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.