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Published: February 28th 2012
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Wombat
So darn cute and round Not in Kansas anymore I encounter a wallaby and a wombat on my walk to the bricked bathroom. I stop and take pictures until I notice the wallaby is deliberately moving closer to me (the wombat snuffles along uncaring, munching the grass). The wallaby’s nearness makes me nervous. I know it’s used to handouts but I absolutely do not want to encourage it. It’s a wild animal after all. These campground followers are too caught between tameness and wildness.
The campgrounds are still sleeping and I walk to the beach, reveling in the open expanse. The tide has pulled in. There are only two other people walking about, a pair of men zigzagging along. I stretch on the sand and watch as the sunshine hits the cove cliffs. On the little beach entry path back, I’m captivated by the flash and energy of superb fairy-wrens, the iridescent blue-violet of the males, the puffball delicate females.
What a great start to the day!
After breaking camp, we head out for a short hike to a viewpoint, Sparke's Lookout. Our hike was actually determined simply by what was listed as open
in our park update sheet. Turns out there were bad floods back in March and they are still recovering. All the longer hikes are not accessible. We’re the only ones on it. An easy path with some uphill leading through true forest, not the densely-packed, achingly-thin forests of Toolangi State Forest but well-spaced trees with big trunks. Lots of ferny underbrush. All the trees carry the stain of fire, with ruby red sap catching the light as it oozes infinitesimally down.
I bird-watch and pause frequently, letting Kristy pull far ahead. I enjoy the solitude for the moment, the open comfort in this forest. Smell of sweet gum all around. Large fierce solider ants rush out onto the path here and there to resolutely protect their territory. These creatures must look giant to other invertebrates. I admire their fortitude.
At the lookout point, we see the wooded curving peninsula to our right, a triple-bump island off to the left. The ocean looks smooth, straightforward blue. An Australian raven sits atop a small dead tree to our right but a loud call distracts me from the picturesque black bird against a cloudless sky. Without my
binoculars, I can easily make out, a long distance away, a huge brown bird down below us. It takes off, flashing vivid yellow under its tail. It’s a yellow-tailed black-cockatoo and temporary master of this stretch of forest.
Finding the ideal campsite After coffee from the Visitors Centre, we head north again, veering east this time. On the two-land highway, I see a silver-grey humped shape galloping on the side of the road. It’s a koala with baby on board! We get only a glimpse of her. We stop at the nearest safe point but she’s long disappeared.
We head due east on Highway A1, mostly through straight and true gum forests. The tree species shift a bit, some whiter, some taller, some with red-tinged new leaves. We’ve decided we’re going to camp somewhere in the farthest part in Victoria state, Croajingolong National Park, a large mostly unbroken national park stretching for kilometers along the coast. We just shoot for it, not knowing where exactly we’ll end. Jeremy Iron’s deep sonorous voice carries us along, narrating the deceptively simple novel
The Alchemist. We’re on the road until late afternoon when we turn off
the highway to the wonderfully named port town of Mallacoota.
We quickly nix the holiday park in Mallacoota. It’s too boisterous for our mood with too much lawn. Full up to the brim because it’s Friday and the start of the Christmas holiday weekend. On our fold-out map we see a park campground, a rural one, named Shipwreck Creek. Fifteen kilometers west of the town. What an encouraging name….We head into the boonies, past an airfield where kangaroos graze, into a solid forest shimmering with light filtering through the leaves. The road is barely two-lanes and steeply banked. There are massive cuts slashing into the woods, ugly, chaotic gashes. They are regularly spaced and must have something to do with building the road. But they serve as harsh reminders of what it takes to make drivable roads through forest.
Shipwreck Creek An hour or so before sunset, we reach Shipwreck Creek campground. There’s a pit toilet, a picnic table, and two camp sites outlined with logs. The two camp sites have signs on them saying reserved for “Butler family” and for “Muller family.” But not until the 24
th! There is no
one here right now and I feel a release of joy at this rare bit of human freedom.
In fact, I practically dance out of the car, running like a child with too much sugar to investigate the spacious tent sites, the sign that says the ocean is but 300 metres away. We can hear it but only see blue sky through the trees. We’re on a hill side. Not wanting to wait any longer, in case our gift of solitude is revoked, I urge Kristy down to the beach before setting up camp. Down a gum leaf strewn path with soldier ants and scratchy plants that catch at our pant legs, we glimpse “another” white beach expanse in a quasi-sheltered cove. But this one is all ours for the nonce!
I’m practically skipping, tumbling like a puppy over myself. The sand here squeaks too as I run across it to the waves. The turquoise water is chaotic in this small cove but I wade in, enjoying the chill. My jeans come off and finally the entire cloth outfit. And I immerse myself, giddy and laughing, and the water feels
good and right. I
quickly forget about the chill. I don’t swim because I don’t trust the unceasing crash and froth. I glance back at the forest we emerged from but there is no movement of interloping humans. Here there is another tidal river, wide and deep-looking, amber and still. It’s inviting in an almost deceptive way, as if the ocean chaos behind us is the true innocent against this gold placidity.
Back at the campground, we set up our tent and I laugh at how ridiculously tiny it looks in that wide expanse of camp space. Clearly, this place is meant for family camping. We cook another pasta dinner and the “mozzies” are getting to us. We bundle ourselves against their pursuit, winding scarves around our head, camping “fashion.”
As the natural light dims, faster in this understory, we start to play cards. I hear a rhythmic dead-leaf crashing and I rise involuntarily, peering into the tricksy twilight. I
know it was hopping! But it’s stopped. “It must have been looking at us!” I whisper (unnecessarily) to Kristy. I sit back down, we resume our game, and the crashing re-starts. This time we see a pale large
form. Too big for a wallaby, must be a kanga! Hopping by our campsite! There’s darkness now and we switch on our headlamps. But then get distracted by some kookaburras who roll out their loud laugh calls. Kristy and I laugh along as they peter into chortles and then wing off. And soon enough, I hear another sound, very close. I whirl and flash my headlamp to catch a common brushtailed possum who ambles about its business. This mammal is so much cuter than our fierce ratty opossum in North America. This Australia possum has a delicately pointed snout, thick grey fur on its back lightening to tan and cream on its sides and belly, a bushy black tail, and two upright pink ears.
We finish our game of gin rummy, sadly undisturbed by any more critters. We slip into our tent without the rainfly, only mesh between us and the outside world. When I finish reading and turn off the headlamp, I immediately see a few bright stars through the filters of the mesh and canopy. As my eyes adjust, the darkness fills in with more stars and the faintly limned tree branches. I wake up
a few times that night as I adjust for comfort and deliberately, blearily, stare at this night vista, marveling at its closeness.
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