I was taking a picture of the oleanders cascading over her front fence when she walked out and said, “Hello. What are you doing?”
I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound To the memories of yesterday’s clouds I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound And now I’m set free I’m set free I’m set free to find a new illusion… “I’m Set Free” ~ The Velvet Underground
You’re probably as relieved as I am that my latest Moreton saga has concluded. Now I’m left with a knife-gouge in my belly where I dug out the tick, a sea-turtle breast-plate on my kitchen shelf, assorted souvenir molluscs, sand still turning up in odd places, and some very pleasant memories.
OCTOBER, 2011 It rained briefly in the night, destroying my third or fourth Moreton map, which I’d left outside the tarp. No worries, I could almost draw one from memory now. I slept quite soundly on my casuarina mattress, and woke early to put the kettle on and stash my gear. The sun crept over the surf and the spinifex…
OCTOBER, 2011 I headed back along the sand-summit ridge, and crossed — delicately, since I didn’t want to speed up the weathering process — the rust-coloured Martian landscape of ironstone.
OCTOBER, 2011 Lunch over, I left the shipwrecks and moved out onto the flats. When the tide recedes, vast sandy plains open up and you no longer have to hug every indentation of the coast. Twice a day this whole densely populated realm is revealed, washed clean and smooth; then the birds and crabs and worms emerge and start plying the surface, leaving their characteristic marks before the water creeps in again to erase all trace…
OCTOBER, 2011 Old age is a shipwreck ~ Charles de Gaulle The man who has experienced shipwreck shudders even at a calm sea ~ Ovid
OCTOBER, 2011 I always skulk along the Tangaooma beachfront with my hackles up and bile in my mouth (somebody call an ambulance!).
OCTOBER, 2011 Just once I’d like to start one of my trips like a professional, organised and well-slept.
G’day, all, and a quick post before I disappear for a couple of days. I’m up obscenely early this morning (even by my standards) to get a couple of trains down to the southern Bayside suburbs, and then the MiCat ferry across to good old Moreton Island, which as you might have guessed is probably my favourite place in this part of the world.
I was miserable and mixed-up over a woman. She had a boyfriend, a fact she would introduce into proceedings with what seemed like cruel and self-serving arbitrariness. At last she got on a plane and went back to him; I stocked up on chocolate, cheese and whisky, loaded my homemade pack, got on a ferry and cruised across Moreton Bay to the island of the same name, third-biggest sand island in the world, for my third prolonged excursion there.
Dirt. As hikers, it’s in our blood, our beds, and quite often in our breakfast.