The Rock

Story by Blair Paterson

Standing

If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantments of later years, the sterile preoccupation with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of strength.
Rachel Carson

I’d like to take you to a special place. A place I’ve laughed and played, pondered and prayed, grown up and taken stock; a place I’ve been drawn back to many times, even if, like today, we will travel some distance. I haven’t been to this place for a while but I’m sure it holds all the magic and beauty of my younger years, and I’m quite thrilled as always at returning, but I’m extra thrilled today because I’m bringing you along.

I reckon we all have an inherent sense of wonder, which believe it or not is particularly obvious in you. I love to catch that look in your wide alert eyes as they flicker in search of ‘where to?’ and ‘what next?’ You are still young but I think it is time we both explore this ‘sense of wonder’ further.

Sometimes adults let our delight in the mysteries of the earth subside from our existence. The habit of treating ourselves with a nurturing visit to a place which is special becomes quashed by our busy lives. I try my best but I’m no prophet with regards to nurturing my own or anyone else’s sense of wonder. There will, however, be ample opportunity during today’s expedition of discovery for you and I to embrace whatever we want, including each other, at this magic place we’re going to, which I know as ‘The Rock’.

What is it that keeps drawing me back? There are lots of reasons we’ll talk about along the way but today I’m drawn back for another snippet of significance. During the next big roll of my own wheel-of-life I’m hoping to show the worth of visiting a place such as The Rock to someone special to me.

That someone special is you.

Hopefully I can warmly express the indulgences of my own sense of wonder, and hopefully there may be something of worth from the experience to help you develop your own sense of wonder and never let it subside as you grow.

Are you ready? I sure am! Let’s go!

We walk down the track cut along a slope between sandstone shelves and gum tree groves. I’ve walked this track so many times I could never forget where to place my feet. We walk a little further, across a plank and over the ravine. We watch our steps, we don’t want to fall. It’s very rocky down there and quite a drop into the bushes. We waltz through the clearing relieved that we have not fallen.

Here we are. I can already feel the comfort washing over me, as if being embraced by a loved one. We sit for a while, because that’s what you do on a rock, and look out over the river.

You’ll notice that The Rock is actually a series of sandstone ledges protruding from a cliff face. There are three main ledges at different heights above the river, similar to a high-diving tower at a swimming pool but much scarier for those afraid of heights. I know the ledges as top, middle and bottom rocks.

We’re sitting on the top rock. I first jumped into the river from here as a teenager after years of building up the courage. All the sensations of fear, adrenalin and peer pressure are flooding back. I remember standing on the edge while my friends and cousins coaxed me incessantly from the water below. I remember the feeling of my stomach lightening and the air rushing past as I leapt and plunged feet-first into the river. I remember taking an eternity before realising I should swim to the surface to breathe again. I remember my first jump was wondrous.

Along the track we just walked is the caravan park where I went with my family most weekends and school holidays right through my school years. Those years can be hard. Whenever I felt things became too much, I’d slip away and come up here to sit for a while. We don’t have a caravan anymore but in those days as a place of retreat The Rock was perfect because it was just a short walk away.

The Rock has such a pull for me that I still keep returning regardless of the distance I need to travel. The thrill and noise of jumping into the river is balanced by the tranquility and quietness of sitting.

Take a look over the edge. Be careful though. Quite spine tingling, isn’t it? I can sense you think so by your body language – as you draw breath you tuck your chin into your neck, pull your head back between your shoulders and shift your balance onto your heels. You squeeze my hand and tell me you think it’s really high and I agree wholeheartedly. Don’t worry though, I’m right here beside you, I won’t let you fall.

Isn’t there something powerful and awe-inspiring about standing unguarded on the precipice of a high, naturally formed rock-ledge? There is a sense that one’s own existence is balanced precariously between life and death in a way which somehow binds us to the raw elements of Nature Herself. Bound to a solid, powerful and enduring Nature over time and space, yes, but also bound to a fragile, vulnerable and complex Nature as a part of an organism in balance with Her own delicate existence between life and death. You are standing on the rock-ledge with your senses starting to open to your surroundings. I’m still here beside you. I feel it too.

While you’re standing on the ledge I hear you murmuring quietly and meditatively to yourself, about how your senses are engaged in the moment:

“I hear the water lapping softly against the rocks below, sounds which thump louder than I thought possible. I feel the breeze blow up from the river and tingle so sharply against my skin that I’m frozen in a dilemma about which part of my body to rub first. I stare as long as I can at the sun reflecting on the water but the glare is too much. I look away only to be dazzled by the movement of the rustling leaves in the trees. The same breeze is energising me where I stand. As more and more noises bang, clatter and compete in the amphitheatres of my ears I cannot help humming just to emphasize the rhythm of my own breathing and living. Through the soles of my bare feet I can feel the baking heat of the sun radiating from the lichen-covered rock.”

Are you beginning to feel an inkling that you are a binding part of this organism of Nature? I sense you are starting to, my child.

You are a tree, a little sapling. Your branches reach up and sprout leaves to take in the light and warmth you need for vitality and oomph. Your roots burrow down to lay foundations on which I hope you can base a long life blowing in the breeze and, without greed, let you to drink in all the nutrients and replenishment you require.

I bet you can smell the brackishness of the river below. Do you want to taste it? Would you like to jump?

21 Days… Adventure Travel in Peru and Bolivia

Story by Sandra Rutter

Agua! Agua con gas! Agua! Agua sin gas!
These words shouted by local women selling bottled water, bean snacks and handicrafts at every stop along the way, punctuated the 21 days I spent on a Tucan Adventure Tour, travelling around Peru and Bolivia in March and April 2001. It is always the little details we notice most when travelling, rather that the sweeping vistas around us. The bottled water was a necessity - most of us used it even to brush our teeth, although I soon tired of this. Haggling for handicrafts proved addictive. And I spent a minor fortune on the broad bean snacks, my dependancy on which evaporated as soon as I returned home

But food is not really what one travels to Peru for, even if alpaca steaks and skewers of guinea pig are often on the menu. Everyone knows where one has to go - Machu Picchu, the famed Inca city high in the Andes. Hang the fragility of the place and the swarming bus tours. Stuff the lines of trekkers along the Inca Trail, many of them sucking on coca leaves mixed with ash to offset the effects of the altitude and exhaustion. Ignore that their behaviour is an imitation of Inca messengers before the arrival of the Spanish and their ‘guns, germs and steel’. It is a wonder and therefore must be seen.

This unfairly flippant perspective belies the very real sense of awe I felt on the eighteenth of April 2001, sitting and watching the dawn appear over the Sun Gate, clouds rising in diagonal bands as though from the centre of the earth itself, hit by the emerging sun, then lifting to reveal the binary oppositions of light and shadow and the terraces and roofless structures which cling to the shallow half-bowl of the hillside.

Is there more to Peru and Bolivia than the remains of an imperial civilisation, one which conquered or allied itself to its neighbours to dominate these areas? There is. A lot more. Islands teeming with wildlife? Check - Islas Ballestos, a fragrant mix of Pacific salt, sea lions, penguins and birds with their accompanying guano. World Heritage listed mysterious lines and shapes carved into hillsides and across a vast plain in the desert? Check - at Nazca, which also boasts sun-dried skeletons as well. Wild vicuna grazing on the oxygen-deprived altiplano? Swooping condor and thermal springs? Check. And check. And the dramatically majestic landscape of the Colca canyon itself. Mud, rainforest, capybara tracks and pirana fishing in the Amazon? Check - at Puerto Maldonado. The reed rafts and icy depths of Taquile and Amantini Islands on Lake Titicaca. Twenty-one days proved far too few for me to truly see, marvel at, explore and learn about the riches and the poverty of these countries.

Book-ending all of this is Lima, Peru’s capital city, built by the Spanish, the centre of which is dominated by Plaza Mayor, its imposing cathedral, and the permanent home of Pizarro’s tomb and a weight of Peruvian Catholic iconography. The cathedral itself was dressed up for Easter when I began my tour. The remainder of the tour was spent far from the noise and smog of the capital. And after the tour, with time to kill waiting for my flight to Buenos Aires, I spent the day in Miraflores, the garden suburb of the capital and apparently its social hub. Close to the Pacific, this also proved to be a great place to be filmed drinking salted orange juice whilst being interviewed for a local comedy show by a man in a giant cat costume. Una chica linda! (a cute girl) indeed.

Russia Creates New National Parks

By David Rutter

The Russian government has moved to create 13 new national parks and 9 new nature reserves, covering an area of over 3.8 million hectares - boosting its national protected areas to nearly 3 percent of its territory. The creation of the parks and reserves is to take place by 2020.

The move follows analysis by World Wildlife Fund in cooperation with The Nature Conservancy and the MAVA Foundation carried out between 2006 and 2008. The initiative is aimed at fulfilling Russia’s commitment under the Convention on Biodiversity to safeguard biodiversity.

Along the Way

By Garry Sonter

View Gallery

If A was the beginning of a road trip and Z was my destination, then all the letters in between would be how many times I may stop to take photos along the way. Some of my most favourite photography has been taken alongside country roads.

Roadside photography is all about timing – being at the right place at the right time and being able to identify an opportunity when it is presented. I often find myself in two minds whether to pull over or keep on driving. Getting to a destination can take far too long if I were to stop every time I thought there was a chance for a good photo.

Many years ago I saw a spectacular sunset in the making. Instead of pulling over I tried to reach my destination ten minutes up the road. It turned out there was no way of seeing the sunset for the surrounding trees blocking my view. I have learnt since I won’t always make the right decision and just trying to be out and about with my camera will give me my best chance at capturing something special.

Roz Savage Complete Pacific Row

By David Rutter

Roz Savage became the first woman to row solo across the Pacific on the 4th of June when she rowed into the harbour at Madang, Papua New Guinea.

She completed the journey in three stages, with the third and final stage from Tarawa to Papua New Guinea taking 48 days.

Roz was met by a crowd of 5000 in Madang, and has been enjoying their hospitality since arrival.

Far from sitting back and resting after her journey, she is already planning a journey across the Indian Ocean, which is due to start in March 2011.

Sailing Around the North Pole

By David Rutter

The receding ice in the Arctic now brings about the opportunity for sailing around the North Pole. Norwegians Børge Ousland and Thorleif Thorleifsson will attempt this feat this coming northern summer. They will set sail from Oslo in on Midsummer’s Eve (June 23).

The journey is a long one, and to complete the journey in a single season a fast boat is needed. Ousland and Thorleifsson will make their attempt in a lightweight trimaran, a craft that can reach speeds of 20 knots. Having a fast boat is not without dangers and drawbacks – the craft is not able to power through thin ice, and needs to be able to avoid dangers such as pack ice which could cause damage to the vessel.

Image courtesy of Børge Ousland ]]> http://theoutdoortype.com.au/2010/06/10/sailing-around-the-north-pole/feed/ http://theoutdoortype.com.au/2010/06/10/sailing-around-the-north-pole/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/theoutdoortype/~3/VESGIhYLU6E/ http://theoutdoortype.com.au/2010/05/27/alwal-national-park/#comments Thu, 27 May 2010 00:45:45 +0000 David Rutter http://theoutdoortype.com.au/?p=610

Alwal National Park

By David Rutter

Alwal National Park, west of Cooktown on the Cape York peninsular, is Australia’s newest national park.

The 42,000 hectare park is home to the endangered golden shouldered parrot, as well as the Cape York wallaby and the endangered red goshawk. The area is also one of only two known habitats for the rare
shrub Jedda multicaulis.

The park will be jointly managed by the Queensland State Government and the Traditional Owners, which include the Haypan, Possum and Olkola peoples.

Under the Cape York Peninsula Heritage Act 2007, all new parks on the Cape are to be jointly managed by the state and Traditional Owners.

Outback Horizons

By Blair Paterson

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The colour, light and sparseness of outback New South Wales is breathtaking. The sky is so big over a landscape of desert and plains stretching out to a horizon in the far distance.

Permit Me to Watch the Sun Rise

By Tab Paterson

Darjeeling - Queen of the Hill Stations. I fell in love with this mountain outpost the moment I arrived. As I was only able to spend four days in the city, it turned out to be a whirlwind affair that would live on in my heart long after we parted ways. In an effort to greedily squeeze every bit out of our fleeting association I had walked its narrow streets every day. Rugged up against the cold, I scoured shops for tea, pashminas and silver jewellery. I took in amazing vistas from Chowrasta, wandered through the pony stables and lost track of time in the Oxford Bookstore. I did the tourist thing and visited the impressively named Padmaja Naidu Himalaya Zoological Park and saw the beautiful snow leopard. My eyes were opened at the Himalayan Tibetan Mountaineering Institute and Everest Museum, which brings to life the perilous conditions of the region’s early mountaineers. A visit to the Gymkhana Club was like stepping back in time. The last bastion of the English Hill days, its resort buildings now stand as reminders of their prestigious heyday, when Queen’s men were offered such noble pursuits as badminton, roller skating and smoking. Chowk Bazaar was unlike anything else I had seen. The sprawling market left my Western sensibilities ducking for cover, precisely what I had to do as well, given the “Please Do Not Spit Indiscriminately” signs were routinely ignored. I became lost several times among the myriad of streets filled with innumerable stalls. I was swallowed up by narrow, covered laneways where people were burning things and sweeping things and pouring water over the burning things. I feasted my eyes on sacks of pink and green pulses, red lentils and a rainbow of ground spices. My constitution was tested as my nasal cavities were filled all at once with the stench of pungent dried fish, bloody meat and fresh dog turds. It was why I came to this place – for an assault on my senses that left me feeling alive and ready for anything. However, all this did little to prepare me for my last morning in the city: when I would purchase a permit to watch the sunrise on Tiger Hill. This is my story.

I stood with my travel companions next to what appeared to be the oldest jeep in Darjeeling at 4:15 that morning and braced myself against the cold night air. Still half asleep, I wondered why I was doing something so crazy. Well-meaning arguments in support of this venture had not convinced me. Why make a commercial event out of a natural phenomenon like the rising of the sun? Granted, making the effort to see this every day event transforms it into something truly special and memorable. I have always thought what an amazing show nature presents us with each day, gratis. Never in my life had I considered the prospect of paying to watch a new day begin. So why, I thought as I pulled my polar fleece tight around my shivering body, should I pay for it now? While I am not against paying for the chance to experience natural wonders – I’ll happily fork out money to enter a World Heritage area or to camp in a stock-standard National Park – paying for something I can watch from my nearest beach after a big night on the town seems unnatural. This was foremost in my mind on that icy morning. The previous two sunrises I’d made the effort to see were fantastic, and not one rupee was exchanged.

Whilst in the village of Sandakphu I had seen four of the five highest peaks in the world - Everest, Kanchenjunga, Makalu and Lhotse – along with several other snow-capped peaks glowing in the early morning sun. It was the beginning of day four of a five-day trek along the Sikkim-West Bengal border and I had got out of bed early to relieve my extreme thirst. On the way out to the tin shack that was used as camp kitchen I said good morning to our guide, Sommu. He merely nodded in the direction of the mountains and with a broad smile said “Clear day”. Running back to the cabin, I sounded the alarm to my companions and within minutes we were at the viewing area, sleepy-eyed with cameras at the ready. Behind us the sun made its way into the Himalayan sky and we witnessed those magnificent mountains come to life before our eyes. Sommu explained that the formation as seen from this vantage point is called “Sleeping Buddha” and to my eyes he really was there in regal repose, bathing in the misty morning light.

The week before, at the beginning of my last day in the Tibetan township of Rabangla in southern Sikkim, I trudged to the top of a hill along a track lined with prayer flags. It was still dark so I carried a torch as well as my camera, and the short journey was difficult, as I was still suffering with the less-than-mild symptoms of a mild case of altitude sickness. I had left the cocooned warmth of my sleeping bag in what appeared to be the middle of the night. Wearing as many layers of clothing as possible, I reached a hill on the edge of the town which granted me brilliant views of both the sun rising and the Kanchenjunga mountain range, which magically lit up with each second.

But here we were, our last morning in Darjeeling. Like many tourists to this city, we were encouraged by the locals to make the early morning trip up Tiger Hill, which at an altitude of 2,590 metres affords a particularly spectacular view of the sunrise. The popular destination has earned international fame for being the place to see an impressive 250 kilometre stretch of the Himalayan horizon light up each day. The non-profit travel website Darjeelingnews.net rather poetically describes the experience thus:

“In the fast receding glimmer of the night, the spectator finds himself standing on the mound bedewed with sparkling frost, plunged in hush and silence and steeped in frigid cold. A traveller whose vision has not been entertained with … sunrise from Tiger Hill, has missed a pleasure that does not lend itself to be substituted.”

As we found out from our hotel proprietors, it’s also a catered affair with tea and biscuits included in the 40 rupee permit. But that was just it – there was a permit I needed to buy. I was highly skeptical about paying to see something I’d always considered priceless.

The Indian obsession with bureaucratic processes, particularly those of the pen-and-paper variety, is legendary. The associated administrative fumbling can be infuriating. Nowhere is “red-tapeism” more evident than in purchasing a permit. What I might flippantly call an ‘entry fee’ is dubbed ‘permit’. Along with this semantic discrepancy comes a seemingly endless process of identification paper checks, manual recording of banknote serial numbers and waiting in slow-moving queues. The purchasing of a permit to watch a sunrise from a hilltop whilst sipping tea seemed to take the cake in red-tape-overkill and I originally wanted no part in the lunacy. And yet the lure of the world-famous sunrise was too strong for me to resist. I answered my 4am wake-up call and prepared to make the trip up Tiger Hill.

Fifteen minutes later I climb into the ancient jeep equipped with everything from a dashboard statue of Lord Vishnu to Bambi seat covers. Following our departure from the jeep rank we take every single back street and narrow alley in Darjeeling to reach Ghoom – a railway town on our way up Tiger Hill. I wonder if we have forgotten to pay the flat-rate fare and our driver is capitalising on our sleepy states. Convinced that this is indeed the case, I look frantically for the secret taxi metre I’m sure is hidden under the dash. The jeep swerves around tight corners and as the rattling of the chassis transfers directly to my spinal cord, I realise in horror that neither my fellow passengers nor I are wearing seatbelts. In truth, should we meet with any misfortune nothing short of rally car helmets will suffice.

Upon reaching Ghoom the harsh reality of our endeavour to watch the sunrise from a hilltop whilst sipping tea becomes apparent. The jostling rally-style driving is now replaced by a slow crawl, as we become part of what appears to be a convoy of similarly decrepit jeeps filled with bleary-eyed tourists all taking the same overpriced journey. The morning sky is still a rich ink-blue, and behind us the surrounding nothingness is punctuated only by twin-sets of piercing headlights. Ahead, devil-red taillights lead the way to our ultimate destination.

The “permit office” looms at the base of Tiger Hill and turns out to be a ramshackle jumble of toll booths. Here the massive jeep convoy splits into many smaller streams, like the Ganges River as it flows into the Bay of Bengal. Permit sellers, or “officials”, lumber from vehicle to vehicle, check personal details, passports and the quality of paper currency. Offer ripped, crumpled or dirty rupee at your own peril – I found this out the hard way back in Darjeeling. Once the checking is done, the purchase of the permit takes place. Someone in our jeep is told by a permit official “You must ensure that the serial number on your permit matches the serial number of the permit believed by the permit official to have been issued to you”. This sentence proves to be more than my 5am brain can handle, and I pass the remaining time in the jeep in a haze managing only to focus on the ever approaching hordes behind us.

It is still dark when we reach the top of the hill so there is no view to speak of. Someone more cynical than I might believe they’d spent close to an hour and a half of precious sleeping time and 40 rupee worth of smooth, unblemished banknotes to visit the place where Darjeeling jeeps come to die. The parking lot is a cleared piece of land at the apex, dusty and smelling faintly of urine. Upon alighting from our cramped jeep we are accosted by at least four people selling hot beverages. My breath is visible with each exhale, and now that I am outside and at an altitude of 2,600 metres I abruptly realise I’ve left my treasured Thinsulate™ gloves in the hotel room. Spilling out of rusting jeeps, the multitude of fellow tourists are blowing their noses, taking photos and generally making what I consider too much noise for this time of the night. Winding his way through the maze of people is a man with what appears to be a knitted red and blue tea cosy on his head. He carries several 50 year-old metal thermos flasks on a tray supported by a belt slung around the back of his neck. As he approaches I hear his comforting chant of “Chai, coffee, coffee, chai”, and to my over-stimulated brain it comes across as an invocation to induce sleep. Then I remember and look down at my permit: we have purchased berths in the “Super Deluxe Lounge with Complimentary Tea”. I try to ignore the absence of the words “and biscuits” on my permit – surely my hotel proprietors would not have duped me in this matter. However the presence of the word “lounge” is perplexing, as my only observation of my surrounds is the aforementioned sea of jeeps and a low log railing. I soon find out that the lounge is in fact located in a pavilion situated behind the car park, so it gives you not only a view of the sunrise but also lets you watch the driver of your jeep lean on his bonnet and smoke a packet of cigarettes before the drive back down. The pavilion looms like a huge white ocean liner of the 1930s which has found itself stranded on a rocky outcrop. The Super Deluxe Lounge is on the second floor and boasts panoramic windows, coin operated binoculars, over stuffed sofas and armchairs, and coffee tables. There is a trestle table directly to the right of the entry, where the self-serve tea and coffee awaits. Sadly, my rupees have bought only the right to drink from Styrofoam cups. And there are no biscuits!

Upon entering the Super Deluxe Lounge it becomes clear to me that this outing is considered a prime destination for Darjeeling couples. Women with made-up faces, dressed in beautiful saris sit coyly next to men steeped in aftershave and wearing crisp white business shirts. Upon our arrival they pretend to look for a glimpse of the rising sun. They fool nobody – everyone here knows it’s still practically the middle of the night and no one will be seeing anything even resembling the sun for quite some time yet. I feel uncomfortable as we seem to be intruding on a private sanctum. I imagine it from their side – you’re settling down for a romantic date watching the sunrise and in come a noisy rabble of tourists heading directly for the tea and coffee on the trestle table and complaining about the lack of biscuits. I look around and see one shy couple purposely brush each other’s upper arms by accident as they point to where the horizon will appear much later on. Here in this pseudo-lounge room that we have invaded, the local art of sexual suggestion seems alive and well. There is an intense closeness of bodies, where nothing is touching but everything is implied. Does our preoccupation with the tea and biscuits while such sexual intensity simmers just metres in front of us say something profound about the way sex is perceived in the West? Maybe. Still, without those biscuits the prospect of breakfast now seems an eternity away.

The sofas prove popular for bodies accustomed to still being in bed. They are comfortable and we settle in to their soft recesses. No one minds that when you are seated the view is obstructed by the binoculars. As I gently blow into my Styrofoam cup to cool my tea, I glance up at the clock on the wall. It shows 5:20am. In a display of panic that can be excused from someone who feels cheated of the deepest portion of the night’s sleep, I begin asking all watch-wearers if the Super Deluxe Lounge Clock is correct. To our mounting dismay, and rapidly declining levels of caffeine, we resign ourselves to the fact that we will be sitting here on grandma’s sofas sipping tepid tea for at least another hour before anything notable happens.

Sometime after this, a bright orange shimmering ball pops over the horizon. Amidst oohs and aahs and even some screaming worthy of teenage girls at a pop concert, amidst camera flashes and home movie makers and people getting a shot of their friend “holding” the marble-sized sun between their finger and thumb, amidst smoking jeep drivers and dogs yowling in hunger and the “Chai, coffee, coffee, chai” man, it happens the way it always does. The way it has throughout millennia and the way it will until the end of time. The sun makes its daily journey to begin a new day. “Seen one, seen them all,” I think in retaliation as I begin to scrunch up the dreaded permit. I am already using my vantage point to mentally carve out a route back to the jeep when something catches my eye. I make my way through the crowd at the window to get a glimpse and finally understand what all the fuss is about.

Right in front of us, almost close enough to touch, is the reason we’re all here. Two glowing orange triangles – the twin peaks of Kanchenjunga, lit up like flames. They make my heart feel both light and heavy at once. Their imprints flash across the inside of my eyelids. The lower peak is pink, less intense than the orange but more interesting. The darker side of this peak, the last to receive the sun’s rays, is a deep purple hue. Beneath the peaks, the mountain sides are an almost fluorescent icy blue, and my fingers tingle as I again remember my gloves lying forgotten in the motel room. Next to this spectacle, the peak of Makalu can be witnessed as it begins to turn vibrant orange. It’s a beautifully clear morning so Everest, 172 kilometres away, is just visible in the distant background. Further away down in the valleys are the meandering silvery scrawls of the Teesta and Mechi rivers.

I now recall feeling a wonderful sense of calm as I watched the changing colours of those frozen peaks, the rolling ranges and icy plains. I truly felt at one with the place and all the people there. The absolute beauty of the surrounding landscape’s illumination by the sun brought home to me the charming nature of the absurd experience leading up to it. In a second it had all been well worth the lost sleep, the crazy jeep ride, the purchase of the permit and the absence of biscuits. At that moment I did not know what the rest of the day held for me, but if nothing else I could say I’d seen the top of the world come to life from Tiger Hill. And I had the permit in my pocket to prove it.

Yesterday afternoon I ventured round the corner to Pratten Park. The weather forecasts predicted summer temperatures in winter and once my morning housework was done I had to get outdoors.

Yesterday was a Sunday, and I was well up for some parklife! I set out with an array of items for a tea party including my Trangia cooker, cups, a canteen of water and some sugar and milk. But when I stepped outside the balmy weather dictated the occasion required cool beverages instead of hot, so I called into the bottle-shop along the way and bought a couple of bottles of beer.

I arranged to meet Garry at three o’clock, at which time we stumbled upon one another near the park entry. Garry had set out with Emily, his nearly-2-year old daughter, and judging by the cheeky smiles on the faces of both father and daughter, they seemed up for some parklife too.

After saying “How do you do?” and “What a beautiful day?” the three of us ambled through the Arthur Street gate, past the old ticket house, between the bowling greens and lawn-tennis courts and around Thirning Villa. We found a nice, shady patch of lawn on a hill next to the scoreboard; Emily was unhitched from her baby backpack carrier; Garry and I sat down and twisted the tops off our bottles of beer.

“Cheers big ears”

“Same goes big nose”

As could be expected on such a pleasant Sunday afternoon, all manner of parklife activities were underway and there was plenty of glorious, free entertainment to fill our senses.

The day before, on Saturday, I played my last ever All-Age soccer match – next year my team and I move to the Over-35s – so with my melancholy turn of age along with my usual post-game aches and pains I was obviously attracted to a soccer match in full swing on the oval.

Encircling the oval is a white picket fence, around which are rows of old timber bench seats up to seven rows deep. Between the first and second rows a man I guessed to be in his sixties slowly shuffled along in his afternoon jog. Overhead a noisy minor pursued a crow. The crow seemed unperturbed.

These days Pratten Park is an excellent setting to watch and play sports and enjoy the outdoors in a social, laid back manner just as Garry, Emily and I were doing. Sitting among the established trees, old buildings and high brick fences, I could feel the park’s history.

Pratten Park lies on the land of the Wangal and Cadigal people. Between 1855 and 1904 the area was part of the ‘Ashfield Land’ of surgeon and parliamentarian Arthur Martin a’Beckett’ and his wife: Emma Louise. In 1911 the park was first proclaimed by the Crown as a ‘recreation reserve’, in the same year the Western Suburbs Lawn Tennis Club was formed.

Formerly, the park has been a home ground to the Western Suburbs Rugby League Club and to Sydney Olympic during the arguably infamous National Soccer League days. (Pratten Park has an unsavory snippet of history too: in 1985 it was the venue where an ethnically charged riot broke out between fans of rival Sydney soccer clubs. The inglorious event was one of many on grounds throughout Australia in the ‘80s which led to the demise of the NSL.) Among a myriad of sporting and social functions, the park now hosts the Western Suburbs Cricket Club in summer and the Canterbury District Soccer Football Association in winter.

Pratten Park, yesterday, was a ‘parklife’ park. I think parklife should be a word in the dictionary. Here’s how I would define it:

Parklife – n. colloq. utilise open public lands and gardens for recreational acts of frivolity and merriment through active or sedentary pastimes.

Back on the oval, the referee blew his whistle. The ball had been kicked high over the goalpost and picket fence and into the construction area across from us where an underground stormwater tank was being built.

“Not the best shot on goal” I’m sure the player who kicked the ball would have admitted.

“Keep your head over the ball” I quietly muttered to nobody in particular before my soccer instincts from the day before kicked in – I hoisted myself up and ran over to fetch the ball. I wanted to touch it, to feel its pressurised round mass in my hands; I wanted to launch my left foot through and punt the thing as hard as I could.

The temporary wire fence around the construction area posed more of a problem to climb over than expected. I felt as though I was an over-eager, ball-crazed dog with a barrier to negotiate – I wanted that ball at any cost! I got over the fence after a couple of failed attempts and picked up the ball and in front of all the players and officials and a smattering of spectators in the grandstand opposite, I kicked the ball sideways across the construction area. Embarrassingly, I traipsed across the dirt and ditches and building paraphernalia to have a second kick and to a very small cheer from those watching, I finally booted the ball out and back over the picket fence. I should have heeded my own advice: “Keep your head over the ball.”

As we nestled into our surrounds the referee’s whistle blew to end the first half. From conversations I gleaned while fetching the ball a semi-final was being played between Balmain (gold shirt and socks and black shorts) and Leichhardt (red and white striped shirt over navy shorts) – both were clubs I’d regularly played against. I wasn’t aware of the score but it was a tense, vocal, competitive game between evenly matched female teams.

What might happen next? What were the coaches and players talking about in their halftime huddles? To where in the world were the referee’s thoughts wandering? He poked the whistle in his mouth and blew the players back onto the field for the second half.

I thought I had déjà vu but the shuffling man definitely shuffled by once more. A couple of galahs were disturbed from their perches on top of the scoreboard by three young boys kicking a football against the shutters drawn down over where all the numbers would otherwise be displayed.