Going Up in the World

It would appear that my apartment block is on a self improvement kick.  I came home the other day and the first thing I saw were freshly installed mirrors on poles in the driveway to assist motorists in not hitting things.  Actually the first thing I saw was a massive transit van making rather heavy weather out of reversing out of the driveway but once it was gone the second thing I saw was the mirrors which must have made the driver's life marginally easier.

Four of these concave (or possibly convex, they're definitely con-something) mirrors now stand proudly at the fringes of the driveway lending an air of spurious class to my decaying 1950s apartment block.  One gazes at them in all their glittery, reflective glory and can only assume that this must be the domicile of well heeled, thrusting professional types who can demand such driveway accessories so their late model sports cars and monstrously oversized SUVs don't get their fringes scratched on the way out of the driveway.  This is an impression that lasts until you tear your eyes away from the mirrors and cast them upon the apartment block they are decorating.  The let down must be extreme.  At that point you assume the mirrors have been installed so that the garbage trucks stored there don't bang into each other.

Presumably the mirrors are there to assist vehicles in the arduous task of entering and exiting the driveway.  The only other possibility is that somebody is going to bounce a ruby laser off them as part of some sort of low rent doomsday weapon.  If you hear word that an apartment block in Marrickville has taken over the world you know what happened.  Personally I would be surprised if anyone in my block has ambitions higher than low level meth dealer but I suppose everybody can dream.

 

While drivers may be grateful for their presence I have to admit that my own experience so far has been a little more problematic.  I shambled out of my driveway at 7.30 the next morning having completely forgotten their existence and nearly screamed when I looked up to find my distorted head gazing down at me from on high.  Let me tell you that a bloated version of my face is not want you want to see first thing in the morning if you want to maintain mental equilibrium for the remainder of the day.  You particularly don't want to see it a couple of feet above your head and apparently not attached to a body.  Once I got over the shock I attempted to slink out of the driveway without registering on a reflective surface.  I wasn't too successful in this as reflecting things slinking out of the driveway is pretty much why the mirrors have been installed.

Of course now I know they're there I can take advantage of the fact to cut some time out of my personal grooming regime.  From now on I'll be able to shave as I walk up the driveway.  Naturally the other people in my block will probably find this a bit weird but to be fair it isn't the most antisocial thing they've caught me doing in the driveway.

Travelling Pathetically - Battered, Scratched and Festooned with Baby Spiders

 Well it started off as a walk like any other.  Having exhausted most of the possibilities within walking distance of my home I looked a little further afield for a walk and settled on the Georges River.  The Georges River is the southernmost of the four major rivers in the Sydney area and is best known for having the highest dumped stolen car to water ratio in the southern hemisphere.  Nevertheless its quite nice to look at and the authorities have graced the less buildable parts with the title of Georges River National Park.  Most of the park is on the southern bank of the river.  I, in a spirit of sheer perversity decided to walk along the north.  I did actually have a reason.  Back in the mists of time (four years ago to be precise) I had had a surprisingly enjoyable time walking around the Salt Pan Creek wetlands and a glance at the map showed me that there was a decent strip of green between said wetlands and East Hills a suburb on the Georges River.  I decided that I would pop down to East Hills and see if I could walk back to the scene of my earlier triumph.

There turned out to be a bit of problem with that.  A closer examination of the map showed me that the strip of green between the two was intermittent at best and there would be a certain amount of walking through suburbs.  It was also not entirely clear whether there was actually a path through some of the green that did exist.  I dealt with this problem by ignoring it and hoping for the best.  Thus with optimism taking the place of common sense I hopped off the train at East Hills (which appeared to be closed) and pointed my nose towards the river.  I strolled through a park, overhead feathered swoopy things swooped featherily.  I wasn't quite sure what they were, probably crows but I like to think they were eagles.  The park ended at Henry Lawson Drive a road that would rapidly become my nemesis.  There was a fence to stop you crossing the road which was a problem as the river was on the other side.  I had to retrace my steps and find another way across the road.  Eventually I did so and found myself in a park on the riverbank.  This was picturesque but walking through a park is like walking across your back lawn with the added disadvantage that you can't tell all of the other people there to piss off.

Yes, ok quite picturesque really

The park in East Hills was named, in a burst of inspiration, East Hills Park and there were reeds and small beaches populated by little crabs all of whom fled into their holes at my approach and none of which hung around for a photo.  I walked through the park and wound up on Henry Lawson Drive.  Here's the thing about Henry Lawson Drive, except where it actually goes through an inhabited area they haven't bothered to make the slightest concession to pedestrians.  Walking along Henry Lawson Drive is a sure way to get yourself killed.  There are no footpaths except where houses actually front on to the thing.  Fortunately this was one of those spots.  I headed along aiming for the next bit of green, Monash Reserve.  The houses ended before I got there but I scurried along the road and managed to hit parkland before I decorated someone's bumper.  

Monash Reserve was slightly different to East Hills Park, it was less manicured for one thing.  I can hardly claim it was untamed bush but it was at least not quite bludgeoned completely to death bush.  A slimy looking creek oozed between overhanging trees and I felt quite happy with my choice as I strode along a path between the trees, which ended about thirty seconds later and I was once again in what was essentially a park.

A slimy looking creek

I walked across this park too.  A couple had pitched a tent there apparently under the impression that they were getting back to nature or possibly just further evidence of the housing crisis.  More reeds and river presented themselves for my delectation and since they had made an effort I took a photo to encourage them.

From Monash Reserve

Once across Monash Reserve it was back to Henry Lawson sodding Drive for another burst of suburban strolling.  Fortunately there was a footpath on this bit.  Unfortunately the footpath ended before I needed to get off the road.  I scurried along the shoulder until I found I path leading into the bush.  And bush there was because I had encountered Lambeth Reserve which had a genuine bush trail which extended for metres before coming to an end in yet another riverside park.  This time however I was not to be disappointed for the path (and the bush) reappeared on the other side of the park and I was able to make my way down to the river surrounded by trees.

Having arrived at the river a path led along the shore line with the river to my right and bush to my left.  I Left the frustrations of the suburbs (temporarily) behind me and struck out along the path.

Now this is a little more like it

The path skirted the waters edge indeed you can see from the above photo that it did more than skirt.  From time to time it struck out boldly across the river itself before returning to a more appropriate land based version.  I leaned on the bridge and looked out at the water.  Things went "glop" and I stared without success to see if I could find the glop origination point sadly I was unsuccessful.  A rather handsome bird slid into the water and submerged beneath surface.  I waited for quite a while but it didn't emerge again.  I hope I witnessed a water bird in all its glory and not some normal bird bringing an end to its miserable existence.  Pushing thoughts of avian suicide from my mind I carried on pausing only to photograph one of the smallest beaches I've ever seen.

A very small beach

The river curved in a bend to stop Picnic Point from falling into the water and the path (and therefore I) followed the same route.  East Hills was behind me now and the charming suburb of Picnic Point was my new location.  I say it was charming because I saw it at its best; bushland, a river, no houses and very few people.  Of course it couldn't last, as I approached the bend itself the hitherto accommodating population of Picnic Point lost all of their brownie points with me by pushing their dwellings as close to the river as possible.  What had been bushland became a narrow riverside park festooned with people and a beast that looked like someone had cross bred a dalmation with a great dane and given the resulting offspring steroids.  It was not unfriendly for which I was grateful as it could probably have killed me if it had accidentally trodden on me.

A glance at the map told me that this collection of foreshore parks went on for a while but then I could walk around a lagoon.  I paused for lunch in a convenient park and studiously ignored the bird eyeing the crumbs falling as I ate.  It tried to be nonchalant about the whole thing but every time I looked up the bird was a little closer staring innocently out over the river until I dropped my eyes again.  I left approximately thirty seconds before it decided to mug me.

I struck away from the river now heading towards that artery of annoyance Henry Lawson Drive.  Just on this one occasion however the road came up trumps.  The river was on one side of the road and the lagoon (and an associated walking track) were on the other.  There wasn't a formal pedestrian crossing but a path led to the road and continued on the other side with the distinct implication that if you survived the crossing you could continue your journey.  I did survive the crossing and was rewarding with the Yeramba Lagoon Loop  Track.  It will probably come as no surprise that I didn't in fact loop the lagoon.

I started off well though, the path passed conveniently close to the lagoon and I crossed a small creek on my way where a particularly handsome bird preened for my camera.

Yeramba Lagoon

A particulary handsome bird

I headed off through genuine bush and soon lost all sight of the lagoon.  What thirty seconds of research would have told me was that the lagoon was only the centrepiece of a chunk of bushland that was crisscrossed with a range of paths some of which indeed led back to the lagoon and others led up to the more inhabited parts of Picnic Point.

Roaming the wilds of Picnic Point

From time to time the happy shrieks (I presume they were happy, perhaps I'd better check the news) of other walkers interrupted my otherwise solitary roaming but with a little care I was able to avoid coming into contact with most of them.  Despite being unaware of the presence of a virtual road network of walking tracks I was aware that I was climbing which didn't seem conducive to reacquainting myself with the lagoon.  Eventually I pulled out my phone and realised I was in the middle of a spider web of tracks.  The other thing I was in the middle of was a spider web of spider webs.  Many of the tracks obviously weren't traveled terribly much and of course spiders had taken the opportunity to build their homes across them.  This turned out to be a terrible mistake as I blundered through cutting a swathe through their artfully constructed dwellings.

Definitely going up

 

A last glimpse of the lagoon before goodbye forever

As I climbed the bushland changed from the ferns and trees around the lagoon to the more traditional Australian bush of widely spaced trees, scrubby bushes and exposed sandstone.  It never ceases to amaze me how quickly that happens.  I have literally climbed fifty to a hundred metres at most and I'm in a completely different world.  The one constant was the inconveniently located spider webs.

A very different environment

I roamed up this track and wandered down that.  Despite the distance I was travelling I was doing it within quite a constrained area.  I had checked out the map and realised that when I got bored with this I could make my way along one of a number of tracks that would spit me out in the inhabited part of Picnic Point.  Then, according to my map, I could walk down a few suburban streets before picking up a firetrail that would take me to the next step on my journey, Boomerang Park.  Very technically this was correct.  But before I left this little patch of bush I was treated to a glorious bright red dragonfly which graciously paused on a branch for photos.

Now that's worth the price of admission

Eventually semi-aimless wandering palled and I emerged blinking from the bush into the afternoon sunlight where I rapidly discovered I had arrived just too late to be served coffee by the only convenient cafe.  Weary, dehydrated and craving caffeine I stumbled down the street towards the firetrail.  Here's a funny thing, I actually find it more exhausting and hard on my body to walk down a concrete footpath than to traipse through the bush.

Without fanfare I left Picnic Point and entered Revesby Heights.  I hadn't realised Revesby had heights, I was soon to discover it also had lowts.  According to my map the Gurawak Fire Trail would lead me through a stretch of bushland and arrive at Boomerang Park from where I would work out the rest of my trip.  As noted above this was technically correct.  

The firetrail skirted the edge of human development, there were suburban houses on my left and bushland sloping down to the river on my right.  I caught what would turn out to be my last glimpses of the Georges River as I went along.

A last glimpse of the Georges River

And of course the Clare McIntyre Memorial Fungus

I made my way cheerily through the bush and feeling, I will confess, rather pleased with myself.  So far my journey had worked out pretty much as planned and Salt Pan Creek was only a few kilometres ahead.  There was no obvious path out of Boomerang Park shown on the map but even if there wasn't I could simply retrace my steps and do a little more suburb hopping.

Then the path ended and I gazed down on Boomerang Park.  And I do mean "down".  The firetrail had followed the top of the hill and the park was at the bottom.  Between the two was a modest cliff or ambitious hillside depending on your definition and whether you have to climb up and down it.  There was no immediately obvious way of getting to the park.  I stopped in confusion for a moment wondering what to do.  Then I made what was in retrospect the second silliest decision of this walk.  While there wasn't an actual path it did seem as though a certain amount of scrambling and clinging onto convenient bushes would get me to the bottom in one piece.

Down I plunged following I suspect the same course that water would when it rained.  I hopped from rock to rock and forced my way through inoffensive bushes.  Ok I guess hillside is a better definition than cliff, it isn't as though I had to step out into space.  I arrived at the bottom sweaty, a little scratched and foolishly feeling quite pleased with myself.  I then discovered that there is literally no way out of Boomerang Park if you don't have a car.  Henry Lawson Drive in all its pedestrian hating glory bound one side and the rest was surrounded by the bush shrouded hillside devoid of paths that I had just descended.

I wandered around the park for a little wondering what the hell I was going to do.  Then I made the silliest decision of this walk.  On the other side of the park from where I had emerged an access path for some piece of electricity infrastructure presented itself.  Rather than retrace my steps which I already knew was manageable I would walk up this path and possibly the path itself would go further and I could make my way to the top.  It was obvious I was going to have to walk back along the firetrail, the issue was getting there.  I walked up the path, it ended very soon but there was a convenient rock so I pulled myself up it and kept on going.  I forced my way through some intervening bush until I encountered another rock I could pull myself up.  By this time I realised I had made a blunder but I was also surrounded by trackless bush and random rocks and going on seemed at least as useful as going back, assuming I could find back since I had left the path.  The bush grew thicker and the number of spiders I was dehousing became quite spectacular.  I'm pretty sure I'm the number one cause of arachnid homelessness in the Sydney reason.

Walking through the bush without a path to follow is actually very difficult since the bush itself is disinclined to get out of your way.  It's even harder when you're doing it uphill.  I was reduced to hurling myself at the bush and smashing my way through by brute force.  Obviously you have to be judicious, if you hurl yourself at a tree you're going to come off second best.  Slowly and painfully I made progress, turning aside occasionally when the bush was obviously too thick to penetrate.  I was exhausted, gasping, baby spiders I had recklessly dehoused were crawling over the accessible bits of my body and my body was wet and sticky with sweat.  Then I looked down at my hand and realised it wasn't just sweat making me wet and sticky.  Using my body as a battering ram had been moderately successful at the price of covering myself with scratches (perhaps wearing a singlet wasn't the brightest idea) one of said scratches was deep enough to draw blood which was now disporting itself all over my hand and, because I had just pulled it out, my phone as well.

It is amazing the among of blood that can be produced from the most trivial of injuries and the injury was trivial, a tiny cut on the finger.  At home you'd put a bandaid on it and get on with your day.  I took a much needed rest while I cleaned off such of the evidence as I could find, mopped the sweat (and spiders) from my brow and took stock.  Despite my somewhat chaotic approach I was making progress in so far as I was higher and further from my starting point.  Encouraged, or possibly with few choices I plunged on and almost banged into somebody's back fence.  Here's the thing, I was likely never more than a couple of hundred metres from this housing at any time.  The bushland was a tiny fringe between the houses up on Revesby Heights and the park which was down at river level.  A walkable path or a flight of steps and you could probably get from one to the other in about two minutes.  Absent a walkable track it had taken me considerably longer and used up all of my reserves.  I followed the fences until I rediscovered the firetrail and walked (stumbled) back down it until I came to a street.  I sat down, dislodged a few more spiders and called an Uber.  The driver politely didn't comment about the exhausted, bloody individual who got into the back of his car and I left before he discovered the spiders.

Silly After Action Report - Rebels Roost

"All I'm saying is that I don't want to be here.  When the sergeant called for volunteers I thought he said "a career move".  The soldier stopped fiddling with the recoilless rifle for a moment and peered down the barrel as if hoping to find a transfer order inside.

"Technically he wasn't lying," replied another scraping rust off a bazooka, "Where the hell did they get this stuff?  Army surplus?  Hey what did you do with all of the white phosphorous rounds?  The captain wanted those up with the tanks and the mortars by dawn."

"Do you know how heavy those things are?  I dumped them in a creek, who's gonna miss them?"   

I don't play Korean War scenarios very often.  I haven't bought the module and don't know the rules.  The reason for that is simple.  Having spent thirty years learning (or, more accurately, not learning) the rules of ASL I find myself disinclined to attempt to learn any more.  Possibly as a reaction to this aggressive laziness my regular opponent Dave has produced one Korean War scenario after another.

"This one doesn't have too many extra rules," he'll whisper seductively while flaunting a brand new sheet of cardstock designed to entice.  Finally he sent me a batch of about a dozen scenarios so with a deep sigh I surrendered to the inevitable.  We played RPT 143 - Rebel's Roost which sees a force of rather brittle Americans backed up by some wholly inadequate tanks attempting to push tough North Koreans off a hilltop.  For my sins I would command the Americans.  

To win the Americans have to clear levels 2&3 of good order North Korean MMCs.  It must be admitted that I have a decently sized force.  I have thirteen first line squads, a pair of elite 667s and two 546 second liners making up the numbers.  These are equipped with two medium machine guns, three light machine guns, a pair of 60mm mortars, three 1945 vintage bazookas and a 57mm recoilless rifle.  Four officers spearheaded by a doughty 9-2 are in command and four M-24 Chaffee tanks are present in support.  The devil is in the details, these six (with two exceptions) morale troops have an ELR of only two.  I wondered how many first line squads I would have left at the end of the game.

Dave commanding the North Koreans had twelve squads, three elite and the remainder first line.  They are commanded by a trio of leaders one of which Dave swapped out for a 10-0 commissar.  They have two light machine guns and a back breakingly heavy medium which they must have got at a Soviet garage sale.  Supporting this none too shabby force are a pair of T34-85 tanks and a 82mm mortar which threatened to make my approach to the hill a death zone.  He is also allocated six foxholes to hide in as the Americans spray their firepower around.

Here is the set up.  Dave's two tanks are on the level 3 hills.  Foolishly I thought the mortar would be there too

I made a bad mistake with my initial set up.  I set up my 9-2 officer with the two mmgs to act as a firebase, fair enough but I allocated both my elite squads to machine gun duties.  I should have deployed a first liner or even a second liner and and had each gun manned by a halfsquad.  This didn't look like an issue at the start but would come back to bite me later as I tried to make my final push and found myself short of bodies.

Dave's tanks are formidable, their guns can rip through anything I possess and their armour is pretty resilient against the sort of firepower I can bring against it.  Being unable to effectively destroy them on the first turn my aim was to shroud them in as much smoke (WP actually) as I could.  WP turned out to be a little less available than I had hoped nevertheless by firing off both mortars and the MA of all four tanks I managed to drop two WP rounds (my last) onto his tanks.  The attack could begin. 

Begin the attack did with my infantry sweeping across the valley towards his position.  I then discovered his mortar was absolutely not where I expected it to be.  My infantry charged enthusiastically into its line of sight.  With a cackle of malice Dave opened fire and broke the mortar.  The very next turn he destroyed it attempting a repair.  Luck it would appear was showering down on me.

At the end of American turn one things look good.  The hill awaits and his fearsome mortar is gone

In Dave's turn something showered down on me but it wasn't luck.  Some people might attempt to move their T-34s out of the billowing clouds of chemical laced smoke that enveloped them.  Dave sneered at such pessimists.  One of his T-34s fired out of WP at a range of 17 hexes, buttoned up with red to hit numbers.  He hit and burned one of my Chaffees before it could move.  Then he did it again, at least this one didn't burn.  My armour force had been halved in the first turn.  I raved and wept for forms sake but frankly I had been somewhat unsure of what to do with these vehicles now that they had fired off their WP and at least the decisions I had to make had been somewhat reduced.  

In my turn the remaining two tanks attempted to flee the hill, Dave caught and burnt a third and the sole survivor fled for the safety of a patch of woods where it remained trembling and trying to recover its equilibrium.  Meanwhile Dave proved that his tanks were perfectly capable of firing out of WP and hitting infantry as well which messed up my left flank a bit.

The armour battle such as it was is over but my troops have reached the hill

Despite the burning metal my infantry (with a few exceptions) had made it on to the hill and now had nothing but brush to protect them from blood crazed T-34s.  Dave's infantry for the most part huddled in their foxholes or attempted to dig more.  My mmg firegroup was doing sterling work shooting his troops out of the nearest foxhole unfortunately they simply fled back to the 10-0 commisar hiding behind the ridge who automatically rallied them.  I think I broke the same squad about four times.

With the American armour dealt with Dave moved his tanks forward slightly to menace what was obviously my main attack on the right.  Some defensive fire produced an American hero who would turn out to be Rambo on steroids (OK, Rambo on more steroids).  One T-34 still lurked in the remaining WP but the other rolled out onto the hill to menace the infantry.  

Tanks are coming out to play

I needed to get rid of the tanks and strangely I had a plan (for a given definition of "plan") and even more strangely it sort of worked (for a given definition of "worked").  I boldly moved a squad with a bazooka towards his tank still shrouded in WP, of course its defensive fire sent my boys back in bloody ruin but that was just a ruse as another squad guided by my hero moved next to them.  In the advance phase they would move in and rip the thing apart in CC.  Meanwhile I moved other troops forward to "menace" the tank in the open.  With Dave's attention nicely engaged I sent my remaining Chaffee on a death ride which resulted in it screeching to a halt a few hexes away from the rear of his T34 whereupon Dave slewed the entire tank around, rolled the necessary three to hit and killed the Chaffee before it could fire a shot.  At that point my conversation was reduced to incoherent gibbering.  Dave didn't seem to notice.

Tank killing plan partially successful

Over on the left a maniacal rate tear on the part of one of my mortars had broken the squad he had in a foxhole on level 2 and I slipped forward to occupy that to discourage a return.  I had now reached Dave's main position, hidden behind the level three hill hexes.  Here his best officer (except that damn commissar) commanded a mmg and elite squad in a foxhole with another squad nearby to act as protection.  My close combat victory had resulted in a squad and a hero standing on top of the hill staring directly down at his main defensive position.  The WP had now drifted away and a whole bunch of North Koreans took the opportunity to pour fire at them.  The squad broke of course but the hero shrugged off all fire and was still doing so when the game came to an end causing Dave no end of frustration.

But what about my tank killing plan which seemed to have faltered halfway through?  Well one of my soldiers blew the cobwebs off an old bazooka and nailed the remaining T34 through the frontal armour with a kill roll that was almost Dave-esque in its improbability.  Suddenly Dave's armour was gone.  It remained to be seen if I could capitalise. 

The North Korean armour is gone but there are a disturbing number of broken US squads

Yes, Dave's armour was gone and the remainder of his position was at my mercy, so to speak.  Another way of putting it was Dave's troops were in a perfect position to spray the poor morale Americans with fire if they dared advance.  For fire support I had two 60mm mortars and it has to be admitted that they did their best.  Spectacular rate tears were the order of the day as they impotently but frequently pounded his position.  Results were a little thinner on the ground but they certainly kept Dave on the edge of his seat.

I took advantage of the newly provided cover (a wrecked T34) to insert a squad and leader into his forward foxhole on the right.  My hero still ruled the hill.  I had hoped that the foxhole might protect my guys against the inevitable fire to come.  I was wrong and the next couple of turns would involve various American squads advancing into that foxhole and being shot out of it in the next firephase.  I was breaking his squads in the rear but they just stepped back one hex, got rallied by the commissar and rejoined the fray.

Up until this point our snipers hadn't taken any part in proceedings but Dave's now stepped up and put a bullet through the shoulder of my 9-2.  This was disheartening but not terribly serious, he was still effectively an 8-1 and three movement points don't matter when you're not going anywhere.

Tank wrecks litter the battlefield but Dave clings on to the remaining level 2 hill hexes

I tried to spread out my forces on the right so that a lucky shot wouldn't obliterate a large chunk of my force.  On the left where my "force" had been reduced to a squad and a half they simply prayed and hoped that the mortar would remove the opposition in front of them.  At this point I remembered the recoilless rifle that had been dutifully hauled around by a squad for much of the game.  Through sheer good luck this piece managed to drop a WP round on his mmg position thus at least hampering his efforts to shoot out of it.  My own sniper then targeted his 9-1 leader and wounded him in a tit for tat exchange to avenge my own wounded officer.

Things don't seem to have changed materially since the last picture

At this point I realised another mistake I had made early on.  Having held back my best leader to command the firegroup I had naturally sent all of my other officers forward to lead the attack.  What this meant was that there was nobody to rally the now quite numerous broken units piling up in between.  Of course when you have a broken morale of eight you can expect to self rally quite a few.  Or at least a few.  Or at least one or two.  One or two did indeed self rally but I felt the absence of a leader to rally the rest.  Particularly since Dave's commissar "encouraged" any broken troops back into the battle within a turn (and only killed one halfsquad along the way).  I made a comment about how I intended my mortars to shoot my troops forward and promptly broke one of them.  Karma is not just a bitch, she's a bitch with a sick sense of humour.

Things still don't seem to have changed much with the exception of a broken mortar and more American squads down

Time was starting to run out and I hadn't made any appreciable progress towards driving the rest of Dave's force off the hill.  I managed to break his elite squad manning the mmg and thought my time had come.  I then inflicted a morale check on a first line unit which promptly battle hardened into an elite squad and remanned the machine gun.  Each time I attempted to push forward those squads would break leaving me in much the same position as before but with fewer squads.  Thanks to the attentions of his commissar Dave actually wound up with more unbroken squads than I had.  

With my troops unable to cross the last hundred metres or so I gave the concession with one turn to go.  I had come close but not quite close enough.  Congratulations to Dave who stuck to a well thought out defensive plan even when it looked like things weren't going his way.  Korean War or not both Dave and I thought this was an excellent scenario with lots of fun for both players.

Two American soldiers hiding behind a tree peered out as the sounds of battle faded.

"Do you think its over?" asked one.

"One way or another," replied the other, "are you regretting dumping those WP rounds?"

"I've thought long and hard about it and the answer is no."

"What are you going to say if the captain asks?"

"The last time I saw the captain he was hiding under a bush trying to dig his way back to the States."

"That'll save Graves Registration some time."

Travelling Pathetically - Spit Edition

 OK, so I couldn't resist that title but for the more delicate of sensitivity among you permit me to assure you that it merely relates to the Spit Bridge, the starting point for this little stroll.  Having made my way (in widely spaced stages) from the Spit Bridge back to Milsons Point I decided to complete the efffort by walking from the Spit Bridge to Manly.  As is usual when I have these bright ideas I managed to undertake it on a day when it was blazing hot but I prefer sunshine to rain particularly given my propensity for walking down creek beds and river valleys.

This was hardly striking out into the great unknown, the Spit to Manly walk is an established feature on the hiking and tourist trail and for the most part the path was only marginally less difficult than walking on a treadmill.  I pottered across the Spit Bridge and down a flight of stairs on the other side.  On the way a gave a polite greeting to a couple of guys coming the other way.  This would become a rather tedious routine.

Ducking under the Spit Bridge to start my walk

My previous walk involved a lot of walking around headlands and so will this one so as you can see originality isn't one of my besetting sins.  A couple of minutes quick walk across a neatly trimmed reserve and I was ready to plunge into the wild bushland.

Hopefully I can force my way along this narrow and overgrown track

Despite the suspiciously good condition of the track I was surrounded by greenery which took the edge off a day that was both cloudy and oppressively humid.  The path led along the water's edge (everything else being covered in suburbs) so picturesque views of the harbour or at least small parts of it were frequently dangled for my entertainment.

A small part of Sydney Harbour dangled for my entertainment

Bush and sandstone flanked my left with the harbour on my right.  You really can't avoid sandstone in Sydney unless you walk around with your eyes shut.  Despite the opinion of those who know me I don't actually do that, often.  I walked through what would be coastal forest if it extended a little further.  I was heading towards Clontarf beach.  Not that I was interested in Clontarf beach, it was just in my way.

Coastal rainforest in miniature

If you've been reading this blog for a while you're probably sick to death of lizards by now.  Not me, I will never get sick of lizards and certainly not while they're posing obligingly for photos directly in front of me.

Lizard!!

 

Don't worry, there will be more lizard shots later

Having obliging photographed a frankly shamelessly self promoting lizard I moved on.  It is said that if you find a lizard in your house it symbolises something new in your life such as, for example, an unexpected reptilian house guest.  I've no idea what it means if a lizard finds a human in its house although based on my experiences with this one it means photo opportunities and the possibility of becoming the world's first reptilian influencer.

The lizard had wisely picked a sunny rock on which to expose itself but once past it the trees closed in again hemming me to the shoreline.  Small rivulets trickled down sandstone outcrops and trees fought each other for shade provision duties.  I was grateful because the earlier clouds had given up and gone home leaving the sun in undisputed possession of the field.

This is probably within spitting distance of some very expensive real estate

Little did I know it but my time in the cool forest was coming to an end.  The path I was following had taken me around Shell Cove and now deposited me on a street next to Clontarf beack.  The beach and the park attached absolutely heaved with people despite, well I'll let the photo say it for me.

Enjoy your day at the beach guys.

My usual disinclination towards crowds of people wasn't exactly helped by the prospect that they had spent much of the day splashing around in sewage.  I hastily made my way through the park and hit the track on the other side.

Here a distinct change in vegetation greeted me.  Whereas the first part of my walk had been through cool semi rainforest type surrounds now I was climbing rugged terrain (there were steps) and the surrounding bush was of a hardier, scrubbier variety.  It also provided less protection from the sun.  Having successfully navigated Clontarf Beach I was now walking around or at least in the general vicinity of Dobroyd Head.  

Spindly trees and bushes with teeth would become more prevalent from now on

Now considerably above the waterline I traipsed across Dobroyd Head, I was now walking through endangered heath land which I had encountered before at North Head.  As with North Head the local authorities had laid down a raised walking path so we didn't sully the earth with the touch of our boots.  The area had a somewhat charred look due to some fires last year apparently but there was plenty of green among the black although undergrowth was still a little lacking.

The sound of birdsong drew me towards a bush by the side of the path.  I stared for a while, there was a round sort of leafy, twiggy thing.  Could this be a bird nest?  I peered closer and a bird flew out and almost hit me in the face.  I stumbled back reflecting in my panic that "killed after an encounter with a finch" would be an embarrassing thing to put on one's obituary.  Fortunately I recovered before I tumbled the eighteen inches or so to the heathland below.

A bird nest, I know this because a bird flew out of it

Gasping after my brush with death I stumbled on in a daze.  Tourists were becoming more and more prevalent.  In fact they were all over the damned place.  I gave a gritted smile and polite greetings to those I passed and as a consequence probably engaged in more conversation than I had all week.  I passed one large group of tourists with the obligatory greetings but then headed down a side path to see some Aboriginal rock carvings.  As a result when I returned to the main path I had to go through all the greetings a second time when I passed them again.  I don't want you to think I'm in any way misanthropic I'm as fond of my fellow human as the next man, as long as the next man is my Father, its just that I rather like wandering alone and this was turning into something akin to a social event.  On the other hand given the views one could hardly blame them.

Aforementioned views

As I went along muttering anti tourist curses under my breath the landscape changed from "somewhat charred" to "distinctly charred".  Ashy soil was more in evidence than undergrowth and the surviving vegetation still had a rather shellshocked appearance.

Distinctly charred

I was actually heading towards somewhat familiar territory.  On the other side of Dobroyd Head was Balgowlah Heights and Forty Baskets Beach a place where I lived briefly in a youth that was not so much misspent as simply spent.  Winding my way down towards the waterline again I obviously passed the bushfire zone and entered lusher, wetter climes more akin to the vegetation I'd encountered at the beginning of my walk.  Once again I encountered a gaggle of tourists but this time I really couldn't blame them for gathering because a lizard was proudly posing on a bridge over a small creek and was surrounded by eager photographers.

Doing its best Smaug impersonation

Despite the writing on the bridge on the left I've no idea if this is an Eastern Water Dragon but I checked wikipedia and the colouring seems to match.  Let's face it, David Attenborough I am not.

This is a completely different lizard I encountered a little further along

Glutted on lizards I made my way through the reserve that surrounds Forty Baskets Beach and then along the shoreline itself for a while.  That wasn't my choice, the track ended at the shoreline with a distinct hint that surely I could find my own way for a little while before picking up the track again at the other end.

Aforementioned shoreline

And for no reason at all, a pelican

That was the end of the bush part of the bushwalk.  Ahead of me lay a kilometre or two of walking through well sculpted shoreline parks until finally I reached my destination.  The most common sight along that last stretch were signs everywhere telling people to keep their dogs on a lead to help protect the penguins.  I looked quite closely but I didn't see a single penguin.  I suppose it's possible the last one was savaged to death by a dog yesterday.  Once I arrived in Manly there was nothing else to do except buy coffee and catch a ferry home.  I could have joined friends who were apparently in a bar about a hundred metres from where I turned up but I didn't find that out until I got home by at which point I wasn't going to turn around and go back.