This is not my story it was wrote by Bernard Doove
The sights and smells of the eucalyptus forest were always special to me. It was spring; the rain and sun had worked its usual magic on the plantlife. Everything was in full growth because it was too soon yet for the country to start drying out. Numerous small creeks could be heard making their way down to meet their larger brethren and the soil and compost beneath my paws was moist and smelled delightfully earthy and alive.
I was making my way along a barely discernible track that meandered between towering mountain ash and around stands of tree-ferns. No easy walking trail this; it also turned into a rock-climb in parts. It was infrequently used due to its length and difficulty, but I was in heaven. I loved this temperate bushland and I was always pleased to find an excuse to come out this way. I am a chakat, a feline taurform morph named Forestwalker. I had earned my adult name from my frequent excursions into the bushlands that so suited lifeforms such as me. My human friends tell me how much they enjoy the sights and sounds of the forest. How much more my far sharper senses could tell me. My nose alone could tell me more about what was happening around me than a human’s full range of senses. As I travelled the trail, I was exploring the area by sound and smell, as well as sight, and it was utterly delightful.
However, today’s trek wasn’t a mere bushwalk. Today, I had a goal. I was heading for a hut built in a clearing near a small lake deep in the national park. Some hiking enthusiast had built it many years ago, but as it was on public land, it was available to any weary hiker passing b Continue reading