The Ballad of Mount'n Lagoon

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.