Genoa Falls is just off the highway. You might have a bit of trouble finding the little turnoff. It’s not really signposted at all.
At the end of a little sandy dirt road, a car park surrounded by pine barriers is a sign that declares you’ve found your way to the Genoa Falls.
A little walk along the path, through some scrub, and soon you can hear the sound of rushing water. Then the bush breaks away to reveal a large expanse of rock. A little stream of water tumbles over the rock as it makes its way through the area and on to the ocean.
We wander around. Apart from the running water, there is very little noise here. No birds, no traffic noise, no wind. Still and quiet.
We spread ourselves out and have afternoon tea, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun while eating fruit and admiring the trees and clear sky.
We can hear a frog somewhere close by, it’s elusive, despite our efforts to train our ears to its location. As we make noise when we move around the frog stops.
I begin a systematic process of listening carefully and when I hear it croak, I move towards the noise and wait for it to start again.
It takes
I move around the soggy patch and lower myself to the ground, laying on the rocks. I’ve now excluded all other background noises. The little rock ledge in front of me acts as a buffer. I’m hoping that I might actually see my little amphibian friend. I find all the local ants, and a strange cone-like insect moving down the stalk of grass, but no frog. When it finds its voice again, I am so close, and it such a local echo chamber that the noise becomes overwhelming as its croaking reverberates off the rocks and directly into my ears. I want to pull away it seems so loud, but I stay put to enjoy the sounds as it reaches its crescendo and then dies away for a moment, only to start all over again.
After a few minutes, the frog goes silent and I move on. I jump over the little running stream and onto a sandy bush track. I can hear more running water and head towards it, the low bushes give way to a large pool of water that is being fed by the little stream tumbling over the rocks. Years of erosion have the pool sitting in a perfect rock depression. The water is dark and cool. The bottom is covered with fallen leaves, branches and silt. It looks inviting enough to swim in with its little waterfall feeding it at one end and then pouring out the other. The rock pool is surrounded on one side by large boulders, and those boulders have perfectly round holes that again are the result of erosion, as the water spins small rocks around, they drill into the softer rocks, causing perfectly smooth holes that fill with water.
I follow the stream up stream and find myself on the same rock face that I left from. Michael is there taking photos. As I sit and watch him I see a faint movement off in the distance. At first I’m not sure what it is, but I think I can see a log that wasn’t there before. I lift my binoculars and train them towards the new log, only to discover that it has four legs and a tail and is busily looking at me!
Esmeralda! Our East Gippsland Water-Dragon. She’s one of the main reasons for our visit. She sits very still as I watch her and then signal to Michael, who points his camera at her and starts snapping. Michael slowly moves towards Esmeralda, who clearly isn’t too worried. She plods around in her own time, laying flat at times on the warm rocks in the last of the direct sunlight. Every now and then, she would lift her head and do a nodding motion. She jumps off behind some rocks and disappears.
Our final delight for the day is some small orchids. Michael notices them growing from a small rock shelf. We spend some time admiring them before the failing light and an increasing chill in the air sends us home.
What a lovely way to spend an afternoon and how rewarding. It’s the best kind of therapy.