging away at it.
More Flooding Distractions
If, like me, you’re a fan of black and white movies of the 1930s, you may remember one titled ‘Fling Down to Rio.’ And now, if you’ve just experienced ‘seeing’ an image of dancers holding on to halters while standing (holding on one-handed waving, even) atop the wing of a 1930s monoplane against a background of Rio as seen from the air, you’ll perfectly understand my more recent fantasy. Now imagine this: a line of board riders across a single wave that’s pushing constantly and evenly upstream in a river, first in Brazil and similarly, on the Dordogne River in southwest France. Although such board riding may seem a fantasy that activity is indeed factual (there are names for such peculiar wave actions which I presently cannot recall, but that doesn’t matter). And why am I harping on about an old movie and modern board riding? Because, dear reader, there has been a third big flood here, a déjà vu flood, a three-in-a-row repetition of the floods in the Bellinger here (February/the end of March and the start of April/ and now May 21; each flood a bit bigger then its predecessor and each of them inspiring the Minister to declare this zone (and others in the Mid North Coast region) a natural disaster area. Sigh. This time, we were without either, electricity (May 21 until May 25) and landline telephones (from May 22). Zero electricity means nothing electrical/electronic requiring domestic mains supply will function (including the gizmos that charge mobile or cell phones and I have only the landline telephone). Without electricity, now ‘on’ again, and with all the landline phones west of Richardson’s Bridge (the next bridge down from the Plains Crossing Bridge, i.e., here), ominously dead, it’s not possible to send or to receive emails or faxes. I understand, however, now that mobile or cell phones can be used in the area, that it’s possible to ‘use’ email facilities via the phone. To put that differently: I can’t send or receive emails because the landline phone line is kaput and I have no mobile/cell phone.
During this quite big flood which managed to get under the house a wee bit, I did many of those necessary things that locals do when threatened by a rising flood and one of them is to sit quietly, at appropriate times, and to reflect on optimistically remaining as clear-headed as possible. Panicking is never good and a flood is a flood. Thus, I was sitting inside, looking out at the enormous milk-chocolate-looking river raging past a few metres away and seeing almost blandly, how much faster the centre of the river moves—at all times—but spectacularly so during an ascending flood. Although the water at the continually changing ‘sides’ moves fast or much faster than usual, the centre-stream torrent tears past at a surprising velocity while also moving tonnes of logs and debris (this makes debris in general and big logs in particular look like destructive missiles). And of course this has nothing to do with Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movies or surfing upstream, but the mind may be re-minded of certain past events and Flood Time events sometimes affect audiences in peculiar ways. Thus, with the nearest parts of the river passing here at impressive velocities despite the river containing additional volumes of debris, the centre-stream torrent speeds by at even higher velocities; indeed, you have to see it to believe it because nowhere can the eye detect quite where the variable speeds differ. How we perceive depends on a number of factors and seeing a flood often makes me doubt my senses. For example: from this close (inside the house) there’s rain falling steadily and heavily plus a river spray and a river mist that partly obscures clear viewing. And the flood has it’s own peculiar blend of scents and smells so that if you close your eyes you may easily imagine a scented river in flood, one that picks up the sickly sweet smells of decaying trees, logs, sundry vegetation as well as all manner of other subtle smells. And there’s the thunderous noise of a much-much-bigger-than-usual-river charging by—a river that’s perhaps three times wider and in places about 2 to 15 times deeper than normal (where I sit is about 7.5 to 8-m higher than the ‘normal’ river level). The normal flow is only 0.5-1-m deep in front of the bridge and 3- to 4-m deep in the pool. The nearby bridge is now 4-5-m under the water; and Darkwood Road was about 4-m under the torrent in front of the house at the height of the flood; thus, with the river entering Earthrise from the Deer Park’s eroding banks and riverside paddock to the northeast, the river level in front of the house was about 2-m over the lawn and it’s fragile-looking mosses and directly in front of the house windows the flood covered the lawn to a depth of 3-m. The river’s depths here is the most striking of flood phenomena because we don’t normally think of discrete or significant depths except in rising and falling floods. The nearby rapids, for example, are normally markedly visible and noisy because the rapids are essentially blackened bedrock subdued by white water and there’s a balance or ‘equality,’ more or less, between ‘bedrock’ and ‘white water.’ Currently, the flood is falling and the waters are clean, green and distinctive and, presently, a river-wide torrent pours hugely where I know the tail end of the rapids must be yet there are no rapids stones or bedrock visible and the unremitting power visible as a pouring over of the torrent puts one in mind of astonishingly bigger flood torrents: waterfalls. The visual effect of ‘the rapids’ partly assuming some of the characteristics of the waterfall is one that is hugely impressive particularly in the descending flood because the river is now green and clean and what is normally ‘the rapids’ is now a river-wide attraction with no bedrock to be seen. –And not forgetting that the rising floodwaters were brown, heavily laden with sandy silt plus some gravel and stones and burdened with logs and other materials, most of which swept straight through and out of the property to form large whirling Sargasso-like masses near Rum Corner. In the obscured depths of the rising flood ‘the rapids’ are invisible, seemingly ‘buried’ well below the river’s surface.
Such a violent and heavily-charged torrent knocks down almost everything other than the big trees which define ‘garden’: it removes and scatters heavy stones enclosing particular small gardens around trees, tears down fencing and bends steel star pickets. Logs of all shapes and sizes do most of the damage and these logs, once they’ve traveled over the lawn, continue to mow down small trees and shrubs on the riverbank (farewell to decorative small trees like the decade-old bleeding heart). The debris settles where it can; much of it, as Sargasso ‘islands’ settles along the edges of the lawn/top of the riverbank and this not only crushes water lines, but remains an immovable ‘dump’ until the next flood arrives to replace those dumps with new ones (floods lower in height/altitude) surge into the property from an almost opposite direction at Rum Corner and leave debris across the lawn. Hence, the high floods, sweeping right through from across the road, leave the lawn almost debris free except at the riverbank edges). The wonder is that the lawn grasses aren’t either torn away or completely buried by mud and silt (the original lawn was extinguished by mud/silt to a depth of about 0.5-m in the big 2001 flood, i.e., the Big Lawn at Earthrise is now at a higher altitude).
There were young trees across the ruins of Darkwood Road near the approach to the bridge on my side, piles of road metal and silt, a long log and tangled fencing obstructing the approach. Amanda, from the Deer Park used her tractor and with the help of Heinz, from Dreamtime, she was able to clear the road to the bridge. Across the river the approach had again been washed out and despite this bridge being one of the Valley’s ‘best’ structures no traffic other than trail bikes could safely cross the river. One trail bike rider was able to race over the bridge and jump the considerable gap—without harm. On this occasion, too and with my water lines immovably buried beneath debris, my Dreamtime neighbours offered to use their tractor to shunt some of the debris back over the riverbank edges. Neighbours Leif, Heinz and Glenn were further assisted by mutual neighbour Amanda. The second tractor (again driven by Amanda) assisted the first machine. Ultimately that clearance was achieved.
Today is May 30 and I can’t hurry toward any kind of ending to this current edition of the Diary because the phone line remains lifeless [the Telstra support poles were re-set and braced on Thursday, June 11 and the phones resumed their dial tones on Friday, June 12; more below]. There have been brilliantly sunny days here following the clearing of the two storm fronts that produced the most recent flood and the resultant 1-m (!!) of rainfall in this last relevant flood week. May is a favourite month here because of the autumn colours. There are liquidambar trees whose leaves are largely yellow at this time although a few are pale orange and even dark red; and in the same area and along the roadside there are Pride of India (laurels) shrubby trees. On the road to Bellingen there’s a cement/concrete manufacturing plant at the end of a long entrance running from the Waterfall Way and all the way along this entrance are plane trees and, I think, tall conifers, all displaying beautiful colours (which reminds me of New England, over the nearby ranges, where there are always spectacular colours at this time of the year). The last couple of days I’ve taken the opportunity to sit outside at lunchtime and read the essays in Reading in Bed, recently sent me by Bruno. Very pleasant, sitting in the sun with the roaring green river a jump away: not many leeches and fewer mosquitoes. To resume lunchtime reading in the sun while ignoring or even including clean-up debris—untouched—makes reading an even greater pleasure. When I started to walk up afterwards I stopped to look again at the latest Gift of the River, the nether end of a red cedar tree that I’ve already given to a friend. It will make either a fine conversation piece or will provide a cutter with the opportunity to saw off slabs from the already sawn remains; it had obviously been found on an upstream riverbank and been partly harvested. It was once a big tree; it stands on its still strong roots, presenting its base at right angles and towers about 3-m above the ground (it was this large object that picked up and stretched my pipeline to breaking point before wrenching it from the electric pump). I tapped enquiringly at some of thinnest parts where a saw had partly opened a cut and was surprised to hear several different sounds to my tapping: behold, a musical tree! Parts of the roots, not yet sawn, make deep bass notes. I was reminded of the African band, Ossibisa (sp?), whose members played a variety of big African drums. Never mind. A couple of weeks ago I enjoyed my 80th birthday and I’m now at an age where I’m happy to give away beautiful things rather than to store them up. The earlier conversation piece logs, obligingly left by previous floods, have all sailed away from Earthrise, bound for new places downriver. Everything changes.
May 31 2009. The showers have started again and the lawns are sufficiently muddied to display a range of artistic-looking tractor tracks that glisten in the rain. I’ve been able to walk along the road again and yesterday met Chris, Jennifer and the second Chris being walked by their own dogs and two freeloading pooches that regularly join the entourage. The dogs are all small, fortunately. There’s no news of the phone line being operational yet and my number will again be passed on to Telstra. Later, I visited Dreamtime and later learned that the phones ‘should be on again on Monday at the latest’. Hmm.
I offer here some snapshot flood scenes.
As darkness falls at the height of the flood (Friday May 22) and armed with a torch and a machete I negotiate my way along the hillside through wet undergrowth and storm water (unable to safely cross the almost 1-m deep Earthrise Creek between the house and carport) to optimistically switch on the power (the board located where the old bunkhouse used to be). Alas, the power has not returned. I cut down some young trees leaning toward the incoming electricity line and hurry back to the house to remove some joyful leeches.
While chatting with Leif on Thursday (May 29) we see, to our surprise, the arrival of the Council pathfinders who prepare the way for the arrival of a large mechanical shovel and grader. They immediately begin filling in the washed-out bridge approach across the river—7 days after the start of the flood and the BSC having repaired the small but high Die Happy Bridge further down the Valley (where there is now a 5-tonnes load limit). Justin’s Bridge, near Des Willis’s house upriver, has failed and all residents to the west of the bridge are in a predicament, being unable to cross the flooded river and access forest and logging tracks on high ground; they’re isolated. Des Willis was one of the last to get out at 10:00 on Thursday May 21. Kim and Fiona got out then too, but their vehicle stopped on Hobart’s Bridge and was recovered by Darcey who pulled the car off the bridge with a tractor. Further down the Valley, an elderly man died near his vehicle in floodwaters near Raleigh.
When the worst had passed late on Sunday afternoon (May 24) and I was wearily heading for bed with my dynamo radio, I heard the very rare sound of a motorboat coming upstream close to the far bank: one person driving and two more figures in yellow wet weather gear. I wondered why: the river continues to run with logs and other debris, the depths are invisible because of the colour of the river and the light is failing fast.
The power was restored after about four days. Candlelight may be romantic, but not when there’s a big flood and there’s only the slow combustion heater (if one finds dry wood to burn). Boiling water on the gas stove is better than having cold water—but this is a time when we may only dream of hot showers and easy cups of tea. Losing the landline phone is never romantic, particularly when the provider responds daily with misinformation and false promises. Thank Heavens for the journos at ABC Radio who helped us. Yes, it was only a small story perhaps, but it was BIG in this neck of the woods.
Thanks to the tireless work of my neighbour, Leif, he was able to persuade Telstra to supply me with a satellite (wireless technology) phone. To my surprise and admiration a courier arrived here in the dark on Friday, June 5, and set the machine up. I can again communicate with the world (although there is no Internet access and no message facility. Long story/explanation short: I was able to speak on the ABC Midcoast (Local) Radio on Wednesday morning, June 10, and was followed (On Air) by the Telstra local area manager. By some strange and magical coincidence, a Telstra maintenance crew arrived the following day to begin the re-connect and the phone lines were restored on Friday afternoon between 1 and 2:30 pm.
I’m writing this on Tuesday, June 16—Bloomsday! A Happy Bloomsday to everybody. There are more flood stories yet to be told, but I’ll pass for now. Thanks to all who sent good wishes and who visited. I was pleased to welcome my friend Sharon to a somewhat changed Earthrise and she had also sent me an email on June 5 that I was unable to open until June12; it included the moving farewell from one of the world’s finest writers, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Here the air is like crystal today, the river continues it’s fall, allowing the rapids to be visible and audible once more.
The Earthrise Diary
Don Diespecker
In the riverside garden
March light’s softer
than summer’s glare
the river runs greenly
autumn thinking starts
The little ‘verse’ or epigram (above) that starts this Diary entry is part of a memoir piece that once aspired to be only an essay, but it keeps growing and now consumes far too much of my time as it lumbers on hoping for inspirational fluency. I mention this self-indulgence because the piece (now in excess of 8-k words) has continued playing in my mind even during The Three Floods and that seems sufficient justification for me to keep plugging away at it.
More Flooding Distractions
If, like me, you’re a fan of black and white movies of the 1930s, you may remember one titled ‘Fling Down to Rio.’ And now, if you’ve just experienced ‘seeing’ an image of dancers holding on to halters while standing (holding on one-handed waving, even) atop the wing of a 1930s monoplane against a background of Rio as seen from the air, you’ll perfectly understand my more recent fantasy. Now imagine this: a line of board riders across a single wave that’s pushing constantly and evenly upstream in a river, first in Brazil and similarly, on the Dordogne River in southwest France. Although such board riding may seem a fantasy that activity is indeed factual (there are names for such peculiar wave actions which I presently cannot recall, but that doesn’t matter). And why am I harping on about an old movie and modern board riding? Because, dear reader, there has been a third big flood here, a déjà vu flood, a three-in-a-row repetition of the floods in the Bellinger here (February/the end of March and the start of April/ and now May 21; each flood a bit bigger then its predecessor and each of them inspiring the Minister to declare this zone (and others in the Mid North Coast region) a natural disaster area. Sigh. This time, we were without either, electricity (May 21 until May 25) and landline telephones (from May 22). Zero electricity means nothing electrical/electronic requiring domestic mains supply will function (including the gizmos that charge mobile or cell phones and I have only the landline telephone). Without electricity, now ‘on’ again, and with all the landline phones west of Richardson’s Bridge (the next bridge down from the Plains Crossing Bridge, i.e., here), ominously dead, it’s not possible to send or to receive emails or faxes. I understand, however, now that mobile or cell phones can be used in the area, that it’s possible to ‘use’ email facilities via the phone. To put that differently: I can’t send or receive emails because the landline phone line is kaput and I have no mobile/cell phone.
During this quite big flood which managed to get under the house a wee bit, I did many of those necessary things that locals do when threatened by a rising flood and one of them is to sit quietly, at appropriate times, and to reflect on optimistically remaining as clear-headed as possible. Panicking is never good and a flood is a flood. Thus, I was sitting inside, looking out at the enormous milk-chocolate-looking river raging past a few metres away and seeing almost blandly, how much faster the centre of the river moves—at all times—but spectacularly so during an ascending flood. Although the water at the continually changing ‘sides’ moves fast or much faster than usual, the centre-stream torrent tears past at a surprising velocity while also moving tonnes of logs and debris (this makes debris in general and big logs in particular look like destructive missiles). And of course this has nothing to do with Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movies or surfing upstream, but the mind may be re-minded of certain past events and Flood Time events sometimes affect audiences in peculiar ways. Thus, with the nearest parts of the river passing here at impressive velocities despite the river containing additional volumes of debris, the centre-stream torrent speeds by at even higher velocities; indeed, you have to see it to believe it because nowhere can the eye detect quite where the variable speeds differ. How we perceive depends on a number of factors and seeing a flood often makes me doubt my senses. For example: from this close (inside the house) there’s rain falling steadily and heavily plus a river spray and a river mist that partly obscures clear viewing. And the flood has it’s own peculiar blend of scents and smells so that if you close your eyes you may easily imagine a scented river in flood, one that picks up the sickly sweet smells of decaying trees, logs, sundry vegetation as well as all manner of other subtle smells. And there’s the thunderous noise of a much-much-bigger-than-usual-river charging by—a river that’s perhaps three times wider and in places about 2 to 15 times deeper than normal (where I sit is about 7.5 to 8-m higher than the ‘normal’ river level). The normal flow is only 0.5-1-m deep in front of the bridge and 3- to 4-m deep in the pool. The nearby bridge is now 4-5-m under the water; and Darkwood Road was about 4-m under the torrent in front of the house at the height of the flood; thus, with the river entering Earthrise from the Deer Park’s eroding banks and riverside paddock to the northeast, the river level in front of the house was about 2-m over the lawn and it’s fragile-looking mosses and directly in front of the house windows the flood covered the lawn to a depth of 3-m. The river’s depths here is the most striking of flood phenomena because we don’t normally think of discrete or significant depths except in rising and falling floods. The nearby rapids, for example, are normally markedly visible and noisy because the rapids are essentially blackened bedrock subdued by white water and there’s a balance or ‘equality,’ more or less, between ‘bedrock’ and ‘white water.’ Currently, the flood is falling and the waters are clean, green and distinctive and, presently, a river-wide torrent pours hugely where I know the tail end of the rapids must be yet there are no rapids stones or bedrock visible and the unremitting power visible as a pouring over of the torrent puts one in mind of astonishingly bigger flood torrents: waterfalls. The visual effect of ‘the rapids’ partly assuming some of the characteristics of the waterfall is one that is hugely impressive particularly in the descending flood because the river is now green and clean and what is normally ‘the rapids’ is now a river-wide attraction with no bedrock to be seen. –And not forgetting that the rising floodwaters were brown, heavily laden with sandy silt plus some gravel and stones and burdened with logs and other materials, most of which swept straight through and out of the property to form large whirling Sargasso-like masses near Rum Corner. In the obscured depths of the rising flood ‘the rapids’ are invisible, seemingly ‘buried’ well below the river’s surface.
Such a violent and heavily-charged torrent knocks down almost everything other than the big trees which define ‘garden’: it removes and scatters heavy stones enclosing particular small gardens around trees, tears down fencing and bends steel star pickets. Logs of all shapes and sizes do most of the damage and these logs, once they’ve traveled over the lawn, continue to mow down small trees and shrubs on the riverbank (farewell to decorative small trees like the decade-old bleeding heart). The debris settles where it can; much of it, as Sargasso ‘islands’ settles along the edges of the lawn/top of the riverbank and this not only crushes water lines, but remains an immovable ‘dump’ until the next flood arrives to replace those dumps with new ones (floods lower in height/altitude) surge into the property from an almost opposite direction at Rum Corner and leave debris across the lawn. Hence, the high floods, sweeping right through from across the road, leave the lawn almost debris free except at the riverbank edges). The wonder is that the lawn grasses aren’t either torn away or completely buried by mud and silt (the original lawn was extinguished by mud/silt to a depth of about 0.5-m in the big 2001 flood, i.e., the Big Lawn at Earthrise is now at a higher altitude).
There were young trees across the ruins of Darkwood Road near the approach to the bridge on my side, piles of road metal and silt, a long log and tangled fencing obstructing the approach. Amanda, from the Deer Park used her tractor and with the help of Heinz, from Dreamtime, she was able to clear the road to the bridge. Across the river the approach had again been washed out and despite this bridge being one of the Valley’s ‘best’ structures no traffic other than trail bikes could safely cross the river. One trail bike rider was able to race over the bridge and jump the considerable gap—without harm. On this occasion, too and with my water lines immovably buried beneath debris, my Dreamtime neighbours offered to use their tractor to shunt some of the debris back over the riverbank edges. Neighbours Leif, Heinz and Glenn were further assisted by mutual neighbour Amanda. The second tractor (again driven by Amanda) assisted the first machine. Ultimately that clearance was achieved.
Today is May 30 and I can’t hurry toward any kind of ending to this current edition of the Diary because the phone line remains lifeless [the Telstra support poles were re-set and braced on Thursday, June 11 and the phones resumed their dial tones on Friday, June 12; more below]. There have been brilliantly sunny days here following the clearing of the two storm fronts that produced the most recent flood and the resultant 1-m (!!) of rainfall in this last relevant flood week. May is a favourite month here because of the autumn colours. There are liquidambar trees whose leaves are largely yellow at this time although a few are pale orange and even dark red; and in the same area and along the roadside there are Pride of India (laurels) shrubby trees. On the road to Bellingen there’s a cement/concrete manufacturing plant at the end of a long entrance running from the Waterfall Way and all the way along this entrance are plane trees and, I think, tall conifers, all displaying beautiful colours (which reminds me of New England, over the nearby ranges, where there are always spectacular colours at this time of the year). The last couple of days I’ve taken the opportunity to sit outside at lunchtime and read the essays in Reading in Bed, recently sent me by Bruno. Very pleasant, sitting in the sun with the roaring green river a jump away: not many leeches and fewer mosquitoes. To resume lunchtime reading in the sun while ignoring or even including clean-up debris—untouched—makes reading an even greater pleasure. When I started to walk up afterwards I stopped to look again at the latest Gift of the River, the nether end of a red cedar tree that I’ve already given to a friend. It will make either a fine conversation piece or will provide a cutter with the opportunity to saw off slabs from the already sawn remains; it had obviously been found on an upstream riverbank and been partly harvested. It was once a big tree; it stands on its still strong roots, presenting its base at right angles and towers about 3-m above the ground (it was this large object that picked up and stretched my pipeline to breaking point before wrenching it from the electric pump). I tapped enquiringly at some of thinnest parts where a saw had partly opened a cut and was surprised to hear several different sounds to my tapping: behold, a musical tree! Parts of the roots, not yet sawn, make deep bass notes. I was reminded of the African band, Ossibisa (sp?), whose members played a variety of big African drums. Never mind. A couple of weeks ago I enjoyed my 80th birthday and I’m now at an age where I’m happy to give away beautiful things rather than to store them up. The earlier conversation piece logs, obligingly left by previous floods, have all sailed away from Earthrise, bound for new places downriver. Everything changes.
May 31 2009. The showers have started again and the lawns are sufficiently muddied to display a range of artistic-looking tractor tracks that glisten in the rain. I’ve been able to walk along the road again and yesterday met Chris, Jennifer and the second Chris being walked by their own dogs and two freeloading pooches that regularly join the entourage. The dogs are all small, fortunately. There’s no news of the phone line being operational yet and my number will again be passed on to Telstra. Later, I visited Dreamtime and later learned that the phones ‘should be on again on Monday at the latest’. Hmm.
I offer here some snapshot flood scenes.
As darkness falls at the height of the flood (Friday May 22) and armed with a torch and a machete I negotiate my way along the hillside through wet undergrowth and storm water (unable to safely cross the almost 1-m deep Earthrise Creek between the house and carport) to optimistically switch on the power (the board located where the old bunkhouse used to be). Alas, the power has not returned. I cut down some young trees leaning toward the incoming electricity line and hurry back to the house to remove some joyful leeches.
While chatting with Leif on Thursday (May 29) we see, to our surprise, the arrival of the Council pathfinders who prepare the way for the arrival of a large mechanical shovel and grader. They immediately begin filling in the washed-out bridge approach across the river—7 days after the start of the flood and the BSC having repaired the small but high Die Happy Bridge further down the Valley (where there is now a 5-tonnes load limit). Justin’s Bridge, near Des Willis’s house upriver, has failed and all residents to the west of the bridge are in a predicament, being unable to cross the flooded river and access forest and logging tracks on high ground; they’re isolated. Des Willis was one of the last to get out at 10:00 on Thursday May 21. Kim and Fiona got out then too, but their vehicle stopped on Hobart’s Bridge and was recovered by Darcey who pulled the car off the bridge with a tractor. Further down the Valley, an elderly man died near his vehicle in floodwaters near Raleigh.
When the worst had passed late on Sunday afternoon (May 24) and I was wearily heading for bed with my dynamo radio, I heard the very rare sound of a motorboat coming upstream close to the far bank: one person driving and two more figures in yellow wet weather gear. I wondered why: the river continues to run with logs and other debris, the depths are invisible because of the colour of the river and the light is failing fast.
The power was restored after about four days. Candlelight may be romantic, but not when there’s a big flood and there’s only the slow combustion heater (if one finds dry wood to burn). Boiling water on the gas stove is better than having cold water—but this is a time when we may only dream of hot showers and easy cups of tea. Losing the landline phone is never romantic, particularly when the provider responds daily with misinformation and false promises. Thank Heavens for the journos at ABC Radio who helped us. Yes, it was only a small story perhaps, but it was BIG in this neck of the woods.
Thanks to the tireless work of my neighbour, Leif, he was able to persuade Telstra to supply me with a satellite (wireless technology) phone. To my surprise and admiration a courier arrived here in the dark on Friday, June 5, and set the machine up. I can again communicate with the world (although there is no Internet access and no message facility. Long story/explanation short: I was able to speak on the ABC Midcoast (Local) Radio on Wednesday morning, June 10, and was followed (On Air) by the Telstra local area manager. By some strange and magical coincidence, a Telstra maintenance crew arrived the following day to begin the re-connect and the phone lines were restored on Friday afternoon between 1 and 2:30 pm.
I’m writing this on Tuesday, June 16—Bloomsday! A Happy Bloomsday to everybody. There are more flood stories yet to be told, but I’ll pass for now. Thanks to all who sent good wishes and who visited. I was pleased to welcome my friend Sharon to a somewhat changed Earthrise and she had also sent me an email on June 5 that I was unable to open until June12; it included the moving farewell from one of the world’s finest writers, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Here the air is like crystal today, the river continues it’s fall, allowing the rapids to be visible and audible once more.
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