Flowers on the volcano trail
29 Sunday Nov 2015
29 Sunday Nov 2015
26 Thursday Nov 2015
Barham, Carrathool, Lake Fyans, Little Forest, Mt Eccles, Mt Gambier, Nelson
We've just spent nine nights camping in wonderful places as we track ancient and not-so-ancient volcanic activity across western Victoria and into South Australia. The days are often long, 400km stretches along back roads, through dead flat landscape and rugged mountains, all formed by geological action and therefore all food for speculation. For once, being stopped for road works is a plus, usually in a cutting which we can attempt to read while we wait. We find ourselves entranced by quarries, which in the past have provoked a diatribe about the rape of the land by demon extractors. Now we delight in the cross-section of the earth they reveal. Churches and civic buildings in country towns also become geological clues, built as they often are out of local stone, and often with immaculate craftsmanship.
Each campsite is wonderful in different ways, and we are no longer bush-camping-only devotees: as the day wears on we're more than happy to seek out a pleasant looking caravan park. One of the delights of camping is sleeping dusk to dawn: although weird dreams intrude, routine 2 am anxieties disappear.
Please join us in our seven campsites.
We pull in beside the Murrumbidgee near a wooden bridge, having failed to locate a campsite we thought we remembered well. As we set up camp a kayak slides ashore near us, dad and daughter out on the water, mum and the dogs ready with the ute to pick them up.
I carry the bedding across to the tent, and notice a bright flash of orange on the ground, a wasp, dragging a round brown spider. It looks as if they might be heading under the floor of the tent, and I get ready to dissuade them. But no, the wasp takes the tent in its stride, hastens up and over, and heads off into the leaf litter beyond it.
This isn't our only company. The small dog who ran by earlier, part Jack Russell, part terrier, returns and decides to adopt us. He's well cared for and disciplined. He spends the night on the tarp under the tent, on guard, barking and growling at any unusual noise. In the morning he's still there, and we face a dilemma. What to do? Does he belong with the pack he was running with? Is he lost? He's so charming no one could possibly have abandoned him. We feel quite evil driving off and leaving him behind.
We arrive at Hall's Gap in the Grampians late, and find it uninviting, touristy and crowded, despite a stunning setting under towering walls of rock. One caravan park is unnavigable: the office at another one already shut at 6. The National Park sites require online booking, sight unseen. So we throw ourselves on the mercy of chance, turn right towards Ararat, and strike it lucky – a shady area shared with only one other tent beside Lake Fyans with a shower a stroll away. In the evening the lake captures sunset: in the morning it disappears under mist.
Tonight's campsite lies between two crater rims, and we pitch under a towering pine, looking down on a road that attracts a serious cyclist who is ignominiously swooped by a patrolling magpie; bikies who enjoy roaring up and down; lads with car radios on boom boom boom; idle walkers and earnest joggers. After dinner and a glass or two of wine, we amble down to survey the Valley Lake and then up to the Devil's Punchbowl (inevitable that the devil should feature in a volcanic landscape.) The peace of the night is disturbed by a very loud row in the cabin behind us, but traffic dwindles to nothing as darkness falls and next morning I take advantage of a proper sink to wash up.
J has an ongoing love affair with rivers and ocean. When we come across the vastness of the Glenelg River and its encounter with the sea, we turn away from volcanos and spend two nights, sole campers in an area that accommodates a thousand on New Year's Eve. The caravan park takes up 25 acres of crown land, and we share our snug space in a cavern of trees with a daring blue wren who perches on J's shoulder perfectly matching the colour of his jumper: a parade of disdainful emus who ignore us; and a wallaby who investigates our campsite, unperturbed by our presence.
Mt Eccles NP
We finally manage to negotiate Parks Victoria mandatory booking system to our deep satisfaction. We find a site, a choice of 20, and actually have reception to go online and book our chosen site on site. And a good choice it is too. As we're unwinding, there is a movement. It's a koala, who whizzes down one tree, bounces across to another one (I had no idea koalas were so lithe and agile) and shinnies up, pausing to scratch its rump, to the very top where the branches don't look strong enough for its solid bulk. It pulls gum leaves towards it, and then curls in a fork and descends into sleep. During the night we hear noises like a 2-stroke motor starting up and in the morning see a second koala who stares down at us briefly, before curving into its chosen fork.
Mt Eccles is in the centre of volcano activity, so we make it our base and spend two nights there, just below the crater rim. On the second night it rains.
Little Forest, Barham
A wet tent is no fun so we head away from the rain north towards the Murray. Twenty years ago J picked oranges in Barham and camped in the Little Forest: we return there for a night and a journey down memory lane. Our campsite is obviously the scene of weekend revels – a pile of spent cartridges and three dead carp – but it is in a peerless spot on a bend of the river looking across to Victoria. In the middle of a still night under a nearly full moon a mopoke repeats its melancholy notes. The tent is pitched underneath a kingfisher's nest: we hear his song as we drink our morning coffee and catch him briefly in swift flight. Sulphur crested cockatoos in hordes screech raucously overhead. A community of choughs forage busily and then lift off in a flurry of white underwing spots. The brown river flows on, between immense trees.
Before we leave, we walk through grassland to the orange orchard flourishing for sixty years on a sandhill, past trees from which bark canoes had once been cut. The giant orange trees have been chopped down, replaced by an irrigation arch and a flock of emus. J evokes his previous self riding his bike back to camp at dusk after a hard day's picking as we swat at flies.
Our final camp is a bit of an anti-climax: a camp of necessity as the day wears on. However, there is thick green grass, delicious on bare feet, and a canal to catch sunset light in water. No escapee from the nearby correctional centre harasses us: no young hoon runs his car off the road through the caravan park fence to mow us down. In the middle of the night a long train passes by not far away, a comforting noise for me since childhood and a reminder of Junee's past as a railway town. The full moon shines down on us, blessing our last night under a flimsy roof.
18 Wednesday Nov 2015
Last Sunday I joined a group of locals and two geologists to revisit sites I'd already scrutinised and theorised over. Having done my homework, I was entering a world that had become vaguely familiar. It was a delight to have the rock-story told fluently and coherently and a great relief to have the geologist's boot stomping on rocks he was talking about, and indicating on real rock the substance of his discourse.
A few snippets from that day
Close by a whale surfaces and a pod of dolphins arch through the water. They are intruders, time travellers, drawing me back unwillingly into the future, away from long-ago earth processes that still continue today.
I'm off again till the end of November, on a camping volcano crawl through western Victoria. So there'll be silence till my return.
11 Wednesday Nov 2015
Posted Eurobodalla bush, photosin
09 Monday Nov 2015
To find a perfect Cymbidium suave (snake orchid) head up Bullocky's Hut Road until it joins Big Rock Road on its journey to the highway. As you get out of the ute, look up and to your right and you'll see a stunning arrangement by Ma Nature (thanks Gilly!) in the fork of a dark old tree: seven sprays spilling down the trunk. Photography is a problem if you want to get the whole composition, because you have to look up into the glare of the sky. The best shots involved J standing precariously on the slightly shattered milk crate he uses to carry the night's supply of firewood, while I held an ineffectual hand at the ready in case the whole edifice tumbled.
Nearby is a far more accessible plant of equivalent size, artistically placed against a splotched grey trunk, but a wallaby or a wombat has been a feasting on the flower sprays and there are only two left. The remaining thick buds don't have much chance of reaching flowerhood.
I know I over-posted on snake orchids last year, but this display was irresistible, and it's not the same plant as any of those of 2014.
06 Friday Nov 2015
Once upon a time, there was a knock at the door of a house in the bush. The man who owned the house was feeling mellow and he invited the two strangers in. They talked about god for a while, and then the conversation turned to orchids.
Two years later, a handwritten list appeared on the doorstep: a list of all the orchids the visitors had seen in the Eurobodalla, complete with botanical names and location notes.
Then a phone call: “If you want to see sun orchids, turn off the highway along C Ridge. Go to the old forestry log dump, a clearing about the size of a football field, with a bit of debris in the middle. Look along the western edge, in amongst the wattles and other regrowth. They're flowering there, about knee high, and powder blue.”
And indeed they were.
04 Wednesday Nov 2015
This post is to wish Jo a happy birthday, and to say thank you for the many pleasures her blog has given me.
Choose your favourite piece of glassware, Jo. I can afford to give it to you in cyberspace!
After lunch with my brother-in-law at an Asian restaurant where the background music was Love letters in the sand, I visited Canberra Glassworks. It is situated in the repurposed Kingston Power Station, the first permanent building in the national capital, constructed in 1915. The tower of glass and light by Warren Langley is a reincarnation of the original brick chimney, expressing the two uses of the building.
Inside, I browsed the shop, light captured in glass.
The pièce de resistance was a glass scarf, floating and light, crafted by Kirstie Rea.
Then I visited the workshop where all this beauty and light was created – a sparse business-like area, with the glow of furnaces and the intentness of handling heat and fragility. For an hour I watched two young women shaping glass from a blob to an elegant long tube.
And then, when they cut it from the handling pole … it fell to the stained concrete floor, and smashed to smithereens.
03 Tuesday Nov 2015
For many years, I've been intending to visit the National Gallery to view its collections, rather than being drawn by the frequent blockbusters. At last I managed to do just that. I began by walking around the Aboriginal Memorial, 200 hollow log ceremonial coffins, one for each year of white invasion, arranged on a winding path representing the Glyde River in the Northern Territory. The coffins are “a forest of souls” and a “war memorial for all those Aboriginal people who died defending their country.” Forty-three artists – bark painters, sculptors and weavers – were involved in creating the coffins.
Upstairs, I was face to face with a huge sculptured representation of a Mandjabu, a traditional fish trap from the Maningrida Aboriginal community in the Northern Territory, which translates woven fibre into cast aluminium. Then the galleries opened before me: objects and paintings in the rich earth colours of the heart of Australia, many created by Unknown and a few communally.
If you want to look at Aboriginal art more deeply than I presume to do here, you can begin by browsing the National Gallery of Australia's website.