2009 Trip Note

Base Camp: 20-22 March 2009 - Tarra-Bulga National Park

Contributor: David Sharman

Source: "The News", April 2009

Photogallery:

People drifted in as Friday unwound, with the few with real jobs rolling up, yawning, early Saturday morning.

The initial mood of the arrivals was sombre, sobered by the kilometres of devastation wreaked by the huge Churchill fire on the park’s approaches. However, the miracle that the park itself, with its stunning fern gullies, gigantic Mountain Ash and venerable Myrtle Beech (one over a 1000 years old) was largely unharmed soon worked its magic on long faces.

Every camp has those special moments, those highlights that stand long in the participant’s memories. Who of us in that Gippsland forest that weekend will forget the much visited Balook tea rooms, the innumerable photo shoots, Carol’s bridge, dinner under the stars by the Tarra River, Wendy’s walking stick and our esteemed leader’s arithmetic?

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Mick ‘Killer’ Noonan assured us there was just one hill to worry about. Those of us who have passed primary maths, got to four on Saturday and two on Sunday. Now you might think that ‘Killer’ is a harsh judgement on someone who’s only failing is a shortage of useful fingers, but there is more. Your reporter won’t say the walks were challenging, but consider if you will the plight of the 17 fresh faced, innocent souls that set out that Saturday morning. They revelled in the ease of the first tree fern gully ramble before relaxing with cheerful laughter in the first of our tea room sessions. That was, however, the quiet before the storm. For our last, Sunday afternoon, visit to that commendable establishment there were just eight, that’s right eight, survivors - a casualty rate for the mathematically minded of 53%! I hasten to add that rumours of ‘Killer’ being investigated by the Homicide Squad and Missing Person’s Bureau are as yet unsubstantiated.

Oh yes, and while I think of it, I reiterate the welcome given to our four visitors, Sandy, Katrina, Linda (generous donor of much of Saturday night’s dinner) and Coleen. Has anybody discovered what became of them, I wonder.

We should probably slide past Wendy’s attempt to minister to Saturday night’s fire with her much fought over walking stick, an effort that somehow managed to tip Sheena into the babbling, rockstrewn, platypus-infested brook.

This chronicle would be incomplete if we didn’t bemoan the almost total disintegration of the rugged, tough reputation of the MBW. Of the 17 souls who showed up, 15 skulked in cabins with just 2 setting up tents on the river bank. Actually it would probably be more accurate to say there was just one tent plus a presidential palace, wouldn’t it Margaret? How many slaves did it take to disassemble it on Sunday morning?

That’s probably enough defamation for one trip, it’s time for your diarist to limp over to the Yellow Pages and see what’s listed under ‘Massages – Remedial’