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My mouth opened to utter the words; "can I get a ride out of here with you guys?" but it just didn’t. I can’t
explain why - maybe I told myself I didn’t like to be a quitter - maybe I am ‘that’ guy that never
asks for help and foolishly carries on, to his own detriment - maybe I didn't want to end up with my head severed by the blade-brothers and grace someone's mantelpiece. I value my head you know!!
I limped on alone leaving the deer slayers at the river
with ‘see how we go’ as my motto. In my coffee
break, up the side of that slippery slope, I had a look at some of the access roads to the track and saw many in
this section. If I wanted to get out, more opportunities were ahead.
Again, the dolphins distracted me as I stood only 20 metres away. Can I blame them for my insane decision to carry on? What struck me was
the playfulness of the pod. This wasn’t a quest for the survival of the
fittest, but a joyful get-together. More
like Mick Fanning and his mates hanging out in the surf - out of
competition - without being chased by sharks.
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| Waiting for the ultimate wave!! |
The short beach finished before I could blink and another
stretch of English countryside followed. With the ocean crashing on the rocks below the green
hills, the track teetered on the edge giving me that height buzz. With a ‘don’t
look down’, I tested the knee on these short hills. The offending body part swelling
up nicely during a hard 6km slog in the soft sands of Tunkalilla Beach. In the past this beach had offal washing up on it from
a whaling station in Encounter Bay, now shut down. Is it any wonder that the Aboriginals named this beach Tunkalilla - a word used to describe bad smells - the stench would have been prolific.
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| The smelly (Tunkalilla ) beach |
The green grass attracting many roos and together with the sheep they lined the paddocks in front of a couple of farmhouses or were they holiday homes? Many scattered in panic as soon as I arrived. A Pacific Gull flew away, lazily, gliding only inches above the ground (see opening photo). The rare hooded plovers fox-trotted down the shore line. Signs of their protected status and where to walk to avoid stepping on their offspring were everywhere. Sadly, I did not encounter any chicks. If I hadn't been so much discomfort, I would actually have enjoyed the hike here.
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| Only 70 hooded plovers left on the Fleurieu Peninsular |
Where the beach stopped and the black rocks made passing impossible along the foreshore I had another one of those disbelief moments I have often described in previous blogs. My brain would not accept that this trail was turning left, up the steepest hill I have ever seen on any trail alongside a much unloved fence. I continued on in the same direction as if the hill didn't exist and had to turn back. I had convinced my neuropil, glial cells and capillaries that this was the way.
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| The fenced, grassy bank to heaven |
Follow the fence said a small but easily ignored sign at the base of the climb. It should have said ‘haul your arse up while holding on to the fence for dear life’ in neon lights to get my attention. With my heart pumping out of my ears soon after, I grabbed the wire and while it was cutting into the soft fleshy parts of my hand I heaved my body, burdensome bundle and dodgy knee upwards. In my mind I called it up-sailing.
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| The art of up-sailing |
Somewhere along the climb I stood up and looked down at the distance I had covered. It would be so much easier to bum-slide my way back down adding to the massive brown stains already on my shorts. Escaping with the deer-hunters now sounding like a better option. I turned around, took one step, grabbed the fence and pulled, than took another step......
Grey Bits
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