Walking and talking down Stoneys Road

We haven’t had much of a winter, certainly not as cold and wet as the winter of 2016, but this weekend reminded us that August isn’t spring. The wind was cold and gusty and, though the skies were blue and cloudless, it felt like indoors weather. Which was good because I had a big editing job, proofreading the references of a gigantic multi-authored work on Aboriginal song cycles. By lunchtime of Day 2 my head was like a block of cold lard and so when N texted to see if I wanted to go for a walk I could barely contain myself.

I motorbiked up to Big Town, parked the Kwaka, and we started footwalking past the water towers to Stoneys Road.

I haven’t been down Stoneys Road, but then I haven’t been to about 98% of the Ridge. I need a dog. Dogs get you out.

The “town” part of the Ridge, such as it is, quickly falls away once you step off the bitumen. Fifty yards in any direction and you hit a kind of liminal zone where humans and nature push back and forth against each other, like a First World War battle front. Sometimes one side pushes harder than the other and claims a patch of scrub for a while but then the other pushes back and reclaims it. Everywhere is evidence of occasions where one side has sallied forth and, for a short while, swaggered about in its hard-fought victory.

There are houses along the way, civilians caught in the crossfire.

I didn’t know anything about the New Jerusalem, though I kind of felt like I should. It’s mentioned in the Book of Revelation:

And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God , having been prepared as a bride having been adorned for her husband.

You can get quite caught up in the internet with these things. (I say “you” but I mean “me”.) The apostle John drew the New Jerusalem as the bride, drawn in contrast to the harlot Babylon. I have to say that Babylon sounds like a lot more fun, in the same way that the smoking carriage on trains in the olden days was always a million times more of a lark than being stuck with the Baptists and Presbyterians in non-smoking.

There’s still working mines off to the side of the road. In the past I’ve edited environmental impact statements for proposed mines and there’s always a good couple of kilograms of words about the rehabilitation work that will take place when everything’s been dug out. It’s all bullshit, of course.

Ridge folk take a refreshingly honest approach to rehabilitation: they don’t claim that they’ll make any effort to rehabilitate the environment, and they stick to their word.

A bit further on and the wind that had been tugging at the brim of my hat brought with it the heady stench of roadkill. You know when you hit the centre of the scent zone and it feels like the air is almost chewably full of stinking dead beast particles? At least in a car you can put your foot down and be gone, but on Stoneys Road we fell into the epicentre of a throbbing, flesh-buckling miasma. The source was two fat pigs, pushed off the tray of someone’s ute.

I take my work seriously. No long-range lenses were used.

Then on, past more mines and bits of dead machinery and busted, rusted car chassis. We came across a big pole in the ground with a thing on top that looks like a hook goes into it. I know nothing about mining. N has an impressive working knowledge of what goes on, down in those holes in the ground, but even she had no clue. We surmised for a while, made up theories, gave up.

After skirting the airstrip for a while Stoneys Road eventually cuts into the Three Mile. Here we had the option of turning round and heading back, or cracking on. The thought of all that proofreading made me sicker than photographing a dead tusker close up so crack on we did.

The next stretch of road was a bit dull. I’ll take pictures of anything but I didn’t take any of this bit. Instead we talked, talked about all the stuff you talk about when you’re walking and talking on a windy day. We didn’t talk about Charlottesville or Barcelona or Turku, we didn’t talk about same-sex marriage or the dual nationality of politicians, we didn’t talk about North Korea’s nuclear ambitions or the wisdom of a Christian woman wearing a burqa into parliament. We talked about the other stuff.

And then we were at Bill O’Brien Way, the main road that links the Ridge to the Castlereagh Highway. The track cuts in at Benny Walford’s Crossing. We paused to look at the little memorial, the plastic flowers wagging and flapping in the buffeting breeze. So poignant, these modest acts of remembrance.

The rest of the walk felt utilitarian and more like a pedestrian commute than a refreshing stroll. We walked on the sloping camber next to the bitumen as tank-sized four-wheel drives hauled caravans into town. Grit swirled around us until we hit the paved sidewalks of Morilla Street. By this time it was mid afternoon and the town had that siesta feel about it, with barely even a dog to be seen. We stopped in at the Australian Opal Centre and admired the fossilised pine cones and sea creatures and I thought about all the things that N and I had talked about, the inconsequential things that will be forgotten when we’re fossils.

Or maybe even sooner, maybe tomorrow.

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