Yesterday, I
decided to go for a drive to photograph gum trees. I’m captivated by them and
getting a good photograph of them can be difficult, given their propensity to
grow in groups, casting a myriad of shadows upon one another.
More often than
not, for that very reason, I find myself photographing close-up details – the
swirls of coloured bark, the smooth, white, ghost-like limbs, the coarse
trunks, the giant cathedral arches they form over Victoria’s country roads.
I set off from
home on an unplanned tour. I had it in my mind to head south, in the direction
of the gloomy, dark roadsides that often give me a sense of unease. For the
most part, gum tree stands fill me with joy but once in a while I come upon
cold, deeply shaded areas that unsettle me. I don’t know what it is – a
sombreness that speaks of something lonely and unknown. It doesn’t frighten me
exactly but it does set my imagination racing. I thought familiarity may give
me a better understanding.
As it was, I
ended up taking a host of ‘diversionary roads’ – those little byways that seem
to pull me in to a new exploration. I’ve always been keen on exploring ‘the
side roads of life’ and when I came upon a dead fox on the road, I knew I was
on the right path.
I’ve only ever
seen two live foxes in Victoria – from a distance, despite the fact that they
are very common here, so a dead one – roadkill – provided me with my best
opportunity yet for a close-up look.
Vulpes vulpes
(the red fox) was first introduced to Australia in 1871, when some bright spark
thought they’d be good for sport hunting. They were released into the wild in
South Australia and around Geelong in South Victoria and within two decades,
they had been declared a pest. Today they range right across Australia in a
wide variety of habitats and they are a significant threat to vulnerable farm
animals and to native wildlife.
Trees and foxes
aside, this area of Victoria (loosely Central) is endlessly pretty. I prefer it
in summer when the colours are vibrant and raw but even in winter there are
arresting landscapes in every direction.
I drove through
Fernhill – little more than a herd of goats, a trio of alpaca and a cluster of
houses - and one of those the former general store; and back up to Trentham
and potato-growing country; then back
down to the Pig & Whistle.
It seems an
unlikely location for a pub but back in the mining and peak potato-growing days
this part of East Trentham apparently sported three stores (now the Plum
Tuckered Inn), across the road. Over time they were converted into a residence
and these days they welcome paying guests, who can slip across the road to
sample the famous Pig & Whistle Sunday roast. There’s a beer garden too and
people come from miles around.
When I parked
outside, I could see straight into the dining room – all prissy and prim with
white table cloths and a Christmas tree, complete with twinkling lights,
beaming out from one corner (in July).
I was actually
more interested in the crazy hedge that had burst through the fence to grow in
an interesting, ungoverned fashion; and the house next door to the pub that had
strung up its teapot collection along an internal fence and balcony.
It was at this
crossroads that I had a decision to make – left back to Woodend, right towards
Blackwood, or straight ahead on an unknown road to an unknown place called
Bullengarook. I opted for the latter and a few hundred yards along, I noticed
a small sign (warning enough for any sensible navigator), declaring
Bullengarook 20km away. Why go the way everyone else goes, I thought to myself,
and off I went.
Within minutes
the unsealed, red dirt road had taken me into deep forest – wet, dank, gloomy,
silent, and not a soul in sight. The road became progressively narrower, more
potholed, more corrugated, more horrifying and I began to question my decision.
I’m all for
getting lost in most circumstances. It’s a worthwhile part of any trip to
anywhere. It takes you away from the comfortable, the familiar and it makes you
think. You see more, you learn more and you (hopefully) learn to deal with
panic. Being tossed into the unpredictable heightens your curiosity. So I
wasn’t about to turn around unless something made continuing impossible.
All the above
said, I travelled almost the 20 kilometres in second gear, praying the car
wouldn’t stop. With every corner, every hillock I hoped to emerge but it was
endless and with my car windows fogging up (sweaty anxiety), I wondered not only where I would come out but if I
would come out at all!
Signs indicated
that was I adrift somewhere in the Wombat State Forest, later merging into
Lerderderg State Park. That’s 700km sq and 142.5 km sq respectively. I think I
could be justified in a small swell of panic. It felt like I was the last
person left on earth - until suddenly, a white 4WD appeared in my rear vision
mirror. That should have been a relief. It wasn’t. My head naturally turned to
an unscheduled encounter with a mass murderer. Resigned to my fate, I pulled
aside.
As he flashed
passed – in his POLICE vehicle! – I waved furiously hoping he might stop to
help but he just tooted and sped off. It gave me hope though, that I wasn’t too
far from civilisation (or a murder scene), and I felt confident enough to stop
and pick some of the pretty pink flowers that had been taunting me from the
undergrowth.
Thankful for
wintering snakes, I stepped into the bush to pick a handful of what looked to
be some kind of heather. I kept a lookout over my shoulder, half expecting the
policeman to reappear to apprehend me for picking some rare forest specimen in
a state park.
(In later
research I’d narrowed it down to two likely candidates – either the Common
Heath (Epacris impressa), or some kind of Scoparia, notable for flowers exactly
like these and it’s prickly foliage. The latter is apparently endemic to
Tasmania – a long way from Lerderderg State Forest in Victoria; but then, I was
a long way from home too.
A mere ten
minutes later, I passed a group of off-road vehicles and dirt bikes and then a
house emerged from the shadows and I hit a sealed road again. My relief was
palpable.
I’m not sure I
ever found Bullengarook. Other than a small cluster of houses and a recreation
reserve, there seemed to be no visible sign of the 681 people (2006 Census) who
reputedly live in the area. I never saw any wallabies, nor any wombats, echidnas, wedge-tail
eagles or cockatoos who are said to live in the forest either. My memory is
clouded by one policeman, a shocking road and a megaton of gloom.
It’s true though, you
do learn by getting lost. Next time I see a small grey sign and a red dirt
road leading into an Australian gum forest, I will go in exactly the opposite direction
