Tag: nature

A capital fog

Canberra is located at the foothills of the Snowy Mountains, within the Great Dividing Range. Its altitude is 577m above sea level, which may not seem like much by South American standards where cities often sit above 1000m, but it is quite high compared to other cities in Australia and Europe. In fact, Canberra’s elevation is 168m above that of Zürich.

The elevation and the fact that it is a relatively sheltered valley near mountains, allows cooler air to sink and the warmer air to form a blanket above it, especially when there is little or no wind. These are perfect conditions for thick fog to occur. On average, there are around 20 heavily foggy days in winter.

I relish these foggy days which give the city a magical air. I love walking in it, not knowing what is in front or behind me, just focusing on one step at a time. I don’t even mind driving in it, although I admit that I prefer driving in fog when I know a route well. But then I have had years of experience driving in the Blue Mountains, where fog can envelop a valley even in summer.

Canberra airport was built on one of the lowest lying areas in the city. The result is that many flights are delayed and cancelled, especially after 10am when incoming flights can’t land due to the lack of visibility. It does seem like a huge oversight to have located an international airport in one of the worst affected areas in town.

Where I live is only 9km from the airport and it shares its propensity to fog. There are mornings when I can only see shadowy outlines of the trees across the road. When I walk the dog, she disappears ahead of me, and I can confuse markers ahead for people coming towards me. It is a strange, fairy-tale landscape where both time and space seem to conflate. It is muffled and eerie, yet stunningly beautiful and comforting at the same time.

When I worked at Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, I often watched the fog roll in like hay bales on a farm. One would roll up the main street and gather moisture and momentum as it shrouded everything in its path, white as a freshly washed sheet. I’d look out onto the playground and play a game of ‘now you see me and now you don’t’; 350 children there one moment and gone the next.

Fog is an enormous doona spread over the city to make all of us more aware of our senses, to hone our navigation skills and to remind us of the things we can’t control.

It is also a lesson in awe and wonder inviting us to pay close attention to our surroundings. Fog is the winter coat I wear gladly. Wrapped around me, I feel peaceful and lovingly enveloped.

Early winter

Frosty mornings have arrived, covering the grass in icy, white droplets. The dog’s breath turns to vapour as we make our way across the road to the park. I too can see my breath ahead of me and plunge my hands deep into my pockets. The cold nibbles at my ears and nose, but a down coat keeps the rest of my body warm.

 The dog doesn’t seem to feel the cold. She happily lies on this carpet of frost, frolicking and licking the icy dew. There’s a wild look in her eye and I know she is about to run in ever-widening circles, stretching her body fully with each stride. I watch as she performs her exercise routine with unashamed, abundant joy, and I can’t help but feel a vicarious sense of being fully alive. I admire her ability to be so present that nothing else matters to her at all.

These morning walks before work are now as important to me as they are to the dog. Some mornings, the park is shrouded in fog, and we venture into unfamiliar terrain, uncertain of what we may come across along the way. The trees become mysterious creatures with outstretched arms, ready to catch me should I stumble too close. These mornings I am transported into a fairy tale where inanimate objects take on human form in the distance, only to turn back into posts or small bushes when I come near. It never feels menacing, but laden with the promise of some adventure.

The black swan that had appeared one day on the billabong has continued its journey.  I wonder where they fly for winter. Only the ducks are left and a cormorant or two. Even the magpies seem quieter in the morning now, or am I imagining this? In any case, the park has taken on a different feel; it is quieter, and the colours are muted. The park is now in calm repose.

My day continues with work hours, obligations, and errands. By late afternoon, I feel the urge to visit again before the light fades completely. I take the dog for her second walk of the day, this time with greater urgency and less time to reflect. Despite my desire to be there, the walk becomes perfunctory. I’m thinking about cooking dinner and jobs that still need to be done before the day is out. Other people in the park seem harried too. Everyone wants a bit more time outside before the light fades completely.

Back home, I can just make out the outline of the canopies. Soon, the inky black sky will blanket the city. The day, with all its cares, is over. A brand-new walk awaits us in the morning.

Haig Park – Canberra

One of the enjoyable aspects of moving to a new city is discovering what others take for granted. Since moving into my daughter’s unit in Braddon while my place undergoes a facelift, I’m seeing this suburb with fresh eyes.

As a visitor, I had been to Haig Park several times, usually to visit the Sunday morning markets. Now that I live across the road, I have quite a different relationship with it. As I need to take my dog down several times a day to do her business, the park is perfect for a quick comfort stop or a longer run off leash. We have met several dogs and their owners, some chatty, others rather off-hand. Humans that is, never the dogs.

The park has a rather curious design. It runs the length of two suburbs and is 1780m long. It has 14 rows of trees, planted equidistant from each other, giving it more of a feel of a state forest. The plantings of pine trees reinforce this, although on closer inspection, there are four different species of trees which all have their own dedicated rows. Where I am, I can see Italian Cypress, Pin Oaks, and Deodar Cedars, but there are also Argyle apple trees and Radiata Pines. The row upon row of trees gives it a rather eerie feel at night, especially as the lighting is virtually non-existent. I certainly wouldn’t venture across it in the dark.

During the day, it is a much friendlier place, although it still feels odd to be walking up and down in straight lines between trees. This made me wonder about the history of the park, as many of the trees are quite old. A little research yielded the answer to its odd design. It was originally planted as a windbreak in 1921 when Braddon and Turner were fledgling suburbs and needed to be protected from the dust and wind battering it from the north. I can’t imagine Braddon being a fledgling suburb as it is now as close as you can get to the centre of the city.

I haven’t explored the Turner side of the park yet. But I have discovered a couple of interesting things at the Braddon end. The first thing I came across were two metal cabinets that are attached to a pole. The cabinets aren’t locked and unfortunately, this means that possums and crows regularly raid the contents and leave them strewn. A notice attached to the top of one of the cabinets describes their purpose. They are there for food donations for anyone in need. Despite the clear instructions to only use it for non-perishable items, people still leave bread that gets eaten by local wildlife. It also makes a mess around the cabinets. It is a shame that great initiatives often have unwanted consequences.

A little further across the park, I came across a labyrinth. This was an unexpected delight. Unlike other labyrinths I have walked, this one is in the shape of a hand. It is called the Ngala labyrinth. Ngala is the Ngunnawal word for tree. At first, I thought it looked a little too simple compared to the Chartres design. However, walking the labyrinth, I discovered its own beauty. The centre is within the palm, which of course has echoes Proverbs 30.4 ‘God holds us in the palm of his hand.’ But there are also reverberations within Buddhism, Taoism and Yoga where the palm is associated with subtle energy or chakras. Then there is also the connection to fortune telling and palmistry. Clearly, there is a long spiritual tradition which treats the hands as a metaphor. Walking this labyrinth, I felt at peace and grounded upon the land I was on, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of Lonsdale Street just a few hundred metres away.

To see the world with fresh eyes is a gift that moving to a new place offers. It is my sincere wish that this stage has longevity so that I may continue to be observant and approach my surroundings with childlike curiosity.

The stick library

We have become familiar with street libraries which have popped up in the most unlikely places providing a much-needed community service. People take books that pique their interest and bring back ones they have read, but no longer wish to keep. There are no forms to fill out, no due dates nor any fines to worry about. It is a self-regulated system that works because everyone who uses it benefits. It only takes one person to start it, keep an eye on what comes and goes, tidy up every now and again, and occasionally cull. No wonder they have become such a hit.

Yesterday, as I was walking two dogs at a local park in Watson, Canberra, I discovered a variation on the theme – a stick library. My first reaction was joyous laughter. Such a charming idea matched with a quirky sense of humour, and a doggone purpose. In its vicinity, I spied four people and at least double that number of dogs. I should also mention that there was a lagoon nearby. The humans were standing at its edge, throwing sticks into the water for the dogs to fetch.

I walked up to a man whose Border Collie ran towards us with two sticks in his mouth.

‘What a great idea,’ I said, pointing to the stick library.

‘Yeah, whenever we used to come down here, no one could ever find a stick to throw,’ he said. ‘Then some guy decided to do something about it and since then, people bring sticks back for others to use.’

‘I love the community here in Watson,’ a younger woman chimed in. ‘The stick library speaks volumes about the kind of people who live here. It’s such a friendly place.’

‘Someone called ABC radio the other day to say thank you for the stick library and the switchboard lit up,’ the man added. ‘Now they’ve tracked down a guy called Tom who’ll give an interview at the local radio station.’

I nodded in appreciation and could immediately see the appeal of this good news story. After all, we are a dog loving nation. One in three households in Canberra owns a dog. You don’t have to walk very far to encounter a pooch with its special human beaming with pride as they make their way to the nearest off-leash area. Exercise is essential, especially in a city brimming with apartments. And what better exercise than to fetch a good old-fashioned stick?

Potholes

Rain has washed away whole sections of country roads. Wherever I look there are potholes, thoroughfares which are no longer passable and ‘rough surface’ signs to alert drivers to the obvious. I recently punctured a tyre as I plunged into a hole much deeper than anticipated and last Thursday, a loose rock hit my windscreen leaving it with a sizable crack.

I have had ample opportunity to ponder the pothole, both real and figurative, as I white-knuckle clench the steering wheel. There have certainly been some rough rides. Last week as I drove along a dark country highway, trying to avoid both kangaroos and potholes, I suddenly found myself going over a flooded roadway. I could hear the safety ads loud and clear, ‘Do not enter floodwaters’ but it was too late. I was already deep in the water and accelerating out. The sun had dropped behind the horizon, and I was left to navigate unfamiliar, rugged roads at night.

While potholes are perilous for travellers, I find solace in the fact that we haven’t been able to bend nature to our will altogether. In the great battle between the elements and bitumen, the elements win every time.

And as I navigate the great and small potholes in my life, I draw some lessons from driving along country roads. If I am lucky to see the pothole ahead, I can always move over to the other side, as long as there is no oncoming traffic. There are often ways to mitigate the great and small disasters in life by course correcting.

Potholes make me slow down. Instead of rushing from A to B, I need to be measured and disciplined to get there safely. This is a lesson I need to learn over and over. When confronted with overwhelm, it is best to slow down and approach tasks with a well-considered plan rather than plough ahead at full speed.

Then there is the detour. At times it is well worth obeying the sign. It may take longer to get wherever I’m going but there’s a reason for the diversion. These roads are often scenic and may lead to unexpected pleasures along the way. A detour whether forced or voluntary can provide insights which otherwise could easily be missed.

I am learning to approach potholes as moments to pause and reflect. They may be an unwanted disruption, but they teach me that I can’t control everything. And ever so slowly, I am learning to accept the things I cannot change.