Travelling Hopefully - Marsupials in the Mist

 After our fungus ridden heroics of the previous day both my correspondent and myself were ready for a quieter, less physically demanding day. In this we were assisted by breakfast. The previous night I had raised, purely hypothetically I assure you, the possibility of a breakfast that involved pancakes, butter, maple syrup and bacon. Quite specific for a hypothetical scenario I'm sure you'll agree. I was expecting the location of a cafe that might serve such items to eager travelers. Instead my correspondent recruited an ex-prison guard who filled me so full of food that walking was out of the question and even registering a pulse seemed like too much effort. 

However I couldn't spend all day rolling on the floor clutching my belly. At least that's what my correspondent said. Whether she was keen to show off her neighbourhood or simply desperate to get me out of her house is a matter of debate but eventually I shambled after her as she set a brisk pace towards a nearby stream. 

The aforementioned stream runs down a valley that my correspondent's house clings to the side of and provides a little local bushland within walking distance. Or at least it was walking distance for those who weren't stumbling along with bacon fat dribbling out of their eyes. My correspondent waxed lyrical about the bush, a small cave positioned for our entertainment and marsupials. Yes apparently furry, hoppy things abound. If we came back at dusk we could see them. I refrained from asking what we were doing there in the middle of the day.

Before the thrill of caves and marsupials however there was water.  The stream had been dammed a little upstream of my correspondent's home and the ensuing modest lake provided its small mite to Hobart's water supply as well as a residence for homeless water birds who I can only assume were living in bus shelters until the dam was built.

Here is the aforementioned lake doing its best to look like a natural feature

 I agreed that the lake was picturesque and definitely a fine example of lakedom (actually "lakedom" sounds like a rather niche porn site). I took photos and gathered my strength before embarking on the cave aspect of our journey.

"Where's the cave?" I asked looking around hopefully. My correspondent pointed straight up, there may or may not have been a malicious gleam in her eye. I should have guessed that. Since her locale was blessed with a creek it should not come as a surprise that there was a certain amount of verticality to the land immediately on either side of it. A road snaked up the hillside. Apparently if we climbed for a certain distance we could then strike out for a brief stroll until we reached the cave. Unspoken was her assurance that if I didn't make it up the hill she would leave my body to the tender mercies of the elements and marauding marsupials.

I gasped, retched, heaved and sweated and once I had made it to my feet set out on the hill climb. I suppose it wasn't that brutal as steep ascents go. It was relatively short and I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I prayed for death as my wobbly legs somehow propelled my breakfast heavy body upwards. My correspondent chatted on the way, I'm not sure who to as my conversation consisted of ragged gasps and occasional moans. 

When the path finally tilted back in the direction of horizontal my correspondent invited me to admire the view. The only view I was admiring was the red mist in front of my eyes but it has to be admitted that was spectacular. A short way along and the cave was presented to me in all its glory.

A small but definite cave

I took my time admiring the cave. Frankly I would have admired a rubbish heap if it had given me a chance to catch my breath. I agreed with my correspondent that it was a charming and understated example of the species then I turned my back on it so I could photograph the surrounding scenery.

The surrounding scenery. Somewhere at the bottom of this is the lake we just left

We sat and chatted idly in the shadow of the cave while some of us waited for our heart rate to get down to a level where coronary was only likely rather than inevitable. Once having exhausted every excuse for not moving, and disliking the look of the clouds charging over the top of Mount Wellington we decided to depart. Rather than retrace our steps down the road we went down the hillside instead. It took us about five minutes which made my previous whining seem a little pathetic. 

Once back at lake level my correspondent presented me with two options. We could either return to her house or cross to the other side of the creek and walk through the bush there. For reasons which I can only describe as pure masochism I selected option B. I almost gave up when the first thing that happened was we started climbing again but fortunately this was of short duration. With the creek somewhere below us on the right we strolled along the narrow path. I glanced down and came eye to eye with a wallaby which had been hiding in a bush hoping we'd go by without stopping. Caught out it graciously posed for a photograph before fleeing into the trees.

Well that was unexpected

Quite cock a hoop I continued along with a spring in my step. I looked more closely at the bush from then on and was rewarded with close views of the bush. A black blur caught my eye, I initially passed by but retraced my steps. I peered at the blur and it resolved itself into something roughly marsupial shaped. A potoroo according to my correspondent. 

This is the best I could do, it was considerably further away than the first one

Naturally I looked for platypus in the creek and naturally I didn't see any but I was over my platypus fixation now glutted on marsupial sightings. "Just wait," promised my correspondent.

Later that day after an afternoon nap/coma my correspondent returned me to the lake amidst mounting drizzle and mist. Apparently marsupials of various stripes congregated on the open grass once all of the tourists had buggered off. We sneaked up on vague, black shapes in the rain and gathering darkness. Closer they resolved into vague, black shapes that were, well, closer. Fortunately the quality of my phone puts my eyes to shame.

It was nowhere near this clear or this bright.

 

 

I'm not sure what this is but it hopped and was furry so I'm going with marsupial rather than frog

With my trip to Tasmania crowned in marsupial glory there was nothing left but to thank my correspondent for not killing me at any stage in the proceedings and retire to my hotel in preparation for my departure the next day. At the airport I bought the latest book by Richard Osmond and finished it by the time I arrived back in Sydney.

Travelling Hopefully - Waterfall and Fungi Edition

 Daylight comes slowly in Hobart in Winter.  It generally manages to turn up several hours after the day has begun without the slightest apology for being late. My hotel informed me that they served breakfast from 6.30 in the morning and that they recommended wearing warm clothing since they served breakfast in the "atrium". For the hard of understanding an atrium is essentially an aircraft hanger with furniture. It is not easy to heat and the hotel had solved that problem by refusing to try.  I slithered over the ice coated tiles, chased the snow leopards away from the table and signalled to one of the staff members that had not yet succumbed to hypothermia that I would like breakfast.  The speed with which I was served was an indication that movement was the only thing keeping my waitress alive.

Once sated with breakfast I took a call from my correspondent. Which did I prefer, caves, coast or waterfalls?  I pointed out that I'd already had breakfast but apparently she was referring to bushwalks that could be undertaken. Shyly I indicated my preference for waterfalls and in less time than it takes to tell (especially if I'm telling it) I was in a car travelling in the direction of downward heading water.

We left Hobart and headed towards the wild interior of Tasmania (approximate travel time, 27 seconds). The Derwent River uncoiled lazily on our right and then appeared on our left due to an unscheduled interaction with a bridge. My correspondent pointed out that this was absolutely not the river that produced the waterfalls, apparently Tasmania has at least two. Our destination was Mount Field where sufficient of the native forest had been left standing to justify walking trails and generalised outdoor activities. My correspondent waxed lyrical on the profusion of fungus that would present itself for our delectation as we wandered through the bush. To meet her hype fungus would have had to be throwing itself out of the forest at us at every turn. Strangely she wasn't far off.

Mount Field of course has a special place in my heart as it was here some years ago that I saw a platypus (very briefly) swimming down a creek. I knew the chances of a repeat performance were slim but I stared at every patch of water we encountered in breathless anticipation. Sadly the monotreme visibility on this particular visit would be on the low side.

The day was cool, there was moisture in the air (to be fair there was a good deal of moisture at ground level too, particularly the more waterfall intensive parts) and we set off into the bush at Mount Field in good spirits. By good spirits I mean my correspondent promised not to kill me if I kept my mouth shut.

The Tasmanian bush plus an indication of the ruggedness of the trail we were walking on

The next seven kilometres was a waterfall splashed, fungus ridden wonderland. At least it was if you like both waterfalls and fungi. For reasons I can't adequately explain, I do. If you don't like waterfalls and fungi then the next seven kilometres was a waterlogged, mouldy hellscape. A vast profusion of fungus presented itself for my delectation and I was busy with my camera taking what, for the most part, turned out to be rather inadequate photos. I'm not particularly good with a camera as the number of blurry fungus photos in my possession proves despite the fact that fungus doesn't move particularly quickly and is generally prepared to pose for the paparazzi. 

We'll get to the fungus later but first, a waterfall

It had rained recently and the waterfalls were quite enthusiastic about their job of transporting liquid vertically downward for the excitement of the audience. We greeted the sight of gravity doing its job with appropriate awe stricken noises although the real excitement would have come if the water had done anything else.

We moved slowly through the bush our pace dictated by the idiot freak with the camera insisting on pausing to photograph every piece of fungus that presented itself.

For example

As the day went on and the number of fungus photographs climbed into the low hundreds I started getting a little picky, turning up my nose at examples of fungi I had already seen. This quickened our pace somewhat but by that time my correspondent had already begun to despair of ever seeing her family again. 

 

Of course it couldn't be all fungi and waterfalls, despite my best efforts.  From time to time in the interests of balanced reporting I took photos of trees and logs and things. But then the next fungus would present itself and I would sink happily back into old ways.

We snuck up on the next waterfall from above so that instead of seeing water cascading down a cliff we saw water vanishing into the void. From above it looks as though the river just stops which I suppose is true in a sense although the water keeps going.

 

The river stops and starts up again somewhat lower down

In deference to the fact that the water going down is the picturesque part of a waterfall we then followed the water's path (somewhat less precipitously) for appropriate, cascade style photographs.

  

The same waterfall believe it or not

With two waterfalls under our belt we re-immersed ourselves in the world of fungi so thoroughly that I'm surprised we ever emerged. At some point during our walk the quiet of the bush had been shattered by a gang of black cockatoos that had rendered speech nearly impossible while simultaneously remaining to far away to be effective photographed. So here are some more fungi shots instead.

If you don't have a burning interest in fungi you could probably go to the end of this blog entry now. Oh wait, you already have

The path went on and so did the fungi, dogging our steps whether we were climbing hills or wandering through valleys. By this stage I was a total fungus snob refusing to photograph anything but the choicest selection.

 

 

The fungi have improved, sadly my photography hasn't

 

 

As is traditional on bushwalks we had taken a generally downward trend which required a definite amount of climbing to return to our starting point.  This climb took the form of a staircase leading up through the bush.  I had been given dire warnings about this staircase and approached it with distinct trepidation but with my correspondent leading the way I made it to the top without any more than the usual dizziness and black spots before my eyes. My correspondent congratulated me on my fitness while I wheezed and tried not to vomit on her shoes.

After I had recovered somewhat I stumbled after her back to her car, arriving just in time to thwart her plans to race off and leave me to the mercies of marauding fungi. We had dinner that night at a restaurant so close to my hotel that even I found it impossible to get lost on the journey.  The next day I had been promised marsupials.

Travelling Hopefully - Evacuation Drilled

 At slightly later than advertised but nowhere near late enough to complain a random group of people united by nothing but their desire to reach Hobart without getting seasick obediently clambered up a rickety looking gantry to gain entry to a rather small aircraft.  The aircraft it had to be admitted was an awkward size.  It was too small to use the usual terminal gateways but wasn't quite small enough that you could simply walk up to it and hop in, hence the meccano set inspired stairway.  If you don't know what meccano is, ask your parents to ask their parents.

Once we were all stuffed in a narrow metal tube the safety briefing began. I have sat through so many of these that I could recite them in my sleep or at least I could if I had listened to any of them. There was a new twist to the standard "in the unlikely event that you survive an emergency" talk this time though. Just ahead of me a pair of wings sprouted from the sides of the plane and those passengers fortunate enough to be sitting beside them were taken aside by the stewardess who quizzed them on the likelihood of their keeping their wits sufficiently about them in a crisis to open the evacuation doors which were apparently right over the wings. Apparently sufficient greasy assurances were provided by the passengers to satisfy the stewardess and she got on with the rest of the briefing. I eyed my fellow passengers suspiciously, one of them was already toying with the safety release and I wondered how many previous passengers had precipitated an emergency by being a little too eager with the evacuation protocols.

The rest of the briefing was all the standard stuff.  We were told that our life jackets were under our seats where they would be easy to grab assuming the aircraft crashed on a perfectly even keel. If it tilted at all passengers were far more likely to be trying to remove the seat in front of them from their face to reach for a life jacket which was now likely above their head. Said life jacket was equipped with a whistle. Air passing through this whistle would produce a high pitched screaming noise which would save the passengers the effort while they were plummeting to their deaths. A convenient light which would activate in water was also provided to assist rescuers in finding your corpse. If the plane isn't going down over the sea try and aim for a swimming pool or large puddle otherwise they may never find you.

In case you weren't listening to the stewardess all of this information was conveniently printed on a card that you didn't read either. I must admit I'm usually pretty sanguine about the safety briefing but sitting in a small, narrow plane that could apparently be torn apart by a couple of passengers certainly helped to focus my attention. What it didn't focus my attention on was the safety briefing, rather I focussed my attention on my fellow passengers to see which ones I was most likely to be able to kick out of the way as I scrambled for one of the holes ripped in the fuselage by someone who was almost certainly out of the plane already and probably dead.

After this build up it was actually a little bit of a let down when the plane landed in Hobart with barely a tyre screech to announce our arrival. 

Touring the Colonies

 I reached out to my Tasmanian correspondent the other day something I am reluctant to do ever since the "unpleasantness". Still she was technically my employee (or at least she would be if I paid her anything) so I felt within my rights to get in touch.  She obviously had a different opinion around the entire "get in touch" scenario but after a great deal of effort I managed to coax her onto a video call.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine," she replied with that sort of studied neutrality that implies an awareness of impending disaster coupled with uncertainty about its direction.

And that's where things stopped.  Having gone through all the effort of getting in touch it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to have anything to say.  Suddenly inspiration struck.

"It's your birthday soon isn't it?' A look of pure horror crossed her face.

"No," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea.

"I might come down..."

"Dear god no!!"

"... and visit you."

"If you come anywhere near me..."

"I'll bring a present."

"I'll pick you up from the airport."

It is deep, dark Winter in Tasmania.  The days are short, the nights are cold and twisted creatures roam the howling wilderness seeking prey.  But enough of the Hobart night life.  I shall enjoy my correspondents hospitality (when she heard I was staying the night she was kind enough to insist I stay at a hotel) and will spend the days roaming the bush or the city or wherever else my correspondent abandons me as she makes her getaway.  I've bought return flights which in retrospect seems a little optimistic of me.

Tasmania has remote bushlands abounding in platypus and fungi and all of them (my correspondent assures me) unlikely to be disturbed should an interloping mainlander wind getting buried there.  Some of those remote bushlands are disturbingly close to my correspondent's home.  On an unrelated note she informs me she has recently purchased a new shovel "for gardening".  My correspondent expressed a hope that I would see a platypus which I thought was rather nice of her although I'm not sure why she felt obliged to add the words "one last time" to the end of that sentence.

So in a spirit of eagerness and trepidation I approach the weekend looking forward to when our nation's largest surviving airline shoves me into a metal tube and essentially throws me at Tasmania.  It's not enough that I have to survive my correspondent.  First I have to survive Qantas.

My Legions are Growing

 Recently my parents returned from New Zealand.  Somewhat less recently my parents went to New Zealand but that isn't part of this story.  As proof of their globe trotting ways they turned up at home clutching photographs and gifts.  Sitting down and looking at some of the former was the price I paid for one of the latter. The latter was a rather handsome kiwi themed plush toy which I have christened Spike.  I introduced him to his companions and all seemed to be going well.  Until the next morning.

I awoke to find the furry spider two feet away from my face, staring at me. I screamed and he jumped two feet straight in the air.

"What the hell was that?" demanded the spider.

"Sorry, foot cramp."

The spider rolled several of its eyes.

"Come into the lounge room," it ordered. In the lounge room the plush toys were gathered in a semi circle waiting for me.

"Oh god, not another intervention."

"Listen," said Humpy the camel, "we all love you..."

"Bullshit, half of you can't remember my name and I'm pretty sure I saw the puffin stirring ground glass into my dinner last night."  

"Which you didn't eat despite all the effort I put in," snapped the puffin. "All right, none of us love you but if you go completely over the edge and get hauled away to the giggle factory what's going to happen to us?"

"So what is it this time?"

"Have you seen how many plush toys there are about the place?"

I looked around, they had a point. There were definitely more of them than I recall.  Certainly more than I remembered buying.  It has to be admitted that what had started out as a harmless personality quirk had teetered more in the direction of something disturbingly pathological.

"All right, point taken. Now what?"

The plague doctor stepped forward with an unholy gleam in his eye.

"Fortunately modern medical science can come to the rescue.  Your humours are seriously unbalanced leading to an excess of black bile but fear not, relief is at hand." Proudly he displayed his tools; a set of garden shears and a selection of hand held drills some of which still had bits of previous patients adhering to them. I made a bolt for the exit but went down under a tide of plush toys, which rather proved their point.

"What are you going to do?"

"I recommend a course of remedial trepanning," replied the plague doctor.

"He's going to drill holes in your head," giggled the puffin with what I thought was seriously misplaced enthusiasm.  I struggled but to no avail.

"Don't worry," said the plague doctor, "I've never lost a patient." 

"Really?"

"Yeah, I know where all of them are buried."

"How the hell is this supposed to help?" I demanded struggling futilely against my bonds.

"Honestly," snapped the plague doctor his bench side manner almost exhausted. "I drill the holes releasing excess blood so that the black bile can dissipate and your humours can rebalance. It's simple medical science son." The puffin meanwhile was shaving my head with far more enthusiasm that the situation required as the plague doctor reached for what looked like the rustiest and most blood spattered of the hand drills.

 "Will it hurt?"

"Occasionally I get cramp in the wrist but not normally."

"I mean will it hurt me?"

"Oh hell yes, they'll hear you in the next state."

Forty five excruciating minutes later my humours were so well balanced that they were trickling out of both ears.  The plague doctor pronounced himself satisfied and the other plush toys crowded around congratulating him on his skill. I settled for showing my gratitude by whimpering to myself.

"I think I need another plush toy," I muttered.

"Buy as many as you like," replied the psychedelic shark with an evil grin, "our numbers must grow."

"Just one thing," said the plague doctor, "I may have left the drill bit inside of your head.  Try to avoid sudden movements, or sneezing." 

Definitely not too many plush toys

 

 

Silly After Action Report - Bring Up the Guns

Rittmeister Gideap von Dobbin gazed around, proud of his command as they cantered through the woods. The young cavalrymen proud and tall sat astride their mounts their bodies moving in synch with the horses. Von Dobbin's eyes lingered on the gleaming flanks and well shaped fetlocks, the proud mane adorned heads tossing in the morning air. Reluctantly he tore his gaze away, he was already on three cold showers a day and it didn't seem to be making a difference. A sudden spatter of rifle fire split the air and the elegant formation dissolved into something resembling a badly organised gymkhana. Not to another man in the world would von Dobbin admit that he had a signed photograph of the Earl of Cardigan in his wallet but the knowledge of its presence steadied him as he reorganised his men with the assistance of a couple of veteran NCOs who had the bad taste to find the whole thing funny.  Above the sudden chaos he could hear a voice shouting in Dutch.

"What's he saying?" demanded von Dobbin.

"He's asking if we've got our passports," replied one of the troopers.

 Yes we're going old, old school here.  My regular opponent Dave dug this scenario out of some spider infested vault, blew off the dust and presented it for my delectation. This is Scenario G7 which pits some less than enthusiastic Dutch border guards against the horse fondlers of the German 1st Cavalry division. As the Germans my role is to break through the border post, loot the duty free shop and safely shepherd a bunch of wagons towing guns to the other side of the map. As the Dutch Dave's role is to grimly defend passport control to the death.  To achieve my goal I have a dozen elite squads and four leaders the best of which is a none too shabby 9-1.  Four light machine guns are my only support weapons.  This entire force enters on horseback. Additionally five wagons towing guns plod slowly down the road.  The guns can take no part in the battle, their presence is solely for the victory conditions.  I win by exiting at least three of them off the west edge of the board.  Thus Dave can win immediately by killing three wagons.  Situated inconveniently between my forces and the exit are Dave's troops; eight first line squads, two officers and a single light machine gun.  A pair of foxholes and eight wire counters allow Dave to thicken his defences although by special rule the wire can't be set up on roads.

 

At start

Above is the at start set up. The guns have to enter on the road and practically they have to stay on it as they don't have the time to exit if they don't.  The cavalry can enter anywhere on the eastern edge of the map.  I've chosen to send the bulk of my force (preceded by halfsquads) to flank him from the south and hopefully wrest control of the crossroads and exit before my guns arrive.  A smaller force will attack in the centre largely on a fire drawing mission. 

End of German turn 1

The fire drawing mission in the centre was unpleasantly successful as a halfsquad was killed outright by Dutch fire but another hurled itself from its horses to plunge into close combat with a Dutch halfsquad in a foxhole.  The rest of my force swung around from the south some of them heading towards the buildings the remainder dismounting to wriggle through the wire that protected the approaches.  This had its own problems as my best leader and the lmg squad he was leading would spend the next two turns stuck on the wire.  The guns clip clopped slowly forwards trying to get close enough to the exit for a last minute dash while simultaneously staying out of the firing line. 

In his turn Dave raced to reinforce his threatened position with mixed success.  A squad was broken but others pushed forward denying me a cheap triumph.  A halfsquad, still foolishly on horseback was broken (but survived falling off its horse).

In the next turn the horses were abandoned and my troops surrounded the building which was his main centre of resistance (except for those still hung up on the wire). Close combat had actually been my friend for once and I had wiped out his foxhole dwellers.  Of course this was "not without loss" as the propaganda rags delicately put it and a couple of units were cringing in wheatfields trying to find a horse to hide behind.

Things are looking suspiciously good

In his turn Dave started preparing for the future.  He kept a stack of squads out of harms way, funneling them into the main building in just sufficient quantities to force me to keep attacking.  Meanwhile he sent one unit, plus an officer, racing for the rear to take up a position where it could fire on my wagons as they lumbered past. For my part I finally managed to seize the stone building that had been holding me up and was at last able to concentrate some of my firepower against his remaining units (except for the guys still hung up on the wire).  I was starting to get concerned, although things had been going well time was starting to run out and Dave's repositioning of some forces along the road made me tremble for the guns.  Speaking of the guns they had been crawling slowly forward as my own forces advanced but there was still Dutch firepower between them and safety.

End of German turn 3, the guns are creeping forward

With time starting to get a little tight I felt obliged to bring my guns forward despite the fact that Dave had left a single squad as a stay behind force while the rest of his force took up new positions guarding the road. I paid the price as a wagon and gun was shot to pieces but the remainder made their way through the residual and nervously eyed the road ahead now lined with Dutch troops.  In actual fact there weren't too many Dutch troops. Dave had sternly defended the village and had paid the price but you don't need a great deal of firepower to shoot up wagons and I would need to clear the remaining defenders before my wagons could get through.  On the plus side my 9-1 and team had finally torn themselves free of the barbed wire and had dashed towards some horses, it was time to become cavalry again.

I've lost a gun but cleared the village

Mounting up my 9-1 and team galloped through the wheatfield to a location where they could menace his last defenders while other units pushed through the trees and behind hedges.  Dave didn't dare fire, needing to keep his concealment counters in place in the hopes of surviving the last couple of turns and either destroy or scare my guns.  The truth of this became apparent when I managed an advancing fire shot against one of his last units with results that were, shall we say, mixed.  I broke the squad and made the accompanying leader heroic.

Coming to the final showdown

Dave tried his last, sending his newly heroic leader into close combat alone against a squad of mine. He died bravely to no result.  The final turn rolled around.  This wasn't the final turn of the game but the last turn in which my wagons had the movement to make it off the map, it was now or never.  A single Dutch unit barred the way, I had four units within range to shoot at it.  If one of them could break the Dutch unit the game was mine.  As it so happened one of them did.  With resistance eradicated the gun wagons rattled past for a victory in the nick of time.

It is amazing how well this old scenario stood up.  Dave and I both thoroughly enjoyed playing this one.  For once I was happy with my play and didn't make any appalling mistakes.  Dave feels he made a mistake by not putting his foxholes in the south to cover that open flank thus allowing my guys to get up and personal on the first turn.  I greeted my victory with the same good natured restraint that I greet my defeats until Dave threatened to throw something at me if I didn't get off the table.

Rittmeister von Dobbin watched as the guns rattled through.  He eyed up the draft horses; solid, sturdy workers a mile removed from the elegant chargers he was used to but possessed of their own rough charm.  Von Dobbin took a deep breath and dragged his eyes away.  One of his troopers looked at him sympathetically.

"Wanna borrow my hair shirt?" asked the trooper.

"Maybe, yes" replied von Dobbin blushing slightly.  The trooper passed him something. "What's this?"

"Your passport," replied the trooper, "our visas are valid for six months."

 No horses were harmed in the playing of this scenario although Rittmeister von Dobbin's mount has lodged a formal complaint. 

Travelling Pathetically - Trail Plod

 Those of my readers with a retentive memory will no doubt recall that in May last year I subjected my aging and not particularly healthy body to the UTMB trail run in the Blue Mountains.  Of course if any of my readers had a retentive memory it is unlikely that they would still be readers unless they also have a penchant for masochism.  I did this run (or in my case agonised stagger) with a couple of friends and as May rolled around this year they were keen to do it again.  Despite recollections of the previous year they invited me to accompany them (that's the masochism bit coming out).  Since that time however I have learnt of the parlous state of the cartilage in my knees and was less keen on road testing my body to destruction.  I agreed to join them in the Blue Mountains but while they hurled their (much fitter) bodies at breakneck speeds over twenty two kilometres of terrain carefully selected for its pain infliction qualities I would take a much more modest walk in splendid isolation.  We were staying in Leura and being spectacularly lazy even when I'm exercising I selected a walk that started as close to our accommodation as possible.  The walk I chose was a twelve kilometre stroll from Leura railway station to Wentworth Falls railway station taking in some visually pleasing parts of the Blue Mountains along the way.  Incidentally the walk was only supposed to be ten kilometres but I wandered off the track a few times.

The weather over the previous week had been notable for rain and the day dawned with clouds, mist and occasional drizzle.  Deciding it was on to a good thing the day decided to stick with this weather for the next several hours.  At much earlier than I was comfortable with my friends hurled me from a car in the general vicinity of Leura railway station and headed off to perform feats of athletic magnificence while I coughed and stumbled through the misty streets. 

And I did have to stumble through the streets.  Even in the Blue Mountains the bushland doesn't come right up to the station.  I had to navigate my way through much of Leura before I came to the end of the, I want to say suburb but the inhabitants would probably prefer "village", wankers.  Once I left the, sigh, village the mist came into its own.  Until now it had just been an irritation as I tried to read street signs, now it became an atmospheric accompaniment to the bushland that lurked charmingly vaguely behind its protective coils.

There is bushland behind and occasionally in front of the mist

I descended into the misty, fern strewn wilderness.  Visibility was good enough to see where I was going (insofar as I do that anyway) but poor enough to make every turned corner a surprise.  Around me the sound of water trickling was a constant background.  The rain of the previous few days had encouraged every wannabe creek and rivulet in the vicinity to put on a display of cascading water.  What with the moisture in the air and the occasional rain it would be difficult to get more surrounded by water without actually drowning.  Incidentally most of the photos will be blurry, I'm going to blame the mist and I'd appreciate it if you did too.

As evidence of the previous statement

 Sheer delight overtook me as I cautiously made my way through the dripping, misty forest.  The mist and the dampness, the constant sound of water and the absence of other people made me feel alone in a mysterious wonderland.  I strode cautiously forward, and downward, literally reveling in the dripping ferns and the unfocussed bushland around me.  If you're into sightseeing I guess it would be annoying as all of the wonders of nature were obscured or invisible but I loved it.  The only tiny fly in the ointment was the "downward" nature of my travel.  This strongly implied there would be an "upward" part at some point in the future.

There's a waterfall in there somewhere

 

And this is what the water was falling into

Given that my journey was downward and given I was surrounded by water essentially making the same journey it was only to be expected that I would eventually come to a creek which was the immediate destination of all this extraneous liquid.

Blurry waterfall picture

 

Now creek adjacent I continued along through the mist shrouded forest.  Sorry to keep going on about the mist incidentally but there really wasn't much else to see and anything you did see was sort of poking out of the mist.

You see what I mean?

Of course given the prevailing moisture levels the local fungi thought all of their Christmases had come at once and candidates for the Clare McIntyre memorial fungus were plentiful and richly qualified.  Unfortunately as a photographer I'm less richly qualified as the series of blurred fungus photos on my camera attest.  Since I was taking these photos at a range of about two feet I can't decently blame the mist for the quality and have to fall back on sheer incompetence.  I realise that isn't an excuse but it is most certainly an explanation.

A rare semi adequate fungus shot

Repetition bores some people.  For me it entirely depends on what is being repeated.  As I walked on I encountered everything I've already mentioned.  Ferns, check.  Waterfalls, check.  Creek, check.  Fungus, check.  I greeted each one as though I had never seen an example of their kind before.  My expressions of delight at each (technically) new sight never wavered.

Waterfall

 

 

A somewhat more professional waterfall

 

Ferns plus creek

 

Semi competent fungus photo

And a waterfall one more time

It felt like I was alone in the wilderness but while technically this was true it was also true that the "wilderness" was skirting the very edge of the inhabited part of the Blue Mountains.  The true wilderness was further in and further down and I would not be venturing there largely because I can get lost in my apartment.  I plodded on molesting fungi and photographing mist and as I plodded the ground wound inexorably upwards.  Having teased me with creeks and waterfalls the walk had decided it was time I put in a little effort in return for the photographic bounty that had been laid out before me.  

I do not, in my wildest dreams, pretend that I am fit.  I do claim that walking is something that I can usually do without issue.  This claim is immediately put to the test the moment there is the slightest hint of verticality in the path I'm following.  I panted up what in retrospect were gentle rises with frequent pauses that I told myself were to take advantage of photo opportunities and not at all because I needed the black spots to stop swimming in front of my eyes.  It did enable me to take some spectacular mist shots.

There is probably scenery behind the mist

As I gasped and scrambled every tiny diversion was an excuse to grab for my camera and, most importantly, stop moving.  Here the fungus really came to my aid, springing from the ground (and trees) in such ridiculous profusion that this blog entry could really be nothing more than a series of fungus photos (to the extent it isn't already).

Every fungus was a life saver and the photos are marks of gratitude

 

Of course it helps that they were terribly photogenic

 Somewhat to my surprise I stumbled out of the bush and onto a street.  The path I was following dipped in to pay a quick visit to civilisation before heading back to the bush.  I had come up in the vicinity of Fairmont resort and their golfcourse backed onto the bush.  It was cold, the rain was drizzling and the mist still hung thick in the air.  Despite this there were people playing golf.  I shook my head at their stupidity and hurried past eager to plunge back into sodden, mist filled, fungus infested bush.  As I reentered the trail a sign warned me that snakes abounded in the area I was about to soil with my clumsy feet.  I wasn't worried, in keeping with my usual experiences if an area was proclaimed to be full of a certain type of animal it was absolutely certain that I wouldn't see it.  Given the amount of rain we had had the snakes were no doubt getting plumbers to drain their holes and trying to get their clothes dry. Certainly snakes were just one of a wide variety of animals I didn't see.

What I did see was more fungus and more mist wreathed trees.  The tourist authorities should promote these things.  Since people are going to see them anyway the authorities might as well pretend its deliberate.

fungus

mist wreathed trees, now you're up to date

As I headed into the next leg of my walk it was obvious that we were getting to a more heavily trafficked part of the bush.  Other trails intersected with mine and helpful signs directed the walker to spots of interest that they wouldn't be able to see because of the mist.  Of course now that there was more than one trail to follow I amused myself by following the wrong one until the trail app on my phone finally demanded to know what I was doing and guided me back onto what, after a certain amount of experimentation, turned out to be the right path.

The path now took me past handsome lookouts where one could gaze across the valley in awe and marvel at the beauties of nature.  I was so struck by the sight that I took a photograph.

Supposedly this lookout gives you a great view of the valley

Finally the bush evicted me onto the back streets of Wentworth Falls and I trudged wearily along the streets until I got to the station where I officially finished my walk and took the train back to my starting point.  The weather had cleared somewhat and for the first time today I saw a bird.  I took a photo of it as I sat on the station.

It looks like it belongs on a soup can

Full of a sense of achievement I made my way back to our rented accommodation to wait for my friends.  They, freed from my encumbering presence, managed to run twenty two kilometres in about the same time as it took me to walk twelve.  This didn't cheapen my sense of achievement at all but only because my standards are so low.