The Wilson Prom

The other day I was rummaging round in our shed looking for something which may or may not have been there, when I noticed my camping gear, neatly stowed in its plastic storage box. This caused me a slight pang of guilt because for some time, I’ve been planning on digging this out, sorting through it and setting off on a trip, just like the old days. Despite having a front yard which is as pretty as any campsite, the wanderlust has been tugging at my heart for a while and I’m determined that soon I shall dust off my backpack, dig out the hike tent, my stove and my trusty old boots, and go spend some quality time in the wild.

It wasn’t going to be this weekend however, as through the shed window I could see the pine trees bending before the bitterly cold January wind. I might be enthusiastic about roughing it, but I’m not that enthusiastic.

Although….it isn’t like I haven’t camped in worse.

Australians are rightfully proud of the Wilson Promontory; a scenic peninsula off the Victoria coast, south-east of Melbourne. The southernmost point on the Australian mainland, it comprises 130km of scenic coastline framed by granite headlands, mountains, forests and fern gullies. While I was meandering my way through the region in the early summer of 1992, almost everyone I met encouraged me to go visit.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” they enthused, “you must see it”.

I was happy enough to follow their recommendation and the only potential challenge as I saw it, was that the park wasn’t served by public transportation. However, hitchhiking in Australia is safe and easy, and I’d been making steady progress around the country so far. I was confident I’d have no trouble and sure enough, I covered the 125 miles from my previous halt in four lifts without waiting more than twenty minutes at a time.

I’d been warned that the sprawling campsite near the park’s entrance was not a good advertisement for the delights to come. Basic, functional and full of oversized motor-homes and mansion-like tents, it was nobody’s idea of a wilderness retreat. But, it was late in the day when I arrived and there was little point in setting out into the bush, so instead I pitched my little hike tent, and snuggled in for the night. Just as I was switching off my flashlight and closing my book, I overheard a neighbor remark in the smug manner of the know-it-all. “There’s going to be a big storm coming in tonight.”

“Yeah, right” I thought, burrowing deeper into my sleeping bag, “there’s hardly a cloud in the sky!” I think it was about 2am when it hit.

Have you ever been in the path of a steam train as it bears down on you, screaming like a thousand prehistoric monsters? No, me neither but I suspect it sounds a lot like the noise the wind made as it thundered through the trees on its way to our campsite. Wave after wave, carrying raindrops, which lashed my tent like thousands of tiny javelins. Standard camping procedure for high wind nights requires that the tent be pitched end on to the gale. Except I hadn’t expected a storm (clear sky, remember?) so had pitched mine at an angle which now turned out to be directly sideways to the storm.

Hour after hour, I lay there listening to the next round careering its way up the valley. Each time a blast hit, my little tent would rock sideways, sometimes to the point where the wall would cover my face. It stood up pretty well but around 4am, a certain flexibility in the floor revealed that the pegs were beginning to work their way loose. Out I went and in nothing but my boxers, scuttled from pin to pin, securing them as best I could. Even the people in the big rigs were having trouble and several of my neighbors were also out (although more suitably attired than I) attempting to re-set guy ropes on awnings and canopies.

Once I was confident my own tent was as fastened as reliably as could be, I grabbed some warmer clothes and set about helping my compatriots. Why this act of altruism? I hear you ask. Well, because I knew that this storm had no intention of letting up in time for me to begin my planned bush-hike in the morning and would no doubt keep me ensnared on this desolate campsite for at least one more day. And in the afternoon, most of the country would be watching the Australian Rules Football Grand Final. And most of these motor homes had televisions. And fridges full of beer. See where I’m going with this? It was a time for making friends.

I needn’t have bothered. By 6am the air was rent with the sound of diesel engines firing into life as the pansies in their motor-homes, luxury trailers and comfort-laden cruisers packed up and ran for home. By the time I poked my red-rimmed eyes through the tent flaps, the site was almost deserted. Branches and other debris lay all around; great pools of water were attempting to link into one vast lake and the sky was dark and brooding. Every one of my newly made friends had abandoned me. However, the wind had eased somewhat so the rain was only at angle of 45 degrees now. Even so, I’d been right in my prediction that I wasn’t doing any hiking today.

I spent that Saturday huddled in the camp’s dreary café, attempting to make single cups of coffee last for hours and for a large part of the time, sitting on a bar of chocolate trying to warm it up enough to break off a piece. By Sunday the weather was showing no signs of let up and reasoning that while hitching onto a peninsula had been easy enough, hitching off a 100-mile cul-de-sac could prove challenging if I didn’t take advantage of the few remaining folks heading back to town, I abandoned my plans for a wilderness hike and turned my feet towards Melbourne.

I got there easily enough and by late-afternoon was sipping a coke in the Youth Hostel garden. Predictably, the sun was brilliantly warm by this time and remained so for the next few months. I continued my way around Australia and never did see The Wilson Prom but for the remainder of my stay, whenever I outlined my route to a local the response was always the same.

“Oh The Wilson Prom, isn’t it beautiful there?”