I lived in Australia for two years and found a wealth of subjects to paint. My new home was in an absolutely beautiful area of New South Wales where rolling hills covered with gum trees gently descend to the coast. One of the problems this presented for a plein air painter was that it was sometimes difficult to find a vantage point to paint from. The gum forest was tall and thick and the hills provided few view points. On this day I had seen a rock outcropping, called a “bago,” which would definitely have a commanding view of the coastline. I drove around the area to see if there was road access. Nothing. Not even a dirt track. It didn’t seem too far away, so I parked at the base of the hill, prepared my kit, and set out on foot.
My kit consists of a wooden French easel, a shoulder bag with brushes, rags, and turpentine, and a box with a few painting panels. I was used to hiking to different locations and felt confident I would be painting in half an hour or so. I started out through the tall gum trees enjoying the stroll and anticipating the beautiful view. There was no trail but the forest floor was even and the going was easy. Gradually it became a little steeper. I had anticipated this, and by my calculations would have a few hundred yards of this terrain to pass until I got to the bago. Hummm, it became a bit steeper than I had anticipated, and the gum forest was closing into a tight mass of trunks with a thick layer of broken branches poking through scrub brush. No problem. I pushed on, confident that in another 15 minutes I would happily be at work.
In another 15 minutes I was climbing on all fours, pushing though the completely closed brush, branches scraping my arms and face, and tearing at my clothing. My kit was constantly getting hung up and I periodically had to stop and disentangle my things before I could continue. Come on, I had to be close to the bago by now. Retreating was not an option. Hot, tired, bleeding from countless scratches, I finally reached the rocks and carefully pulled myself up the last 10 yards to the top.
Ah, the sense of accomplishment at reaching a painting site none had visited before.
I crested the rock pile and got my first glimpse of the area above the bago. I saw… a hubcap. Yes, a hubcap and some trash. Some trash and a pair of pale legs stuffed into white socks and sandals. I crawled over the edge into the parking lot, clothes in tatters, twigs in my hair, blood oozing out of hundreds of scratches.
I could hear Mr. Pale Pegs mutter under his breath as he cautiously backed away from me, “Krikie, bloody feral bastard!”