Sea kayak paddler on my local river, was the order of today. After a real heavy morning fog I the kayak was lashed atop my Hobie cat atop its trailer. This looks odd but is handy because of its modest height above ground level :)
The mess at the boat launching ramp was a poor omen, the river was filthy. ISome flotsam was expected after recent rain weather, but the next find was the tank from a Porta Potty camping toilet! The day's tally ended up being:
Porta Potty. X 0 5
Boogie Board x . 0,5
Cardboard box x 1
Beer 6 pack carton. X 7
Beer 6 pack wrapper x 2
Plastic meat tray x 2
GAZ camping has canister x 2
PET Bottle (lge) x 2
" " (med) x 4
Glass bottle (lge) x 1
" " (sml) x 4
Styrofoam box x 1
Foam hot food carton x 1
Paper bag x 1
Aluminium can x 1
Plastic pieces x 6
Felt hat x 1
Left in situ:
Cow x 1
1 000 litre cube tank x 1
Returning to the ramp, the kayak looked like a garbage barge. I was glad to be helping out, especially as much of this stuff looked old and as tho it had been floating on the tides for months. But, despairing for our society that does this without consequence (in the short-term).
The paddle? Yes beautiful, and energizing. At age 59 and in the early throws of what may be a destructive legal battle over property from a failed 27 year marriage, a paddle like this is compulsory to maintain sanity. The highlight of the day was listening to bird song in a groove just north of"the mansion". Up in the tops of a stand of tall eucalypts the birds were invisible, but they made short happy calls, like singing rounds to a song we humans could never understand. A predatory kite soared overhead, but the bird chorus never missed a beat, as though after a week of lost weather, they were celebrating and nothing was going to stop them.
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Monday, July 1, 2019
"tilman" Rides Again
It had been some time since little tilman had been let loose on the water ( I've been kayaking). But a Facebook discussion early this week and involving Lemon Tree Passage, had planted the seed of an idea to sail there. This fine winter's day provided the perfect excuse to ditch the housework and get on the water.
Despite stiff winds in the early part of the day, the midday weather outlook presented quite well with light to moderate winds from the south-west.The tide was set to be at its lowest ebb an hour before we hit the water.
The Lemon Tree sail ground is essentially a long creek (Tilligerry) that runs in a SW direction for five or ten kilometres running off the much larger expanse of Port Stephens. For added navigational complexity an island is situated near the mouth of the creek, Lemon Tree Passage to the west and I guess Tilligerry Creek to the east. The waters are tidal and tides reach probably 2-3 knots in the vicinity of the island. The waters are sufficiently deep for a centreboard dinghy, and the only congestion is in LTP, where a mooring field lines the E and W sides of an already narrow passage.
The launch ramp is on LTP, adjacent the SW extremity of the island. It's a rough, but gently sloping entry over sand which ensures fewer users and an absence of rocks.
The first minute after clambering aboard is bound to be the most hectic of the entire cruise. Sails hoisted and the halyards tidied away, tiller lowered and lashed, centreboard placed in its slot and lowered, grab a spot in the village to sit, haul sail and take up the helm. Phew! But once these are seen to the biggest thrill of sailing hits; as the shoal bottom drops away, so do the cars and worries of shore life. I feel like I literally escape the world, at least for a while!
With a stiff flood tide pushing upstream against an 8 knot breeze, the water's surface was lively. We pierced standing waves as we headed S towards a yacht anchored in Tilli' Creek. The Mirror does well to windward and with the tide pushing us upwind we easily laid our mark. It proved to be a cement schooner, with mismatched masts, one white the other black. I was interested to see whether it was the same yacht that sold for the cost of debt with the local marina. It proved not to be, but was nice anyway. A nice change from the sameness of whole beaches of white production yachts. There was someone on board, but they appeared happy enough down below. We gybed off the wind, heading nor-east into a substantial flood tide flow. Tillman had impressed before with his ability to shoot an errant tidal flow with ease, and today was no different. To make it less obvious we kept clear of the main channel and skirted oyster racks on the western side. A boat with a mast was motoring towards us at a healthy clip, sleek design, diesel, favourable current and negligible headwind. We were navigating inside the channel markers (another Mirror forte), so we're in no risk of colliding. I held course and milked the dying breeze for what I could. As the boat with a mast passed I could recognise it as a Beneteau type, all sails furled away, crew sitting on a stern seat, fully closed in with plastic screens. Argh!
Unsure of our prospects for circumnavigation Bull Island due to the fading breeze, I reassessed again before deciding to go about and beat back the way we came. Typically, hard on the wind with a current up your stern, have the effect of increasing pressure on the sails. I even had to sit on the seat (ie. not in the bilge), to keep things safe. We could not retrace our course out and had to drift across the main channel. A healthy chop was being generated by the conditions and the bluff bow was shouldering off the chop on sparkling fashion. The wind was not so heavy to drive any spray aboard, so it was deeply pleasurable. Mesmerized I watched the bow spray against the light of the lowering sun. For the umpteenth time today I reflected on how lucky we sailors are. Some men spend thousands beautifying their houses and yards and work all week to pay for it, sailors spend time in Mother Nature knowing that she will provide all the beauty that's needed.
Tacking up towards where we launched, bearing the channel towards the west of the island, I noticed with surprise how the channel markers reversed colours. I'm sure I knew this, but that's just me. Port track up the Lemon Tree Passage channel dodging moored craft. Up close, most look dishevelled and oversized. Ego!
Ah, but the wind is fading out as is the light, and is getting cold. We about face, tack back down the channel. Yet another boat with a mast is motoring home, my blood boils to see fine sailing craft used like powerboats. Yes each to his own, but really?
The beaching is without drama, unrigging and loading, the same. I lash him down and head to the village for hot chips for the drive home.
Despite stiff winds in the early part of the day, the midday weather outlook presented quite well with light to moderate winds from the south-west.The tide was set to be at its lowest ebb an hour before we hit the water.
The Lemon Tree sail ground is essentially a long creek (Tilligerry) that runs in a SW direction for five or ten kilometres running off the much larger expanse of Port Stephens. For added navigational complexity an island is situated near the mouth of the creek, Lemon Tree Passage to the west and I guess Tilligerry Creek to the east. The waters are tidal and tides reach probably 2-3 knots in the vicinity of the island. The waters are sufficiently deep for a centreboard dinghy, and the only congestion is in LTP, where a mooring field lines the E and W sides of an already narrow passage.
The launch ramp is on LTP, adjacent the SW extremity of the island. It's a rough, but gently sloping entry over sand which ensures fewer users and an absence of rocks.
The first minute after clambering aboard is bound to be the most hectic of the entire cruise. Sails hoisted and the halyards tidied away, tiller lowered and lashed, centreboard placed in its slot and lowered, grab a spot in the village to sit, haul sail and take up the helm. Phew! But once these are seen to the biggest thrill of sailing hits; as the shoal bottom drops away, so do the cars and worries of shore life. I feel like I literally escape the world, at least for a while!
With a stiff flood tide pushing upstream against an 8 knot breeze, the water's surface was lively. We pierced standing waves as we headed S towards a yacht anchored in Tilli' Creek. The Mirror does well to windward and with the tide pushing us upwind we easily laid our mark. It proved to be a cement schooner, with mismatched masts, one white the other black. I was interested to see whether it was the same yacht that sold for the cost of debt with the local marina. It proved not to be, but was nice anyway. A nice change from the sameness of whole beaches of white production yachts. There was someone on board, but they appeared happy enough down below. We gybed off the wind, heading nor-east into a substantial flood tide flow. Tillman had impressed before with his ability to shoot an errant tidal flow with ease, and today was no different. To make it less obvious we kept clear of the main channel and skirted oyster racks on the western side. A boat with a mast was motoring towards us at a healthy clip, sleek design, diesel, favourable current and negligible headwind. We were navigating inside the channel markers (another Mirror forte), so we're in no risk of colliding. I held course and milked the dying breeze for what I could. As the boat with a mast passed I could recognise it as a Beneteau type, all sails furled away, crew sitting on a stern seat, fully closed in with plastic screens. Argh!
Unsure of our prospects for circumnavigation Bull Island due to the fading breeze, I reassessed again before deciding to go about and beat back the way we came. Typically, hard on the wind with a current up your stern, have the effect of increasing pressure on the sails. I even had to sit on the seat (ie. not in the bilge), to keep things safe. We could not retrace our course out and had to drift across the main channel. A healthy chop was being generated by the conditions and the bluff bow was shouldering off the chop on sparkling fashion. The wind was not so heavy to drive any spray aboard, so it was deeply pleasurable. Mesmerized I watched the bow spray against the light of the lowering sun. For the umpteenth time today I reflected on how lucky we sailors are. Some men spend thousands beautifying their houses and yards and work all week to pay for it, sailors spend time in Mother Nature knowing that she will provide all the beauty that's needed.
Tacking up towards where we launched, bearing the channel towards the west of the island, I noticed with surprise how the channel markers reversed colours. I'm sure I knew this, but that's just me. Port track up the Lemon Tree Passage channel dodging moored craft. Up close, most look dishevelled and oversized. Ego!
Ah, but the wind is fading out as is the light, and is getting cold. We about face, tack back down the channel. Yet another boat with a mast is motoring home, my blood boils to see fine sailing craft used like powerboats. Yes each to his own, but really?
The beaching is without drama, unrigging and loading, the same. I lash him down and head to the village for hot chips for the drive home.
Friday, June 21, 2019
Hunt for a "New" Car
Since i promised to give my Land Rover to my daughter for her eighteenth birthday, i needed another car.
So I've been looking for a clunker on Gumtree, something for two or three grand, that's reasonably reliable and that i can work on. I had an interesting dalliance with the W123 Mercedes Benz. This series, from 1970 to 1985 apparently possesses the capacity for high mileage and has been dubbed "million mile cat". Like the Rover, the older Merc's are "simple and a pleasure to work on". That's my kind of car! This evening I came across a motoring article featuring a W123 300D diesel with 3,4 million kilometres on the clock. The 86 year old owner has used it as a taxi in Belgium and reckons he just changed the oil regularly and has avoided any major rebuilds. That's gold right there.
But, you know we live on a rural property and the driveway was designed by a web-footed mountain goat Essentially, we lose bits of the driveway each time a good downpour arrives and its been some years since two-wheel drive access has been possible. So negotiating with said Merc might involve a caveman type drag rather than a cruise. So Plan B I designed was to look for a survivor of the smallest 4WD ute in recent decades, the Subaru "Brumby". These went out of production in 1995, but like the W123 Merc, they have a bit of a reputation for longevity. They won't routinely pull out a million k's, but many achieve between 5 and 800 thousand. In the USA they're known as the Subaru "Brat", something about Recreational All Terrain, because of its higher ground clearance and for-wheel drive configuration. Strangely, they normally run as a front wheel drive, and when going off-road, the rear wheels are engaged. Quite unconventional, they have been the vehicle of choice for adventurous types for many years.
So I've been looking for a clunker on Gumtree, something for two or three grand, that's reasonably reliable and that i can work on. I had an interesting dalliance with the W123 Mercedes Benz. This series, from 1970 to 1985 apparently possesses the capacity for high mileage and has been dubbed "million mile cat". Like the Rover, the older Merc's are "simple and a pleasure to work on". That's my kind of car! This evening I came across a motoring article featuring a W123 300D diesel with 3,4 million kilometres on the clock. The 86 year old owner has used it as a taxi in Belgium and reckons he just changed the oil regularly and has avoided any major rebuilds. That's gold right there.
But, you know we live on a rural property and the driveway was designed by a web-footed mountain goat Essentially, we lose bits of the driveway each time a good downpour arrives and its been some years since two-wheel drive access has been possible. So negotiating with said Merc might involve a caveman type drag rather than a cruise. So Plan B I designed was to look for a survivor of the smallest 4WD ute in recent decades, the Subaru "Brumby". These went out of production in 1995, but like the W123 Merc, they have a bit of a reputation for longevity. They won't routinely pull out a million k's, but many achieve between 5 and 800 thousand. In the USA they're known as the Subaru "Brat", something about Recreational All Terrain, because of its higher ground clearance and for-wheel drive configuration. Strangely, they normally run as a front wheel drive, and when going off-road, the rear wheels are engaged. Quite unconventional, they have been the vehicle of choice for adventurous types for many years.
Thursday, June 13, 2019
It's a new car (sound of discordant trumpets)
In between running my gardening business, feeding two teenagers and the dogs and two dozen unproductive chooks, I like to get onto, in, or beside, the water. But, to get near water one needs a motor vehicle.
Now, for me, motor vehicles fall into the category of houses, a boring necessity of life. I really hate having to work or spend time repairing cars or painting houses and co. For me, I would really prefer to liveaboard a large old boat; may be with plants in pots, but no designer bathroom or kitchen, no tedium. That's the background, now the present.
For the last few years I've been talking around in an ex-army Land Rover. And really it has been fantastic except for tolerating people's quips, criticisms and disdainful glances. Sometimes i can't figure whether this is about them not feeling comfortable with people bucking the system or its thumping great noise and beat aesthetic. Anyway, it's not my brother to worry what others think (thanks Buddhist Wisdom).
So anyway, last week as i was taking miniscule and slow steps toward my ultimate goal of living off grid on a large boat and riding myself of anything suburban in appearance, I promised to give my Rover to my daughter for her eighteenth birthday. This has passed the week before, so it's time to move.
Initially my plan was to replace the head gasket on my Ford ute and get that registered, but it has a "fatal" design fault in that it blows radiators and head gasket each Christmas. Plan B required.
After looking on the used car market I've discovered that most modern cars have the same fatal flaws. So go old?
Old Rovers have gone through the roof cost wise as people have realised they're a snap to work on and are reliable and beat.
Don't know how, but some weeks ago i rediscovered the Hillman Minx, a sixties British sedan, compact, stylish and reliable. Performance-wise the Hillman suits me, it's kind of pedestrian. She'll just plod along, but with a bit of old school maintenance she's pretty reliable. And so far the "car enthusiast" crowd have largely ignored the Hillman Minx.
There are only occasional murmurings on the used car market and a good few of those are just too "projecty" for my interests so it's going to be difficult to get hold of one. The project car sellers tend to market the dream while those with drivable vehicles know they have a rare type. Oh K'ism, such a pleasure.
Now, for me, motor vehicles fall into the category of houses, a boring necessity of life. I really hate having to work or spend time repairing cars or painting houses and co. For me, I would really prefer to liveaboard a large old boat; may be with plants in pots, but no designer bathroom or kitchen, no tedium. That's the background, now the present.
For the last few years I've been talking around in an ex-army Land Rover. And really it has been fantastic except for tolerating people's quips, criticisms and disdainful glances. Sometimes i can't figure whether this is about them not feeling comfortable with people bucking the system or its thumping great noise and beat aesthetic. Anyway, it's not my brother to worry what others think (thanks Buddhist Wisdom).
So anyway, last week as i was taking miniscule and slow steps toward my ultimate goal of living off grid on a large boat and riding myself of anything suburban in appearance, I promised to give my Rover to my daughter for her eighteenth birthday. This has passed the week before, so it's time to move.
Initially my plan was to replace the head gasket on my Ford ute and get that registered, but it has a "fatal" design fault in that it blows radiators and head gasket each Christmas. Plan B required.
After looking on the used car market I've discovered that most modern cars have the same fatal flaws. So go old?
Old Rovers have gone through the roof cost wise as people have realised they're a snap to work on and are reliable and beat.
Don't know how, but some weeks ago i rediscovered the Hillman Minx, a sixties British sedan, compact, stylish and reliable. Performance-wise the Hillman suits me, it's kind of pedestrian. She'll just plod along, but with a bit of old school maintenance she's pretty reliable. And so far the "car enthusiast" crowd have largely ignored the Hillman Minx.
There are only occasional murmurings on the used car market and a good few of those are just too "projecty" for my interests so it's going to be difficult to get hold of one. The project car sellers tend to market the dream while those with drivable vehicles know they have a rare type. Oh K'ism, such a pleasure.
Sunday, June 9, 2019
A paddle and a kingfisher up close.
Bless me father for it has been the weeks since my last paddle ... my daughter's eighteenth birthday and bad weather ... ok. Phew, I only need to go offshore for two hours. On a day like today that's easy, but I won't tell him that.
Just to mix things up I transported "Sunshine" (my sea kayak's new name), on the deck of my Hobie cat. It worked out quite well; because there was no need for a special rack, and it was easy to load up. Compared to every system I've previously used, this was the best by far.
Prior to joining the water I check and discover that the tide will be in flood for the next six hours. So I decide that a half-hour downstream, one hour up, and half hour back down will spread the burden of passing against the flow. It should also deposit me back to where I started.
The ramp is vacant as usual, so i can park off to the side, down by the water. I change into Rubbernman (my wetsuit and booties). But as there are no phone booths within five kilometres I just do it al fresco.
On the water, the Bliss Bomb his straight up. The water is slick, quiet and beautifully peaceful. Aah! At the bottom end of the ebb there is a lot of flotsam, mostly benign like bamboo stalls, twigs and seed bombs but there are more logs than usual ... and the wheel of a truck.it's so busy that t the only second run-about boat I've seen on the river proceeds only slowly. The peace is broken only by the sound of occasional traffic and little brown ducks fleeing our bow wave. Typically after time of from paddling I feel frumpy and uncoordinated, which I really dislike. For a short two hour paddle i can only rely on feeling better much later.
My thirty-minute time to turn around alarm goes off, but I decide to continue on downstream to visit my favourite riverbend and continue against the flow to properly push my stamina. At the "mansion bend" I nudge into the northern bank to escape the flow and take off my top layer of clothing (rubber doesn't breath week), and to hydrate. While removing my PFD with my pale lashed, I'm wary of ending up in the chilled water, but I'm reminded how comfortable and strong I feel now compared to my wobbly beginnings just three months ago.
After turning to go upstream I'm immediately aware of how easily and fast we're shooting along. It's an old story but a good one to "go with the flow". No longer do I consciously duck into bends to avoid the head flow, now we swing wide and slingshot upstream. I'm aware of the reduced physical load and up the pace to give myself a decent work rate.
Life's great, we hear and then see said runabout dodging logs and frankly we are too. Although we're moving in the same direction as the logs we come upon them quite rapidly and you never know until the bow his smaller pieces, whether it's something to bother about. If there's a small bump its a bamboo shoot, but a real clunk indicates a submerged branch. These are mostly harmless but wrist-thick ones can knock the dagger fin or rudder. A dull almost silent strike can mean a submerged tree which has the real threat of capsize if one side of the hull rides high and tips us of balance. All good though, its mostly bamboo and using the river to search clear paths is low key fun. The truck tyre and rim come up fast, we're well clear but i must about the potential to get it off the river. But it's too big and the banks are too inhospitable for such folly.
Well after bypassing our take off point I spy a green foam noodle on the backside of the river and make a mental note to grab it on the way back south. We turn for the last time at the Paterson Road bridge and I begin hunting for the noodle. The bamboo clump leans over the river and I worry about ticks, so approach gingerly. As I stow it on deck, my attention is drawn to a shy whistle overhead, an Azure Kingfisher. I quickly take note of its remarkable plumage before it flies off, only it doesn't. It actually it's watching me load the noodle like it approves our something. Being typically human I exploit nature and quickly grab my phone and snap of a few photos. Well I don't think this sacred little bits minds the publicity.
Nearing the ramp I wait a plastic bottle, a bit of insulation, a wrapper and quickly and thirteen pieces of plastic debris that I remove for landfill, instead of fish-
or bird fill.
Hardly, the sailor home from the sea. But sure the paddler home from another few hours on the river. The post paddle adrenaline is there, but only mild when compared to that after a long paddle when I'm fitter. But I'll take it, it has been nice and the sun is seriously dipping do own on what has been a beautiful day.
Just to mix things up I transported "Sunshine" (my sea kayak's new name), on the deck of my Hobie cat. It worked out quite well; because there was no need for a special rack, and it was easy to load up. Compared to every system I've previously used, this was the best by far.
Prior to joining the water I check and discover that the tide will be in flood for the next six hours. So I decide that a half-hour downstream, one hour up, and half hour back down will spread the burden of passing against the flow. It should also deposit me back to where I started.
The ramp is vacant as usual, so i can park off to the side, down by the water. I change into Rubbernman (my wetsuit and booties). But as there are no phone booths within five kilometres I just do it al fresco.
On the water, the Bliss Bomb his straight up. The water is slick, quiet and beautifully peaceful. Aah! At the bottom end of the ebb there is a lot of flotsam, mostly benign like bamboo stalls, twigs and seed bombs but there are more logs than usual ... and the wheel of a truck.it's so busy that t the only second run-about boat I've seen on the river proceeds only slowly. The peace is broken only by the sound of occasional traffic and little brown ducks fleeing our bow wave. Typically after time of from paddling I feel frumpy and uncoordinated, which I really dislike. For a short two hour paddle i can only rely on feeling better much later.
My thirty-minute time to turn around alarm goes off, but I decide to continue on downstream to visit my favourite riverbend and continue against the flow to properly push my stamina. At the "mansion bend" I nudge into the northern bank to escape the flow and take off my top layer of clothing (rubber doesn't breath week), and to hydrate. While removing my PFD with my pale lashed, I'm wary of ending up in the chilled water, but I'm reminded how comfortable and strong I feel now compared to my wobbly beginnings just three months ago.
After turning to go upstream I'm immediately aware of how easily and fast we're shooting along. It's an old story but a good one to "go with the flow". No longer do I consciously duck into bends to avoid the head flow, now we swing wide and slingshot upstream. I'm aware of the reduced physical load and up the pace to give myself a decent work rate.
Life's great, we hear and then see said runabout dodging logs and frankly we are too. Although we're moving in the same direction as the logs we come upon them quite rapidly and you never know until the bow his smaller pieces, whether it's something to bother about. If there's a small bump its a bamboo shoot, but a real clunk indicates a submerged branch. These are mostly harmless but wrist-thick ones can knock the dagger fin or rudder. A dull almost silent strike can mean a submerged tree which has the real threat of capsize if one side of the hull rides high and tips us of balance. All good though, its mostly bamboo and using the river to search clear paths is low key fun. The truck tyre and rim come up fast, we're well clear but i must about the potential to get it off the river. But it's too big and the banks are too inhospitable for such folly.
Well after bypassing our take off point I spy a green foam noodle on the backside of the river and make a mental note to grab it on the way back south. We turn for the last time at the Paterson Road bridge and I begin hunting for the noodle. The bamboo clump leans over the river and I worry about ticks, so approach gingerly. As I stow it on deck, my attention is drawn to a shy whistle overhead, an Azure Kingfisher. I quickly take note of its remarkable plumage before it flies off, only it doesn't. It actually it's watching me load the noodle like it approves our something. Being typically human I exploit nature and quickly grab my phone and snap of a few photos. Well I don't think this sacred little bits minds the publicity.
Nearing the ramp I wait a plastic bottle, a bit of insulation, a wrapper and quickly and thirteen pieces of plastic debris that I remove for landfill, instead of fish-
or bird fill.
Hardly, the sailor home from the sea. But sure the paddler home from another few hours on the river. The post paddle adrenaline is there, but only mild when compared to that after a long paddle when I'm fitter. But I'll take it, it has been nice and the sun is seriously dipping do own on what has been a beautiful day.
Sunday, May 19, 2019
Time on the river.
It had been a woesome week.
Depleted by a full body revolt brought on by bad food.
No paddling, surfing or sailing for days.
But today I was rewarded with time on the river.
A four-hour paddle in my new neoprene spring suit.
All against current: to rebuild stamina.
Early on, the turf farmers' levees were all neat and clipped.
Then wildness arrived; weeping willows and shadey forest oaks.
A modern if sterile bridge spews faceless drivers overhead.
Short runs and bends, teal ducks, swallows and pelicans six.
The river; brown, swirling, chilled.
Men in caravans in camps established upon low banks.
Fatigue creeps up, drawing attention to technique.
More abdomen, less arms, twist and draw.
No orcas, sharks or high swells, just the beckoning blind depths.
We return to the site where budding artists paint Delft-style, the city opposite.
Upon brown sand banks once trod by the ancient Wonnarua people, now by pet dogs on their weekly outings.
Sweet tiredness, a refreshing sponge down. A chocolatey reward.
Depleted by a full body revolt brought on by bad food.
No paddling, surfing or sailing for days.
But today I was rewarded with time on the river.
A four-hour paddle in my new neoprene spring suit.
All against current: to rebuild stamina.
Early on, the turf farmers' levees were all neat and clipped.
Then wildness arrived; weeping willows and shadey forest oaks.
A modern if sterile bridge spews faceless drivers overhead.
Short runs and bends, teal ducks, swallows and pelicans six.
The river; brown, swirling, chilled.
Men in caravans in camps established upon low banks.
Fatigue creeps up, drawing attention to technique.
More abdomen, less arms, twist and draw.
No orcas, sharks or high swells, just the beckoning blind depths.
We return to the site where budding artists paint Delft-style, the city opposite.
Upon brown sand banks once trod by the ancient Wonnarua people, now by pet dogs on their weekly outings.
Sweet tiredness, a refreshing sponge down. A chocolatey reward.
Friday, May 10, 2019
I Paddle My Local River - Tick
Part 3: Sunday 5th, 2019:
After last week's effort I had just one leg to paddle in order to complete the entire river - well up to where dragging over sand bars or rapids is needed. Today we actually launched onto another river, a bigger one that my local river feeds into on their passage towards the sea.
I only had to paddle downstream a kilometre or so, before turning upstream again to complete my river. Today, due to the tide times and recent rain, I would be paddling against both an ebb flow and runoff. I found that hugging the shoreline and inside of bends meant we dodged the worst of the current. But it was still tough going with added complication of the weather! Fifteen minutes in, a squall hit us with localised gusts and rain. Normally getting wet can erode your enthusiasm, but I found that having a goal kept me going hard.
The scenery was quite different from farther upstream. The levees were lower for a start, this meant the river was brighter and the views were more varied. We were in flat alluvial soil country,. Most of it was highly valued, so the banks were almost clear of weeds. Grass was the most prevalent plant, followed by willows and casuarinas and river gums.
We passed out first timber tries bridge after 20 minutes, and a singularly acute bend at 50 minutes along. From there it was fairly straight and exposed us to bouts of heavy winds, from our port bow, but also from that quarter. oing, but with strong headwinds at times.
We reached the turnaround mark at about the two hours mark. Another shower blessed us and I was reminded that I should carry a second water bottle.
But turning back bought massive relief as we shot of downstream on a hefty current I could ease up on paddling and rest my shoulders. My right knee protested; bending it through the cockpit opening helped, but Tiger Balm put the fire out. We flew on enjoying ourselves until reaching the main river again. There, we again fought the ebb and a stiff SW wind were against us. But Mother Nature relented quite strongly and the river glass over and the ebb didn't seem so bad.
I had now successfully paddled the extent of my local river, a one-way distance of 30 kilometres +/- in 6 hours, over three Sundays. But of course, being an unsupported adventure, I had to paddle back to the car each day so the distance was double.
From my wobbly kayak beginnings a little over a month back, to this, is beyond my wildest imaginings.
After last week's effort I had just one leg to paddle in order to complete the entire river - well up to where dragging over sand bars or rapids is needed. Today we actually launched onto another river, a bigger one that my local river feeds into on their passage towards the sea.
I only had to paddle downstream a kilometre or so, before turning upstream again to complete my river. Today, due to the tide times and recent rain, I would be paddling against both an ebb flow and runoff. I found that hugging the shoreline and inside of bends meant we dodged the worst of the current. But it was still tough going with added complication of the weather! Fifteen minutes in, a squall hit us with localised gusts and rain. Normally getting wet can erode your enthusiasm, but I found that having a goal kept me going hard.
The scenery was quite different from farther upstream. The levees were lower for a start, this meant the river was brighter and the views were more varied. We were in flat alluvial soil country,. Most of it was highly valued, so the banks were almost clear of weeds. Grass was the most prevalent plant, followed by willows and casuarinas and river gums.
We passed out first timber tries bridge after 20 minutes, and a singularly acute bend at 50 minutes along. From there it was fairly straight and exposed us to bouts of heavy winds, from our port bow, but also from that quarter. oing, but with strong headwinds at times.
We reached the turnaround mark at about the two hours mark. Another shower blessed us and I was reminded that I should carry a second water bottle.
But turning back bought massive relief as we shot of downstream on a hefty current I could ease up on paddling and rest my shoulders. My right knee protested; bending it through the cockpit opening helped, but Tiger Balm put the fire out. We flew on enjoying ourselves until reaching the main river again. There, we again fought the ebb and a stiff SW wind were against us. But Mother Nature relented quite strongly and the river glass over and the ebb didn't seem so bad.
I had now successfully paddled the extent of my local river, a one-way distance of 30 kilometres +/- in 6 hours, over three Sundays. But of course, being an unsupported adventure, I had to paddle back to the car each day so the distance was double.
From my wobbly kayak beginnings a little over a month back, to this, is beyond my wildest imaginings.
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