Travelling Pathetically - Unexpected Eel Edition

 After semi triumphantly completing a section of the Great North Walk the previous week I decided to build on that fungus ridden victory by going to the other extreme and doing a section of the "Great West Walk".  Being somewhat less blessed with hilly ground than Sydney's northern suburbs the western regions tend to have been built over to an extent that some would term maniacal.  Nevertheless a selection of parks, reserves and the occasional concrete lined creek have been somewhat tenuously linked together to form a walking trail. A fair amount of said walking trail is actually wandering through suburban streets where the most likely form of wildlife is out of control teenagers.  It does however cross the Western Sydney Parklands.  This is a large chunk of open land that has unaccountably not been built on yet.  Making a virtue of a coincidence the state government has turned the lot into "the Western Sydney Parklands" it is apparently one of the largest urban parks in the world. Excited reports on my trail app announced sightings of kangaroos so I knew straight away that I wasn't going to see those. My leech non-experience still burned in my brain.

The walk I selected took me from Blacktown railway station and after sixteen odd kilometres of suburban streets, random parks, shabby creeks and the vaunted Western Sydney Parklands finally spat me out at Rooty Hill station a little further up the line. I alighted at Blacktown, western Sydney's cultural mecca (no wait, that's the Rooty Hill RSL) and blundered around the station for fifteen minutes until my trail app graciously condescended to inform me that I was on the right track. The day was hot and I reached up to adjust my hat to discover that I had left it behind. My brain baked quietly in my skull as I set off.

Blacktown may not be a cultural Mecca but its doing its best to be a transport one

The first part of the walk was a tedious traipse down suburban streets interrupted when the "trail" crossed Blacktown showgrounds which has a fair bit of open space, the occasional tree and a wetland.  It isn't a natural wetland rather this is a stormwater filtration system which allows the otherwise grubby water to be used for such purposes as watering the showground. I don't know if these sort of environmental cleansing projects assist terribly much but they're certainly more appealing to walk across than a water treatment plant.  Plus I saw a dragonfly!

This is not a dragonfly, it is a pair of pointy headed pigeons (I may have clicked on the wrong photo)

 

Now this is a dragonfly

The pleasant haven provided by the showgrounds soon gave way to more suburban streets and busy main roads.  I choked on exhaust fumes and thought about trees as I plodded down the streets.  I was wearing hiking boots and carrying a backpack, other pedestrians looked at me as though I were mad.  Before I plunged back into semi-nature I encountered what must be one of the most dubiously named medical practices I've ever encountered.  The Lourdes Medical Centre.

The Lourdes Medical Centre

I love this as the name of a medical centre.  The marketing slogans write themselves; "Lourdes Medical Centre, if you survive it's a miracle" or possibly "Lourdes Medical Centre, place your faith in God, as opposed to our staff". The ensuing giggles (I am pathetically easy to amuse) kept me going through several kilometres of trudging along concrete footpaths veering occasionally into parks that resembled large lawns. 

I saw this from the street, my path didn't take me anywhere near it

The trail app had boasted of "remnant woodland" as a highlight of the walk.  As I trudged through a park I saw a tree.  I guess a tree counts as remnant woodland.

 

Remnant woodland

But the park had other attractions. A sudden commotion at ankle level brought my gaze down and I saw a pair of indian mynahs monstering a crane. The mynahs buggered off but the crane posed for a number of photos most of which weren't any good.

The best of some not terribly good crane photos

My mood was enhanced when I came across what could broadly be described as a creek. That is it was too wide to be a gutter and not deep enough to be a storm water channel. 

A creek, allegedly

 

A dragonfly hovering over the noxious waters

 

This was in fact Breakfast Creek, a watercourse that would be a largely absent companion for the next part of my walk.  The environmental report on Breakfast Creek makes rather depressing reading but still it was a waterway, trees lining its artificially enhanced banks.  My walk didn't take me near it, rather it paralleled the creek's course at sufficient distance to ensure none of the walkers would inadvertently drown. Eventually I got sick of this and plunged down a narrow side path that took me to the creek in all its scummy glory.

Breakfast Creek again. This is actually a rather flattering photo

I gazed at the murky waters. Then looked aside as more dragonflies disported themselves for my entertainment. A flicker of movement caught the corner of my eye and I turned just in time to see an eel sliding past a discarded shopping trolley. As I stared the eel broke the surface, writhing before sinking back into the water.  Sadly I had no time for a photo and the eel didn't reappear but my entire attitude towards Breakfast Creek was transformed.  I love me an eel and the presence of one in Breakfast Creek simply reinforces the sheer indestructibility of them as a species.  Incidentally the birds in the photo above made themselves scarce shortly afterwards.  The last time I saw the eel it was heading in their direction.

I spent a bit more time at the creek hoping the eel would return and failing to take photos of dragonflies.  Dragonflies are another one of my favourite bits of nature. I love the activity and the glittering colours.  The knowledge, recently gained, that they are murderously lethal predators only adds to their appeal.  Unfortunately they're not terribly easy to photograph.

Leaving aside Breakfast Creek I resumed my journey.  The plodding through suburbs was almost over as the park that Breakfast Creek infested led to the Western Sydney Parklands.  Well actually it led to Quakers Hill Parkway but that in turn led me to the parklands.  A neat sign announced my entry into this hallowed ground and straightaway things were different.  Open plains stretched before me with remnant woodland lurking at a discreet distance.  Even the human habitation took on a slight rural air with farming equipment and a horse that looked like it had been the subject of an unsuccessful mummification attempt.

A badly mummified horse

Stepping away from the suburbs I plunged into a reasonable approximation of nature. 

See, nature

There was a jauntiness to my exhausted stumble as I strolled through one of the biggest urban parks in the world.  There was plenty of open plain where kangaroos could frolic, none did so.  In the background the remnant woodland kept far enough away from the trail so that anybody walking with a chainsaw couldn't trip and accidentally cut down a tree.

Parkland, trees lurking at a safe distance

Another creek presented itself for my delectation, it didn't look much better than the previous one but was somewhat larger.  Going by my map I think this was Eastern Creek into which Breakfast Creek deposited its fetid waters a little further downstream.

Eastern Creek (I think)

 Incidentally can we have a word about our colonial forebears naming habits.  Breakfast Creek, Eastern Creek, they weren't exactly stretching the limits of their imagination were they?  At least I hope they weren't.

The sun beat down as I made my way through open parklands and the occasional motorway.  Wildflowers (at least I assume they were wild) grew among the grasses.  On the way I took a series of photos of bush with a tiny blue splodge in the middle of them.  These were a series of attempts to photograph the superb fairy wren a flighty little blue bird that behaves as though it has a severe amphetamine addiction.  I see them frequently on my walks and would love to get a photo but the most I've managed to achieve is random blue splodges.  

 

The best random blue splodge photo

I was heading towards the Nurragingy Reserve (now that's a name although knowing my luck it probably means "breakfast" in the local indigenous tongue).  Here the woodlands, creek and path had come together to provide a proper bush experience.  The locals had celebrated the fact by building a miniature railway, unfortunately it wasn't running the day I went. I also walked through the only natural wetland in the Blacktown region.  As is traditional boardwalks had been built so you didn't get your feet wet.  The other thing preventing your feet from getting wet was the absence of water.  I guess its been a dry Summer.

Dryland or at the very best dampland

 

Leaving behind the dryland I wandered out of the bush into a carpark.  The carpark was attached to an ornamental pond and a Chinese garden.  People thronged so I decided to leave but took a photo of some cute birds and an impressive duck before I did so.

A cute bird I think we can all agree

And that is quite an impressive duck

My journey wasn't over but the most interesting parts were.  Leaving the Chinese garden behind me I wandered on and wound up on a cycleway that paralleled the M7 motorway.  Once that was behind me I found myself in Rooty Hill and stumbled eagerly towards the train station and my ticket home.  I had walked the best part of seventeen kilometres and was definitely looking forward to a rest.  The train journey from Rooty Hill to Blacktown took all of four minutes.

 

Banging and Bouncing My Way to Castle Hill

 For those of you who glanced hastily at the title and anticipated a titillating and possibly even explicit account of my journey prepare to be disappointed.  Those of you who know me better will wonder why I was going to Castle Hill in the first place.  Well there was a modest bushwalk emanating from that august location so I called upon public transport to deliver me within shouting distance of its start.

The first mode of transportation that my government funded frustration service provided was a bus.  It shouldn't have been a bus but the government has recently shut down rail services to my inoffensive suburb while it readies the line for the sexy new metro trains which are soon* to be sweeping along it.  To compensate for the lack of trains they have very kindly persuaded a bunch of bus drivers to take batches of desperate commuters from a largely random street near (but not too near) the train station and dump them at Sydenham which is still blessed with rail access.

The buses are rather slick and sexy things, all automated voices and doors that hiss when they open.  I love a door that hisses when you open it.  There's just one problem, every time I stand up from my seat I bang my head on the roof.  This has happened so often now that if I was a footballer I would be sent from the field for a concussion test.  Actually if I were a footballer I would be sent from the field due to age, incompetence and general lack of fitness but a concussion test would definitely follow probably on the selector who sent me out onto the field in the first place.

The bus roof doesn't appear to be particularly low nobody, myself included has trouble standing in the aisle but yet the head thumping remains.  It's not as though I'm particularly tall, in fact "particularly tall" are two of the words most commonly not used to describe me along with "ruggedly handsome" and "probably sane".  I presume the bus has booster seats that project its passengers high into the air and prompt the less observant of their passengers to misjudge the distance between head and ceiling when rising to depart.

Once at Sydenham I fled the concussion bus rubbing my scalp and headed for the metro.  Sydenham is where the metro currently ends while they ready the line beyond.  A sleek gleaming metro arrives every few minutes to whisk its passengers to other points in Sydney at breakneck speed.  In fact its so good that in order to maintain passenger frustration levels at an appropriately high level the planners had to deliberately minimise the number of automatic gates offering entry to the station leading to a raving scrum at the entrance as far too many people attempt to enter and leave at the same time.

Assuming you survive the trip through the entrance gates (children and the elderly were being crushed underfoot as I entered) a very few minutes will see you stepping onto a driverless tube which is simultaneously Sydney's latest transport option and the government's most recent attempt to break the power of the transport union.  Inside seats apparently designed to accommodate an anorexic super-model (ie, any of them) have been placed along the walls of the carriage to prevent you looking out.  If you have eaten a meal in the last week you will not fit into these seats.

Once the doors slam the metro is off and it has to be admitted it is fast.  It zips along its designated track at speeds that leave staid, non-metro trains gasping with envy.  The journey is not however entirely smooth.  The metro is not a particularly comfortable ride.  It bounces and judders quite a bit as it eats up the track.  Once the harbour is crossed the juddering increases to the point where at least one passenger was concerned for the fillings in his teeth.  It wasn't doing my concussion any good either.  Still discomfort is compensated for by speed.  In an almost embarrassingly short time I was deposited in Castle Hill ready to commence by bushwalk.  The headspins, bleeding ears and sudden inability to see the colour blue were a small price to pay for such convenience.

* "soon" being a relative and flexible term which can mean anything between "tomorrow" and "Never, how dare you even ask you godforsaken peasant. Begone, your presence pollutes my sight!"

Travelling Pathetically - Fungus Frenzy

With apparently nothing else to do I took the train to Thornleigh in Sydney's leafy northern suburbs to hop on to the section of the Great North Walk that takes one from Thornleigh to Hornsby another suburb in Sydney's leafy northern suburbs. Generally speaking "leafy" means "wealthy" as the average income of a suburb's population can usually be derived from the number of trees that the developers permitted to remain standing.  In this case additional leafiness is gained by the fact that a lot of the land on either side turned out to be rather difficult to build on and therefore was classified as a national park in a traditional case of making a virtue out of a necessity.

As usual I needed to wander through the leafy streets of Thornleigh before I plunged behind someone's house and entered an area where leaves (and their associated trees) predominated.  I had looked up this walk on my trail app and had been encouraged by the enthusiastic reports of greenery, birds and wildlife.  A closer glance indicated that the wildlife was mainly leeches but I was encouraged nonetheless.  It has been a long time since I saw a leech.

 

Entry to the walk. No leeches yet but a brown parrot looking bird hiding behind the leaves

 

A creek almost immediately presented itself and I clumped along being as leech aware as possible.  For those of you who can't bear the suspense I have to say I didn't see a leech the entire journey.  Perhaps somewhat more encouragingly apparently they didn't see me.

A little creek

Soon leech disappointment would be driven from my mind.  As if to compensate for the absence of blood sucking invertebrates the bushland threw an absolute frenzy of fungus at me.  These had the advantage of being more photogenic and less likely to deprive me of vital fluids.  Things started modestly with a single glossy black mushroom (or toadstool or whatever) sitting in proud isolation beckoning me onwards.

 

Quite a handsome little chap

But this was a mere introduction to what turned out to be a riot of fungal profusion (there's a cream for that) which greeted me as I pushed further into the bush.  The next section of this entry is simply an orgy of fungus photos.  I didn't even bother giving the Clare McIntyre award; there were simply too many candidates.

 

 

 

Ok, I have to admit that I might have been getting a little obsessed by this point but the sheer number and variety of fungus and fungus related entities on offer was a little overwhelming.  At this stage you would be forgiven for thinking that I just went to a mushroom farm but no these presented themselves along my walk.

As for the walk itself the first half was little more than a fungus point to point.  On the occasions that I looked up from fungus photos the bush was its appropriate, appealing self.  The creek (or possibly another one) bubbled picturesquely and it was easy to forget it was largely stormwater and sewage overflow.  The term "stormwater" incidentally goes some way to explaining the profusion of fungi.  There had been a fair bit of rain recently and the fungi had taken full advantage.

The creek doing creeky things

 

Still the bush bushed around me as bush does inviting the occasional photograph as I attempted to overcome my fungus monomania.

Bush

As I carried on I noted the general downward nature of my progression and the dire warnings from the trail app reviews that the walk ended in a nasty set of steps to regain an altitude deemed suitable for the building of suburbs.  

Going down

 

I also noticed water dripping down my back.  I looked up but rain was nowhere in evidence.  Fishing in my backpack I discovered that I hadn't properly capped my water bottle and that half the precious fluid it contained (for the sake of a family friendly blog let's call it water) was now sloshing about in my pack.  Here's the strange thing about losing water.  I take a water bottle with me on these hikes but I don't generally drink all that much of it.  Now that water was scarce I found myself gripped with a frenzied desire for more of it.  My eyes were glazed, my tongue black and hanging out, no wait; that's the syphillis but you get the general idea.  From that point on fungus and water occupied my thoughts to the exception of everything else.  What made it worse was that as I descended further into the valley water was in abundance all around me.

Trickle

 

A more staid and sedentary body of water

It was while I was examining this water (and wondering if I dared drink any) that I saw it; red, round and glistening waiting for my approach.  I went into full leech defence mode running in tiny circles and trying (and failing) to scale a nearby tree until I realised it was a flower petal that was curled up and floating in the water.  One of the reasons why I walk by myself is so that there are fewer witnesses when I make an absolute idiot of myself.  I paused next to a nearby log to compose myself before carrying on.

A nearby log. The presence of fungus on it is a pure coincidence

 I was still heading down, the sound of gurgling water just out of reach tormenting me.  The scenery got more rainforesty and less Australian bushy (although to be fair the rainforest was also Australian bush) as I progressed.

I'd like to say I was using the contrast of light and shade to make an atmospheric photo but that's just what the light was like

 The gurgling of water was getting louder and I gurgled back in response.  Peering through the trees I could make out water thrashing itself into a frenzy as it poured over obdurate rocks on its way to the sea.  At least I assume that's where it was going, it seemed like a safe bet at the time.

Water through the trees

I stumbled towards the sound of cool sweet water (I still had some in my water bottle but by now I was in the grips of obsession) pausing only to take a photo of a small compliant lizard along the way.  Lizard photos had been notable by their absence so far, that was about to change.

 

A small lizard

I needed to cross the stream, fortunately there were conveniently placed rocks.  Unfortunately they were somewhat slippery due to the water flowing over them something I discovered as I crossed, fortunately not fatally.  Once safely across I laved my arms in the water (honestly I don't know why I'm not riddled in parasites) but wasn't quite stupid enough to drink any of it.

 

Warning, rocks may be slipperier than they appear

I was on the last stage of my journey now.  Hornsby beckoned and I set forth with renewed confidence, a spring in my stride.  Naturally I managed to wander off the path and get a little lost.  A lizard sunning itself on a rock looked with bemusement as I blundered past swearing and staring at my trail app.

 

If you're wondering why I took so many photos of this particular lizard its because I blundered past him several times as I walked in circles attempting to find my way back to the trail I was supposed to be following.  I'm surprised he didn't report me for curb crawling.

Eventually a helpful arrow appeared on a rock and pointed me in the right direction.  I made my way along and emerged in a park in Hornsby. I rested and refilled my water bottle but I wasn't done yet. With eleven or so kilometres under my belt I now faced the Hornsby Heritage Steps.  These were carved during the depression in the 1930s as part of that era's work for the dole scheme they connected the park with Hornsby proper inconveniently located someway above.  I didn't set any land speed records, indeed at some points I am pretty sure I was going backwards.  Still I gasped, panted, retched and planted one trembling foot in front of another until I reached the top to discover that I had several hundred metres of street to traverse before I encountered anything as useful as a railway station.  Somehow I made it and collapsed gasping onto the platform.  Concerned onlookers completely failed to gather around me so I eventually got up and caught the train home.

My Annual Tale of Failure and Woe

 The keen eyed amongst my readers may have noticed a yawning gap (or possibly a gaping yawn) in my blog entries so far this year.  After all January 26 has come and gone and yet there has been no account of my annual trip to our nation's capital to attend CanCon ASL tournament.  Sadly this omission is not accidental. However after a certain amount of internal soul searching (and because my therapist claimed it might bring me "closure") I present the following brief record of pathetic ineptitude masquerading as a long weekends enjoyment.

I traveled down to Canberra in the company of two people who (after intensive negotiations with their lawyers) I am provisionally permitted to title "friends".  They were a little surprised to see me when I turned up with my bag and a hopeful expression but after only a few hours of tearful pleading they allowed me to accompany them.  It has to be admitted the weekend started well. Good (if slightly startled) company on the journey, a brief break in Goulburn to watch an alpaca walking the streets (prostitution gets a little weird outside the major cities) and the sight of Lake George with water in it for the second year in a row. Once in Canberra we attempted to dispel the idea that we were uncultured barbarians by wandering along to the National Museum and taking in their Pompeii exhibit.  There were artifacts, audio-visual experiences (films) wall frescoes and most affectingly plaster casts of some of the victims caught at the moment of their demise.  We certainly came out with a better understanding of why its a bad idea to build a city right next to a volcano.

The next day we sallied forth to do cardboard battle among the great unwashed or at the very least the great undeodorised. The organisers had attempted to compensate for this by setting up vast fans within the halls which made the experience rather like trying to play a game in a wind tunnel.  You essentially had to dress for two different climates.

The account of my games will be mercifully brief (merciful for me I mean). My opponents I will simply designate by the term Victorious Opponent (VO) 1-5.  This saves the effort of remembering their names and hopefully depersonalises the defeat for me a little.

1. Marauders No More

I played VO1 taking the Americans against the Japanese in Burma. I commanded the disease riddled remnants of Merrill's Marauders trying to hold onto a recently captured airfield against Japanese counter attacks. My defence was hampered by the fact that Merrill himself had a heart attack partway through the battle which didn't do much for my leadership.  VO1 skillfully banzaied me out of my positions, driving me back to the runway. Finally a key defensive position went down leaving all the victory locations open to VO1's rampant Japanese.

2. The Vital Hours

The second scenario had me commanding Sepp Krafft's SS trainees attempting to prevent the British from taking Arnhem.  This one had its moments.  VO2 pushed forward against my troops in the village but his attempts to break through on the German left resulted in the British paras being bloodied and losing their best leader.  For a moment I dared to hope but VO2 efficiently reoriented his attack to my right and poured through the village towards the exit while I was still peering myopically at the left. The fact that he burned one of my squads alive with a PIAT hit on a building didn't help much.

3. Some Spanish/Soviet thing

No that's not the name of the scenario.  I lost this one when I selected the Soviets as my side.  We set up pretty much on top of each other with a fire threatening to burn down the victory locations. By the end of VO3's first turn the Soviets had been pounded so badly that victory was a delusional fever dream (something I am quite familiar with). I stumbled on for a couple of turns and did succeed in hurting the Spanish in German uniforms but nothing like enough to compensate for that first turn hammering. This was the game I liked the least as it seemed like little more than a bloodbath (and potential barbeque) for the Soviets.

4. Wintergewitter

Ah, Wintergewitter that reliable staple of ASL tourneys. A small amount of German infantry backed up by a decent amount of armour attempt to wrest a village from the Soviets enroute to rescuing their encircled comrades in Stalingrad. I had the Germans in this one and managed to lose it in the first turn which is actually quite an achievement.  I parked a halftrack containing my 9-2 officer, squad and mmg in line of sight of what turned out to be his antitank rifle. He killed them all.  Also in the same turn a sniper wounded my other officer and recalled another halftrack. All this before I had fired a shot.  My opponent VO4 generously offered to restart the game so it wouldn't be quite so much of a pathetic travesty but I nobly refused.  Inevitable defeat seemed to clear my mind and I actually played my best game of the tournament from that point.  I beat up his infantry, captured half the village and killed a T-34 before succumbing to the facts on the ground.  It's also the game I enjoyed the most of the weekend.

5. Some scenario or other

I remember nothing about this except I lost it.

Somewhat downcast I sat contemplating my own mortality until Dave Wilson, my regular Monday night opponent pointed out that we don't come here to win.  We come here to catch up with like minded fellows and have a good time.  And this is in fact true even if I had to tell myself that several times during the course of the weekend.  It was a good weekend with games, drinks and hommie being bonned all over the place.  Many thanks to Andy Rogers who did his usual sterling job of organising the tournament and herding a collection of middle aged cats into and out of dinner venues.