It Was a Dark and Smelly Night…
At some point during the experience, now a rainy haze, I began to sing aloud to keep myself preoccupied. I know that I went through Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore and Vertigo, but the others I cannot remember. I was exhausted after cleaning out only two tents, and the work became harder as the water level increased and dusk turned to night. Every headlamp I found, I put around my neck, and I wandered through the water with most of them turned on; I must have looked like a UFO to the creatures seeking shelter in the trees.
After two hours of grueling labor, I had moved everyone’s belongings into the road or onto a picnic table, and Peter and John had moved them into the green GO BUSH trailer. Confident is a funny thing; it can get you through the toughest of times, even though it may be based on nothing at all. I had worked through the rain with the hope that, when we had finished loading up the belongings, we would harness the power of the four-wheel-drive and high-tail it out of the horrible Harry’s Hut. I approached Peter with renewed vigor at the completion of my task, my grinning face dripping with water and sweat. “So…” I began, not wanting to actually ask if we could leave. “There’s been a change of plans,” he said.
It turns out that our companion, John, had forgotten the keys to the four-wheel-drive in the bus, which was then being driven by Dave towards Gympie. We could not leave Harry’s Hut that night, and would have to make camp somewhere and weather the storm. Yes, I had volunteered, but not for this. I was VERY unhappy to hear this news. Turns out the adventure would be longer than I expected.
It was getting darker, and the water was rising. We dismantled John’s kitchen tent, an effort that was hampered by renegade boxes of plates and condiments that took it upon themselves to float off towards the banks of the now-raging Noosa River.
The only light left was cast by the two glaring bulbs attached to the hissing propane tanks. They cast yellow shadows on the treeline. All of a sudden, in what I had thought was a desolate campground, the entire regiment of shivering 14-year-olds filed numbly into our campsite. We had overtaken them on the walk to Harry’s Hut (I forgot to mention that earlier). I felt sorry for the poor kids, who had been brought out into the gale to “separate the lambs from the sheep,” in the words of one of their idiotic teachers. Their apparently inept guide told Peter that they were headed to a dock on the Noosa one campsite up so they could be picked up by a coastguard boat. They left, and I urged Peter to go and find out if we could be evacuated as well. Peter seemed keen with staying the night, but I could barely suppress the desperation in my voice as I suggested that he find out about evacuation. He set off about ten minutes behind the 14-year-olds into the bush.
John and I worked to dismantle the broken dining tent, all the while keeping track of the aluminum chairs and plastic cups that John cherished. After an hour of lashing John’s kitchen paraphernalia to a picnic table, Peter emerged from the forest; he clearly had not been evacuated and did not seem in a rush to bring us back to the dock. He related the story of the three boats that had shown up, two from the coast guard and one from the parks department. The coast guard boats, manned by inept volunteers, were dead set on not evacuating anyone, claiming that the river was too dangerous in its overflowing state. The park ranger calmly asserted that he would evacuate the 14-year-olds. Women and children first; Peter, John, and I were apparently not priorities. I had always agreed with the “women and children first” philosophy, but I started to question my own morality. The park ranger had promised to return later that night to get us three musketeers. Peter said that this was doubtful.
Peter learned from the ranger that the toilets were the highest point, and that is where we would be spending the night. In the previous large flood, the water level had reached the floor of the toilet structure, a good ten feet above the ground. I began bringing boxes of food to the toilet structure, decked out in my head-lamp headdress. Our gourmet provisions consisted of several loaves of bread, spicy beer chips, bananas, chocolate and nut muesli bars, juice boxes. With every trip to the toilet I made John reminded me to bring the boxes of wine, as if we were on am outdoor jaunt, and it wouldn’t be as fun without alcohol. Looking back, I can’t argue.
Several trips to the toilets and several boxes of food later, the water level was rising at its fastest rate, and Peter told me to stay at the toilets. John was insisting that he keep track of all of his belongings, not believing that the flood was as bad as the news told. Peter insisted it was, and had to almost command John to think of his own safety. As I waited on the wooden deck of the toilet block, John arrived, but without Peter, who was doing some last-minute lashing. Our toilet base camp consisted of the aforementioned boxes of food, three aluminum chairs, two propane lamps, John’s and Peter’s bags of clothes and sleeping bags, and my sleeping bag.
While we waited for Peter to return from the dark, John took of his raincoat and explored his many pockets. I was turned away from him when I heard the clink-clink of metal on metal. “Oh my,” said John’s deep voice. I turned around to see John holding up a ring of keys, which I quickly surmised belonged to the four-wheel-drive. “They were in my pocket all along.” I could only laugh at this, for the time we could have left Harry’s Hut had long passed, and it was dark as pitch in the rainy night. I assured him that it was lucky he had not found his keys, because we may have become stuck in the water far from the camp. When Peter finally arrived at our urinal stronghold, John said. “Peter, you’ll never guess what I found. It turns out I had the keys in my pocket all along!” Peter glared, then turned and paced up and down the deck. John seemed as amused as ever.
Peter and John changed out of their wet clothing into clean, dry clothing; I had none, and I was chafing something awful on my inner-right thigh. I ended up with one of Peter’s huge hemp T-shirts and John’s pair of shorts. They were old-man-style shorts, coming down to mid thigh, the same material as dress pants. I was going commando. John was significantly larger than I, so I used an elastic laundry-line as a belt. I was clothed in ill-fitting odds and ends, but I was pleasantly dry. We ate banana sandwiches for dinner, and after finishing our juice boxes, John cut off the tops and made wine goblets, from which we enjoyed many cups of boxed wine. John slept outside on the deck, and Peter and I laid our sleeping bags out in the handicapped bathroom stall, Peter next to the toilet, and me with my had at the wall and the toilet at me feet. Strangely enough, it was not smelly, but slightly uncomfortable nonetheless.
I could not sleep, so I sat awake outside for many hours, thinking and staring anxiously at the water level. I could not tell if it was rising or falling, but I stared just the same. At some point, Peter came out and gave me one of his jumpers (sweaters). The night continued. Until day broke.
Stay tuned for the REAL conclusion. I promise, the next installation is the last. Still to come, “The Morning After.”
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
GO BUSH
This has been written at different periods of time, from Friday, April 3 until now. This is a long post, but the most epic one yet. You have to read it.
World Hold On
From Byron Bay, we travelled north to Cooloola, a section of Great Sandy National Park. “Cooloola” is the Aboriginal, onomatopoeic word for the sound made by the wind rustling though the Cyprus pines. Our guide was John Sinclair, known as “Mr. Fraser Island” for his 30 years of campaigning to protect Fraser Island. He knows the island better than anyone else; John Sinclair is to Fraser Island and Cooloola as Geoff Mosley is to Tasmania. Since 1988, John has been running his own tourism company called GO BUSH Safaris, focusing on Australia’s World Heritage Areas. He also runs trips to other places, and this year alone has run trips in Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia.
I’m Fingering the Goanna…
Well maybe that’s why it’s so upset. Our campsite at Cooloola was called Harry’s Hut, because of some guy named Harry who builed a hut there once; the hut is still there. Our campsite bordered the pristine Noosa River, which I went swimming in daily despite warning of fallen trees, sharp rocks, and bull sharks beneath its cool waters. Our common camping area consisted of a large tent under which we hung out, ate meals, and fended off mosquitoes. John Sinclair, better known as F.L. (fearless leader), loves the rugged, bush lifestyle, but refuses to sacrifice the comforts of the conventional kitchen. Thus, he organizes full-course meals in the bush, and he’s even written a cookbook on cooking in the bush. John’s campsite culinary plans produced the likes of a sweet pumpkin soup, buffet-style spring rolls, and ginger melon fruit salad.
Another occupant of the banks of the Noosa River is the goanna, a large lizard about two to three feet long, with scaly grey-black skin and bands of dark yellow. Their claws are long and their many-toothed bite is deadly; they are scavengers, so the bacteria in their mouths can cause deadly infections in their bite victims. One night, some food was left out in the kitchen tent, and it was eaten by the goannas by morning. Peter asked who had put away the food the night before, but when no one confessed, he said, “Right now, I’m fingering the goanna.”
As the Great Sandy National Park’s name suggests, much of the area, including Cooloola, is on large sand dunes. Sand of a variety of colors makes up the soil for all of the vegetation. Our big day was spent canoeing down the Noosa River to Camping Site 3, where we hiked to the impressive Sandpatch. After two hours of canoeing, we arrived to the site and went on a long hike. At the end we reached the Sandpatch, a huge area full of sand dunes. The vegetation ceased, and there was nothing but sand all the way to the sea, a desert amidst a lush forest. The whole group ran to the top of the tallest dune and looked out to sea, the town of Noosa, and the mountains beyond. On our canoe back to camp, Sarah Peters and I earned the title of Buccaneers from John Sinclair when I got bored and started splashing other boats. John and Dave, the self-proclaimed Queen’s Navy, decided it was their duty to stop us. Overall, a fun and exhausting day.
The Great Flood
Our last full day in Cooloola started like any other. We got on the bus, left Harry’s Hut, and headed toward Rainbow Beach, about an hour away from Cooloola. While we enjoyed morning tea at the beach, it began to rain. Peter spoke to Laura about the incoming inclement weather, and made the call that we would go back to Harry’s Hut, collect our gear, and head to Brisbane and stay in a hostel for the night. Group morale was up! The unexpected end to the merciless barrage of mozzies each night was a welcome decision. By this point it had started to rain harder, and we boarded the bus back to Harry’s Hut.
The nearest civilization to Cooloola are the small towns of Kin Kin and Gympie (yes, Gympie). About a half and hour from these towns, there exists a sign for Harry’s Hut, from which it is about 13 kilometers of winding, dirt road to the actual Harry’s Hut. We drove through the rain, with Dave at the wheel of the bus and trailer, until we came to a tree plantation, several kilometers away from the Harry’s Hut sign. The road was masked by a large expanse of running water, running through the trees from one side of our path to the other. The water’s depth was imperceptible to the eye, so Peter got out and waded in, quickly walking up to his thighs in the brown water. There was no way that our bus and trailer would make it through the depth and current, so a few of stepped out in the pouring rain and turned the trailer around, our feet sinking into the sticky mud. A rain-drenched Peter boarded the steps of the bus when we were all back on and explained the situation. The group, with Dave at the wheel, would drive to Kin Kin and get rooms for the night. Peter and John would go back to our campsite at Harry’s Hut and collect everyone’s belongings, load up the green GO BUSH Safari trailer, and high-tail it out of there in John’s four-wheel-drive. “We can take only one volunteer,” rasped Peter.
At the time I was standing up, dripping with rainwater from turning the trailer around. Immediately I felt a knot of excitement in my chest. There was a pause; no one spoke and people stared at each other. Perhaps only in an effort to break the silence, I said, “I’ll do it.” Before I knew it, Peter, John, and I were walking away from the familiar bus I the pouring rain. I saw Dave and the group drive away out of the corner of my eye, and turned to see my companions wading into the river that had blocked the bus’s passage. Clad in boxers, bathing suit, shirt, North Face jacket, and my decaying LL Bean sandals, I headed off after them.
I was high off of adrenaline for the first half hour of the journey, as we walking through the rest of the tree plantation, then an open field, beneath more and more rainfall. Our trio had frequent laughs, with stories from Peter and ecology lessons from John. It was only when I asked how far it was to Harry’s Hut that I began to regret my decision to volunteer. “It’s about 14 kilometers from here,” said John matter-of-factly. “With an average walking pace of 3.5 kilometers per hour, and a quick march at 6 kilometers per hour, I believe we could go at 5 kilometers an hour. It should only take us three hours to get to Harry’s Hut.” And so it did. During portions of the trek, I felt as though I were in a dream, and no actions I made would result in real-life consequences. The constant, repetitive rain produced a numbing, meditative effect in me, and the three hours blurred together into one long, wet memory.
Some highlights of the trek include uncomfortable chafing on my right, inner-thigh, various water-levels and terrain, rocks, mud, sticks, branches, gray sky. At one point, Peter pointed out a poisonous whip snake sliding through a nearby puddle, saying we should keep our distance. John, ever the naturalist, promptly wandered over to where the whip snake had been, quite eager to inspect it. I was happy to stay behind Peter.
As we approached Harry’s Hut, nearing the end of our trek, the water covering the ground became deeper and deeper. A sense of foreboding filled us all as we entered the campsite and surveyed the damage already done by the wind and rain. Our big common tent had collapsed under the weight of the water that had collected in its tarp, the metal support beam at its center bent under the pressure. John’s previously-tidy kitchen tent was in disarray, with boxes carrying different things sitting in five inches of water.
I began the arduous task of removing everyone’s belongings from their tents, while Peter and John managed the kitchen tent and campsite. My upbeat mood quickly decayed as I realized how heavy the water-logged backpacks had become. The sun was falling quickly, and it became extremely difficult to see inside the tents, most of which had collapsed in the gale. With each of the eight tents that I approached, I was greeted by many little crawling insects that had taken refuge from the rising waters on the dry sides of the tents. I began working methodically, and quickly my repetitive tasks put me into a trance; I concentrated not on the details of what I was doing, but only the ultimate goal of removing all of the belongings from the tents. I would grab whatever bag I could and stuff clothing, toiletries, and whatever else I could find into it, all the while looking out for any item that could be irreparably damaged by the water; laptops, notebooks, and journals became my priorities.
Will Alex survive the rising waters and extremely dark night to come? Will the trio be washed away by the raging Noosa River? Will they have enough food to survive until rescued by helicopter? Tune in next time, for the exciting conclusion of “The Great Flood!”
World Hold On
From Byron Bay, we travelled north to Cooloola, a section of Great Sandy National Park. “Cooloola” is the Aboriginal, onomatopoeic word for the sound made by the wind rustling though the Cyprus pines. Our guide was John Sinclair, known as “Mr. Fraser Island” for his 30 years of campaigning to protect Fraser Island. He knows the island better than anyone else; John Sinclair is to Fraser Island and Cooloola as Geoff Mosley is to Tasmania. Since 1988, John has been running his own tourism company called GO BUSH Safaris, focusing on Australia’s World Heritage Areas. He also runs trips to other places, and this year alone has run trips in Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia.
I’m Fingering the Goanna…
Well maybe that’s why it’s so upset. Our campsite at Cooloola was called Harry’s Hut, because of some guy named Harry who builed a hut there once; the hut is still there. Our campsite bordered the pristine Noosa River, which I went swimming in daily despite warning of fallen trees, sharp rocks, and bull sharks beneath its cool waters. Our common camping area consisted of a large tent under which we hung out, ate meals, and fended off mosquitoes. John Sinclair, better known as F.L. (fearless leader), loves the rugged, bush lifestyle, but refuses to sacrifice the comforts of the conventional kitchen. Thus, he organizes full-course meals in the bush, and he’s even written a cookbook on cooking in the bush. John’s campsite culinary plans produced the likes of a sweet pumpkin soup, buffet-style spring rolls, and ginger melon fruit salad.
Another occupant of the banks of the Noosa River is the goanna, a large lizard about two to three feet long, with scaly grey-black skin and bands of dark yellow. Their claws are long and their many-toothed bite is deadly; they are scavengers, so the bacteria in their mouths can cause deadly infections in their bite victims. One night, some food was left out in the kitchen tent, and it was eaten by the goannas by morning. Peter asked who had put away the food the night before, but when no one confessed, he said, “Right now, I’m fingering the goanna.”
As the Great Sandy National Park’s name suggests, much of the area, including Cooloola, is on large sand dunes. Sand of a variety of colors makes up the soil for all of the vegetation. Our big day was spent canoeing down the Noosa River to Camping Site 3, where we hiked to the impressive Sandpatch. After two hours of canoeing, we arrived to the site and went on a long hike. At the end we reached the Sandpatch, a huge area full of sand dunes. The vegetation ceased, and there was nothing but sand all the way to the sea, a desert amidst a lush forest. The whole group ran to the top of the tallest dune and looked out to sea, the town of Noosa, and the mountains beyond. On our canoe back to camp, Sarah Peters and I earned the title of Buccaneers from John Sinclair when I got bored and started splashing other boats. John and Dave, the self-proclaimed Queen’s Navy, decided it was their duty to stop us. Overall, a fun and exhausting day.
The Great Flood
Our last full day in Cooloola started like any other. We got on the bus, left Harry’s Hut, and headed toward Rainbow Beach, about an hour away from Cooloola. While we enjoyed morning tea at the beach, it began to rain. Peter spoke to Laura about the incoming inclement weather, and made the call that we would go back to Harry’s Hut, collect our gear, and head to Brisbane and stay in a hostel for the night. Group morale was up! The unexpected end to the merciless barrage of mozzies each night was a welcome decision. By this point it had started to rain harder, and we boarded the bus back to Harry’s Hut.
The nearest civilization to Cooloola are the small towns of Kin Kin and Gympie (yes, Gympie). About a half and hour from these towns, there exists a sign for Harry’s Hut, from which it is about 13 kilometers of winding, dirt road to the actual Harry’s Hut. We drove through the rain, with Dave at the wheel of the bus and trailer, until we came to a tree plantation, several kilometers away from the Harry’s Hut sign. The road was masked by a large expanse of running water, running through the trees from one side of our path to the other. The water’s depth was imperceptible to the eye, so Peter got out and waded in, quickly walking up to his thighs in the brown water. There was no way that our bus and trailer would make it through the depth and current, so a few of stepped out in the pouring rain and turned the trailer around, our feet sinking into the sticky mud. A rain-drenched Peter boarded the steps of the bus when we were all back on and explained the situation. The group, with Dave at the wheel, would drive to Kin Kin and get rooms for the night. Peter and John would go back to our campsite at Harry’s Hut and collect everyone’s belongings, load up the green GO BUSH Safari trailer, and high-tail it out of there in John’s four-wheel-drive. “We can take only one volunteer,” rasped Peter.
At the time I was standing up, dripping with rainwater from turning the trailer around. Immediately I felt a knot of excitement in my chest. There was a pause; no one spoke and people stared at each other. Perhaps only in an effort to break the silence, I said, “I’ll do it.” Before I knew it, Peter, John, and I were walking away from the familiar bus I the pouring rain. I saw Dave and the group drive away out of the corner of my eye, and turned to see my companions wading into the river that had blocked the bus’s passage. Clad in boxers, bathing suit, shirt, North Face jacket, and my decaying LL Bean sandals, I headed off after them.
I was high off of adrenaline for the first half hour of the journey, as we walking through the rest of the tree plantation, then an open field, beneath more and more rainfall. Our trio had frequent laughs, with stories from Peter and ecology lessons from John. It was only when I asked how far it was to Harry’s Hut that I began to regret my decision to volunteer. “It’s about 14 kilometers from here,” said John matter-of-factly. “With an average walking pace of 3.5 kilometers per hour, and a quick march at 6 kilometers per hour, I believe we could go at 5 kilometers an hour. It should only take us three hours to get to Harry’s Hut.” And so it did. During portions of the trek, I felt as though I were in a dream, and no actions I made would result in real-life consequences. The constant, repetitive rain produced a numbing, meditative effect in me, and the three hours blurred together into one long, wet memory.
Some highlights of the trek include uncomfortable chafing on my right, inner-thigh, various water-levels and terrain, rocks, mud, sticks, branches, gray sky. At one point, Peter pointed out a poisonous whip snake sliding through a nearby puddle, saying we should keep our distance. John, ever the naturalist, promptly wandered over to where the whip snake had been, quite eager to inspect it. I was happy to stay behind Peter.
As we approached Harry’s Hut, nearing the end of our trek, the water covering the ground became deeper and deeper. A sense of foreboding filled us all as we entered the campsite and surveyed the damage already done by the wind and rain. Our big common tent had collapsed under the weight of the water that had collected in its tarp, the metal support beam at its center bent under the pressure. John’s previously-tidy kitchen tent was in disarray, with boxes carrying different things sitting in five inches of water.
I began the arduous task of removing everyone’s belongings from their tents, while Peter and John managed the kitchen tent and campsite. My upbeat mood quickly decayed as I realized how heavy the water-logged backpacks had become. The sun was falling quickly, and it became extremely difficult to see inside the tents, most of which had collapsed in the gale. With each of the eight tents that I approached, I was greeted by many little crawling insects that had taken refuge from the rising waters on the dry sides of the tents. I began working methodically, and quickly my repetitive tasks put me into a trance; I concentrated not on the details of what I was doing, but only the ultimate goal of removing all of the belongings from the tents. I would grab whatever bag I could and stuff clothing, toiletries, and whatever else I could find into it, all the while looking out for any item that could be irreparably damaged by the water; laptops, notebooks, and journals became my priorities.
Will Alex survive the rising waters and extremely dark night to come? Will the trio be washed away by the raging Noosa River? Will they have enough food to survive until rescued by helicopter? Tune in next time, for the exciting conclusion of “The Great Flood!”
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