Kindness of Strangers

Thursday, October 23, 2008

When you embark on a journey of this magnitude, you quickly learn your travel preferences. What I’ve learned about myself as a traveler in three continuous months of travel would have taken me years to figure out under normal conditions. For example, I’ve learned that I’m not really into the outdoors, unless it involves flat, short walks in cool temperatures. I am fascinated by places that retain their indigenous culture in the face of the modern world, and I adore good food and wine. I hate hot and humid weather. Maikael prefers ancient sites and physically challenging conditions, enjoys natural beauty, and doesn’t mind the heat. I imagine that all of these realizations will inform our future decisions about where we travel, and what we’ll do when we get there.

Western Australia was the perfect location for us, providing experiences and sites to suit us both. We decided to travel to this largely untouristed part of Australia after reading Bill Bryon’s In a Sunburned Country, an account of his travels across this vast country. We were enchanted by his descriptions of the tall tree forests that this region is renowned for. Great stands of karri, marri, jarrah, and tingle trees dominate the landscape, the only place in the world where these trees grow (the only trees bigger than a karri are California redwoods). We based ourselves in Pemberton, a drowsy logging town whose main street boasts the requisite tearoom, butcher shop, and IGA grocery store, but not much else. The area is an arborist’s dream, with clutches of national parks hugging the perimeter of town. Rolling green hills stretch as far as the eye can see, resembling nothing of the dusty red bush that most of us associate with Australia.

On our first day we drove the Karri Explorer loop, taking us through dense forests of native trees. I was surprised that we were driving through eucalyptus trees (known here as gum trees), whose canopy looked nothing like the sage-colored wafer leafs favored by hungry koalas that I usually associate with the species. The karris shed their bark each year, leaving mounds of leathery strips at their base, revealing a smooth, silvery trunk. They are beautiful, and their spicy perfume is unmistakable as you pick your way through the undergrowth, which looks like something out of a prehistoric tableau. A lush carpet of verdant tropical plants blankets the feet of these grand trees; I kept expecting a dinosaur to come ambling out of the forest at any moment. Instead, we hear nothing but silence and the melody of brilliant birds: green cockatoos striped red and blue dash through the canopy, as electric blue wrens flutter through the undergrowth.

Admittedly, my favorite part of the Explorer loop was the interpretive information along the way. By tuning our radio to a certain station, we could listen to stories about these great forests, including a storytelling session from a phenomenal Aboriginal storyteller. While the official history goes that the Aborigines preferred the coastal areas for their abundance of food sources, the storyteller says that they avoided these forests due to a belief that evil spirits lurked in the dark depths. When I’m not listening to the radio I can read boards from the fictional diary of the fictional forest ranger, who I can only describe as a very sensitive man who enjoys long walks through the trees and tuneful bird calls.

After familiarizing ourselves with the region, we spent our second day taking walks through Warren and Bedelup National Parks. It is springtime here, and the forest is awash in a riot of wildflowers that create the most spectacular smells. Fresia grows wild, a heavily perfumed scent that hangs heavy in the air. Everything is clear and bright. Sunlight pierces the dense canopy, fingers of light combing through the silvery leaves, casting delicate shadows over the landscape. Maikael decided to climb the imposing Bicentennial Tree, chosen during the commemoration of 200 years of European influence in Australia for its incomparable views from the top of the valley below. There are a series of fire lookout trees in these deep woods, where rangers can mount a spiral “staircase” of spindly metal rods rammed into the tree’s trunk, culminating in a lookout platform, to spot potential bush fires. They are also open to tourists to climb, which Maikael bravely attempted, ascending 75 meters (about 225 feet) above the leafy canopy without the assistance of any ropes, guides, or safety helmets. A group of elderly Australian tourists from Adelaide congregated at the base, marveling at Maikael’s monkey-like prowess and making him a minor celebrity in these woods.

The coup de grace of our time in the trees was journeying to Walpole for the famous Tree Top Walk. Built in the clutches of a great tingle forest, the Walk is designed to bring visitors into the canopy through a series of walkways created to simulate life in the treetops — they even sway in the breeze. The tingles only grow in a 6,000 hectare area, and their lifespan is roughly 400 years. First they grow tall and then wide, and despite their massive size (upward of 75 meters), their roots only grow a meter long and a meter deep from their base. Walking amongst the trees on the boardwalk below, I noticed the ragged licorice bark colored by an obvious wildfire; I was surprised to learn that the wildfire had raged through the area not last year but in 1937. The spindly upper branches were also caused by the fire, which swept through the canopy at a greater rate than underfoot, wiping out the vegetation permanently.

While the trees are lovely, I am, again, most interested in the construction of the Walk. There was once a tingle tree so large that a car could be parked in the base of its trunk. (Prisoners being transported through the area also camped overnight in the shelter of these huge trunks.) Due to the constant trampling of its shallow root system, the tree eventually fell, highlighting the need for a low-impact way to enjoy the trees. The Walk was fabricated off-site and then constructed using no cranes or helicopters to avoid damage to the delicate forest.

Still, I am not much of a tree person. Lucky for me, the region is also known for its exceptional food and wine. Between Margaret River and the Pemberton area, we spent hours dipping in and out of wineries, sampling the local fare. The area is famous for its chardonnays and cabernets, and we tried sips of delicious vintages. We quickly learned that the best food and ambiance was to be had at local wineries, which is where we ate most of our meals. Local spring lamb, succulent duck, marron (a type of freshwater crayfish), trout, truffles, and cheese dominated the menu, along with farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. I nearly fainted at the chicken fettuccine, the poultry having been smoked on-site. I ate a salad so fresh that it tasted as if had marched off the fields moments earlier: crisp troops of lettuce, bright batallions of crunchy carrots, squadrons of garden-fresh sage and thyme. Many a country road ended in cideries, avocado or apple stands, and herb farms boasting lavender and rosemary scones with local cream and jam for afternoon tea. And all of this to be enjoyed in the sunny gardens and shady vineyards.

Trees or no, I was in heaven.