Fugitive Travel: Tali Karng Retreat
Gunaikurnai country, in Victoria’s southeast, has hosted many fugitive travellers. From colonial era outlaws to First Nations resistance fighters and armed gangs of bushrangers, the area boasts a chequered history. In the area known as Gippsland, old growth forests, plateaus, and vast stretches of bushland provide ample cover for those wanting to evade the law or disappear from society. The broader alpine region continues all the way into New South Wales. It abounds with haunting tales of mysterious disappearances, unsolved murders, and the legend of the Button Man. It is the ideal location for a fugitive traveller, a role that I find myself playing on the Easter weekend of 2020.
With the arrival of COVID-19 in Australia, domestic travel is grinding to a halt. To help combat its spread, the government announces a nationwide lockdown from Good Friday to Easter Monday. Four days. Four days inside. It seems a daunting prospect. What will we do? How will we pass the time? Four days. In retrospect, it is laughable how unnerving it feels, given what is to come. Four days, I decide, are impossible to spend at home doing nothing. Killing time. So, what better place to go than where fugitive travellers have always ventured. Gunaikurnai country, Gippsland, the Australian bush.
In the early hours of Easter Saturday, there is a chill in the air. With the changing of the seasons, mornings are crisp and the days, while still bright, are cooler. My breath is visible as I walk downstairs, hauling a backpack full of camping gear. Before escaping the confines of Melbourne’s Easter lockdown, the car needs a few minutes to warm up. The exhaust breathes heavily as it heats, while a coating of dew has settled on the windscreen overnight. I wipe it away while waiting. The streets of inner city Melbourne are deserted on this second day of lockdown. Parklands, usually busy with dog walkers, joggers, and friends meeting for picnics, are devoid of life. Nobody is out shopping, taking their children to sports, or driving to the hardware store. They are all at home. It is eerie and thrilling at the same time. While driving towards the highway, it is a novelty to see another vehicle. The police have declared that they will turn back anybody found outside without a valid reason. In these early days of lockdowns, the seriousness of the virus is still underestimated. Warnings from the government and police reflect this more generous attitude. If I am stopped and told to return, I will agree. Though until that happens, I will venture as far as fugitively possible.
Public messaging, in the lead up to the Easter lockdown
The M1 is the main arterial road out of Melbourne, one of the city’s busiest. On this morning, it is a long stretch of emptiness. A vacant highway. It is a scene from tales of Armageddon. There is not another soul out here. It is so quiet that I can hear the rumble of the tyres on the road. This exposure is not ideal for a fugitive traveller. There is nowhere to hide and no other cars to blend in with. I wonder if the police are in hiding, waiting to catch fugitive travellers? Are they around the next corner, or spying from one of the overpasses? Will they suddenly appear from behind? I am on high alert and my eyes flick between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Despite the absence of traffic, I adhere to the speed limit. Arrogance and complacency are the enemies of evasion. The kilometres tick by and the city soon fades from view, replaced by the undulating hills of the countryside. My intense vigilance is now peppered with moments of calm. I bask in them, fleeting as they are, before the nervous energy resurfaces, gnawing at my insides. Such is the life of a fugitive traveller; there is seldom time for contentment.
As the hours pass, the town of Licola nears, more than 200 kilometres from Melbourne. I am amazed to have made it this far. For all the warnings, there have been no police anywhere on this fugitive journey. I stop for a break and pull the car onto the shoulder of the road. The tyres crunch in the gravel, and with the engine switched off, all is quiet. Standing on the roadside, there is an enveloping, blanketing silence. The morning air is crisp against my face, and the only sounds are birdsongs and the distant rumble of thunder. A soft breeze brushes past me, caressing my cheeks. On the horizon, mountain ranges have greyed, reduced to monotones by an impending storm. At my feet, patches of grass glisten with dew. These are the moments travellers cling to, precious snippets of time when the manmade world is silent. Moments to bathe in nature and listen as she whispers her secrets. On a nearby farm, a motor roars to life. The harsh, metallic noise shakes me from my reverie, and I remember not to loiter. My destination is so close, and I should not tempt fate.
Gunaikurnai country / Gippsland
From Licola, the way to the Tali Karng trailhead is long and winding. On the backcountry road, phone communication ends, obstructed by the tall river gums and undulating ranges. The excitement grows inside me as the road bends, veering left and right as my destination nears. I have run the gauntlet from Melbourne and made it, more than 300 kilometres. The slalom journey continues, with a rising sense of relief and satisfaction. Around another bend, the sense of freedom and euphoria comes to a grinding halt. My heart skips a beat. Oh shit. A police car is coming towards me! Oh shit. Is this it? Is this where my journey ends? It cannot be. I have come so far. I am so close.
As the police car approaches, the laws of time warp, slowing to a glacial pace. The world is silent again, yet this time trepidation replaces tranquillity. My heart is beating out of my chest. Our vehicles align, the fugitive traveller and the law, together for an eternal, fleeting moment. My hands grip the wheel at ten and two, and my eyes are fixed on the road. The moment passes. Time snaps abruptly back into motion, and each of us disappears around a bend. The exhilaration of fugitive travel gushes over me. I holler in excitement and relief, banging my hands on the dashboard. I accelerate through the following bends, unsure if the police have, or will, turn around. For the next ten minutes, my eyes dart between the rearview mirror and the road ahead.
They never return.
Lake Tali Karng, Gunaikurnai country
‘A big fella waterhole, what creek go in, and never come out again.’ This ominous description of Lake Tali Karng was offered to anthropologist Alfred Howitt in the 19th century. The English born explorer is credited as being the first European to reach Tali Karng, supported by Gunaikurnai guides in the 1880s. Tribal laws and spiritual beliefs forbid Aboriginal people from visiting the lake and camping there is prohibited for everyone. Instead, visitors must pitch tents in the nearby Valley of Destruction. It is underneath this valley that the lake emerges into a series of surrounding rivers.
From the trailhead, the route to Lake Tali Karng is a 17 kilometre hike with more than a dozen river crossings. Across the Easter long weekend, I encounter nobody else on the trail. The wind and wildlife are my only company, while at night I warm myself by the campfire. I have discovered fugitive travel, and I love it.
Gunaikurnai country, the ideal location for fugitive travel
