TRIP REPORT: Myall Lakes – Trip 2

It Was a Trip-and-a-Half

The following trip plan was taken from the book Canoe Touring in Australia- seven of the country’s best river journeys by Leigh Hemmings. This report was prepared for the second edition of Leigh’s 1993 book, and incorporates selections of Leigh’s original writings as well as reflections upon our own journey, which was taken much in the same spirit and mindframe.

THE TRIPPERS (in order of appearance): Megan Prendergast, Ami Drory, Lorrie Reich, Richard Wood, Loren Beaman, Nea the Breaka, Alicia Ooi, Rachel Melrose.

THE DATE: Saturday 4^th March to Sunday 5^th March, 2006

THE LOCATION: Myall Lakes National Park

TRIP QUASI-ORGANISER: Megan Prendergast

Our journey began at 6am at the canoe container- for everyone except one person, that is, who shall remain nameless but is yet to redeem themselves after rocking up at 7am having disorientated themselves and lost their phone. But honestly, that was so irresponsible Rachel.

While loading up boats at Glebe the mist crawled across the water like a seeping sunset, and energetic rowers could be spied skipping about the shed, flicking fiberglass above their heads and chorusing in Blackwattle Bay chatter.

For us, the surreal morning start could only be described as a birthing experience.

After about 4 hrs travel including breakfast and the essential canoe trip “Oh my god, we’re gunna run out of petrol” experience, we arrived at Violet Hill on the northern banks of the Myall Lakes system, filled our 4 double kayaks with 2 days worth of fun’n’games, and hit the water in the early arvo. The group proceeded westwards from the narrow Violet Hill Passage then across Boolambayte Lake. I quote our guide book writer: “from the easy intimacy of the river to paddling across the broad water is a radical transition. On the broad water you can ‘up sail’ and enjoy free wind power, with a gentle breeze ruffling the lake’s surface...”

With such energy we floated, stubbies in hand, as we slowly drifted towards the day’s first destination- CanoeBoy 1. A few sea eagles spied our esky, but must have become convinced we had nothing of worth to offer by our feeble attempt to solve Carlton’s cap trivia. Hundreds of black swans delighted us as we entered Wears Bay, taking off the water in awe-inspiring unison on our approach. Until they figured out that they could actually drift faster than we were moving in order to maintain a respectable distance. These swans feed on a nutritious deep layer of spongey stuff we could feel beneath our paddles, which gave the whole bay experience a sense of paddling through settled pea soup.

Around the point awaited the hungry mouth of Boolambayte Creek. For canoe tourers this creek is a true delight, well, fifteen minutes (try an hour- we took it easy ok) (the national park portion) of it is. There the wind whispers through the tall tree tops, ancient melaleucas lounge out over the stream and the diving kingfisher makes an almost noiseless splash into the water. Upstream, however, is a mishmash of clearing, bank erosion and barbed wire. This area is one of the most obvious examples of the clash between moneyed interests and environmental management in the Myall Lakes region. With this knowledge we didn’t go up too far, but passed a cute and meticulously tended cottage and garden with an eerie ‘Gingerbread House’ feel to it. Trippy. We also happened upon a merry black and yellow carpet snake swimming across the water. La Di Da Di Da.

Turning back on ourselves, we left the creek and journeyed back to Violet Hill. In windless conditions the movement of your canoe across Boolambayte Lake will create surface ripples reminiscent of delicate marble patterns…

Well Leigh, in windy conditions the lake produces relentless rolls of waves reminiscent of a particular beating hangover and a headwind that drags you back like an angry grandmother. Yes, I was in the Canadian canoe at the time (our slow-poke in the fleet), but at least Alicia and I had the esky.

Our campsite lay 2kms easterly past Violet Hill. Our destination was Tickerabit (actually Leigh, the map people call it Tickerabil, but who’ll deny you a good white rabbit reference on your trip) the little nick of land on the right-hand southernmost tip of Myall Lake. There’s a starboard marker just off the point, but in a canoe you ignore it. If you snuggle into the eastern shore and paddle around the corner you will be greeted by a diminutive patch of sandy beach overhung by vulnerable melaleucas (paperbark trees). For my money this is a top spot… Well Leigh, not sure what you got up to there but now there is a negative sounding sign regarding this spot. But our mums gave us special permission, and it was early evening, so we cranked up a fire and heated the jaffle irons. It was around the campfire that the group also came to the realisation that Rachel’s camera-happy-snapping habits displayed during the day were not just an attempt to capture the natural beauty of the scenery, but rather symptoms of an obsessive photographic disorder. Whilst we certainly appreciate the quality and inspiration in many of her shots, many ill-deserving subjects fell victim to the flashings of Rachel’s camera. Fire sparks, people’s dinners, even an unfortunate-looking toe had their meagre existence preserved for digital visual reference. Nah, just kiddin Rachel, we love your work and want copies of a deprived selection of your photos.

Aside from our usual highbrow campfire conversation and ghost stories and talking about what’s fun, we realised it was Mardi Gras night. But we’re ok with that, cause we’re so gay we brought cocktail ingredients! Tutti fruity cocktail combinations led to Megan’s Myall Madness Mixture, which actually was quite mad because the only non fruit ingredient was vodka. Anyway, we bitched and gossiped and festooned ourselves with sequins and stayed up way later than anyone who went to the parade so there!

The next day found us perky and bright at our diminutive sandy beach, where we had a morning swim. Basking in brekky jaffles swept away the morning, then eventually we decided to have a safety meeting to address some issues we failed to deal with the previous evening. A few issues later, we remembered we had to paddle somewhere and gradually loaded ourselves into the boats. This time, everyone had to paddle a different boat to yesterday and with a different paddling partner to yesterday. A further parameter was set by the need to pair up members of the safety committee with those who were a bit more dangerous (don’t get confused reader- Everything gonna be Alright).

The paddle from Tickerabil to Long Point on Leigh’s kaleidoscopic journey was a cut across the bay for some, while those who went the RIGHT way followed the shore-line and navigational “fluffy stuff” to enjoy some truly inspirational riverside scenery. Exactly where does a lone swan pick up? Near Shelley Beach (the unfamous one) fish began jumping out of the water left, right and centre, waving to us with their tails. The others had all the fishing gear however, so our group reconvened and we paddled a couple of kms past the point along a pretty section of forest-fringed shore to meet our second CanoeBoy at Bibby Harbour. At the outer entrance is a little rocky knoll where our trip book indicated there were caves to explore so we stopped for lunch. The cave entrance ended up being the size of a wombat hole (and probably dual purpose), and everyone was too scared to go in (hey, who wants their face crushed by an enormous boney arse).

Bibby Harbour is a reed-fringed horseshoe-shaped bay and worthy of exploration by canoe. But we didn’t.

Keeping on the same eastern shoreline you will then gradually paddle around a lump shaped not unlike a Michael Leunig cartoon. Not unlike, no, not unlike at all. Really Leigh…

Pushing on further south there awaits yet another superb pandanus-shaded campsite, but

the Mardi Gras was last night so we were too tough for superb pandanoose and pushed on. In the afternoon, when the air is still, paddle and drift (I think we chose the drift option…) around the edges of Kataway Bay. You will be alone and yet surrounded by life: schools of young fish lie so close to the surface that their fins and one eye emerge into the air. They will be briefly and mildly disturbed by your slowly moving canoe. Actually, I think we’d be more briefly and mildly disturbed by the sight of cycloptic fish. Keen to catch such a beast as described, Nea decided to try her luck where fisherman Richard and others had failed. After few tension-building snags and practice casts, Nea produced what can only be described as the greatest cast flung: Richard’s lure sailed off at least 70m, only to be snatched in mid air and broken off the line by a cycloptic fish shaped not unlike a Michael Leunig cartoon. Truly Richard, I saw the whole thing and it wasn’t her fault.

But just as our shared tripping experience with Leigh Hemmings had to continue, so did we. Near the shoreline the still waters reflect images of mingled reeds and melaleucas (someone has a favourite word) but at the approach of the radiating ripples from your canoe, these images break into tight zigzags. Stay long enough and still enough, however, and the mirror-lake returns to perfection, its reflected colours transformed into a hundred variations of gold thanks to the setting sun. At this point, the paddle back to camp late in the grey dusk endows even the most jaded paddler with a profound sense of well being. Safety first, we too experienced a moment of well being as our kayaks rafted together. Although some may have been tired and had a slightly green tinge to them, I think “jaded” is being a bit dramatic though.

From here we turned back westwards and homewards across the mighty Myall Lake. Assisted by a gorgeous wind behind our backs, we were almost able to surf the waves that took us the 4kms to Double Islands, of which there are three. These piles of rocks were loaded with trees and life, and were a welcome and exciting visit in the middle of such an expanse of lake. The weather had been perfect for us as we continued across the lake via a few more CanoeBoys and entered Violet Hill Passage. A wonderfully overcast (it gets hot out there) sky cast strokes of vapourous paint before us, while generating an array of cloudy images that looked, well, not unlike a Michael Leunig cartoon. As we packed up our boats at Violet Hill in the early evening and drove away, that sense of illusion still had not left us. Then, we had trouble finding pies on our road trip, and snapped back into reality. But I still think there were some sleepy heads that woke up in Sydney the next morning and wondered if it wasn’t all just a dream…

And from Rachel…

Im following on with the Leigh Hemmings theme, please, read on...

Along the shore of a button grass fringed Lagoon, two black swans moved slowly, and from their curving breasts spread a double ripple that died with a whisper against the land. Above them a clouded sun shed a pale glory in which they seemed like slender ships floating through a dream.

Presently the stroke of the wide, webbed feet quickened as, from far ahead, came a cluster of four quick moving vessels carving through the chop, their paddles welding the water for their propulsion.

The swans whipping wings were only just clearing the black surface of the water, till, with a sudden splashing and flapping of the hitherto unbroken expanse, they came to rest a safe distance away.

Hours before, the boats arrived from the South and the adventurers embarked with the image of a glistening white sandy beach in their sights. Weary with buffeting the winds, their faces salt streaked, the ir clothes sprayed and sopping, their muscles lean and stiff, the explorers found rest, food, wine and content on the shore of the Lake.
They even asked each other "Hows the serenity?"
In pairs they had spent the last two days, but now congregated, there was a sense of warmth, safety, and fire encircling them. Everyone felt especially safe, due to the precautionary measures of the heroic leader Megan.

Back onto the cradling expanse of water, the boats and their paddlers were in their element.
For a time they paddled strong, for a time they floated, listening to the sounds of birds and winds in the 300yr old melaleucas. The air was full of nameless murmurs that breathed delicately from swamp and forest.

Then the wind came, unrelenting and opressive, forcing the vessels and their occupants to shoot their sleek bodies head on, testing its force and receiving in their tingling ears whispers of the boat ramp round each bend. There, in the little bay near Violet Hill, the travellers stood on two feet again.