Travelling Hopefully - Wombat!!

 The next day the Sun shone brightly.  Unfortunately it shone down onto a thick layer of cloud which the light, exhausted by its ninety two million mile journey, proved incapable of penetrating.  Between cloud and earth was a large amount of water moving as quickly as it could from the former to the latter.

The retired diplomat and I peered into the murk and mutually agreed that inactivity was the only sane course to follow.  At this point my correspondent bounced into the room radiating the kind of enthusiasm normally only seen in puppies and small children going to visit Santa.

“Who’s coming with me on a bushwalk?” she asked.  It is fair to say that the response was not entirely what she had hoped for.  I politely declined.  The retired diplomat was somewhat more forthright, nay, explicit in her refusal.

The three of us made our way to the resort lounge where the retired diplomat and I secured places in front of the fire and pulled out our books.  My correspondent plunged straight through into the rain saturated gloom and was immediately lost to view.  To be fair that was largely because we stopped looking.

“Do you think we’ll ever see her again?” I asked.

“See who?” asked the retired diplomat.

The hours flew by in well heated comfort.  The weather outside did a magnificent job of convincing us that our decision to stay inside was the only sane one.  Somewhere out there my correspondent was struggling through the rain and wind, matching her body against nature in the most primal of contests.  To this great battle it is fair to say that neither the retired diplomat nor myself gave the slightest thought.

At the time negotiated by the retired diplomat I wandered off for my massage.  I hold the massage responsible for everything that happened next.  I selected a massage that would “energise” me, whatever that means.  On completing the muscle manipulation equivalent of methamphetamine I discovered that my correspondent had returned cold, wet, muddy and deliriously happy.  Well she seemed happy and there was definitely delirium involved.

She extolled the delights of pointless exposure to the elements so effectively that I began to wonder how bad it could be.  At this point it is entirely possible that the massage oil had seeped into my brain.  Besides I really wanted to see a wombat and to hear my correspondent tell it vast herds of wombats roamed the land like the megalodons of old.

“I shall do it!” I announced, the invigorating effects of the massage still running through my body.  My correspondent cheered, the retired diplomat rolled her eyes and ordered another glass of wine.

In my defence the weather had improved over the course of the day.  The wind was merely biting rather than mauling, the rain had dropped from continuous to frequent and the mist had lifted to such an extent that it was possible to see the mist that concealed the mountains.  Previously that mist had been hidden by mist.

My enthusiasm carried me out the door and onto the bus that would take me to the national park on our doorstep.  While I was sitting there anticipating wombat flavoured glory I received a text from my correspondent.  She had photographed a wombat from the window of the lounge I had just left.  I was still cursing when the bus spat me out into the cold and fled before I could change my mind.  My massage induced energy was rapidly dribbling away.  Something else dribbling away was the massage oil that my masseuse had, for reasons of her own, rubbed into my scalp.  Under the impact of the icy rain said massage oil was trickling into my mouth.

With hope in my heart, rain in my eyes and massage oil in my mouth I set out across the alpine plain in search of wombats.  Or rather I set off just above the alpine landscape on a boardwalk built to protect the alpine landscape from the boots of all the idiots trying to cross it.  I clumped along the boardwalk enjoying the bracing (ie freezing and frequently wet) air and scanning the horizon for signs of wombats.

So deep in my search was I that I almost missed the couple on the boardwalk in front of me who were waving in my direction.  I stopped and looked down, there was a wombat six inches away from my foot.  I reeled in delight (or possibly it was the massage oil) and scrabbled for my camera.  Shortly afterwards I set off again leaving a spectacularly well photographed wombat in my wake.  Amount of interest the wombat took in the preceding; nil.

Determined to build on this initial success I carried on.  The open landscape changed to rock adorned with trees and the boardwalk graciously consented to permit my feet to touch the earth once more.  The landscape of hills, cliffs, forest and what looked like peat bogs was a spectacular symphony of grey.  I walked along a narrow, rocky path.  At least “path” is what it would be called in dry weather.  Currently a better term would be “stream”.

After a long soggy walk I encountered a sign directing me to Wombat Pool.  Inspired I pressed on and much gasping and heart palpitations later I arrived at Wombat Pool.  There was indeed a pool, and a complete absence of wombats.  In desperation I texted my correspondent 

“Where are the wombats?”

“Where are you?”

“Wombat Pool”

“Oh there aren’t any wombats there.”

Cursing I hurled myself down the track uttering blood curdling and utterly impotent threats against the twisted, malicious degenerate who had named Wombat Pool without apparently bothering to confirm the presence of wombats.  In addition to the disappointment was the fact that time was slipping by and I needed to be on the last bus out of Dodge if I didn’t want to spend the night here (for the record I didn’t).  My haste and anger are the reasons why I didn’t manage to get a photo of the large black wallaby that hopped across the path in front of me despite the fact that it paused for a decent period of time before losing patience and hopping away.  Fortunately I did manage to catch the bus.  Back at the resort my companions and ridiculous amounts of wine awaited.