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.