Change is in the air. After a more than generous period of retirement, I am on the precipice of embarking on a spell of significant work again. The Treasurer will be happy, though it’s not like I stopped being a consumer. Despite recently spending extortionate amounts on dental treatment (not covered by the much-revered Medicare of course), and purchasing coffee (and sometimes cake) to break up the days a little, the economy is still heading towards possible Armageddon. So the prospect of work lies ahead of me like the Nullarbor, stretching out in hazy uniformity for the rest of my life, only to finally end up at Norseman, which is possibly even worse.
Change of a more subtle variety is also noticeable around the neighbourhood. The summer storms appear to have dissipated and – for now at least – Canberra has settled into a golden period of warm days, pleasantly refreshing nights, and big blue skies seemingly typical of March. Leaves are largely unturned, but there is a soft wilting and readiness to transform. Mornings are lighter later, but the wattlebird still manages to indulge in its annoying calls outside my window really early every morning without fail. Meanwhile, the cockatoos are even more voraciously attacking the acorns and itchy-bombs, causing overhead hazards on walks in this suburban wilderness.
Aligned with the glorious prospect of seasonal transformation is a final, lingering dose of Canberra activity. Enlighten, which appears more popular as the years pass (I was one of those stoic first year visitors before the advent of hipster-conducive noodle markets), always seems to coincide with the finest of nights. Each year brings a new stab at illuminative inventiveness, although one which is usurped this year by that going on within the National Gallery. To stand within an artwork in daggy little protective feet covers and be simultaneously disoriented, uncomfortable and exhilarated by light and space is just a tad different to giant projections of political cartoons on Old Parliament House. Maybe James Turrell can design all of Enlighten next year?
Whatever, the natural light and space of Canberra can be every bit as magical all year round, though there seems increasing clarity and depth as the sun shifts lower on the horizon. Rising early to see the annual balloon extravaganza is a reminder of that hallowed time of the morning before day breaks. The wattlebird may have been carping on for half an hour already, but the indigo sky is only slowly softening, the glow on the eastern horizon building until the first rays of sun blind the eyes, redden the white bark of the gums, and silhouette the parade of tripods seeking to capture it beside the lake. Hundreds of cameras redirected because the balloons are tethered, unable to take off because of too much or too little or too much and too little wind.
“Not strong enough wind there is or wind too much in gusts of the force” mutters the giant Yoda balloon. I would trust his wisdom (certainly more than an angry bird or dodo), and thus they remain a picture lingering upon the lawns, surrounded by an always surprisingly large mass for so early in the morning.
Further round the lake, distant in the west, several balloons have made it into the air. I guess wind conditions are more favourable away from a parliamentary area that usually generates a lot of unnecessary hot air. Hot air that has, I guess, indirectly contributed to my own forthcoming increased income tax contribution to save the economy. Hot air piped out of the giant flagpole that will mix with cooler and colder and – eventually – perishing air as the months progress. It was good while it lasted!
natural landscape is in much less turmoil (unless you listen to those wacky “scientists” with their corroborated, peer-reviewed “research” and years of undisputed empirical “data”). There are, clearly, mountains to climb and some are easier than others.
the right and deep ravines carved by Lady Northcote’s Creek, the mountains seeming to tumble sharply west. I have no idea who Lady Northcote was but if her character was anything like that of the landscape in which she was named, she was probably a bit of a looker, though occasionally bleak and somewhat cutting.
Before too long Albina Lake emerges, tucked in a sheltered valley seemingly conducive to an array of wildflowers and other alpine plants. The lake looks quite inviting in the warmth and would prove a nice spot for a picnic. It’s about nine kilometres into the walk now, and with the summit of Mount Kosciusko just a few thousand metres distant, we resolve to head on and join the masses carrying their lunch to the top of Australia. On reflection, the best part of the walk is over…though this may be in part because familiar paths will soon be rejoined.
Unfortunately we seem to have gradually descended a little, and the hoick up to the main summit thoroughfare is probably the steepest of the day. We’re not talking rock climbing here, but frequent steps and, by now, quite a penetrating sun. The junction with the main summit trail is like emerging from a country lane onto the M1. Mostly originating from Thredbo, families, fitness freaks and old fogies join us in a steady stream coiling up to the top (2,228m). A medley of Aussie flags and fluoro leggings congregates around the summit marker, and lunching is de rigueur. With homemade hummus and more quiche ours is perhaps one of the more pretentious of picnics!
summit climb and apparently includes Australia’s highest public toilet – a sedate, well-graded trail makes it all the way back. This is the old summit road and I read that a shuttle bus used to ply along here, part of me wishing it was still running. The open scenery is not unpleasant, but in comparison to other parts of the track and given the gathering weariness this part is a bit of a drag. Markers every kilometre break it up, as does Seaman’s Hut (2,020m) and a more comfortable bridging of the Snowy River with four kilometres remaining.
upwards trail to Blue Lake looks like an impressive climb! Snow Gums also cluster here, stunted and bending with their striped, smooth bark of chocolate and sand, of black and white. Afternoon clouds are building and the risk of storms hypothesised look as though they will be realised. But, after six and a half hours and 21.9 kilometres, we reach the (relative) safety of a Subaru Outback. Accomplished and relieved, invigorated and weary; trundling another 220km back to Canberra (577m), via Jindabyne caffeine and Cooma steak. From the real Australia and back to the bizarre.
There comes a point in January when people pause to consider what it means to be Australian. This usually occurs on or around the anniversary of a few hundred boatpeople from Great Britain arriving to “nothing but bush” (to quote the minister for Indigenous Australians and His Lordship Prime Minister of the Monarchical Colony of Australian Subjects). Considered writings of pride, of angst, of hope, of uncertainty litter the newspapers and infiltrate the electronic graffiti of the twittersphere. For the common man – let’s call him Shane – the Australian essence is commemorated through the bite of a lamb chop from a gas barbecue the size of a truck, a youthful discussion of rising intonation about the best 100 songs involving people with beards lamenting at life, or a day in front of the TV watching tennicrickcycletfooty with a so-cold-it-hurts beer.
While I could brave a venture into the question ‘What does it mean to be Australian?’ I neither have the will nor the current brainpower to go down this path. It may be I am suffering from that particularly laconic strand of Australianism that arises specifically at this time of year – the can’t really be arsed is it still the holidays period. I’m also in the dubious position of not really being a proper Australian, not really, even though the flag of my country of birth is still emblazed like some badge of imperial approval upon yours. All I can say is that I feel lucky, immensely lucky, to be a part of you, attached to your deep blue skies, your sandy shores, your withering white gum trees, and your mostly generous and progressive people.
I feel lucky, on most days, to be in Canberra. Yes really! A capital you have built in little over one hundred years from sun and frost-baked plains and bush-tangled hills. You really ought to be a little prouder of this achievement, especially because you have left some of those bush-tangled hills alone. The sweeping roundabouts and nationalist edifices now scattered across the plains are looking particularly fine as well, what with the regular stormy soakings keeping the grass nice and green. A summer of such generous rainfall that it could almost be British. How soothing.
Despite such impertinence, the sun still shines most days here, and for that I am grateful. The slight irony is that I write this looking out of my window on grey accompanied by a cool 17 degrees only. But this is surely a blip, for other days have offered ample warm sunshine before the storms. Conditions in which I can enjoy your verdant lawns and embrace your rising humidity. To climb bushland hills and swing golf clubs very amateurishly. To cycle alongside the water and sip coffee with the hipsters. To be that most Australian of creatures and watch sport; and not just any sport, but cricket, and cricket in an atmosphere of cleverly articulated critique of the opposing English team. Pommie-bashing I think you call it, and too bloody right.
As a more recent entrant upon this giant landmass I feel blessed that I can maintain a comfortable, civilised, and invariably cultured urban existence while still being easily belittled by nature. I can live in a clean, safe, prosperous city scattered with sweeping roundabouts and take one of the exits towards nothingness. Though for nothingness read abundance. An abundance of gum trees and hills and high plains in Namadgi, from which rocky outcrops pierce an abundant blue sky. A plethora of grasses and wildflowers emerging in swampy hollows, the weeds also thriving in a show of acceptance and egalitarianism. A setting for black cockatoos and butterflies to float in the air, riding the breeze upon which small white clouds cluster and vanish.
From then on the eating proceeded with a mostly seafood lunch involving the largest prawns ever created, sweets, desserts, nibbles, barbecue, sweets, snacks, more nibbles, etc. Presents were unwrapped, outdoor chairs were reclined, family discussions were robust. And to cap the day, I came home for a touch more nourishment and a little drink to lubricate the Skype calls to Europe.
There have been some natural and arguably more spectacular fireworks anyway. The hot dry summer which occurred in November has now been usurped by a north Queensland period of sunny, sultry mornings building to climatic storms and downpours later in the day. The pattern has been so recurrent that the days are becoming almost entirely tediously predictable, and so activities (unless they involve storm-chasing) are almost best undertaken in the mornings.
ra (1,855m), offered the perfect antidote to Christmas torpor. And it wasn’t even too difficult – the first six kilometres along a fire trail with interruptions for forest views, bird sightings, flower-filled glades, blue-tongued lizards and lunch beside a rickety mountain hut.
period with less than impressive results), it has been nice to venture lakeside and use a bicycle as a functional means of attaining coffee and shopping. A day spent re-visiting some of the national attractions was ideal by bike, and trips to town are scenic and satisfying, despite the fact that this means entering stores glistening and red-faced.
gbpilgrim 