Our first day did not begin well for Michael. Much to his surprise, he had developed the misery of vertigo and Digger's gentle motion appeared to be the culprit. Never at ease on boats of all varieties, I was unaffected by any movement by the caravan. We hadn't bothered to engage Digger's stabilisers the previous evening on arrival. As a result, when Digger was a'rocking, Michael felt rotten!
I ordered His Majesty outside into his chair, with his back to the morning sun. He slowly improved on stable ground. Affable volunteer host Andy was delighted to lock Digger's stabilisers into place to prevent further dizziness on Michael's part.
By the time I was ready for a walk to Honeycomb Gorge, Michael was still delicate. So, in the style of Stout Cortez, I struck out on my own with my hat and my backpack, containing Anzac biccies, chips, water and my camera.
I had made a fundamental error. The trail from the camp to Honeycomb Gorge gave an estimated time for travel by foot, about forty-five minutes. I had also read that the track was six hundred metres long and a Grade 3 (moderate fitness) walk. I foolishly assumed both of these pieces of information applied to the same path, allowing for dawdlers such as me.
I waved goodbye to my darling man, promising to return within a couple of hours. Then I walked. And walked. And walked. Due to the rocky nature of the environment, I had to watch my every step. Every now and then, I would deviate from this strategy and trip or stumble. Each time this occurred, I would give myself a severe lecture for being inattentive on my own.
About every fifty steps or so, I would stop to stretch and gaze at the beauty around me. Every view demanded a photograph in this amazing landscape. Hence, my camera moved from my backpack to my jeans pocket to be within easy reach.
Slowly came the dawning realisation that I was on a trek far greater than six hundred metres. I had no choice so I just kept carefully plodding along, stopping to drink, look about and photograph.
Just when I was becoming quite fatigued, I met Peta and Tony, fellow campers, who confirmed I was close to my goal. Moments later, I arrived at the Honeycomb Gorge carpark. Its helpful information post announced the gorge was six hundred metres away, on a Grade 3 path. All was finally revealed.
Those last metres, scrambling over rocks, tested my resolve. Then, standing in the Honeycomb amphitheatre with towering cliffs above me, I immediately forgot my wobbling muscles as my mouth really did fall open in wonder. The rocks had been eroded over the last two hundred and fifty million years to create the effect of rocky bubbles all around the gorge.
I chatted to half a dozen fellow visitors. After they had all departed, I had the gorge to myself, communing with country in a most unexpected way.
The trip back was just as slow. Given my weariness, I practised even greater vigilance as I had vowed to myself that I would not fall. With gleeful satisfaction, I concluded the walk. If I'd had any inkling of the expedition I was undertaking, I would not have attempted such a quest. At all. I proved that, once more, I had rediscovered my determination.
I spent the next hour or so relaxing, cooling down and eating anything that wasn't nailed down. Then, refreshed, I was ready for another walk to Temple Gorge. Michael was enthusiastic and well enough to accompany me. He certainly proved his usefulness. The "easier" path was following a rocky creek bed, up ledges, over boulders and around shallow pools. There was an injury in every step. Michael patiently guided my uncooperative, uncoordinated feet to safety with very clear instructions.
The star of Temple Gorge was the afternoon light. The gorge and surrounding ridges, cliffs and the plateau were lit with a mesmerising glow. Others were in deep shadow. The heroine was "The Temple" herself, with astonishing angles and slopes, reminiscent of a Mayan religious complex far away on the other side of the world.
Exceptionally pleased with ourselves, we staggered back and joined other campers around the communal firepit. After a few drinks and some very agreeable conversation, we recovered enough to tackle the domestic chores of dishwashing, followed by dinner.
We retired to the boudoir soon afterwards. Michael was instantly asleep. I lay awake, as had become my custom, remembering the events of the day and pondering the thought that the hot water system may have seized completely and remain non-functional for the remainder of our trip.
Kennedy Ranges Snapshots
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