THE EARTHRISE DIARY (June 2014)
Don Diespecker
© Text Don Diespecker
2014
Looking is a gift but
seeing is a power.
Jeff Berner: The
Photographic Experience
Having placed in my
mouth sufficient bread for three minutes’ chewing, I withdrew my powers of sensual
perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a
vacant and preoccupied expression. I reflected on the subject of my spare-time
literary activities. One beginning and one ending for a book was a thing I did
not agree with. A good book may have three openings entirely dissimilar and
inter-related only in the prescience of the author, or for that matter one
hundred times as many endings.
Flann O’Brien: At
Swim-Two-Birds
Anniversaries
June 29 2014. An
anniversary being the yearly return of a date and a celebration of that this is
the 30th anniversary of my living at Earthrise (this is also the
longest period of my having lived in one place) and I celebrate one of the most
important choices I’ve ever made. Yesterday was the 100th
anniversary of the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand of Austria-Este in
Sarajevo that led to the start of the Great War, or World War 1 as we now call
it. Pam and I were in Sarajevo in the autumn of 1954. In those days Sarajevo
was part of Yugoslavia. Winter came early that year and the first snowfalls
began during our visit. I don’t recall any memorial or event that marked the
anniversary of the assassination: there may have been, but if there was, we
weren’t aware of it.
June 1 2014. I sat
in the garden soaking up sun this Sunday afternoon: there was no writing out
there on the lawn and there was no reading, either; I sat watching the light
moving and the long leaves of a lomandra occasionally shivering or oscillating
in their own strange ways. There was no breeze that I could detect yet there
were widely separated and diverse movements of a few plants and of particular
leaves. This kind of perspective is perhaps avoided by many or disregarded by
some or filtered out by those busier than the rest of us: and I was intrigued
to simply sit and see. Sitting and seeing the light in the gardens moving is a
simple choice and one that I’m privileged to make: to the best of my knowledge
gardens at Earthrise did not exist until Jannelle Geraghty and I made them in
1984/5. Also, sitting and seeing for
everybody everywhere is surely a good thing to do, at least now and then. I
count myself fortunate to be present, sitting in the garden here calmly and
quietly particularly when something unusual or unforseen manifests and I don’t
in the least mind that the rest of the world may elsewhere be more importantly
engaged in rewarding enterprises or frivolous pursuits, or in even deeper
thinking than is being enabled in my mind. And I’d also argue that sitting and
observing is an important occupation for everybody: in my limited experience of
being in the world we all may
otherwise be much too occupied with thinking, scheming, planning, and
worrying. In my perspective those
living organisms that we call plants, trees and shrubs moving naturally here
and there is one of the impressive phenomena to be seen, noticed, appreciated
here within this place, this garden, this mind
that I think of as the Earthrise gardens.
In my most frequently used dictionary (the Random House
College Dictionary), mind as a noun
has 23 principal meanings or explanations. This is the first of those
‘explanations’ of mind: the agency or
part in a human or other conscious being that reasons, understands, wills,
perceives, experiences emotions, etc. In my humble view a garden is
undoubtedly a conscious being and I don’t in the least mind that others may
disagree with the notion. Further, I’m also perfectly happy not being able to
fully understand what any of the above mentioned organisms or plants may or may
not be doing as they grow and thrive and move variously in this place: simply seeing those organic movements here at
Earthrise is almost enough for me: my mind is attracted, becomes interested,
continues that way for a while or until something new appears as if by magic
because something new always does
appear, sooner or later and all I have to do is to be present and open to being
attracted. I was perhaps a little premature when I introduced a new university
course, “Consciousness,” prior to my 1984 retirement: this place is so much
better an environment in which to ponder consciousness…
And whilst sitting seeing plants and feeling fully present
and calm and even aware of my surroundings, I see suddenly a flock of big birds
coming dramatically upstream following fast the curve of this Right Bank and also
climbing. Seeing this flight, purely by chance, when I might otherwise have
been reading or dozing or dreamily leaving the house and missing the event
entirely is an enormous surprise and I scarcely have time to gasp: they are
cormorants, more than 20, possibly 25 birds perhaps the biggest flight I’ve
seen here in 30 years and they’re still climbing when they pass in front of me,
soaring just a few meters above me and above the river and the riverbank whilst
also keeping to the river’s course. As if that isn’t sufficient surprise the
first flight is followed almost immediately by a second that’s significantly
smaller (perhaps 12 or 14 cormorants). The second flight is also climbing
although a couple of meters lower than their predecessors, closer to where I’m
sitting and just as fast as the first flight. I wonder at the significance of
the two fly-pasts, what that means, because it looks to me to be important:
there is a silent majesty in these two silent airborne groups.
There is also the suggestion that if I sit quietly enough on
occasions I might later consider that I’d usefully been in the right place at
the right time. I have no doubt that being in a particular place at any time is
also important: the garden is very much a particular place for me because the
first time I saw where the garden now is there was no garden there at all: only
an expanse of colonising lantana and logs relinquished by floods and I had no
idea then that I one day in the future would purchase the place, lantana and
all, and that I’d settle and be living here
in a hand-made three-levels pole house that Jannelle and I, with all our
considerable experience of never having built any kind of house, would together
build this Earthrise home.
Retrospectively there was also something eerie or even
awesome in seeing the cormorants flying past so closely, so purposefully. I may never understand the significance
of those two big flights of big birds and, for the historians, I’ve not
previously seen anything like the large twin flights in my thirty years of
living here. Is that not mysterious? And when I think about it again now, how, I wonder, did the birds organise
the flights, and what was it that inspired the necessary details, the
logistics, the decisions, the timing, the priorities of which birds would fly
together and fly in what order? Which bird or birds took responsibility for all
of the decision-making? Do cormorants have conscious ways of bypassing the
meetings and arguments, the memos and communications problems and endless
details that humans seem to require for similar ‘group movements’? Are the
group travel plans and subsequent flights of cormorants better organised than
those of humans? Do cormorants know much more than we humans know about certain
‘events’ in Nature: like the weather, like high floods that will wreck fish
hunting plans? What do the birds know that we don’t know? High floods come and go and not even
flash floods are at all ephemeral (If
only it would peak, stop rising, stop rising now, and please peak, please).
High floods here are as dangerous as they are spectacular and I’ve been lucky,
so far: I hope I may continue a while longer to sit seeing this dynamic
environment in which I feel so cosily embedded.
June 12 2014.
I’ve now seen several times these past few days a small ‘flight’ of what I
first thought were ducklings, three or maybe four of them, but they’ve been
young cormorants, hard to distinguish at first because they’re so small. There
was a grown-up cormorant further downstream, Mum, perhaps, and if that’s who
she was she had also perhaps instructed the kids to practice fishing. I don’t
know how else to explain that and it’s only surmise, but maybe it also was
partly so. Sometimes when I glance through a window I see the slow Big V
formation made by the tiny birds swimming upstream in my direction; the birds
seem at home, they surely know what they’re dong and why they’re each behaving
in watery ways.
June 15 2014.
It’s a perfect winter day here: wonderful light and a bright blue sky all day.
It’s also colder today. As I may have mentioned recently the unusually warm
autumn has seemed alarmingly like spring,
so much so that trees, shrubs and grass have been growing steadily,
particularly the white cedars, many of which are in full leaf. Big Lawn is
covered in autumn leaves: red cedar, white cedar and cheese tree leaves. The
Japanese maple, as I describe it below remains dressed in its autumn foliage although the liquidambars
here are now almost bare. Big Lawn is otherwise nice and green: the lawn is spring-like. Today I found that the spring plants that grow next to the
white begonias have all leaped from the ground and will surely flower soon. How
will all these plants and trees respond to a heavy frost, if that’s what Nature
has in store? This afternoon, in good light, I re-positioned more of the stones
in the feature ‘wall’ surround where the old white cedar is (well behind the
belvedere). This so-called wall does not have a built gravity wall structure,
but when the soil behind the stones was placed about 25 years ago I included
river stones in the soil with the consequence that high floods damage, but
don’t destroy either the surrounding garden or its feature stonewall surround.
The nearby Dog’s Garden, for example, does feature a not very high circular
wall constructed on a slope of the Big Lawn. That wall was battered by trees
and logs in last year’s flood but suffered only minimal damage (the flooding
river covered it by 2- to 3-m). If you wonder why I’m detailing this
information (imagine yourself an historian, perhaps?) the most alarming
consequence of the February 2013 flooding (at least, for me) is that tonnes of
flood loam have clearly and significantly (a) raised Big Lawn unevenly and (b) diminished the heights of otherwise impressive-looking (in my
humble opinion) walls and a nice looking wall looks quite silly if it ‘loses’
much of its height to flood loam, i.e., to ‘new soil,’ because (c) the wall
also will settle further into post-flood
and increasingly moist, damp and even saturated soils. Nature has ways of
changing the wall builder’s best-laid plans.
On the other hand, nothing is forever because everything
changes, and a wall knocked down by log strikes in floods or walls that coyly
begin to sink from view, are also a challenge to the crazed gardener: he or she
will have the pleasure of rebuilding an old wall in a new and different way.
CHARIVARI
Some Links
For readers who admire stonewalls and how they are
constructed and also for scything enthusiasts, Peter Thompson has kindly
collected these several links:
More Generally
By chance, when following some information I’d noted while
watching a Book Club telecast on ABC 1, I was reading (via Google) about a
particular author and noticed a number of references to the New York publisher,
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, (FSG). I moved to the FSG site because I know of
them as literary publishers and discovered that they put out a free Work in Progress (WIP) document,
‘The Latest from the Front Lines of Literature’ weekly that’s filled with
wonderful writings reproduced from many publications. This WIP is I suppose a
sort of blog as well as a kind of Information Sheet and contains wonderfully
fine writing. May I suggest interested readers track down this Work in Progress
and sign up: there’s a free W in P every week and the current one has excellent
writing by, e.g., Amanda Vaill: ‘Checking
into Hotel Florida, The Dilemmas of
an Overworked Historian’ (Hemingway, Martha Gellhorn, et al in Madrid
during the Spanish Civil War, 1936-1939). Read an extract from AVs book.
The last travel journal descriptions of 4-WD/Caravanning in Western
Australia by Kerry and Susan are concluded below: the adventurous writers have
now returned home. Thank you both for your interesting and comprehensive
descriptions of traveling in the West. Readers, particularly oversea readers,
may find useful information describing some of the places referred to by
searching via Google.
June 1 2014. A
couple of years ago when I asked Leif to cut down my old citrus trees he did so
and removed the debris. Within a couple of hours shady parts of Big Lawn had
disappeared, clear light changed the colours in that part of the gardens. Leif
also offered to trim the Japanese maple adjacent to where the citrus trees
were: the battered old deciduous tree has been there for years. I quickly
agreed. A day or so later when I was alone in the de-treed area I realised that
the maple ha acquired a strangely new and different look; I’m still inclined to
the notion that it is a look, a shape arrived at by expedience
or convenience, by accident if you will, rather than by design because this
Japanese maple looks alarmingly like an African thorn tree now and it used not
to. It used to look like nothing more than a Japanese maple and although its
colours in autumn seemed a trifle close to monochrome it certainly does change
colour to a rusty-sepia-pale-watered-down-sort-of-maroon. Two weeks later the
overall colour has again changed: there are parts that are now apricot-coloured
and the tree has also an almost golden look in places. The overall effect is
two-toned. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, other than my inability
to precisely describe garden colours (is
red salvia crimson or scarlet?): the Japanese maple is beautiful in its
shape and form, quite colourful in autumn and it also looks wondrously African now, and as well, its beauty has a
strangely haunting quality that certainly wasn’t there previously, prior to
Leif’s pruning, I mean. I can’t avoid seeing that tree now as also having this African look. I can’t avoid seeing it
this way. Its new beauty is exquisitely African at least it’s so for me. All
this by way of preamble because I recently was given a present by friends: a
DVD copy of “Out of Africa.” Writing long or short about Africa and especially
when writing fiction is a stirring experience for me because I grew up in South
Africa during the apartheid regime. For me there are many places in the world
that have always looked and felt wonderful and books and films set in Africa,
including some of my own stories, immediately I merely think about them, effect nostalgic and emotive experiences: goose
bumps, shivers.
I saw the 1985 movie “Out of Africa” years ago but can’t now
remember where or when that was: possibly overseas when travelling. Seeing the
film as a DVD on my television set surprised me: the projected images seemed so
new, as if I’d not previously seen any of them. The images included ones of
thorn trees (probably on the Masai Mara (or Maasai Mara) and/or the
neighbouring Serengeti in Tanzania). I best remember thorn trees in the South
African bushveld aka the Lowveld including in the Kruger National Park). There
were many moving scenes in the film and these were enhanced by an excellent
soundtrack and music composed by John Barry together with music by others
(e.g., Mozart). Scenes of the yellow biplane flying over the Kenyan landscape,
filmed from above, to the accompaniment of Barry’s music were especially moving for me. The
images were so strong, so African. I had goose bumps. I wonder if an African thorn tree would
grow here?
FREMANTLE THEN SOUTH
Kerry Smith and Susan Adams
June 3 2014. We are now in
Fremantle recovering after our two weeks of hectic traveling. G&D have gone
back to Sydney and we are on our own for the rest of the trip. It's taken us a
few days to recover from the hectic pace of the last two weeks and we’re at
last feeling that we’re ready to head off again on the next phase. It's just
struck us that we’ve just a month left of this trip so are now wondering how to
fit all that we want to see into the few weeks left.
Fremantle is a lovely
place with lots to see but it’s expensive. We are hemorrhaging money, as there
are so many places here to eat out and visit. Even parking is expensive and
there are not many places to put the car without paying for it. We tried to
park in a back street last night but everyone has the same idea so we drove
around trying to find cheap parking which probably cost us more in fuel in the
long run.
We are staying in the
Fremantle Village Caravan Park that’s arranged in a series of concentric
circles that’s great for us as we are in one of the outer circles giving us
more room and an en-suite. The park is old and a bit run down but convenient
and close to town so we are overlooking the surly person in the office and
concentrating on the positives.
I washed the car
yesterday and tried to get some of the red dust off but it turned to red mud
and stuck like glue to the rear door area despite my best efforts with the high
pressure cleaner. I think it will be many months before I get it clean again
and I haven't even started on the van (it’s a mess but I’ve cleaned the windows
and wiped the worst of the dust off near the door and lockers: a job for when
we get home).
Our time at Cape Range
was great and we had fantastic weather. We were left wishing that we’d spent
the whole two weeks in the park. The damage to the park was obvious and
roads and infrastructure have obviously been a nightmare for the park managers
but we were lucky having been moved from our original booking to north
Kurrajong, a brand new camp area with new sites and new amenities so we were
very lucky considering the damage done there. Some of the reef has been damaged
by silt and rubble but they are playing that down and there were still places
to get good snorkeling done.
Yardie Creek is now
flushed and open to the sea with no noticeable damage to it other than the road
that crosses the usually closed mouth: it’s now under several feet of salt
water. People wanting to camp in the lower section of the park need to come in
from the bottom then along a very poor track for quite a long distance.
We varied our itinerary
on the way down to Perth spending only one night at Carnarvon and extending our
two nights to three at Denham. This gave G&D the opportunity to visit
Monkey Mia and the dolphins and gave us the chance to go up into Francois Peron
National Park, somewhere we’d not been before. A sandy, corrugated, rough 4-WD
track leads up to Cape Peron and some beautiful beaches. We saw a few camps up
there but caravans are not encouraged to go up as the track has some sections
of deep loose sand which would be hard to drag a van through. 4-WD is a must
and a tyre station at the start of the track strongly urges drivers to let tyre
pressures down to 20 and they back the message up by providing two air hoses at
the start of the track (a unique setup which I thought was great and meant we
didn't have to get the compressor out at the end of the trip).
We stayed one night at
Kalbarri and had breakfast on the way along the cliff walk. This was a good
idea because the trip down to Cervantes was a long day of driving and having an
early start was good to get us on the road in time to get in at a reasonable
hour. Our reunion with Glen and Marg at Cervantes was great. They were there
the night before us so had already settled in to the park. We had dinner at the
sporting club to make the most of the seafood platter with lobster at a
discount price but it was a little disappointing this time round and left something
to be desired so we won't do that again. Lobsters are very expensive here, as
they are everywhere.
We arrived in Fremantle
in time to put the caravan into the park and get into the accommodation in
Perth with plenty of daylight to spare and after settling in we headed out to a
fantastic little Thai restaurant called Red Opium that Denise and Geoff had
discovered on the internet. It turned out to be a great choice and despite my reticence
about the chili in nearly every dish I enjoyed the flavors and got bitten only once
from the chili in the oyster shot: a great taste sensation and a fantastic
meal.
We have spent the last
few days wandering the streets of Fremantle and catching up with Cammo. It's
been lovely to see him and spend some time with him. It seems like ages since I
saw him and he’s still sporting the terrorist beard after his trip to Japan. It
seems that he’s now a committed OS Traveler and is keen to get over there
again.
We had dinner out with
he and Chris last night at a restaurant called Sandrinos and had a wonderful
meal. Susan and Cameron had the risotto, Chris had fettuccine and I had the
grilled seafood platter that was absolutely lovely. Heaps of mussels, lots of
calamari and grilled fish with a salad, grilled baby octopus and chips. I was
very full when I’d finished.
Tomorrow we head south
into the arctic climate and are already missing the warm weather. The big doona
is now a permanent fixture as are the winter pj's and the heater is out from
under the bed. We’re trying to find a few places from where we can travel to
all the small tourist sites without having to move every day. Ideally we’d like
to stay in National Parks but doubt that they have the facilities and power needed
to charge the batteries because the sun is now much diminished.
We are still hoping
that we can go from the Cape Arid National Park up through the desert to
Baladonia but some of the reports we’ve received indicate that the track is
pretty rough and not suitable for vans so we’ll see what it's like as we get
closer. Our original plan to get back by the start of school holidays is still
current so we’re working toward that.
Hope everything is
going smoothly back "home" and that you are all well and healthy
Lots of love Kerry and Susan.
SEEING LEAVES FALLING
DD
I used always to assume that leaves fell either when they’d
had enough of doing leaf work or that they became so drained of energy by the
end of summer and autumn that they were obliged to let go with or without the
help of a passing breeze. And when I was very young in British Columbia, seeing
autumn’s coloured leaves blowing past the windows was a sure sign of learning
to know that autumn (or Fall, as Canadians invariably call this colourful
season) was arriving. ‘Fall’ begs an upper case F perhaps because winter and
summer seem relatively different when compared to a simple word like Fall and
when I think about it now (in the Southern Hemisphere’s winter), Spring with an
upper case S looks like the kind of word that might well be a close relative, a
cousin perhaps, of that other different-looking word, Fall. Over the years it
became clear to me in quick aha moments that leaves died and that Nature has a
simple way of resting them more or less in peace. Nature let’s her spent leaves
go, permits them to fall to the ground naturally during most autumns. And now
from the certainty of old age I’m sure that naturally
is a key word and that I was perhaps much wiser in my early childhood than
in most of my adult years. Natural and nature go well together, don’t they? And
to a three or four-years old kid a used or spent leaf has no alternative but to
let go, fall and be blown away or to lie stubbornly in repose to litter the
garden. Dad was always handy with his bamboo rake (remember those impressive
bamboo rakes?) and so I learned, when less busy, that there was a great deal
that was quietly going on naturally in the world. Stuff going on quietly all
around me suggests that if I want to become more aware of some of these goings
on I’d be wise to sit quietly outside in my garden and to allow Nature to pass
information to this willing participant. And now I remember sitting in the
Luxembourg Garden, that beautifully intimate foreign garden adjoining boulevard
St- Michel in Paris when leaves were falling and there were many people and
kids were playing everywhere. I remember because it sticks in my mind: a sunny
Saturday. A few leaves blew and bounced in the breeze across the gravel and
there was a small child chasing them until the little one stopped suddenly and
stood with her arms out waiting for a leaf to fall on her. And it did. And she
laughed long and loud, delighted.
In more recent times and not resisting at all the word naturally, I heard somebody on the radio
assuring listeners that leaves tend to fall in clusters at the appropriate time
of the year when the tree decides the
leaves are ready to be let go. As a busy adult I simply had not slowed down
sufficiently to consider such a possibility. I see clusters of spent leaves
falling here regularly. I have no doubt that leaves falling in clusters do so
generally after the tree decides when the time is right.
TIME TRAVELLERS
Kerry Smith and Susan Adams
June 9 2014. We are nearing the end of the trip and time is
slipping through our fingers like water as we try to cram as much in as
possible on our way home. We have a deadline in Adelaide for the cars next
service and then it’s on to Huskisson to collect the kayaks and bikes then home
before the holidays.
We have been enjoying
the southwest corner of WA as there are so many lovely places and we have been
soooo lucky with the weather. We got a couple of showers in Fremantle before we
left but since then we have had nice warm northerly winds and sunny skies but
the last two days have seen the wind shift slightly and the cloud roll in but
as yet no rain thankfully.
We enjoyed our stay at
Prevelly right on the coast in amongst all the great surfing spots. There
are lots of surfers still seeking the ultimate wave and all very familiar to me
from my days as a youth. Young guys, mainly, all sleeping in their surfing
wagons roaming all the spots looking for that great break. More girls now than
I remember as a youth and all far more savvy than I ever was. The breaks here
are huge. They rise up from the depths of the Southern Ocean and the
Indian Ocean to crash on the reefs all along the coast. It really is
spectacular and people from all over the world come to surf here. It's like
their holy grail.
I lay in bed the other
night listening to the waves crash on the reefs sounding for all the world what
I would imagine huge guns sound like in a bombardment. The boom was
almost palpable and as I listened I could imagine the sets rolling in from
thousands of miles of ocean. I slept to the sound of that and was awoken
by a flock of kookaburras at 7 am in the morning followed closely by the
bwaaaark of the pet chook that roams the campground. We were amazed that it
didn't end up in a surfer’s pot for dinner. [Australians invariably describe
chickens as chooks, Ed]
We reluctantly left
Prevelly and headed down to Hamelin Bay which had been on our list of places to
stay but by this time the northerly had come up to almost gale force and the
place was being blown away. We shivered the walk out to the beach, took a
few quick photos and continued on down to Augusta for a coffee.
Augusta is quiet at the
moment but signs are there of frenetic summer crowds enjoying the clear water
and the sheltered bay and river. After a coffee in the town we did the
tourist thing and drove out to the lighthouse, walked the walk and took photos
of the impressive lighthouse. They are spending money in large amounts in
Augusta and a new harbour is on the way together with improvements to the
tourist infrastructure at the lighthouse. It’s a very pretty bay but not
nearly enough places for us to pull over and ogle the sights.
From Augusta we
followed the lower road through to Pemberton for a quick look again then down
to Northcliffe and on down to Windy Harbour for the night. On the way we
discovered a lovely small winery that we called in to for lunch. We had a
tasting then made our own lunch and had it with a free glass of Rose on the
deck of the winery overlooking their dam. The lady was lovely and ended
up giving us a bag of limes and a bag of beautiful Roma tomatoes for free. We
bought a dozen wines and some delicious Tawny Port and a white Muscat. The
average price of the wine was about $10 a bottle and it was better wine than we
had tasted in all of Margaret River. The Port and Muscat was $25 and $20
respectively and are as smooth as silk!
Windy Harbour did not
live up to its name thankfully and we spent a quiet pleasant night on a
beautiful grassed area after having a quick look at the fantastic beach that is
just over from the camp. Windy Harbour is not a town or village. It’s a
fishing settlement where all the little plots of land for cottages are leased
from the government and the leaseholders can build their own shacks.
There are heaps of shacks and they don't appear to be arranged in any
particular order but sit higgledy- piggledy in the area.
The campsite has six
powered sites only but lots of lovely grassed sites also arranged in no
particular order. It costs $9.30 for each senior per night and that entitles
the camper to use the toilets and the showers if they so desire. A wind
generator sits atop a huge mast behind the caretaker’s cottage and there are
numerous solar panels all arranged in a large array on the back of the dunes
facing north. Wind turbines would do well down here as it's nearly always
blowing from somewhere!
It’s obvious that there
is a very strong small group of volunteers as they have managed to snag a huge
grant and build a brand new Volunteer Rescue cum Fire Station building.
Its a grand affair and sits behind the beach with commanding views of the
bay. From the look of the area it will get good use as it’s a high fire
risk area and the bay is littered with reefs and snags.
Today's trip took us
back onto the South Western Highway that is also Highway 1 and took us through
Walpole where we had stopped for coffee on the last trip through here on the
bike. We tried a new coffee shop and were greeted by a lovely guy who
thought it would be nice if we swapped lifestyles for a year. He would
continue on in our van and we would stay and run his cafe! He had himself
convinced that it would be a fair swap and enjoyed the joke for most of the
time we were drinking his coffee. He kept coming back with new twists on the
theme every so often. He had plenty of time, as we were the only customers. We
were tempted to tell him we would be too bored but refrained after he described
his Easter and Christmas trade. Periods of frantic activity followed by large
doses of boredom.
Our big achievement
today was a walk on the Tree Top Walk. We paid $10 each to scare ourselves to
death. By the third span Susan was gripping the railings so tightly that I
feared she’d crush the handrail. It sways to the beat of the feet that are on
it and makes walking very difficult. Each span is supposed to carry 20 people
and there are signs saying that people are to space themselves along the span
and not cluster together. I would suggest the engineer might have been
drinking when he set the safety limit. By the time we reached the highest span (40-m
above the ground and in the canopy of the giant Tingle Trees) we were both
looking for a quick way down. Our anxiety was not alleviated at all by this
diminutive Chinese tourist with a leer on her normally inscrutable face who
followed us closely saying ‘OK OK you go you go.’
After that we did a
slow walk around the Ancient Empire Walk amongst the giant Tingle Trees which
felt like we were in the middle of Enid Blyton's the Magic Faraway Tree series.
They are so huge these trees that to walk among them is to feel like a dwarf.
We had lunch in the car
park and waited for the ground to stop swaying then headed into Denmark for a
quick look on the way to our night’s destination. Almost everything was closed
in Denmark except for the Super IGA, which was indeed super! We did a
quick shop and left for Cosy Corner West where we are sitting writing this. It’s
a free camp behind the dunes of a lovely sheltered bay. The waters are azure
and the sand sparkling white—at least it would be if the sun were shining.
A kilometer of freshly
graded dirt road takes you to a brand new toilet block and some pretty rough
campsites behind the beach. There were several spare sites and we walked them
to check them out. After passing an old van with two hippy occupants, two large
brutal looking dogs and a feral cat we could see why there were spare sites
down there. The rest of the campers were further back in sand tracks alongside
the main 4-WD track leading to the beach. We engaged low range and
crawled the van into a small narrow site amongst some trees and away from the
generator campers. It's not the best campsite and we wouldn't stay here again
but it will do for tonight.
Tomorrow we head for
Albany then on to Bremmer Bay if the weather holds. We are showered and have
had a lovely pizza cooked by Susan in our little oven and teamed it with our
newly purchased white wine called "mist" which is a Semillon sauvignon
blanc and very nice when chilled straight from the fridge. Susan has
managed to cook some great meals in the oven but we have had to disconnect the
smoke alarm as no sooner do we open the oven door and the alarm goes off.
It tends to shatter the quiet of a good campsite! Her boiled
fruitcake, from a recipe given to us by Judy, is a real hit and is a great
little accompaniment to our morning coffee.
Another early start
tomorrow but we are still hitched up so there is little to do in the morning
and we have already showered so we should be breakfasted and on the road by 8 am
with no trouble. All we have to do is get out of the sand track to firm ground
without getting bogged and we are right to go.
May you all be well and
healthy. Lots of love Kerry and Susan.
48-HOURS
A Monologue
DD
Christmas Eve starts hot and will remain so for most of the
day and for most of the night too, and at first all is clear and bright blue
sky and whilst I’m shaving and seeing through the bathroom window possibly the
best of the Earthrise house views the view to the northeast an annoying fringe
of green weeds ripening to be seen just over the top of that low stone wall
beneath the high trees just enough to mar the view of the river shining in the
corner those almost but not quite clearly seen upriver bends winding down to
this place while I’m increasingly sure shaving that my day deserves to include
an afternoon attempt to mow the tawdry grass and weeds jungle that supports the
slightly higher green fringe above so mowing is on the list but first comes
sustenance in the growing heat and breakfast the usual breakfast all the life
supporting vitamins and supplements and small but significant silver bullets
that support everything that basically seems me staring out glimpsing out as I
bustle the kitchen rituals feeding myself while seeing always and forever thank
you the world as I see it and supposing that there was once someone somebody
who first had the human thought that what we look out of is also what we can
see and that’s surely true and then dressed and ready to go into the now hot
morning I look for signs of Jason Brush Turkey but see him not as I reach the
old Honda waiting tuned and ready in the carport then start and proceed away
from Earthrise and move to Bellingen for mail for a newspaper for a further
supply of Formula One for a bottle of summertime chardonnay rather than a chewy
Shiraz the trouble with deceptively light whites being they’re as easy as lolly
water to drink down but that’s neither here nor there right now have I
mentioned the cicada choirs and occasionally the higher more piercing note of
my favourite the shrike thrush thrillingly and the warbling trilling of the
little honeyeater singing above its weight persistently and then comes the
putting together in some dismay and disarray the now somewhat old ‘Earthrise’
draft that promising at least for me novel that used to begin with Carlos Nunes
(I’ll have to write an Author’s Prologue explaining my quirky attachment to old
characters with characteristic same names) now that I’ve rediscovered with
embarrassment the files for ‘The Summer River’ that succeeded and replaced
‘Earthrise’ such an embarrassment of riches when I’ve a computer filled to the
gunwales with my writings begging to be released into the reading world so
that’s good and now to other things like the relief of finding what I need
leading to the joy of messing with the recalcitrant motor mower and I totter
across to fetch my tools and to methodically remove the plug to clean it in a
little petrol and to screw it back in amidst fumes and also to re-examine the
air filter and to fill the fuel tank and then to trundle the assembled machine
down the front steps wishing devoutly for the machine to fire at the first pull
which she does thrillingly and away I go backwards with the machine’s front
wheels lifted over the ants’ PVC pipeline highway and then adjust the cutting
height and also my old shooter’s earmuffs as I move swiftly to those hairy
parts of Big Lawn and trim and mow and push and sweat my way through a couple
of almost blissful hours of making the lawn jungle for once look more like a
bowling green as I send frantic small frogs leaping from wet grass roots to
escape and a scurrying small spider clutching an egg racing to avoid the whirling
doomsday blades as I push toward A Nice Neat Trim it’s so easy to forget the
greater Online excitements of self-publishing a fourth book this one the
biggest and longest The Selati Line
without experiencing some terrible catastrophic global going off of all the
electricity or of some silly mistake by me of which there was none and the big
fat novel a caper story really a train and airplane caper not forgetting the
magic realism if ghosts achieved heroically all by myself apparently without
fault and I pat myself thoughtfully on the back and wonder where will it all
end or will I first run out of written words I think not I’m adding some now
while also wondering at the better than usual shaving view of this Christmas
Morning in which when the sun flashes across the sward and I see a dragon head
up on the belvedere and a second bigger one in a sunny patch in that now
close-trimmed north-eastern sector both looking toward me or at least at the house
and seeing too old Jason Brush Turkey scratching away at the pink-red pool of
flowers fallen from the flame tree Old Jay and I planted all those years ago
the pool neither crimson or scarlet but nicely tinged pink a kind of happy
colour and it encourages me to think that perhaps the dragons on my lawn might
just know a little about Christmas too or at least as much as I do but that
might be stretching it a bit because I can remember all the way back to the
early Thirties and sparkling with lights the Christmas trees of childhood even
though that was during the Great Depression Long Ago but I’ll just hang on to a
little more of the pleasure that I almost so easily dismiss that of preparing
for another novel the one that includes the marvellous Shiki haiku ‘The Summer
River’ there is a bridge but the horse goes through the water and so I rush
toward the end of yet another day on Earth with birds singing and cicadas
drumming in the heat and as I hear drying eucalypt barks splitting and
clattering down the humid breeze now blowing the smallest dragon now hunting at
my feet and the afternoon cumulonimbus towering toward another electrical storm
and feeling well enough to say Happy Christmas to myself my family my friends
remembering how easy it is to lose them along the way and also remembering that
I strangely have heard on the radio at breakfast time yet again that what we
see is also what is looking as we and everything that is begins fading into the
mist of the evening river.
BACK ON THE NULLARBOR
Kerry Smith and Susan Adams
Hi All,
We are back on the
Nullarbor again on our way back east. Backed into a small clearing along a dirt
road at the back of a rest area with the awning part way out to shelter the
door from the RAIN. Yes, can't believe it’s raining on the Nullarbor! We
sort of expect it to be dry, brown and dusty but this trip it's been exactly
the opposite. Everything is growing madly and all the bushes and trees are in
bud and ready to burst into flower. In another few weeks it will be a picture
to behold.
We are camped near
another newer Kedron van. It's an ATV and slightly bigger than ours. Very
nice and we have been eyeing off all the improvements that they have. Lynda and
Len came in not long after we had arrived and backed in so they decided to camp
next door in the hope that the rain stops enough for us to sit out and have a
drink. It doesn't look too good for that as there are storms all around us. We
may have a muddy departure in the morning, as it's all dirt here and no gravel.
Thankfully it’s flat so we should be able to get out even if it rains
again through the night.
The car and van are
filthy anyway after our trip out of Bremer Bay a couple of days ago where we
took a shortcut back to the highway which was half tar and the rest mud!
It was the only down side of our visit to Bremer Bay. It is the most
beautiful place and we extended our original one night to two and could have
stayed a week.
These are the most
beautiful beaches and bays that I have ever seen and great fishing. We did a quick
tour of the local beaches on the first afternoon and arrived at Short Beach
just as a guy was walking up to his car with a bucket from which was dangling
three huge tails. The salmon were running and it was only a matter of
throwing a line in with a pilchard or lure on the end to get fish. Good-sized
salmon were being caught and thrown back by the four guys there. We were
offered a fish by three of them but declined knowing how poor they are as an
eating fish.
The guy with the fish
let it slip that the squid were biting in the boat harbour so after visiting
the rest of the beaches we raced home, grabbed a rod and my squid jig, put a
few drinks and nibbles in a cooler bag and headed back to the jetty. We
were greeted by two old (older than me) guys with several rods out dangling
baits under floats after the squid. They also had squid jigs but were not
doing too well. My third throw yielded a squid about 300-mm long and I was
surprised to find it on my line. It was a bit of a heave to lift it up with my
small rod and 6-kg line but I managed to land it at my feet whereupon it
squirted ink over the jetty. I was lucky enough to get two more slightly
bigger and managed to avoid the ink squirts.
One of the old guys
showed me how to clean them, so after being chased from the jetty by the giant
mosquitoes we headed for the cleaning tables to clean them. Cleaning squid is
enough to deter me from ever fishing for them again. They are slippery, smelly,
slimy and difficult to clean. Admittedly I am a novice in these matters but
after half and hour we ended up with one tube and two flat, relatively clean,
squid bodies. By this stage we were covered in mosquitoes and I do mean
covered: they were over our hands, in our hair, covering our backs and
generally making life miserable so we were glad to climb into the car and head
back to the van. We froze the squid and they await our pleasure in the freezer.
Recipes gratefully received!
Bremer Bay Caravan Park
is delightful and we had a grassed site out on our own as we had asked for a
drive through site that happened to be in the deserted part of the park. We had
an amenities block to ourselves: no neighbors (apart from the multitude of
rabbits that inhabit the park) and a quiet night’s sleep despite the huge wind
generator just over the back of the park. We didn't get sick from the noise of
the generator either!
It was raining the next
morning and blowing from the southwest so we elected to stay another night and
that was an unexpected good move. We slept in and had coffee at the
resort just up the road where we sat with a log fire burning (lit especially
for us) and soaked up the warmth while chatting to the owner. She gave us some
good advice on what to see and suggested we go up to Point Ann about 70-km away
in the Fitzgerald River National park. It's also where whale watchers go to see
the whales and their calves in the bay there. It turned out to be a great
day.
Point Ann is the most
beautiful place we have seen along the southwest. We were trying to imagine how
much more beautiful it would have been if it hadn't been blowing a gale and
scudding rain. DEC have spent huge amounts of money putting architect-designed
watching platforms, BBQ's, board walks and toilets into this fantastic bay
resulting in a wonderful place to watch the whales or if you are like me and think
whale watching is like watching grass grow then you can just enjoy the beauty
of the area.
There is also a small
camp area at Point Ann that doesn't appear in Wiki Camps and we drove round it
looking to see if we could get a van into the small sites. There are a few
sites that would be marginal but possible if you could book them ahead of time.
Sites 1&2 together, site 3 and possibly 13 would fit our van but it would
be tight getting in and out. It would make the most wonderful campsite though.
We wondered if it was possible to book a site as there were little slips wedged
into the site numbers holders indicating what we assumed to be a booking.
The rain got harder and
the wind stronger as we sat snuggled into a corner of the viewing platform
watching mother and calf frolic just a few meters off the headland of the cove.
I was almost enjoying myself but freezing my butt off! We stayed about an
hour and ran from one platform to the other as the whales came closer to each
point but eventually the cold drove us back to the car and the muddy trip home.
The road was a great dirt road and had been recently graded but we had had just
enough rain to make it start to turn muddy. By the time we got back the
car was unrecognizable and I had to toss a few buckets of water over the back
to see out of the window and use the camera to back up to the van.
The next day saw us
take the same turn towards Point Ann as a short cut back to Highway 1 and on to
Esperance. It started well with great bitumen but soon deteriorated into a
muddy dirt road again but then finished with great bitumen. It cut off
quite a bit of travel though so we arrived back on Highway 1 all muddy and
dripping mud and fine gravel from every wheel arch. The Southern Coastal
Highway is a lousy road with an undulating uneven surface and unlike most of
the road we have traveled on in the southwest. It’s a shame as there are some
great places to see in this area but towing a van is uncomfortable on this one.
Esperance was a
disappointment to us after Bremer bay and our tour of "Australia's best
beaches" was spectacular but not as beautiful as the Bremer Bay area. The
parks there are old and run down. The first one we tried was too small for us
so we had to beat a hasty retreat. We ended up staying in the one beside the
bay and had a site near the front with a view of the bay. We had an
unexpected neighbour the first night in the form of Lisa Curry who is doing a
road trip promoting herself and a fitness program. If she is an example
of the program then it must be good as she is looking quite well on it.
We thought of inviting them for drinks but they left after just one night
and headed for their next promotional place. We too decided to cut short our
stay in Esperance and visit Fowlers Bay on the Nullarbor instead. We had
Fowlers Bay recommended to us by a guy doing his washing at the park in
Esperance. It’s just south of Penong on the coast. He raved about it and said
that we should make the effort to go in and have a look so we will give it a
go. It’s dirt road in but we are so dirty now that a bit more will make no
difference at all.
The car and van
continue to go well. Fuel use is heavy at about 19-Lph if the wind is
calm but it's to be expected traveling at 100-kph with a big V-8. The car gets its
20,000-km service in Adelaide on Friday but they will probably have to wash it
before they can service it at this rate. Dick, you would be ashamed of me! The
van is worse but it will wait until we get home where I will attack it with the
gurney. We have considered mugging the neighbors with the new Kedron and
swapping vans but she looks pretty fierce so maybe it's not a good idea.
We send a heartfelt
shout out to Suzanne (Jones) who should have her new hip installed by now. We
hope it all went well Suzanne and that Henry is looking after you and Rex in
his usual competent capable fashion.
Tomorrow we camp on the
Nullarbor again somewhere around Mundrabilla. It’s shower time now before it
gets too cold.
Love to all from Kerry and Susan
CREATIVE WRITING
COUNTDOWN
Sharon Snir
I am in countdown mode. Nine days to go before we fly
back to Australia. I have such intense mixed feelings. Seeing my granddaughter
again is so exciting. Spending time with some of our children (the ones in
Australia) delights and excites me too, but I am not looking forward to the
absence of late nights, long talks in the dark, concerts that cost a pittance,
theatre and opera at the foot of Masada and all the tastes of the Middle East.
The intensity of conversation, the phone calls from friends, the warmth, the
heat, the passionate opinions and the sweat dripping down the faces of devoted
dancers on Shabbat by the beach in Haifa. And I will yearn for the silence of
the desert, the likes of which is nowhere else. The hot dry winds and the biblical
landscape where travelers have walked and fought and lived and died since time
began. I will miss the caves and the rocks and the salty, sulphuric fragrance
of the Dead Sea as we drive down the winding road from Jerusalem and that
sweet, slick-warm moment when I enter into those ancient waters that hold my
body like the waters of the womb. Oh I will miss that. And the combined sounds
of chanting Hassidim dancing and praying beside the Wailing Wall joined by the
call of the muezzin from the loudspeakers that surround the old city of
Jerusalem together with the early morning bells of the old churches calling the
Christians to resurrect themselves into a new day.
I will miss stumbling into moments of antiquity where
I fall down and down and down into my vivid imagination of what life looked and
felt like three and four and five thousand years ago in this land. I will miss
the taxi drivers and the shop assistants and the street sweepers wishing me
Shabbat shalom and the smell of chicken soup in the lift of my apartment building
knowing the fragrance of this golden brew has not come from my kitchen, yet. And
I will miss my sweet neighbors popping in for sugar and milk and a coffee and a
chat.
I will miss the spontaneity of deciding to travel north
to the Golan Heights or the Galil or south to Ashdod or Eilat without a second’s
hesitation and the markets filled with pomegranate juice and lemons and halva
and olives and ripe red tomatoes and the voices of shop-keepers promising the
cheapest and the freshest produce. I will even miss the old lady as wide as she
is tall who grabs you as you pass her in the Shook Ha Carmel and sticks her
fresh warm pita bread under your armpit to entice you to buy.
So here I
am in countdown mode, trying with all my might not to lose a moment by counting
anything at all.
Sharon Snir is an Australian teacher, author and
psychotherapist.
THE SEARCH FOR SEBASTIAN
Jill Alexander
Last year, just
before her 18th birthday, Sasha left home and moved into a large
house with ten of her friends she had known from elementary school. Most of
them were musicians. Six had formed a jazz group called The Carlo Rossi Gang
and were hosting Sunday night concerts in the living room. Brian and I went to
hear them. At the end of the first set, Sasha showed us around her new home and
told us they were leaving on a road trip for New Orleans in four weeks. Six of
them were going, Sasha plus five of the band members.
True to their word
and their dream, they left on February 25 in a 1977 Oldsmobile. We all held our
breath as they drove away, pondering the various possibilities of setbacks and
wondering just how far they would get.
They arrived at Venice
Beach, California, within two days and after a week of successful busking as
street musicians they moved on to New Orleans. There they spent four very
exciting and productive weeks. The band was well received and their busking
made them enough money for food, accommodation and gas for the return trip to
Vancouver.
In the meantime,
Brian and I started thinking about a way to celebrate our anniversary. “What
about New Orleans?” I said. This
was a place we had yet to experience. “What a great idea!” was Brian’s reply,
and before long both flight and hotel had been booked.
By now Sasha and The
Carlo Rossi Band members had returned to Vancouver, inspired with a new
enthusiasm that came through in their music. At their first Sunday house
concert on their return, we took Sasha aside, told her of our plan and asked
her for some recommendations of places to check out in New Orleans. On a little
scrap of paper she made a list for us and circled: Café Envie, say hi to
Sebastian, the barista will know him.
We arrived in New
Orleans to find our hotel was on the edge of the French Quarter. As we planned
to walk everywhere, this location was perfect.
In the morning we
stopped at the front desk and were greeted warmly by Chelsea, a wonderful lady
with a beautiful smile and a personality to match. We became good friends over
the next few days. We asked her what she recommended for a breakfast spot and
if she knew where to find Café Envie? She had not heard of it but thought it
might be on the far side of the French Quarter. So off we went. First stop,
Chelsea’s recommendation for breakfast, The Ruby Slipper!
We arrived to find a
long line-up. People were milling about on the sidewalk and across the street
and sitting on benches that had been placed along the side of the restaurant.
As there was no waiting inside, everyone prays for good weather. Happily, we
volunteered to eat at the bar and so avoided a 30-minutes wait.
We ordered an egg
white, spinach, mushroom and goat cheese omelette that came with grits, biscuit
and fruit cup. Every mouthful was delicious and our coffee cups were always
full. We figured sitting at the bar was the best place to be as we received
lots of attention and some friendly advice on places to check out. We left The
Ruby Slipper and its great vibe with a plan to return the next morning.
Now we were ready to
explore and see if we could find Café Envie. Walking down Royal Street, we
encountered a number of street musicians playing jazz, Dixieland, and ragtime
that captured us as we stood listening to each group along
the way. As we continued walking, the traits and personality of the district
began to change, becoming less sophisticated and increasingly earthy. We had
the feel that this was more like a “Sasha “area and felt sure that Café Envie
must be getting closer. We searched for about an hour, asking people as we went
but most had not heard of the place. Suddenly the little Café was there before
us. We had walked right by and not noticed the identifying sign above jutting
out over the sidewalk.
We went inside,
found a table, and ordered a coffee freeze. As we began looking around for Sebastian, we realized this
was a place that was popular with the locals. As for Sebastian, Sasha had said,
“you will know him when you see him.“ So we watched carefully for someone who
looked somewhat different and stood out from the rest of the patrons. She had
mentioned that he usually hangs out in the back room. So we looked to see if he
was there, and then I sat where I could keep an eye on this area as well. Eventually
we checked with the barista. “He must have just left. He’s usually here all
day. Check back tomorrow.”
So we returned the
next day but without much success except for the coffee freeze which was even
more delicious than the first one. We did ask the barista how we might recognize
Sebastian when we saw him. “Oh, you will know him,” she said. “Yesterday he
came in here wearing a skirt!” On the third day we were introduced to his
brother, Anthony, who informed us that Sebastian was “under the weather,” and
would not be back for a few days. When we asked him about our granddaughter, his
reply was “of course I remember Sasha!”
At the end of our
days when we returned to our hotel, we reported to Chelsea, who loved to hear
all our news. We told her we had missed Sebastian again, and she answered, “I’m
going to go looking for him myself.
I’m so curious about this Sebastian!”
We continued with
our travels, exploring New Orleans on foot. We loved the feel of the place, the
vibrant energy expressed through the music that filled the air everywhere we
went and always the happy smiling faces with warm greetings from all who passed
by. We loved our time, too,
following in the footsteps of Sasha and her Carlo Rossi Gang, feeling their
youthful spirit. Even though we didn’t find Sebastian, we discovered more each
day of the city that captured our hearts and to which we vowed to return.
Perhaps we will meet
Sebastian next time!
Jill Diespecker Alexander
is retired in North Vancouver, BC, after a career as a nurse and spa owner and
is now writing vignettes of her fascinating life.
THE KATHERINE THONG
An Aussie Outback Adventure
Peter Thompson
There they were, at the
base of a spectacular 30-meters high waterfall in the Katherine Gorge National
Park: a pair of yellow rubber thongs and a perfect solution to our holey
problem!
At the time we’d been
traveling and exploring Australia for several years and an intended six-month’s
Katherine Gorge trip had stretched to almost six years of adventures. We had arrived
in the Katherine Gorge National Park a few days prior and couldn't wait to
launch our 14-foot tangerine and red Canadian canoe named Sheleika and start
exploring some of the thirteen gorges in the Park. After carefully preparing
and packing for overnight camping and with basic food supplies (camping gear
and some fishing tackle we’d once found in a tree in WA), together with
something to keep us warm during the cool evening conditions so common in the
outback.
Off we paddled into the
unknown accompanied by the bird life, aquatic life and the well-known and
respected Johnson's freshwater crocodiles as our companions for the next couple
of days. Dee, my
traveling companion and I were then in our early twenties full of enthusiasm, a
keen sense of adventure, fearless and perhaps a bit naive when it came to
crocodile encounters, but we were inclined to put that down to inexperience!
The Katherine Gorges
are a spectacular array of sandstone gorges carved by the Katherine River over
countless millennia. They cover 2921 square kilometers in the park now known as
'Nitmiluk' (its indigenous name) that is located 244-km southeast of Darwin in
Australia’s Northern Territory (NT). Majestic sandstone walls towered over us
as we slowly paddled the first Gorge: the reflections of these walls made our
experience one of awe, with photographic opportunities around every corner and
each bend in the river revealing beautiful new water and richly colored
sandstone vistas. Our progress was slow and steady but soon enough we arrived
at the end of gorge, having run out of water (i.e., the river ended): each
gorge is separated from the next by seasonally dry rocky and sandy sections, so
we ported our canoe and gear to the beginning of the next section of river
(Gorge #2), each gorge more breathtaking than the last.
By now we were paddling
the third gorge and had negotiated a series of rapids one after another, but
soon we were at the famous rock face known as Jedda's Rock, made famous in the
1955 Australian film classic, Jedda.
We were now past that point where the day tourists would turn around and head
back in their large, noisy motorized punts that carry about 50 passengers and
much commentary that breaks the perfect silence. From here we would possibly have
the river and gorges completely to ourselves. In our quiet and ripple-free zone
we immersed ourselves in the magic of this magnificent place. After morning tea
and a quick check of our equipment, we once again set off into the ever-changing
scenery of reflections and colors: oranges, reds, ochres and deep fissures in
the sandstone surface that created dark and light contrasts. Onward we went to
Gorge # 4 and possibly to # 5
It was then early
afternoon; the sun was still overhead and quite warming. We had paused for
lunch on a small sandy beach with a small waterfall at one end. We didn't know
it then, but this beautiful spot was to become our campsite for the next two
nights. After lunch we clambered up the small waterfall and followed the creek
upstream. We could hear the sound of water ahead and around the next bend,
there she was: a large swimming hole fed by a 30-meters high waterfall. Wow! This
was totally unexpected and as we had the entire place all to ourselves we
stripped off and went into the cool, pristine and crystal clear waters under
the waterfall. The water felt like small stones falling from such a height. We
swam and languished for an hour or so before heading back along the creek to
our waiting canoe in the Katherine River.
Once into our paddling
rhythm we continued our way through more beautiful gorge sections, pausing sometimes
to take photographs. Before long we once again ran out of river. Ahead and blocking
our path was a small rocky cliff that we had to find a way over or around. We
needed to find a way to port our gear over these obstacles if we were to
continue our exploration of the gorges. After considering our options we
decided to unload our canoe and attempt to drag and push the heavy 14- footer
fiberglass beast up and over this section of rock face, Dee pushing and me
pulling from above. We almost managed but didn't quite have enough strength to
do it. Now exhausted from all that effort, we agreed that this was indeed as
far as we could go: seven gorges was a pretty good effort in one day.
Leaving the canoe
behind we ventured forward on foot then up and over the rock face and along a
lengthy stretch of dry sandy riverbed. Finally we came to the beginning of the
eighth gorge. Sitting down on the sandy riverbank we rested and then examined
the area around the gorge entrance while also enjoying the warm afternoon
sunshine. I decided to lie in the sand and soak up some of the warm winter sun.
I wasn't really aware
that I’d fallen asleep lying on the sandy edge of the river but then off in the
distance I thought I could hear a familiar voice: ‘Pete, Pete, come quickly!
I've found something blue buried in
the sand!’
I toddled over to Dee
with little sense of urgency and there buried in the sand on the edge of the
water there appeared to be something colored, but what could it be? Hardly buried
treasure or a boat; or just a piece of plastic washed down in the yearly
monsoonal rains.
After digging and
scraping away the loose river sand for quite some time our colored object was
seen to be quite large. Two hours later with both of us digging with branches
as well as our hands we uncovered an entire
canoe. Then we dragged the vessel and some remaining sand into the river to
give it a good wash and only then were we able to assess the overall condition:
the canoe looked to be quite 'river worthy,’ but alas, there were two
large holes in the lower hull of our new canoe requiring repair were we able to repair the holes (further
inspection revealed ten holes altogether), this would be our ticket to the
remaining gorges.
After stashing our newly
found canoe under some trees we planed to backtrack to our 'little beach'
campsite, camp overnight and return the following tomorrow morning to the new
canoe and repair the holes. If successful we would continue our adventure
exploring the final gorges ahead.
Once back at the
campsite on the little beach, we set up our camp and then followed the little
creek up to the 30-m waterfall for a refreshing evening swim. And as we moved around
the base of the waterfall we noticed something unusual sitting on a rock in the
late afternoon sun: a pair of rubber thongs! The thongs looked like being the
perfect solution to our 'holey' problem, but how did they get there? The thongs
must surely have been forgotten and left behind by some bushwalkers? Hmm…bush
walker's in thongs? They must have been locals out for a walk? How might at
least one walker have returned without their footwear?
The thongs had surely
been forgotten, but how might we repair our newly found canoe? If we could
somehow cut oversize pieces of these rubber thongs and fit them into the canoe’s
holes, the makeshift patches might just keep the water out although some of the
holes were quite large. Nonetheless we were willing to give it a damn good try,
tomorrow.
Next morning after a
long and restless night in our sleeping bags and sipping billy tea and eating campfire
toast, we discussed possibilities through the night. It was during those wee
hours that we separately were also wondering if the crocodiles would really
know the difference between the carcass of a dead animal and a large
beach-bound package of the human kind. A large crocodile, 2-m or more, could
easily drag one of us into the river (never to be seen again) or perhaps just
partial remains might be found floating downstream, assuming other hungry crocs
hadn't finished us off. I recall thinking when laying out the sleeping bags
that if our heads were as far away from the river as possible, that would be
our best chance, but due to the slope of the campsite our feet would be just a
few inches from the water's edge. Perhaps we were a little too close to those
opportunistic and hungry crocodiles? Perhaps we should have chosen a different
campsite? I remembered that we'd checked for crocs that night before retiring
and yes, we had spotted some nearby, their red eyes easily seen with a good
torch or flashlight held at eye level. Now the croc, a savvy reader, might be
thinking that it’s only Saltwater
crocodiles that one should be cautious of, but here in Australia the Freshies, as they're affectionately known,
that have made the odd mistake and 'taken' the occasional human, mistaking it
for a fish or dead animal carcass and…
After our bush
breakfast we headed back to the spot where we'd stashed our 'holey' canoe and
fashioned the thong pieces into the holes. Now for the test run and would our
repairs be effective or would we sink and have to swim for it? We had
considered swimming the last few gorges, but some stretches we'd paddled
through yesterday were long and deep. M’mm, crocodiles with poor eyesight, yes
everybody knows they have poor eyesight!
Meanwhile back on the
Katherine River we launched and, Yes! We appear to be buoyant-ish! Water was seeping
in but slowly enough for us to make a run for it with some simultaneous vigorous
paddling and bailing.
We had paddled only
about 100-m along Gorge # 8 with its sheer, vertical rock walls on either side
and shaded dark and deep-looking water below us. Now we found ourselves taking on
more water than we could bail out while paddling even though we were bailing
like mad sinking was imminent, but where could we stop and empty out the water?
The sandstone walls either side were towering above us; it was incredibly
spectacular, we wanted to take photographs but we were too busy paddling and bailing
so we kept paddling and frantically bailing when off to our port side, a small
ledge came into view just at the moment of exhaustion and our certain foundering!
Phew! That was close!
If we had sunk in that deep section of river we would have lost the canoe and
photographic gear and then had to swim the long deep sections of water all the
while thinking about those poorly-sighted freshwater crocodiles! Out we hopped
to empty the water out and to check the thong repairs and they were still in place
but not as watertight as we’d at first thought. With our weight creating
additional pressure on the thong plugs, taking on water was inevitable. I guess
the strategy needed to be: empty out, paddle like crazy, bail like crazy, find
a ledge and try to keep our photographic gear dry.
One more gorge to
navigate and we would had achieved our goal. Beyond this gorge lay the final
gorges that were evidently dry-ish at this time of the year and generally more
suitable for exploring on foot. Perhaps we’d try another time. After lunch we
headed back the way we’d come. There was no choice really, but by this point we
were aware of our stopping points and able to enjoy the scenery a lot more,
even managing to take some photographs at our stops. So once again, rapid
paddling, bailing and emptying out the water, as required.
Back at our little
beach camp, and after cool swim under our private waterfall we moved our camp
to an even better position close by but without the waterfall. In fact, it had been quite noisy sleeping right
next to the fall the previous night Tonight we would sleep beneath the stars,
and this was a first for Dee. We then made preparations for our evening meal,
but what to eat? As we hadn't planned to stay two nights in the gorges and had
very little food left, we really needed to catch something or it would be dried
fruit and meuslie. So out with the fishing gear, which consisted of a hand
spool, a short length of line and a brightly colored lure. I remember thinking
at the time, what fish would go for such an unattractive piece of plastic, but
it had proven itself in WA.
So off I went, like the
great white hunter, to look for a suitable spot at which to cast my line,
hopefully into the path of a waiting barramundi. Well, that was the plan...
I remember waving back
to Dee as I climbed over the rocky outcrop at the end of our new camping beach
and calling out something like, "I'll be back shortly, dear, with a big barra!
Ya better get that fire going!" (Barramundi is a large highly prized
eating fish). I hadn't walked very far along the river’s edge when I noticed a
log lying on the bank, but protruding out into the river. It was large enough
to stand and to balance on. It looked like the perfect fishing spot for a barra’.
After finding my
balance on the end of the log, a couple of practice casts were in order. I
managed to position the lure into what I imagined would be a good spot near to
a snaggy underwater log. I’d heard that barra's liked these dark sheltered
spots and would lie in wait for a little meal to swim by, but if I would be
skillful enough or rather lucky enough to get a strike I would need to
retrieve my catch as quickly as possible, but not so quick as to snap the line
and to avoid snagging, because the barra's are notorious for diving into snaggy
underwater log branches. Then, as I waited slowly retrieved my 'wobbling lure'
and pondering all that I'd read and heard of these incredible fish--bang! I had
something large and powerful on the line that almost pulled me off balance into
the river. I managed to haul rather than reel my catch back to shore while
walking backwards along the log and yes it definitely looked like a barra' and
as I remember, was about 60-cm long.
Well, you couldn't wipe
the smile off my face as I hurriedly scrambled over the rocky outcrop back to
our camp. I remember proudly standing there on the top of the outcrop and
casually calling out to Dee: “Have you got that fire going yet?” As I held up
the promised fish! Dee let out a delighted shriek: we would be eating more than
dried fruit tonight, much more!
We hadn't packed much
in the way of cooking gear as we'd planned mainly to eat raw foods for the two
days and one night away from our base camp. After assembling our foil wrap for
our fish we roasted it on the hot coals. I remember clearly, as if it were
yesterday, the aroma of that barra’ roasting on the coals. We managed to
eat about half our fish and wrapped the rest in the used foil then it was
wrapped in a wet towel for our trip back down the gorges the next day. The fish
carcass we took downstream and left for the crocs.
Our journey back down
the river was uneventful but just as beautiful because we were viewing the
scenery from the opposite direction. That night back at base camp at Park
Headquarters we were delighted to again meet fellow traveler's we'd met in
recent months and that was just wonderful because we were able to share our
remaining barra’ as well as our adventures in the magnificent Nitmaluk National
Park.
We vowed to return one
day for more adventures perhaps with our children: we finally had that
opportunity in 2001, just 25years later.
After completing this
recollection of our adventure, I decided to look for the old diary from 1984:
yes, all the detail was there plus more and incredibly it all took place
exactly 30 years ago almost to the day!
Which reminds me of
another 'thong' story in a very different part of Australia, but I'll keep that
for another time.
petede61@yahoo.com.au
Peter Thompson is a keen observer of birdlife particularly in the
Bellinger River Valley.
MY EBOOKS
For those readers
who browse for eBooks, here again are the first of the online books. These
digital books can be found on Amazon/Kindle sites. E.g., see
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Don+Diespecker
(1) Finding Drina is a light-hearted sequel
to my two print novels (not available as eBooks) published in one volume as The Agreement and it’s sequel, Lourenço Marques. Finding Drina is written in three parts and in three different
styles that also are intended homage pieces (to GG Marquez, Ernest Hemingway
and Lawrence Durrell); thus this little book is also meta-fiction (novella,
about 30-k words).
(2) The Earthrise Visits is an Australian
long story set at Earthrise (about 20-k words): an old psychologist meets a
young literary ghost from the 1920s (his girlfriend meets her too) before a
second old literary ghost, unaware of his spectral state, arrives unexpectedly.
(3) Farewelling Luis Silva is an Australian
dystopian long story partly set in Australia, Portugal and France (about 23-k
words). A sniper meets an Australian Prime Minister, an old lover and a
celebrity journalist; three of them meet a terrorist in Lisbon where there is a
bloody assassination.
(4) The Selati Line is an early 20th
century Transvaal train story, road story, flying story, a caper and love story
sequel to The Agreement and Lourenço Marques, lightly written and
containing some magical realism. A scene-stealing
child prodigy keeps the characters in order (novel, about 150-k words).
(5) The Summer River is a dystopian novel
(about 70-k words) set at Earthrise. A General, the déjà vu sniper, the
Australian Prime Minister and the celebrity journalist witness the murder of a
guerrilla who had also been an Australian university student; they discuss how
best to write an appropriate book about ‘foreign invasions’ (novel, about 70-k
words).
(6) The Annotated “Elizabeth.” I examine
and offer likely explanations as to why my uncle published a mixed prose and
verse novel in which his mother is the principal protagonist and I suggest why
the book Elizabeth (published by
Dick Diespecker in 1950) is a novel and not a biography, memoir or history
(non-fiction, about 24-k words).
(7) The Overview is a short Australian
novel set at Earthrise (about 32.5-k words) and is also a sequel to The Summer River.
(8) Scribbles from Earthrise, is an
anthology of selected essays and caprice written at Earthrise (about 32-k
words). Topics are: family and friends, history of the Earthrise house, the
river, the forest, stream of consciousness writing and the Earthrise dogs.
(9) Here and There is a selection of Home
and Away essays (about 39-k words). (‘Away’ includes Cowichan (Vancouver
Island), 1937 (my cabin-boy year), The Embassy Ball (Iran), At Brindavan
(meeting Sai Baba in India). ‘Home’ essays are set at Earthrise and include as
topics: the Bellinger River and floods, plus some light-hearted caprices.
(10) The Agreement is a novel set in
Mozambique and Natal during December 1899 and the Second Anglo-Boer War: an
espionage yarn written around the historical Secret Anglo Portuguese Agreement.
Louis Dorman and his brother, Jules, feature together with Drina de Camoens who
helps draft the Agreement for the Portuguese Government. British Intelligence
Officers, Boer spies and the Portuguese Secret Police socialize at the Estrela
Café (about 62-k words).
(11) Lourenço Marques is the sequel to The
Agreement. Mozambique in September 1910. The Estrela café-bar is much
frequented and now provides music: Elvira Tomes returns to LM from Portugal and
is troubled by an old ghost; Drina and her companion return with a new member
of the family; Louis faints. Joshua becomes a marimba player. Ruth Lerner, an
American journalist plans to film a fiesta and hundreds visit from the
Transvaal. Drina plays piano for music lovers and plans the removal of an old
business associate (novel: about 75-k words).
(12) The Midge Toccata, a caprice about
talking insects (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s Alice stories). This book has a
splendid new cover designed by my cousin, Katie Diespecker (fiction, caprice,
about 26-k words).
(13) Happiness is a short novel set at
Earthrise. The ‘narrator’ is again the very elderly ex-ATA flier who
unexpectedly meets and rescues a bridge engineer requiring urgent
hospitalisation: she gets him safely to hospital in his own plane. She also
‘imagines’ an extension to her own story, one about a small family living partly
in the forest and on the riverbank: the theme is happiness. Principal
protagonist is a 13-years old schoolgirl who seems a prodigy: she befriends a
wounded Army officer and encourages his plans. Her parents are a university
teacher and a retired concert pianist. The family pets can’t resist being
scene-stealers in this happy family (novel, about 65-k words).
(14) The Special Intelligence Officer is
part family history as well as a military history and describes the roles of my
late grandfather in the Guerrilla War (1901-1902). The Guerrilla War was the
last phase of the Second Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902). The title of the book is
taken from Cape newspapers of the time: Capt Rudolph Diespecker was a District
Commandant and his responsibilities included intelligence gathering that led to
the capture, trial and execution of a Boer Commandant who was wrongly framed as
a ‘Cape rebel,’ when he was legally a POW (Gideon Scheepers was never a Cape
rebel, having been born in the Transvaal (the South African Republic,) one of
the two Boer Republics (non-fiction, about 33-k words).
(15) The Letters From Earthrise, an
anthology of my columns and other essays and articles written for the Australian Gestalt Journal between 1997
and 2005 (fiction and some non-fiction, about 70-k words).
(16) The Darkwood
is a dystopian novel set here in the not too distant future (about 80-k words).
Earthrise is again central to other themes.
Finally: Thank you to my guest writers, Kerry Smith, Susan
Adams, Sharon Snir, Jill Alexander, and Peter Thompson (guest writers retain
their own ˙©).
I send all Diary readers my best wishes. Don, June 30 2014.
