Seeing Red

Australia is a land of incredible opportunity, even though many of its citizens are supposedly ‘doing it tough’ (please read ‘Europe: a land of debt and austerity’). Incredibly, much of this is allegedly built on that vast expanse of supposed nothingness that accounts for 90% of the land and an insatiable appetite for digging up its rocks. Western Australia has been particularly self-satisfied to have found itself with a big pile of rocks (mine mine mine!), though its role as condescending supreme saviour of the country surely cannot last forever. The rocks will run out at some point, and all that will be left is a big hole in the ground filled with water for mega rich Chinese businessmen to float around in while the rest of us, lacking any kind of intelligence, skill or expertise other than digging up rocks, serve them cane toad skewers for hors d’oeuvres.

It seems I have been missing out on this 90% of land and, before it gets torn to rubble, I was very pleased to have an incredible opportunity to touch its edge. It came by way of Adelaide, and a non-mining work related trip (yes, there are other industries!). While brief, Adelaide itself affirmed itself as pleasant and agreeable – nothing more, nothing less – and blessed with a fine beachside suburb facing west.  A place where you can watch the sunset, but sadly not get a post-work kebab from the souvlaki brothers at 10pm on a Thursday evening, because it has transformed into a ghost town. Who says Canberra has all the fun?

Nevertheless, the next day kicked off with a hearty hotel buffet breakfast and enough fuel to take me north, towards Port Augusta and running parallel with the southern flanks of the Flinders Ranges. A stop for belated lunch – local ham, local cheese, not so local Coke Zero – at Mount Remarkable was not especially remarkable, but it signalled a transition point from fertile, country South Australia to the much fabled outback. Now the roads were straight and flat, the pastures barren and rocky, the colours reddening and skies enlarging. The small town of Hawker provided an outpost of four wheel drives and onward provisions for expeditions into the dust, and, for me, a merciful ice cream to take me the last, increasingly beautiful kilometres to Wilpena.

Wilpena is little more than a campground and small resort sitting alongside the Flinders Ranges National Park visitor centre. But the entertainment here is really the many trails that start from this point, effectively at your front door, and venture into and around Wilpena Pound. It was along one of these trails that I tiptoed in first light the following morning, a three kilometre climb of some 400 metres or so to the randomly named Mount Ohlssen-Bagge.

The sun emerged as I scrambled over one of the two more tortuous parts of the trail, but its glow immediately sparked renewed vigour in my legs, and a dramatic landscape waking up in a haze of red. It wasn’t quite a champagne breakfast at the top, but the apple and hotel cookie, was hardly a letdown given the grand landscape in which it was chomped down.

After such a heart pumping start to the day, the journey down was a relief – I always like it when gravity is on your side – though a trifle annoying as the steps do go on and on and on. And there at the end of the trail was my room, and a cup of tea and a shower before heading out for walk number two. This one actually required a little drive, to Arkaroo Rock, but the walk was a perfect wind down, agreeably warm, pleasantly shaded, set at the foot of the rugged ranges illuminated by the eastern sun. Mid way round were some Aboriginal cave paintings, though nearby were also some more recent schoolboy penis drawings, of which authenticity I cannot be certain.

Starting the day so early meant that with two walks down it was only just lunchtime. This was the lazier part of the day, a Wilpena Pound Burger at the resort almost matching the size of its namesake.  It was something I had to walk off, albeit fairly sedately, and walk number three met that criteria just perfectly. This followed a generous, wide and flat trail into the Pound, following the course of a semi-dry creek, lined with incredible River Red Gums and occasional billabongs. At its end, an old homestead, now long abandoned, unable to survive on the cycle of droughts and flooding storms. Further lookouts nearby offered a chance to take in the scale of Wilpena Pound, which is essentially a ring of mountainous ranges, enclosing a somewhat lusher, more fertile expanse.  It gives the appearance of a natural crater, formed on the sea bed billions of years ago. Let’s hope it’s never pillaged for rocks to sell.

Ambling back to base there remained an hour or so of light to enjoy and of course the culmination of the day as the sun set. Further opportunity to enjoy the warm, reddening light as the sun says its goodbyes for a little while, kissing the rolling folds and crevices of the land goodnight until dawn. Rapidly giving up its warmth, but uniting a random assortment of grey nomads, backpackers and me to share wine and crackers and create our own warmth.

I can see how this land can get under your skin, how it can captivate in its elemental simplicity of earth and air. How it endures, despite frantic efforts to dig it up. How it is unchanged since long before some people daubed ochre on its caves, and even longer before Bazza declared his love for Noelene in a chalky etch next to a penis. How its sweeps and curves affect and reflect the light, changing every minute, alternating from a softening glow to the full force of a spotlight. How it stretches on and on and on, into a nothingness that is anything but empty. And how it compels you to rise early for the second morning in a row, to watch this land unfold before you, emerge into shadows and light, and carry on just being.

Deep South

The speckled sunlight seeped through an avenue of sprightly gum trees, its path of guiding lights eventually disturbed by his ageing but enduring car. Shot out into the light, the road came to an end in a small circle of freshly ground tarmac. Beside shimmering water, slick and smooth as glass, an unassuming wooden jetty extended, reaching out to nature like a church spire to the gods. Loosely tethered, a rectangular ferryboat bobbed gently in tune to the rhythm of the inlet in which it was parked up for the day. With the earthen sound of footsteps on timber slats, he soon reached the end of the jetty, where he sat. He sat with the sun warming his face. He sat with the sounds of bellbirds ringing up and down the length of the creek. He sat with thousands of gum trees lining the banks, millions of water droplets forming one beautiful whole, and billions of untainted particles in the air.  He sat contented.

And with these small moments we are blessed, and we remember, and we think back fondly to time spent on one of the rambling tentacles of Mallacoota Inlet in Victoria, beyond the far, far south coast of NSW. And we are glad for the opportunities, engineered slightly by re-jigging work days, getting lucky with clearing weather, and requiring commitment to a four hour drive.

Arriving on Friday afternoon, another stretch of the inlet provided a hearty chance to stretch the legs and enjoy what is probably one of the most pristine corners of the southeast coastline – too far from Sydney to be bothered by bogans, distant from Melbourne hoons and a little afar for Canberra weekenders. This isolation also makes accommodation a bargain, and two nights in a spacious holiday unit offered the chance to stop, sit up, and smell the roses. Or smell the eucalypts and tea tree and occasional lemon myrtle, as the afternoon progresses to sundown on Mallacoota Inlet.

There’s not much in the town of Mallacoota itself and I retreated from the two breakfast options and cooked up my own bacon and egg feast the following morning. This resulted in inevitable guilt and subsequently finding myself at the trailhead to Genoa Peak which, though short, was steep, particularly in its latter stages – there were ladders and everything. Alas the views were hazy and the final summit, up the final ladder, brought you out onto a small rock which was festering with midges and mosquitoes and did not encourage loitering.

But it provided a good work out and further room for cake back down beside the coastline later in the day. The coastline here is naturally rugged and the beaches less refined and – I think – slightly less appealing than those further north. At least that is, to sit on and linger. They are walking man’s beaches, where you can fossick for shells, clamber over driftwood and scrape your way through rocks. They are also a wee bit stinky with seaweed and the occasional rotting fish, though I suppose these are the smells of the very natural world, rather than the manicured roses.

And on reflection it was not at all unfortunate that he came face to face with bacon and eggs, a couple of mushrooms and half a tin of baked bins – English Recipe – upon opening the fridge door the next morning. Early sunlight creeping over the clouds on the horizon had been usurped by a monotone white blanket as he tucked into his cholesterol concoction. It was a final flourish to draw a line under the sand, nourishment to set forth and return to the remote highways in a far off corner of a far flung land. Four hours to spend with a loyal friend, pushing the friendship through forests, along splendid valleys and up mountains, back to their home. Where they both sat contented.

Coloured

In a typically gushing blog entry around this time of year I have decided that autumn is the new spring, and, with it, colour is the new black and white. One traditionally thinks of autumn as the drawing of life from the land, the fading of days leading to an inevitable slump towards dark and cold. Here, the slump is very gradual, and autumn heralds a burst of life and colour that is like a second spring. Welcome settled weather brings a serenity that is very special, and a scene fitting of gushing prose.

Whilst walking in the sunshine for a sublime coffee in a funky part of town one day I heard the recent weather described as an Indian summer. Do summers in India always come late, or do we use this term to evoke the warmth that comes with spice and colour and getting cosy with 300 other human beings on a train carriage? I can’t imagine Indian summers being as crisp and clear as this one, but the colour was plain to see as I looked out at a biryani of transforming trees later that day, not so far from the spice of Jewel of India.

You may or may not appreciate, depending on whether you watch the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson or not, that Canberra is blessed with numerous green open spaces and rambling bush-cloaked ridges. Why autumn is so special is because it transcends these official reserves and parklands and sweeps into the boulevards, circles, gardens, and doormats of the happy little residents. Suburbia is king, cast in the vernal spotlight. I cannot think of a much better way to kick off a long Easter weekend by simply turning left out of the door, left again, and rambling through previously unknown streets as the day begins to glow and warm.

Easter managed to embody the spirit of transition that goes with this time of year, as Canberra turned from Indian summer to Russian winter in the space of its chocolaty days. The change was made all the more dramatic by a few days in Sydney in between, departing in shorts and returning to turn on the heating.

Sydney itself provided its own colour, including a wonderful roast dinner, a splendid coastal walk with even more splendid salt and pepper calamari, and an overly punitive parking ticket courtesy of the rip-off capital of the world. I won’t blame it on the carbon tax like everyone else, but when did Australia become so miserly and greedy? The only benefit I see in this seemingly persistent lack of change from a $50 note economy we have is that I appear to have a surplus of petrol vouchers from spending so much at the supermarket each time I go there. Which means I get cheaper petrol to pollute the atmosphere, and more opportunity to park supposedly illegally.

Money makes you wonder whether to put the heating on when Canberra has decided it is time for an early frost or two. Technically you should wait until after Anzac Day, but I’ve never been that technically minded (I was technically minded enough to press the ‘on’ button on the heating however). These cool nights tend to be forgiven once you are out again in those streets, in still very agreeable warm, sunny days. Streets where leaves float like giant red snowflakes, and the comfort of an overpriced coffee is just around the corner. Streets where colour trumps colour as birds fleet between the branches, an oversaturated suburbia very much alive in a frenzy of autumn.

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!