Saturday, March 31, 2012

Hi, Country

One of the more prolific trends during 1800s Australia, alongside highway robberies, gold rushes and virtual genocide, was the naming of landscapes in a distinctly European vein. While this approach was hardly any more original than the naming-something-the-bleeding obvious method (Great Sandy Desert, Seven Mile Beach, Hill Top, Big Drongo Land etc), it sure beats the naming-something-after-myself-out-of-pure-egotism way (Macquarie Park, Macquarie Point, Macquarie Island, Port Macquarie, Macquarie Heads, Macquarie Pass and so, so, on). The challenge with it, however, was drawing a parallel between what was in front of them, and a suitably named European equivalent.

The Alps bring forth a scene of glacial streams spiriting down blissful green valleys, cowbells echoing off the face of mountainous, snow-capped hulks, a land of buxom maids, alpenhorns and big tankards of frothy beer in the afternoon sun. Perhaps it was in a somewhat wistful hope that the Australian Alps came to be named, a product of a yearning for home, with its buxom maids and frothy beers. And while it's true that the 'Alps Down Under' have most of the same ingredients, it seems they have been churned up in the maker’s mixer and dolloped out into a different, somewhat flatter, cake. A vast expanse of rounded ridges and folds tangled with snow gums, button grass hollows and eucalypt valleys, they are distinctly Australian.

It was perhaps with a touch of this same yearning that I spent a few days in this landscape, turning each corner in the hope of emerging into a green meadow bursting with wildflowers, a huge expanse of rock rising into the skies, or, yes, a buxom wench serving me a beer...

Base camp#1 was Albury, on the Murray River border with Victoria and flanked by what you may generously term Alpine foothills. I have been to several of these towns over the years and with each visit my general disorientation seems to increase. The problem is they all get mixed up in my head: streets in Cowra blend with memories of the car park in Albury get befuddled with which block that coffee shop was on in Ballarat get confused with where the mall is in Wagga. The town hall, post office and railway station generally look the same, so provide little help in orientation, but the upside to all this is you get to roam in a vague blissful ignorance and discover things as you go. The small, but perfectly formed, botanic gardens in Albury was one such peaceful gem discovered. The large, and perfectly formed, pork belly with apple slaw salad another.

After completing some substantial work-related errands in Albury I was free to cross the border and head down into the bushranger territory of Northeast Victoria. The hotspot of this is Glenrowan, the town where Ned Kelly put an empty paint tin on his head and stumbled out of the bush into a hail of officious bullets. Today Glenrowan survives on this legacy, though on a bleak, cold and windy Friday, it seemed to be barely hanging on. Perhaps the sight of a giant man pointing a gun at you as you pass on the highway is enough to scare people off. For me, it was the main attraction.

Of more appeal in the scheme of life is the nearby village of Milawa, principally because it is home to Milawa Cheese. Now here we are inching into more traditional Alpine territory, though it was a shame they didn’t have any really strong nutty Alpine style cheeses as such. I tasted about ten, and there was no Gruyere or Comte equivalent, though a goat’s milk Tomme provided some joie de vivre and a creamy blue added a suitably stinky bite. Feasting up, an impromptu end of day walk was quite a delight in the ranges of Warby Ovens National Park, seemingly the last significant foothills before the fertile plains of Sunraysia take over.



Basecamp#2 was a cheery place called Bright. Situated in the narrowing Ovens Valley, it has the essence of an Alpine village and an undoubted charm and beauty. In many parts this is thanks to its very generous planting of deciduous, broad leafed trees which will be aflame in coming weeks. Here, the valley indeed starts to take on Alpine proportions, with Mount Buffalo rising considerably and the ranges of Alpine National Park – Mount Bogong, Feathertop and Hotham, springing up to the east. And while this wilderness surrounds, the town and valley possess that warming, comforting sunny blanket of civility and contentment which is so typical of Alpine villages.

By contrast, Mount Buffalo was indeed a beast. A rise in altitude on a stunning piece of road meant heads were in the clouds and a chill, eerie gloom enveloped the landscape. I was reminded of a journey to Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park in the US, a climb with no reward other than a sense of being the only soul in a world that probably exists but which you cannot be sure of because it cannot be seen. While there was no snow here, temperatures seemed equivalent with Hurricane Ridge, a wind chill producing the beanies and gloves from the bottom of the bag. Not really a place for a picnic lunch of chicken and salad you would think, but it was wonderfully tasty and coincided with that magical lift in clouds and colour that is all the more rewarding when you have been cloaked in grey.


A similar procedure followed the next day, arising in a shiny Bright and taking another picturesque road along the ever-enclosing valley of the Ovens and upward towards Mount Hotham. Here the Razorback promised much; its name simply alluring enough to get out on foot and strike out along its spine towards Mount Feathertop. While not exactly as precipitous as its name suggests, there were times where the Razorback track crested hills and ridges and offered extensive views to the left and right. Such times were not this morning however, the clouds rolling in from the west obscuring much that was around, bar a few gaps created in the weather window of the mountains.

It can be a frustrating experience, seemingly fruitless as you plough through murk, every step down foreboding in the knowledge that it will be up on the way back. Such weather teases and taunts, with occasional glows of sun filtering though the milky whiteness, then vanishing again, the snippets of valley filtering in and out like a distant radio station on a remote drive through the outback. It brings hope, hope that one of these breaks will penetrate the cloud, burn it away for good, and reveal a world which is immense in its endlessness. Happily this occurred while eating late lunch, in the shadow of Mount Feathertop, and elevating the return route along the same path from a miserable trudge to a marvellous jaunt in the happiness that is seeing blue sky.







A new day appeared to dispel all cloud in the morning, providing a sunny drive out of Victoria and into New South Wales. From Bright there was one final scenic road to take, summiting with views over the Kiewa Valley and Mount Bogong. Following the valley into pastoral splendour – I’m sure I have eaten something deliciously creamy from this part of the world – a circle was almost completed as Albury nears.

You could say Yackandandah is a mouthful to say and you could also say it is practically a suburb of Albury, or at least its Victorian counterpart, Wodonga. It would be one of those places you might head for a Sunday drive, pottering about for trinkets in its little high street and having a feed in its authentically wooden and pleasingly compact pub. Today it was a very convenient toilet stop and reminder of the extra warmth associated with a lower altitude.

This warmth continued as the car headed back eastwards and arrived at Corryong for some lunch, where it was reaching acceptable shorts weather. This is the western gateway to Kosciusko National Park and the approach from here is quite different to the more frequented eastern entrances. From lusher valleys and forested floors, the Main Range rises up in a relatively short distance to its exposed expanse of hills and rocky peaks. While obviously not snow-capped at this time of year, the rise from the valley floor provides some semblance of the Alpine.





The valley in question is cut by several tributaries feeding into the Murray River. Being beside one – the Swampy Plains River at Geehi Flats – on a warm Monday afternoon, with sunlight dappling through the trees while everyone else is working, is a rather fine feeling. This is the setting for a spacious and rambling national park campground, proving again that free accommodation is often the best. Thus the rest of the day was filled with a potter along the river and plains, a read and snooze by the soothing opaque water, and a camp stove feast of sausages followed by hot chocolate beside the wood hungry fire.

Probably the least pleasant part about camping is the camping part, as a chilly night was hard going when it came to comforting sleep. However, much like cloud clearing on a mountain ridge, the pleasure of a rekindled and heavily refuelled fire along with a breakfast of bacon and eggs is elevated following the pain of the night that passed. Fitful sleep and chilly noses are forgotten in the glow of red cheeks and deeply satisfied stomachs.

And while not in terms of altitude, that was the high of the Alpine trip. The rest of the day required a journey back to Canberra which was niggled by road closures and work, and increased in tedium as familiar ground got clocked up. Place names were once again familiar as the capital sprung forth, from Indigenous sites to Prime Ministerial suburbs and to old Captain Cook Crescent itself. So named because it reminded early settlers of Captain Cook’s behind. Or something to that effect. Like the Alps, I can see the resemblance!

Monday, March 12, 2012

Contrasts

I often begin this blog by making a pithy comment about the weather because, well, if there’s one thing we all like to talk about, it’s the weather, and it’s been something to talk about of late. I then insert some photos to illustrate the point. A picture speaks a thousand words, or in this case, two pictures back up sixty-one.



We are nothing if not creatures of habit and I can once again tell you how I walked up Red Hill, how I drank coffee around 11am each day, put off necessary shoe-shopping again, watched more Heroes, made some reasonable attempts at work, and engaged in some unreasonable attempts at thinking about the slight possibility of mowing the lawn, should it be given the chance to dry out. There you go, talking about the weather again, and as for old reliable Red Hill, here is a creature inhabiting the comforting habitat on one of my habitual walks (this on a sparkling sunny Saturday morning by the way).


In something of a disruption to routine, lucky Canberrans were awarded with a public holiday to celebrate Canberra, the one perk of situating yourself in the national capital. Some call it compensation. The holiday marks the city’s ninety-ninth birthday this year and the maturing lady milks it for all it’s worth, with free concerts, balloons, fireworks, jelly and ice cream, pass the brown envelope stuffed with cash to bribe politicians etc. And like a handful of candles haphazardly poked into the national capital sponge cake, a few of its prominent buildings have been illuminated to bring a glow to the faces of its residents.



Believe it or not, these projections last until 1am in the morning, perhaps catering for the merry revellers on their way back from town, for whom renaissance becomes pop art. I was more in tune and time zone with the family audience, and the backdrop, occasional snippets of live music in the air, and mild Friday night weather delivered a mellow, satisfying icing on this particular sponge cake.

Despite this sweetness, in characteristic disinterested ambivalence, a large chunk of the population gets out of Canberra on its birthday, as if invited to a party for someone they don’t really like so much. Most go to ‘wash their hair’ down on the coast, and I – in a blatant attempt to both have my cake and eat it – joined them for the last couple of days of the holiday weekend. After a frustrating, bank holiday style drive, the reward at the end was a sunny Narooma, fish and chips a precursor to a walk around the winding, serene Wagonga Inlet, dodging soldier crabs and fishing rods and catching the last rays of gold before a blanket of cloud moved in to end the day.




It was a highlight, especially as the next day – the holiday Monday – dawned gloomy and didn’t really change until I was reunited at day’s end with the birthday girl again. There were some bright spots however, such as a decent breakfast, shoe-shopping success, and a trip back in time and place to Tilba. Here, the greenest pastoral scene, peppered with cows and cream and country lanes, Devon on cockatoos.

Good cheese making country, worthy of a takeaway block of local three year vintage to enjoy back up the coast at Broulee. This was a different place from a month before, washed out and foamy, damp and grey. Wet sand loses so much of its lustre. The cheese didn’t, and I am now just about to pop to the fridge I think, so just...nom nom nom...

...Well, that’s the nightmares sorted for tonight, the dark after the light, the bad after the sublime, the scary after the cheesy. Contrasts, all of which make this routine life anything but.

Sunday, March 04, 2012

Darkness and light

Technically this week heralded the end of summer and the start of autumn. In reality we got a new mini season in itself – a whole week akin to Mordor a few minutes before Frodo burnt his ring, a dark shadow oppressively omnipotent and upper level disturbances bringing a third of our average annual rainfall in the space of seven days. Barbecue and Lembas bread weather it was not.

Over five years ago I arrived to an Australia in drought, with a scorching consistency in its heat and aridity. I thought such climes were the norm, but the last couple of years have put paid to that. Coldest summer days in history, record rainfalls, below par sunshine and plans being scuppered by the heavens. It takes some adjustment. The wonderful upside to this though is the seeping green colouration of this supposedly wide brown land. A mild case of Devonisation perhaps?

The rains provide their own short term drama as well as long term gain and, while Canberra is well protected for floods, such a deluge cannot fail to make its watermark. On Red Hill, new streams emerge and slice their way through the soft, rich soil, leaving dense pockets of water which require fording or extended leaping. The lake gets the opportunity to refresh itself, to disperse the presents sent from Queanbeyan. Our dams get a good workout, a test of wall strength and design, even if still half finished. And our politicians, in town for all sorts of shenanigans, get pleasingly reminded of the power of nature over their own.



Such wet weekends can be difficult to endure, because this is such an outdoors kind of country with an outdoors kind of attitude. My evidence-based recommendations to get through it include a liberal application of tracky pants, a DVD and / or trip to the movies, slow roasted lamb shank casserole, chocolate cake, and potential holiday planning. But more than any of this, it is the comforting thought that the sun will inevitably shine again that pulls you through.

And there is nothing more satisfying than, after seven days without it, emerging from a dark cinema to the beam of light and warmth from our nearest star. It’s like a welcome, long lost friend who has returned to bring joy and enrich your world. Your shadow returned to accompany you through the journey. The puddles will disappear, but the sun will always, well at least in the next 5 billion years or so, rise again.