I’m rugged up in coat, gloves and scarf. The sun has not yet risen and the air is dry-ice cold against my exposed face. But this is an extraordinary place and I want to see it in every phase of the day.

Bev has told me about the 50 acres of wildlife park at the back of the property, and that Dusty, the red cloud kelpie, is a sociable dog and a patient guide. I let him off his chain and he rushes to show me the way, frequently turning his head to check that I’m following. I am. Parts of the track are steep and beaded with dew, and Dusty’s and my footprints are the first of the day. There are distractions to the climb; the mist hugging the valley floor, the fourteen kangaroos in the lower paddock, the mob of red-tailed black cockatoos calling ‘kree’ as they fly low between morning feasts of eucalypt seeds, the mocking call of the kookaburra. I’m exhilarated by the distractions.

The underbellies of the clouds are thick and vivid pink, paling to gold on the eastern horizon as sunrise approaches. Since I want to be at the crest of the hill when the sun peeks over I must hurry. If I time it well I will see a second sunrise from the next valley. Bev tells me there are granite boulders there, boulders with a special energy, sacredness.

Dusty is impatient now. I stand, sweating under my layers of clothing, and watch the first spears of light stream over. It’s this moment I most enjoy, the brilliance and warmth of it.

Over the rise and in shadow again, I wonder if the sun ever touches the ground in winter, given the canopy of trees and the southerly aspect? The trail is marked, but slippery. I spend as much time placing my feet as looking at my surroundings. Dusty stops, alert to the sounds of the bush. My city ears hear only birdcalls, but he’s picked up something else. Five kangaroos crash by, two mothers and joeys, one buck. This is their time now and at dusk. Yesterday I drove from Perth I watched for roos jumping across the road, but didn’t see a single one. There were bloated carcasses on the roadside, and scatterings of bones picked clean by carrion and sun-bleached white. The ones that didn’t get away.

There’s been no second coming of the sun but the exercise has kept me warm, I have shed the coat, scarf and gloves and carry them awkwardly between the shoulder straps of my daypack. My jumper is tied around my waist. The cloud is grey and solid now, and I hear raindrops land on the leaves of the forest floor before I feel them on my bare arms.

29 June 2001

Today I sleep until 7.30am and awake to find a different view from the window. While the previous night’s wine might mean I need a nap later in the day, it doesn’t usually affect my morning eyesight like this. There are tree trunks visible a few metres from the balcony but beyond is blurred to obscurity - spooky.

Again Dusty leads me up the track, out of the morning mist which I thought enveloped the world. Yesterday’s valley floor mist was a trickle compared to today’s raging white-water rivers. Only the treetops exposed. The whole valley is under a flood of soft cotton-wool. It flows up and over one peak, skeining back into itself on the other side.

I stop, turn and stare time and time again, once again for a breather but mostly because I’m compelled. A golden whistler darts across the path like a shooting sun. The mob of roos is bigger today. Forty or fifty of them graze, a kookaburra laughs to see such fun and the dog runs away on the scent of a trail.

It’s cold again, but I have dressed lightly. Today I want to roam unencumbered. My own personal mist fogs my glasses where the crisp air meets my warm breath, creates the illusion that the already hazy landscape is further softened around its edges. A plane skims the hilltop islands in the distance, purrs on its way as I stop for one more look before turning towards the sanctuary.

I walk the low road, to the creek I hope. There are several varieties of fungi on the tree trunks, many different barks and foliages, dew dangling on the spiders’ nightwebs. I am soon at the rear boundary fence. On the other side is a pine plantation. On the sanctuary side pines have self-sown, introduced a bright green into the muted bush landscape. Boundaries are not clear at all.

Eucalypts are shedding skins. Their trunks looked frayed - the bark falls in strips until a branch interrupts its collapse then peels away again. The trees wear multi-storeyed bark skirts.

Dusty is impatient with my stopping, my skyward eyes, my sitting. A warm tongue moistens my face, a nose nuzzles my armpit, he paws my journal page, whines. He’s right, it’s time to move on.

A flash of scarlet robin dashes by as we climb around the base of the granite boulders. From my reading I know that it has black and white patches but I only see red. It feeds by snatching insects on the wing, dances and hovers around Dusty but he’s not interested. He’s otherwise engaged, tracking scents, reclaiming territory, pissing onto the overturned earth where feral pigs have foraged overnight.

As I climb, I see ahead an already-risen sun. There is a blue-sky day on the hilltops, but down here the mist still embraces the creek.

On my return, the apartment retains the overnight warmth of the slow combustion stove and breakfast is provided. If I wish I can have another Jacuzzi with bubbles. I might dine on the Ambrosia Platter from the restaurant (trout, smoked chicken, marron, and fresh water mussels) and sip the local wines. Bliss. After I’ve walked, eaten and soaked my fill, I can sit on the balcony and dream and write or watch and listen to the close-at-hand birds, the splendid fairy wrens, robins and willy wagtails that dance along the balcony wire and somersault between braches as they dart and dive for insects.

This is an exceptional place, developed and inhabited by exceptional people. I’m delighted they’re willing to share it. Allow yourself to be delighted too.

Margot Lowe 
Bassendean WA