Going Bush

Autumn seems to have been a little lacklustre this year, the leaves on many trees turning and falling with barely an emphatic “Look at me, look at me” show of colour. I think it’s due to the prolonged mildness of the weather, with those chilly nights and mornings which help bring out the vibrant colours only making their presence felt in the last week or so. Then again, maybe I’m simply not anywhere near those trees which turn on their stunning annual performance.

And into the forest I go
to lose my mind
and find my soul

- John Muir

That said, I finally ventured out into our bush for a decent walk, having avoided such during the sinister slithering snake season, endeavouring to find some fungi to photograph after some rain. Heading down towards the creek, I’d barely gone a few hundred meters before this rather strange sound emanated from the bush below. Definitely animal, but not immediately identifiable. 

The rustling through the undergrowth and the sounds coming out of its mouth stopped me in my tracks. It was obviously working its way further down the slope, alerting all and sundry that an intruder was present. I continued on my way...for about fifteen seconds, for it simply would not let up. A cross between a deep-throated breathy cough and hoarse moaning snuffle, my conclusion was that a stag was nearby, letting his deer girlfriends know he would protect them come what may. 

My conclusion was based on a previous meeting with a stag years ago in the same area. I’d heard a bark behind me, turned around, and there in the middle of the track standing firm and looking more than a little annoyed, was a magnificent stag. He obviously hadn’t read the memo about how to behave when confronted with small two-legged creatures making unintelligible noises, no matter how soothing, as my attempt to reassure him I was not a threat was met with subsequent gruff barks and a haughty glare. The stand-off continued. Who was going to blink first?

So back to my walk, with this ongoing snorting and huffing and puffing and moaning and groaning. It became somewhat unnerving, for maybe my conclusion was incorrect. Was I about to witness and fall victim and not live to tell the tale of my fated sighting of the ancient Giant Bunyip? Hmm, what to do? I retraced my footsteps, that’s what I did, and explored the less threatening upper reaches of the bush.

Fungi hunting was now out of the question, but it meant my senses were alerted to other delights around me. Billopp Bluff rising before me, the grandeur of those wide vistas, the ruggedness of the mountains. As I put the blinds up each morning I’m never disappointed, for the mountain’s many moods grab me every time. 

But as I wander and take time to not only observe but absorb my surroundings, my focus begins to change. I slow down, look down as well as around, and stop frequently to take it all in. My ears become more finely tuned to the birds, my sense of smell is stimulated by the faint scent of eucalypt. 

Small details become more apparent. Textures, colours, dappled light moving on the ground as the sun plays through the canopy overhead, wallaby and deer footprints firmly pressed into the earth. Lichen in a myriad of forms, some encrusted like pressed flowers on whatever surface they can find. 

And who can resist a friendly rock greeting you with a smile as you walk past, welcoming you into the next section of bush. A good sign indeed.

Look deep into nature

and you will understand everything better

   -   Albert Einstein

There was the Bleeding Tree, sap weeping out, solidified like red candy. It was all I could do to resist the temptation to snap off a piece and head on my way sucking it like a piece of toffee. Could be toxic for all I know, but the urge was there just the same, bringing back a childhood memory of snapping icicles off fences and sucking them like an icy pole on my way to school in the dead of an English winter.

With the variety of trees in our patch of temperate rainforest, it shouldn’t really be surprising I found an Ent. Remember them? As this rough-barked tree emerged, the walking, talking Treebeard and his fellow guardians watching over the Forest of Fangorn from Lord of the Rings came readily to mind. The gnarly bark had an ancient quality about it, the wisdom of the ages. It didn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to believe this tree could uproot itself and march on up the mountain if it felt so inclined, mumbling and grumbling as bits of itself rubbed off and fell to the forest floor.

Running my hand over the surfaces of the spiky tree trunk and lichen covered rock I could feel the quivering hides of mythical beasts now long extinct, strength and power held in check, ever alert, waiting for the moment when they would be called upon to summon all that fury in order to defend themselves. Victims or aggressors? Who knows, but you can conjure up all manner of scenarios where beasties are concerned.

Ah, and then my favourite discovery of the day. The baby Polar Bear, snuggled into the soil, arms wrapped around himself. It was a rock of course, would have fit into the palm of my hand, but I didn’t want to disturb it, it looked so cosy curled up there. The impression of a single baby bear, abandoned and alone, held a certain poignant quality. What a little miracle, not only the fact a humble piece of rock bears markings (no pun intended) that make it appear lifelike, but that I happened upon it at that precise moment and approached it at just the right angle where its appealing nature presented itself. 

I do have a habit of anthropomorphising objects, bestowing human characteristics or personality traits on to inanimate things, but the natural forces brought to bear on that little rock over however many hundred or thousand years resulted in a moment of thanks to the Creator which purely and simply made my day. Pun intended that time.

My mind started racing. What were Polar Bears doing in Tasmania? Polar Bears are from the Arctic, not the Antarctic. What caused this little one to become frozen in the tundra, only to resurface at this point in time? Fantastical notions I know, but there could be a children’s story in there somewhere.

All in all, my spirits were lifted as I reminded myself that a few hours in the bush is always time well spent, and that the ancient Greek physician Hippocrates was indeed right when he recommended the same thing two and a half thousand years ago. 

                                              Walking is a man's best medicine