Day 36 – Little Deadman’s Bay to Osmiridium Beach

---

I was woken many times by scurrying, though I never caught sight of the critter. At one point, asleep with my face against the hammock’s bug net, I swear I awoke with a start to the feel of tiny claws on my nose; perhaps a quoll standing up to have a sticky beak had put its forepaws there for support.

A gorgeous sunrise through the clouds, and a short day. It’s going to be relaxed and lovely. There’s another boat crossing to do, but I don’t think it’s anywhere near as tidal as Bathurst Harbour.

The numerous small islands off the coast add an air of mystery and adventure to the place. Especially skirted in morning fog as they are.

My legs are reluctant this morning, slow to warm up after yesterday’s exertions. At the beginning of each small incline I swear I can hear them sighing at me.

It occurs to me, what with Te Araroa being so logistically different to the food-cached remote long walks I’ve done, perhaps the Bibbulmun in Western Australia (at 1000km and taking maybe five weeks) would be a good shakedown and an opportunity to figure out how the whole town-resupply thing works. Plus they have a cool snake I haven’t seen before.

Beach. Buttongrass. Forest. Repeat.

I pass a father and daughter going the other way who inform me that since they just did the boat crossing at New River, there are two boats on my side. Will my luck ever cease?

Then there’s a 4km walk along Prion Beach to the boat crossing. The tide is out, and the sand is compacted and easy to walk on. I have the whole beach to myself. The solitude is a precious gift wrapped in sunlight and wavesong. Precipitous Bluff looms, and I can absolutely see the appeal of climbing it. Put that one on the bucket list.

Don’t worry. Prion Beach is just a name; it’s not actually a beach at all, but a barrier spit. If you’re here when the chef is on duty, I hear the lightly fried lamb’s brains are to die for.

#Alexander.Pearce.did.nothing.wrong

I climb the high dune, hoping for a view over the lagoon and Precipitous Bluff. All there is is more scrub, but looking back down the beach I can see three figures a couple of kilometres back. I decide to have lunch at the boats and wait for them. Trail magic isn’t just something you receive; it’s got to be given too.

I’ve had lunch in worse places. I think that’s Federation way in the background. The pointy one. Peakfinder stopped working about a week ago when I walked outside the range it had downloaded location data for.

There are black swans on the lagoon. In Tasmania, an early wildlife protection law sought to prevent the killing of black swans during their breeding season; not out of respect for the majestic animals, but out of concern that overhunting might one day keep them from the dinner plate. 

Andrew, Debbie and Anne-Marie are only fifteen minutes or so behind me. We all pile into one boat with our packs and push it out into the wide, dark river. It’s calm and easy rowing, and we’re across before we know it. While they sit to have lunch on the other side, I press on.

The good news is Milford Creek now has a bridge across it. The bad news is that the water is brackish, so I’m really hoping the “unreliable creek” at Osmeridium beach is flowing. I grab two litres of brackish, tea brown water just in case.

As I walk the two kilometres to Osmiridium beach, I’m worried about drinking water, but there’s still enough mud around to sink me up to my knees. Thick and cloying, sticky mud. The consistency of a rich chocolate mud cake. With strawberries. And cream. And little curls of chocolate on top. And a vanilla malt milkshake on the side.

Sorry, I got distracted there for a moment.

900m from my destination I pass a shallow trickle. I tip out my brackish water. If there’s nothing at Osmiridium, I’ll walk back and collect from here, slowly, with my mug so as not to stir up the sediment.

The creek at Osmiridium is nearly stagnant, but large and not salty. I’m comfortable drinking it after filtering. I drop my pack at the campsite and wander down to the beach. I walk all the way to the end, skirting a couple of little rocky promontories that are being kissed by the tide. At the far end of the beach is a section of rock that stands out from the conglomerate around it. Peter Conroy reckons it looks like it’s been struck by lightning. I think it looks like a giant slag heap.

The other three come into camp not long later. I sit with them for dinner. Anne-Marie is out of blister tape, and I swap my scrap of leukotape for a row of chocolate. I think we each feel we got the better deal. I haven’t had a blister yet and I don’t see it happening.

While we’re finishing dinner a group of five come in late. They’ve walked from Ironbound Low Camp. Tomorrow they’re planning to do the hard day over South Cape Range. I was considering it, but there’s not much to be gained from racing ahead. Instead I’ll do an easy 8km to Granite Beach and enjoy having the afternoon to lie around and read.

The campsite isn’t full by any stretch, but I haven’t camped near this many people since the Overland.

I finished the Prtachett book I was reading. Being on the south coast with its history of whaling, spending my days walking along empty, picturesque beaches, I decide to read something nautical. I gave Moby Dick a try, but Melville writes like he’s being paid by the word and is saving to buy a brigantine. I’m not really in the mood for the Mills-and-Boone-but-for-accurate-descriptions-of-foresail-topgallant-rigging that is Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin novels. I settle on Tim Powers’ On Stranger Tides.

Before I settle in for the night I dig into the bottom of my clothes bag and lay out an almost-clean pair of socks for tomorrow. I’ve been saving them. The time is ripe. So are the two pairs I’ve been rotating.