On the drive out to Kennedy Range National Park I was day dreaming, as usual. I was wondering who I might meet and whether there would be volunteer campground hosts – as there often are at parks – to wish me g’day, provide change for the camp fee and dispense tips on the best walks in the park. Coral Bay had felt very busy and, whilst I was keen for some company, I was also looking forward to a quieter, less crowded camp. “Be careful what you wish for”, I have told myself on numerous occasions, but I rarely remember. No one. There was NO ONE at Kennedy Range National Park: no one else at the campground that was 50kms from the nearest town. Quieter it would certainly be and perhaps not the best place for a girl with Walter Mitty tendencies for wild imaginings. So it was just me and whatever else was ‘out there’, which by nightfall was one Butcherbird, one wallaby and a nest of small ants just outside the sliding door (poor parking when you have the whole campground to yourself but shade was at a premium). As darkness fell, the sounds of the night settled in: the comforting noise of cicadas, the whistle of the wind along the range and through the sheoaks and the soothing gurgle of my chicken dinner digesting gently in my stomach. “Oh please”, I whispered to whatever ancient spirits might be listening “Please don’t let there be dingoes and gunshots, like the last time I camped on my own.” And, fortunately, there weren’t. I was more alone than I would have chosen but it is a privilege to have a park this size (~ 75 x 25kms) to yourself.
parrygraphs 