Travelling Hopefully - Ruined Bridge Edition

The road stretched out before us. My companion and I took our seats and gazed out at the surrounding scenery. The surrounding scenery consisted of scrubby plain interspersed with not particularly enthusiastic looking trees. Five hours later the road still stretched out ahead of us and the surrounding scenery consisted of scrubby plain interspersed with not particularly enthusiastic looking trees. My companion and I pointed out trees to each other with such eager enthusiasm that it's amazing we didn't murder each other before reaching our destination.

It hadn't been all scrub and trees of course. The scenery was enlivened by the occasional bloated cow corpse and stops at various road houses to partake of one of the wonders of civilisation, a flush toilet. Then just when we thought the trees couldn't get any more interesting we stopped to look at a boab tree. A boab tree is what Australias call a baobab although to be honest I insisted on calling it a baobab until my companion asked me what I was talking about. The baobab/boab tree was immense and gnarly and twisted and well worth taking a photo of so I did. Then it was back onto the truck/bus but sadly the other trees now rather paled by comparison.

Fitzroy Crossing was our destination for the day largely I suspect because we arrived there just before sunset and our guides didn't want to drive in the dark. Fitzroy Crossing has a large, handsome bridge spanning the Fitzroy River. This replaces the older, somewhat demolished bridge which was washed away in the bad floods of 2023. You don't remember those? They do in Fitzroy Crossing. The army had to airlift food to the inhabitants.

We were supposed to meet an indigenous guide who would explain the history and cultural significance of the Fitzroy River to the local indigenous population but she was unavoidably detained. Off the top of my head the presence of a large amount of drinkable water containing yummy fish is quite good enough reason for the indigenous population to find it significant. Guideless we wandered down to the river bank and looked at the ruined bridge site. People were swimming there. This seemed to indicate either an absence of crocodiles or that the crocodiles were full. Either way I didn't risk it.

We stayed the night at a camp ground where I saw my first cane toad. Shortly thereafter I saw my second, third, fourth and then stopped counting. The poisonous little bastards were everywhere. A local indigenous woman pointed out that since the cane toads arrival the goanna population had crashed which was a problem as the indigenous population used the goannas for such significant cultural practices as not starving to death. Even today (or rather in the recent past before the cane toads turned up) clobbering a goanna on the head and tossing it on a fire was a way of gaining useful protein when money was a little skimpy. This did not raise the cane toad in my estimation.

We rose early the next day. This would become a prevailing trend, we always rose early the next day. We swept the more visible dust out of our tents because exercises in futility seemed to amuse us before piling back into our rugged steed for another day on the road.

At this point the insect situation has to be addressed. We had been warned that this area was so inundated with flies that you couldn't breath without choking on them. In fact the flies weren't too bad but mosquitoes and other such biting things were a menace. At least I assume they were. Neither I nor the rest of the tour group seemed particularly bothered by them but my travelling companion was savaged. It didn't matter how much insect repellent she put on, this merely encouraged the mosquitoes to be more creative and, shall we say, intimate about the location of their biting. My travelling companion, drawing a distinction between herself and the pallid Anglo-Saxons she was surrounded with announced that her "spicy Indian blood" was irresistable. The mosquitoes certainly thought so. She treated the bites with steroid cream and by the end of the trip was in danger of looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Travelling Hopefully - Hopefully Traveling

 We left the place of carved wood ignoring the vengeful muttering of bumblebees outraged at our escape and pointed our nose towards Hobart and the end of our journey. My companion was driven to transports of ecstasy over the beauty of the Tasmanian countryside. I, who had visited Tasmania several times, affected an air of world weary indifference that impressed her so much she threatened to brain me with a water bottle. 

As we approached Hobart and the Tasmanian countryside started to change into the Tasmanian cityside it became obvious that something was wrong. The minibus, our noble steed for the past few days, was struggling. Warning lights that no-one, not even our tour leader, recognised started appearing on the dashboard and our pace slowed to a glacial crawl. Painfully we inched our way up hills while other traffic, bicycles and the occasional motivated pedestrian whizzed past us. Downhill gravity and momentum came to our aid which gave us enough of a run up for the next labouring ascent.  

Inch by inch we crawled towards Hobart cursing every red light that brought our dubious progress to a halt. Eventually however the minibus heaved itself over the last rise and trundled down into the streets of Hobart where gathered impetus and the prayers of the passengers helped it lurch to a halt at the Travelodge which was our finishing point. Here my companion and I said a hasty farewell to our leader and the remaining CoRS before grabbing a fully functioning uber to the airport adjacent caravan park that would be our home for a disturbingly short number of hours before our flight to Broome the next day. Once in our accommodation my companion amused herself by striking pilates poses while I amused myself by ogling and taking photos (with her consent I hasten to add).

At obscene o'clock the next morning we dragged ourselves to Hobart airport for the first of three flights that would eventually deposit us in Broome at the other end of the continent. As we flew over Bass Strait the rising sun provided us with an unforgettable picture that was eclipsed only by the sight of the same sun setting as we were landing in Broome. Having woken before 4am we arrived in Broome after 7pm and arrived in our accommodation. As we entered my companion stared at me with an look of betrayal on her face. I had selected the accommodation based on the fact that our tour would pick us up there the next day. My companion thought we were staying in a Travelodge, a cheap but reliable hotel chain. We were actually staying in a travelers lodge, essentially a backpackers hostel thronging with young people disinclined to go to bed at an early hour. I pointed out that we were only there until 7.30 the next morning and she pointed out that the chances of my surviving that long were decreasing by the minute.

Strangely we both survived the night, had our last hot showers for several days and presented ourselves at the entrance in good time the next morning along with a couple of other travelers joining our trip who had made the same foolhardy decision as myself. A little while later we got a call from the tour group asking where we were. Apparently they were at the end of the driveway and hadn't thought to come up to the actual entrance to see if we were around. With that little misunderstanding resolved we clambered onto a large wheeled truck with windows and (blessedly) airconditioning and pointed ourselves in the general direction of the Bungle Bungles, our ultimate destination. 

Travelling Hopefully - Carved Wood and Bumblebees

 The next day steeped in culture and with the scent of rainforest lingering in our nostrils we departed Strahan. Truly there was no reason to stay and the place was becoming less like a tourist attraction and more like a haunt for serial killers with every passing hour.

So off we went my companion and I plus a tour leader and various hangers on. Our first stop was Queenstown which completely failed to alter the latent serial killer vibe that was starting to permeate everything. 

We had breakfast at a cafe attached to Queenstown railway station.

“Aha!” I hear you cry, “So Queenstown has a railway service.”

Well yes and no. Slightly yes but mainly no. What it has is a heritage railway run as a tourist attraction. Technically it connects Queenstown with Strahan but the last time I caught it the  train stopped halfway and returned to its point of origin. Not that I’m complaining about not visiting Queenstown.

We finished breakfast and fled Queenstown as quickly as we decently could. Behind the wails of souls damned to walk its treeless streets clawed at our sanity.

Which is probably why we stopped at Lake St Clair. It is virtually impossible to travel to Tasmania and not stop at Lake St Clair. Certainly there is a very pretty lake there and it’s also the terminus of the Overland Track. 

The Overland Track starts at Cradle Mountain and finishes at Lake St Clair. Hikers whose fitness and enthusiasm are sadly not matched by their sanity or good judgment launch themselves into the alpine wilderness and usually emerge at Lake St Clair where they call a bus to take them home. I say “usually emerge” because sometimes they don’t emerge at all. Finding the unfortunate victims bodies is difficult because Tasmanian devils have very powerful jaws and even more powerful digestions.

On that cheery note we dined on pizza by the lake and looked out for the snakes that warning signs promised us were stacked ten deep on the most popular trails. We didn’t see any and slunk back to our minibus to look at some carved wood.

At least some of the CoRS looked at carved wood. I had seen the carved wood the last time I was in Tasmania and had no desire to see it again. Other CoRS came out with words of praise for the carved wood and the Pilates instructor berated me as she had followed my example and not looked at the wood. Instead she had spent most of her time watching one of our number flee squealing pursued by a bumblebee. Possibly the least menacing predator known to man. As for me I was still getting over the shock of someone making decisions based on my opinions.

Travelling Hopefully - Rainforest Edition

At Strahan a stern choice awaited us. We could either go for a walk through the rainforest or take a cruise up the Gordon River which would allow you to see the rainforest while sitting in a seat. For reasons that are unclear to me even now I and the Pilates instructor chose the first option in the company of a couple from England while the remaining CoRS chose Option B.

Our tour leader bundled the four of us into the minibus and drove us deep into the woods. Despite this horror movie themed start the day got better as we set out on our walk. The sky was grey, the air was cool, rain threatened but didn’t eventuate and we ambled along chatting and photographing the scenery.

It wasn’t virgin rainforest, we were walking along an old mining track and in the recent (geologically speaking) past miners had stripped the countryside bare. Since they stopped the countryside has grown back with a resilience bordering on bloody mindedness presenting us with apparently pristine wilderness. We took photos of fungi (me), leaves (the Pilates instructor) and less specific scenery (everybody). Our destination, and we did have one, was Montezuma’s Falls a waterfall which promised to be in good shape after recent rains.

As we strolled through the lush bush we spared a thought for our fellow travellers forced to sit in comfortable seats, choking down complimentary salmon and champagne while the boat did all the work for them. Poor bastards.

Our walk took us past an old mine shaft, a dark opening in the hillside. I took a photo and stared at the indistinct figure that appeared to look back at me out of the darkness. I apologised to the tourist I had inadvertently photographed and hurried on before she could press charges.

Montezuma’s Falls came into view with an impressive amount of water taking the most direct route down without any of that “carving of a valley” nonsense. There was also a suspension bridge that seemed to exist only to creep out those who crossed it. It didn’t actually go anywhere.

On our way back to Strahan we stopped at Zeehan for lunch. A Sunday visit to Zeehan is like walking into a scene from a Scooby Doo cartoon. You expect the ghost of an ancient miner to pursue you through the abandoned but picturesque streets. Sadly we had to leave before we could reveal that the “ghost” was actually the much loved family solicitor trying to swindle the heiress out of her fortune.

Back at Strahan we collected the rest of the CoRS and were quietly smug to learn they hadn’t had a great day. Then we went to see The Ship that Never Was a play I saw last time I was in Strahan and is immense amounts of fun if you like pantomime and audience participation.

Travelling Hopefully - Rapid Walk Edition

After our triumphs at the Devil sanctuary we set off for Dove Lake where we intended to challenge the elements by walking the six kilometre circuit in weather conditions my companion called delightful and I thought was a precursor to the apocalypse. There was wind, cold and icy rain while mist virtually concealed Cradle Mountain, the putative object of our efforts , from all but the most penetrating of gazes.

We were in a hurry, apparently. Our tour leader chivvied us and impressed on us the absolute importance of our doing the six kilometre circuit within an hour and forty five minutes. If we lagged behind it was strongly implied that we would be abandoned to the ice and snow and the devils would feast on our bones.

While we were challenging the elements at Dove Lake our tour leader guided the bulk of the remaining CoRS on what was supposed to be a more modest walk that would culminate in wombats.

With our leaders encouragement/threats ringing in my ears I charged down the path. My companion showed a disturbing tendency to stop and enjoy the view or take photographs. I had no patience with such trivialities and urged her on through the sleet and mist.

Despite my companion’s annoying tendency to attempt to enjoy herself we made the six kilometres in an hour and thirty seven minutes and had time left over to photograph wombats. 

After that giddy with triumph (and in my case hypothermia) we headed off to Strahan.

Travelling Hopefully - Breeding Predators Edition

 Our guide approached us, despair writ large upon his face. He had been informed that the path to Cradle Mountain had been attacked by weather. Snow, ice, rain, mist, lakes of blood and plagues of locusts had been predicted for the Cradle Mountain region. The CoRS scattered in all directions seeking warmer clothing. Since there was only one store in Sheffield that sold such attire they all recoalesced pretty quickly. I joined the mad rush for warming attire. Only my companion stood proudly aloof. She did not panic, she did not falter. With a steady hand she produced her phone and searched through half a dozen weather prediction websites until she found one that pleased her. She then waved this in front of our guide’s face and in soothing tones assured him all would be well.

Strangely all was. At least for a given definition of “well”. Our minibus failed to slide off the ice slicked roads, the threatened blizzard and sleet didn’t eventuate and we arrived at Cradle Mountain chilly but unscathed. Or at least I presume we did. The prevailing mist meant that sight of the actual mountain was somewhat problematic.

At first we didn’t care as we had closer and more aggressive fish to fry. We visited a sanctuary for Tasmanian devils. Since they were a comprehensive sanctuary they also bred quolls, as you do. This is an attempt to defeat the face cancer which is threatening to wipe Tasmanian devils from the face of the earth thus fulfilling the fondly held dreams of nineteenth century farmers.

At the sanctuary fresh, cancer free devils are bred and kept. They aren’t released because there’s no point releasing them if they’re just going to catch cancer too. However researchers at the University of Tasmania are confident they’re only a couple of years away from a vaccine at which point a critical mass of devils will be inoculated and released in a black furred tide. I’m sure this won’t have any unforeseen side effects.

The sanctuary does release the quolls it breeds because nobody cares if quolls die.

Travelling Hopefully - Mural Edition

We rose early to see the sunrise. Unfortunately the sun was late and we were back at the motel before it turned up. With that as an introduction to the day our guide rounded up the CoRS and herded us onto the minibus. 

We were heading towards Sheffield, a town famous for being convenient for other more interesting places. Before the mural bedecked delights of Sheffield were paraded before our weary eyes we dropped in briefly on the Bay of Fires. There was a beach that we walked on to the delight of those among us who delight in walking on beaches.

Waving the coast goodbye we headed inland towards the delights of Sheffield. Sheffield’s delights are precisely two; murals and a Chinese restaurant.

The murals need a little explanation unfortunately I don’t have it. Suffice to say that most of the available wall space in town seems to be covered in murals. Some of them are quite good, others aren’t.

I was surprised to learn that Sheffield had a Chinese restaurant. I was even more surprised to learn that you had to reserve a table twenty four hours in advance. We obediently did so and presented ourselves at the restaurant at the allotted time. The young man behind the counter reacted as if, not only had he never seen a customer before but this might in fact be his first contact with the human race.

Eventually we forced him to admit that we did indeed have a booking. He gazed helplessly around the completely empty dining room and asked if table 9 would be acceptable. Frankly any table that wasn’t positioned over a trapdoor to the cellar was acceptable at this point. I’m pretty sure that he chose table 9 because it couldn’t be seen from the outside and therefore wouldn’t give passersby the impression that the restaurant was open.

Despite the slight horror movie vibes, the food was perfectly nice and reasonably priced although the young man, who appeared to be the only person in the building apart from ourselves, had terrible difficulties operating the register. There was a point where I thought he would actually be grateful if we fled without paying.

Eventually we did pay and we left replete with decent Chinese food and a slight feeling of only just having escaped with our lives.

Travelling Hopefully - Penguin Porn Edition

We rose the next day and headed to Wineglass Bay another beautiful place with a horrific history although in this case the atrocities were committed against the cetacean population rather than the indigenous one.

Along the way we stopped at a blow hole where we spent an entertaining twenty minutes or so watching water flow through a rock. We all agreed this was the best thing since sliced bread and continued our journey to Wineglass Bay in a state of near ecstasy.

A pleasant bushwalk took us to a lookout from where we got a great impression of how high we were above the bay. Our guide informed us there was a path involving many many steps that would take us down to the beach. I turned up my nose at such exertion but the Pilates instructor was jumping up and down with excitement and such is the effect of an attractive woman on a certain type of impressionable man (me) that I found myself following her down the path.

The journey down wasn’t too bad and we had a pleasant five minutes on the beach before we had to face the ascent. Partway up my companion’s enthusiasm drained away to be replaced by impassioned diatribes against her quadriceps which had apparently failed her at crucial moment. Despite this muscular treason we somehow made it to the top and stumbled frantically after the minivan which was in the process of abandoning us.

Catching the minivan was vital as it was our sole means of returning to our accommodation and, more importantly, penguins.

We turned up at the penguin pestering location in the early evening and after a brief opportunity to purchase a small penguin plush toy (eagerly accepted by at least one individual) we were loaded into a small van and driven to a piece of shoreline within the sanctuary. A guide asked us with apparent seriousness not to step on any penguins and led us into a surreal landscape illuminated in red and yellow lighting which I presume was for the benefit of the penguins as it certainly wasn’t helping the humans much.

Firstly we were shown a couple of penguins in a box. Apparently to assist the penguins in home making a number of artificial “burrows” have been created so that all the penguins have to do when they come ashore is move in. At that point I did wonder if this was all we were going to see of penguins so I dutifully took a photo before we were herded to the first viewing point.

The first viewing point presented us with the sight of a trio of penguins stumbling up the beach some distance away. There were “oohs” and “aahs” but they made themselves scarce pretty quickly. The next viewing point was pure gold. About a score of penguins were ploughing up the beach directly towards us. They paused for a moment as the shutter noise from some idiot’s camera spooked them but they regrouped and charged straight past us on the way to their burrows both artificial and penguin made.

That would have made my night but the next stop was the burrow area where penguins hang out. Penguins were indeed hanging out. In fact they were doing more than just hang out. There was flirting, mating displays and finally full on penguin on penguin action in front of us. My companion, displaying a level of depravity that she had so far kept hidden, filmed the whole thing. It will be visible on certain highly specific websites in a few weeks.

Once the NSFW part of the evening was over a pair of penguins walked up so close to us that I could have reached down and touched it. I didn’t in deference to the penguin’s sharp beak and habit of projectile excreting when they feel threatened. A group of people did their best to be as unthreatening as possible and eventually the penguins wandered off. Apparently they didn’t like the smell of somebody’s shoes. Shortly afterwards we wandered off ourselves our penguin cups running over.

Travelling Hopefully - Gruesome History and Wine Tasting

 Back in Hobart and fortified by an excellent dinner my companion and I abandoned our little car to the tender mercies of its slave masters and gathered along with thirteen presumably like minded souls for our quick tour of Tasmania. An individual approached and announced himself as our guide.

Once informalities had been completed our guide herded us and a collection of random strangers (henceforth to be known as CoRS) onto a minivan and we set out on our journey.

Five minutes later we stopped again outside a museum where we popped in to see how appallingly our ancestors had treated the local indigenous population (although the sole German amongst us can probably get a pass). After a grim but informative hour our guide rounded up the CoRS while the Pilates instructor and I went to find a post office.

Our minivan was still waiting when we returned so we climbed aboard and were transported to the charming colonial town of Richmond. Richmond has a bridge, a lolly shop and a bakery that sold curried scallop pies. To me that latter sounded appalling but my companion ate it with every evidence of gusto. I saved my gusto for a more appropriate subject.

With the colonial charm of Richmond finally exhausted the minivan pointed itself in the direction of a winery and we all went with the flow. 

At the winery we were presented with a series of wines to taste apparently on the principle that if they got us drunk enough we’d buy more wine. Most of the wine seemed to involve Pinot noir. I didn’t like the Pinot noir but one of the Rieslings was nice and the cheese selection was excellent. I didn’t buy any wine but one of the CoRS did so I guess mission accomplished for the winery.

Our guide finally managed to drag us out of the vineyard and back onto the minivan and we headed for Bicheno, a town largely famous for being the place where we were stopping for the night.

Travelling Hopefully - Most of Cape Queen Elizabeth

 The next day still semi delirious from our white wallaby frenzy we headed off to do the Cape Queen Elizabeth walk we had planned to do yesterday. This time we made absolutely sure we had water and supplies before abandoning our little car in what we hoped was a parking spot and not just a random location by the side of the road.

Our little journey got off to an inauspicious start when a couple of hundred metres along the path we encountered a couple coming the other way who informed us that an elderly lady had taken a fall a bit further along and that there was a fair bit of blood on the track.

Sure enough we soon encountered a clutch of people gathered around a rather battered lady on the ground. First aiders were in attendance and medics had been called so we eased around both blood and victim and abandoned them to their fate.

It all depended on the tide. Part of the walk took us along a beach which was submerged a decent part of the day. We had skilfully arranged to arrive at the beach at a time when the tide would be cooperative. Unfortunately the tide arrived at the same time and was unwilling to cooperate.

A frantic glance at my trail app showed us that we could circle around the rest of the walk and approach the beach from the other side when surely the tide would have sorted itself out. 

Up we struggled, panting through the bushes. At least I panted through the hedges. The Pilates instructor skipped gaily from rock to rock as if only lightly tethered to the ground. Eventually we reached the beach on the other side of a headland still inconveniently submerged. We found the rock archway that was the draw point for our entire walk. We took photos and then sat and stared at the tide for half an hour in the hopes it would take the hint.

The tide didn’t take the hint and eventually we struggled back the same way we came although not before scrambling up a sand dune in the vague hope it might magically deposit us where we wanted to go.

So we didn’t complete the walk although with all the backtracking and sand dune shenanigans we probably covered more ground than if we had. The elderly lady and the pool of blood were gone on our return proving that either medical attention had arrived or that the scavengers in this part of the world are pretty enthusiastic about their jobs.

Travelling Hopefully - White Wallaby Edition

 In the beginning was the plan. It was a plan meticulously worked out by the Pilates instructor with occasional unhelpful suggestions from me. We would rise, journey to Adventure Bay, known lurking spot of a community of white wallabies. After breakfast we would enjoy the sight of pallid marsupials disporting themselves for our amusement. Then we would drive to North Bruny Island where a brisk 13km bushwalk would build up an appetite to be satisfied at the only dining establishment on the island open on a Sunday night.

Things went wrong almost immediately. Offered the choice of two routes to Adventure Bay my companion chose the one she felt would be the most scenic. In this she was right. How much of the truly impressive scenery she managed to enjoy as she carefully guided our little town car along an unsealed track that existed largely in the imagination of the cartographer is another matter.

We emerged from the primordial forest grateful to have escaped with our lives and finally found the sole café Adventure Bay could boast. After breakfast we set out to see the white wallabies which we expected to be performing a welcoming dance in the street. There were none.

The wallabies are most active at dawn and dusk. Apparently 10am isn’t considered dawn in these parts. Faced with an absence of wallabies we headed towards the start of the Fluted Cape walk where apparently white wallabies covered the ground. On arrival at the car park we were greeted by a pair of regular wallabies who were working the car park like truck stop hookers. They were very obviously posing for photos before an admiring group but we spurned their coarse advances and headed into the bush.

The beginning of the trail came and went and with no sign of our prey we kept going. Things weren’t helped by the fact that everyone we passed regaled us with white wallaby sightings until we ground our teeth in envy.

At some point we realised we had pretty much committed ourselves to the entire walk and found ourselves plodding reluctantly up an impressive hill. Things weren’t helped by the fact that my companion’s white wallaby obsession had clearly spiraled into madness. She was seeing white wallabies behind every bush.

“There’s one!” She shrieked.

“That’s a rock.”

A little further on,

“There’s one!”

That’s a branch.”

And so on. Eventually wallaby spotting or, more accurately, not wallaby spotting had to give way to gasping for breath as we struggled up to the cape. On arrival the walk was definitely worth the effort as we gazed over the sea and assured each other that the inadvertent walk had definitely been worth the effort.

Since we had never intended to go this far we had left our water and supplies back in the car. Fortunately some passing hikers took pity on our obvious ineptitude and gave us some water. Refreshed and having exhausted the photo opportunities provided by cliffs, sea, bush and random islands we headed down by a different path so we could not see wallabies in a different location.

By the time we reached the car park we had covered ten hilly and unintended kilometres and agreed that the walk we had planned to do could be put off until another day. Besides it was grey and starting to rain. But the white wallaby obsession still burned fiercely in our breasts. A cafe employee assured us that the wallabies would come down out of the hills around and parade for visitors in the local’s yards. They would do this around five pm. It was currently twenty to three.

So we sat in a car park for the next two hours as the skies got greyer and rain misted down. My companion’s delusion got worse as the shadows lengthened.

“There’s one,” she shrieked.

“That’s a gas meter.”

Suddenly we saw a group of people staring fixedly up at a hill behind a house. Eagerly we joined them, there may have been a certain amount of elbowing small children out of the way. There in the distance was a whitish shape that with a certain generosity of spirit could be considered wallaby shaped. We took photos and assured each other it was a wallaby before returning to the car park.

Of course we could have left then but with the shadows lengthening we decided there was little harm in hanging around until our welcome completely wore out. Back in the car we peered out into the gathering gloom until my companion clutched my arm.

“There’s,” she hissed, “it’s coming down the hill.” She took photos which we examined minutely. It was a sign nailed to a tree. It was now around five in the evening. We drove slowly and a little disconsolately along the street. As if to mock us regular hued wallabies popped up in every yard. 

Then as if by a flipped switch suddenly we were overwhelmed with white wallabies. They posed for photos, they hopped across the street at one point I think they tried to steal our car. After a long day our white wallaby cup ran over and puddled on the ground.

Travelling Hopefully - Arrival Edition

 My journey of a thousand miles began with the traditional step towards Sydney airport but rapidly improved as we were rapidly herded towards a modest sized aircraft that surprised everyone by being on time. I was also pleasantly surprised to find that in defiance of rational expectations 

Also defying rational expectations was the sudden presence of the Pilates instructor who had unaccountably rejected multiple opportunities to flee for the hills and joined me on the flight. 

We landed in Hobart slightly early, picked up our rental car and set off for Bruny Island. Thirty seconds later we stopped again and referred to the vehicles manual to identify such useful things as the indicator controls and why the hell the car kept beeping at us.

With cheerful enthusiasm and frequent cursing we eventually (and by “we” I mean she) worked out how the car was meant to work and we pointed our nose in the direction of Bruny Island. My role was to simultaneously keep an eye on the map and the speed limit signs and warn her if we ran anyone over.

We headed through bustling, downtown Hobart and two minutes later had left Tasmania’s glittering, cosmopolitan capital behind us heading for a car ferry that would carry us across the storm tossed waves to Bruny Island.

Actually the whole trip was remarkably painless despite my propensity to shout “wallaby!” every time a marsupial got within a hundred metres of us.

Middle afternoon saw us crunching up the drive of our rented cottage as wallabies fled in all directions. We got out of the car, rhapsodised about the view and the quality of the accommodation and promptly drove off to see a lighthouse.

My companion was much taken with said lighthouse, with the view and particularly the clouds and the sunset. I having followed her eager ascent perhaps a little too vigorously simply gasped for breath and tried not to vomit.

With shadows lengthening and park personnel glancing meaningfully at their watches we clambered back into our faithful if somewhat undersized steed and returned to our cabin. Along the way wallabies scrambled out of the way with sufficient frequency to explain the roadkill littering Tasmania’s streets and, not infrequently, driveways.

That night I dined on most of a sheep while my companion seemed a little miffed that wallaby had been removed from the menu. My suggestion that she simply scrape some off the road was not met with favour.

Travelling Hopefully - Giddy Excitement Edition

 I bustled about my flat grabbing random items of clothing and shoving them into my bag. My plush toys looked on with a combination of contempt and anticipation. Finally as I attempted to stuff a dressing gown into the pocket of my day pack my puffin broke the silence.

"Do you actually know what you're doing?"

"Of course I do," I snapped, "has anybody seen my nail clippers?"

"No but I've got a screwdriver you can borrow," offered the plague rat with a gap toothed grin. Finally the combined efforts of myself and a nearly a score of plush toys got everything packed and ready to depart. They seemed almost indecently eager to help me depart. 

I'm traveling domestically for once, roaming random bits of my far flung homeland. Firstly I head south planning to horrify my Tasmanian correspondent by turning up unannounced on her doorstep. Assuming I survive this delightful little prank there will be the opportunity to pester albino wallabies and throw things at penguins before bidding the Apple Isle farewell and heading for the other end of the country. 

Broome, my other destination is an inconveniently long distance from Tasmania and the dual destinations has required a slightly schizophrenic luggage arrangement as half my clothes need to stave off the southern cold and the other half have to deal with the northern heat. The result is that there is barely an item of clothing left in my apartment and my plush toys have already starting renting out the wardrobe space as an airbnb. I refuse to be downhearted though, if nothing else I will get a phenomenal view of more Australian airports than I have ever set eyes on. Sydney, Hobart, Melbourne, Perth and Broome will present themselves to me for inspection. In fact I will be spending so much time in Perth airport I may just wind up living there.

Just for once I have an obscure desire for companionship. To alleviate this I have waylaid a random pilates instructor and by means of outrageous promises I am neither able or willing to keep have persuaded her to accompany me. I can only hope that by the end of the trip Stockholm Syndrome has done its work. This will all be new for her. She has never been to Tasmania or Broome or indeed Australia more generally. Most importantly she has never spent several weeks in the company of a slightly delusional, plush toy addled degenerate with a shaky grip on reality and a tendency to snore. If you see any frantic cries for help inserted into any of the following blog entries you know she managed to grab the keyboard from me for a few seconds.

Of course a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. This is one of those phrases which sounds profound until you realise that somebody gained a reputation for wisdom by stating the bleeding obvious. In my case the single step is in the direction of Sydney Airport's domestic terminal. A state of affairs which would probably have made Lao Tzu turn around and go back to bed. Sadly I won't have the same opportunity as by the time I set out I'm pretty sure my plush toys will have changed the locks. 

Silly After Action Report - Our Place in the Sun

 "Our place in the sun," muttered Capitano Luigi Insalata staring at the cave pocked hill with disgust. "Ethiopia is our place in the sun? Did we lose a bet or something? What the hell's wrong with the Amalfi Coast, that has sun. Oh crap,"he added as Colonello Condottieri appeared behind him. "I would like to remind you of your duty as an Italian officer," said Condottieri heavily. "Our Eritrean troops are looking to their colonial overlords to set an example." Insalata was fairly sure his Eritrean troops would cheerfully attack the Ethiopians even if their officers were on another continent, something he was seriously considering. "Don't forget we have air support," added Condottieri attempting to cheer the captain up. "Mustard gas?" said Insalata hopefully. Condottieri looked around hastily but there didn't seem to be any foreign journalists nearby. "Keep your voice down," he hissed, "And, no. Just bombs and machine guns. Well, a bomb." Isalata looked around, everywhere eager Eritrean troops were gathering for the assault their Italian officers trudging reluctantly behind them. His own command was halfway towards the hills. "Off you go," said Condottieri, "not that way," he added. Possibly the only machine gun in the Ethiopian army chose that moment to open fire. Insalata turned to the Colonel but Condottieri was nowhere to be seen. With little real choice Insalata shambled after his men.

I threatened and here it is. Ethiopians versus Italians. Well really Ethiopians versus Eritreans with the Italians providing heavy support. Here my Italian led Eritreans will attempt to seize a number of nameless points on an unimportant hill against a group of Ethiopians who have occupied them against the wishes of their emperor. Obviously the stakes are high. My Eritreans are set up on the desert floor looking at a particularly difficult hill thronging with with Ethiopian troops. To win I need to amass 4VP from capturing victory locations. There are five such hexes each worth 1VP each except for 25BB5 which is worth 2 points. I have to achieve this without conceding 15 or more CVP to the Ethiopians. To achieve this heady result I have thirteen squads of first line Eritrean troops equipped with two lmgs and a medium machine gun. These colonial warriors are urged into battle by four Italian officers including a 9-1. On a turn to be determined by die roll another pair of officers lead six more Eritrean squads and a single lmg on a flanking movement. The main force is supported by a single 75mm gun and two fighter bombers one of which has an actual bomb. Unlike their shoddy Italian counterparts Eritreans are not lax, reduce to a second line squad rather than a conscript and become fanatic on battle hardening. If I had been the Italians I would have been trying to replace my entire army with Eritreans.

My opponent Dave commands the Ethiopians, eleven first line squads and five conscripts. The first line squads are 237s the conscripts are worse. These doughty but undergunned warriors are led by three officers including an 8-1. They also have a medium machine gun and a crew to man it. Dave also has six concealment counters and eight cave counters plus two tunnels which can only be used to connect one cave to another. Dave can HIP two squad equivalents. This, combined with the caves means a good proportion of his force is invisible. Broken Terrain is in effect which means all hammada hexes become crags and each open ground hex accessible to such newly created crags becomes broken ground giving a +1 TEM and being concealment terrain. Technically all scrub also becomes brush but actually another special rule indicates that scrub becomes cactus patches instead. Got that? Good. The long line of Allied control markers in the picture below actually designate a continuous cliff face with no wadis. 

At start set up

I set up intending to go for the two VP location on the right with part of my force and try and take the right hand end of the main ridge line with the rest. My force felt terribly naked sitting out there on the desert floor and I had to continually remind myself that the Ethiopians had low firepower and short range and it wasn't as suicidal as it looked. A kill stack with the mmg and 9-1 was set up to hopefully take out the most forward of his defenders on the right. In the absence of anything else to do the 75mm would do likewise.

The combined efforts of my gun and "kill" stack sufficed to pin a single squad and with that dubious encouragement my squads surged forward over the broken ground. The surge left them floundering about in the open but fortunately I wasn't really in the Ethiopians range as yet. Dave declined to shoot for the most part, keeping his powder dry.

Somewhere ahead of me are caves full of Ethiopians

My second turn saw me overwhelm a forward squad and discover a couple of caves. I also discovered that while caves may be fearsome when you're approaching them once you've arrived you can walk over them and safely ignore the contents unless they want to stick their heads up. I also discovered Dave's medium machine gun. It did no harm this turn but that hopeful beginning would not be followed up on. Meanwhile my gun crew proved incapable of moving the gun anywhere. My air support and reinforcements turned up. I brought my reinforcements on the very southern extremity of board 25 intending to envelop the hill mass from both sides. Dave's mmg team broke one of my squads that had got a little too enthusiastic about its job. But in return a fighter bomber strafed his mmg team snuggled safely in a cave and to the astonishment of both of us gained a result. The mmg team survived but their guiding officer broke and ELR'ed.

Mixed results but at least I'm in the general vicinity of the hill

Now that I was in the general vicinity of his defences there came the long painful process of crawling up the most irritating hill in ASL. Dave for his part declined to reveal his caves until I was standing right in front of them. Over on the right I attempted to push toward the two VP location and lost another squad to his mmg team but I was starting to build up a force. On the main ridge I painfully eased forward until I got shot at. Fortunately low Ethiopian firepower meant I survived a fair number of these shots. Still everything was going very slowly. Down on the bottom of the map my flanking movement was more of a flanking increment. Dave's attempts to reinforce his central position from the flanks failed as my air support came into its own. 

Getting nowhere very slowly

As you might be able to see from the above I'm trying to slide my centre force across to the left. That's where the other victory locations are. To do that I have to run the gauntlet of his troops in the caves which were spread out all along the ridgeline. The word "run" gives the completely wrong impression by the way.

Casualties started to come faster now as more Ethiopian troops peered out of their caves and shot up my troops as they went by. Over on the right I was starting to position myself for the push to the victory location despite the occasional casualty from his mmg. My flankers started to earn their pay as they tangled with a couple of Ethiopian squads lurking on the rear of the ridgeline. I'm also pushing my gun around, as much to give the crew something to do as for any other reason.

Slow and messy but I'm inching in the right direction

  

Turn 4 was a mixed bag. The stalwart Ethiopian defenders in their caves made a mess of my centre force but on the right I had finally driven off the few defenders of the victory location. Now all I had to do was take it myself. I approached a little warily not believing that Dave hadn't allocated more to the defence of the 2VP location. In the rear his neglected cave dwellers popped out for long enough to DM my broken squads which was deeply annoying but revealing himself in the open didn't do much for his troops life expectancy.

It has to be admitted that my attempt to slide to the left has met a temporary speed hump.

  

If I had been commanding Italians things might have been a bit rough at this point but my Eritreans were made of sterner stuff, rallying quickly and reorganising. An Italian officer went berserk, fortunately his troops were too sensible to follow his lead. Alone the man charged a cave and then realised he couldn't get inside it. He stood there for the next couple of turns looking silly. Over on the right I captured the VP location, two of the four I needed. Now I could focus on the left. Eager to prove it was contributing my gun banged away at a couple of distant squads without result. My aircraft ruled the sky (easy when there's no opposition) making every Ethiopian move in the open fraught with risk. Down at the bottom of the board my flankers were finally flanking.

Starting to close in on the left

Slowly and painfully I closed in on the left and now Dave understood that the caves were a trap. Now that I had moved past him his troops there were completely helpless unless they wanted to stand up in the open and invite fire. Air support killed another of his squads on the left and suddenly Dave was very undermanned in the victory locations, if I could just get there. The combination of cactus patches, crags, wadis and broken ground making movement so difficult that any defensive fire Dave put up was largely incidental to my struggles. Still we were making it, my flankers coming from one side and my at start force from the other. Over on the right my machine gun teams took up positions waiting for the inevitable. Dave would have to get out of those caves at some point.

So close I can smell it. Or possibly that's the Ethiopian food

The moment came, Dave's cave dwellers sallied forth and were hit by a combination of air attacks and machine gun fire that promptly knocked them out of the game. Meanwhile slowly and painfully I had dragged myself up to the victory locations. A single conscript squad barred my way but not for long. I fought my way in and seized the remaining two locations needed for victory. Dave had another turn but nothing that could hope to restore the situation. Victory fell to me in the final turn. 

This was a long, grinding game. The Eritreans need all of the time they're allotted as it takes a long time to get anywhere. I quite enjoyed it but I was the one moving forward (also I won). Dave who spent most of his time sitting in caves not shooting at things didn't find it quite as entertaining (also he lost). Dave gained revenge for the Ethiopians when he won The Wells of Borgut in the first turn but for right now I was triumphant.

Victory believe it or not

 

Capitano Insalata sank onto a handy chunk of stone. His Eritrean's hadn't needed much guidance, his command had consisted of pointing occasionally in the direction he wanted them to go. He gazed up at the sun blazing down from a cloudless sky. Colonello Condottieri approached, Insalata considered leaping to his feet and saluting but decided he couldn't be bothered. That was something else the Eritreans could do for him.

"Well done," said Condottieri. "You kept out of the Eritreans way for long enough for them to get the job done. Masterful leadership." Insalata pointed at a sun warmed chunk of rock, inviting the colonello to take a seat. 

"What is this?" asked Condottieri gingerly taking a seat. 

"Our place in the sun," replied Insalata. 

 

Silly After Action Report - For a Few Rounds More

 The weather was moderate with no wind. Major Hank O'Hare reflected on the fact that Europe seemed to have incredibly boring weather before returning his attention to the hole in the road in front of him. 

"You could fit an Oldsmobile in that," muttered a sergeant who already seemed to be scanning the rear for retreat lines. 

"Maybe it was a meteor," suggested a nervous GI. There was a sudden howling whistle and trees exploded, mutilated timber flying in all directions. O'Hare scrambled up onto a tank.

"Forward," yelled O'Hare. The sergeant stared at him.

"Are you serious?" demanded the sergeant.

"Unless you want to stay here," replied O'Hare. The sergeant looked around at the impromptu tree graveyard and shrugged.

"Forward it is."

So, SturmMörsers. First time I've played with them. Or more accurately since I'm the Americans it is the first time I've played in close proximity to them. Scenario J100 - For a Few Rounds More gives my opponent Dave two of these hulking, wildly impractical beasts as they and a somewhat ragtag collection of infantry attempt to delay inevitable defeat of Nazi Germany for about twenty five minutes. I command an impressive collection of American infantry and armour who have just encountered this roadblock in their attempt to encircle the Ruhr. To win I have to control three multihex buildings (building N1 counting double) while not taking 40 CVP. The war in Europe is nearly over and nobody wants "Death by Sturmmörser" on their resume at this stage. 

To snatch a few more feet of crumbling reich (which sounds like a chocolate bar) I have quite the force. Fourteen squads of battle ready GIs, five elite and nine first line guided by four officers led by a mighty 10-2 who astonished both me and my opponent by surviving the battle. A trio of medium machine guns, a heavy machine gun and three '45 bazookas equip my troops. Supporting the infantry are four tanks, two bog standard Shermans and a pair with the super sexy long barrelled 76mm gun. What could possibly stand in the way of this force? Cue dramatic music.

My opponent Dave has twelve squads of varying degrees of reluctance. Eight second line and four conscript squads somewhat nervously defend the buildings led by three officers of stupefying mediocrity. These losers are ridiculously gunned up with an hmg, a mmg, two lmgs and a panzerschreck. Two SPW 251/21 halftracks mounting 20mm guns add their firepower to the feldgrau. And then there are the SturmMörsers. Two of them. Big, slow, clumsy and equipped with a weapon that indicates they're clearly compensating for something. A 380mm mortar that has to be reloaded by crane and can only fire once every two turns. It can't gain acquisition but on the other hand if it does hit then Graves Registration will be burying you in an envelope.

At start

I divided my troops into two taskforces. One infantry heavy, the other tank heavy. I love the term "I divided my troops into two taskforces" by the way. It makes me sound cool and professional as if I knew what I was doing. The infantry would charge across open ground towards a heavily defended building. And just like that the myth is shattered. Yep for some reason I thought I would send the bulk of my infantry, supported by a single unmodified Sherman across the open hill mass in the north while my three remaining tanks plus a smaller but elite infantry force led by my 10-2 would tackle the other hill in the south which was occupied by what I was sure was a Sturmmörser (correct).

End of US turn 1

I suppose turn one could have been worse. My troops plodded bravely across the bare hilltop and were swept away by German fire. The supporting Sherman met a panzerschreck round travelling in the opposite direction and thus provided a little smoke cover for the survivors once the officers persuade them to get out of those woods and stop weeping like a girl. In the centre a pair of squads moved forward. The sturmmörser on the hill fired and one squad just vapourised. The term red mist has never been more appropriate. Things went a little better in the south where my tanks and supporting infantry made it to the hill without having slaughter rained down upon them. 

In the north turn two continued as turn one had begun. American troops charging across open hilltop to be met by rifle and hmg fire. American troops then charged back across the hilltop to hide in the woods they had just left. But a few of them managed to duck into a dip between the hills where they were safe at the price of total impotence. In the south though things were going better. My tanks roared up onto the hill, dispatching one of his halftracks while my remaining infantry pushed up towards his squads hoping to make them think of things other than panzerfausts. Just one tiny problem. Well, not tiny. Just one huge, over armoured, massively armed problem. His sturmmörser sat on the hill flaunting its frontal armour and daring me to go any further.

Well I'm up on the southern hill. About events in the north it is better to keep silent

 It had taken two turns of blood but I was on the southern hill and things started to turn. My Sherman dropped a smoke round onto the hmg team that had been slaughtering my troops up north while my southern infantry rousted out the remnants of his hill defenders. Then, oh glory of glories, in his turn Dave attempted to manoeuvre his Sturmmörser to better face the Shermans menacing its existence. In doing so it presented its side armour to a bazooka toting half squad and I managed to blow the huge beast up at long range. Up in the north with the defenders choking on smoke I actually managed to get some troops across that bare hill top to menace the N1 building. Things in my, somewhat biased, opinion were looking up.

That was a swift turn around

We can pretty much leave the north section of the battlefield now. I pressed slowly forward but Dave had stacked the building with troops and it was soon obvious that my surviving troops in the north weren't going to be able to winkle them out before I ran out of time. If I wanted multihex buildings I would have to gain them elsewhere.

There was only one problem with "elsewhere". I had precious little infantry conveniently placed. My 10-2 who had spent most of the battle hiding in the woods now urged his charges forward but until then it was basically my tanks that would have to carry the load. So what did I do with my tanks? Sheer idiocy, that's what I did. Still harbouring faint hopes that building N1 would fall to my troops I sent a pair of tanks over to assist. My best tank with my armour leader promptly broke its MA. All right that wasn't really my fault but what happened next was. I moved my other Sherman (he of smoke round fame) up to the wall behind which cringed what was left of Nazi Germany's firepower. I can't even begin to explain my thinking at this point. Essentially I parked next to a Sturmmõrser and across the wall from a pack of troops with panzerfausts coming out of their ears. I did manage to kill his other halftrack but it was still a boneheaded thing to do. Meanwhile my remaining tank in the south moved out into the street where it could take the first of the multihex buildings I planned to take under fire.

I fail to understand my own thought processes sometimes

 Bizarrely my suicide Sherman lasted a turn or so as panzerfausts bounced off the wall it was hiding behind. Unfortunately my tank with the broken gun proved less faust resistant and exploded in a ball of flame. But down in the south things were finally happening. My remaining tank had battered his troops in a multistory building behind the hill. I eased some troops forward including (finally) some from the north and gained a toehold while my 10-2 guided the world's most underused kill stack towards a pair of multihex buildings in the rear. I was running out of time and would need to get a little creative.  

One multihex building is mine, more or less

In his turn Dave's remaining Sturmmörser heaved its bulk to somewhere a little more convenient and I eyed it warily. We had started the game with four AFV each. Now we only had one left apiece but I had a nasty suspicion that the Sturmmörser would be the death of me. I kept up the battle in the north but just for the look of it really. I managed to capture the multihex building I had unofficially considered mine for the last turn or so and with only two turns to go cast my eyes to the rest.

It was down to my "kill" stack. I detached a squad and sent it racing for an unoccuped building. Then with two squads and a 10-2 leader I turned my attention to the stone building in front of me. Dave had a concealed lmg squad and leader upstairs in the rear, as far from my attacking troops as I could get. I got my forces into the building. Just one turn to go. I needed to completely remove Dave's troops from the building in order to win. In his last turn Dave made his move. His Sturmmörser rumbled around and parked opposite the the target building, the cavernous muzzle of its mortar pointing directly at the building. The challenge had been thrown down, what could I do?

Death by Sturmmörser awaits

 

Taking my courage in my hands I rolled my remaining Sherman past his defenders who declined to open fire and parked beside his Sturmmörser. I tried an APCR round and failed. I tried a normal AP round and still failed to gain a hit despite the fact that there are continents smaller than the Sturmmörser. So what to do? Ideally I would send one squad upstairs and slide the other in directly below Dave's defenders to block rout paths but that damn Sturmmörser was sitting there waiting to deliver approximately a quarter of a ton of death to anyone who moved next to it. I lost my nerve. I sent both squads upstairs. Whereupon Dave promptly broke his squad and routed it downstairs to maintain a presence in the building and claim the win. I howled, raved and cursed Dave for unsportsmanlike behaviour before finally admitting that I would have done exactly the same thing. At least I would have if I'd thought about it. Without firing a shot Dave's Sturmmörser had won him the battle.

This scenario was actually an immense amount of fun with swings of fortune throughout. I came within a gnats whisker of victory but Dave held his nerve calmly waiting until I made my fatal mistake and then slipping away for the win. Next time, Eritreans versus Ethiopians in caves. What could possibly go wrong?

"Well we got one of them," muttered O'Hare staring down from the building to a warehouse sized lump of armoured vehicle below him. At the edge of his vision he saw the sergeant, a hose in his hand, spraying the scenery. 

"What the hell are you doing man?" demanded O'Hare.

"Burial detail," replied the sergeant. 

 

Travelling Pathetically - Somewhat Overheated Edition

 Having covered myself in glory or at least sweat on my last endeavour I set out to roam somewhat further afield. This is probably the first and last time you have heard Lindfield referred to as "further afield". Nevertheless it is to that leafy bastion of moderate privilege (rich enough to evade tax but not so rich that the tax office will let you get away with it) that I repaired one sunny Saturday morning. Quite sunny actually, really very, very sunny. Despite threatened solar armageddon I hopped off at Lindfield and headed for my destination. My destination being the start of my walk which was inconveniently located about a kilometre and a half from public transport. As a suburb Lindfield is described as "family friendly" by which I think they mean that domestic violence happens indoors away from the neighbours and the parents discreetly pay their children's drug debts. It is certainly leafy. If you want a decent indicator of the socio-economic status of a suburb all you really have to do is count the number of trees that have been left standing.

I walked down a leafy street, turned into another leafy street, progressed along that street until I encountered another street which was, you guessed it, leafy. Some way along that street the trees grew a little thicker on the ground and I was looking at a park. This was my starting point, I was doing the Two Creeks Walk which started at this park and ended at another about seven kilometres away having, presumably, taken in two creeks on its journey. The actual walk is supposed to be a round trip which results in you winding up back at your starting point. People that keen on seeing Lindfield could achieve the same result by not doing the walk at all.

The start of my journey, behind me is Lindfield in all its glory

 I set forth with what would prove to be utterly misplaced enthusiasm eager to stretch my legs among such remnants of nature as housing developments had left us. Excitement peaked early when one of said remnants slithered sinuously into the bush before my eyes. A black snake, glistening in the sun, decided absence was the better part of valour at my heavy footed approach. I fumbled for my camera but it was gone before I could take a picture. Nevertheless I was delighted, I rarely see snakes and its presence literally two minutes into my walk could indicate a snake heavy journey. Actually I was wrong, I didn't see another snake the entire walk although I spent a good deal of time looking at the ground and not just for photo opportunities.

This is where the snake went. Unfortunately there must have been a rear entrance

Excited and uncharacteristically observant I headed on my way. There were no more snakes but to compensate the walk decided it had better start living up to its name and a creek obediently presented itself for my viewing pleasure. It trickled picturesquely as creeks are wont to do wending its way through and occasionally over rocks. The path followed it down giving me plenty of opportunities to take photos as though I had never seen water before.

 

 

Creek, rocks, sunlight etc etc

While following the creek down probably seemed like a sensible idea at the time the path got into a bit of difficulty when the creek disappeared into a tunnel. With little option the path went with it.

And suddenly underground

Emerging back into the sunlight the path hung around the stream for a little before climbing away. I perforce panted up the path. I was nowhere near satisfied, "two creeks" the trail finder had said. Well I was ready for number two. 

Number two would come in its own sweet time but first I was reintroduced to the sun. It was hot, very hot and rather to my surprise I found myself struggling. Thirty two degrees isn't uncomfortably hot for me or at least it isn't usually. I struggled along. I wasn't out of breath and I wasn't particularly sore or physically tired but the sun was sucking the strength out of me to a level I found genuinely concerning. I was supposed to complete the walk turn around and walk back for fourteen kilometres or so of bushwalk, something normally well within my capacity. As I plodded forward I realised I wasn't going to do it. I wasn't sure if I could do it. I would get to the end and stop. Fortunately being in the suburbs meant that no matter how thick the bush was you generally weren't too far from somewhere you could call an uber.

Less creek, more sun

With my mind obsessed with variations on the theme of "its very hot" I continued my walk. For the look of it I took the occasional photo and reminded myself I was supposed to be enjoying the wonders of nature. I did pause to photograph the Clare McIntyre Memorial Fungus which had somehow survived despite the heat but I have to admit that was largely just to give me an excuse to stop.

The Clare McIntyre Memorial Fungus. Not the most exciting example but I was desperate for a break

Just when I thought I could go on no longer Creek No. 2 appeared and it was a doozy. The Creek I had been following so far was Gordons Creek an acceptable little trickle in its way but now it collided with Middle Harbour Creek which frankly stretched the term "creek" further than the definition really intended.

That it has to be admitted is one hell of a "creek"

The sight of the creek cheered me up immensely because I knew the walk wouldn't just tease me with distant glimpses. At some point I would be down, near water, among shade. I won't say I was reinvigorated but complete physical collapse was definitely staved off.

The same creek but more of it

 With hope soaring (although that was possibly just my body temperature) I strode forth pausing only to take a photo of a bright red dragonfly. I can't explain how delighted I am to see dragonflies. They were a fixture of my childhood and then I went several decades without seeing any at all. Unfortunately they're notoriously difficult to photograph.

This is the best I could do dragonfly wise

I was on the downward slope now. Actually people have been saying that for years but they usually use the term "spiral". The water was coming closer with every eager step. And my steps were eager because as soon as I started heading towards the water I felt absolutely fine. I guess it was a little cooler as I descended but I started thinking well maybe I could do the round trip. Fortunately sanity or whatever passes for it in my mind prevailed.

Even the trees have gone for a swim

Then I was down by the banks of the creek and furthermore there was a tiny beach, a broad sheet of shallow water with little fish frolicing. I tried taking photos but they didn't turn out so well. I paused, regained my breath soaked my shirt in what turned out to be salt water (in case the name Middle Harbour Creek didn't clue you in) and generally took stock, deciding that the walk wasn't too bad after all.

Now that's worth the price of admission

Wet and moderately refreshed I continued along the path now feeling much more positive about things. The tinkling of birdsong stopped me in my tracks. For ages now I have wanted to take a photo of the flighty little finches (or whatever they are) that I frequently encounter on my walks. Unfortunately due to a combination of hamfisted incompetence on my part and the fact that the damn things never stand still for more than a second I haven't been successful. Today would prove no exception. I crept slowly forward my eye on a particular bird with a blue throat that appeared cooperative. Well, it tried. It stayed in one convenient spot for far longer than is usual unfortunately I made such a mess of getting my camera ready that it fluttered off in disgust. This was frustrating but was immediately eased when a massive lizard wandered up the tree behind the birds and was quite happy for its photo to be taken.

Who cares about little birds now

Delighted with my reptilian coup I carried on thinking that I was pretty much done. I had seen a snake, photographed a lizard and somehow survived the first few kilometres of the walk. Then I spotted another large lizard on the path in front of me. I crept forward camera at the ready and just at that moment a trio of young women turned the corner in front me chatting at the tops of their voices and the lizard hared off for a convenient tree. Fortunately it seemed to consider that three feet up a tree constituted perfect safety and I was able to get a couple of shots by carefully circling round said tree until the lizard presented itself.

 

Top half of the lizard, best I could do

I was coming to the end of the walk now. My trail map had shown that a significant road crossed the trail and that seemed like a good spot to flag down an uber. I came to the road. Please examine the photo below and see if you can see the fatal flaw in my plan.

 

A slightly inconvenient road

Fortunately the walk ended in a park with a slightly more accessible road beside it. I was somewhat annoyed and slightly ashamed that I hadn't managed to do my original plan of a round trip but obviously not so ashamed that I didn't plaster my humiliation all over the internet. After all I had lizard photos to flaunt.