Waterfall

I’m not doing well at early starts this week, and by the time I rush out the door towards Emu Valley it’s already 10am. The Rhododendron Garden is around a thirty minute drive from Penguin and I pass through green hills and sweet farmhouses, many with a sense of humour to their front yards. One house has a hedge out the front with giant googly eyes on it and you get the sense that the greenery itself is watching you as you drive past.

The flowering season is just over but there’s still plenty to see at the Garden, especially as the Autumn colours are already starting to show. The two ladies at reception take me onto the balcony to point out various areas of interest and we see the resident platypus swimming circles in the pond beneath us. He leaves a line of bubbles wherever he goes, so it’s easy to spot where he’s heading. It's straight down the path for me, hoping to catch a closer glimpse of this shy creature. He’s a quick fella and the sunlight reflecting on the water makes it harder to see him than it had been from the balcony above. He surfaces momentarily before diving back underneath the surface, a tiny bubble trail the only hint as to where he might be.

I spend a good hour exploring the different national gardens, especially the Australian Native and Japanese. By the time I get back to the pond, Mr Platypus has stopped showing off his swimming skills and I’m keen to move on to Waterfall: the town where it rains most days of the year. Funnily enough, it’s not raining there today but it is cold and windy. A quick bite to eat and some happy-snaps from the waterfall lookout, and I’m off to explore the trail down to the foot of the falls. Except I can’t find the trail.

Around a block away there’s a small museum. I’m not sure what the focus is, it seems to be an overall history of the town? There are massive glass displays with semi-precious gemstones, old mining equipment, posters about iron ore, gramophones and trombones all rusted with age, and dozens of photos and newspaper clippings dating anywhere up to 1997 - not exactly ancient artefacts. The

museum guide kindly shows me around the corner and points out the start of the trail. “Keep an eye out for the dogs. They’ll come out of the house and bark at you, but they won’t bite.”

Halfway up the block I see a small, white terrier lying down in the middle of the road. I can tell he’s watching me, so I cross the street and aim for the trail sign. Before I’ve even made it to the sign he’s at my ankles, yapping, barking, growling. I talk calmly to him, “It’s okay, I’m just going to see the waterfall. It’s fine, I’m not going anywhere near your house.” He nips at my ankles and grabs my jeans leg. I turn back to the museum and he leaves off. The museum guide is upset to hear about the dog and asks me to report it to council - which is also the post office and local library. Waterfall is a very, very small town. At the post office, a lovely woman named Ingrid shakes her head - apparently I’m the latest in a series of complaints about the dog. She takes my number, assures me she’ll report it to council,

and recommends I visit Philosopher’s Falls, about ten minutes down the road. Off I go.

I’m disappointed to have driven all the way to Waterfall only to be scared off by a cranky dog with a tourist complex. As I’m wondering what else I might have done, I spy a wombat walking along the side of the road. The only word I can find to describe a wombat’s walk is “womble”. Like miniature bears, they can cover a lot of ground in a short space of time, but look like they’re made out of a giant jelly bowl. A cross between a walk and a wobble; a womble, as only a wombat can do.

By the time I get to Philosopher’s Falls I’m ready for an adventure - which is exactly what those first few steps into the rainforest feel like. Everything here is covered in a thick layer of green moss. It seems enchanted and I’m half expecting a bunch of fairies to come flying out from behind those giant green tree trunks. It’s magical. The deeper I go the richer it becomes, damp rainforest air mixed with a sweet, fragrant smell. I can hear water rushing nearby; it’s close. Upturned trees have become hollow shelters for animals, bright orange fungi grow along log faces and I’m surprised to meet two other couples walking the opposite direction. There’s been no-one else around until now. Under the fallen trunk, that now has smaller trees shooting up from its surface. Down 150 small metal steps and there it is; one tall waterfall, cascading over layers of rock. I don’t know what it is about waterfalls, but even though the water speed and pressure is so intense, I find them peaceful. Besides, I need to relax a bit before climbing the 150 steps back up to the trail.

On the way back, Matthew from council calls. He’s concerned about the number of reports about this dog and he’d like me to come back in to sign a statutory declaration. I figure it’s not too far out of the way, so I find myself writing an account of being held up by a tiny Maltese Terrier X and hoping they simply find a way to keep the dog at home. I don’t want it to get hurt and I certainly don’t want it hurting and threatening other people!

Karina has recommended I drive home via Hellyers Gorge. It’s late in the afternoon now and I’m pretty hungry. There are no snacks in my bag and the road is longer and windier than expected. Fortunately the Gorge is only a very short walk down to the river, so I take my “I-was-here” photos and decide my next stop is for food. Two bright blue birds swoop over my car, an echidna ambles by, the road twists and turns. An hour later I realise there’s truth to the warning that you should never shop hungry. At least I have plenty of snacks for tomorrow’s hike!