The Heysen trail 12. The Hub of the Hut

 

The afternoon silence was broken at the Waitpinga hiking shelter by an excitable little boy chatting to his dad about camping - exploring every little detail in the world that is so interesting to a four year old. He ran around the building and burst into the shelter where I was sitting. His little round face instantly lit up with shock when he saw me there. Poor fellah! I said “hello” and “don’t be scared”, even apologised for frightening him unwittingly, but his little legs became blurred as he sprinted away from me with his Dad in pursuit.

The wind started whistling around the shelter and a lady (see opening photo) wearing a t-shirt and shorts walked in trying to get out of the rain that came down in horizontal streaks. She looked pretty cold and I offered her my raincoat but she said she was all right. I was making afternoon tea and offered her a cuppa as I found it hard to see her standing there, shivering.  She introduced herself as Debra and we chatted for a couple of hours while waiting for the weather to clear. I find it amazing how people can be so very open – talk about themselves – give up their life story -  even if you are a stranger. To me it seems this is very much happening on hiking trails – a trade of all tracks.  

 

The male splendid fairy wren looking for left over crumbs



Debra was totally bowled over by the size of the cup in which the earl-grey tea with powdered milk was sloshing around. Every time she took a sip her head would totally disappear  She asked me to take her photo posing with the large piece of crockery on her phone and didn’t mind posing for my camera either. I explained the ginormous cup of eating equipment doubled as a dinner plate/bowl and that even my gas bottle would fit in there. Handy! - all round.

Two rangers turned up and gabbed-on with us for some time. I heard more life stories about ranger placements in faraway places especially after I told them I lived in the Northern Territory. In true “good ranger, bad ranger” fashion, the female ranger insisted I move my tent. It took up only a small corner of the undercover seating area. “The shelter was for day use only” she said.  Besides, the weather, according to her, was clearing up and the worst of it was behind us. The good ranger was looking at her rather bemused as if to say “really??!!! - put this lone dingo out in this weather?” He continued to roll his eyes in the back of his head with a tut-tut here and some other sounds of disapproval there. I, obviously, as a law abiding resident of this beautiful country, told her I would move my tent out from under the roofed area asap. Some time later both rangers and Debra left this miserable, cold place to go to their warm homes.

 

Wild weather around the Waitpinga Campsite

Fifteen minutes later the biggest 'mother' of all storms broke out. Here I was, standing with a dislodged tent-peg in hand contemplating an interesting dilemma. Do I do as the bad ranger told me to and cop an absolute soaking trying to move my tent out in this deluge or do I do what Bear Grills would have done - survive at all costs - urinate in a snake skin if I have to - pay a fine if that’s what it takes. I can tell you that the offending tent was removed ……. eventually.



The tree next to the shelter

A station wagon full of Italian backpackers came into the  campground and, unbelievably, managed to set their massive tent up out in the storm. Their Italian/English sounds reverberated through the shelter as if they were singing when they asked me where the water tap was. A simple question like that was made to sound like an opera.

As the sun was setting, a couple from London dripped into my refuge and spent three hours with me drinking and chatting. They were hell-bent on getting plastered and abandon the stresses of their employment in the big smoke, and succeeded. Their cockney chatter and sense of humor was a delight to listen to.

In the middle of the night three 'evil knievil' dirt bikes raced through the campsite and parked under cover. They proceeded to talk loudly even though they had spotted my tent. I could hear cans of something being cracked open and the thought crossed my mind that I may be in a vulnerable position, left to the devices of three petrol heads. I stayed in my tent, silently, until they, after what seemed a disturbingly long time to tank themselves up, started their loud engines and proceeded to cut the night apart elsewhere.
After they left, I lay awake while trying to settle myself down. I came to the conclusion that the Waitpinga Beach is a busy place and that, except for the last motorised experience, I enjoyed the diversity of the human race as much as smashing it out over slippery, lonely hills.

 Grey Bits




Photo courtesy of the advertiser

Tragically, a rare Beaked Whale beached itself on Waitpinga Beach 1 Feb 2017. This is a link to this story if you want to read more www.adelaidenow.com.au