Domino Rail Trail Circuit
U3A Hike No 99
Report by Monica McCormack
It didn’t look promising: steady drizzle, low lying wisps of rain cloud hanging like washing over the hills, average visibility, soggy pathways. Still, 30 hardy hikers turned up in the grey light at 7.45am – more or less on time – at the usual place, Kirks Reservoir. The day had its advantages: no total fire ban, no looming bushfires. This was a special occasion, theoretically speaking: a celebration of the 100th walk arranged by Fearless Leader (FL) Andrew Parker. A milestone and tribute to his impeccable organisational skills and exhilarating choice of walks. In reality, however, it was the 99th occasion: due to an earlier hiking cancellation it fell short of the milestone. But, who was to quibble over just one numeral?
Thirty hikers divided between eight cars took off for Lyonville, for the beginning of the walk, 40 minutes away. Unbeknown to most, however, reality once again superseded theory. A ninth motor - maroon, isolated, and unacknowledged - limped after the pack many minutes later. It contained the bookend of the hiking party, The Whip, who suspected - even as he chased the happily oblivious cavalcade – that this could set the pace for the rest of the day. He had, quite simply, been left behind. And, no one had noticed. This oversight should be a salutary reminder to all: despite every effort at strictly adhered-to head counts, perfect mathematical divisions and tail-end checks, one soul can quite easily be overlooked. Even before a hike begins.
The slightly false start aside, all went well, once we hit Lyonville, a quiet, uninhabited, genteel backwater. Parked in a laneway beside a plum tree weighed down by purple treasure, and an apple tree shyly hiding its near-ripe fruit, the troops did what any self respecting, environmentally conscious, waste-not want-not group of Baby Boomers would do: stripped the trees bare. The fallen fruit was also considered for its bruises.
Fired by an early morning dose of fructose, the troops – clad in a subtle range of hiking gear from brilliant pink jackets to plastic kilts - headed off through the towering, peeling gums of the Domino Rail Trail (No 99). It was in every way the perfect walk: flat, soft ground underfoot, and cool air. No puffing up hills or knee jolting downhill terrain. We strode confidently through mixed-habitat bushland; only the lakes formed from last night’s downpour had us gingerly skirting the edges and watching our step. Deep under the towering gums, after just a kilometre or two, we encountered a small army of beehives, busily making $30,000 worth of honey from the surrounding mezzanines. This time we kept a healthy distance from the potential produce.
After a relaxed six-kilometre stroll through dripping bushland we arrived at Trentham’s Quarry Reserve, sitting prettily on its lake, and broke up for morning tea. All 30 souls had managed to remain in tact, in spite of a party of laggers deeply engaged in political debate, and attending to an extended bush ablution, at the end of the line. The Whip thought he now had things pretty well under control after his desperate forage – back in the bush - for the walkie talkie. The technology had become stuck in the lining of his back pocket, with the FL’s desperate voice emanating from his left hip. How does one cope with so many things going on at once? Bush ablutions, a talkative OS blow-in and a buried walkie talkie? Things were momentarily complicated. At the shelter, however, tranquillity resumed as 30 perfectly sliced pieces of chocolate and cinnamon cake, with 99 iced on top, were distributed. Our FL was presented with an ueber sized thank you card, and a beautifully assembled photographic account of the Great Ocean Road Walk. Then, it was off again for the second leg of the 12.5km trek.
A gentle downhill stroll led us to Trentham Station, where for a nostalgic moment, we anticipated the appearance of a steam locomotive on the ghostly tracks. We paused while drizzle intensified. And waited. Not for a ghost train, but for the Tail End. It had – once again – evaporated.
A quaint country railway station without trains provides a pleasant diversion: it offers shelter, you can contemplate the views, or discuss steam travel in days gone by. But, it was close to lunchtime, stomachs were rumbling. Lunchtime, a few kms to go, and no sign of the Tail End. We waited.
In a sudden flurry the Tail End – the Whip, the OS blow-in, the Californian and the Guy in the Shorts (sorry, can’t remember names) appeared. The Whip couldn’t believe his luck! He’d found the main party, despite taking an uphill rather than the requisite downhill turn. ‘All here’ he quipped, relieved after a cursory head count. A Whip’s job is clearly arduous and never done.
We progressed to lunch at the Lyonville Recreation Hall where some kind soul had left a few rows of metal seats parked against the weatherboards. Unfortunately, the toilets were locked, a small item only women hikers tend to notice.
Our final leg of the hike took us back to our cars, where all nine raced to Frangos for coffee in rain soaked Daylesford. As we left for our starting point at Kirks the sun finally broke through.
Report by Monica McCormack
It didn’t look promising: steady drizzle, low lying wisps of rain cloud hanging like washing over the hills, average visibility, soggy pathways. Still, 30 hardy hikers turned up in the grey light at 7.45am – more or less on time – at the usual place, Kirks Reservoir. The day had its advantages: no total fire ban, no looming bushfires. This was a special occasion, theoretically speaking: a celebration of the 100th walk arranged by Fearless Leader (FL) Andrew Parker. A milestone and tribute to his impeccable organisational skills and exhilarating choice of walks. In reality, however, it was the 99th occasion: due to an earlier hiking cancellation it fell short of the milestone. But, who was to quibble over just one numeral?
Thirty hikers divided between eight cars took off for Lyonville, for the beginning of the walk, 40 minutes away. Unbeknown to most, however, reality once again superseded theory. A ninth motor - maroon, isolated, and unacknowledged - limped after the pack many minutes later. It contained the bookend of the hiking party, The Whip, who suspected - even as he chased the happily oblivious cavalcade – that this could set the pace for the rest of the day. He had, quite simply, been left behind. And, no one had noticed. This oversight should be a salutary reminder to all: despite every effort at strictly adhered-to head counts, perfect mathematical divisions and tail-end checks, one soul can quite easily be overlooked. Even before a hike begins.
The slightly false start aside, all went well, once we hit Lyonville, a quiet, uninhabited, genteel backwater. Parked in a laneway beside a plum tree weighed down by purple treasure, and an apple tree shyly hiding its near-ripe fruit, the troops did what any self respecting, environmentally conscious, waste-not want-not group of Baby Boomers would do: stripped the trees bare. The fallen fruit was also considered for its bruises.
Fired by an early morning dose of fructose, the troops – clad in a subtle range of hiking gear from brilliant pink jackets to plastic kilts - headed off through the towering, peeling gums of the Domino Rail Trail (No 99). It was in every way the perfect walk: flat, soft ground underfoot, and cool air. No puffing up hills or knee jolting downhill terrain. We strode confidently through mixed-habitat bushland; only the lakes formed from last night’s downpour had us gingerly skirting the edges and watching our step. Deep under the towering gums, after just a kilometre or two, we encountered a small army of beehives, busily making $30,000 worth of honey from the surrounding mezzanines. This time we kept a healthy distance from the potential produce.
After a relaxed six-kilometre stroll through dripping bushland we arrived at Trentham’s Quarry Reserve, sitting prettily on its lake, and broke up for morning tea. All 30 souls had managed to remain in tact, in spite of a party of laggers deeply engaged in political debate, and attending to an extended bush ablution, at the end of the line. The Whip thought he now had things pretty well under control after his desperate forage – back in the bush - for the walkie talkie. The technology had become stuck in the lining of his back pocket, with the FL’s desperate voice emanating from his left hip. How does one cope with so many things going on at once? Bush ablutions, a talkative OS blow-in and a buried walkie talkie? Things were momentarily complicated. At the shelter, however, tranquillity resumed as 30 perfectly sliced pieces of chocolate and cinnamon cake, with 99 iced on top, were distributed. Our FL was presented with an ueber sized thank you card, and a beautifully assembled photographic account of the Great Ocean Road Walk. Then, it was off again for the second leg of the 12.5km trek.
A gentle downhill stroll led us to Trentham Station, where for a nostalgic moment, we anticipated the appearance of a steam locomotive on the ghostly tracks. We paused while drizzle intensified. And waited. Not for a ghost train, but for the Tail End. It had – once again – evaporated.
A quaint country railway station without trains provides a pleasant diversion: it offers shelter, you can contemplate the views, or discuss steam travel in days gone by. But, it was close to lunchtime, stomachs were rumbling. Lunchtime, a few kms to go, and no sign of the Tail End. We waited.
In a sudden flurry the Tail End – the Whip, the OS blow-in, the Californian and the Guy in the Shorts (sorry, can’t remember names) appeared. The Whip couldn’t believe his luck! He’d found the main party, despite taking an uphill rather than the requisite downhill turn. ‘All here’ he quipped, relieved after a cursory head count. A Whip’s job is clearly arduous and never done.
We progressed to lunch at the Lyonville Recreation Hall where some kind soul had left a few rows of metal seats parked against the weatherboards. Unfortunately, the toilets were locked, a small item only women hikers tend to notice.
Our final leg of the hike took us back to our cars, where all nine raced to Frangos for coffee in rain soaked Daylesford. As we left for our starting point at Kirks the sun finally broke through.
Photos by Mark Bevelander
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