Sunsets last longer on holiday. I think because the sun knows you're on holiday, and so it lingers a little more on the descent. Maybe that's just how it feels up north.
Maybe it's also how it feels in Western Australia. An extremely flat place to live. There are no mountains for the sun to dip behind. It can't dawdle and have a lie in. It's up bright and early, always working late.
If you're up north, there is some undulation, but the best stuff is below the horizon. Specifically gorges. Gorgeous gorges.
A lot of the land around Kalbarri (six hours drive north of Perth where we currently live) and even further up in Karijini National Park (14 hours), is quite unremarkable in parts. Low scrubby bush. Beautiful in its own way, but very understated. Almost unwilling to give anything away that you are within touching distance of some staggering natural beauty.
That's what makes it such a unique experience, to come upon a gorge, in that it creeps up on you. Or more so that you creep up on it. And in that way, it's hard not to be impressed. The scrubby unremarkable bushland acts as a curtain in front of an audience.
One of my most cherished memories is walking down in the gorges in Karijini National Park. The feeling of the cool rock. The sound of the water flowing. Bird calls echoing off the high rock walls. The rich shades of red and brown popping against the blue sky. And all the flourishing trees and plants, making the whole thing feel like paradise.
Kalbarri was like this too, which I was pleased to find out by walking The Loop, a track that follows the Murchison River Gorge. The first half is spent walking above it all, peering in, and then dipping down into the gorge by the middle of the hike.
Looking into the gorge you can see layer upon layer of earth, stacked on top of itself. Like a terracotta coloured honeycake. Crumbly and rippling as you follow it along. Evidence of ancient waves when all of this was ocean.
As is the case with most hikes, we get overtaken by almost everyone. We're happy to be though. This is partly because we are proud members of the Stumps Club, aka the short legs club. But also, there are just too many opportunities to stop and look at waterfalls. Too many perfect spots to stop by the river and have a drink break. And too many cliffs and rock faces to loiter in front of. Looming high above like tall slices of earthy cake.
The terrain changes frequently underfoot. The red rock above changes to light coloured sand down in the gorge. Turning into wet sand at one point, and then onto that crunchy terracotta, which makes the bottoms of our shoes look like they are being lightly crumbed. There are no signs warning of hot bubbling oil, so the crumb eventually falls away.
There are plenty of other signs though, mostly warning hikers of the dangers of the trail. That people have died along here, to be wary of heat exhaustion, and to make sure we are carrying enough water. These signs are all the way along the hike, and always include the words: Are you ok?
There are so many of these signs, asking if we're ok, that soon I start to doubt whether I am actually ok. In the same way someone might say to you: are you nervous about the presentation?
Sign: Are you ok?
Me: Yes, I think so. We're seasoned hikers.
Sign: Are you sure you're ok though?
Me: What? Why do you keep asking me that?
Sign: So, you're definitely ok then? We're just worried about you, that's all. You, specifically.
Me: What, WHY?! What do you know??
Signs exist for a reason though. I'm reminded of this several days after the hike when we stop in on the way home via Port Gregory, to look at Hutt Lagoon, also known as the Pink Lake1. Which is much more pink on a clear day, but less so on overcast days, which is when we happened to be looking at it. On the way in we see a sign on the side of the road that depicts a person squatting under a tree with a big cross through it, to remind you not to do any squatting under any trees, even though you were definitely thinking about it, you filthy pervert.
Because why else would there be a sign here? It exists because apparently lots of people need reminding of this, and for some reason, only in this specific place. Either that, or other nearby places are much more accepting about this kind of thing. Less closed minded about tree squatting compared to those uptight prudes over in Port Gregory.
Back on the trail, we push past the extremely concerned signage and make it to the end, having looped fully around as promised. We climb back out of the gorge, up the steep, red rocks, and find some shade to rest our bods. Back above the gorge and behind the scrubby curtain, an echidna pops out of the bush just below us, acting as an usher, and trundles along for a bit before disappearing behind a rock.
It's been a great show. Five stars.
Overhead, the sun has started its long run up, and so we make our way back to the car, and back home to find some good seats.
Once someone pointed out the whales to us, we couldn't stop seeing them. Standing on lookouts on the coastal cliffs of Kalbarri, they showed up as tiny blue slivers, accompanied each time by a puff of mist. Without catching the initial breach, it could have looked like a sniper pinging shots into the ocean.
Then last week I had another whale sighting. Much closer this time, and in Busselton, several hours south of Perth.
I had gone for a walk along the Busselton Jetty, the longest timber-piled jetty in the southern hemisphere at 1.8km long. After 5pm the jetty has a number of other walkers, people fishing, and on this particular evening, a small running club. At about the halfway mark, a lady fishing off the side called out to me 'there's a whale out there', pointing to the end of the jetty. Some of the runners had stopped to look as well, and so I quickly joined them and scanned the horizon. Sure enough, a dark shape broke the surface.
Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I ran towards the end of the jetty, dodging fishing buckets, tackle boxes and other walkers, until I got to the end, out of breath and scanning the waters again. This time from much closer.
And then suddenly, about 30 metres away, breaking the surface:
PSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
A burst of mist fills the air, and then evaporates after a second or two, revealing a shiny dark shape. I'm close enough to see its body slowly rolling forward, which it does for several seconds before gently submerging again.
I had the foresight to have my camera ready, making sure I was looking out towards the water and not through my phone screen. When I rewatched the video later, I can hear myself react in the background when it appears, in that kind of uninhibited way that happens when you're overcome by what you're seeing.
Myself and several others watched it for a few minutes before switching to the other side of the jetty. The whale popping up over the other side, moving slowly away towards the horizon, where the sun was just dropping out of sight. The last of the light giving the whale and the ocean an orange glow. Below me, the water moved in a similar rhythm to the whale. Slow gentle rolls. Like the rise and fall of a chest.
It was an awe-inspiring moment. Pure bliss. The only sounds being the water lapping under the jetty and several fisherman, who were far less moved by the whole experience.
DAVE! What are ya up to ya shortass!
Oi! What are you doing under there, Steve, you dickhead!
Nature in full bloom.
Chef's kiss.
Hey, hope you enjoyed this week’s post. Big shout out to Dave the shortass, and Steve the dickhead. Drop me a comment, or give the post a share if you liked it! Everyone that is, not just Dave and Steve.
Shout outs to KB the kangaroo chest model, and also Dave & his mate from Busso! I love your line about terracotta coloured honeycake. A perfectly delicious & apt description of the gorges in that part of WA. Good stuff Mike!
new exclamation alert: 'oh my crumbed boots!'