Mystical Country

Mystical Country.

Hidden in the deepness of my childhood, at either end of this island continent you can be surrounded and be a person of trees – from Valley of the Giants just outside Wapole, or amid dominating tree curtains along Caves Road Yallingup, like fence posts for trolls stand Karri (Eucalyptus Diversicolor) giants. Many rivers flow to the ocean, I will deal with rivers, but I want you dear readers to stand among the trees for a short while.

Once upon a time you could drive through a Tingle tree unfortunately this was destroyed by fire. I wonder if this death speaks loudly of our lack of respect for these trees capable of curtaining out the real world.

Trees grieve for anything lost in bush fires, then grow stronger for it. I feel it now, a great weight cut from my heart. There are no ashes that can strengthen a mother, when a babe is torn from her arms.

They say ghosts haunt Karri forests at night, but it’s just the voices of children taken from their families carried on winds. Sounds of laughter mix with sorrows of mothers who lost their babies, when white men did “what was best…” Tears cried by stationary trees left to sway in south western breezes. Families beg Earth to release children so they may run and climb too. So no, forests aren’t haunted. Karri trees themselves become ghosts.

I want to think that Karri trees hold souls of those that we’ve lost. Each branch a memory they keep close in their heart, holding the weight of a child, but never breaking. Each leaf a terrible thought that might be let run loose. Let the wind tear them away. Today marks both a branch, and every leaf that will cover my Karri trees.

As an adult, many times, I drove through these forests, I preferred Caves road anyway. Crossing innumerable creeks, secret caves also hidden amid these towering giants. Driving along that stretch of bitumen always felt like somewhere mythical; deep dark woods, tall timbers with pale trunks, misty hollows, fringed by masterly Karri trees. Standing tall like watchful elders, branches over the road like arms, creating an awning away from harm. Felt connections, a heartbeat, sometimes my mouth dried at hint of nervousness, and I encountered a desire to flee. Those trees did push in on roadways, yet I remained hopeful to catch glimpses of Wooditch magic man from a time of Nyitting Dreaming. Imagined a time when elders, past, present and future, preserved ongoing sacred lands and told stories of how features came to be.

Was it my grandfather who told me the story of Wooditch? Echoing authority, I listened to his words. Maybe I heard the story at school. Who am I kidding, first nation’s stories weren’t narrated at schools? It would take many years before books and art acknowledged someone other than Europeans. No I am sure it was family.

“Members of the Koombamup tribe, camped in Mias (huts). Others could know you were on these traditional lands, from your morning cooking fires. Two young people, fell in love, Wooditch and Milyan. But she’d already been promised to an older brother. So, this pair decided to run away, to be together.”

I sucked my thumb, engrossed with how big people didn’t always follow rules.

“Word got out, so Wooditch’s father, Ngungargoot, pursued them.”

I must have gasped, because Granddad, said, “don’t worry, Wooditch threw a magic stick. A big Karri tree branch, dripping with water, carving a river between him and the old man. Worked in many twists and turns, dug some sections where white water flowed fast, and others where gentle billabongs remain today. As you know water will be on a mission to reach the sea. Runs down from the rocky ranges and onto flatlands, despite the way being hidden in Karri trees.”

“Making a river like Wagyl, the rainbow serpent…” I remember wanting to show him I knew other stories.

“Yes but remember this was a stick thrown by a magic man. Cutting a course which emerges as a path winding through to the sea. Here water might pause to rest a little by a shady rockpool. With renewed energy water races on through rocky valleys.”

I tried to picture the scene, those tall, very tall trees being pushed aside, for water to run between. Those many bends in waters. Sometimes my mind couldn’t capture images right. I wondered if my Granddad might draw an image, to help me understand. But there was more to Wooditch’s story.

“Ngungargoot cursed from the opposite side, so Wooditch transformed him into a fish, Kartern. Which Wooditch and Milyan later speared for food. When Milyan realized her father was the hapless creature, she cried heavy tears of loss. So Wooditch returned the old man to his original form, and he was reunited with the young couple. Wadandi-Noongar custodians call him Wooditch: to other people, the waterway he carved became known as the Margaret River.”

Now I understand grapes are grown, wine is made, yet this to me will always be a magic place.

I knew of other trees, became aware of connections, very early. Marri trees called the blood tree, because of the color of its sap. Pink Myrtle, one can make an infusion which is good for digestion. But Karri tree, a real giant, called diversicolor by botanists, because of the rainbow or streaks which exist in their flat bark. Creating a canopy, shutting off evil spirits. Yet such Karri forests offer up magical hues, pick myrtle jostles with yellow hibbertia, white cowslip and donkey orchids push their heads skywards. Lichen mottles surfaces of rocks, where river water passes. Through many twists and turns like tales spoken by my people.

A water way long ago carved by a magic man. I long to pass my fingers across trunks of these majestic creatures and feel again tingles of sacred stories. State borders, so long closed due to concerns about the virus, maybe one day soon I can return to my homelands. There is a void inside me, being on this side of the country with no links to my childhood. I am lost, my identity missing several dimensions. Kindred to so many Karri trees which are felled, but you can still find and worship these giants and waterways which flow carrying their leaves to the sea.

Some scared, not always to mark a trail. They’re visible from wear patterns of branches low enough to collide and nestle over rocks. Scratches from gear cogs if mountain bikers have found and embraces a trail edged by towering giants to get somewhere, have an urban adventure. No, walkers make neat piles of rocks I am inclined to kick over if they are found. Or there is a string of plastic ribbon, usually pink, hanging from a twig or branch, like they think it won’t be seen and removed by someone protecting the bush, confounding these invaders.

Once I saw scars of bark being removed to make a canoe. Not from a Karri, but surface roughness more suited to a floating vessel. Reminded me of the mark on her brother’s leg from where they took the skin to graft over his burn. But after making a canoe, secret songs were sung, and a blessing ceremony conducted like Kalahari bushman who prayed over animals they needed to kill for families and tribes to survive. When bark, or even a flower, medicinal leaves or anything is taken a tree is thanked for what human useful products provided. Healing mud also applied to speed recovery from any potential scars. Pity my brother wasn’t treated in such a similar empathic way.

Nothing was wasted – Like the man who made the noodles throwing bits of dough back into a tub to use later.

I Sneezed. Apologised. Sneezed again. Pollen, muttered from behind my handkerchief. All that wattle, filtering like sunlight between towering giants of Karri. Second biggest tree after the Californian Redwood. Brilliant gold of wattle, shimmering like sunlight in winter sun. Startling against so much scrubby green-grey. Brings on my mother’s asthma. Yet this country took wattle as an emblem, along with a boxing kangaroo, slightly sacrilegious, if you ask me.  But once blooms were thrown it into the chasm of the Saxten Bach gorge near Interlaken were all those people were killed having a bit of holiday fun cannoning. If only they’d stayed and paddled down the lovely river carved by the magic man, Wooditch. Reconnected with lands which belong to Koombamup people.

At least the right name was given back, renamed Wooditjup, to honor local custodians.