But it was also the worst of times. There's a little town about halfway down the coast called Noosa where Gen and I did some of the best and some of the worst camping of our trip so far.
Arriving in Noosa on Easter weekend, we neglected to take that very important holiday into account, as well as the fact that, when Australians vacation, Noosa is where they go. So on this day celebrating the resurrection of Christ, we would have had an easier time finding a place to stay in Nazareth. With every available bed in town booked, we had no choice but to pitch tent at the only available plot in town that was actually 12 km outside of town at a bush camp called Gagaju.
And please forgive my cynicism when I propose an alternative pronunciation from the traditional "gah-gah-joo" to "Gag-A-Jew" cuz that's what this Hebrew Nomad did.
Upon our arrival, with the bullying clouds threatening rain with the promise of an after school showdown, we pitched tent on their lovely grounds. Our neighbors? I kid you not when I say spiders the size of my hand, and frogs no larger than the fingernail on my pinky finger. But we never had to suffer the threats of our neighbors as we spent most of the night in their TV lounge waiting for the cataracts from the heavens to subside.
And what lovely facilities Gagaju offered, constructed from the finest tarps and tents with only the best kitchen equipment gleaned from the highest end trash heaps: remember, one man's trash is another man's campsite accommodations. Words to live by: If there's "bush" in the name, it’s a dangerous craps game.
As the sun peaked over the horizon and through the trees, we high tailed it out of there like we stole something and made our way to our next campsite: Noosa North Shore Campgrounds, the prospect of seeing wild kangaroos quelling our fears of the bush.
After setting up camp next to the river, we enjoyed a leisurely stroll to the beach and through the local grounds, where we spotted some wild kangaroos. Having only ever seen 'roos in captivity, like I'm sure most of you, they are easily explained: they're deer that hop. They keep the same hours, eat the same thing, and are only a touch less skittish. But it was cool to see them. And throughout the night we could hear them lopping through our campsite and around our tent.
Early each morning, the local parakeet population takes the responsibility of waking the campers before they sleep too late more seriously than my mother used to when I was in high school. The morning of our departure was no different, but this morning held a treat: hungry parakeets:
To say the least, the small vacation town of Noosa was quite an experience. Without the misery of Gagaju, we would not have really been able to appreciate the comfort of Noosa North Shore enough to opt for a second night at the latter facilities.
Oh, and mothers beware, keep you children close: when walking through the town of Noosa, there are Michael Jackson warning signs EVERYWHERE:
