The Ballad of
Mount'n Lagoon
(A
work and place of fantasy and fiction loosely inspired by the real
Mountain Lagoon and Sam's Way in the beautiful Blue Mountains)
When
you travel up the mountains don't forget that dusty road
that
meanders off the highway at the place called Blue Gum Lode.
Its
a hundred years from nowhere, but its somewhere in your mind
and
if you want to get away from things, no better will you find.
You’ve
got to be observant, don’t miss that rusty old milk churn
next
a battered sheet of galvanised iron that tells you where to turn,
just
a crumpled sign, hand writ in black, that the sun lights up at noon,
and
directs you to the valley known abouts as Mount'n Lagoon.
The
power, phone and water pipes that cross the Great Divide
don't
divert down this gully, folks must for themselves provide;
so
when you’ve left the western road and traversed the Bells Line
ridge
and
the tarmac street gives out right soon, make sure you’re 'ridgey
didge'.
The
road winds down that southern scarp, through stands of mountain ash
and
you overlook the twists and turns, its narrow, please don't crash,
cos
here there's no soft landings, just rocks and boulders strewn,
and
there’s no emergency services down there in Mount'n Lagoon.
Its
a pot holed, unforgiving track so you wont give any thanks
for
the roos that leap in front of you are built like Sherman tanks.
They'll
take you out if you ain’t alert, so be ready to hit the brakes
but
don’t stop to ease your bladder cos our bush is full of snakes,
and
to squat down in that knee high grass just to drop your pants
is
just an open invitation to the spiders, flies and bull ants
that
thrive upon the mountain, they grow fat upon the turds
of
the cows, sheep and roos, but then get eaten by the birds.
Now,
tall tales about our wildlife should not keep you at bay,
still,
best beware the bloody mossies or they'll carry you away.
But
from this temperate highland forest, you quickly will emerge
to
a mile long stretch of bitumen, kerbed, with a neat grass verge.
Cripes
you think, a real strange place to spend so much state money
it
only serves a few sheep and goats, and an apiarist, who makes honey,
oh
yes, and one particular landed gent, a long serving Liberal pollie,
who
made the most of his casting vote, we calls it Pollie's Folly.
On
your way down past the grazing lands and the citrus fruits in crop,
where
the canyon starts to broaden out, there’s a place you’ve gotta
stop
called
Yamma's Ledge, with sweeping views to our valley's western mouth,
where
it meets the Great Dividing Range, running north to south.
It’s
been a sacred site from tribal times and the locals knew it well,
it
echoes, with an atmosphere so rarefied it casts a magic spell,
so
we'd like you to experience it, but don’t get too close to the edge
cos
despite the pollie's presence there’s no fence on Yamma's Ledge.
You’ll
see gushing falls at Govett's Leap glow red in the dawning sun
and
mist beams glint on the white water wash as the shallow rivers run
across
ancient granite and sandstone beds winding through the vales,
with
sunbaking geckos on outcrop rocks, gently swishing their tails.
Now
raise your eyes from forest floor to the horizon's morning sky
where
flocks of cockies and, if you’re lucky, wedge tailed eagles fly,
who
choreograph their search for prey above pastureland so lush,
to
melodious strains from invisible parrots blending with the bush.
Tarry
not too long in that spiritual place, because of its sacred rites
the
traditional owners, Yamma's kin, say ghosts lurk round most nights;
its
turned many folk's minds to water and others methinks to wine,
in
our close-knit valley society, the difference is hard to define.
Still
live and let live, we abide by this law, so please, don’t take us
to task
with
your trendy, city based morals since our redemption ain’t the ask,
for
everyone here has their freedom and our own we do protect,
you
see, us valley dwellers ain't nothing if not politically correct.
On
leaving the ledge, the road it forks and your own choice it is to
make,
but
we recommends the old fashioned route, just for history's sake;
so
you get off the gravel, bear to the left and take the six foot track
that
pioneers forged with horse and cart, a hundred or more years back.
Through
dim iron bark forest, two deep dirt ruts with a middle mound of
grass,
it
ain't wide enough for two vehicles, but there’s never a need to
pass
cos
the traffic round here is negligible, still no matter what it lacks,
its
our private road to bureaucrats and its deductible from our tax.
You’ll
soon notice a change, on the left of the track, where radiata pine
in
dense plantation ranks, so tall, thin and straight, contrasts by
design
the
scattered, native cedar stumps on the opposite side of the trail,
where
pioneers cut dear life from the forest for furniture, post and rail.
We
learned our lessons, to protect our bush and with ourselves get
honest,
to
harness the quick growing pine trees, create the Bindaroo State
Forest
to
supply all the timber those city folks need at good profit margins
mark
and
at the same time we heritage listed our own Wollemi National Park.
Some
distance further the leaf curtain thins, then it suddenly disappears
and
the panorama that confronts you, its a real sight for sore ears;
oh,
don’t get petty about me rhyme, me metre and all that poetic theory
cos
in our valley writers' group near enough's good enough, do you hear
me.
Discover
the Goondingi Fault, the northern face of our mountain valley home
sheer
sandstone cliffs, with a gallery of colours etched in that vertical
stone,
whose
contorted carvings in the setting sun, evoke the ultimate emotion
through
millions of years of nature's own stress and rain and wind erosion.
Drive
left down the ridge to the steep gravel road, which levels out real
soon,
and
you’ll get to see the original lure why they came to Mount'n
Lagoon,
just
a couple of young kids with vision in the year of eighteen twenty,
made
their way to this land full of promise with sun and water a plenty.
With
hope for the future, to farm the soil, to gain the fruits of their
labour
Sam
Senior and Mary, the first squatters here, then cousin Jude as
neighbour
moved
rocks, felled trees, tilled volcanic loam with the only tools their
hands,
the
first homestead they built in wattle and mud, their monument, still
stands.
Pause
if you like to inspect their retreat, with chimneys made from mud
brick,
on
a shady knoll overlooking our lake beside yellow box, oh so thick,
midst
a cathedral of tree ferns and bangalow palms as idyllic as you’ll
find
but
if you decide to explore these grounds your step you’d better mind.
Please
stick to the paths, the signposted route, as the gardens you admire
and
note the disclaimers posted about from the clerk of our local shire,
cos
the settlers also brought rabbits to feed on when times were hard
and
they've multiplied, burrowed and undermined the bloody whole back
yard.
From
that very same hill whence Old Sam looked out, to the uplands left
and right
in
those few precious moments of respite at the end of his toil each
night,
you
can see the original cleared pasture with its wandering dairy herd
and
merinos for wool, still spun here by hand, best quality my very word.
Bountiful
branches of citrus and stone line those slopes in abundant array,
they
were planted by Sam from imported seeds so expensive in his day,
but
patience rewarded, his fruit harvests grew, his loans he repaid with
thanks,
to
such an extent that within twenty years, the sign outside said "Sam's
Bank".
On
the valley floor, neath gigantic cliffs, 'stride that narrow alluvial
plain,
on
the banks of that slow running river, that gives our valley its name,
stretch
regimented rows of the early estates you can see all the various
crops,
free
range chooks, pigs, goats and for our local beer, fields of ripening
hops.
This
land, its flora and fauna fair, its produce from our brow's sweat,
cornucopia
this part of our valley, where returning diggers once met
at
Sam Junior's invite to heal their wounds, their lives to freshly
start
on
these ten acre farmlets and orchards that he generously set apart.
For
twenty years Young Sam kept his word, a tight-knit bunch of Goonies
as
we were known made this valley our home, to others just plain
loonies,
a
refuge from progress, a hermit clique scarred by wars that you never
win
but
Young Sam on his deathbed at ninety decreed, we let the new world in.
Esteemed
playwrights and authors of fiction, to inspire their latest text,
were
invited to our valley, but then do you know what happened next,
weird
potters, strange painters ranged hereabouts, now even a crazy poet
from
Nimbin, whose hippie mates will join her soon, before we even know
it.
The
finest of farmers we attracted here, the best by a country mile
who'd
labour till sundown with nature's gifts, digging dung in organic
style;
a
blacksmith, a vet and a produce stall to manifest our hard working
deeds,
a
pub and a church, which in their own ways both served our spiritual
needs.
The
thirty's depression, a toll so severe, we scrapped our shire horses
and drays
to
buy modern technology and tractors to replace our most simple of
ways;
tin
sheds full of battery hens, milking machines, every new fangled
solution,
fertilisers,
pesticides increased our yields and introduced toxic pollution
Still,
you’ve nearly reached the bottom of that road down from the scarp,
our
lake now opens up in front of you, so take care you must look sharp
its
unexpected and quite hypnotic, its sure to take away your breath
so
best concentrate, turn promptly right to avoid a watery death.
Sultry
summer sun beats on these slopes but winter’s not too harsh,
though
its termed a micro climate drought has never drained this marsh
since
there’s always been sufficient rain, most always every moon,
so
we thank the Lord for this valley lake, that we call Mount'n Lagoon.
Now
pull up your car at our lake side park, a gift from Sam's ardent
admirers,
sate
your eyes on our local phenomenon, a sight you’ll agree most
desirous;
the
Goondingi Fault in the background shaped both the trough and the
ledge,
which
makes up a natural reservoir with one deep and one shallow edge.
Calm
stretches of water away to each side, in the centre dense beds of
reeds,
which
wave in the wind and make private our water fowl's sexual deeds,
and
ripples lap gently against the far shore, where swamp gums seem to
wade
so
absorb the mood and reflect in this scene, the most perfect
everglade.
Turn
around through sixty degrees, you’ll overlook three massive dams
with
tall wind pumps to draw out sustenance for the grazing merino rams
of
our valley's yuppie dude ranchers, the first Aussies to try and farm
llamas
but
its popular game birds that’s turned them, from peasant to pheasant
farmers.
Just
young city folks, their capital secured, like Old Sam they decided to
roam
their
fortune from futures to invest in the past, they bought Sam's
Victorian home;
so
wheels turn full circle in our valley, their new bloodlines relieve
the gloom,
new
spirit and hope from their new ideas, in the home they call Mount'n
Lagoon.
But
a kookaburra pair tamely taking the sun on those iron bark farmyard
gates
will
arouse you to the overture from their raucously laughing mates,
the
conductor's attention now broadcast, the symphony can commence
with
crows "ark ark" and dulcet "coo coos", melodic
pigeons on the fence.
The
ducks on the lake quack the base line as the soloists each fly
overhead
with
singular whistles and warbles, or chirps, twitters and tweets
instead;
though
our culture is raw, we've no school of art, and most here can't hold
a tune,
we've
Orchestra Avis, the best in the world, right here in Mount'n Lagoon.
The
home's focal point at the lake side, marks the start of our
patriarch's legacy
his
gift for his sons, an avenue of trees, full of love and pride you’d
beg to see
on
a sandy road which encircles the lagoon, past all the selectors'
first farms
with
twin rows either side of autumn clothed maples and rugged Aussie
palms.
To
salute Young Sam's twins, who never returned, they were killed that
fateful day
in
the senseless assault on Gallipoli, honoured now by the trees of
Sam's Way,
which
he planted himself, with his own bare hands to tend for the rest of
his life,
'twas
the very day the next war broke out that we laid him with Martha his
wife.
So
you’ll now understand why Young Sam, to the survivors extended such
charity,
for
instead of his sons, to old diggers he gave, maintaining some sort of
parity
a
reward for his conscience, his memory of boys, that both died far too
soon
and
never were able to take on the roles of their birthright in Mount'n
Lagoon.
The
family cemetery looms first on Sam's Way, a facade of huge granite
rocks,
a
red gravel path leads up to the entrance, its portals of iron with
strong locks,
the
only security Young Sam would allow to protect the souls of his sons
with
their black marble tombstones from Turkey, crossed with inverted
guns.
Sam's
avenue then passes the entrance to famed Wollemi National Park,
walks
to Tootie Creek and Colo Meroo, says the sign on an old stringy bark,
that
in sunshine you start by the lake side, through scattered peppermint
gum
then
pass into shadows thrown by blackbutt and varieties of pittosporum.
Suddenly
you’ll hit the deep shade from the cliff, the flora will typically
change
to
blue gums, mosses and tree ferns, that abound neath this wet northern
range
and
the leaf mould that litters the undergrowth, deadens all sound as you
stand
in
this dark, revered part of our valley, where nature holds total
command.
Now
motor past the farms on Sam's Way windows down at speed very slow,
cos
its not only cattle and horses you’ll meet, but our Goonies on the
go
and
they’re never too busy to give you their time, with tales both tall
and true
of
history and events in our valley, the tough times their forebears
lived through.
Each
one has a story and family tree, the likes of which I've only dented
they
speak proudly of life in this valley and its characters, mostly
invented,
that
enriched our past to bequeath us the stories and ballads we croon,
by
tradition valley people are the friendliest, here in Mount'n Lagoon.
You’re
back at the junction, you’ve circled our lake, the afternoon sun is
low
and
your sojourn serene in our valley backyard is over, its now time to
go;
but
you’re always welcome, so return anytime your mind's batteries to
recharge,
we
all need a dose of nature's elixir to cope with this tough world at
large.
Of
course this yarn ain’t quite the truth, but its the way it should
have been
Sam's
Way deserves a legend's tale, for its splendour, peace and green
make
getting away from the stale beaten track a city slicker's boon,
a
fitting finale to that perfect mind haven, that I know as Mount'n
Lagoon.
