Extract taken from C.F Peterson’s A Trundle Through the Balendup Hills – 1971.
It was a sleepy day in the bush.
An easy wind fluttered through leaves upon dreaming eucalypts and the thunk of a nearby kookaburra is heard as it falls from its branch in a bundle of feathers and a harangued squawk.
It was a day for dreaming. Golden light and shadows ripple seemingly as if dancing beneath the sheltered canopy as the trail from Broken Dale Camp winds its way to Cathedral Flat.
Some four days hike from the quiet streets of Balendup, I find myself relaxing into the thoughtless wanderings of quiet isolation: the fading ache of forty-eight hours of splinting shins now only my rattling frame’s way of getting into the spirit of things.
The bush is old here. Scribbly gums bow distantly over the scratched in trail as the proud bristle of paperbarks in bloom lace the morning with the fragrance of oncoming summer.
A wattle, stout of growth and glorious in bloom, eeks out a small patch of light for itself and leans westward as the days repeat. A group of pollen-mad bees circle the tree, bumping into each other in a waltz of miscoordination and adding to the dizzying sway of a sudden squall that sets the dappling trail alive with motion. Atop the tree I spy a familiar white picket grown into the branches; its original intent of waymarking returned to the whim of nature.
I tut to myself and consider direction. Hammered into the path irregularly enough to be a blessing when found, the way markers of the Balendup trail are of a furtive sort, often found hidden away in ferns or underneath rocks.
‘The trail bends mysteriously alongside the Tea Oak River,’ reads my guidebook unhelpfully as I try to imagine which way it would be that this marker intended me to travel.
Prepared by the local council and friendly society of quondam bushwalkers, such is the inaccuracy of the notes of this guidebook that I’ve often found better to ignore its suggestions entirely and instead follow whichever path looks least hopped by a kangaroo.
When compared against a map not only does Broken Dale not align itself to any river but the grumbling botanist in the distant part of my sub-conscious remains adamant that the state forest has no oaks nor tea trees. Later, during a short scrabble into a gully of camphor and sandstone I am told to expect, ‘ocean views,’ and to ‘pick up Nole’s glasses’ should I find them, and it is at this point where the book returns to nature through the smoke and ash of kindling and a boiling billy–tea, once again becoming a distraction from directions apparently jotted down with antediluvian recollection.
Lunch taken; I switch on my radio in hopes of catching a forecast of the weather.
Well beyond the reliance of FM, I have managed to dial into the crackling hum of local stations, Balendup 1642-AM and Dundelong National with varying frequency; the latter having played the same gardening program for three days in a row due to the tape being stuck on the machine.
A small voice eeks out across the clearing as my radio whistles and I try to find a sliver of reception amongst the closely knit trees. Taking the strap over my shoulder, and nursing my tin of tea in crooked hand, I climb up the wattle and join with the bees in attempting to balance upon the thin branches, feeling all the more foolish while doing so. The comforts of home are often slow to be forgotten in the bush and my searching for a weather forecast still seems important despite nothing able to be done with either rain or sunshine. Such is the practicality of hiking that when wet you are merely no longer dry, and any recalcitrance will do little to make the next campsite closer.
For a blissful moment, I hear the drone of the local cricket commentary and listen to the unfamiliar names of Balendup’s XI as they are read out with a laconic drawl.
‘And Micheal Feeder who is on debut,’ the announcer continues, the click of some acoustical interference or of can beer being opened caught plainly on the microphone, ‘Trevor Hollow will be opening the batting with his partner Judy today, and the newly married left, right combination will be looking to continue on from their good form yesterday. Both scoring their maiden half centuries as husband and wife in the final session yesterday, each off consecutive overs. Trevor, a former winner of the Balendup bridge to library sprint, was quick between the wickets, with his calls of “Two there, darl” echoing out after each successful stroke not immediately grasped by a fielder.’
‘Judy, who is more agricultural in her style of running between the wickets, was heard to reply “Piss off Trev” several times as the day drew to a close and it has been reported to the station that Mr. Hollow had a very sheepish night spent sleeping on the back porch.’
‘We’ll be back for a review of the Dundelong innings and then the first session’s play right here on Balendup 1642 AM, right after these messages.’
Finishing my tea, I sit for a moment longer and feel content in this brief window back into a Sunday spent at home. At times a hike through the eucalypts of Balendup can be a lonely affair. Such is the expanse of this beautiful forest that a walker can feel small within it. Flaking bark of past seasons falls and the scar of fire hides beneath the cover of a rich spring. Tower-tall trees bend and sway, speaking in the rustles of warmer days to come.
I feel ancillary in these moments, a passer-by that is merely moving through something much slower and much more important that they could ever know. But as I return to the trail, as the distant warble of my radio follows me step by step beneath the shade and chatter of birdsong, I know that I am welcome. Nature finds us in many different ways and I would not trade my place in it with anyone else in the world.
As the trail unfolds its tenuously posted way onward, somewhere to the south Judy Hollow hits a six.
J. McCray
2023
Sunday Short Stories 