Tia up close

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From the little bridge across Tia Creek above the Falls, you can see the water weeds waving gently with the current of the mysteriously cloudy water.

Slightly above that the water is more calm, the banks higher. I keep an eye out for platypus, as they have been seen here, but I have no luck.

Like the slopes of the Gorge itself, the scattered creekside rocks are aslant, rough and layered.

Several sorts of lichen choose to adorn a few, softening them visually at least.

On the longer Tiara Walk, the post-fire tree regeneration is the main feature, apart from the views over the Gorge, of course.

Such glimpses never fail to astonish me; so close, so extreme, and here I am meandering along the top beside it, as if the land extended safely forever.

But in between, my attention keeps being drawn to the bright new growth of some of the young trees, glowing like firelight amidst all the black and grey.

Others are purple and magenta on the backs of the new leaves, commanding attention with their colours before the mature sage green.

Hard to keep watching where I walk, to avoid tripping, amidst so much to see. \

But I do; a fall when bushwalking, especially when on your own, is no fun… as I learnt at Gibraltar National Park!

Beyond trees

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The woodland edging Tia Gorge is scrawny, still struggling to regrow after the fires.The top branches of most remain twiggy claws.

Yet one subzero morning those bare claws were transformed, silver-coated, sparkling like crystals as the sun hit them.

At first I was unsure what I was seeing. Frost to the treetops? On the tin roof of the one structure at the camping ground, the longdrop toilet, the melting frost did not sound like raindrops, but small hail. Then shards of ice began skidding onto the cement floor as they were loosened by the sun from their high perches.

Grwing up in a coastal hinterland valley, I had seen plenty of hard ground frosts, but not tree-high ones, so this was a new experience for me.

How lucky to be here for such an event; common for locals no doubt, but like magic for me. A wave of the wand and …  filigree silver above me!

The many dead trees had other ways of making themselves beautiful, like bedecking themselves with fluffy lichen, dainty as pear blossom.

Even the now defunct epicormic tufts of shoots that had appeared from under the blackened bark after the fires were decorative. This was one tree that they did not manage to save.

And, never least, fungi! A whole colony, white to cream to amber, studded this single rough-barked elder.

Diversity and beauty in survival, despite clearly devastating bushfires, in this tablelands woodland.

Might and majesty

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To stand at the top of this gorge and look out across its deep and sharply plunging core is to marvel at the power of Nature.

In fact, I found the Tia Falls Gorge intimidating. Not just the vertiginous drop, certainly the subject of nightmares for the height-fearing like me, but the scale of it, tipped and eroded over millennia.

It’s in the Oxley Wild Rivers National Park, along the Great Escarpment, 35 km towards the coast from Walcha. This Park also has a small and basic camping area, a calm domestic oasis not far from the edge of all that drama. It seems incongruous to be sleeping and cooking while that is going on behind me.

Yet the tablelands graziers of yore have cleared almost to the edge of this gorge. I wonder how many cattle or sheep mistook their footing at the edge and went over to their deaths. Or cattlemen on horseback, for that matter…

I stay well back from the edges where there are no fences, feeling the pull, imagining the crumbling rocky edges hidden beneath the clumps of grass.

The Falls drop and drop and drop, not wide, but fast and far.

So this small Tia Creek winds its way through the cleared paddocks, steady, not rushing, until it begins to feel the momentum. A few mini rapids occur.

And then a final pool, still up here on our level.

And over it goes: Tia Creek becomes Tia Falls. No turning back from the abyss.

Birds of a feather

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One windy autumn morning I was called to the river by an odd sight. But when I got to the ramp, this magnificent solo Pelican took all my attention.

I love Pelicans and I love reflections and this one was offering both.

We looked at each other for some time, me admiring, him noncommittal, before I realised he wasn’t gong anywhere, just standing in the shallows, rocking slightly in the wind.

I turned to look at the original attraction.

What from a distance had looked like a dragon boat being rowed by a black-clad crew was actually a flock of Cormorants on an oyster rack.

There were about a dozen of them, busily preening, or holding out wings to dry those feathers.

Some looked rather fluffy, as if they were still young, but it was quite a cool wind, so maybe that was simply a warming tactic.

At that distance I couldn’t tell if they were Little Black Cormorants, or the bigger Cormorants.

Perhaps someone can enlighten me.

But why had they chosen such an exposed ‘raft’ in the middle of the river?

Anyway, they had intrigued me enough to bring me (in my slippers) racing down to investigate before they took off.

But, like the Pelican, they clearly had no intention of doing that.

Water based

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With the rain we have had on the coast, the paperbark swamps are filling again and the reeds are extremely vigorous. Their grey-green clumps make fabulous vertical contrasts against the less constrained shapes and paler colours of the trees.

So unconstrained are the paperbarks that these two appear to be dancing with each other, hands almost touching, bodies bent as if inclined to do so too.

Some of the older trees have gone full out for individuality of shape, declining verticality and choosing the horizontal.

Beside one swamp on the Coast walk I could see a different reed, feathery, more free form.

I realise it is one I have seen in Kattang, but it confused me by growing taller here.  Baloskian tetraphyllum, Tassel cord reed.

As I remember by impressions rather than botanical details, I am easy to fool!

Autumn bush blooms

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Not expecting to see many flowering plants on my latest Coast walk, these beauties surprised me: Epacris pulchella, or Coral Heath.

Unsurprisingly, ‘pulchella‘ means ‘beautiful’.

It’s a sandy walk where Flannel Flowers are massed like guards of honour in their season, but right now their greyish foliage is mere backdrop for this elegant Epacris.

And there were quite a few shrubs of this spiky-leaved wattle, Acacia ulicifolia, Prickly Moses or Juniper Wattle. Notably, it carried blooms  at all stages and colours, rather like the Banksias do.

However, the dominant flowers were not at eye or ground level, but high up, as these Melaleuca trees (quinquenervia, I think) are in massed bloom everywhere on the coast here.

Their scent is powerful and pervasive, although to me it smells like some deep-fried battered takeaway food! The Rainbow Lorikeets are going noisily crazy over the feasts on offer.

Not flowers, but the strikingly bright fruit on this small tree caught my eye. There were only a few bunches like this, so not really obvious.

The knowledgeable folk on the NSW Native Plants Identification Facebook group, who identified the first two flowers here for me, also tell me this is Elaeodendron australe, or Red olive berry.

It’s a group well worth joining if native plants are your passion!

Patterns

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The endless variety of patterns that sea and sky and sun can create mean one must always keep a sharp eye out for the ephemeral combination they may offer.

As each wave recedes, I am mesmerised by these fleeting puffs of sand, ringed with bubbles like smoke rings. What causes them?

Equally inexplicable to me are the convoluted circles of lace patterns in the waves’ foamy wash, seemingly unrelated to rocks.

Or these club-handed clouds, offering what, beseeching whom?

I love the patterning made by Horsetail Casuarinas, drooping gracefully in fine line silhouette. I also love the shade they offer…

While I love mirror-like reflections, I appreciate these artfully broken reflections as the tide ripples up this creek.

Pair the magic of light through leaves with still water and you have incomparable patterns. 

I drink in all these chance pairings, and hope I never fully lose my sight, for to be deprived of all these beauties would be a loss indeed…

Brief wildlife

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Now that I do not live in the bush, I celebrate what wildlife deigns to visit me.

Returning from a few weeks’ absence I found this spider’s intricate creation on the inside of my screened room.  Like a delicate webby waterfall, it had been spun to extend from the top of the netting to froth over my sill’s shell collection. I am unsure what insects it was meant to catch, given it is inside, but perhaps it was created also for fun, because the spider had free rein… ‘while the cat’s away…’

From my desk I see many birds in the trees opposite, but I have never seen this colourful bird there.

Silently and swiftly, a Sacred Kingfisher flashed into my view, stayed for only a few minutes… and left.

For a bird with such a widespread distribution, I am surprised how few times I have seen one.

Here, once before only, on a post by the river.

‘Thanks for coming by’, I think, grateful it stayed long enough for me to grab a photo, glad I keep the camera handy…

This being Easter, the Park is busily full of caravans and tents, people and vehicles, kids and dogs.

 It is more than enough to give a young wallaby, on emerging suddenly from the bushes, cause to stop and consider whether it is a good idea to continue.

This one propped, considered the unusual throng for only a few seconds, then turned and bolted back into the quiet safety of the bushland behind it.

I see very few wallabies here and have never yet seen a young one on its own, so I hope it found its mother waiting for it… and got the scolding it warranted.

Celebrating trunks

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Trees are determined survivors. Their trunks will grow around a lightning strike or a bush fire burn … and just keep heading up, with diminished resources.

And if they do not survive, they can become objects of sculptural beauty and home to vivid lichens.

Some trees choose not to head upwards, but outwards, unsure whether they want to be part of the river or the bank.

Planted in rows en masse in a state forest, their trunks offer changing patterns of light and shade.

I know bamboos are grasses, not trees, but you can’t call their hefty ‘stems’ other than trunks. 

Clumplng bamboo like this never fails to impress me with its sheer size and solidity… and how useful a material it is!

And when it’s the yellow variety, it makes a veritable clump of golden poles.

Even tiny trunks give vertical definition to low growing plant treasures like the shy Maidenhair ferns on this bank.

While seemingly growing in rocks, this young Casuarina is already adapting to the river’s changing flows, growing south with it in floods and then recovering to head skyward.

I wish it luck.

Eye catchers

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The things in Nature that catch my eye often do so because they are beautiful or unusual, be they very large or very small, occurring by nature or by nurture.

Early morning, after a rainstorm the night before, this humble garden begonia flower cluster was truly ethereal, backlit, and still holding a crystal drop or two.

But equally eye-catching was this lone fungus standing tall and proud, smack in the centre of a pile of cow manure.

It can be the shy ones like these Native Violets, smiling up at me as I step carefully though the shaded grass.

Or it can be the boldly coloured and unmissably large, like the fruit of this palm!

And some are simply extraordinary, like the fleeting blooms of this cactus plant. As pretty as proteas, they glow as if filled with captured sunlight.

The parent is as tall as a tree and inhospitably knobbly and spiny, and yet it produces such brief beauty, to catch the eye for an evening … and then fold up, and die. 

Peeping review

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A lovely review of ‘Peeping’ by Michelle Lopert, in the Autumn issue of our great local ideas magazine, ‘Inklings – the thoughtful alternative’. Email to subscribe to digital issues.

This delightful collection of short stories from local author, Sharyn Munro, engages the reader from the very first page with its lyrical language, recognisable situations, and insights. The author sweeps us from childhood to old age, capturing a snippet of life at each stage in the human journey. For those of us born in the ‘40s and ‘50s, these scenarios are all too familiar.

The childhood stories in Part One remind us of the innocent years of childhood, the confusion of dealing with new experiences, and the uncertainty of our place in the world. In one story, a young girl witnesses the argument that ends in her parents’ divorce. In another, a girl’s dreams of being an artist or ballerina are dashed. Children try to make sense of the unknown, using their own limited logic, sprinkled with a vast imagination. Munro captures the mystery and complexity of the adult world, seen through a child’s eyes.

In the second part of the book, the pain and excitement of adolescence and early adulthood are captured in stories about lust, sex, marriage, divorce and   heartbreak. Her university story encapsulates the blossoming of new-found independence, at a time when we pretend to be grown up, confident and cool. We want so desperately to fit in whilst embracing new experiences. But some of us can be hurled out of our comfort zone with dire consequences.

I laughed aloud at the humorous portrayal of a camping trip that went horribly wrong from day one. And haven’t we’ve all been there! The story is written with word-juggling playfulness, showing her mastery of language.

The author acquaints us with the rationale of one- night stands, the trepidation of reuniting with old lovers, and the awe of people who break the rules or choose an unconventional path. But she hints that life isn’t all envy and befuddlement. We are merely gobbling up the world in our thirst for knowledge, wisdom and understanding. In the process, there is no shying away from brutal realities such as the death of a child or the shock of a suicide. These poignant stories are jarring, but honest.

The final part of the book shines a gentle spotlight on the inevitable decline and indignity of old age. It echoes with sadness and loss — loss of physical vitality, loss of youthful appearance, and ultimately loss of love, passion and a future. The portrayal of older women becoming invisible and devalued is a stark reminder of our shallow society, one that worships youth rather than experience and wisdom. This is especially highlighted in the story of a group of widows whose empty lives consists of regularly meeting at the club and playing the poker machines.

The stories carry us to a variety of locations, from convent schools, university pubs, the mundane suburbia of Newcastle, the glory of the Blue Mountains, and beyond to lonely mountains in regional Australia. Nature plays a huge role in her stories and I will never forget those magical frog symphonies  that  pushed out a grumpy lover.

Just like life, there are no happy-ever-after endings, but the final story could be construed as a sort of epiphany. In this mystical story, an elderly woman sheds her earthly attachments to become one with nature, much to her daughter’s incomprehension.

It’s not hard to see why these stories have won prizes and commendations. Munro is not afraid to face all aspects of life, and reveal the true thoughts, fears and motives of ordinary people, be they ever so lofty or mundane.

Michelle Lopert

River gold

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As the sun sets here, I am more attracted to the patterns and colours it adds to the river and the edging mangrove mudflats than to the sky itself. I have noticed that my eye keeps being drawn more to earth than sky, be it sunrise or sunset, beach or bush.

As usual, I find there’s a solitary bird poking about, to add interest to my photo.

I wasn’t sure what this one was until it turned sideways and showed off its S-bend neck ability: a White-faced Heron.

Of course there is always a stately solo Pelican, here cruising the wind-ruffled water amongst the oyster beds.

Taking my eyes off the gilded river, in the shallows by the mangroves I spy what looks like an Egret, snow-white and solitary, as expected. The now nearby Heron keeps its distance.

But I admit I am as taken by the sunset’s transforming impact on birdless mudflats, with the black nursery spikes of the mangroves punctuating the dimpled grey mud and accentuating the gold wash beyond, where oyster bed posts give both horizontal and vertical definition.

I’ve seen far more spectacular sunsets here, but every change in the light offers new interest to me, always worth closer inspection.