Get to the Point

“Uh oh, looks like we got ourselves a wriggler,” says Phil.

Dripping wet, I turn back to look at the picture-perfect point break I’d been surfing, and see a hapless young fella take off, struggle to his feet, and then—with arms swinging one way and his lower torso the other way—inefficiently waddle his way across the wave, lose coordination with it, and then belly flop. The wave, being so kind and perfect as it was, did give some allowance for such a technique. Young Hughy was having the time of his life. Eighteen years old, he randomly appeared from the wilderness. I watched him, in the heat, spawn out of the horizon like a mirage. The figure first appearing as a moving black dot concealed by heat ripples, then gradually materialising as a person, surfboard under his arm, coming up the 10 km golden sand horseshoe beach. Weary. He jumped when I came over the dune, checking to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from the intense midday heat. “Mate, where the eff did you come from?”

“I parked over that headland. Hey, uhm, I walked about an hour and a half to get here. Would you be able to give me a lift back to my car? I’m not sure I could make it back.”

“Sure, mate. I couldn’t live with myself if you turned up in the news dead of heatstroke. Go get yourself a couple of waves and I’ll run you back after.”

“Oh… cheers, bro. I uhm can give you some beers when you take me back.”

“All good, fella. Go have a ball and I’ll consider this good vibe community service.”

Hughy didn’t turn out to be the brightest spark. If he’d just checked a map, he would see there was a 5 km dirt road straight to the wave. He’d just moved to the area for summer work before starting university. “I’m going to Ireland soon, to study business. Dublin.”

“Wow, cool. Then you should check out Lahinch in Co. Clare. But maybe stay away from the slabs for a bit.”

That’s the story of Hughy

There were many stories in my travels. Some I heard for a while, like Phil’s. Some I only heard for 5 minutes, such as Pancho’s. Pancho looked like a leprechaun—the only thing missing was a stick under his arm. He was even wearing tweed. Looking very dapper, he sported a cheeky smile under his wise 80-year-old eyes. I could tell straight away he was a man of many stories, and he was busting to share. “This place does the best okonomiyaki” he says outside the café I’d just ordered some food and coffee….

“I lived in Japan back in the 70’s and ate this almost every day. It basically means to cook up whatever is left over; their version of comfort food. You see, I fell in love with the most beautiful woman there in Osaka…. My dad, having served in the war, of course didn’t approve.”

Alas, Pancho was not successful with said woman and so returned to his birthplace to marry his childhood sweetheart. All I got to know in the 5 minutes wait for my coffee. “Here’s my phone number and address; come join me and my family for dinner tonight.”

“I’ll see, Pancho. I’m on a bit of a mission. I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’ve just nipped into town here to do laundry and restock supplies. I’m camped at a little surf spot. I’m going to get up early and surf.”

And he saw that it wasn’t because I was disinterested. He understood. It was a matter of a greater mission. Our moment had come and gone.

“Best wishes on your journey, young fella. It’s been very interesting talking. Oh, to be young again.”

And there was “Cotton Eye Joe.” “Where did you come from, where did you go….” Truth be told, I can’t remember his name. I lost it during the embarrassment of another man seeing me naked. He came out of nowhere with his baritone voice, looking like a character from Huckleberry Finn. I was fly fishing, with zero clothes, on the Abercrombie River, after having driven 3 hours in the torturous heat through dusty forest trails with no one on them. There were just a few farmhouses on the long road in, but apart from that, no signs of any other life. So after being greeted by the most pristine river with a soft-sanded beach, a raging bull would not stop me from jumping in. The thing that got me out was seeing 2 rainbow trout rising in a pool close to a little waterfall. I quickly fixed up my fly rod, loaded a little mayfly, and started to cast, prioritising this protocol over putting any clothes on. Senses heightened, I was in hunter mode.

I had the 3rd cast off about when I heard Cotton Eye Joe: “How ya goin’?”

“Jaaaaayzus!” I Dropped the rod.

“Sorry to scare ya, didn’t want to sneak up on ya in the wilds, given your outfit and all. Thought it might be a bit weird.”

I grabbed a towel.

“You gave me a fright.”

“Yeah, you gave me a fright too.”

Cotton Eye Joe was my height, but much broader. A solid unit. He also sported a bowler hat which he sweated profusely under, and had a rod slung over his shoulder, looking like a knapsack, to complete the Huckleberry look.

“Great to see another wild fisherman out here. I’ve just hiked a day downstream,” he says. “And caught nothing but bloody carp. Man, it’s hot. Been getting any luck yourself?”

“Nah, only just started to cast. I just got here. Chasing cod and trout. Heard there might be Atlantic salmon in here too?”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t recommend going downstream if you wanted anything other than carp. I reckon you’ll have better luck more upstream.”

My hopes of a fishing bonanza faded.

Turns out Joe was from Lithgow in the Blue Mountains. I hit him up for info on a river I’d researched. That was my next port of call… Blue Mountains and Wollemi.

“Oh… the Colo River. Sounds like you done your research. Yeah, it’s a great river. Not many go there, but it’s a real gem. A bloke hiked in there not long ago. Didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He broke his leg and they found him dead a month later. Poor fella had ‘HELP’ spelled out with rocks and everything. It gets very remote out in those parts. Make sure you take the right precautions.”

“Yikes. I’m taking a Garmin PLB, for backup. And I’ll take the Bob Turner Trail in, which I hear is an okay gradient. Nothing too steep.”

“Yeah, you’ll be alright. Anyway, my car’s just parked up there. I have to get going back to Lithgow… running behind… It was great chatting to you.”

Cotton Eye Joe’s voice reverberated all the fish from that little gorge pool I’d camped beside. Not only did I see no people for the next 4 days, I saw no fish. Just a couple of carp that would run up into that pool at night time for a little romantic cosy up. The whole setup where I camped was like a natural zen garden. Complete with 2 carp to watch swimming in circles all night for entertainment.

The closest I got to catching a fish over those 4 days was when I was hunkered over a waterfall, using it as a natural bidet after finishing a morning routine. That was when a beautiful rainbow trout decided to move up into the next pond, through my legs. I jumped, thinking that in the commotion I was about to be attacked by an unknown river monster.

“Little so-and-so almost swam right up my arse!”

I bumped into Ron on the beach beside the point break I’d been surfing. I noticed the 82-year-old born-and-bred local, down fishing on the golden sand beach with his son-in-law “Paul” late one afternoon.

“The fish hungry?”

“Not yet. There’s not as many salmon on the beach this year. The big swell in April came and washed the sand bar away. See, all those rocks out there—I’ve never seen those before. The salmon would hide from the dolphins in this deep trench just off the beach; it was like plucking from the supermarket shelves. This year it’s been a little harder.

“You see, it used to be all fishing and forestry around here. Now it’s turning to tourism.”

Keen to learn more about Ron and the area, I peppered him with questions which he was very happy to answer.

“Our family had the bakery in town. I eventually took over the entire thing. So I wasn’t too badly affected by the ups and downs of the main industries…

“There’s one distinct memory I have as a young boy at school. I remember seeing kids arriving to class with no shoes. I complained to my mum… ‘Hey, these cheeky fellas don’t even bother to put on shoes to come to school.’ ‘Darling, those poor kids probably can’t afford shoes.’ That really stuck with me….

“Oh, we had some bad fires back in the 80’s. 2019/20 was very bad. And you have all these greenies out there now whinging about climate change. We’ve had bushfires for years. I’m not a scientist, but I tell you what, I have some wisdom and experience about me… these idiots down in Canberra don’t… shsshhh… climate change. Bullllllllshit, they are all dirty buggers bleeding the country dry…”

“Seems to be an epidemic of talking good but not a whole lot of doing good these days, Ron.”

He liked that comment.

I stood with Ron and his son-in-law for 2 hours, as they landed 4 decent-sized salmon. I remembered the feeling seeing how Ron paid a deep respect when he processed the fish. Stroking his hand down its side. Commenting on how beautiful it looked. Not a brute. A man of integrity. I took some pictures. “I best be going, Ron.” I could see Ron searching for an excuse to extend our time. I took Ron’s phone number. Said I would send the pictures.

“It’s been an absolute pleasure talking with you, young man.”

“Thanks, Ron. Take care, eh…”

And there was Phil. Phil turned up one day at the surf break I’d been posted at. Straight away, I could tell he was a wise old goat. Sixty years old, long dark beard, and some Aboriginal heritage in his appearance and demeanour, he sat with a towel draped over his head to protect from the hot sun. His first words were… “It really is better on a high tide. You see, on the high tide, it covers up those 2 sections of rocks at the end, and if you’re confident enough, you can get a little barrel over ’em, or else eat shit and lose the fins off your board.”

I laughed. I liked him straight away.

“On the very big swells, the inside just becomes a rumbling, fat, slow wave… but if you’ve got bravery, then you might consider tackling the outside bombie with the friendly sharks.”

Yeah, no thanks.

And so began a long series of conversations with Phil.

Phil was there with his partner, Caroline. Caroline had worked in conservation. Was mostly retired now. Had moved down from Byron Bay to find cheaper housing and live in some wilder country. “It all got a bit too pretentious in Byron for my taste,” she said in her London accent. “I needed some cheaper housing, so on a whim I just moved down here. I love it. It’s so free having all this coastline to wander, and bump into no one. Oh, look, a sea eagle…”

Caroline was obsessed with the current status of the Sydney to Hobart yaught Race. Phil and myself received regular updates.

“This is the last point at which the boats can give up. After here they have committed themselves to the Bass Straight”

Phil, I began to tell over time, was considered a bit of a legend by the local crew. Mature surf rat like myself, “outlaw,” an avid outdoorsman, he had been surfing this wave for 30 years. And here he was, today, sitting by his Mercedes van with one obvious flat tyre.

“Ah, bugger, looks like you got a flat on the way in.”

“Nah, it’s all good. Just a slow puncture. Had it a while now.”

“So you just keep pumping it up?”

“Yeah, haven’t had time to fix it. She’ll be right.”

Yeah, right oh.

Phil camped out there with me. For entire days, we sat at the point, watching the perfect waves run through one after the other. Sometimes just sitting in utter silence in each other’s company, only piping up to comment on the quality of a good set. Other times getting very deep and meaningful. During my time at the point, I’d disappear to go surf other waves in the area, but I came back often, drawn by its perfection. And Phil would always be there. And we would pick up the conversation seamlessly like I hadn’t left at all.

“How’s it looking now, Phil?”

“Yeah, there’s a few. Bit slow. I’ll probably wait for these 3 to get out then have a crack.”

“Cool, I’m going for a nap. Give us a yeller when you’re headed in.”

To bring some context to this story, I’ll take things back a step here.

I’d seen the promise of a long-period south swell appear on the forecast as I began loading the Subaru for a month-long trip down the East Coast of Oz. The idea was to fill the car with toys—surfboards, fly fishing gear, hiking and camping gear, and a couple of cameras and lenses. Get into the wild. Surf new waves. Fix my curiosity on several zones on the map.

After relentless surf forecast checks, I coordinated the elements to place myself at a little-known wilderness point break way down in the far SE Coast for a south swell that had a lot of promise. The place had a campsite nearby. It looked like the perfect spot to post up for a while. Chances were high for great surf with low crowds in a pristine environment.

After pin-dropping down the East Coast from Noosa, I arrived a few days later with great expectation to the fabled point I’d built up in my head, to be greeted by 13 degrees air temp and a howling wind blowing the head off the teeny 1-foot runners running down an exposed reef.

“Looks like the swell hasn’t kicked in yet,” I commented to Simon, who had just driven from Denmark in WA in his Landcruiser camper.

I sat on the beach for 2 days with cold optimism, but the swell never kicked in. Instead, I watched in frustration at the swell lines marching up the coast to areas I had bypassed to get here. I watched the sea eagles. I watched the seals hunt salmon. I even saw a great white breach. But I never saw a surfable wave those 2 days.

“It’s too south, mate. Needs a bit of east to really get in here.”

Dejected, I took inventory of the many nice waves I had sacrificed to get to the wilderness spot. Accepting the familiar dejection most surfers experience at some point. It was a stunning location. But it was only for ants that day. The dream of a perfect point break in the wilderness faded.

Losing will, I worked on a Plan B—I trekked an hour back north to some known beach breaks, deciding to stop down a quiet dirt track close by to find a camp for the night.

As I came to the opening at the end of the track, the bluest ocean and most perfect little bay appeared in my vision. And some moving patterns out the corner of my eye caught my attention, causing me to turn my head in the direction of 4-5 ruler-edged lines of waves tapering down a stunning headland, before fading with a puff on the most pristine white sand beach. As perfect as a newborn child.

“Is this real???”

There was no one around, apart from 2 divers getting some gear together.

Okay, keep calm. Here’s the plan. Wetsuit’s in the board bag, the wax is in the glove box. Don’t forget to wax the board. Make sure to put zinc on your nose. Don’t forget the lip balm. Down a pint of water. And lock the car.

I couldn’t believe it. I had left my body.

I surfed for 3 hours into the dark. Alone. On a natural wave machine. The wave itself wasn’t critical. But it wasn’t a burger either. Maybe shoulder-high with head-high sets. And not another soul apart from mine.

You see, it’s the dream of many surfers to find and surf a perfect wave in solitude, or with one or two friends. You don’t necessarily want it to be a wave of consequence, but you don’t want it to be soft and unexciting either.

With the stillness and solitude, you get to fully relax and enjoy the moments, relieved of the anxiety of a crew showing up and creating competition. You take your time in the stillness. You select the best waves in the set. You take the time to find a purer essence. A more natural rhythm.

I camped there that night. Next morning, I woke up. It was even better. But I heard a rumble of a car. There appeared Toby in his near-identical Subaru Outback to mine, surfboard on top. He was immediately excited to see me.

“It’s great you’re here. I don’t like to surf this place on my own. Usually I wait around for someone to show, but I’m in a hurry today. I have to get to church for 10 a.m.… What’s your name again? Come on, Brian, let’s get it, mate…”

I loved his enthusiasm.

Toby was a local maths teacher with perhaps some form of ADHD. He would begin telling a story then jump to another unrelated story, and before you knew it, you were lost in where the conversation was at. But I knew he was a good sort. He’d just taken up surfing in his later years at 40. Had moved to the area from Canberra. And frothed on the fact he could watch sea eagles patrol the cliffs from his kitchen window.

“I mean, there’s a heap of issues with the place. I’m never done fixing this or that. Nothing ever seems to work at the same time. But I have a hot outdoor shower. You’re more than welcome to come out and wash that brine off you. Perhaps even join me at church this morning?”

“Thanks, very kind. I’ll give church a miss today, Toby. I usually find what I need out here in the wilds. I’ll stay out another while.”

“Ahhh. I’m actually a bit of a Buddhist myself. But, you know, gotta do the duty when you marry a devout Catholic. My door’s open. I’ll write my address and leave a note on your windscreen. It’s been fun sharing some waves with you. Sorry, what’s your name again???”

Toby showed up for most of the morning sessions, always in a hurry to dash off to do this or that. “I promised my wife some breakfast in bed… I better get back….”

“Got a fella coming to look at the roof at 9 a.m., better get going.”

And that was Toby.

Back to Phil.

“Back in the 90’s, I rode my dirt bike here. It was a bit spooky on my own, so usually I’d grab some local boys to join me and lessen the odds of an old chompy chompy. It’s definitely gotten busier here… more people are showing up ever since they opened the dirt track.”

And he didn’t say this in a complaining way. More just plain observation. An acceptance. Like the temporary experience of riding a wave itself. Phil wasn’t much for nostalgia. Spade is a spade is a spade etc. He surfed here because it was quiet. It was closest to Thredbo where he lived. Sure, there were better waves to be had on the East Coast, but that stillness in solitude, free of competition, was the draw.

“You know this is his first surf after breaking his pelvis?” Caroline confided to me. “Motorbike accident. Girl came round a blind corner on the wrong side of the road. Hit him head on at 80 km an hour.”

“Wow. Really?… He’s ripping for someone with a broken pelvis.”

And he was. He grew up surfing the unforgiving environment of Dee Why Point near Sydney. “If you don’t go on a wave, you’re done. It’s game over. You’ll never get another chance to surf there. It doesn’t matter so much how good you are, it’s about how committed you are.”

“They called me Phil the Pirate. I was an arrogant little prick. It was because I was hungry. Had a point to prove. Especially when I watched my peers disappear off to Hawaii and come back to up the ante. I wanted to show my commitment too. Waves were a limited resource. If you didn’t have the dog in you, then you went without.”

And such was Phil’s life. A hard worker, he’d blagged his way into taking night classes for his advanced plumbing cert while at the same time doing his basic training during the daytime, all so that he could get the jump on his peers by 2 years.

“You get to have more fun if you work hard.”

Phil was a successful mountaineer. He led expeditions to Baffin Island in Greenland, climbed the highest peaks in NZ multiple times etc., and had been sponsored by companies. We had a lot to talk about.

“I like to stay fresh and do multiple things. After leaving Sydney’s badlands and surfing all over Australia, climbing mountains around the world, I got some wisdom. I moved to the mountains. Worked as a guide around Thredbo. Eventually got back into the plumbing for the money. But the dog still comes out in me in the surf.”

I did see that dog occasionally. After he missed a couple of set waves in a row, which I gave him space for, he began yelling… “Look at ya, you old kook… what the eff is wrong with you, ya bugger…”

It’s true, I was fighting back frustration at him missing those couple of corkers. He felt my energy.

A due east swell had come and really lit up the point for 3 days straight. It was perfect. And with that, a few local crew showed up. When I commented on all the boutique custom surfboards they were riding, by some underground shaping “purists,” they said, “Yeah, so-and-so and so-and-so, they all live locally. Get together and talk all kinds of design theories over pots of coffee. Great bunch. Some a bit eccentric; bit too much of the old you-know-what…”

“Errr… I’m starting to think I’m living on the wrong end of the East Coast… They’re obviously here for a reason.”

And then I got talking about the board I was riding. An 8’9” mini glider shaped by a suitable hipster from Byron Bay, with blady pinched-out rails and a single fin that felt almost custom-made for the wave we’d been surfing.

“That thing looks like it goes like shit off a shovel.”

“Yeah, fella, it’s a sensational board. An absolute pleasure to ride this here. Almost like it was designed just for this wave.”

…And so that’s when I became accepted by the local crew as Brian the Irish man camped out at such-and-such with Phil, riding his cool unique mini glider. I got hooted into waves. I had a place in the lineup.

After the 3-day pulse of swell, most people left feeling satisfied, except Phil and myself.

“It’s going to be a huge high tide in the morning. The full moon is tonight. I reckon if we camp here, we’ll get an hour where it will break right into the beach. There should be enough swell left over to keep us occupied.”

Sounds good, Phil.

We enjoyed the sunrise surf alone together, on the last of the fading swell. On the magic full-moon large high tide Phil had been talking about.

“You see, even though the swell died off a bit, I told you early this morning would be worth sticking around for.”

He said as I slid off a wave into the deep channel. Him on the wave just before mine. We’d just been tag-teaming the whole morning, surfing the conveyor belt of waves coming through, each ride about 200 m. Barely talking. I had a sense of urgency to capture as many last rides. I was on a mission. And so was Phil.

“Okay, if I get another good one, I’m done.”

Of course, after the next good one, you immediately wanted to repeat the experience. Such is the nature of surfing. And we were both stubborn, waiting for the other to give up first, such was the subtle friendly rivalry between us.

“Ah, mate, this is the one to go on”—as we both knew the next one was better, trying to sell each other into the poorer-quality waves which would free us to take the best ones.

Or the shout of “Nah, mate, I wouldn’t be going on that one,” in an attempt to interrupt your concentration at a critical point, such as taking off on a steep wave.

Sometimes I heard an encouraging “PUSHHHH!” as I’d take off on a great one.

We enjoyed a coffee together after, and watched as the wind switched north, blowing out the last of the swell that was left.

“Time I high-tailed it to the Snowies, Phil. The donkey is saddled here and I’m ready to go.”

I could tell he was disappointed to be parting, as was I.

“Phil, it’s really been a pleasure surfing with you, my friend.” Maybe with a little too much sincerity.

“Wow, easy there, champ. Remember… Tuesday night is trivia night in Thredbo pub. We could use your big scientist brain on our team. I haven’t got a bed to offer you. But I have a very comfy couch. It would be great to catch up again.”

“That sounds great, Phil. I can’t promise I’ll be there, but I promise I’ll try to thread it into the schedule.”

I didn’t make it. A cracked windscreen after coming through the Snowy Mountains saw that I had to divert from Jindabyne to Canberra for a replacement. I almost made it. Perhaps it’s better that I didn’t, to preserve the moment…

“Had to divert to Canberra to get a new windscreen, Phil. I won’t make it to Thredbo this time. But if you ever make Noosa way, give me a shout. It would be great to catch you again.”

He replied, “It HAS been a true pleasure surfing with you, Brian.” Mirroring my previous departing comment. We accepted the finality of our short, but deep moment in time together.

It’s unlikely he’ll make it back to Noosa. He’d told me how he surfed there back when it was just a dirt road. He wasn’t interested in the hassle show it is today. Maybe he will make it up. I certainly would love to get back south again, but wonder if it would taint the memory of this unique experience.

There’s a wisdom in accepting the finality of experience, passing the instinct to cling and hang on. We often yearn for the good old days, but in reality it’s a trap of the intellect. A trick of the mind. The real freedom comes from the wisdom to let go and be present with what is, of accepting the joy in the temporary nature of experience, and getting yourself out of the way of the eternal unfolding. Allowing the natural forces to spin their magic and open new possibilities that you cannot conceive of.

Such was the nature of this solo road trip of mine. It was really hard to leave the warmth and hospitality of the friendly Far South NSW locals, but part of my mission was to check out Australia’s premier fly fishing rivers, and find that utter stillness in uninterrupted wilderness.

I met Jeff and Dave at Mckillops Bridge in the Snowy Mountains. Having looked at Google Maps, all indications pointed to the Galantaly Road looking like a decent road into the Victorian High Country from the coast. What I experienced was a white kuckle over the saddles of mountains no place out of New Zealand or the Sierras in California, both of which I have driven. I prayed for no oncoming traffic, as the prospect of reversing was terrifying on the single lane gravel road. Slightly sweety, the road joined the Snowy River at Mckillops Bridge, and that’s where I started prepping my gear for the wilderness missions - under that big creeky hunk of wood and metal that had been battered and bruised by multiple floods. I thought I was in Montana.

“There’s no surf here mate” Dave nodded to the boards on my roof

“Ha. Yeah bugger of a mate sold me a dud lead! Great spot isn’t it?”

There was no one else around. They’d just pulled up on 2 weary touring motorcycles, after crossing the Mckillops Bridge, seeming a bit dusty and coy. Probably from the same rollercoaster of emotions I had experienced on the route in.

“It definitely is. Last time I was here was with my Dad in 1984. Place hasn’t changed much. Apart from the campsite. Do you know where it is?”

“Yeah this is the picnic area. The campsites back over the other side. I’m just parking up here to march up the river a few days.”

“Ah, we have to go back over the Bridge. The worrying thing is, that rickety old bridge hasn’t changed since then either! So what are you going to do up river?”

“Fly fish for trout. I’ve been brined up in the ocean for the last few weeks and I’m very much looking forward to getting into some of that mountain freshwater.”

“Well just don’t be standing under that bridge when us 2 fat buggers drive back over”

“Ha I won’t. Drive safe fellas”

And so began my mountain adventures.

Not much is to be said for the weeks I spent alone in the wilderness; any description of the experience is never the thing being described. But I will say that you certainly have to make peace with your mind out there.

I swing into the world of stimulation as default like most people; it’s ubiquitous for everyone now to carry a device that calls your attention with alerts, updates, likes etc. A new untested phenomenon of manufactured satiation, information overload, never quite providing the fullness of experience, while paradoxically slowly increasing the background hunger for meaning.

I wholeheartedly believe it is destroying people’s psychology. I myself feel its slippery addictive quality, bringing a kind of anxiety as a baseline. Takes a bit to work this default out of your system, but out in the wilderness there is a peace to be found… the lessons that only come from prolonged stillness. The hypnosis of walking long distances in silence, and the sense of achievement in physical exhaustion. Of taking care of your own basic needs… shelter, water, food, and successfully scheduling a mission. The waking with the dawn chorus of lyrebirds and then sleeping to the cicadas. The heightened senses of hunter instinct, stalking river gorges for trout, and that rhythmic swishing of the fly rod—the joy of a perfect cast; line unfurling with a delicate effortless effort. And of course the hours just spent staring at nothing in particular; the roof of my tent during a rain downpour in the Blue Mountains, with the mind putting the jigsaw pieces of life events together, formulating new plans. To where I hiked into the Snowy River valley, with 3 x 40-degree days in a row, feet dangled in the water under the modest shade of bottlebrush trees, watching packs of brumbies and deer roam down from the mountain gorges to the river to keep cool like myself – while keeping eyes on the horizon for signs of smoke (praying for speedy recovery guys!)…

Of watching large waves crashing on the red headland of Haycock Island near Eden, the dolphins amongst the chaos hunting salmon. To the slowing down at a particular spot for a rest, and noticing patterns begin to reveal themselves among the expansive landscapes, inspiring me to compose photographs.

The privileged experience over the last month has brought some lasting changes for me which I will take into 2026. I wish I had the opportunity to integrate more adventures like this into my life, as I truly believe it is a source of lasting change and true happiness.

This phenomenon of hurried business; busy being busy. Fear-driven competition. Doom-scrolling through life to the next point of sensation without paying attention to the finer points of its sophistication. It’s unsustainable.

Joy for the people we get to walk parallel with for a time; the lessons they bring. And joy for the process of “knowing thyself.” Finding solace in your own company, a mind unperturbed by noise and strain. I wish for all to find their joy in quiet ease in the new season. Including myself.

I hope you enjoy this set of preserved moments over the last month….