The limestone cave, our reward at the bottom of a steep descent involving five hundred steps, is a fairy wonderland. Mesmerising crystalline formations cling to its cathedral ceiling. A body of frigid water courses through its centre. We take care to cling to the hand-rail so as not to fall in. The holiday tour group, of which we are a shuffling part, wends its way along tight ravines, opening suddenly out into expansive, lunar landscapes.
There is much oohing and aahing at the light show. There are bats, and stalagmite “statues,” looking for all the world like characters from movies and books. Jaba the Hutt is there, along with a koala and a serpent. To the delight of my dragon-loving ten year old, there is even a Bearded Dragon! Eventually, we arrive at semi-circular ‘landing’, where there is a bench to sit on.
The female cave guide decides to take a pit-stop and announces that there will be time for a question and answer session. Small arms shoot skyward (ooh, ooh, pick me, pick me!). A smartly-dressed, dark-complexioned boy of seven or so, with a short-back-and-sides, is picked.
“The boy in red” the tour guide says pointing towards him.
The boy asks the guide in an Indian accent “How ooold is this cave?”
“Somewhere between eight hundred thousand and nine hundred thousand years old, the guide swiftly replies.
“The boy in red” the tour guide says pointing towards him.
The boy asks the guide in an Indian accent “How ooold is this cave?”
“Somewhere between eight hundred thousand and nine hundred thousand years old, the guide swiftly replies.
My child’s hand shoots up next (ooh, ooh, pick me, pick me!)
“Yes, young lady in blue?” the tour guide inquires. Such a mistake has become roughly a weekly occurrence. I brace myself, wondering what my child's response will be this time.
There is a momentary pause. I see my child, this wonderful, intellligent, sensitive, leonine creature, with golden brown locks cascading halfway down a long back, lean of leg and dimpled about the cheek and face, framing a thoughtful reponse, brow creasing momentarily.
“Actually, I’m a boy. Ummm, but my question is, how many straws are there on the ceiling?”
“Yes, young lady in blue?” the tour guide inquires. Such a mistake has become roughly a weekly occurrence. I brace myself, wondering what my child's response will be this time.
There is a momentary pause. I see my child, this wonderful, intellligent, sensitive, leonine creature, with golden brown locks cascading halfway down a long back, lean of leg and dimpled about the cheek and face, framing a thoughtful reponse, brow creasing momentarily.
“Actually, I’m a boy. Ummm, but my question is, how many straws are there on the ceiling?”
A stifled titter emerges from somewhere in the semi-darkness, from the direction of The Boy in Red. Otherwise there is silence. I can hear only the drip, drip of water droplets. Having filtered their way through the forest floor high above and made their way slowly through the limestone cave roof, they trickle down to the outer-most end of these many thousands of small tubular calcite deposits, which we have been informed are called “straws.” Occasionally, a droplet lands on someone’s head.
Eventually, the tour guide replies-
“My apologies. Well, we don’t really know. No one has ever counted them all.”
“I think maybe the answer is lots and lots and lots!” I venture comically and whisperingly to my son, smiling to myself in the half-light. A drop of water leaps from a straw above him and lands on the tip of my son’s nose. “It’s a souvenir from the cave dragon!” I whisper again, and he giggles.
“My apologies. Well, we don’t really know. No one has ever counted them all.”
“I think maybe the answer is lots and lots and lots!” I venture comically and whisperingly to my son, smiling to myself in the half-light. A drop of water leaps from a straw above him and lands on the tip of my son’s nose. “It’s a souvenir from the cave dragon!” I whisper again, and he giggles.
As it turns out after a brief chat, the guide knows my friend, another of the guides working there. Along the winding path we return, braving the steep ascent back up five hundred steps until my son bursts, somewhat breathlessly, but full of magic and confidence enough to last him months, out into the sunshine. Emerging like the sure-footed little lion he is, into the topside world again.
DRIVING ALONG CAVES RD...
BRYN MEASURES HIMSELF ALONGSIDE SOME EXTINCT MEGAFAUNA!
THE TABLE THAT SEEMS TO FLOAT ON THE SURFACE OF LAKE CAVE LAKE WITH ITS COLUMNAR STRUCTURES. THIS WAS APPARENTLY RUINED LONG AGO BY THE MANY CAVE TOURISTS WHO FLOCKED TO THE MARGARET RIVER-AUGUSTA CAVES IN THE EARLY PART OF THE 2OTH CENTURY- MANY A CRINOLINED LADY, POSING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LAKE FOR A PHOTO ON THIS IDEAL BACKDROP, OBLIVIOUS TO HER ENVIRONMENTAL FOOTPRINT.
THE STEEP. 500 STEP DESCENT TO LAKE CAVE
A FAKE CAVE CRAWL IN THE MUSEUM AT LAKE CAVE. IN ONE END...
AND OUT THE OTHER!
