There are only five of them on the planet.
The most southerly point of a continent is a wild and special place (and yes, I know, Clare has already reminded me that Tasmania and New Zealand are technically further south but I am going to ignore that small detail for the moment).
Wilson's Promontory juts determinedly into the surging terror of the Tasman Sea. So fearful is the exposed peninsula that man has entirely forsaken it. Apart from visitors to the National Park, the only occupants are the terrible predators that roam the isthmus. Emu and Wallaby prowl the plains, falling upon unsuspecting hikers. Wombat and Echidna terrorize the inhabitants of the small towns that ring the park.
After a three hour drive, Dirk and Victoria (we're now in Melbourne - keep up), dropped us at the park campsite as the light was failing. As an awful foretaste of the experience that awaited us, we drove through the gorges that surround the promontory. In the twilight, the menacing heads of kangaroos appeared from the waist high road side grasses to survey our progress. In the distance the jungle drums were beating.
In the almost complete darkness, we erected a tent only slightly smaller than the Millenium Dome, fingers feeling blindly for the canvas, with only the million watt headlights of the Subaru to guide us. The cry went up as a large Wombat cruised menacingly toward us. Dirk leapt into Victoria's arms, who had already barricaded herself behind a makeshift corral of cooler boxes and camping gear. Clare screamed and ran into the darkness. Left alone to face the feral beast, teeth and claws flashing in the headlights as it approached, I stood my ground. My mind was like a washing machine full of terrible predictions.
On spin cycle.
Evisceration. Disembowlment. Amputation.
All very painful and all very bloody, round and round they went.
And then the spin cycle stopped abruptly and sitting neatly in the glass door was my salvation. The Scouts.
Well not actually The Scouts themselves, although they would have been helpful, if for no other reason than to feed them to the slavering beast in a vain attempt to placate his insatiable appetite for human flesh. Rather, my Scouts 'How to Evade Death By Angry Badger' toggle that still takes pride of place in cigar box of nick-nacks at the back of a drawer somewhere.
Wombats and Badgers. Clearly related, albeit like some feckless work shy cousin you only meet at family weddings after the seventh beer, and end up discussing tips for silent house breaking. Admittedly the Badger is a noble savage, with an aquiline profile and a patrician air. He smokes cigarettes from a silver case and there is never a hair of his neatly coiffured two tone mane out of place. The Wombat on the other hand is a dishevilled piece of work, eyes too close together; always on the lookout for the main chance. Leave him alone with your fiancee and he would probably make a move.
But they were close enough. They had to be. Our survival depended on it.
Trying to ignore the whimpering from behind the stockade, I recalled the Scouts motto 'Be Prepared'. I was prepared, dammit, and in possession of a perfectly good pair of running shoes that I had even had the foresight to place on my feet. 'Back Away Slowly', the advice had been. I was much older and much wiser than all those years ago.
I ran like a frightened child, dived behind the Esky and maneuvered Victoria and Dirk between me and the approaching horror.
It worked a treat.
Off he lumbered into the night.
Clare reappeared with twigs in her hair and after half an hour Dirk, somewhat unwillingly agreed to get down from Victoria's arms.
And the lesson we take from this encounter with the wild life?
Be afraid. Be very afraid!
The most southerly point of a continent is a wild and special place (and yes, I know, Clare has already reminded me that Tasmania and New Zealand are technically further south but I am going to ignore that small detail for the moment).
Wilson's Promontory juts determinedly into the surging terror of the Tasman Sea. So fearful is the exposed peninsula that man has entirely forsaken it. Apart from visitors to the National Park, the only occupants are the terrible predators that roam the isthmus. Emu and Wallaby prowl the plains, falling upon unsuspecting hikers. Wombat and Echidna terrorize the inhabitants of the small towns that ring the park.
After a three hour drive, Dirk and Victoria (we're now in Melbourne - keep up), dropped us at the park campsite as the light was failing. As an awful foretaste of the experience that awaited us, we drove through the gorges that surround the promontory. In the twilight, the menacing heads of kangaroos appeared from the waist high road side grasses to survey our progress. In the distance the jungle drums were beating.
In the almost complete darkness, we erected a tent only slightly smaller than the Millenium Dome, fingers feeling blindly for the canvas, with only the million watt headlights of the Subaru to guide us. The cry went up as a large Wombat cruised menacingly toward us. Dirk leapt into Victoria's arms, who had already barricaded herself behind a makeshift corral of cooler boxes and camping gear. Clare screamed and ran into the darkness. Left alone to face the feral beast, teeth and claws flashing in the headlights as it approached, I stood my ground. My mind was like a washing machine full of terrible predictions.
On spin cycle.
Evisceration. Disembowlment. Amputation.
All very painful and all very bloody, round and round they went.
And then the spin cycle stopped abruptly and sitting neatly in the glass door was my salvation. The Scouts.
Well not actually The Scouts themselves, although they would have been helpful, if for no other reason than to feed them to the slavering beast in a vain attempt to placate his insatiable appetite for human flesh. Rather, my Scouts 'How to Evade Death By Angry Badger' toggle that still takes pride of place in cigar box of nick-nacks at the back of a drawer somewhere.
Wombats and Badgers. Clearly related, albeit like some feckless work shy cousin you only meet at family weddings after the seventh beer, and end up discussing tips for silent house breaking. Admittedly the Badger is a noble savage, with an aquiline profile and a patrician air. He smokes cigarettes from a silver case and there is never a hair of his neatly coiffured two tone mane out of place. The Wombat on the other hand is a dishevilled piece of work, eyes too close together; always on the lookout for the main chance. Leave him alone with your fiancee and he would probably make a move.
But they were close enough. They had to be. Our survival depended on it.
Trying to ignore the whimpering from behind the stockade, I recalled the Scouts motto 'Be Prepared'. I was prepared, dammit, and in possession of a perfectly good pair of running shoes that I had even had the foresight to place on my feet. 'Back Away Slowly', the advice had been. I was much older and much wiser than all those years ago.
I ran like a frightened child, dived behind the Esky and maneuvered Victoria and Dirk between me and the approaching horror.
It worked a treat.
Off he lumbered into the night.
Clare reappeared with twigs in her hair and after half an hour Dirk, somewhat unwillingly agreed to get down from Victoria's arms.
And the lesson we take from this encounter with the wild life?
Be afraid. Be very afraid!
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