Our ABW hearts had been collectively melting in anticipation of the 2024 Flinders Spectacular, and once again our objective was Mambray Creek’s Hidden George, the pantheon of rocky edifice pilgrimage.  For which Sammi Lanyon had dusted off her walk-leading Scepter and morphed we trekking minions into a yowl of bush bustling cavaliers.              

And whilst Sammi’s past Flinders Spectaculars had been four days long, this year’s Spectacular was down to just three, owing to some governmental campsite admin hick-ups,  therefore the itinerary was as follows:

On the Friday afternoon we began arriving at Mambray Creek, and with our faces beaming and arms greeting, we were as happy a hive of wasps as our Jellybean coloured dome tents began to colonise the Native Pines campground.  

Also greeting our arrival was a new block of toilets and showers, courtesy of Parks and Wildlife.  This meant that by walk’s end tomorrow, our spotted buttocks and sweat beading skin would be entering virgin cubicles of round-seat relief and soap-sudding lather.  And whilst such creature comforts are not necessarily ABW creed, a little promiscuous even, we did feel that we needed something symbolic at least.  To clearly separate our post-walk dishevelment from that of hillside hairy goats.

Kieran had been the first to arrive and peg down his fabric into the campground’s firm red earth.  His tent was super in size and appareled with solar panels, giving an urban-esque look.  Initially we thought that Kiren’s sunbeam harvesting was for AFL footy finals viewing later that night, but alas fickle satellite coverage foiled any such fantasy.  Moreover, the eventual heart-aching result maligned any FOMO.

Alex arrived in his 4WD Ute filled to the gunnels with home hewn firewood from Littlehampton.  To ensure that our hair hackled skins would be warm and toasty throughout the forthcoming night.  Alex formed his lumber into a mini-mountain, beside which our individual bunnings bags of wood looked twiggy.  Then at 5pm a red sulfurous match was struck into a central wood-stook and the weekend’s mirth was ablaze.  Our cockle-some hearts encircled the warmth, wholly chuffed in the knowledge that the reserves of lumber would fuel our social inferno for days.

Dani piped up to offer a weekend weather report printed on a sheet of paper.  But when the fire-side group tried to process the data of rain-chance and millimetric numbers, they swilled into a mob of bush brazen oracles and barometric fortune tellers.  Preferring outback abandon to any statistical certainty.  Dani was quick to read the crowd, and so re-assigned her printed paper as fuel into the flames of the city-distancing pyre.

Georgia settled down fireside with a wineglass made of crystal.  Its molecular lattice structure was well evident by the tinging sound that her fingernail made when flicking against its rim.  The tinging vessel instantly elevated our ABW standard of camping-ware to regal.  This was despite the vessel’s one-dollar purchase price at an Op-shop on route.

Mark (also known as ABW trivia deluxe), was quick to recount Georgia’s four Op-shop stops along their way: where Mark & Georgia had also purchased their fancy dress attire for tomorrow night’s Flower Power gig.  Mark later noted how smitten the Op-shop ladies were to see one of their fine flowery shirts buttoned across his buff torso as he tried it on.  And come next night we had to agree, and were jealously sold on the idea of re-joining our gyms when back home.

Stella arrived just before the cloak of darkness had fully taken hold, and just as the glib lips of the fire-side mob began to loosen from swigging inebriation.  This timing was precarious because with each item withdrawn from Stella’s car boot, so too came vocal scrutiny for any hint of decadence.  And even though Stella’s emerging chattels were well less than some of the plush fat-mats seen earlier that day, the voyeur-some mob was now well pickled and baying.

Yolanda came to the fire with a coal-raking shovel, mesmatozing us at how intimately she snuggled her foil-wrapped potato darlings into the fiery mass.  Yolanda also noted that she hailed from nearby Port Augusta, telling us of a strange local weather phenomenon, of thunder from no cloud, and lightning flashes borne from the covens of funny green men.   The very next day we indeed heard this strange phenomenon.  When from across Spencer Gulf at the El Alamein Army Base, khaki-green soldiers began test firing their cannon-ware.  The skies were indeed cloudless, as the smell of expended nitrocellulose carried trepidation into our civilian nostrils.

Penny had brought an old friend to the campfire, a glinting bottle of sweet honey whisky, undoubtably the night’s finest social lubricant.   And between the Whisky and Yolanda’s foil wrapping craft, Penny herself became inspired.  Because by the next night, Penny had taken over the mantle of potato cookery queen, in cohort-ship with Robyn.  And when Penny saw our salivating mouths encircling, she afforded each of our desperate tongues one of her warm silvery parcels of starch.  Oh such buttery sweetness.  Only the Irish people of pre-potato-famine era would have ever tasted better days.

Robyn told of a trip to central Australia recently, of an iceberging encounter with a random trekker in the remote McDonald ranges.  Robyn had been standing before the chilly waters of a winter-some gorge, when an itinerant lady sprang out from the bushes.   The lady took Robyn by the hand and ushered her into its cold numbing depths.  So wildly invigorated was Robyn by the experience, that she has since become an iceberging convert.  More than happy to pass on her five-finger freeze to anyone who is goosebump-game and beach-bound in winter.

Travelling was a common seed of conversation into the night.  Bruce told of a trip to India where he had witnessed the latest she-wee technology.  Recounting a local lady’s street-side use of a plastic shopping bag with handles pulled up at back and front of her crotch to enable easy receipt of nature’s full flow and volume.  And what’s more, the bag was seen to be re-usable once emptied curbside.  And Bruce’s showmanship brought the crowd to a rousing cheer as he was able to orate his delicate story with mouth full of chunky pizza.

Jeannie meanwhile, made a comparison between Mambray Creek’s mild Friday-night weather and that of an icy camping night atop the Major Mitchell Plateau in the Grampians recently.  Noting that any midnight dashes made up there were met by a swath of skin needling snowflakes.  Alas, that awkward time of night known as the ‘wee’ hours.

Jess then recounted of a recent family car trek in Tassie, where a fierce roaring forties storm downed powerlines, downed trees, and closed roads in the deep southwest.  The ordeal forced their party of three to re-route offroad, anxiously coming face to face with a ‘Deliverance’ type dude wielding a banjo.  They urgently dashed away to become holed up in a powerless, heater-less, toilet-less cabin.  Only the next day did they feel safe enough to re-emerge, by pretending to be three heads on one body wrapped in a blanket.

Sami had been performing project work in the Adelaide Hills of late, so she ushered us onto the topic of environmental deer culling.  We adventurously joined Sami’s story of Helicoptering, thermal imaging and high-powered rifling of the feral deer.  Then part-way into her story I was sure I heard a compassioned murmur emanate from the crowd when the name Bambi was mentioned.  But no, it was actually a chorus of licking lips, slobbering at the notion of fresh juicy venison.  Hmmm, those hill grazing hooves are still no match for we ten-toed creatures of trigger-happy appetite.     

Celine arrived quite late, having braved a journey into these lesser-known parts in the dark, almost bedding down along the way in the safer portals of motel and porchlight.  But thankfully Celine made it to our camp, because by next night we were gifted to her silky strums of an acoustic guitar and her dulcet singing voice.  Songs like ‘Searching for A Heart of Gold’ left our ears harmonious and nectarous.

We were one member short though, as Sofia hadn’t arrived.  But all good, because by next day Sofia arrived to meet us along the lower ramparts of the Hidden-Gorge Trail.  Sporting radiant earlobes of yellow flower-power apparel, in selfless body piercing preparation for the fancy dress gig later that night.

Story upon story melted from our mouths right up until midnight, at which time the mob then bedded down all bar one.  A solitary writer, now savouring that darkest time of night, when stars burn brightest, thoughts come clearest, and dreams build their cosmic castles.

Next morning we mustered for an 8:30 start, then herded north along the undulating banks of Mambray Creek, having occasional cause to crisscross its boulderous bed.  We saw age-old river redgums dipping their tentacle roots into pools of trickling water, where sipping wallabies bounded away up bushy slopes of camouflage once disturbed.

At this point a special mention must go to the morass of bush flies, which became more prolific as the sun ascended.  Their swarming evil tried to lick and stick to any hint of body moisture that we oozed.   And even though several of us wore fly nets, I’m sure that we all still ended up swallowing one or two of the black villainous protein pills.  So, on a gram for gram basis, I’m sure that we ate more grams of them than they ate of us.

After about 3km we turned westward, then walked a further 4km to the Hidden Gorge campground, where we paused for some hydration and a re-group.  From there it was one more kilometer to Hidden Gorge proper.   And along this section we had to work our bushy legs around lofty rock abutments that lurched out from the dense bushland at either side – as ominous appetisers for what was to come.

Then like a dark alley between sandstone skyscrapers, Hidden Gorge’s rocky passage loomed.  And like a string of human beads, we were drawn into its sunless realm.  Then once inside, towering edifices of rock hung from either side over our every step, revealing millennia of geological calamity in serrated layers of upheaval and erosion.  Eventually the dark walls parted away to become a light permitting amphitheater, rimmed with ochre coloured rock.  Where strands of fugitive light now illumed delicate ferns of deep green, fringe-lilies of lilac, and fallen boulders now captives in the ephemeral undergrowth.

It was a wanton place that our bodies had been drawn to many times before, like slaves to the intimate bosom of a life-long lover.  And it was here that we chose to sit and break morning bread, to consummate the collective nourishment of our trekking souls.                   

Our eyes soaked up the prized realm for a good time, before reforming into a human string and venturing westward towards ‘The Battery’.   It was a 4km ascent through the twists and turns of a mountainous furrow, littered with rugged parapets and some past historical spots.  There was ‘Slip On Your Arse Moss Rock’, ‘J. Weatherall Bone Yard’, ‘Twist Your Knee Portal’, and ‘Watch Your Back Precipice’.

At about 1pm we arrived atop the Battery to ingest lunch and to absorb the commanding blue sea views across Spencer gulf.  We had now trekked 12km, up to an elevation of 518m, and found ourselves dappled under leafy eucalypts.  Origins of the name ‘Battery’ drew plenty of discussion, with ‘electrical storage’ and ‘cluster of cannons’ being asserted but then discounted.  

I would like to think that the name is owed to a gallant bunch of egg laying chickens that once escaped a local battery and took refuge up here, back in the 1800s.  And if this peak’s European discovery had have been more recent, then it could well have been named KFC summit.  In fond memory of Colonel Sanders who world-wide saved the humble chicken from extinction.  Paradoxically, my lunch was a Chiko-Roll, which despite it having a chicken sounding name, is actually a feather free product.

The view southwest espoused the white fuel tanks of Point Bonython, gleaming like industrial beacons from across the maritime abode.  And whilst a feeling of bush borne sanctuary dominated up on the summit, another feeling also stirred, that of fossil fuel travel to distant horizons.  Hmmm, if only for environmental sakes new horizons weren’t so geographic.  Well, perhaps the best horizons are indeed not …   

Then with bellies full and eyes now satisfied once again, we headed southward for a comfortable 6km descent back to Mambray Creek campground, arriving at about 3:30pm.

The night ahead was our Flower-Power fancy dress up, and so we needed to be ready and dressed before sundown to ensure some good photoshoot light.  Therefore, it was time to indulge in some round-seat relief and soapsuding self-love.  Followed by a bit of tent pondering, before donning the threads, and heading fireside for our flower-power fashion bonanza.

Some of the older ABW members would remember the 1960s for the clothes that they actually wore back then, being loose, kaleidoscopic, and swinging.  Whereas other ABW members were of that self-conscious age, knowing that they were the fertile consequence of free-love fluid exchange; born into a bohemian world of Beatlemania and cosmic moon quests.   Then there were the younger firm, whose only acquaintance with that period was an historical one.  But entirely thankful to their predecessors who toughened up the human gene pool by surviving the likes of LSD and STDs.

But tonight our flowery clothes would bear no distinction of age, just healthy cause for communal celebration of that great historical period.

And by 5-30pm, the full bouquet of flowery costumes had amassed fireside, complimented by wigs, neck beads, and headbands.  Dani’s costume was so apt that most thought she was a new arrival to camp, with her Cher black long hair, Janis Joplin glasses, and a peace-sign necklace.  Well done Dani for having the standout costume.  The night then developed its own kaleidoscopic atmosphere, with all the hopes and dreams of 1960s posteriority re-visited through conversation.  

With our costumes swinging and free-love in the air, it was also time to expand the mood with a communal culinary love-in.  We pooled all our food across adjoining tables and created a truly jazzmic spread.  A special mention must go to Yolanda’s pita-bed wraps and her camp-side cooked fillings that were afforded to us all.

Once again, all manner social lubricants were applied, to both slip down food and elevate mirth.  With Celine’s acoustic guitar giving our 1960’s night its great spiritual orbit.  Around which fireside conversations pervaded right up until midnight once again, before the last of the sleepy sixties eyes turned in.

Next morning it was pack up camp time before regathering for the final act, a 3km hike through Davies Gully beginning at 9am.  It was only a short loop, but none the less it reserved some interesting gems for us.  

Away in the bushes were some cute fury hoppers that reciprocated our curious gaze through the dark fog of scandalous flies.  Then an old mine-shaft covered in steel mesh, now a deep echoing cenotaph to the hardship and toil of almost two centuries ago.  Then a lone quandong tree with its small hanging crimson fruit.  A welcome delight for those who are bushy enough to pick, add sugar, boil in water, and stir into sticky jam.  By now our fly whisking arms had become dominant upon our trekking bodies.  Indeed, we resembled a string of hillside windmills working our way back to trail’s start point.

By 10am the last of our weekend walking had come to an end.  And whilst the last three days had been a mighty antidote to the urban moils of stone-faced clocks and high-rise hurry, it was now time to motor back to metropolis.                                 

So we bid each other farewell, wholly chuffed in the knowledge that for the last three days we had been the sons and daughters of our steering stars.                  

A big thanks to Sammi for organizing the Flinders Spectacular weekend once again.

Paul Falkenberg 31-10-24

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