I have never been able to choose between sunsets and sunrises as regards beauty and spectacle; they are so different, and each one of them is different from another.
Autumn is a great season for sunsets, as this rather fierce example shows when I look to the south-west, where the sky seems to be on fire.
But face north and that same sunset takes on more delicate hues.
Face straight ahead to Dooragan and gold lights the sky.
And burnishes the gently rippling river.
But on the same day the sun had made its entrance with great promise, if less dramatically.
It soon painted the sky and the sand with a glowing peach gold, while the land was struggling to share some of that light.
With strong winds sending small branches raining down at home, I could hear the surf thundering in the distance and knew it would be a spectacle.
But I hadn’t expected the amount of sea foam that awaited me at the Tuckeroo end of Dunbogan Beach.
The creamy froth had coated the rocks and sand, transforming the usual colour and texture.
The beach itself had been transformed, the high seas cutting into the banks and forging a new rushing stream.
The stream rippled along with each wave, with the yellowish foam edging it like a fancy frill.
Flecks and lines of foam were stranded on the sand, some caught and banked by what the tide had left behind, some blown willy-nilly to roll and dance over the sand.
As soon as I entered the dense bush of Kattang to walk back to the Tuckeroo car park, the surf fell silent, and stillness replaced the wild winds.
But if the sea was all white and cream today, in this weather even the Camden Haven River sported whitecaps and waves.
Always worth venturing out in such weather to see what Nature is up to.
I thought I was looking at gum tree leaves, but in fact it is a wattle — Acacia implexa.
No flowers or seed pods to give me a clue, but what’s in a name with such beautiful leaves?
This decorative and dangly foliage also belongs to a wattle — Acacia vestita.
The weird and wonderful triangular leaves on this wattle caught my eye: Acacia cultriformis. New to me.
Not a wattle, but a standout in its solitude as it erupted amongst crackly lichen, is this small shrub of Western Urn Heath, Melichinus erubescens.
On the ridge top, somehow growing tall and strong amongst rocks, this tree trunk, strikingly silver and grey, presented a single elephantine foot and proud wrinkles as it branched. I am told by my knowledgeable hosts that it is a Scribbly Gum, Eucalyptus rossi.
And if a tree does not choose to have a grey or brown trunk, it can opt for green, with a little help from friendly lichen.
For here the realm of green above all belongs to the mosses and lichens, especially after a good rainy period.
They make a fabulous contrast with the bones of this country — the rocks.
Camping simply and self-sufficiently for a week on a friend’s conservation property was partly healing and partly depressing, as it reiterated to me that this is the way I’d rather live.
Thousands of trees have been raised from seeds and planted here, but just near me was this self-sown grove of young Red Box, which were actually forming almost a mist of blue-green.
Amongst the blue was a surprising amount of delicate pink leaves.
Nearby were stunning trees, Coomber Stringybark, with their pendulous branches of blue leaves. This species is only found in this area west of Rylstone.
There is a lot of mistletoe here, of several species. Try as it might, mistletoe never quite manages to exactly imitate its host tree’s leaves. Apart from the colour, the shape is pretty close on this Stringybark.
This one is less successful in its mimicry.
And if the Red Box chooses pink as the perfect colour opposite to vary their leaf colours, the Angophora Floribunda chooses yellow.
So why are children taught to only colour leaves green?
I have a weakness for the beauty of spider webs, especially with early morning dew or mist effects, like this perfect arrangement of diamonds and its central pearl.
Sometimes the web is almost non-existent, as here, but the dewdrops clinging to the stem of this vine were themselves a linear marvel.
And sometimes it is all about the web, preferably backlit, where the complex construction that has taken place overnight is shown to full advantage, to receive due praise from me.
The short Big Hill walk is the only one here, so I head past the beach to climb that and hopefully see out to the sunrise, of which I can see delicate flushes already.
It is still half dark on the walk, and the trees arching over the track make it even dimmer. I had needed a torch when I set out.
The sea winds have shaped the cliffside forest into slanting sideways for survival.
But then I emerge on to a side of the Hill where the sunrise can be seen through the dark trees.
There is low cloud limiting the sun’s visible rise, but it makes a beautiful bright contrasting glow with the grey sea and the dark cliff.
Before this loop walk leaves the sea to head down through the rainforest, I marvel at the rugged nature of the shore here. Steep and forbidding.
I come out the other end of the loop at the bottom of the Big Hill into brighter daylight, to find a lone Pandanus tree (Pandanus tectorius) propped on its stick legs, its unripe ‘breadfruit’ looking somehow inappropriately tropical.
At Melaleuca Campground, apart from its waterbirds, Limeburners Creek itself holds beauty in its reflections and varying channels and flows.
Not surprisingly, the Melaleucas or paperbarks were the main trees, often being embraced by what I assume were a variety of Strangler Fig. Embraced — or throttled?
Other trees were closely held by vines, some almost as thick as the tree itself.
One tree species profusely flowering at the time was Alphitonia excelsa, Red Ash or Soap Tree.
Near the base of one was this eye-catching brightly fruiting plant, which I am told is a native mistletoe, Amylotheca dictyophleba.
Not a plant, but of an unusual colour for me, was this large Lace Monitor. I know their colours vary, but I have never seen such yellow bands before. There were many of the familiar black and cream and spotted goannas or monitors at the camp, often four at a time lazing or waddling along the creekside or over the grass.
They didn’t bother me, although I kept the side door of the van shut when they were about, since they climb; a panicked goanna inside the van would be no joke…
They seemed to have set times to take their turn; they would all disappear and small birds would arrive, the dainty little wrens hopping about so swiftly they seemed like leaves being blown over the grass.
Never a time without some wildlife to watch or notice; what a treat!
At the Melaleuca Campground in Limeburners Creek NP, the creek is off limits for all but viewing. It runs gently past, channelling a cool breeze from the sea, offering a range of waterbirds and attracting many fisher birds.
These stately black swans were in graceful and constant procession, only occasionally taking flight to display their white wing edges, like glimpses of a lady’s petticoat. They were more brownish-greyish than black, I thought. Their bright red bills banded with white were frequently dipped into the stream to feed, those elegant long necks bending with ease to search the deeper channels.
Often closer to the bank, in the shallower and weedy edges, Dusky Moorhens dabbled, or foraged in the grass, but they were flighty and bustled away if I came too close.
The air was full of melodious calls, I assume from several Pied Butcherbirds. This parent and child carried on a debate for some time on a nearby branch. The young one had yet to develop the crisp black and white colouring of the adult.
The adult later returned alone and sang beautifully, as well as muttering and chuckling; mimicry? I was surprised that its beak did not appear to be moving. Then it appeared close to my table, seeming to expect food as payment for its song. ‘Vegetarian, mate,’ I apologised. ‘No meat scraps here for you’.
The distinctive silhouette of a kingfisher caught my eye before it dived to catch whatever it was watching in the water. I could not see its colour well, but I think it was an Azure Kingfisher.
And then, when I got home the day after, the same species of bird, rarely seen by me, had stunned itself in my back yard. It could hop, but was not flying, and disappeared into my laundry to hide out. Definitely an Azure Kingfisher.
I let it be, and when I came down to check a few hours later, it had made its way towards the adjoining forest. Still hopping. I hoped no goanna would find it before it recovered fully. Such a coincidence: two sightings in two days.
It’s difficult not to be distracted by the wildlife here, even if I don’t leave my desk. At this second floor height what’s going on amongst the trees is ‘in your face’, so to speak.
Like this goanna, who decided to climb up and laze on this branch for about a half hour; not after any nest of baby peewees, just hanging there. When done, it turned around – always a heart-stopping manouevre to watch — and slowly gripped its way down, its tail almost overtaking it.
Odd noises often alert me to activity closer to the ground, as in the various birdbaths. This time it was a repetitive soft bird call, and when I checked, there were two birds I had not seen here. Eastern Whipbirds, I learn, and I had certainly heard the males’ whip crack before.
The female’s call is described as ‘choo-choo’, with which I probably wouldn’t agree, but if they visit again I will listen more closely and come up with a more fitting one. Another book says ‘chuckles and whistles’ — quite an art, summing up bird talk…
A louder racket made me stand and look down into my small back yard where an Eastern Grey Kangaroo had pushed its way in beside the pigwire fence and was trying to return — but clearly couldn’t find or use the same route.
I was worried about him panicking as he pushed fruitlessly at the fence, but he was no fool. Having realised that no part of his body beyond his head would go through the wire squares, he quickly checked out the rest of the yard, then took a running jump and went over the fence.
Although I have lived in the area for several years now, I had never seen Lake Innes, never knew its story… or its real name, which is Burrawan.
There is one public driving track in to the Lake Innes Nature from the Lake Cathie/Port Macquarie side, to Perch Hole Picnic area. And this beautiful serenity is what lies at the end of that track through a paperbark swamp.
Whether you look south or north, this large lake is impressive… and empty today save for one lone kayaker.
I was driven to go and see it for myself after being on the other side of Burrawan for the launch of a book about this lake.
In it, John Heath and Ashley Barnwell have compiled inforrnation and records about the story of this lake, offering both Birrpai and colonial ideas and histories.
In front of the ruins of Major Innes’ brick home complex, once almost a small village, overlooking a grass sward that runs down to the lake, we were given some extraordinary insights.
The tall blue gums that would have totally blocked the view were long gone, and the lake was still visible behind John and Ashley as they listened to the speeches.
Major Innes had the trees cleared for his farming establishment, while his wife kindly introduced lovely garden plants, like lantana!
We were treated to a smoking ceremony and dances, mainly by John’s charming young relatives. The Birrpai were revered and applauded here today, but as the book shows, were not considered in Major Innes’s time.
But the shocker was that this lake was then freshwater, and is now salt… and all the plant and animal life that thrived on it had died.
Despite warnings, and never-realised intentions to build floodgates to stop the saltwater flowing back, a channel was dug by hand from Lake Cathie to Burrawan in the 1930s. The idea was to drain the lake and thus create 12,000 acres for farmland!
So, as the book summarises, the lake and all its wildlife and biodiversity was seen as merely submerged potential farmland.
Records from Albert Dick’s diary chart the demise of the rich life of the lake as the salinity increased, and they are truly shocking. I thank John and Ashley for this work, shocks and regrets notwithstanding; like massacres, we need to know the damage done by blind colonisation.
Hundreds of people of all ages and backgrounds, colours and creeds gathered at Oxley Beach to watch the miracle of the sunrise on 26th January. It was a silent solidarity, especially moving on this first post-referendum Invasion Day/Australia Day.
The Aboriginal flag hung limply as the rising sun mirrored the emblem on the flag. A very few quiet speeches from local Indigenous people had preceded the sun. Mention of the massacre of over 300 Birrpai people at local Blackman’s Point set a sombre tone for the reality of why we were here.
But mostly silence reigned, quite a feat given the crowd on the hill above included many children. The grass was wet, the wise had brought towels or rugs to sit on, the elderly had trouble getting down… and would surely do so getting up …but nobody was complaining or fidgeting.
Sadness, yes, but communion with each other and Nature made it feel like peace and calm
At the end, everyone was invited to walk to the sea edge, and I found that most moving of all, as it felt like a healing of the division that seemed all around us after October.
When the risen sun began to be covered by cloud, my fanciful mind saw it as an allegory for the hopes that had been extinguished by that result. An opportunity lost.
But knowing the cloud would lift and the sun would shine out fully led to new hopes that our future and our past can be truthfully aligned and our First People come into their rightful place.
I contrast the rah-rah and ‘patriotic’ flag waving and noisy celebrations that will characterise this day for many Australians with how the same day, that of the invasion, was mourned this morning.
Surely we can be mature enough to allow both their appropriate days. Who would hold a party in a cemetery?
In the busy commercial and tourist heart of Port Macquarie, the town park holds a secret behind its manicured lawns and gardens and picnic tables: the Kooloonbung Creek Nature Reserve.
As we followed a boardwalk through mangrove forests and paperbark swamps, the swarms of mosquitoes made it hard to focus on anything else, and in the heat of the day, little else moved. A young Water Dragon was a notable exception, quick to dash away.
This vine root had got itself so tangled and knotted that no dashing was being considered.
But high in the trees, the Reserve’s Flying Foxes were busy flapping their wings to stay cool.
On the industrial edge of Port Macquarie, the Googik Track offers walkers and bike riders an amazing escape into Nature. For the first part of it, the nearby traffic noise was loud and steady, an incongruous juxtaposition to what I was seeing, like these large robust and spreading gum trees, Eucalyptus signata, Snappy Gums or Scribbly Gums.
And much scribbled-upon they were…
More of the vegetation was swampland, with paperbarks and reeds and palms large and small.
In one part, pretty lilac native flowers grew beside the track, Burmannia disticha, new to me; also found in China, India and other parts of Asia.
One plant I am now familiar with was Xanthorrhoea resinosa, the Grasstree with the underground stem, and there were thousands of them here, all past flowering, some growing really tall.
My favourite sighting was of the dainty spider web cups suspended in the reeds and still glistening with dewdrops.
I didn’t walk the whole track; I will when it’s not so hot, and perhaps not at such a busy get-to-work time of day, for the traffic.
Not sure how to reduce the number of bike riders coming up fast behind me, none dinging their bells. Isn’t that the custom when passing a pedestrian on a shared path? Especially one who might stumble a bit as she goggled at spider webs…
