Australia is a powerful land. Often I ponder on this conclusion, but on occasion I do forget. A little camping trip down the very bottom coastline of Victoria reminded me of its truth.
I washed my hair in a rock pool, which was filled like a cup by the ocean's tap. The water was cold- the voice of ice calling out to our skin, our goosebumps sounding a response. The rocks around everywhere looked like burnt honeycomb and we had to be careful of European wasps who used them as walls of their homes. One evening we watched the sun set from the top of a mountain overlooking Johanna beach. The firey mass of glory beyond our comprehension turned 8-bit in our eyes- it somehow looked digital, and we wondered how so? Contradictions were in abundance.
Another evening, we spotted a lonely koala pounding its way up a bushland road, so we slowed the car and followed alongside it. We marvelled at the creature our country is so well known for, yet we see next to never. It's funny how perception and reality rarely align.
But what I loved most was the sound of Australia's bushland at night, right in the middle of it. The middle of the night, I mean, as well as the middle of the bush. Far from roads and streetlights. Emily was sleeping quietly next to me in our tiny tent, and all that was left to hear was the soft hum of Summertime bugs and night birds hovering in the sound waves surrounding us.