Arriving in Busselton for a meeting on Thursday morning the town was clad in a blanket of fog. The drive down seemed a little eerie with visibility at times down to less than thirty meters. Pea soup sprung to mind. It was all the talk on arrival at my location, a wondrous and strange morning was what I heard people say. The image below is from several hours earlier during Lisa and my beach walk, and it lingered well into the morning. Not that I heard anyone use it, ‘pre-frontal snot’ is a colloquial term for such an event that often precedes a strong cold front:
I’ve also read such conditions are not unusually for the south west. They can be expected as the year transitions into the cold front season. Normally around mid to late autumn. We however struggled to think of a previous fog of this density or one which blanketed quite as expansive an area. My image bank proved us wrong and in late April just five years back we did, but it is the only such event in some twenty years of living here that we captured through stills. One thing was evident, the mornings were coming in damper:
This week, we have noticed condensation on the inside of the windows. Managing to stave off the cooling nights by popping another top on, or snuggling under a blanket in the evening. Wisps of smoke had been coming from chimneys of other homes for a few weeks, indicated they had opted for another way. And with dampness finally starting to creep indoors, on Thursday when I got home it was time for us to join them. Friday morning the poodles were grateful to be able to lie in front of the fire, which I made sure was wells stoked before I left:
Thursday’s thick fog wasn’t looking like it would be followed by a strong cold front, at least not this week. Something Howsie and I were grateful for when we drove out early, through a few patches of mist that looked to turn to fog once we drove into Wellington National Park. Fully expecting the bowl in which the dam lay to be the place it all collected, but to our surprise we could still see the stars when we arrived. A cold crisp morning, with a very heavy dew that resulted in us leaving a trial of footprints as we walked from the base of one climb to the next:
A second very welcome surprise was the rock was dry. Even holding onto just enough warmth, such that our fingers didn’t feel completely numb after the first line. A route that Howsie looked to cruise up, whereas my ascent felt heavy, clunky, and nervous. Despite it being a route we are very familiar with. Then moving onto one that rarely gets any attention. It’s a shame as it climbs really well, it is however an area that gets a lot of water and the state of the bolts is likely to put most off. And maybe they should put us off too:
One of the original lines here from when these walls were first sieged in 1997. Is it just surface rust coating the bolt head and washer’s, or does it go deeper. There is no way of telling. It was my turn to go first, on a line with holds and moves not as etched into my memory as others here are. Making me focus and work that bit harder, but also resulting in me improving my style or had I just warmed up. In contrast to the first climb this time it was Howsie who looked uncomfortable and sluggish. Not a great way to lead into his next route:
We went from one of the oldest to one of the newest climbs. Established just three years back, it has shiny new bolts you could hang a car from plus more bolts than any other route here, so is safe as houses. But it is one of the burlier climbs at the grade, not Howsie’s forte. Working well in the bottom half, his tiring arms made him second guess the last and steepest section. Having to repeat it numerous times before committing. But as he said timing is everything, and when I led it I had the perfect reward as I looked back across the valley:
Sandbagged 