Flatness freaking

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After leaving the most uncharming Condobolin I drove for ages through flat, flat land. Until I went to the NSW north-west near Narrabri in 2010 to research for the coal book, I had never seen such flat land, where the vast paddocks disappeared into dancing mirages.

Here in Central NSW it was the norm.

Cleared for sheep or wheat, broadacre farmed, bisected by long, long straight roads. Any rare bend was treated as an event and much advised.

I was appalled at the scale of historic clearing.

From uncharming Lake Cargelligo I could look back at a forest fire I’d driven past, and hope it would be extinguished.

Somehow I took the wrong way out of West Wyalong and drove hundreds more kilometres in flat cleared land.

Even where it undulated a bit, it was cleared and machine striped. Man-machinery-manipulated. 

Sometimes it was colour striped, as the soils ranged from orange to pink; never just brown.

I had to get used to the orange clouds I saw being dust, rather than the nitrous oxide ‘blasts-gone-wrong’ of the coalfields.

I was beginning have to quell a rising panic after several days of such flatness, over thousands of hectares; I am, after all, a Mountain Woman. 

Would this sort of country ever end? Let me up higher, soon! I needed elevation like I need air.

Any isolated rise in the land was notable, and feted. Unsurprisingly and unimaginatively, this is called The Rock.

With the Lachlan Sculpture Trail fresh on my mind, when I first saw this monumental steel structure I stopped, perceiving it as another such creation. 

It could have been, as yet unfinished, with no wires, and sci-fi creature-like.

But there were hundreds of them, standing in readiness across the flatlands, some with workers still high up in their entrails.

I stopped in Mathoura near the closed Info centre to check emails, hotspotting off my phone, then drove to Swifts Creek campground in Murray Valley National Park.  It was the furthest along the riverside dirt road of any campgrounds there, but not very appealing…

Getting my van set up just as I like it, level, panels facing north, etc. took a while; then I thought to check reception.

No phone. Emptied everything out, shone the torch under seats. No phone.

Heart sink.

Packed up, took some Rescue Remedy drops and a deep breath, drove all the way back to Mathoura to where I’d last used it, trying to work out what I’d do.

Searched and searched again. Scuffled leaves in the gutters even. No phone.

Found the police station, which was shut.

BUT, hanging from the door handle of that station was my phone.

Thank you, thank you, honest Mathoura person!!

The joy almost made up for the depression of the flatlands…

Culture country

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Without intending to, I ended up staying in Forbes overnight, right beside the khaki Lachlan river. Forbes is in fact amazing: full of grand buildings from its gold rush past, and of water — the river, a huge lake, a swamp, and flowing creeks and irrigation channels for many kilometres beyond it. I kept being astonished that the creeks were running.

The screeching of hundreds of white cockatoos meant I took my hearing aids out…

I decided to vary my trip next day to follow the Sculptures Down the Lachlan road to Condobolin. What’s a few hundred kilometres here or there?

The first is a huge sand goanna, ‘Varanus’, by Glen Star, set in the Gum Swamp Wildlife Refuge.

It is formidable, both beautiful and intimidating.

The walk around the large Swamp takes you past several bird hides, each with small bird sculptures. It would be a wonderful place for waterbird watchers.

I made every sculpture stop on the 99km Lachlan Valley Way to Condobolin, but I’ll only show you the ones that moved me most, by their reference to the past, especially the Indigenous one.

‘Tower’ by Stephen King was simple but powerful. The sculptures along the Way are all large, so setting them in bush or farm land or reserves was appropriate.

’Sonata’, by Suzie Bleach and Andrew Townsend, was a compelling contrast of the delicate and the mighty.

‘Brumbies’ Run’, by Brett Garling, was as vivid as life arrested.

This huge warrior, ‘Heart of Country’ by Damian Vick, was contemplative and evocative; looking back? A heart full of rocks? The gaps in an incomplete life, with country taken? It got me.

And lastly, ‘Between the Silence and the Heartbeat’, by Clancy Warner, where the red hearts on each sombre figure stood out, silently reminding us of all the First People who were no more and the heartbreak legacy for those left.

I felt bad for leaving them there…

Big tick to the Lachlan Valley, and although I did reach Condobolin (awful) I will leave the aftermath saga for next post.

En route

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Leaving the Warrumbungles led me through a really interesting  landscape, shaped by agriculture. On both sides of the road were seeming landscaped paddocks, where a mad topiarist had shaped hundreds of Kurrajong trees.

They were often lopped to feed to stock in times of drought, I knew, but I had never seen so many, so blatantly shaped, dotted through otherwise bare wheat or sheep paddocks.

I was glad to be in country foreign to me, heading to Nangar National Park. It’s near Eugowra, which turned out to be a charming small town. 

This national park is an ex-sheep station, and its once-cleared valley follows a small creek which still flows, through steep rocky treed hills. Apart from Mt Nangar, it is famed for its Dripping Rock.

It reminded me of ‘The Drip’ north of Mudgee; vastly different, as huge and overhanging, and under constant threat from longwall mining.

It was barely dripping when I was there, but audibly and visibly. The Chinese had a market garden on the creek flats near here; the water of this creek must have been so precious.

But it is also precious for animals; there were many kangaroos grazing, but flocks of feral goats were too, as well as along the treed slopes. It was indeed perfect goat country!

Black, white and every combination in between, the goats munched their way and the kids bleated. I decided this felt more like a goat farm than a bush retreat.

I found their numbers depressing, seeing evidence of well-pruned small cypress trees on the low slopes. 

This place depended on regeneration, but the goats could only hinder that.

On the way out, I was cheered to see one swamp wallaby dash across the track, and a stand of gums with  plentiful red-flowering mistletoes… well beyond goat reach.

Low Warrumbungles

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The Warrumbungles National Park is a famed Dark Sky Park, and the Siding Springs Observatory takes full advantage of that. People like me go to the Park as much for its starlit skies as for its rocky spires.

Few places in the Park do not have the dome of the Observatory as part of its skyline.

Choosing Camp Wambelong for my van site as more remote, I did not realise that the main walk from there, to the Belougery Split Rock, was so unrelentingly steep. Being neither a rock climber nor a heights person, I decided my walks here this time would be the low ones.

I had been several times over the decades, but not since the severe 2013 fires. I had walked up some of those steep inclines, but I was younger then and my knees had no aversion to such steepness.

I had even written a short story called ‘Days of Wine and Warrumbungles’, an unusually amusing one for me (it’s in my Peeping through my Fingers collection). 

But the Burbie Canyon Walk was a lovely low meander, with stunningly large Kurrajong trees, whose bright green foliage contrasted greatly with the grey-green of eucalypts. All seemed to have recovered from the fires, except that I saw no casuarinas/she-oaks that were not black skeletons.

Burbie Creek had gone underground, as many of these dry country creeks do, but by the piled-up tree trunks in its dry rocky bed I could see that it must flow very strongly at times.

From anywhere in the Park, the volcanic relics of this ancient activity(13-18 million years ago) can be seen to pierce the sky.

Even the short walks, like the Nature Trail near the Canyon picnic area, took me over rocky areas and past awesome cliffs.

Much of that walk was over this sort of serried rock face, where lichens yet found purchase.

While Camp Wambelong was peaceful and pleasant, with many grazing Western Grey Kangaroo families, there were also far too many healthy feral goats there, and signs of feral pig diggings.

I moved to the larger Camp Blackman, far more swish (and expensive) since its update, with hot showers. But beside the dry creek, under what I think were Angophora trees, it was a quiet treat. And no goats.

On my way out next morning I did the very short tarred Gurianawa Track, coming up behind the smart Sandstone Visitor Centre, with its large water tanks and solar panel array, attempting to be as self-sufficient as possible.

I was struck by the contrast with the wild and rugged skyline behind.

What a place, both ancient and modern. Go see it while your knees are up to it… and before the expanding coal mining and planned coal seam gas extraction near Narrabri ruin the Dark Sky status.

Sunrise show

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I hurried to the beach, seeing from afar that there were large clouds – always a sign of a good show to come – and that the morning’s spectacle had already started, even though it was only 6am. Pale gold predominated.

The sky above the horizon was soon gold and hectic orange below the still-dark serries of the cloud bank, and the errant small clouds above that were almost red. 

But as I watched, the vivid reds faded and the bright gold began to take over. And all this colour change glory before the sun had even made its appearance.

But then it did, peeping brightly white at the edge of the sea world, lipping the high clouds with pink light.

It burst free of the sea’s rim, ascending towards those defining clouds, curdling the sky, red into yellow. The rocks below were still dark.

Runners and dog walkers passed me, chatting to each other, seemingly oblivious of the stunning free show that Nature was putting on.

Maybe they see it every day, but it’s always different, and so brief, it really wouldn’t take many minutes to stop and watch.

I do wonder about peoples’ priorities and values.  Fancy getting complacent, dismissive, about such ephemeral spectacles as sunrises!

Living history

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The oldest timber house in the Hastings survives today, totally thanks to the volunteers in the Douglas Vale Conservation Group. In fact, it thrives today, as Douglas Vale Historic Homestead and Vineyard.

I finally got around to visiting it, and found many resonances and memories … and good wine. Founder George Francis would be proud of it.

The entry via a vast and ancient bamboo ‘forest’ is atmospheric for a start.

This vineyard has been producing wine since 1859 and I was charmed that its first plantings were of Black Isabella grapes, as I’d had those vines at my 1895 Minmi house.

Of course I bought a bottle of Black Isabella Ruby Port (Portobella) from the wine tasting and sales centre housed in the old oyster factory, showing ties with the Dick family, who had started the oyster industry on the Hastings River.

A vine of that grape grows along the front verandah of this little house. The house is modest in scale, even with its added-on rooms, and it was fortunate to have been rescued from the vandalism that occurred after the last occupant, family member Patsy Dick, died in 1993.

Although made waterproof with tin roofing, the original she-oak shingles can be seen under the verandah roof.

The whole house is unapologetically a working museum cum vineyard, not a reproduction/re-imagined historical monument. 

It’s free to look around the house, the outbuildings and gardens, with knowledgeable and enthusiastic guides to explain what you are seeing and what has gone before.

Apart from the unvarnished broad floorboards and wall and ceiling boards, I loved the displays of the historical layers of wallpapers and linoleums.

There were detailed family trees and much background information.  A Heritage site, it’s a dream for local history buffs.

I was intrigued to learn that George Francis had likely learnt the craft of winemaking when he worked on a Hunter property where German vineyard workers were employed. My German ancestors, the Nebauers, came here for that exact purpose…

As was the safety custom, the kitchen was in a separate building, and its Beacon fuel stove was the same as my Nanna’s, the kerosene fridge the same as I’d once had. History seems very close here.

The windows are small, the doors low, the decorations minimal, the chimneys few, the fireplace not real marble, but timber painted to look like it; this was not a rich man’s home. Maybe that’s why it is so relatable.

And by sheer coincidence, in Patsy Dick’s room, to show his trade as a grave digger, the timber grave marker used was of a Munro couple. I am a Munro.

And my father’s name was Francis…

Douglas Vale welcomes volunteers but do at least pay it a visit. You won’t be sorry!

Sunrise 26th — a meditation

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A sliver of a moon was still hanging high in the sky over Oxley Beach at Port Macquarie as people drifted to the grassy sward above the motionless Aboriginal flag.  They’d risen early to be here at 5.45 on 26th January 2025, and after the Voice disappointment, there were hundreds here to show support for our Indigenous Australians.

There were old people like me, young families, the in-betweens, of all colours – and lots of dogs!

With a very inadequately amplified microphone, the Birpai’s Aunty Rhonda spoke of community and connection, with no hint of anger or frustration, no harangue – as would have been warranted. Impressive, an example to us all.

We knew we were there to honour and pay respect to the First Peoples of this country, so intimately connected to its land, sky and waterways.

She invited us all to consider where we are as a nation and how we build a society free from violence, racism and discrimination.  And for a long time the gathered people did seem to do this, as they sat in silence, an unusual stillness for an Australian ‘audience’, when even the children were quiet. 

The solemnity, the significance of this day as evinced here, was palpable.

While we sat, the sun peeped over the horizon, with the clouds lifting just a little to assure us that this amazing daily event was about to occur. We had been encouraged to share in this wonder of Nature, in this beautiful place.

The silence, the stillness, the calm focus, the eternal waves rolling on to the beach, the sunrise — it felt like a meditation. And it felt like hope.

My favourite part of this annual ‘ceremony’ is when Aunty Rhonda invites everyone to come and connect with the water, when she speaks of the water as linking peoples all over the world.

First the children run down to dip their toes in the sea’s edge, then slowly most people do, forming a physical and symbolic line of solidarity, of humans and nature, of First Peoples and latecomers.

I thank the Birpai for sharing with us such a peaceful way to get past the heat and anger, the pomp and misplaced ’nationalism’ often associated with 26th January.

Up close with dragons

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The family of Eastern Water Dragons (Intellagama leseurii) who live here are getting extremely comfortable with my place. Maybe too comfortable.

Uninvited, they are often on my verandah, its railings or its furniture.

I don’t usually mind, as I think these dragons are spectacular, as well as interesting.

Their markings are as amazing as those of goannas, their ridged tails are longer than their bodies, and they catch prey with their thick tongues, unlike other lizards, which use their jaws.

I especially marvel at their long delicate toes.

The younger ones haven’t got the trick of balancing correctly yet; this one was half hanging off the railing, looking very precarious.

Others use the cane chairs. Sometimes one will drape itself on the chair closest to the house and and peer in the window. 

So far none have actually knocked to come in, but I won’t be surprised when they do…

Miners’ mini walk

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At the southern end of Shelly Beach at Port Macquarie, the Coast Walk continues to wind its way towards Tacking Point. But today I am only checking out the very short (600m) part that leads from Shelly to Miners Beach.  

The track rises at once, and looking back along Shellys I can see Port’s ubiquitous pine trees.

But very soon the native coastal vegetation asserts itself, wind-combed and shaped.

This walk passes through several delightful greenery ‘tunnels’, a favourite brief fairytale fancy of mine.

It also passes an accessible small rocky cove and beach, where the subtropical vegetation thrives despite the salty position.

The very odd-looking Pandanus tectorius or Screw Pines are a major feature here, although they‘re not pines or palms; their distinctive aerial roots prop them against the sea winds. They are so called as their saw-tooth-edged leaves grow in a spiral or screw-like fashion.

Those leaves are used in weaving for a multitude of purposes in many cultures, including our Indigenous one.

On one tree I spy a single large pineapple-looking fruit. Hard and fibrous, they do not invite a bite, but can be edible with the right treatment, or at least their seeds can.

More easily eaten, beloved by many birds, albeit not so tasty for humans, are the fruits of the small Port Jackson Figs (Ficus rubiginosa) growing beside the track. 

So are the berries of the Common Lilly Pilly (Acmena smithii) growing near the Figs.

This being summer, the time of fruits rather than flowers, I see few plants in bloom. This late Swamp Lilly (Crinum pedunculatum) is large and showy, demanding attention. Its neighbour sports the fruit, which is definitely not edible, as it is toxic to humans.

I am almost at Miners Beach, but I have to stop to watch sky and sea combining to create spectacular ephemeral pictures.

Once known as the nudist beach, Miners is hardly secluded anymore, and if clothes are optional, it is not so officially!

But well worth walking to nevertheless…

Our Sunburnt Country

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I have just read this powerful yet accessible book and my copy is bristling with post-it notes, marking lines I want to quote or recall, to tell others.

Dr. Anika Molesworth is not only a farmer with lived experiences of climate change impacts, but a highly qualified doctorate scientist and well-recognised agricultural researcher. The former drove the latter. 

She writes clearly, authoritatively and passionately. Her book deals with all the well-known aspects of climate change, but her perspective on food systems as critical, as both impacted, and offering solutions, is unusual. I found her discussions of food systems both insightful and fascinating, drawing on many examples worldwide.

Anika has included wonderful quotes by others at the start of each chapter, but her own text comes up with plenty to note, such as  ‘It’s not game over, but it IS game on.’ She pulls no punches, yet manages to keep constructive, to encourage bold and courageous thinking and to inspire action.

As its blurb says, ‘Beautifully written and full of hope…’

Michael Mann suggests ‘Read this book and be inspired.’ And don’t we all need that!

I highly recommend this book (Pan Macmillan):  find it here and for the audiobook here.

Carabeen walk

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If you like tree ferns as I do, there were so many on the drive into Cobcroft picnic area in Werrikimbe National Park that it was a treat.

At the car parking area, this yellow flowering small tree/shrub was new to me; I’d assumed it would be a yellow version of the white Ozothmanus that was plentiful in the area. But the boffins tell me it’s actually Cassinia telfordii.

The short Carabeen Walk takes me through a lush forest of eucalypts like Blue Gums, and tree ferns.

There are two sorts of tree ferns, the rough (Cyathea australis) and the soft (Dicksonia antarctica), both present in this forest. This spectacular old trunk is so decorated with mosses that I can only assume it is a rough trunked one underneath. I love the little rabbit’s foot pads on its trunk.

The walk is named for the Yellow Carabeen trees that dominate the wetter areas of its scope.

The sinuous buttresses of this species can extend from two to five metres up its trunks.

Vines and clinging ferns climbing up the trees are common.

The track has become narrow, and is not always easily distinguishable, with many fallen branches that I climb over or skirt around.

Hoary-footed old trees are a reminder that these slow-growing Carabeens have been making this forest for a very long time.

The young ones seem slender in comparison.

And it wouldn’t be a typical rainforest post for me without at least one sprinkling of fungi.

For the first time I also collected some leeches on this walk; as they were mainly on my hands, perhaps they got aboard when I hung on to fallen branches as I clambered over them. I react badly to them – physically – so the bites refreshed my memories of that walk for a week afterwards!

But the walk was worth it.

Seeking the shy platypus

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From Mooraback campground in Werrikimbe National Park I take the walk to follow the little creek to seek platypuses/platypi in its larger pools.

But it is a very hot day and this walk passes through open paddock flat land before it reaches the first rocky hill. You can see the little creek at the base of those rocks.

From the 1830s until it became a National Park in 1975, this land was farmed, often for dairy cattle. A succession of families tried to make a go of it and the introduced trees, remnant orchards and paddocks remain obvious signs of settlement.

A few kangaroos keep watch as I trudge past, heading for the shade of that hill and its trees, where it has been too hard and rocky to clear or cultivate.

Telltale green denotes domestic survivors; I spot apple and plum trees.

I keep an eye on the creek wherever the walk takes me near it, but the water is murky and the sun is high. I am not here at the preferred ends of the day where a shy platypus might be out and about.

On the way I see some plants I don’t recognise, like this sole bush with its red stems and pretty white raggedy blossoms. The boffins tell me it is Prostanthera lasianthos.

I had been bypassing the many small lilac flowers in the grass by the track, appreciative, but dismissing them as the familiar Wahlenbergia. But then I realised that the flowers on these clumps were different — a single pendant lilac petal with a white eye.

The boffins sent me to PlantNet where I learn it is Slender Violet-bush (Hybanthus monopetalus). ‘Monopetalus’: one petal!

A lilac flower I do recognise is this Purple Flag (Patersonia occidentalis). They are as shy as a platypus, and daintily disposed amongst the tough grasses on this stony hill.

After my last walk and post, I now know the Grass Trigger-plant, of which there are plenty here, but am delighted to spot this caterpillar. I wonder what it will become?

I reach the mid-point of the Platypus walk, and the larger pools, but see no platypus. It is almost noon; too hot to venture out: ‘mad dogs and Englishmen’ as Noel Coward sang… and me … but not the smarter platypus.

On the way back I see one plant with which I am very familar, as it surprised me (and Ludwig Leichhardt, incidentally) at my Mountain with its beauty: the Pink Hyacinth Orchid (Dipodium variegatum). Showing no leaves, no sign of its existence, most of the time, when it would suddenly send up its thick stem, usually in summer, it was always a treat for me. And then the showy burgundy-speckled pink flower!

So while I didn’t see a platypus, probably due to my poor timing, I did see some special plants.

But the main impression of this walk was a sadness, brought on by the remnants of its settlement time; all those families striving to beat this high and often harsh climate, making a life for their families for a time, and then having to move on. I don’t know if they cleared the paddocks or if they were natural, with the bracken-covered slopes above them more likely, so I won’t blame them for that; I can only empathise with those lives of hard work.

Yet I am determined to see a platypus, so I will return and set out on that walk at a sensible time!