So, I trekked the various walks in Idalia NP. None of the walks were difficult: a bit of climbing here and there. A lot of old mulga, lancewood and other trees etc unknown to me made for picturesque mornings and afternoons, still comfortable enough heat-wise to enjoy.
I could not imagine how old some of these trees were, or what they had endured, given drought and flooding rains in their lifetimes. Even the rocky outcrops and gorges had their own beauty. The colours were vibrant, whether green, blue, black from fires or simply, the grey of death.
On the last trek , I visited Murphy’s Rockhole. I eventually reached it and it was what it said, a rockhole, with but a skerrick of water in it. I walked around and investigated and came across a very large old galvanised tank, worse for wear here and there, as the rust was showing. I noticed some old piping running to and from the tank and a derelict railing fence made of old lancewood and whatever else was available at the time. Who knows the age of the fence.
Taking heaps of photoes, the place seemed to have a spirituality to it that I had not felt anywhere else that I had walked in the park. I sat for a while and took in the sensibilities of the place, its spirituality, its sense of comfort and durability.
I stood up, and put my camera to my eye for one last photo when I heard a faint rustle behind me. I turned around and at first, could not see anything. I took a photo, wildly, without focus, letting the camera do that piece of action for me, thinking that I would catch some desert animal or bird. I pressed a button on the camera to let me review the picture.
“What the fuck” I said out loud. There, amongst the trees caught by this wild and random shot, was the figure of a man. I quickly spun round and bugger me dead if there, sitting on a dead tree trunk was, indeed, the figure of a man.
He spoke. “Howdy mister. What you doing there?” he asked me.
I was completely and utterly gobsmacked. “Where did you come from” I asked. “I didn’t notice you when I walked in.”
“No” he replied. “You wouldn’t have.”
I approached the man. There seemed something odd about him. Not quite right. Clearly aboriginal. His weathered face and snow-white beard gave him an old and wise appearance. Not much more could be made of him as he sat within the dappled light of living and fallen trees and branches.
“Gosh” I said. “You scared the shit out of me”.
“Yeah, I reckon” the man answered.
“How did you get here” I asked him.
“I live here” he said.
“What? Where?” I asked.
“All round” he said. “This place my home for years, from little boy to now” he explained.
“Is your home far from here?” I probed.
“Nah” he said. “all around here.”
“Oh” I answered, not wanting to press the point.
I started to walk toward him when he said “Mister, you see that tank there”
“Yes” I replied.
“Well, you see him that tank. When the crick here full up, we fill the tank with the water. Store it there inside.”
“Seems a good thing to do” I answered.
“Yep, bloody good thing” the man mused in response.
Things have gone from strange to very strange, I thought to myself. I still thought something was odd. Every now and again, when I cast a glance toward the man, I thought I could see the bush and the trees behind him, directly through him.
I had to look a few times but still could not be sure. “Nah”, I said to myself. ”Can’t be”.
And then the man spoke again.
“When the crick she runs dry and the drought comes” he said “we fill the crick with the water from the tank. The crick, she never run dry. Never.”
I started to laugh. “Don’t laugh. All true”.
I turned away to hide my chuckling. I looked back toward where the man was sitting.
“That’s a good story” I told the man.
“All the same, all true” he answered, seeming a little annoyed with me.
“So what’s your name” I asked him.
“Murphy” he said.
“Ahh, that makes sense” I told him. “Same name on the rockhole”.
“Yeah mate, but my name, it used to be Furphy”.
And then, before my very eyes, he simply disappeared.
“Bugger me dead” I said to myself. “No one is going to believe this”.
So anyway, I thought I would give it ago. And, if you just look closely at the picture of trees and of the tank at Murphy’s Rockhole I am sure that somewhere amongst the trees you will see the outline of that very old man.
I could not imagine how old some of these trees were, or what they had endured, given drought and flooding rains in their lifetimes. Even the rocky outcrops and gorges had their own beauty. The colours were vibrant, whether green, blue, black from fires or simply, the grey of death.
On the last trek , I visited Murphy’s Rockhole. I eventually reached it and it was what it said, a rockhole, with but a skerrick of water in it. I walked around and investigated and came across a very large old galvanised tank, worse for wear here and there, as the rust was showing. I noticed some old piping running to and from the tank and a derelict railing fence made of old lancewood and whatever else was available at the time. Who knows the age of the fence.
Taking heaps of photoes, the place seemed to have a spirituality to it that I had not felt anywhere else that I had walked in the park. I sat for a while and took in the sensibilities of the place, its spirituality, its sense of comfort and durability.
I stood up, and put my camera to my eye for one last photo when I heard a faint rustle behind me. I turned around and at first, could not see anything. I took a photo, wildly, without focus, letting the camera do that piece of action for me, thinking that I would catch some desert animal or bird. I pressed a button on the camera to let me review the picture.
“What the fuck” I said out loud. There, amongst the trees caught by this wild and random shot, was the figure of a man. I quickly spun round and bugger me dead if there, sitting on a dead tree trunk was, indeed, the figure of a man.
He spoke. “Howdy mister. What you doing there?” he asked me.
I was completely and utterly gobsmacked. “Where did you come from” I asked. “I didn’t notice you when I walked in.”
“No” he replied. “You wouldn’t have.”
I approached the man. There seemed something odd about him. Not quite right. Clearly aboriginal. His weathered face and snow-white beard gave him an old and wise appearance. Not much more could be made of him as he sat within the dappled light of living and fallen trees and branches.
“Gosh” I said. “You scared the shit out of me”.
“Yeah, I reckon” the man answered.
“How did you get here” I asked him.
“I live here” he said.
“What? Where?” I asked.
“All round” he said. “This place my home for years, from little boy to now” he explained.
“Is your home far from here?” I probed.
“Nah” he said. “all around here.”
“Oh” I answered, not wanting to press the point.
I started to walk toward him when he said “Mister, you see that tank there”
“Yes” I replied.
“Well, you see him that tank. When the crick here full up, we fill the tank with the water. Store it there inside.”
“Seems a good thing to do” I answered.
“Yep, bloody good thing” the man mused in response.
Things have gone from strange to very strange, I thought to myself. I still thought something was odd. Every now and again, when I cast a glance toward the man, I thought I could see the bush and the trees behind him, directly through him.
I had to look a few times but still could not be sure. “Nah”, I said to myself. ”Can’t be”.
And then the man spoke again.
“When the crick she runs dry and the drought comes” he said “we fill the crick with the water from the tank. The crick, she never run dry. Never.”
I started to laugh. “Don’t laugh. All true”.
I turned away to hide my chuckling. I looked back toward where the man was sitting.
“That’s a good story” I told the man.
“All the same, all true” he answered, seeming a little annoyed with me.
“So what’s your name” I asked him.
“Murphy” he said.
“Ahh, that makes sense” I told him. “Same name on the rockhole”.
“Yeah mate, but my name, it used to be Furphy”.
And then, before my very eyes, he simply disappeared.
“Bugger me dead” I said to myself. “No one is going to believe this”.
So anyway, I thought I would give it ago. And, if you just look closely at the picture of trees and of the tank at Murphy’s Rockhole I am sure that somewhere amongst the trees you will see the outline of that very old man.
Attached Files