Gulaga and her sons

Gulaga and her sons

He was travelling in his old Renault late at night towards the far South Coast, three hundred and fifty miles from Sydney. It was a dark, gloomy winter night, the moon was hours from making an appearance, and once outside of heavily populated areas the roads would be unlit.

With a heavy heart as always when he parted from Olga, he drove close to tears, thinking of her on her own, carrying their first child.

It seemed like just a few short days earlier that She had told him of her pregnancy while they sat on a South Coast beach, huddled together against a fresh ocean breeze. On breaking the news, Olga had broken into tears unsure how he would react. Without hesitation he had placed his arms around her and gently pulled her towards him, kissing her warmly and beaming a broad smile, simply saying “it will be wonderful, thank you darling”. 

Her hesitancy was because they had married with the conviction they should not have children. They had just purchased the farm, a new house was under construction, and for the first time in their lives together they had become indebted. Olga’s career in teaching was blossoming, her dedication to the schoolchildren was such that she wished to finish the year with her class, to not subject them to the disruption of a new teacher for the final months of the year. It was a decision they both lived to regret. 

The farm, purchased with little thought to the lifestyle changes involved, and the sacrifices they would each have to make became a turning point in their marriage, the isolation they both endured turning the distance between them into something more than points on a map.

The drive South was over five hours, longer if he stopped for fuel or a snack. It was a drive that he made every weekend in the battered and rusty Renault to savour a few shot hours together with her, not that the effort troubled him. It seemed that the old adage - “absence makes the heart grow fonder” was never truer than in the situation they found themselves entrapped in. 

This night he had delayed his departure till the very last moment, for each time they parted seemed harder than the last. Driving at such an hour would mean less traffic, fewer road closures, and in all probability a less eventful trip. Such was the hour that no shops were open, and petrol stations were few and far between. By now there were few cars on the road, it was late on Sunday night, bitterly cold. Most people huddled indoors around warm fires, yet here he was, again saying goodbye to the only woman he had ever loved.

The road was mostly in good condition, but as this was the old coastal road between Sydney and Melbourne it followed the curves and undulations of every hillside, had few straight sections and was mostly though tall forests, with large eucalypts and understory encroaching the road’s edge.

After three hours, he passed through Narooma, a coastal fishing town set amongst forests of “Spotted Gum”, a particularly beautiful, Eucalypt species that towered above an understory of cycads. The cycads, a rather mysterious and ancient plant gave an otherworldly feel to the eucalypt forests, and at night a haunting beauty. 

Further on he neared Tilba Tilba, where he slowed as the road was often icy and treacherous. The winding road ahead was fraught with nocturnal animals, ready to leap into his path in a blind panic to escape the oncoming Renault. Wandering Wombats, an occasional Dingo could dart out in front of the vehicle at any moment, while Nightjars, owls and flying foxes seemed omnipresent, lit by headlights under the moonless skies.

“Tilba Tilba” was an Aboriginal term meaning “Many waters”, an apt description

for the misty, temperate rainforest that enveloped the mountains nearby. The largest mountain was an extinct volcano, now set amongst dense eucalypt forests, a haven for a vast array of nocturnal creatures. He had been lucky on the many previous trips, a slight glance against a large, aggressive male Grey kangaroo was the closest he had come to an accident, while a herd of cows meandering casually in the middle of the road late one night had startled him, but no harm ensued to car or beast.

The sleepy village consisted of a hundred or so timber cottages, most of which had stood there for more than a hundred years. Considered to be a national treasure, Tilba Tilba now functioned as a tourist destination, with local cheese, arts and crafts attracting hordes of tourists in the summer months, but far fewer in winter. Passing through the town uneventfully, and then through the even tinier town of Central Tilba he continued on to a series of steep, rolling hills overlaid with dense forests of eucalypts.

It was just at this point that the moon appeared, peeking over the high hillsides and just visible if he glanced over his left shoulder. The Renault’s headlights barely pierced the surrounding gloom, but seeing the glowing orb in the rear view mirror he knew the moon would soon illuminate the road through gaps in the tree cover.  

The road presented an almost constant series of undulating peaks and troughs, bends and curves. If viewed from above, his journey along the road might have looked like the serpentine motion of a snake describing a pathway through a forest of jungle green. The peaks were particularly dangerous, with the road narrowing through the rough hewn black granite sides that delineated each side of the road, huge jagged rocks jutting out from the road cutting, never more that a metre or two from the road edge.  

Off to the right were the southern flanks of Mount Dromedary, so named because it featured a prominent hump at the top, but this was rarely seen from the road, being constantly bathed in mist. Indigenous people avoided the mountain, citing the malign presence of primitive little people who lived among the rocks and caves of the mist shrouded summit. The Wathagundarls as they were known, were said to be primitive little people of violent and mischievous disposition. He could well believe this, the area had a mystic, unworldly feel to it, nothing that emerged from the perennial mists would be a surprise to him.

As he drove on he hugged the steering wheel tightly, expecting the unexpected, feeling entirely uncomfortable with trees but a metre or so off the edge of the road, many being sixty to seventy metres tall, and immovable even when hit by a car travelling at highway speed. There was little room for mistake, or the distraction of a large animal on the road.

On past journeys, foraging wombats, wallabies and kangaroos were often glimpsed, and occasionally a lyrebird or dingo could be seen, but these were shy, nocturnal creatures, he counted himself somewhat lucky to encounter them at all, even for a fleeting moment.

As the moon rose into the night sky, beams of light were piercing through gaps between the trees, however he felt slightly more comfortable that he could see the road ahead a little better.

He reached the foothills ate the base of Mount Dromedary, then as he sped towards the Wallaga lake turnoff, he felt eyes upon him. Instinctively he looked sharply to the right to see an entire hillside of pasture bathed in intense moonlight, blinding him momentarily.

A shudder ran through his spine as he rounded the curve of the hill, it was as though someone has walked on his grave. A malevolent stare had descended upon him, as something followed the progress of the Renault as it passed by the hillside. The thought that something evil resided there, or some terrible deed had taken place there in the past flooded into his mind. 

Now in some panic, he flattened the accelerator pedal, silently urging the old Renault to get him away from the wretched place as fast as possible. Soon he reached the lake turnoff, and he took one last look over his shoulder, seeing the moon shining brightly well above the forest, but seemingly hovering where he had just been. 

He now descended a long, gentle slope where the topography changed rapidly, the steep hills giving way to rolling pastures that were fenced both sides of the road.  

Upon seeing a few lights flickering in the farmhouses scattered around, he relaxed slightly, whatever was upon him was now in the distant rear. 

The remainder of the journey was uneventful, and he arrived at Merimbula at three in the morning, crashing immediately in bed, sleeping soundly for five or so hours.

He did not think of the incident much after this, putting it down to his emotional state and his remorse at departing his loved one. They were to spend many months apart, and his guilt grew

steadily as she neared giving birth, alone in their Sydney house. He continued his regular journey’s to their home, spending as much time with her as circumstance would allow, however he never again travelled at such late hours, perhaps subconsciously avoiding whatever he had felt on that winters night.

Some months later he and his two brothers were travelling to Sydney, he slept in the back seat of their vehicle as it had been a long and arduous week and all of them were close to exhaustion but glad to leave the farm for a few days. In a deep sleep, he suddenly awoke, his face bathed in perspiration, as though he had woken from a terrible waking dream. It was then that he saw the hillside that had so frightened him a few months earlier, now bathed in bright sunlight, and again a cold shiver ran down his spine.

From that time on, each time the cursed place was passed he felt the same misgivings. Over many years it remained one of the few places he dreaded driving through on the long journey South, a sense of foreboding remained with him.

Years later he had the opportunity of talking to an aboriginal elder familiar with the South coast and the legends of the indigenous people from there. When he told the story of his experiences the Elder related the story of Gulaga, a spiritual “earth mother” in the ancient mythology and beliefs of the local Yuin people.

In the Elders story - “The pregnant Gulaga was collecting bush food with her sons, Najanuga and Barranguba. Barranguba said to his mother, “I wish to move away and set up on my own.” Gulaga said to him “You can move out there, into the ocean with the fish, whales and the dolphins. You will be not so far away, so that I can keep an eye on you”.

Barranguba went out into the ocean where he lay down, turning into an island. Najanuga, witnessing this, said to his mother - “I wish to do as my brother, and have my own place also.”

Gulaga replied “You are too young, you must stay here at my feet where I can take care of you.” There he stayed close to her, as the small peak at the foot of Gulaga. The peak is now known as Little Dromedary.

Gulaga, became the mountain at Tilba Tilba, where Najanuga remains close to her in the form of the small peak at the foot of Gulaga. Barranguba rests close by, off the coast of Narooma, where Gulaga watches over him.”

And so the area became the traditional birthing place for the women of the thirteen South Coast aboriginal tribes, the story deeply embedded within their spirituality and culture. The mountain is now known as Gulaga, in recognition of the spiritual beliefs of the local indigenous peoples.

Upon hearing this story he cried, as he finally began understanding what had cast an evil eye upon him all those years before. Gulaga was asking how could he leave his wife alone in her condition. Somehow the remorse he carried within him had awakened Gulaga that night, leaving him with a lifetime of regret that outlived the life of his beloved Olga. He would forever feel Gulaga’s cold, dark stare each time he passed the resting place of her and her siblings, unable to comfort his wife for the loneliness he had forced her to endure.