Misc

As of Thursday morning, I am now eligible to get a COVID-19 vaccine. Tim and I have been calling the phone line to try to set up an appointment repeatedly since then. Most of the time we get a message that says due to large call volume, your call will not be taken. Once I got put on hold, but after 15 minutes, and reading online that I might be on hold for hours, I hung up: I didn't have that many minutes on my phone. We will keep trying. Put more minutes on my phone. Or call from work where calls aren't charged minute by minute -- when I can get back to work. 

The reason we are now eligible is that we've had another outbreak of community virus transmission. Before they identified the fact that less that a dozen people were infected, those people went to AFL matches at both of the major stadiums in Melbourne, went bar hopping, called people into work meetings at grocery stores all over the city -- there are tens of thousands of immediate first contacts to trace down. We're back to online work, online school for a week while contact tracers try to get a handle on things. And they've opened up vaccines to younger aged people to try to increase vaccination rates. 

The rates have increased.

I do feel like we are in a rush. This virus is still killing many people like us around the world. I want to be vaccinated and I want my whole family to be vaccinated, including my son who is still not eligible. But now I must be patient, I guess.

***

The other big thing that happened Thursday is that we took the keys to our new (to us) apartment. 

Now that it's ours, there are a few things we need to do to get it ready for us. But it is exciting to be able to measure things and make plans. 

Circling the soccer field during a lunar eclipse

 We come out after dinner, to the dark and cool of late autumn. Out for Air, and Steps, after a long day of screens. 

The moon we notice first -- high in the sky and looking nearly full, sharply outlined against the darkness all the way around -- but with a softness in its border at the bottom right. 

"Oh," I say, remembering. "Wasn't there a lunar eclipse tonight?" 

We study the moon, walking, watching it disappear behind the thick branches of the fig trees lining the sidewalk to the south of the soccer field. 

Turning to the east side of the field, the moon appears again between the elm trees reaching into the sky. 

"Lunar eclipse, or not quite full?" 

A rustle of animal. A man walking a dog. 

We turn at the north side, native eucalypts, and recall lunar eclipses past. 

"If it is an eclipse, it will take a long time," I said. 

West side, Tim turns off towards home for a meeting with Europe. 

"Go around again with me?" I ask Jonathan. But he retreats to the yellow warmth of the house. The heater. 

On my own now, tracing the sidewalks around the field with my feet. The softness on the side of the moon seems to be spreading. 

A possum pauses in the shadows to watch me. Something swoops into a low hanging branch. Bat? But it perches rather than hangs. Frogmouth. I hear bats cackling in the row of figs. The moon is up and to the right. It can't be watched while walking without twisting to see. 

Rounding the field again I think, I'll go around another time. Let the moon watch over me. 

But the moon doesn't watch me. The streetlamps watch me, forming a cobbled path of light pools, yellow electric glow to yellow electric glow all around the field. A brushy tailed possum watches me, a fuzzy lump of misshapen darkness at the base of an elm tree. 

Turning my head, I can watch the moon. There. In the tops of the branches. Clearly retreating into shadow there on the right side.

A small group of people has met up at the north side of the field to chat and watch the moon. A man with a dog stands still, chin tipped to the sky, to observe the moon while the dog runs. 

I'll go around again. 

The fig trees form a natural corridor, thick evergreen leaves on all sides. The elms are not evergreen. Their leaves are yellow, falling. Their dark branches taper towards the sky. A late autumn breeze makes them shiver, and a few leaves scatter across the light pools on the sidewalk.

Someone has set up a small telescope on the west side of the field. There are four people gathered there, chatting a bit. But otherwise the park is quiet in darkness. The earlier group has turned right, walking down the long diagonal leading away from the soccer field. Another dog and a harried owner pass in the opposite direction, one last walk before the day ends. A couple is holding hands under the elm trees. 

And otherwise just me. And the trees. 

And the moon, missing a slice of disc, rust-coloured shadow spreading. Impotent. 

I go around again. 

There is work waiting at home. An overdue report weighing more than the trees. More than the sky. I've had my Air. I've earned my Steps. Maybe I am even missed?

I go around again. 

The moon isn't the only one up there in the sky. I can see a few stars beyond the trees. A large red one watches the eclipse. A few yellow ones hover further away. But the streetlamps, and the lighted city spreading beyond the street lamp pools, dim the glow of the sky.

My step counter says these loops around the soccer field aren't counting for much. Not for steps.

I go around again. 

Tenth loop. The moon is at least half covered now, but it is hard to tell whether the shape is half a disc or less. Or more. The air is still fresh, sweet against my skin and lungs. But my legs are growing bored. I take them off the sidewalk, into the field. 

I stand, a few yards from the goalie box, and stare up at the moon. 

A lunar eclipse can take a long time. 

I watch it, unchanging, alone, in the cool darkness, for a few minutes more. 

And finally I accept the fact that there is nothing I can do for the moon. Nothing it can do for me. 

At home, I close the blinds. 

Much later, meeting finished, Tim joins me in the bedroom. "The headline says it full moon, not an eclipse."

"Oh, it is definitely an eclipse," I say. "Look." 

We shut off the lights and open the blinds together. There, high in the sky, now well above the line of the elm trees, hangs the moon, a rust-coloured marble, with just a slice of light remaining on its lower left side. 

Lunar eclipse. 

Autumn into winter

 It is mushroom season again.

But don't eat them. As if you would.

 I like the sounds of Sunday morning here. The birds start the noise. Just before dawn you can sometimes hear a kookaburra. Then the currawongs start to whistle. The magpies come next, warbling to the sunrise. And after the sun is up, the lorikeets squeal with joy to be out in the flowering trees on such a morning. By the time the lorikeets are up, you can hear the trams rumbling up the road on the other side of the apartment. A dog barks. And even later, the shouts of soccer players as the Sunday morning crowd takes over the field closest to the window.

In the living room, the heater has come on. There is a warm glow and a soft rumble. The laundry is dry on the racks set up over the living room rug. Smells of toast from the kitchen. Later, baking and cinnamon as this week's batch of granola turns golden in the oven. 

We walk around the botanic gardens in the sunshine. The water is a mirror to the autumn sky. 

The city stretches its fingers against the horizon. A carpet of grass, green with the incoming winter rains, runs to meet it in the distance.

Here, the world is turning. Day, night, day, night. Another summer come and gone. Such a small tilt of the earth, to put such a chill in the morning air. Mist against the grass. Brown leaves carpeting the sidewalk. 

Sunday morning. Late autumn.

Grampians Part II

Second day in the Grampians National Park. 

We started off early with a hike that started behind our motel again, heading into the hills. A creek ran through sandstone, cutting out pools. (If any of my cousins still read this, it looked just like Calf Creek in Escalante. Except with kangaroos again.)

We climbed up and up, always keeping near the creek.

More wattle in bloom, pretty but still unexpectedly early. 

A small detour brought us to a small waterfall, where we rested before continuing our climb.

... Into a place called the Grand Canyon of the Grampians.

Not really much like the Grand Canyon of Arizona, but still a canyon. And interesting. 

The warning sign below was at the turnoff of the canyon. A friend on instagram suggested that the sign is there to remind you to dance at the beach in the rain. A good reminder, all. A good reminder.

The kangaroos were out on the field in town when we made our way back down the trail.

This one was very friendly, and hopped over to get its photo taken.

A little too close, actually. No handouts from me.

After a long rest, I decided I'd had enough photos of kangaroos. It was time to get photos of emus. I remembered seven years ago seeing emus by the visitor centre outside of town. We all hopped in the car and I drove us there. And sure enough, behind the centre on the nature loop were many pairs of emus.

The nature walk itself was quite nice. After a couple of days of hiking up steep, hard trails, it was a pleasure to mosey along through flat soft trails. 

Back at the motel, I grabbed an herbal tea and sat outside at dusk to listen to the birds. A couple of fearless kangaroos came out behind me.

And neighbours built a fire. A pleasant end to a lovely day.

Ok. Let's keep going through these photos. 

Saturday, 10 April, our last day in the Grampians. Because we tired out too soon on Thursday, we had saved all the overlooks for this morning. We got up, in the car, on the road before there was too much traffic on the crazy narrow mountain roads. 

It had rained a lot over night, but the sky was clear when we left the motel. 

That changed as we wound our way into the mountains. 

A few minutes after turning off for the first overlook, the clouds began to drift in -- at ground level. 

By the time we reached the first overlook, we were surrounded by fog. 

Oh well. Everyone smile for a photo. 

You can see from the slope of the cliff that the view must be quite dramatic. When there is no fog.

Oh well. Time to go to the next overlook. Everyone back in the car. 

The sky was still covered in fog, but the trail was there waiting for us. In spite of the rain. Off we went. 

Here was another fun sign. 

Do not touch the stacked cow dung.

Or rather, don't build little rock piles. See how there are no rock piles in the rain? Keep it that way.

I don't know, guys. The fog isn't lifting.

More warnings: Giants tap dancing on the ledge. Tickled by the wind. Dragging a tree along behind you.

Another spectacular view at the end.

This is pretty miserable. Let's go for a drive.

So we went for a drive. Down along the winding one-way road. When we reached the turnoff for the waterfall trailhead, the sun had broken through the clouds. 

Let's do this, guys. 

A trickle of waterfall at the end. And no rain. Well worth the walk.

Lunch overlooking the lake. 

 

Instagram friend told us that the sign on the table was warning us not to roll the dice against the kookaburra. (I guess it typically wins in dice.)

The sun was shining. "Let's try one more lookout," I said.

So off we went, driving up another narrow winding mountain road. The sun was shining all the way up the road right until... the moment we parked the car. 

Oh well. We're here. Let's go.

The walking was strenuous indeed, but every now and then the clouds lifted enough to hint at the views we might have seen on another day.

And the vegetation was cool. This is a banksia pod.

The wind and rain only intensified, though, as we walked.

Right up until the very very top. When suddenly, the clouds began to shift....

And there was a view!

Top of the Grampians.

A spectacular final photo for our final full day.

Sunday morning we checked out and began the drive home, stopping for one last instance of rock art. 

And that's it. That's all I've got. 

A fabulous April vacation.