The Wannon Falls holds a special place in my heart. It sits, well, it falls, between Hamilton and Coleraine. The old township of Wannon is home to Mallangeenba, the Wannon District Scout Camp, a spot that I’ve spent many hours in over the years.
The falls themselves are pretty amazing, not world shattering amazing. Super impressive when in full flood, otherwise just a trickle dropping into the pool below.
In 1995 when I left Hamilton, I was presented with a wonderful photo of the falls in full flood.
It hangs in our dining room, the badge in the lower right of the frame is the District Scout badge for the Wannon District, a badge that I wore on all my Scout uniforms.
The badge shows the Falls in full flow, much like the photograph in the image. The Wannon District is no longer, in fact, I was the last District Commissioner, shortly after I left, the District amalgamated with the Surrey River District, based around Portland. The two became the Glenelg River District.
The little plaque under the photo, on the frame is inscribed with the words:
Presented to Greg Storer in appreciation for many years of service to Wannon District Scout Association ~1995~
It was given to me at a farewell event held in the old church at Mallangeeba. Over the years, the timber frame got a bit warped, as a surprise, Michael had it repaired for me, and it now proudly hangs on our wall.
I stood at the viewing platform and viewed the falls for a couple of minutes, before heading upstream to the old swimming hole. It’s only a short walk. Along the way I have to pass over many bull ant nests, swarming with bull ants. The nests are as iconic as the falls. There are always plenty of bull ants scurrying around.
Many a child, and adult for that matter, have stirred up the ants using a stick, or even running through the nest. Standing still on the nest was never recommended, and if you did, it wouldn’t be long before you knew, with a few nips on your skin.
At the swimming hole is a sign declaring the dangers of the falls. In my younger days, I had visions of being swept away to a certain death if I disobeyed this sign. I imagined the classic movie scene of the hapless individual being sucked over the edge of the fall. The reality is, of course, that unless the river is flooded, you’d be pretty unlucky to be swept over the falls. Not that I’m suggesting that you should ignore the warning signs!
A few steps away is a concrete weir that stretches across the river. It’s a little lower in the middle and the water flows over it, and continues on its way to the dreaded drop. This was the favourite spot to paddle in the many little water holes that erosion has caused over the millennia.
Over the years, I have spent many hours here, sometimes I’d arrive on my bike, sometimes with a pack of Cub Scouts, family members or friends. Long summer evenings paddling in the water. Today’s departure is in my electric car, a short fifteen-minute drive back to Hamilton.
I love a good comet. Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS has been in the news lately as it zooms its way around the sun, putting on a wonderful display.
It was visible to the naked eye in Australia in the pre-dawn light. Quite spectacular, according to those who spied it. I didn’t.
As it orbits the sun, it then appeared in the evening sky, just after sunset. I thought I would have an ideal chance to see it from Ocean Grove. Alas, I didn’t.
Every chance I had to look westward, it was cloudy.
Lex has come to visit us, and we love to star gaze. It was a clear night as we ventured down to the beach, but alas, the comet was no longer visible to the naked eye. I do have a very nice pair of binoculars; however, I’m unable to hold them steady in the crosswind to get a stable view.
The good thing about the night sky, is there are other things to wonder at. A rare planet to spot is Mercury. It’s so close to the sun that it can be difficult to find in its glare. However, tonight, there it was, just above the red sky of the setting sun. Further upwards was the bright light of Venus, quite spectacular to see.
Then looking southward is the Southern Cross and the Large Magellanic Cloud. The LMC looks like a star that has been smudged on the sky.
It always amazes me that I can see a whole other galaxy with the naked eye.
To help me find objects in the sky, I use Stellarium Mobile, the software is open source and has applications for mobile, Windows, Apple, and Linux.
Here’s a screenshot of the sky from the Stellarium app. You’ll notice three green satellites in view. They’re the Starlink satellites courtesy of Elon Musk. There are so many of these zipping around the night sky.
Lex managed to snap a photo of the LMC oh their phone.
You can find the LMC in Lex’s image by lining up Canopus, the bright star to the right of centre.
I love the photo, not only the stars, but the waves crashing on the shore and the lovely shade of blue of the night sky.
I have a friend, well several, ok, 5 or 3, I’m not certain. Could be way more or way less. Facebook says I have 756 of them, and as we know, Facebook knows everything about everyone. How easily distracted I am, this isn’t a post about Facebook and privacy, or more importantly how my ego is faring with my friend numbers and whether my posts get sufficient likes to show me how valued I am. No, this is a blog post about the bush, getting out of the city, escaping, running away, claiming that the rabbit is dynamite and learning to count to 5, or is it 3?
For some time, my friend, as mentioned above, I will call her Marcelle, as that is her name. I have been known to call her other things. One day, I’ll compile a list of other things that I call her, perhaps I’ll expand that to all my friends, all 756 of them. Might be quite a list. Anyway, for years, Marcelle has wanted to go snow camping. I don’t really think that’s a thing. Who would pitch a tent in snow? However, she is very insistent, and quite frankly, I’d run out of excuses. I wasn’t working, my weeks just stretching one into the other. Any time I think of escaping Melbourne, we’d end up in another lockdown. So, finally relenting, I agreed to this rather preposterous notion of finding somewhere so cold that the rain turns to snowflakes and falls on you.
We dragged out a map, not like the old days when we’d have a paper map or a copy of the RACV Vicroads Country Directory. No, I went to Openstreet Map, and we selected the Mt Baw Baw national park. We stared at the map on my tablet, using our fingers to zoom in and out. Decided on staying at Mt. Erica, or if we didn’t like that when we got there, Mt. St. Gwinear. Great. Plan set in motion. It was only the next day, as I was dreaming while looking at the map, that I looked at the button that said, “This area has reported issues”. I could feel for its issues, I have lots of them. So, not really feeling up to taking on the area’s issues, thinking they should pay for their own therapy, my pointer moved across the screen slowly and clicked. Sure enough, road closed because of recent storms. There goes that idea.
Not that I was entirely disappointed. I figured that we wouldn’t be able to go right now, and should wait until the road was clear. Maybe it would be summer by that time and the cold snow would have melted!
I knew as that thought crossed my mind, pushing aside a bunch of other things going on in my head at that moment, that it was foolhardy to think we’d give up that easily. I know, I say ‘we’ and wonder if I really meant ‘she’. Alas, though, we have history. In the 1980s, we went to the Grampians to spend a weekend camping and bushwalking. When we got there, we found that the Troopers Creek campground was inhabited by a bunch of young people, so that’s people slightly younger than us in our early 20s, and they were making so much noise. We put all our stuff back into the Holden Belmont HQ and drove to Wyperfeld National Park. It was only a 3-hour drive away. That’s a story for another day.
And I was wrong, within moments of the grim discovery and the thought we might postpone, we’d found another place where the roads were open! Our attention had now moved from Baw Baw to Buller. Carter’s Mill Picnic and camping area. Not too far out of Mansfield, not on top of Mt Buller, so, you know, not as cold.
Time to hit the garage. That’s where my camping equipment is stored. Neglected for the most part. I’d need a tent. Something to carry water in. Mattress, sleeping bag, focket knipe (don’t ask), shoes, gaters, small items in dilly bags, something that rattles, an emergency space blanket. Not that I was going to space, I guess it’s called an emergency space blanket because if you did happen to be ejected from a star ship you could use it as a sort of parachute to float back to earth, or because it keeps you warm if you should get so cold, you pick which idea suits me best. A little spade with toilet paper on the handle, torches, matches, plates, forks, cups, containers with lids for storing things in, ropes, long-johns, coat and another coat in case of snow, assorted things that might be handy should we come under moose attack or get a nasty nick from a hakea bush.
Before I knew it, I had enough gear to allow me to set up a small village and grow carrots. Most of it made sense as I was retrieving it from tubs on the shelves. As I have done so many times, I picked up each item, turned it over and then asked if I really needed it. Luckily, most of it went back into the tubs. I really should throw some things out. I mean, I’m never going to use that torch that takes 3 D cell batteries and clips to the tent roof with a magnet.
Marcelle and I catch up to discuss our menu. I’d like to think of it as a planning meeting. Alas, no printed lists, no creating a menu and then ingredients. Nah, we’re too good for that stuff. It used to be easy, drop into the supermarket, pick up a pack of surprise peas, deb potatoes, kabana, cheese, salada biscuits and packets of chicken noodle soup. I guess it’s still pretty easy, the focus now is on healthier options. We sorted that out. I dropped into the supermarket and picked up some freeze-dried food, muesli bars and a bunch of apples.
Next morning, Marcelle arrived at 5.30 to collect me. Don’t panic, we weren’t going to head off in the middle of the night, we aren’t that mad! No, we went for a run in the middle of the night instead. Once that was over with, we had our breakfasts, and then hit the road.
The biggest part of the journey is actually just getting out of the city. It seems to go on forever and ever. Buildings, cars, traffic lights. It does eventually give way to wire fences, sheep, trees and a bunch of grass. As the day wore on, we had to drive through some fairly thick fog, it was pretty low to the ground, probably about 10 metres deep. Above it, we could see the clear sky. It felt like driving in your own little universe bubble.
Our first stop was Mansfield. Well, not strictly the first stop. We had lunch there. Mansfield was pretty packed, which shouldn’t really have been a surprise, as it is snow season and school holidays. We hadn’t thought about it being holidays for kids. It’s astonishing how over the year’s life is organised around your children and their timetables. Now, both of us, clear of that restraint, wouldn’t be caught in a camping ground during such times. While that was the intention, as we don’t have school aged kids, we also are blissfully unaware of when they actually happen. A little sense of dread niggled at me. Will we have to travel 300k to escape a camping ground full of noisy kids? It then occurred to me, that we were trying to avoid exactly the sort of campers we used to be. With our combined children, it was 8, plus two adults. Imaging thinking you’d picked the perfect spot to put up your tent, light a little fire, enjoy the tranquillity only to have two lots of kids arrive. All the running and screaming at the top of their lungs. And that was just Marcelle and me.
We drove on towards Mt. Buller. As we got closer, we could see the white tips of the alps. Sure seems to be snow up there. The thermometer in the car hadn’t risen above 10c for the duration of the trip, and now it was closer to 0 than 10.
You know we have lots of experience in travelling, Marcelle and I have navigated our ways to lots of remote and tricky places. All of that experience, and we couldn’t find the right road to turn off. I must’ve had the map upside down, actually it was an app. I was expecting to turn right, searching the right side of the roadway for the turn. I couldn’t make any sense of it. It was only when we reached the base of Mt Buller that I thought I should whip out my phone and check the app again. Sure enough, the map was wrong, in relation to my understanding of how maps should work. It makes sense to me if I hold my phone that it naturally orientates to the correct direction of travel. What’s so hard about that?
Big signs up at the gateway to Buller saying that you have to prove your vaccination status to go to the snow fields. A great idea, and with only one shot in my arm, it meant I couldn’t go up to the mountain top. Not that that was the plan, it was good to have a fallback position just in case any more insane ideas came from the driver’s side of the van.
The app map now behaving in a way that I expected, indicated that the turn-off was on the right. So, I was right, it was a right turn if you happen to be driving away from Mt. Buller. We found the turn off and took it, it changes pretty quickly from a sealed road to a rough gravel road. That’s good – it’ll keep some families out. Except the ones with four-wheel drives, nothing keeps them out.
We drove towards the campground, and just before was a car park full of four-wheel drives. My heart sank a little – not a good sign. A little sign pointed us towards the camping ground. Also, a right turn to those of you keeping track. The entry was very muddy and slippery, but still passable, even for those of us without a four-wheel drive. Then bang. Sudden stop. In front was a piece of yellow tape baring the entrance to the camping ground. Hanging off the tape was an A4 piece of paper, laminated, with the words “Closed for renovations”. Clearly didn’t check that one on the website! There’s that moment of hesitation where we have a mix of emotions, do we break the rules?, do we go somewhere else?, do we just give up and go home?
We went with option two. I would’ve gone option one or three. Luckily, Marcelle is much calmer than me. The little A4 sign with the writing in font size 16 – not big enough to read from the car unless you squint and hold your head to the left, said that alternative camping was available at the Buttercup Camping grounds. The immediate result of reading Buttercup was to sing, and that little earworm sat in my head for the rest of the trip. Why do you build me up, buttercup?
So, off we went. Following the road until we came to the Buttercup 4 Campground. There was nobody else onsite! A blessing! The sign on the road told us that we couldn’t drive any further as it was for four-wheel drives only. We had four-wheels and a big van on top of them, alas, not a 4WD. So, here we decided was home.
It was in pretty good shape. Plenty of open spaces. Limbs had recently been cut from trees that may have posed a threat to falling on tents. A toilet, picnic tables. What more can a couple of intrepid adventurers need? Across the small dirt track was open farmland, private property. Some cows wandering around doing cow things, plenty of bird life, plenty of water. The Buttercup creek flows through the campground, and beyond the creek the land quickly rises into what is generally known as a mountain. I nodded at it with a sly grin, it was lucky that there were no plans for us to conquer it this trip. I’m sure it breathed a sigh of relief.
Between us and that mountain were trees. Big trees. Lots of them. Amazing trees. A kookaburra sits in (an old) gum tree, clearly on guard, maybe for their nest. I drag out my binoculars and watch it for a while. It’s just sitting there. My glasses point towards a kerfuffle going on in another tree. A bunch of plump birds are flitting about. I don’t know what they are, they look like Satin Bowerbirds, but I’ve never seen them gather in a flock before. Bowerbirds they are. A few females and a couple of males. I thought they only stayed on the ground because the male makes a bower for the female. It hadn’t occurred to me that they need to find other things to do between breeding seasons. I can feel the city in me expelled as I soak in the view. The air is crisp, the ground is sodden, the trees are swaying. I can hear the creek bubbling away. It’s icy, so cold, it should be snowing, but it’s not. The ground is its normal self – not disappointed.
We set about making camp. We do this by taking things out of the van and spreading them out far and wide. Not in nice little piles close together. We’re here in the bush, plenty of space. So, we spread out. My tent goes up in no time, as does Marcelle’s. These are small one person tents. Hardly enough room to swing a possum. Marcelle’s is brand new, so we’re both eager to see how it preforms. It’s probably rated for snow camping.
Airbeds unrolled, sleeping bags put in place. Pillow there. All this and it’s only 2.30 in the afternoon.
Someone had recently been here, the stones around the fireplace are still quite warm. I set about starting a fire, without using matches. I’m so good. I throw a bunch of twigs, bark and smaller type logs, get down on one knee to allow me to blow at the nearly dead embers. This causes the ash to rise upward, no sign of smoke, or even a flame. Not one to give up too easily, I persisted until I’m dizzy and need to collapse. Luckily, Marcelle has a portable fire in a gas bottle and the kettle can be boiled. While we sip our much-needed coffee and my world stops spinning, the fire roars into life.
While I’m encouraging my fire, grunting as a true reflection of my ability to make fire, Marcelle’s heads over the Sleeping Quarters of the campsite. There she unwraps this superb stainless-steel fireplace. Ever the prepared one, she’s brought wood, non-petrochemcial fire starters and a match. Within moments, she’s got a fire going in the little fireplace. It’s no match for my masterpiece, I grunt as I throw half a tree into the now well-established flames.
We sit looking at the fire, there’s hardly a breath of wind, so we aren’t dodging around the smokey parts. We natter, laugh, reminisce and glow at our cleverness. Here we are, midweek, feeling like we are in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the trees and the birds. This illusion is soon shattered by the echoing sound of a gunshot. At first, I think that it mustn’t be that. Must be a cocky-scarer or the banging of two bits of wood. Alas, the noise ricochets around hills again and there is no mistaking that sound. We look at each other a bit nervously, remembering that we are in the middle of nowhere. Visions of Wolf Creek cross my mind. Right, that’s what you do when you’re trying to sneak up on someone, fire a couple of shots, so they don’t know you’re coming. Things go quiet. There’s no car noises or breaking of twigs. Maybe they’re hunting rabbits, pig, deer or a goat.
Feeling safe enough, we head off for a bit of a walk along the Buttercup Track, why do you build me up, buttercup? We have the babbling Buttercup creek to the right of us, and open fields to the left. There’s a few cows doing cow things in the paddocks, and we can see some utes sitting at the top of the paddock. Another shot rings out and the sounds bounces off the hills. We continue our walk to the next campsite. There’s plenty of water running here. Little streams run under the road. Birds flit around the freshly ploughed fields and gunshots echo.
A few more loud bangs, and it seems that the gunshots are coming from the same place. Almost like someone is sitting in their rocking chair taking potshots at the rabbits, although more likely empty beer cans.
Back at camp, the chill of the evening is setting in as the sun has gone below the ridge line. We can still see it shining on the hills to the east, but we are deprived of its direct warmth. That means, the already cool temperature drops even more. Darkness is on the way, and we think it’s best to get our evening meal out of the way before it sets in.
Cooking is minimalist, to say the least. We’re trying to pretend we’ve been out hiking in the wilderness all day, and all we have is a pan, some freeze-dried food and some water. Ignore the fact the Marcelle has brought with her a fully decked out van with a 12v fridge, crockery, cutlery, a stove, tea towels, kitchen utensils, and I’m sure the kitchen sink is there somewhere. But hey, I’m ok with this, better than worrying about gunshots.
Just as it’s getting dark, we’re eating our dinner. I’m rugged up in my winter jacket, hat and gloves. We huddle around the fire with half a tree still burning and continue to chat while we finish dinner with a coffee.
It’s dark, it’s cold, the sky is ablaze with stars. I miss seeing the stars in the city. Tiredness creeps in and we both think that it’s about time to retire for the night. It feels really late, upon checking we realise it’s only a quarter to seven. No matter! Mind says sleep, who am I to argue!
Into my little tent I go and try to manage getting into a sleeping bag with barely enough room to sit up. I somehow manage this and nod off quickly, getting up once in the middle of the night to stare at the stars.
The morning light arrives, and I lay in my bed, comfortable and warm. I can feel the cold of the outside air, so I pull my beanie down over my ears and shut the baffles on my sleeping bag. I’m waiting to hear noises from outside. Then I know that Marcelle is up and about. It’s very quiet out there. Just the odd magpies doing their morning calls and the rushing of water. The tent looks icy. I doubt it’s snowed, though. In any case, a bit of light rain has fallen, so not likely to be any snow.
I think I’ve waited enough time, I can hear no noises from outside. I’m surprised. Marcelle is always up at sparrows fart. How could she still be asleep? I sit up and open the fly of my tent, and rather than being greeted by an empty campground, there Marcelle is, faffing around. I can’t believe I haven’t heard her. She’s managed to open all the doors on the van, and that makes a racket. She’s removed the fly from her tent and flapped in the breeze to dry it out, still I heard nothing. Not only that, but she’s boiling some water. “How do you do that?” I query from the safety of my tent. Sneaking around the campsite.
Breakfast is had, we sit around again enjoying the wilderness. Marcelle shows me a bloodied cuff on her trousers. Sometime yesterday a leech had latched onto her ankle, had a full feed and dropped off. She didn’t realise until she saw her blood soaked pants. More examples of our intrepidity. I can only hope to get two leeches to outdo her. The very thought makes my skin crawl, so I’ll just look in awe at her with her blood stains, as if she’s been out bush for months. I’ll have to be content with the black charcoal and ash on my jeans left by kneeling on the ground trying to start the fire yesterday.
We talk about our ambitions for the day. We both want to get home before the sun sets and we want to do a walk. We commence the task of looking at our spread out campsite and bringing all the items back to a central point for packing up. Everything stowed away, we agree to head back to Carters Mill Picnic Ground. We know there’s a few good walks around that area, and we should make an effort to at least claim to have been hiking.
The trip down the mountain was interesting, with a bit of rain there were plenty of puddles to splash water in all directions, and the van mostly behaved itself by sticking to the track.
We arrived at the picnic ground. It would seem that the weather was keeping people away today! A few cars, but not as many as yesterday. We were relieved. This means we don’t really need to interact with other people. These two introverts are much happier in their silence as they trek along the track, and only break that silence for two reasons:
Something interesting to look at.
Something funny to say.
The walk we choose is rather short, as it’s raining. As intrepid as we like to pretend we are, a good soaking, while not bothering us, is really not needed! It’s only a light sprinkling anyway. There are two walks, a 2k walk or a 3k walk. The short one is a circuit. The other is return on the same track. As tempting as an extra kilometre was, we went to the Plain Creek Loop Walk. It was lovely. A wonderful little wooded area, over a little bridge, and through the forest. The rain falling on my raincoat hat, the sound of Plain Creek bubbling away. The odd bird out in the weather.
In no time at all, the walk was done. The two very smoked campers and hikers got into their van and headed back the way they came.
We stopped in Yarck for lunch. Yarck is such a good name to say. It’s from the local Aboriginal name for the river Yaruk, meaning long river. The lunch stop was the Giddy Goat because, why wouldn’t you stop there? Restrictions meant that the little café was closed for sit down meals, however, a long bench stretching across the side of the footpath and a few little fires in barrels meant we could order our toasted sandwiches, sit outside in the chilly air and watch the world go by.
And that’s it, as exciting as it gets. A single night out in the bush, no snow, plenty of water falling from the sky. A wonderful collection of native birds. Trees, fire, smoke and good company.
A great way to replenish the inner workings of my brain with great company.
Today’s adventure is at the end of a very potholey road, somewhere between Mallacoota and the edge of the world. You can either walk to Shipwreck Creek along the foreshore or drive around the long way on an 8km stretch of sandy road that has potholes that I’m sure lead all the way to the other side of the world. However, the day is lovely, it’s bright and sunny, in the mid 20s and simply glorious!
Michael navigates our little blue car between the holes, although at times I’m sure he’s driving towards them rather than around them, still, we arrive at the day area of the Shipcreek Creek camping ground in once piece with both axles still attached to a wheel at each end.
Click to see more detail
Our destination is Seal Creek, and it’s only 3km away.
The first part of the walk takes us from the camping ground down to the beach and then back into the bush. It’s mostly tea tree, fairly dense and little sunlight hitting the ground. It’s not too long before we exit the scrubby bush and find ourselves in a heathland. This low-level bush allows us to see to the sea. The other thing it allows is the blooming of flowers.
In our modern era, I want all the flowers to be available to me right now. However, what I discover is that the flowers have a cycle that is only known to themselves. Some flowers are still budding, waiting for the perfect time to bloom, others have already had their time in the sun and are now browning petals dangling uncomfortably from stems.
I was hoping for much more colour, the 500 shades of blue, red, yellow and pink isn’t quite enough!
It’s true that we don’t see huge flowers, there are no dahlias, roses or tulips here to tiptoe through. Just delicate little things bursting with colour. We really have to slow down. Our normal quick pace becomes less than a stroll. Every few steps I stop, squint at a flower, bend at the hips, adjust the multi-focals to get a better view. If it’s something I haven’t seen before, I’ll point it out to Michael, we’ll muse for a minute together, I’ll move on few steps and Michael will stop to take some photos.
It’s a lovely walk in the late afternoon sun. There’s a little breeze and sometimes the faint calls of birds. The heathland continues to astound us as we get in good and close to the flowers. When we inspect the photos afterwards we often see a little spider or insect sitting on it.
We again walk into open woodland for awhile before out again on the heathland. The final part of our walk takes us again through the woods and down towards Seal Creek. This final bit is quite steep. We can see the creek in front of us, and it’s a tanninn colour water. The creek is blocked from entering the ocean, so it pools into a smallish lake.
We stop for a bit and watch a few birds fly around. Eat some food, drink a little water.
It’s now 5.45pm. It’s taken quite awhile to walk the 3k to get here. However, if we leave now, don’t dilly-dally too much, we should be back at the car just before night-fall.
Off we head! Up the steep incline and back on to the open heathland. But now it’s all changed. Whereas before we had bright sunshine, now we have dusk. The sun has dipped below a ridge to our west and given us a wonderful soft light. Michael is delighted as he snaps photos in this perfect light. He plays with his camera’s settings and gets some good shots.
The final part of the walk is almost in the dark. The tea trees kept the direct sunlight out earlier, now they bring an early night time. I find myself tripping on roots and rocks.
We get to the car and start the drive back home. It’s easier to drive on the pothole road now, as we can clearly see the shadows of the holes and avoid them.
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.
Michael has arrived
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.
Mostly rocks
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 awhile, but I find a soggy patch of grass with a little puddle of water attached wedged between a crevice in the rocks. Here I think is my frog. I stand over it and am rewarded with the sound of croaking. I zero in, but alas, while I know I have the right spot, I can’t see it.
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.
Put me on the top of a mountain and happiness happens by default.
Setting: Happiness (Default)
It looms!
The old days of leaping a mountain in a single day seems like such a distant memory. As does climbing Mt. Imlay, the first time was in 2011. I remember the dirt road, the logged forest and this huge mountain in front of me. Mountains like this are said to loom. And here it is, a looming mountain. Begging to be climbed. As looming mountains are want to do.
Any notion that you simply lob up to a looming mountain to loom it is foolhardy, to say the least. However, that didn’t stop Michael and me, for lobbed we did. We quickly stopped the car, got out, applied our sunscreen, went to the toilet, read the information board, prepared our backpacks, changed our socks, put on our hiking boots, adjusted our hats and left. This sort of lobbing takes proper preparation.
The day was glorious. The sun was out and bright, which isn’t surprising as it was daytime, just before lunch, so therefore morning. There was a distinct lack of clouds, and this helps for a bright day and the sun being out. It was coolish, but not cold.
Legs not quite fallen off yet
The first part of the walk is steep, as it the second part and the third part. In between the steep bits, it’s steep, but a little less steep. Still, when it’s steep your legs scream at you. When it’s a little less steep, your legs make you stop.
So, with my screaming legs, we made our way upwards, go down for a little bit, and then the final stretch to the top. My heart beats to match the upwards and down movement of my legs. In those days of yore, I knew when my heartbeat was at maximum because my teeth would start to rattle in my head. These days I have an app.
Last time we hiked this at the start of September, this time, we’re at the other end of the month. We have wanted to return over all these years to see more flowers! In particular, we wanted to see the Mount Imlay Boronia (Boronia imlayensis). First however, to the top!
It took us 1 hour and 57 minutes and 14 seconds to get there, I have an app. Luckily the last bit of the upward is pretty flat, but steep. We sat on the ground in a sort of collapsed fashion, like a drying bean bag that has been unpegged from the clothesline.
After we recovered enough we chewed on some food and then looked around the site, admired the view, took a selfie, posted to social media, made a phone call, transferred money from my account to someone else’s and drank some water.
Then, the easy bit, we started down. It is also steep but in the other direction. Luckily we are more interested in taking photos of wonderful things. This means that the down trip takes 2 hours, 40 minutes and 10 seconds. If you’re astute, and I’m sure you are, then you will notice that it takes us 43 minutes longer to descend. That’s pretty amazing, as the declination is enough that you could probably slide all the way down in half the time.
And this is why we are here. The amazing and wonderfully delightful Mount Imlay Boronia. This rare plant only grows on this mountain in an area of about 500 meters x 50 meters. It’s clear that it wants to make the most of the space, everywhere we turn is another blossom.
Once we drop off the top, that would be about 50 meters, the boronias disappear and we are back into the rough rocky ground. Everywhere around me life abounds. The silver ashes gracefully reach upwards, the grass trees sway in the gentle breeze and the flowers just look gorgeous.
Leaves turning
The balance to the lovely whites, yellows and pink of the flowers, the balance to the thousands of shades of green, are the shades of decay. The newly fallen leaves that turn from dark green to a pastel shade before going brown. The bright silver trunks of the gum trees that shed and turns grey and breaks down into a non-descript colour that sits on the forest floor. The bright red leaves that darken and turn to black. All breaks down into a rich black soil that helps the colours grow all over again.
Even though the mountain will be here long here after all of us, it’s not immune to change. The very rocks themselves have to contend with lichen that will leech them to soil. Bit by bit the rocks break down into stones, I know this because I put my feet on them and they slip, causing me to throw my arms out like Jesus on a Friday. The leaves and the bark work with the stones to create a path that is laden with trip hazards and a quick way down, if not to the bottom of the mountain, at least to the bottom of your spine.
That said, you can’t stand or sit, on this looming mountain and not be taken by the whole package. The wind, the sounds, the colours. The smells, the taste on the air, from the smallest noise to the largest rock, every single part of the mountain comes together to deliver an experience that makes me want to come back for more.
An early morning walk is always good – however I must admit to a certain level of madness to be walking in the hills before dawn. The rewards are quite stunning.
My watch started vibrating right on 6.00 a.m. I was already awake, lying there waiting for it to go off. It’s important never to get out of bed before the alarm goes off, it’s a universal rule and as I will show, universal rules are not to be toyed with.
I turn the light on, stumble around the room, find the suitable attire that I’d carefully laid out the night before, brush teeth, beard and hair, throw some items into the backpack and head out the door by 6.10 a.m.
It is dark. The stars remain bright, overhead is Spica with Jupiter sitting next to it, well, at least in my sky, there’s really 550 light years between them. There’s also Antares, I mistook it for Mars as it’s red, next to it is Saturn. The sky to my east is starting to brighten as I head along the footpath through the middle of Halls Gap. My only company is the kangaroos and wallabies who are enjoying nibbling the grass without hordes of tourist hanging around trying to get close enough for a photo.
In a couple of minutes I have crossed the little village, moved beyond the football oval and begun the climb upwards towards Chatauqua Peak. It’s only a short walk, about 3½km. The track is a sandy white, it stands out in the pre-dawn light, however it’s dark away from the village lights, and before long my toes are hitting every rock and tree root, causing me to stumble. Last thing I need is to be rescued by the SES before I’m even out-of-town. Luckily a thousand years in the Scouts taught me to be prepared and I whip out my headlamp, remove my cap, attach said light to my head, slap my cap back on, turn on the light and continue upward.
As the blackness gives way to an eerie grey, the birds start to awaken, first kookaburras begin the morning with a solid round of laughter from all directions. Like a real laugh it seems contagious and in a few seconds I’m surrounded by the calls of the early birds. The currawongs aren’t far behind, their distinctive call bounces around the mountains. The magpies join in with their early morning warbling, like the kookaburras it seems contagious and soon there seems to be hundreds all speaking to each other. Throw in some ravens and lots of small wrens and we have an orchestra of morning song. However, nothing compares to the awaking of great flocks of cockatoos who begin their morning by screeching to each other. It’s like a 3 year olds birthday party, everyone wants to play with the new toys now and they’re all going to yell until they get their own way. Now that’s a sound that really bounces off the mountains.
I can’t tell now if my headlamp is getting dimmer, batteries running down, or the encroaching daylight means it’s less effective. As it’s now light enough to see, I turn it off and continue the trek and manage not to stumble so much. Still to early to be rescued, I’m still in mobile phone range.
As I ascend the sky to the east has a bright orange bubble in the middle of a grey sky, the west is still black. As far as I can see there are no clouds in the way. The stars don’t fade away, they simply wink out of existence, all the background stars disappear as the sky changes from black to grey as the light extends from east to west.
If I’ve timed my walk right, I should get to the rock hopping stage of the walk in fairly good light. I know I’ve been rushing a bit, sunrise waits for no person! As I get to the fork in the track, I pause to look eastward. The orange now extends across the eastern sky and I can pick where the sun is going to pop up. I’m a little worried as I think it might be behind Boronia Peak and I’ll miss day break.
I’m now on the final stretch, it’s 6.50 a.m., I’ve made good time and can slow down a little. This bit of the walk is along the ridgeline and there’s not a lot of space between me and the edge of the cliff. The light is good and I hop along the rocks with ease.
I reach the summit of Chatauqua Peak just after 7.00 a.m., I’ve got about 15 minutes before the sun rises above the horizon. I drag out my phone and fire up Sky Maps, I want to be sure I’ll have a clear view of the right point. I can see that Mercury has just risen on the map, alas, the sky is already way to bright for me to see it. I have a clear view of the horizon, a few low hills on the edge, but that won’t matter.
I eat an apple and wait. I mean, what else can you do while you wait for the universe to spin around?
I snap a couple of photos. The mountains to the west change colours from their nighttime muted tones to a soft orange colour, the trees that spill around their bases a dark green with spots of moving white as the cockatoos take flight. The eastern sky is blue with an increasing orange bulge in the middle. It’s 7.16 a.m. This is the time that has been allotted for our nearest star to put in an appearance. I know this, because I asked Google. It’s the only conversation I’ve had today. I said “Sunrise” she said “The sun will rise at 7.16 a.m. in Halls Gap” and went quiet, not much for small talk, either of us.
And there is the proof of the final universal adoption of Google as the holder of all information. A bright orange light appears on time and in the place that Google said it would. The little bit of the sun quickly turns into a huge ball of glowing orange, within moments it’s too bright to look at. The world is suddenly bathed in a fantastical hue (I’m trying to avoid using orange again), the high peaks behind me are bathed in a warm glow and this shows off the brilliant whites and reds and all the colours in between. Now with the sun fully risen I snap a few photos of the daily spectacular.
I have no idea what it is about sunsets and sunrises. They happen on a continuous basis, as the earth spins there is always one of each happening somewhere on the globe. Yet, every single one of them is unique. It is its own moment. This one feels richly deserved, I’ve climbed a mountain, well, a peak. Risked life and limb to reach the summit in time to see this daily event on a beautifully clear night that is then pursued by a beautifully clear day with a brilliant blue sky and a now white star marching across it. It is a moment of renewal, it reminds me of the daily grind of the world and how each day starts afresh with a world of possibilities. Today is a day for me to renew, refresh and start again.
I sit for 30 minutes enjoying the warmth of the morning sun, I can feel the temperature rising already, heading towards a top of 34°
Below me I can see the long shadows of the trees in the brown paddocks, reminding me that the seasons are turning and it won’t be long before summer ends. The sun is yet to reach the Fyans Valley in which Halls Gap sits, it’ll be another hour at least before it peaks over Boronia Peak.
I start my walk downward, within a couple of minutes I’ve dropped below the peak and into the shadow. It’s still cool here and I meander down to Halls Gap where coffee and breakfast calls.
My second conversation is “Good morning, I’ll have 2 eggs and 2 long blacks please”
It took me a while to get there, I’ve been struggling for some time and finally my emotional and mental health crushes in on my physical health and I’ve gotta get away.
My go to place is the Grampians, I’ve always loved coming here since I first set foot as a child in these mountains.
I surround myself with the bush. I thrive in its noises, its smells and its sights. I have two weeks to explore and soak in the ancient landscape.
I walk, it gives me time to think, to unwind, to restore the internal batteries.
I become so aware of my surroundings, the breeze blowing gently across my ears, the sound of distant traffic and the singing of the birds. The water gently trickling down to the valley, my footfall as I make my way upward and the sound of my breath at the exertion.
As my feet crunch the sand beneath me I can see the footprints of those that came before me and there’s another story. This white sand is millions of years old, it’s the worn down mountain, the wind and the rain has reduced the rock to this sandy white floor and its been trodden on for over 40,000 years. I’m connected to the land, to its history and I’m reminded that I’m a passer-by, someone who leaves a footprint, washed away in the next rain storm.
I aim for the top. I want to see the world beneath from on high, to thrill in its beauty. I want the blue sky above me and the land below me. I see and hear the wildlife around me, I see the delicate flowers to the big trees, the rocks that look like long forgotten dinosaurs to boulders that form mountains.
Here I find serenity and the chance for my mind to still. To recuperate and ready itself for the next phase of life.
First photo of me on top of Mt William taken by Michael Barnett Music – Spa Music – Relax, Mindfulness, Yoga (2016) Matti Paalanen
All other video, sounds, words and images are my work.
I first donned a backpack and climbed the Major Mitchell Plateau in September 1985, I’ve climbed it a total of 4 maybe 5 times now, including the latest hike in 2016.
A lot has changed in our world since then, firstly the medium of recording the story. I can’t find my log book for 1985 or I simply didn’t have one. However, my second hike in 1986, dubbed the “Comet Hike” was written in my log book that was a foolscap Collins Minute book. Written after the event. Not long after that I started recording in a smaller log book that I carried with me and wrote every chance I had. These days my rough notes become a word press blog and I share the story with lots of other people! In the 80’s I would use my log books and diary to record daily life and then record letter tapes for my friends.
The invention of word processing on a typewriter and then computer also means that my spelling is checked. I also have Michael who proof-reads for me!
Other changes. Get a load of the car, it’s an HQ Belmont station wagon, not a Kingswood and the rear door has a roll down window and drop tray! Click on the image, Marcelle and I both have mullets and we’re both wearing our scout uniform. For whatever reason we thought these heavy cotton shirts were the go for hiking in. In the other photo we’re dressed in special hiking gear, our shirts have special wicking abilities, we have decent boots and Goretex raincoats. Marcelle’s backpack is the same one that Michael is carrying, however, check out my old one. It has an external frame and you can see the aluminium hoop at the top. That bloody thing use to snag on every low hanging branch I passed under. You can still buy the sleeping mats, a single piece of pressed material, nowadays you wouldn’t use them as a yoga mat. We travelled with lightweight self-inflating mattresses. However, mine had a seam explosion so I would have been better off with nothing more than a sleeping mat.
We spent hours packing in the 80’s trying hard to get the packs as light as possible, these packs had about 16kg. I carried 18kg this hike, so a little more but a lot less time to pack.
In the days before colour photo copiers we carried two A2 paper maps that were very detailed. If we wanted to check where we were we needed to triangulate our position, so needed 3 landmarks within sight, and using a compass, rotate the map, draw 3 lines and basically have a guess. The information on the maps was already 10 years old when we bought them. In 2016 we downloaded an app onto our phones, paid $9 for 3 maps that has information that is regularly updated. The app even puts a little blue dot to show us where we were along with the full longitude and latitude. There’s no need for wi-fi or mobile reception, just the trusty satellites overhead. We could zoom-in for a closer look, or out for a wider look and drop a pin, here’s where we had lunch and where we camped. We printed the maps out in colour to carry a paper copy and gave a copy to various people in case we got lost!
Cooking has changed too. Here we are with a fire and a billy hanging over it on a structure we’ve fashioned out of sticks, compare that to our lightweight cooking pan sitting on a tripod above the flame. No need to search for dry wood. Still, once the matches got wet, even though they were waterproof, no fire was possible! The menu in 1986 consisted of fresh hamburgers, dried peas and Deb potatoes, sandwiches and pikelets. In 2016 we had fresh fruit, freeze-dried chicken and potatoes, along with packaged rice and salmon. Luckily the taste of freeze-dried food is much better!
And then our sleeping accommodation. In 1986 we wanted to go as lightweight as possible, so slept only under a tent fly. In 2016 we carried a lightweight 2kg tent, including attached groundsheet and fly. Lucky for us it didn’t rain back in the 80’s. Ever.
In 1986 my log entry says:
As we descended we watched the mist blowing straight up from the bottom of the mountain. About half way down the mountain we watched as the plateau revealed itself to us, the mist started to clear up before our eyes
This hike was the reverse, the weather was quite nice as we headed down Mt William, however, half-way up the other side we watched as the mist hid the mountains.
The significant event in 1986 was Halley’s comet, hence the black and white photos. Marcelle lugged her big camera and tripod to the top of the mountain. We took photos of the night sky. I don’t have any of those images. Michael and I took our phones and snapped many photos of the bush, the flowers and each other. No need to have a film developed, instant delete, and much easier to manage.
The one thing that hasn’t changed in 30 years is my sheer delight and enjoyment with walking and hiking in the Grampians and sharing that with people who I love.
I woke up many times during the night to the wind, it was making so much noise. There’s not much up here to stop it. The driving rain came and went. When it stopped the wind would continue to blow drops off the trees and so the fly of the tent was subjected to a steady stream of water falling. In between all this I could hear the little creek burbling away.
I wanted to go pee. How I wanted to. The thought of gearing up to do so was way to scary. So my bladder and I came to an understanding.
By 6.30 I had to get up. I discovered that a lot of our gear in the tent was wet.
I climbed out to see the clouds whisking past me, every now and then a downpour would follow the clouds
It was quite magical.
The creek was up a lot. Yesterday we could jump it to move around the campsite, that wasn’t so easy now.
I tramped through the wet undergrowth to get to the toilet. The ‘flood waters’ had surrounded our little tent, and the tent itself was now in the middle of a huge puddle.
My hands are freezing.
I manage to make a cup of coffee, no easy task. I enjoy sipping it, mostly because my fingers are wrapped around the hot plastic cup. Subsequent attempts to light the stove fail. The waterproof matches have gone to shit and even the cigarette lighter is so wet it won’t spark.
I spend the next hour and a half standing with my back to the wind, however, the rain continues to fall from all directions and there is no relief from it standing here in the clouds on top of the Major Mitchell Plateau. Michael wakes and spends his time in the tent stowing our various gear into bags, stuffing bits into sacks. I resort to running on the spot to keep warm.
We eat a carrot, apple and muesli bar for breakfast.
Somehow we manage to transfer our belongings from the tent to the backpacks, then we pull the tent down and shove it into its stuff-sack.
Ready to go by 9.00 a.m.
The clouds, mist, fog and rain are being pushed by a gale force wind. With backpacks on we make a start.
Worm out for some sun
Parts of the tracks are on boardwalks, mostly however the tracks have become rivers of water. I’m surprised at the amount of water about. The worms have come out of the dirt for a swim too. There are so many of them on the track, and they’re huge.
Still the wildflowers abound.
The reason for me being here is the view of the western plains from the eastern edge of the plateau. Alas, I’m deprived of this. Beyond the escarpment to my left is nothing but grey clouds. A huge wall of what seems to be solid concrete all the way from the bottom of the mountain, up over our heads. The rain turns to hail, hitting our faces and stinging.
We trudge along the boardwalk, the rocks and the sandy tracks with the water, gradually making our way towards the southern edge to begin our descent.
It’s very rocky and slippery in places, we take our time, being very careful about where we place our feet. We arrive at a point where the path seems to stop, the drop to the next bit is quite steep and to big for us to navigate, so we go around. This proves very difficult. No track, big rocks, trees and undergrowth in the way. We bash our way through to get back on the steep downward track.
Swamp wallaby.
Some two hours later we drop off the Major Mitchell Plateau and onto Stockyard Creek track. The narrow mountain path in the closed bush opens into a grass plain with scattered trees. The track broadens to a 4WD road. We see a couple of swamp wallabies, the only wildlife we’d seen apart from insects and worms.
We arrive at a turning point, to the left Mafeking Picnic Ground, to the right Jimmy Creek. 6 kilometres to go.
The path now takes us up to a helipad, over the top and down into the bush.
Compared to the walk on the top this is fairly easy. Still plenty of rain, down here, though the wind has died down. I am now very wet. Water has seeped into my boots and my toes squelch about in their socks. My hands are in my gloves, keeping warm, but the gloves are soaking. Every now and then I clench my fists and a stream of water falls onto the ground.
In these mountains, away from the rest of the world, we see fields of wildflowers. Carpets of woven colours in all their glory. The visual of the track winding up the hill in front of us, the bush, flowers, mountains and the aroma of the flowers and the wet eucalyptus and wattle trees make this a magical experience. The rain has somewhat abated and I’m happy to be out here in the Grampians.
It’s just on 2.30 p.m. we arrive at our rendezvous point and Merv and Naomi are there in the car, avoiding the weather.
