              Branching off to the moss garden:      The moss garden:        Heading back:    |
Carnarvon Gorge
We felt refreshed on waking. Having thought about our walking options and
realising our aged limitations, we decided on the shortest gorge walk, a
four kilometre walk to a smaller side opening in the gorge that was home to
the ‘Moss Garden.’ We drove the short distance to the National Park
Information Centre, the start of the walk, where we chatted briefly to the
same young ranger who’d conducted the slide show the evening before. We
read the information board and set off, drinks and snacks in our bags and
camera at the ready.
The well-trodden track included many stepping stone creek crossings,
numbered to give us an idea of how far we’d walked. The two varieties of
Carnarvon Fan Palms growing everywhere through the bushland waved lush green
fronds in the morning sunlight. Some bore heads of bright yellow blooms,
inviting admiration. At one point, we heard an approaching four-wheel motor
bike and stood aside watching as its rider, one of the park rangers,
negotiated his way skilfully across a stepping stone crossing and up
the bank on the other side. Clearly, it took a lot of muscle to hang on and
would have given its rider much internal shaking. We watched him disappear,
and noticed the gorge was suddenly silent again except for the rippling
creek and the sighing breezes through the bush.
More experienced walkers – ‘Weren’t they all?’ I mused ruefully – passed us,
greeting us cheerfully as we drew closer to the Moss Garden. We reached
the turn-off and climbed about 150 steps, continuing on along winding narrow
pathways as we walked closer to the head of the small side canyon. Once
there, we paused for some time in the delightful cool, damp and shady
atmosphere. I recognised with private joy that we were now at the exact
spot from which a picture poster I’d owned years ago was taken. It had been
the beauty of that picture that had prompted me to see Carnarvon Gorge at
all, and now, here we were!
For some time, I stood alone, gazing towards the top of the sandstone wall
towering only metres in front of me. Water had been seeping through the
sandstone from the top for millennia. Eventually, the water reaches the
granite base rock and there, seeps out, saturating the lower walls and
making a perfect home for curtains of dark green moss. Steady flows of tiny
droplets slide from the moss tips, gradually forming the chattering
waterfalls and creeks we could see and hear below us. On the ground between
the walls and the creek are myriad ferns and grasses. Trees, especially tree
ferns that can survive in the shade shoot up, tall and spindly and dead
trunks and branches lie all around, making a home for small animals. Birds
chirrup cheerily in the background. It is truly a place for quiet gratitude
. . .
Turning away from my meditation, I noticed another tourist taking photos and
began chatting to her. She is an experienced caravanner from Sydney,
spending months each year on the road and described the life in glowing
terms. I listened carefully as such enthusiasm is infectious, but my own
experience of missing family, friends and social involvements was beginning
to intrude into my thoughts, and would not let me agree with her
wholeheartedly.
Bruce and I walked back, both with aching hips and tired feet, but we were
very satisfied with what we had seen and with the exercise the eight
kilometres walking with 150 steps up and down had made us do. We drove back
to camp, clanking and rattling over the rough road once more. The afternoon
was guaranteed to be slothful – we were too exhausted for anything else.
After lunch, Bruce retired to sleep. I sat outside relaxing in the sun while
observing people moving about in the camp. Age may play a part, but it
seemed to me the sort who relax most in these places – and the largest group
– are well into retirement and don’t do much except look after their holiday
‘homes’ and vehicles, chat endlessly to fellow campers and drink a lot,
watching TV. The rest are generally younger families, adult couples and a
few superfit seniors. Nearly everyone wears shorts, T-shirts and thongs and
is suntanned. Women, once past mid-life, are generally pear-shaped with very
short hair cuts, lots of sun-induced wrinkles and no make-up.
Camp life is basically very mundane, but older campers seem to enjoy that
simplicity endlessly. It is a relaxing life style, but too much of it would,
I believe, be tedious for people like ourselves who have become used to city
stimulation.
Late afternoon saw Bruce and me scanning the river near the camp for signs
of platypus. We walked to the place I thought they’d be, clambering over a
sea of small, sharp stones til Bruce said he thought we were in the wrong
place. By the time we found the right place, it was too dark to see any,
anyway. We returned to the van and after a satisfying meal revived our
spirits and as we were again out of range of TV and email connection, we sat
quietly til bed time, reading. Once lying down, I was so stiff and my hip
so sore that it was hard to sleep.