Sometimes I wonder why I live in the Blue Mountains.
Seemingly endless winters that seep into your bones and incur extortionate heating bills; a four hour return city commute to work and the cultural cringe
afforded regional towns can take its toll. But every time that commuter train
chugs its way across the grimy plains and begins the climb back up the
mountain I feel a certain world weariness slip away. As the terrain outside the window gets
progressively greener and more wild, as views expand to reveal that timeless stretch of
valley and ridge dissolving into a purple horizon where golden evening light magically
anoints cliff-faces and treetops, and when the dizzying altitude allows me to
breathe deeply once more, I know why I'm still here after 13 years. Someone
said recently that they didn't choose the mountains, but rather the mountains
chose them. Perhaps they chose me too.
I wrote the following piece about leaving the city
many years ago but it still resonates with me, particularly as we hurtle
headlong into another summer, when spring’s brief bolshie burst of fecundity will be all but silenced by the shimmering heat. Or not.
Weathering the Blue Mountains
Windscreen wipers on the taxi scrape back and
forth. A grim driver peers past them
through dense fog to barely visible traffic lights. Outside ghost trees shiver and cars around us
splutter white steam like dragons. In the
distance an ambulance siren wails down the highway. “Some weather we’re having,” I say. “Yep,” the driver sighs, summing me up in the
rear vision mirror. "That’s the mountains for you. Up here, it’s either paradise or purgatory.” The cabbie’s ominous observation irks me. Does he mean the weather or life in general
in the Blue Mountains?
It is early Spring, a time of new beginnings. Daffodils and jonquils brighten skeletal
gardens but it is still cold and will remain so until November. I have recently joined the exodus of tree
changers fleeing the big smoke for some fresh air, a change of pace and a
mortgage break. I choose to settle in the Blue Mountains - an idyllic World
Heritage listed address only 100 kilometres west of big bad Sydney. But I soon realise there is more to this move
than a new postcode.
Initially, there are phobias and misconceptions to
overcome. Snakes and bushfires aside it
is the born and bred mountain folk that scare me most. Goaded by city friends to purchase the correct
uniform – ugg boots and flannelette – we are warned of bikies, druggies and
rednecks. What we discover is a mixed bunch of artists, greenies, travellers,
young families and life-challenged individuals, united by a common bond – climate.
For most people discussing the weather is polite
conversation. For mountain dwellers it’s
up there with politics and religion, often controversial and always opinionated. Perhaps that’s because the seasons are so
palpable at 1000 metres above sea level, unlike Sydney
Adjusting our lives to mountains time we watch
leaves unfurl after Spring sun-showers.
No traffic or large shopping malls, instead just a breath of fresh air.
Finally Summer arrives. Packing woollens away we revel in the warmth
of sunshine on pasty, naked limbs. Christmas
tinsel shimmers in shop windows and blue-tongues smirk when mistaken for snakes
under the clothesline. Soaring temperatures keep tourist buses on the coast and
locals complain bitterly about the heat.
The bush begins to crackle with drought and the incessant shrill of
cicadas.
The almost inevitable bushfires keep everyone on
edge. Unable to sleep we listen as
sirens approach then fade into the night.
With morbid fascination we watch the fiery red glow of neighbouring
hilltops, creeping across the valleys and gullies, drawing ever closer. The blow-torch
heat from gusty nor-westers whips up blackened gum leaves, scattering them in
backyards like sooty confetti. And an eerie quiet descends with the dense smoke shrouding our valley.
Concerned
friends ring from the safety of the city offering prayers for rain as overnight fireys and Elvis the mega-chopper become super
heroes. Tuned to community radio, I pace
the deck, scan a hazy horizon, cough and wonder how to pack a life into the
boot of a car.
Bushfire season passes. A brief but blistering summer subsides into
the glorious, golden hues of Autumn. A
fairyland of falling leaves in blindingly beautiful shades of red, orange and
yellow adorn roadsides. Crisp air and
clear skies are ideal for long, restorative walks.
A group of ferals move in next door. All hair and flares tumbling from a clapped
out combi plastered with sentiments that read “Save the Reef”, “No Nukes”,
“Sorry” and my personal favourite “Magic Happens”. They mostly keep to themselves but occasionally
the beat of conga drums wafts on the breeze along with some suspicious scents.
By May preparation for Winter is well
underway. I purchase my first proper
coat and seriously consider thermal underwear.
My partner re-discovers a long-lost pioneering spirit and is busy chopping
wood and collecting sticks, taking great pride in neatly stacked piles of
kindling. The Weather Channel becomes
prime time viewing in anticipation of our first frost and I secretly squirrel
away marshmallows, cocoa and tins of soup.
It occurs to me that I had developed a peculiar
trait inherent in true mountain folk, a pre-occupation with the weather, the
more inclement the better. Bragging to
Sydney friends that their minimum temperature is our maximum. Rubbing numb fingers together with glee
whenever the thermometer sinks to 0 degrees!
Wistfully watching clouds, searching for the band of cumulonimbus that
will herald the elusive, snow-laden low-pressure system I crave. I become obsessed with snow.
Winter solstice approaches and residents make ready
for a unique local celebration. The
Winter Magic festival boasts street parades, food stalls and fireworks. Enchanted by the heady aroma of wood-smoke,
roasting chestnuts and incense in the chill air, we rug up to watch with parochial
pride as fairies cavort with African drummers and circus performers make way
for wizards and wanderers. But still no
snow.
Crunching through brown leaves and duck poo on the
lake’s edge, I pause to study the blackening sky, greeting an elderly mountain
woman feeding the birds. The thin winter
sun illuminates her lined face. “Do you
think we’ll get any snow?” I ask, almost
pleadingly, nodding skywards. She looks at me curiously, “Not now love,
Spring’s on its way.”
I glance out over the lake and spy cherry blossoms
on the far side. “But don’t worry,” she smiles patting my arm, “there’s always
next year.”
And the year after that…The beauty and drama of the
Blue Mountains has taken hold of me. I can’t wait to see what next year will
bring.
First published in The Australian newspaper
