Listening to Mondrian (15 page)

A Limestone Gorge and Caves

The most spectacular feature of Lower Glenelg National
Park is the gorge of the Glenelg River. For
15 kilometres along its lower reaches, the river has
cut a gorge, in places more than 50 metres deep, in
Miocene limestone.

Water percolating through and dissolving the limestone
has formed caves, which are of archaeological
interest. Some caves have vertical shafts which, over
thousands of years, have literally been death traps for
unwary animals. The remains of long-extinct marsupials
such as the giant kangaroo and the marsupial lion have been found in these caves, as well as remains of the
Tasmanian Devil, now extinct on the mainland.

Ant had believed the student last night but somehow, reading about the archaeology, it seemed more real. It almost made him dizzy to think of time, and the making of the landscape.

‘More toast?’ Tony asked. ‘Or would you like to order a serving of crumpets or muffins or pancakes or something?’

He seemed finally to have realised the size of Ant’s appetite; or perhaps he had remembered his own, at that age.

‘Yes, please,’ Ant said.

‘All four?’ Tony grinned.

It was only a small joke, but at the beginning of the week it would not have been possible.

Ant smiled back. ‘Um, toast,’ he said, trying to think of the cheapest. He had never really thought about how much things cost, but since the other night he’d been watching, and Tony was shelling out a stack of money every day, what with petrol, accommodation and Ant’s appetite.

Tony pulled a face. ‘Oh, go for the pancakes and I’ll have some with you. I have toast every morning of my life, living by myself. It’s pretty tedious.’ Whether he meant living alone, or the monotony of his breakfasts, wasn’t clear. Ant didn’t know how he was meant to respond, so he went on reading.

The Princess Margaret Rose Caves contain excellent
examples of actively growing stalactites, stalagmites,
helictites and other spectacular limestone formations. The cave can be readily seen on a tour led by an informative
National Parks Ranger. Commercial boat tours
operate to the caves from Nelson.

‘So what’s on the agenda for today?’ Tony asked as they mopped up lemon and sugar with pancake. ‘You choose.’

Outside, the weather was lashing fiercely at the pub’s roof. ‘How about,’ Ant said, ‘we catch a boat up the river, and go for a tour of the caves?’

His father didn’t look enthusiastic. ‘What about a bushwalk instead? The forest is meant to be really great here.’

Ant looked at him as if he were crazy. ‘We’d get drenched! And there’s probably branches flying all over the place. At least in the boat and the caves, we’d be inside.’

Like the first joke, this too was a milestone: Ant had felt at ease enough to push against his father’s will. Perhaps Tony realised this, for he simply shrugged, said, ‘OK, if that’s what you really want,’ and moved the rest of the pancakes over to Ant’s side of the table.

(8) THE MOVEMENT OF WATER

The boat departed (a notice said) at 1.00 p.m. Victorian time, 12.30 p.m. South Australian time. Here on the border, life was lived in dual time zones.

As the captain’s wife took down the chain to let the queue on board, Ant politely slipped around the dithering groups of grandparents and children, Japanese honeymoon couples and German backpackers and grabbed one of the front tables for Tony and himself.

‘Good work,’ his father said, sitting beside him.

The boat was a bit like a café: a long rectangular cabin with ordinary straight walls and a flat ceiling, rows of chairs and laminex-topped tables. At the back of the room was a little counter where you could get teabag tea and instant coffee, packets of chips and Minties, but Tony had brought a thermos of brewed coffee from the pub and a fruit cake from the Nelson shop. (The banana supply was finished, Ant was pleased to see.) The whole of the front of the cabin was taken up by a huge glass sliding door that looked out onto the river.

The captain’s wife cast off from the little deck in front of their window, clasping her coat tight around her, patting at her hairdo as the wind lashed the rain every which way. Then she slid the door open a little and squeezed back into the warmth of the cabin.

There were waves, Ant saw as they headed inland, not just boat wake but waves crisscrossing the river. And the water was – what? – Payne’s grey today, and the shadows of the gorge were . . .

Ant fumbled in his yellow bag, pulled out his sketchbook and pencils. He just couldn’t stop himself.

First a sketch of the landing station, hills and forest in the background.
Glenelg River, 7 July
, he wrote. Ant always dated his sketches. They were his way of remembering the things he didn’t want to forget.

The second sketch was of the bridge as they approached it, a cluster of little boatsheds behind.

Then around the bend a little way, a view of the left side of the gorge, a rock jutting out, two trees on top.

Now twisting back with the river’s movement, getting looser, a view to the front, the water curving open, a gentle fold of gorge-top.

Snaking again, moving with the flow like a dancer following a rhythm, a quick series of three bends, three inlets, three hills.

Pace building up now, but focus in, a close look at the gorge-side, the tree trunks strong lines with the foliage today taking on the colour of grey river, grey sky, grey rock, 8B pencil.
Glenelg River, 7/7 . . .

For some time now Ant had been aware and not aware of people passing from the cabin to the little front deck, pausing to look over his shoulder, observing as he drew; and the presence of his father, not just quiet beside him but almost breathless, as if afraid to break the spell.

Now the grandmother from the seat behind was commenting to Tony, ‘Aren’t they lovely . . . they’re so good . . . he’s so talented, isn’t he? Does he have lessons?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tony replied.

‘Oh!’ said the grandmother, ‘Pardon me, I thought you were his father!’ and she bristled away.

Then the river did a sudden jive and the view opened leftwards again towards a curving bay, a cluster of brightly painted boatsheds with landing docks and piers.

And again a turn – this time towards the side of the gorge, the striations of the limestone reminding Ant, as he traced them, how the land makes itself in layers, by the movement of water.
Glenelg River, 7/7 . . .

As Ant again and again wrote the date on this record of his journey, it began to assume a significance, as if the seventh day of the seventh month was like the seventh son of the seventh son in the fairytales: possessing a magic of its own.

Time for one more quick sketch (the river itself this time, boat wash, ripples, a submerged branch) as they headed in to the landing for the caves.

(9) INSIDE

The people from the boat milled around for a while in the National Parks building, buying tickets and postcards, looking at wall charts that explained the geology:

The formation of Princess Margaret Rose Caves was
assisted by water from the Glenelg River, which worked
its way for 300 m along a faultline in the limestone. This occurred 800,000 years ago when the river was
15 m above its present height. The water scalloped the
walls of the cave and created a reasonably level
floor.

How the stalactites form

Rainwater as it seeps from the surface acts as a weak
acid to dissolve limestone, producing a solution of
calcium bicarbonate. When this reaches the air of the
cave, carbon dioxide is released and calcium carbonate is deposited in the form of calcite crystals. These
crystals make up the diverse and spectacular formations
of the cave.

A bell rang, and a uniformed ranger led the way to a door in the wall.

Ant and his father found themselves at the front of the queue as the ranger ushered the group through the door and down a flight of extremely steep limestone steps. Although this stairwell was floodlit, it was very narrow; with forty other tourists pushing down behind, it felt as if there was no way back, if you should happen to have second thoughts.

Ant found himself remembering the story of Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, for there was a giddying feeling about this rapid descent.

And then the stairs opened out into a vast cavern, and all that Ant was aware of was a sense of the earth that overcame him.

Although there was Chapel every morning at school, Ant had never felt religious; now he did. The awe he felt, however, was not at
God
making the earth, but at the
earth
making the earth: it was a sense of vastness and smallness coming together, as Ant became aware of how each and every drop of calcium carbonate was part of this creation process: and it was a sense of a combination of oldness and newness, for if this creation had been happening since the very beginning, it was happening still, all around Ant, at this very second. Stalactites were building unseen.

All of this produced in Ant such a feeling of well-being that he didn’t even mind the comments of the other tourists around him . . .

‘Look, darling, it’s just like diamonds!’

‘Oooh, that’s a cute one!’

‘Here’s one that looks like a rocket!’

It was as if the cave was some sort of Disneyland, created for their amusement. Tony of course wasn’t saying any of this stuff; indeed, Ant hadn’t heard him say anything since they’d been down here.

‘I’ll turn the lights out in a moment,’ the ranger announced, ‘so that you can experience the darkness.’

Most of the tourists didn’t seem to be listening, but the ranger kept talking. ‘Even on a moonless night,’ he explained, ‘there is always some light in the sky, and your eyes adapt to it. But down here, there is a complete absence of light. Is everybody ready . . .?’

Despite the warnings, there was a loud gasp from the group as the lights went off.

Pitch – Ant thought, running through the ways he knew to describe black – pitch black, jet black, inky black, ebony, black as coal, black as a crow, but nothing in his experience was black as a cave.

At first Ant was aware of the tourists around him. The darkness seemed to make them feel a need for comedy, and there was a great deal of giggling, interspersed with pathetic jokes.

‘Ooooookie spooooookies . . .’ said one of the women, in a voice you’d expect from an eight-year-old boy.

Soon, however, Ant was able to block them out, by focusing on what was around him. It wasn’t just the depth of colour that was extraordinary to him – it was the density, the complete lack of tones. With no light, there was no shadow. Was this what the colour field painters had been aiming at: pure colour?

And then a man’s voice abruptly cut in: ‘What’s that noise?’

‘The Monster from the Deep,’ one of the jokers replied.

‘No, I’m serious,’ the man said.

‘Yeah, just listen . . .’ said another voice, sounding alarmed.

They all hushed then, and Ant could hear what they meant: there was a terrible sound of breathing, of short loud rasping breaths, as if some huge creature was in the cave with them, ready to pounce. Although he didn’t himself feel threatened by whateveritwas, Ant was aware of the fear from the rest of the group tingling like electricity through the damp black air.

‘
Help!
’ someone yelled.

‘
Turn on the lights!

’ It seemed to take ages for the ranger to reach the switch, and during that time the monstrous panting seemed to Ant to get closer and closer to him. It was as if he could feel the creature’s breath against his cheek.

‘
Ahhhhh!’
There was a collective sigh of relief as light flooded the cavern. And then they were all staring apprehensively around.

What was it?

Where was it?

It was Ant who realised. The monster was his father.

(10) SHRINKING

Tony stood as if frozen beside a pillar of golden limestone, his face whitish-green and covered (Ant noticed) with a film of sweat. The loud panting was still going on, getting faster and faster. It was clear that Tony was breathing too quickly to take in enough oxygen.

‘He’s hyperventilating,’ Ant heard someone say. ‘Get him out of here!’

As the ranger gently took Tony’s arm, he started to shake his head wildly back and forth. ‘
I can’t, I can’t
,’ he seemed to be saying between huge breaths and – as if against his will – his tall body began to hunch, and now Ant’s father became smaller and smaller, shrinking down in front of the limestone pillar until he was curling at its base like a child.

‘Is he claustrophobic?’ the ranger asked Ant.

‘I don’t know,’ Ant said, and then found himself admitting, ‘I don’t know him very well.’

‘C’mon, mate . . .’ The ranger bent over the frightened body. ‘You really do have to let us help you.’

The ranger and Ant managed to lift Tony to his feet, then slung his arms around their shoulders and struggled their way up the shaft steps and onto the rim of the earth.

(11) OUTSIDE

Tony sat on the bench outside the exit door. He seemed to be concentrating very hard as his breathing changed over from the hysterical panting to something a little slower, a little deeper.

He was still shivering, though.

Ant took his parka off, wrapped it around Tony’s shoulders, then found himself rubbing up and down Tony’s back in long, firm strokes.

Click.

Ant’s mind saw this picture, and then imposed over it – or maybe under it – an almost identical picture of a tall thin bloke comforting a sobbing child.

Dad-and-me. That time I got caught in the channel at
Nambucca Heads, and he swam in and pulled me out, and he
rubbed my back till I felt better, and he didn’t go crook at me
even though he’d told me there was a bad rip that day and I
was to stay in the camping ground
.

Click.