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Published: February 21st 2012
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The Prom We rent a car in downtown Melbourne (Mellie?) and thank the powers that be that we had days of practice driving on the left in New Zealand. That would have been a harrowing drive out of the city otherwise! We’ve decided to head to “The Prom,” the nickname that locals affectionately use when referring to Wilson’s Promontory National Park. It’s one of Australia’s most beloved parks and is typically packed around Christmas and New Year holiday season. We read in multiple books and brochures not to ever, ever travel around this time of year since Aussies come out en masse to the beaches and the campgrounds, in the it’s-a-holiday-and-summer exuberance with which Americans celebrate 4
th of July (no fireworks in the bush though…). But we have no choice and we’ll take our chances.
Victoria state has more highways, movin’ fast and packed, than New Zealand. And it’s a bit harrowing until we finally get far enough away and head south enough to hit the two-lane highways. We pass through cute villages and stop at one clean, spacious courteously-staffed info center (not called i-sites here). There’s eucalyptus lining every road and pastureland galore. And there are signs warning
of wombats! Typical yellow road signs like we have in the US but instead of a cow or a stick-person, there’s a wombat shadow or a kangaroo! We see none…yet.
Shortly after passing through the Prom’s tollbooth, we round a bend and see the ocean. Both of gasp and we quickly pull over. This is not an official viewpoint but there’s a patch of bare ground and a scratched-out user’s trail going a short ways up the hillside. Clearly, other visitors have been as awed and excited as we were by this view. The tropical-hued ocean, the undulating mountain-hills, the sun-filled blue sky, white-sand beaches hemmed closely by scrub. The ocean’s colors are the most remarkable, so many shades of blue and green, bright and shiny as a bird’s plumage. The vista energizes me and pushes my heart to a brim like the one I’m standing on, trying to pattern it all in so I can feel the contours and colors on my skin.
The campground is near full but we find one spot right next to one of the beach access paths. The tall, dense scrub hides the beach from us but it’s not even a two
minute walk away. We’re the only ones with a backpacker’s tent. All the others have RVs, sleeper campers, or luxury family tents. They sit on top-of-the-line solidly colored campchairs. We lean against our rental. Some look like they’ve been here for a week already. We have just this one night.
So we make the most of it. We set up our tent in three minutes flat and head straight to the beach. This is Tidal River Campground next to Tidal River beach and sure enough, there’s a wide, very shallow reach braiding its way around the campground, bisecting the grand beach, and riffling its way into the ocean. This whole expanse of white sand belongs to the tide and the river. The River comes from an amber, warm body of water out of a small lagoon. We wonder why the water is so decidedly amber, a deep, jewel tone. I’m guessing it might be oils from the plants surrounding us. They remind me of the chaparral bushes in Southern California with their unforgiving density. Bathers, photographers, castle-builders people the beach everywhere. But it’s not that crowded, just full of life. We wander and explore, making our way back into
the scrub to our campground. A crimson rosella (type of parrot) flashes in the bush, bright red with true-blue on its throat and wing edge. And lo and behold, a laughing kookaburra, up close and personal! The lyrics of a song my mother sang when I was little runs through my head (“kookaburra sits on the old gum tree…”). It’s perched on a dead branch from one of the overgrown bushes. It’s dumpy and huge, a kingfisher bird with an oversized bill, determinedly aloof, not even bothering to acknowledge our near presence.
We prepare our meager camper spaghetti-and-sauce dinner. We shoo away small gulls until a red wattlebird drives them off for us. Silver gulls are the most common here, red-billed and red-legged with grey backs. A few larger Pacific gulls, keeping to themselves on the parking lot pavement, strut about, flashing their blood-tipped yellow bills at their diminutive brethren. The red wattlebird is an innocuous looking bird, medium-sized, streaky grey and brown with a yellow belly. It gets its name from the red-pink wattles (like a turkey’s wobbling wattle) that hang like little pouches at its ears. I read in the my newly-purchased bird book that the species
shows “domineering behaviour to other birds.” It certainly puts those gulls in their place!
Squeaky Beach Night will fall soon but we’re not ready to call it a day so we head to a nearby beach, intrigued by its name: Squeaky Beach. We read that the sand is fine quartz and squeaks when walked upon. The beach is another lovely one (I know this will become a familiar refrain here…), exquisitely white strip, coved and hugged by small peninsulas. We amble down the beach but we don’t really experience the squeak until I wander near the scrub line at one point and put my foot down and jump back in shock. I thought I had stepped on something alive and it protested under my foot. But no! That’s just the sand! I excitedly call Kristy over. We have discovered the full enjoyment capacity of this Squeaky Beach and we tilt into it, stomping like a child just learning to walk, grinning and laughing with an abandonment that comes too rarely flares for adults. The squeak sounds like a balloon being rubbed. While stomping and giggling, we marvel at the odd, lovely crumbling cuttlefish bodies, some no bigger than
my finger, others almost as wide as my hand, layers and layers of brittle fine substance. Pale pink and white tinged with buttercup yellow.
We watch a pair of black oystercatchers on the rocks, unafraid and complacent about the waves. One of them sits without moving for half an hour while the waves crash against the boulders and the spray reaches out within two feet of where the bird plumply sits. These birds know these patterns. They know exactly when they have to move and when they can defy the onslaught of the tides. The sun sets and we head back to the car (stomping into the sand), passing three fishermen with long, long poles, propped up by holders stuck into the sand.
Back at the campground, I hear a noise in the brush as I return from the bathroom. In the confusing in-between light of twilight, I make out a rounded shape that immediately fills me with glee. I rush to the tent and summon Kristy with a whispered, “there’s a wombat!” Once she’s out of the tent and has joined me on the campground road, I shine my light near the creature. This one is about
the size of a medium dog but everything is rounded. A dark, furry, ball of an animal. The light doesn’t bother it. It bumbles, gropes, snuffs without concern. Maddeningly cute and utterly removed from our presence.
Good night from the Prom.
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