How We Goin’ Mate?

“Every picture tells a story don’t it” (Rod Stewart). The picture below tells a couple stories. The yellow warning sign with a kangaroo tells you that we’re in Australia (and that kangaroos are on the roads, especially at night). The truck in the picture is on the left side of the road and the story it tells is more complex, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

Rural road in Queensland

Twenty-four hours after we left northern Colorado, we walked out of the international terminal in Brisbane’s airport in the state of Queensland. We dragged our bags to the taxi stand and a driver greeted us with “How we goin’ mate?” To which I could have replied “All good,” except that I said we’re going to Taigum. My first lesson in Australian. He wanted to know how we were doing, not where we were going. He had a mini-van and I rode in the front; I needed to get a feel for driving on the other side of the road.

The taxi driver was from Scotland and had been a golf pro in several Australian cities. We talked about Brexit – he wasn’t in favor of it and neither was Scotland; Donald Trump – whom he thought was “scary”; and the weather – last summer was the warmest and wettest in 20 years. We stayed in Taigum, north of the city and picked up the rental car the next day.

Kangaroo tracks on Bribie Island

There are no kangaroos in Brisbane, so we ventured into the “bush” (countryside) several times to find them. All we found were yellow warning signs and kangaroo tracks. Kangaroos are the quintessential Australian animal and we expected to see them almost everywhere; except they’re not everywhere. Kangaroos are the largest members of the family Macropodidae (“big foot”), which includes about 50 smaller species, like wallabies and tree-kangaroos. There are four species of large kangaroos. The eastern grey kangaroo lives in open woodlands where it can reach densities of 100 per square kilometer (km). It’s less common where woodlands have been cleared for agriculture, ranching and development (link).

Kangaroo habitat on Bribie Island

Over the next several weeks, we drove 500 km (300 mi) north along the coast of the Coral Sea staying in Rainbow Beach and Bargara. We saw our first live kangaroos one afternoon after beachcombing north of Bargara. Across from the parking lot was a large field of sugarcane; there was a hedgerow of native vegetation between us and the field. Rising above the hedgerow on the other side were the heads of two kangaroos; both of them were looking at us. I took a couple pictures and moved closer. A kangaroo emerged from the hedgerow on my side about 20 feet from me with a piece of grass in her mouth and a joey protruding from her pouch.

Eastern gray kangaroo at Mon Repos

She grazed on the tall grass, munching away while watching me and scratching the head of her joey. I was enthralled. For 15 minutes, she hopped and foraged unconcerned along the hedge row while I took photographs and walked slowly parallel to her. The spell was broken when a car alarm went off in the parking lot. She jumped through the hedgerow, joined her friends and the three of them bounded away.

Kangaroos at Innes Park

From then on we saw kangaroos about every other day: six kangaroos grazing on the lawn of a resort; 15 (known as a mob) in a pasture shared with horses; and the bodies of kangaroos killed along highways. (Sadly, the first kangaroo, wallaby, koala and echidna that we saw were roadkill.) We heard stories from locals whose yards are regularly visited by kangaroos. They jump over fences and eat flowers and garden plants. Young males hold sparing matches in backyards. One woman told us she wouldn’t approach a male kangaroo because of their size (6 ft and 200 lbs) and strength and the long claws on their arms.

Kangaroos at Moore Park

The other story that the first picture tells begins with a question: can an old dog like me learn new tricks? I hope so, because the trick that I have to learn is driving on the left side of the road. Except for a brief visit to England in my 20s, I’ve spent 50 years driving on the other side of the road. Now I’m training my brain to think and react to stuff happening on the “wrong” side of the road. I say “wrong” because for the first couple weeks, my brain was telling me that I was on the wrong side of oncoming traffic, so I tended to hug the fog line, which unnerved Rande at times.

Signs on the Bruce Highway, the main road between Brisbane and Cairns

Driving in cities is the most challenging. People are impatient and drive fast; intersections have painted, intersecting lines on the bitumen (pavement) that can be confusing; and don’t get me started on the roundabouts (traffic circles). Vehicles in the roundabout have right-of-way over vehicles entering, so drivers enter the circle at speed, or slam on the brakes if someone beats them to it. Driving the Australian motorways (freeways) is easier; the lanes tend to be wider, have shoulders and a barrier to separate opposing traffic. After 2,500 km (1,500 mi) of almost daily practice, I’m more comfortable, but still cautious – it’s too easy to slip into autopilot and forget where we are, especially if there are no other cars on the road for reference. If nothing else, learning to drive on the “other” side of the road (or learning any new, complex task) is good for an aging brain (link).

Entrance to the marina at Burnett Heads

Here’s another picture that tells a slightly more obscure story. This is the entrance to the marina at Burnett Heads north of Bargara and the boat is returning to the harbor. In North America, boaters learn to keep the red navigation aids to starboard (right) returning to the harbor so they don’t run up on a shoal. Red, Right, Returning* is the mnemonic we’re taught. The red channel marker in the picture is to the boater’s port side (left). When I walked out on the jetty I thought it strange that the red channel marker was on the left, until I remembered where I was. Australians drive on the left, walk to the left on trails and in aisles in supermarkets, and they pilot their boats to the left. Red, Left, Returning just isn’t a catchy mnemonic.

Long-billed corellas

Masked plover

We spent our first nights in Australia in a motel in Taigum, a suburb north of Brisbane, to get over our jetlag and to practice driving in a quieter part of the city. We watched birds from our motel room.

Trail in Bondall Wetlands

Bondall Wetlands

We visited Bondall Wetlands, a city park that preserves a blue gum-eucalyptus forest and Brisbane’s largest wetland. We met a park ranger when we entered the park and asked about kangaroos; she said there used to be kangaroos in area, but not anymore. Urban life is encroaching on all sides. She pointed out the pair of tawny frogmouths (relatives of nightjars) in a nearby tree – they hunt at night and roost during the day. We walked a trail through eucalyptus and casuarina (coastal she-oak) woodlands to a mangrove-lined salt marsh on Nundah Creek. We shared a bird blind with a snake.

Tawny frogmouths in Bondall Wetlands

Carpet python

The ranger identified it as a carpet python (its pattern and colors resembles a carpet). They grow to 5 m (16 ft); smaller ones hide in hollowed-out trees during the day and hunt at night. She said that in Brisbane, on average, everyone is within 7 m (13 ft) of a snake, but most people are unaware of them. Large, old trees have been removed from urban areas because they shed their limbs; the trees were homes for snakes and possums. Without natural holes to live in, snakes and possums take refuge in people’s attics. 

Nundah Creek, Bondall Wetlands

Kayakers in Nundah Creek, Bondall Wetlands

The ranger asked about my hat – from Yellowstone National Park – and I explained that 2016 is the centennial of the National Park Service and Yellowstone was our first national park. She said Australia’s park system began in 2015 and they celebrated their centennial the previous year.

Bondall Wetlands with Moreton Bay in background

The woman who owns the motel in Taigum saw that we were interested in birds and told us about Buckley’s Hole on Bribie Island where she lived. We saw our first black swans there.

Buckley's Hole

Black swan, Buckley's Hole

We took longer drives from Brisbane as I grew more comfortable behind the wheel. Our first long drive (150 km) was north of the city through the Glass House Mountains. In 1770, Lieutenant James Cook (later to become Captain James Cook) named the mountains, which reminded him of glass factory furnace stacks (glasshouses) in England. They’re actually the steep-sided plugs of ancient volcanoes exposed after 25 million years of erosion of the surrounding sandstones. There 14 mountains are volcanic plugs ranging from 123 m to 556 m (404-1,824 ft) high. The mountains are significant to Aboriginal people of the area and appear in their creation stories and beliefs (interpretive signs on Glass House Mtn Lookout).

Glass House Mountains [L to R: Cooee, Mt Tibrogargan (364 m), Trachyte Range, Mt Beerburrum (278 m)]

Mt Coonorwin (377 m), Glass House Mountains

We climbed Mt. Beerburrum (278 m, 912 ft) via a steep 700 m (2,300 ft) concrete path that winds through the eucalypt and pine forest to an old fire lookout on the top. From the lookout tower we could see Brisbane and Merton Bay in the distance. The forest spreading out at the base of the mountain was actually a tree farm – monoculture of pine trees in straight rows. It was a beautiful warm winter day and we saw fewer than 10 people on the trail. We took the road to Mt Beerwah and stopped for lunch below Mt Coonowrin (377 m, 1,237 ft), a rock tower jutting up from a forested hill surrounded by grassy pastures where cattle grazed.

Trail to Mt Ngungun

We climbed Mt. Ngungun (253 m, 830 ft) on a beautiful winter Sunday, clear and sunny and mild. The Aboriginal name means faces and is pronounced goo goo. The trailhead was packed with cars, so we knew it would be crowded. The dirt trail switch-backed up through the forest to the base of the volcanic plug where it narrowed and steepened. Most of the hikers were young – young families with kids and babies, and young adults in small groups. There were a few older couples and several elderly ladies. I confused one woman in her 30s when I moved to the right without thinking as she passed. “Oh, you’re passing on the right” she exclaimed as she side-steeped to give me room.

Spine leading to the summit on Mt Ngungun (253 m)

Near the summit of Mt. Ngungun, the trail narrowed and steepened with few places to pass slower hikers. Those returning from the summit competed for space with those approaching the summit, a narrow spine of exposed rock that gradually rises over 100 m (328 ft) to its highest point. That spine was swarming with people when I arrived. In the picture taken from the summit, the people in the center wearing climbing harnesses were abseiling (rappelling) down the cliff face.

View from the summit on Mt Ngungun

We saw our first goanna (monitor lizard) at the Glass House Mountains Lookout. They are 25 species of carnivorous monitors in Australia, the largest of which grows to 2.5 m (8 ft). The lace monitor, which is common in eastern Australia, is the second largest; it grows to 2 m (6 ft) and lives in open and closed forests. They're active from September to May and forage up to 3 km (1.8 mi) per day. In cooler months, they shelter in tree hollows and rotten logs (link). We saw a lace monitor foraging along the edge of a forest on a warm, sunny winter day.

Goanna (lace monitor)

Next, we're off to Cairns in northern Queensland taking three months to drive the 1,700 km (1,050 mi).

*There are five types of buoys in the international buoyage system: lateral, cardinal, safe water, isolated danger and special. Red, right, returning refers to lateral buoys and the world is divided into two lateral buoy regions: B (red to starboard - North and South America, Japan, North and South Korea and the Philippines) and A (red to port - rest of the world). The remaining four types of buoys are the same throughout the world (link).