Kangaroo Christmas

It does not take an Ebenezer to make Christmas a difficult time. The stress and anxiety suffered by those unable to spend the festive season with kith and kin, is easily forgotten by those of us lucky enough to share. At this time of celebration, we can unintentionally isolate some of those we care about most.

But no matter where you are in the western world, there are some things that spread Yuletide cheer to all. The evergreen boughs of a decorated tree are universally recognised as a symbol of the holiday spirit. In public spaces, tall trees adorned with lights, unite passers-by as they turn their attention toward it. No matter however briefly.

In my home town, Christmas means summer. Hot, humid days are spent lazing around the pool with a cleansing ale or three. Warm nights invite meandering walks along the beach, feeling the cool sand against the soles of your feet.

And then there are the important things. Santa arrives by firetruck, and not by sleigh. On the day following Christmas, there is the start of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, and the Boxing Day cricket Test begins. Hangovers are nursed and leftovers consumed as people relax with these institutions of Australian culture. But like everywhere, there is warmth, merriment and laughter.

Wherever you are, and however you celebrate, enjoy your Christmas and pause briefly to remember those less fortunate than yourself. Happy holidays!

Sailing

Relentless chatter across a sun-blown harbour but I can only hear it as we pass close to another sloop. A dozen yacht races, maybe more, tack their way from one marker to the next in the afternoon breeze. Each crew is focused solely on their own endeavour.

A sense of historical irony strikes me as the vessel in the lead brings the Bridge into focus. It’s spinnaker of brilliant white is emblazoned with the Union Jack that has led its way into the sheltered waterway at first colonisation some 222 years before.

The technology has changed dramatically in that time, and the landscape has been immutably altered by towering monuments of concrete and steel. But that doesn’t stop me wondering if those brave sailors of old would still find familiar the etched cliff faces and salt-stained islands of this magnificent harbour.

Stanwell Tops

I’m breaching a hard and fast rule of this blog by putting up this photo. It was taken by my good friend Vic, not long after I landed from my first experience hang gliding. You can tell, by my face, how disappointed I was with my experience.

By many, hang gliding is considered an extreme sport. But while you’re in the air, soaring majestically above the cliffs that separate national park from ocean, it seems anything but. It is calm. The winds buffet and dictate where you may travel but the feeling is serene. Even as you glide through falling rain, it peters against your face in gentle droplets.

I was lucky. It was well into twilight before I took flight. When I landed, for those on the ground, it was already dark. We owned those skies and did not need to heed the course of others on the wing. I am truly inspired and want to find ways I can take photos from the air to help those with deep roots, find a way to explore their world from an alternate perspective. I am both a simple man, and a fortunate bloke.

Black cockatoo

The tentacles of winter do not extend this far north. There is always a certain balminess to Slade Point that staves off the cold. It makes it far easier to lie in wait for the fauna that greets the dawn.

A cockfest of them arrive, screeching loudly in the twilight air. Black and bold, they come to feast on the seeds from this grove of umbrella trees. As they hop from one spot to another, the horizontal band of red and orange that adorn their tails, flashes in the brightening day.

For the locals, it is an everyday occurrence. But not for me. I am used to the brilliant white and sulphur cresting of their cousins.

I always find the black cockatoo inspiring. It reminds me of places less domesticated than the capital cities to the south. A smile is splashed generously across my face as I lie on my stomach taking photos. It is obvious that this is where I prefer to be.

Sentry

He stands as tall as I do, but until he is pointed out, I do not see him. In fact, when I finally accept his presence, I am amazed that I could have missed him at all. With an outstretched arm, I could have gently stroked his unkempt coat.

He doesn’t so much stare, as consider me. Bravely and diligently, this diminutive hero acts as sentry for his community and their month-old pups. His posture, as he watches, has the characteristic uprightness of the meerkat.

How could I have missed so rare an opportunity to encounter this personality so close?

I had been watching an animal of completely different stature. My lens had been firmly fixed on the heads of giraffes, picking selectively off high branches with their purple tongues. The photo I sought was for my future sister-in-law and my attention was solely focused on its composition.

 But my furry friend was undeterred and willingly held his pose so that I could take this shot before I returned to the less accommodating giraffes. I am grateful for his co-operation.

Audrey Wilkinson

For late on a Saturday morning in Spring, the day is bleak. A grey, featureless sky keeps the temperature low.

Inside the cars, no one seems to notice. There is laughter, idle gossip and the warmth of friendship.

By the time they reach their third winery, there is already a glow in the cheeks of the drinkers. And while they sample the flavours of the Hunter Valley, their laconic, good humour becomes contagious.

A young couple, not attached to the group, is caught in a sentimental kiss. Promptly, they are loudly teased by the cellar door staff. All attention shifts to the pair and their embarrassment. Soft giggling peters out as patrons return to their conversations but the mood remains lighter for the distraction.

Outside, the sky becomes more leaden. Rain looms and the lone tree that supervises the manicured lawns of the vineyard sullenly watches it approach, jealous of the merriment it can hear.

Oblivious to the advancing front, the company delights in its good fortune and forgets the stresses left behind at the end of the working week.

Indefatigably

She is almost impossible to deny. Her golden curls and entrancing smile light up any room she enters. A casual glance is all it takes to make my heart stumble and fall whenever we share a room.

Her selfless heart and passionate soul are tempered with intelligence and wisdom beyond her years. I could never have conceived that my attention could be so easily stolen.

It is not hard to gush about the woman of my dreams. She is more compelling that the polar caps I have explored. She is more alluring than the twilight landscapes I have captured. She completes me.

Platinum and diamonds, green garnet and braille: it is a humble token of my adoration. I am so proud that she is mine.

Little Auks

After what seems like an eternity, I’ve managed to reach the colony of little auks. More than once, my feet had slipped on the treacherous terrain of broken boulders that lead up the steep slope. But at last, I’m here.

They are nervous birds and scare easily. I have to swap to my long lens because I cannot get near enough. It doesn’t take long for me to get frustrated with the speed and agility of these tiny birds against the cumbersome weight of my big telephoto. I swap back to a shorter lens, resigning myself to the fact that I won’t get the close-up I seek.

But my luck changes.

An arctic fox is picking their way through the rubble along the slope. In a flurry of activity, a section of the colony leap into the sky and race down the hill, veering sharply as they reach the water and then back up. Once, twice and then a third circuit before they resettle in their rookery.

It is enough to dissuade the fox here and as it moves to another part of the colony, the same occurs with another group of dovekies. I quietly sit, watching how narrowly they skim the broken surface of the jagged outcrops, wondering if they’ll strike them if they’re careless. Their nimble forms negotiate the obstacles with consummate ease. I feel very fortunate to witness their everyday.

Mt Ngauruhoe

In the early evening light at the base of Mt Ruapehu, it looks far more sinister than I was expecting. Tendrils of cloud cling desperately to its surface, giving the impression that the mountain is ready to speak. Despite its dormancy, Ngauruhoe inspires trepidation.

As part of a large expanse of volcanic terrain, it is unusual for the symmetry of its cone. The surrounding mountains have been torn asunder by the ferocity of blasts in histories past. However, for this infant structure, its time to tyrannically dominate the landscape is yet to come. While it waits, it is content to silently hide in the pink hues that dusk paints across its ashen peak.

 In this still and gorgeous light, its hostile charisma is unnerving. I am hypnotised and not surprised that it was used to portray the much-feared Mount Doom in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Perhaps, even now, it is watching me.

At the Gem Festival

“C’mon,” he beckons. She shrugs and hides sheepishly behind the felt brim of her new hat. “I’m sure you’ve had tougher rides,” he teases. She giggles at the innuendo and her friends begin to cajole.
“What’s the go?” She takes half a step forward. He holds out his hand and calls her over with a nod.
“Climb up, and hang on. Nothing to it.”
“Are you sure I’m not going to come a cropper?” By now, she has covered the distance between them. Skilfully, he helps her up in a single motion as he answers.
“Just fall toward the mattresses, and not the street,” he smiles. “Besides, you’re in Quilpie, what could go wrong?”

Friends hoot as the mechanical bull starts to gently roll. Awkwardly at first, she quickly finds her centre and counteracts its motion. “That’s the way, Love. Now let’s see how you go.” Almost as soon as he finishes the sentence, the beast bucks her high. Her expression reflects the surprise, but the hollering of her friends quickly returns the smile to her face.

It gets faster, and more unpredictable. She squeezes her legs hard against the leather of the saddle and conquers its rhythm. Her smile continues to broaden.

There is much applause as she dismounts and staggers back over to her friends, her balance thrown by the ride. He turns to the group, and while adjusting one of the mattresses with a kick, challenges them to beat her. There are no takers, and they wander off in a cacophony of amused chatter.

The showman laughs after them, content in the knowledge they have enjoyed the spectacle. With a practiced eye, he begins to search for another group he can engage.

Welcome to the Arctic

Welcome to the Arctic. There are no hills here and no glaciers to pour down frozen mountains. There are only flat plains of broken ice.

Mounds of snow, blown by the wind, thaw and freeze into solid blocks. They stand as sentinels, guarding the polar terrain from inquisition.

The occasional cigar-shaped blob catches my eye on these sheets of ice. Seals, rich with blubber, snooze in the daylight. They are wary, however. Despite the bland surrounds, they keep ears alert for the sound of an approaching nanook. But for now, it is silent.

I feel strange here: lost and waiting for something to happen, even if I’m not sure what. I am hypnotised by it all, and challenged by its stark honesty. This is not a welcoming place.

Under the warmth of the midnight sun, I stare from the bow of the ship and marvel at the surreal majesty of my hostile surrounds. I count myself lucky to have seen what so few will.

The Ekka

The August breeze is cold as they queue for the ferris wheel. She draws her coat a little tighter and nervously reaches for the hand of her date. She has been on this ride many times before, but never with a boy. He pays and she sheepishly smiles as the carriage shifts with their weight.

It circles once, and then again. She peers out over the grounds, above the noise and lights of other rides, and beyond the smells of cattle, horse, and deep-fried, winter fare. It is sanctuary amid the tumult of the Ekka.

The wind picks up and their seat begins to sway. Their ride stops with them at the top. She is unsettled and can feel it creep into the creases around her eyes.

Feeling him move, she turns her head to see if he is equally uncomfortable. He is not and presses forward to bite gently at her bottom lip. She feels her tension dissolve with the soft pressure he applies, and melts. Comfort turns to lust and she hungrily tastes his breath. Their view is forgotten in desire.

A jolt as the wheel begins to move, breaking their kiss. She giggles as her senses return. He sits back with a laconic grin and she snuggles into his shoulder as the wheel continues to turn.

Ngawi Staircase

Step step step. You’ve got to be kidding me, right? All the way to the top? What’s up there? What do you mean you’re not going to tell me? Don’t tell me to shut up. Alright, alright. Step step step.

This can’t be worth it. I’m going to have a heart attack. What? Only half way! Someone is going to pay. Step step step. Are we there yet? Geez, I shouldn’t have looked up.

Step step step. Is it going to be this blowy at the top? I’m going to freeze when I stop. Stop pushing me in the back. Okay, okay. I’m moving, I’m moving. They need an elevator. Are you sure this is really necessary?

I’ve lost count. How many steps do you think there is? What do you mean, “you don’t care”? Yeah, yeah - you and what army? Giggle. Cough. Pant. Ugh. Step step step.

Only ten stairs left. Pant. Wheeze. Nearly there. I can see the lighthouse. It looked far more impressive from the bottom. Step step step.

Yay! Made it. Wow! Pounamu green grasses stretch east to west, as far as my eyes can see. Grey-blue waters boil white breakers against the shore to the south. And the sky is the most perfect azure. I’ve never seen so much colour before. If I wasn’t so puffed, it’d be breath-taking.

Bloody hell! Those stairs look even worse from the top looking down. Maybe I should be quiet before someone thumps me.

Snow Leopard

She is beautiful and not the slightest bit interested in me.  From her vantage point atop a boulder, she surveys the paths that lead to her enclosure.  As self-absorbed children noisily pass, her lingering gaze betrays her intent.  It may not be hunger that drives her, but it is in her nature.

Calmly, she sits and watches the world move around her.  And then something catches her eye.  I don't know whether it is the platinum blonde of her hair, but the arrival of a young woman has captured her attention  She is off.

With her body low, she slinks across the waterfall into the cover of a couple of sparse trees.  Even beneath her thick coat of mottled white, I can see her muscles are taut.  She is hunting.

There is no time to change lenses and I watch as she comes down the embankment toward the perimeter of her cage.  She crouches further as she reaches the electric wire that warns her that this is as far she is allowed.  The moat does not look wide enough to prevent her crossing.  The metal grid of the cage does not look tall enough to prevent her coming over the top.

Coiled to strike, the object of her focus remains oblivious as she rummages through a handbag.  And then she changes her mind.  It's as if memory has overhwelmed her instinct and she retreats the way she came.  I am sure it is disgust that I can read in her expression as she returns to her perch.

Snow leopards are now my favourite of the big cats.

Reclamation

No longer does it possess the fingerprints of those who lovingly hand-plastered its concrete walls. Cyclones, floods and fire have all conspired to steal the legacy of the family who tended the extensive estate for so many decades. But they are not forgotten.

Memories persist despite the tropical rainforest wrapping its tendrils possessively around pitted walls. Moss colonises the damp, and cloaks the relics in a blanket of green felt. Enough remains exposed to identify the public baths that brought so many in its heyday. Now, it is mostly black bream and eels that frequent its waters.

The park is enigmatic. Instead of the carefree laughter of children playing and splashing, there is only the hushed reverence of tourists treading its well-worn walkways. Towering bamboo and giant kauri trees dominate the paths upon which they have flourished. Against the odds, they have survived. The labours of the Paronella clan have not gone unrewarded.

Broken back

Despite the dilapidation of most historic buildings in Svalbard, this one is unique.  Built by a fortune-seeking Australian in the early years of last century, it is the only two storey building of its kind in the frozen archipelago.

Not only does the failing structure typify the ambitiousness of so many who came to this polar wilderness, but it is a building that bears the scars of climate change.  About a third of the way along its length, its spine has been broken.  Every board that traverses that vertical has been split by shifting ground.

During summer months, the permafrost has begun to thaw.  Melting ice has pushed up bubbles of earth, lifting the house from its stable base.  The evidence of this expansion is clear in the large, hexagonal patterns that make the surrounding earth look like a giant beehive.

It is too dangerous to get any closer to the building.  It is too dangerous to do anything but circle it from a distance and take photos under the low-ceilinged sky.  Is it too dangerous to ignore the unspoken warning of an island adapting to its new seasonality?

Sunset

It is a comical start.  An early morning embarkment with a passenger load of hangovers, heading south along the Birdsville track.  Almost as soon as we cross the border from Qld to SA, the grading turns foul.  Teeth loosen as we bounce along the barren surface of the Stony Desert.  I giggle as those in the back groan and pray for death.


The speed limit is 100 km/hr but I can't get above 80, and bleary eyes warn that the desolate horizon is disappearing in the pale of an approaching sandstorm.  And then it happens.  Without warning, a tumbleweed - thick and barbarous - dances in front of the car.  It punctures a rear tyre and within 200 metres, it has been shredded by the unforgiving road. D'oh!


What is worse, the storm has closed in and now buffets us from all sides.  We pull up as close to the side of the road as confidence allows in fear of the soft shoulders of the desert track and we turn to each other with non-plussed grimaces.  We cannot wait for it to pass.  Throwing long-sleeved shirts over our singlets, we don sunglasses and prepare to brace the storm so we can change the tyre.


The jack is all but useless and we are forced to dig a hole to prop the car up enough to change the wheel.  Eventually we do, and when we climb back in, there is much relieved laughing.  Red faces and and burnt legs betray how much we have been sandblasted.


I can see only a little way in front of us, but I persist until we reach Mungerannie.  There, we enjoy a cleansing ale before setting off for Maree.  Pulling into the caravan park just before dusk, we are promptly told we will be lucky if we can find space. We manage. 


My set-up is easy and I roll out my swag. And while the others hammer in their tent pegs, I look up and notice the sunset.  Grabbing my camera as quickly as I can find it, I abandon them and run across the road to an empty paddock.  The sand and dust that scorched our flesh paints the sky in beautiful hues of pink and gold.  As my shutter whirrs, I wonder how much of our fleshs makes up that sky and smile.

Motherhood

Summer is only a momentary reprieve for an Arctic vixen. Already half-way through the season of the midnight sun, and she has not had time to shed all of her white, winter coat.

With the ground in Ny Alesund relatively free of thick snow, she casts a protective eye over her playful pups as they romp near the shelter of research-station residences.

As well as shelter, there is plenty of food here. Arctic terns have nested beside the cleared paths between scientific buildings. The birds foolishly launch themselves at passing humans when their true threat stands only one foot at the shoulder.

For the main, researchers ignore the fox. She has tags in each ear, betraying the fact that she has research value, but the ease and comfort with which she uses manufactured props to give altitude to her watch, proves how little she has been scarred by these encounters.

In the next couple of weeks, the sun will begin to set, and then the nights will lengthen. By then, her pups will have weaned and begun fending for themselves. In the meantime, they will learn and play. All the while, she will be their guardian.

Flying Home

The flight to Hong Kong is crowded and stuffy.  At the height of the Swine Flu scare, many of the passengers wear surgical masks to protect themselves from incidental exposure.  Unlike the early tween to my right, I do not.

Staring aimlessly out the window, I listen to him fidget and squirm.  Finally, he succumbs and pulls the mask down.

I turn my head and he sheepishly smiles in my direction.  "You lasted longer than I would have."  His eyes crease with gentle acknowledgement.  "Home?"  He gives the name of a Chinese city of which I've never heard.  "Many flights to get there?"

"A couple.  I don't go home very often.  Studying at Griffith."

"What?"

"Hospitality."

"And what will you do with that?"

"Come home.  I'm a scriptwriter."  His eyes light up.  "If I work very hard, I'll get a good job at a restaurant waiting tables where famous Chinese directors and producers ear.  I'll meet them and show them my scripts."


"And that's why you'r studying hospitality?"  Vigorous head nodding.  My bottom lip shrugs and concedes to his enthusiasm.  "Sounds like a plan."  He smile broadens further still.

In truth, it sounds like more than a plan.  It sounds like an adventure.

Blossoms

With a sense of despair, I had watched the brilliant green of Adelaide turn to teal as I drove.  Teal paled to steel grey.  And as I travelled further, grey became brown.  Less than 200kms from Adelaide, and the transformation was complete.  I had passed the Murray twice along the way.  Its pathetic snaking wanders a forlorn path against the backdrop of steep banks that betray its former glory.

The town is Waikerie, east along the Sturt Highway.  As I turn off the main drag, I follow a road that bends significantly to the right.  A naked field gives way to one covered in these delicate flowers.  It is mid-September and for this orchard, it is time to bloom.  The ground upon which they have ignited is barren and dusty.  So dry and desiccated, I am taken aback by this profusion of colour. 

Drought is only partly to blame.  Farming, and lots of it, has also stolen away the lifeblood of this mighty river and destroyed its majesty.  It might seem a little odd that the brilliant pink of cherry blossoms reminds me of the abuse of our waterways.  But in their own way, they also inspire hope.  Life can return when given the opportunity.

Temporary Legacy

This photo always brings two things to the forefront of my mind.

The first is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. In it, he describes the impermanence of human impact over time. While I do not possess his lyricism, I have certainly been granted the opportunity to see and capture my own version of this sentiment.

In the wet tropics, I have seen smooth sheets of concrete stolen by moss and vinery within a decade of it being laid. My hands have run across roughly-hewn timbers, worn smooth and thin by the eroding sands of blistered deserts. Amidst the frozen wastes of polar regions, I have witnessed the decay that comes with wind and changing ice.

In every instance, the legacies of human impact are slowly resumed by nature. Shelters are broken and then destroyed. Tools rust and crumble. Holes fill with vegetation and soil, until the scars they cover, heal. There is no forever.

The other item of which I am reminded is the image of a boot print left by early astronauts on the surface of the moon. Unlike that impression, this footstep will last less than a day. The next tide will wipe clean the sand and shell grit that has captured this history. When I took this image on the shoreline of Tannum Sands, I remember wondering who had made it. I was curious to know who had left me such a carefully crafted mark, no matter how accidental.

It is only now that I am prepared to speculate. It could have only been one man. Ozymandias.

Once Each Year

After Quilpie, there is only one town before the turn-off to Birdsville. For most of the year it is little more than a fuel stop but on the Wednesday before the Birdsville Races, it comes to life. Taking advantage of the traffic heading west, the residents of Windorah host their annual Yabbie Races.

Caravans and four-wheel drives arrive in a steady stream all day and it doesn’t take long for the servo to grow a lengthy queue. Camping sites quickly fill and travellers are forced to drive their tent pegs into the baked bulldust of the showground when there is nowhere else to go.


The pub overflows with thirsty folk, and by the time darkness descends, they are sprawled across the lawn and into the street. The locals have blocked the road at both ends, and moved two small bleachers to either side of a painted ring in its centre.


“Righto!” A shout to no one in particular. People mill around the racing circle, bidding for the right to own a blue-claw for the event. The money they raise is for the local school. It is their one chance each year to fund-raise. And then the yabbies race.


With cheers and laughter, cash changes hands. Spirits soar and it is clear that there are no losers here.


Revellers continue well into the night, drinking cold beer and feasting on freshly made steak sandwiches. It is a typical outback event: friendly, understated and fun.

The Storm

Lathered in sweat, he rolls and attempts to kick his way free of the sheet that has tangled in his restlessness.  Eyes closed in the dark, he is oppressed by the stifling summer heat and the stench of stale electricity.  The whirr of worn bearings in a slowing turning ceiling fan does little to calm him.

Opening his mouth to release a frustrated groan, his lament is cut short by a flicker of light.  Louder is a deep-throated rumble.  Doors and windows rattle.  And then there are indistinguishable voices.  Fear steals over him.

Has someone broken in?  Is there more than one voice?  Wide-eyed, he stares at the open doorway.  Unaccustomed to the night, he sees only shadows pass the framework.  They pause briefly to peer in the darkness at him.  He dares not move.

Bright lights flash outside the window.  Loud rumbling.  Is that the sound of furniture moving?  More voices.  What is going on?  Terror consumes him.  Crashing.
No, this is my home.  How dare they!  The indignant thinking of the desperate.  I will prevail.  He throws off the last of his covers.  Panting in the humidity, he catches his breath and squints away his fear.

He runs around the wooden foot of his bed and into the corridor.  Turning, he spies a silhouette and sprints toward it.  He leaps from the three steps that separate bedrooms and living area.  The shadow turns in surprise.

It catches him mid-flight and wrestles him easily into a bear hug.  The shadow smells familiar.  Confusion.  “What’s up, little man?” the stranger softly asks.  More lights.  Thundering.  He whimpers.  “Sshh!  It’s just a storm, son.  It will be over soon.”  He snuggles further into the broad shoulder of his captor, suddenly relieved of his panic.  And then he hears the slowly increasing tempo of rain against tin.

Driving

The lingering aroma of passion spent still tantalises his senses.  Nostrils stained with her scent, his ears echo with the memory of her wanton breath against his lobes.  His body tingles at the thought of her touch.  Fingernails clawing at his back as their intensity builds; drawing him closer; enticing him deeper.  Compelling that most intimate of connections.  Lost in indulgent reminiscences, he doesn’t notice the white-knuckled tightening of his grip upon the wheel.  A deep, contented sigh.  And as the road seeps back into his consciousness, he wonders why he is driving away from her when he so desperately wanted to stay.  He smiles as reality dawns.  Tomorrow is close and her smell will keep him sated until then.

First Encounter

My first experience with the King Penguin colony at Salisbury Plain (on the sub-Antarctic island of South Georgia) raped me of the blissful ignorance which I had enjoyed whilst flipping through National Geographic magazines and watching Animal Planet on television.



First it is their smell. Before we had even reached the bay, the aroma of 200,000 penguins assaults our senses.


And then it is their volume. Calling to each other and their chicks, a cacophony of voices thundering in my ears.


Finally, it is their wonderous vision. I have never seen anything more spectacular than that view from the shoreline. Grey, white and yellow. Proud and majestic. Chicks, great balls of chocolate brown, organised into crèches throughout the colony. There is no fear. There is no anxiety. There is only the sense of a population going about its business.


As we skirt their perimeter, a juvenile comes toward one of our party. It has identified our genteel Scot. He stops and waits as the bird approaches. It stares at him beneath a crop of dishevelled, malting feathers. With a supercilious grin, he stares back. After a minute of quiet contemplation, the spirit of youth prevails. The penguin waddles off, bored and dissatisfied with the outcome of his curiousity.


Like any meeting of two unfamiliar cultures, it is a brief first encounter.

Shelby

It is not yet 9am, but the mid-April sun is warm. A gentle northerly blows. Upon the golden sands of Palm Beach, nearly thirty of us gather near the red and yellow flags of the patrol. Children splash, oblivious to the occasion for which we have assembled.

Beyond the line of breaking swell, a single surfboat approaches a bobbing vessel. An urn is exchanged. The tide forces them apart. With four oars raised, the surfboat riders honour the ashes they scatter over the ocean. It was her favourite stretch of beach.

They row to shore and are welcomed by those of us waiting on the sand. Warm embraces and idle chat distract from the emotion. It is not long before the autumn weather bleaches away the sadness.

The middle son, one of the paddlers, sweeps his daughter up and places her gently in the beached surfboat. Instinctively, she reaches for the rudder and surveys the unfamiliar. Turning her head, she closes her eyes and lets the breeze wash back her golden curls.

No wonder it was among her favourite places.

Flood Piano

There is little over an hour separating Clermont from Emerald on the Gregory Highway. The environment between them is broad and largely featureless. Wedge-tailed eagles circle lazily overhead, playing in the swirling eddies and currents of warm air rising off the shallow undulations of the landscape. I count less than five vehicles headed in the opposite direction as I travel in the early morning, before the sun has cause to sear me through the windscreen.

Clermont had never held much interest for me. Its surrounds are so dry and plain, I expected the town to be equally as uninspiring. Also, it sits a little off the highway, and a conscious decision to turn toward it is required. Traditionally, I have continued north to Mackay or Charters Towers, but not today. I am not expected in Townsville until late afternoon. At the roundabout I turn left, and wind my way down the road into town.

Surprisingly, it is an oasis of life within a hostile climate. A cockfest of corellas screech and play in the trees along the stretching length of Hood’s lagoon. Fed by Sandy Creek that runs from the north, the lagoon teems with fish and purple water lilies. Ducks shelter from the sun beneath the broad boughs of heavy-limbed trees. A gaggle of twenty or more white and brown geese appear from the long grasses, and check the road carefully before crossing and heading for the lagoon’s cool waters. Lizards dance and scurry across the quickly warming ground. It is not what I expected to find.

Before I cross the bridge at the lagoon to reach town, I see a large object wedged in a tree. I pull up on the side of the road and wander over to the large eucalypt in order to get a better view. It is a replica piano stuck between the forks of its branches, at least three metres off the ground. While unusual features are a large part of the joy of exploring regional towns, this is one of the more unusual I have witnessed. I am curious.

Clermont is built on a flood plain and in its early history, was regularly drowned as Sandy Creek burst its banks but in late December 1916, Clermont experienced its worst deluge. A small cyclone had crossed the east coast between Townsville and Mackay, dumping huge amounts of water on Clermont. More than 400mm (16 inches) fell in one night. While that was enough to cause the creek to overflow in its own right, even more rain had fallen further north. Overnight, the lands that drained into Sandy Creek had been awash with a further 600mm (24 inches) or precipitation. The storm surge that rushed south had sufficient ferocity to wash away many of the town’s buildings. By the time the water had receded, it had claimed 61 lives.

Surveying the damage, locals discovered that the force of the water level had carried a piano into a tree outside of town. A photo was taken of this curiousity. Decades later, the decision was made to commemorate this photo with a re-creation, one of two physical landmarks around Clermont to the tragedy. After the 1916 flood, the entire town was moved uphill, away from the lagoon and the floodwaters that had inundated the town so regularly in its early days, but that is another story.

The 1916 flood remains the second highest storm-surge related death toll in Australia’s history. It is a sad tale for such a small town. But Clermont survives, and has done through many other controversial moments in its history. Never again will I mistake the character of a town by the landscape which surrounds it, and all because of a piano up a tree.

Pinjarra

It is easily 35 degrees under the cloudless sky. Hot and dry. Perspiration dribbles down the back of my shirt as I (and maybe a dozen others) am escorted through a gate between fences some six feet high. Still brown pools, indeterminately deep, lie less than half a metre from the fenceline on both sides. Tourists whisper nervously, feeling trapped in this narrow corridor. And with a grin, the zoologist leading this sordid posse starts banging the bucket he carries. He calls out across the water.


Almost immediately, the water starts to boil. From the left, heads emerge from the water and start swimming in long, purposeful lines toward the fence. Crocodiles, a little over five feet long, lean with the agility of youth. The young males compete hungrily for the treats they are thrown.

But it is not this pool that interests me. Mature females sit exposed in the shallowest of water in the other, equally attracted by the echoing plastic drum. Larger, and territorial during this breeding season, they growl at each other. With their mouths open, I can see their throats ripple as they stake their claim. I lean a little closer to the fence in order to focus through the wire.

And out of the corner of my eye, I see another. It startles me. I didn’t hear it emerge from the water. He is huge at some 550 kilos. He is Pinjarra. Unnerved, I try and regain my composure and turn the lens toward him. I scan his size, and then the thinness of the wire in the fence. No longer am I as confident. There is a collective gasp as the others suddenly notice him too.

How long had he been waiting for me to lean a little closer into the barricade? He is patient. Millions of years of evolution have instinctively taught him the patience needed to outlast his prey. Sun glistens off his leathery spines; muted colours like that of a partly submerged log.

Fifteen years before he had still be in the wild. Domesticity has not tamed this ancient predator. He is a hunter and will always be. The zoologist tosses a cow oesophagus in his direction. It lands with a splash and comes to rest against his jaw. Pinjarra does not move. He has a more tasty morsel in mind.

I crouch lower and press forward as far as I dare to bring his eye in focus. His unblinking gaze stares through the lens back at me, piercing the resolve I clamour to maintain. Malevolently he watches, all of his concentration firmly fixed on me. To his left, two females argue over a treat. Despite the commotion, his eyes do not shift. What has he to fear? He is more than twice their size.

Finally, I break his hypnotic gaze, and there is the whirr and click of my shutter. I stand and turn away, checking the image I have captured. Satisfied, I take a final admiring look at this magnificent reptile and feel a chill run down my spine. He remains motionless, still watching, but the cow oesophagus is now gone. I don't know what disturbs me more: the fact that I didn't hear him or the passionless ambition I imagine in his eye.

The Cinema

Bathed in cinema light, their hands meet and instinctively wrap around each other. This isn't supposed to happen. They are just friends.

Both concede the breach with the gentle squeeze reserved only for lovers. In the darkness, cool exteriors melt and hearts flood.

Boldly.

He runs his thumb against her exposed finger. He hears the almost inperceptible change of breath in her.

Intensifies.

Then there is nothing. He is oblivious to the movie as its story unfolds. Deaf to the random giggle of other patrons. Neither move. Neither dare break that hold, in case the moment is lost.

And then he decides.

He turns to her. In the flickering light reflecting on her face, he knows. With his free hand, he reaches out as he leans toward her. At base of ear and along her neck, his touch softly encourages her to surrender the distance he cannot reach.

She does.

And their forever starts.

Sexy, charismatic mega-fauna

It’s cold and grey.  So grey in fact, it’s hard to discern sky from sea at the horizon.  I’m dressed in a plastic bag, rubber sealed at wrist and neck.  They call it a “dry-suit”.  Crammed into a bright yellow kayak, I weave my way through drifting pieces of melting sea ice.

Looking to my right, I can see others from my party of ten.  One turns to me with a big, cheeky grin across his face.  He’s as happy as I am.  We’re in the high Arctic, attempting a circumnavigation of the Svalbard archipelago. 

Our mothership, the Akademik Ioffe, is anchored a way off.  The best part of being in a small kayaking group is we get to remove ourselves from the noise of the ship and the inflatable rubber boats that ferry the rest of our expedition group.  In the quiet, we get to search for something special.  Something the others may not get to see.

Polar bears.  The 15 year polar veteran and marine biologist, Kirsten Le Mar, refers to them as “sexy, charismatic megafauna.” (SCM, for short.)  She is one of our expedition leaders.  Svalbard is an isolated group of islands east of Greenland and is well known for its large population of polar bears.  There are even warning signs posted around the capital of Longyearbyen reminding you not to leave town unarmed.

Paddle. Paddle. Paddle.

“Over there!” It is an excited woman that spots one.  We follow her pointing finger.  To our left, at the top of a tall ridge, there is movement.  Through the grey, I can just make out a slightly yellow figure.  Yep!  It’s a polar bear alright.  From the deck of the Ioffe, both Russian crew and expedition leaders had taught us how to search for polar bears amongst the white expanse of stark pack ice.  Yellow blobs.  Look for yellow blobs.  Their skin may be black beneath a mass of translucent fur, but the dirt and oil that clings to them, gives these bears a yellow tinge.

Instantly, our posse turns and starts to paddle toward the shore.  Stroke rates increase.  Adrenalin surges.  The SCM lopes along, ignoring us.  I can’t believe how fast they move.  We’re paddling quickly, and are struggling to catch this giant marine mammal as it plods effortlessly.

It slows and tries to decide which way to come down through the deep snow.  Our group huddles together so we can whisper our awe.  We’re close enough now to guess that it’s a female from the tell-tale stain near its tail. Sitting 100 metres from shore, we are afraid to get any closer.  We watch as she picks her descent.

About half-way, she decides that she’s come the wrong way and tries to retreat.  She takes her time up the treacherous slope.  Slowly and carefully, she finds an easier path. Two thirds of the way down, the bank gives way underneath her weight, and she ungraciously slides the remaining distance.  With a quick shake, she stands and continues her journey.

Noise carries across the water to us.  The others.  We had forgotten the others.  Along the water’s edge, a kilometre or more away, the rest of our expedition – the non-kayakers – are beach-combing close a trapper’s hut.  Our bear is heading in their direction.  Zak Shaw, our adventure kayak specialist and guide, warns the shore party via two-way radio that the bear is heading in their direction, and fast.

We speculate that with the speed that she’s moving, the nanook would reach them before they all returned to the zodiacs.  And then the bear stops.  She sits.  Turning her large head, she looks long and hard at us.  Then she turns her head toward the commotion that drifts across the curve in the bay.  It’s not the rest of our party she’s after, but the spoils of the trappers drying their skins on the shore.  She could smell the drying hides miles away.  But there are 40 of our comrades in her way.

The sound of diesel engines fills the air as the IRBs leave the shore.  They throttle back as they approach our team, now in line with the bear.  With a big yawn, she lies down, and turns her head away from us all.  “Don’t be fooled,” Zak warns. He has seen this behaviour before.  “This is what they do.  Trick you into believing that they’re tired and not interested.  She wants us to get closer.”  Again, we kayakers look at each other with nervous smiles at the thought of impending ambush. 

With the whole expedition now together, we take turns slipping closer to her and drifting past.  We get as close as 50 metres.  Click! Snap! The whirr of camera shutters.  She lifts her head and gives another yawn in our direction before closing her eyes and resting her head on an outstretched paw. Except for the sound of photographers, there is silence.

Ten minutes pass in a flash.  First the zodiacs move off.  Us kayakers, bold and brazen, loiter to extend our time with the creature we had so ably spotted from the water.  This was our bear.  She gets to her feet and looks at us.  Approaching the waterline, she dips her foot into the chilly sea.  She rinses her head.  We decide the hint is strong enough, and paddle away from her and back to the waiting mother ship.  Excitement still has my chest pounding.

Rationale

G'day Troops

Welcome to the first blogpost of indelible ink.  For those of you unfamiliar with us, we are proud to refer you to our website at: www.indelibleimaging.com

Over the coming weeks, we will be posting images that have left a permanent impression on us and relay the stories behind their capture.  It is sometimes the simplest of images that provoke the greatest stories, and I hope you will find the same inspiration in them that we do.

Please feel free to comment, refer or ask questions of us and how we go about what we do.  You can contact us through our website or through admin@indelibleimaging.com

We hope you get as much pleasure out of them as the indulgence we feel sharing them.