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Published: February 28th 2013
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Favored Spots.
For the past ten years Little Wharton beach has been one of my favored stopping off points but now since the introduction of a Rotaloo compost toilet it seems I’m not the only one. Mid week in late February and a dull day should mean I have the place to myself but no there is a constant stream of cars mostly those who have come for the fishing which I have been reliably informed is not good.
A car pulls up alongside, just a foot too close given the available space. Two women one with a seriously bad bleached hairdo, the other with an unflattering baseball cap and both in shorts that were so obviously designed to be worn by teenagers, but then looks who talking when I don teenage cast offs and not enough hair to warrant calling it a do. They head off down to the beach as I prepare a pot of afternoon green tea, a large black crow arrives perched overhead in the coastal gum and lets out a doleful squawk like the un-oiled hinge and the tin door to the compost toilet taps out a rhythm to the onshore breeze. A few
spots of rain collect into a dribble on the backdoor windscreen and carve a clear channel through the accumulated red dust mapping my cross- country drive from Peak Charles. I arrived just as the sun threw its last golden rays on the great orange rock face after a hot days drive up to Kalgoorli to drop off pictures. Sleeping soundly under the stars I was up early ready for an early assent. As I joined the path I almost trod on a motionless lizard that flinch not a millimeter even on close inspection so convinced was he that I could not see him. Higher up the slopes I encountered a rock cockroach in the process of laying a massive egg capsule that looked decidedly painful and totally immobile with the effort. The early morning wind from the surrounding flat landscape that blusters up the north face of Peak Charles meant that I did not scramble up the final slope as gusts whipped across my path but stayed on the ledge below and drew the crumbling crag. A wedge tail eagle joined me, little more than a tattered rag at first then floating curious as to what I was doing squatting
with an open book, closer until if I’d leapt to my feet I could have touched those fearsome talons. The stubby fingered salt lakes below stretched into an unfathomable hazy horizon and I reveled in being the only human within a fifty kilometer radius, me and the wedge tail free as a kite let loose string less in the wind.
The women return five minutes was enough to see the beach was crowded out with tattooed men and their fishing rods. By dusk I’m alone and I stroll down to the first beach soft white sand rutted by four wheel drive vehicles like a badly ploughed field, across the rocks to the second and a good shell collecting spot. A few years ago the shells were in perfect order but now they have suffered from a constant crushing from countless quad bikes. These beaches were only ever accessed by foot but now the bikes have broken through over the hill from Wharton. Initially it was just fishermen, taking the short cut but soon fat hoons discovered the dunes and now its rare to see people using their legs as the good Lord intended.
Having cooked up a generous
plate of pasta I retire early, first to a good read and then to a dream filled night. There are times when it’s even better than a trip to the cinema. Awake at dawn, sun up at five, breakfasted and ready to leave at six. A great sunrise but soon clouds gather and although I discover I’ve forgotten my sunglasses I decide to risk it as the day looks mixed. I swim naked on the long east facing beach walking it’s entire length unhindered by cloths. Given that the wind is from the east I decide to take the short cut over the top of Hammer Head and soon find myself on it’s southern seaward slopes with views out to a scattering of islands within this vast archipelago. The unusually calm sea allows me to walk closer than I normally would to the edge with its barnacle encrusted sloping granites. Having reached the westerly point I make my way up the striped black and pink rock unable to follow along the north side due to its steepness.
It takes me some time to locate the small cairn that marks the point where through the bushes I will find the crumbling entrance to the roof of the cave. Squeezing my way gingerly down between the massive rotting granite rocks there is the sound of grinding and I try not to imagine the entire hillside deciding to move with me inside. Soon the light shows between my feet and I stand within the cave looking back out across the small beaches to Little Wharton. The return along the calm waters edge is boulder hopping and an excellent place for abalone and I curse not having packed a knife.
Back on the long east back beach and I take another dip this time clothed as the two women from yesterday appear in walking boots. As I amble back stopping to sketch and shell hunt I catch up with the not so bad hairdo I strike up easy conversation. It turns out that she is an illustrator and would be oil painter, having once been a professional golfer and now part time personal trainer. We agree that life as an artist is for living and not for making a living. And so my initial thoughts were wide of the mark as I discover they are from Rockingham and on a tour of the South West taking in several of my favored spots.
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