2000 Sydney International Exhibition of Photography – Gold Medal, Freestyle “Red Leaf Abstract”

2001 Sydney International Exhibition of Photography – Gold Medal, Freestyle – “Eternity”

2004 Victorian Assn of Photographic Societies – 1^st Experimental “Shell Abstract”

2007 Canon/Better Photography Photograph of the Year Awards - Overall Winner, & Winner of Creative Section – “Trees in the Snow”

2007 Winner ANZANG Interpretive Photography section

2008 1st & 2nd places Creative Section - Australian Photographic Society National Exhibition of Photography

2008 1st & 2nd places Creative Section - Sutherland Shire National Exhibition of Photography

2008 Winner ANZANG Interpretive Photography section “Travelling Birds”

2008 1st & 2nd places Creative Section - Australian Photographic Society National Exhibition of Photography

2008 1st & 2nd places Creative Section - Sutherland Shire National Exhibition of Photography

2008 Winner ANZANG Interpretive Photography section “Rock Pool Ripples”

2008 Better Photography Photograph of the Year Awards- 4 silver awards

2009 Maitland International Exhibition of Photography – FIAP Gold Medal Excellence

2009 Heritage Aquisitive Awards – “Collaroy Beach” - Acquired

2009 Winner FCC Topshot Competition – “Collaroy Beach”

2011 Gold Medal Sydney International Exhibition of Photography, Altered Reality

2011 Better Photography Photograph of the Year Awards - 4 silver awards,

2012 Better Photography Photograph of the Year - 2 silver awards

2013 Better Photography Photograph of the Year - 2 silver awards, 3 bronze

2013 International Loupe Awards  - Silver, Bronze Award

2014 Better Photography Photograph of the Year  - One Gold (Second place in Creative section), two silver, two bronze awards.

2015 Wildlife Photographer of the Year Awards - Finalist – Black and White Section.

2016 Jindabyne Easter Art Exhibition – first place in category – “Spirit of the Snowies”.
2016 Better Photography Photograph of the Year – 2 Silver Awards

2016 Pano Awards – 1 Silver Award

AUSTRALIAN PHOTOGRAPHIC SOCIETY

2007 – awarded Associate of Australian Photographic Society – AAPS

JUDGING

Accredited judge, Federation of Camera Clubs

2015 – Judge  - Sydney Harbour International Exhibition of Photography

2016 – Judge – Sutherland Shire National Exhibition of Photography

COMMUNITY PROJECTS

Tree Of Life Photography project at RNSH – prints acquired for RNSH Community Health Centre (Mental Health and Dialysis Centres) and Aged Day Care Centre.

RNSH Photography competition – print acquired for the new RNSH building.

RNSH  - 2 prints acquired for the family areas at the Morgue.

RNSH – canvas print acquired for family room at the Child Development Service.

By “Samford” (G.W. Kenyon)

Article from INTO THE BLUE

Coast and Mountain Walkers of NSW No 24, December 1942

Snowy Plains c 1940Photo taken by Bill Kenyon.
Bruce Spiers, Bill Kenyon, Beryl Kenyon, Vi Champion.

It is easy to understand why the Alps, at all times of the year, attract anyone with a mind for the hills. They are different in every season, and enjoyable almost to the same extent. While travelling on ski over a white land is a grand experience, once can, even at this time, think fondly of those snow abandoned uplands in Summer, rich green ridges splashed with Alpine flowers. This story, however, concerns the alps in August – glittering against deep blue skies, - of white hills and white trees, of silent journeys through the forests, of driving wind, snow and sleet.

Our need for a holiday was increased somewhat by a nerve-racking journey from Berridale to Snowy Plains on a rattling, swerving wood-carting truck, loaded to capacity with fifteen skiers, each with rucksacks and ski. Ten of this load formed a party bound for the Alpine Hut, from which we parted at the Gungarlin River. We were glad to have the assistance of friends from Rocky Plains at this stage, who packed our rucksacks on their saddle horses, leaving us only with skis, a sack of bread and a few odds and ends to carry for the couple of miles to our hut. There was very little snow nearby, so next day, again with the assistance of our friends and their horses, we travelled a further four miles North to another hut, and were gratified to feel, as we progressed, our boots crunching on ever deepening snow. Finally we were obliged to put on ski and travel thus for the remaining half mile. This journey was delightful for the ever changing views of the Main Range, the Bulls Peaks and the Bogong. Always these snowy heights were framed by nearby snowgums and muzzlewoods, and the ridge which we followed was green and white, open and forest covered in turn.

Our red hut stood out against a snowy spur side patterned with snowgums, and close to a healthy creek. It suggested immense peacefulness, of seclusion from a troublesome world in which we had participated a few days ago, and which would read its papers and rattle to work during the next week while we drifted in serenity of these high plains. The remainder of the day was well spent in practice on the slopes near the hut, which continued until well after dusk on the now firm snow. A nearly full moon rose early, generating in the smooth ridges a luminous silver. No longer did we run roughly, but flew silently, scarcely touching it seemed, the dim curving mantle over which our ski flashed.

The thickly grassed plains around the Gungarlin were free from snow, but the ridges were deeply covered. Some hours were spent one afternoon in a journey along splendid timbered ridges to the foot of the Munyang Range. Had time allowed, we would have climbed up on to the extensive snow fields of the main alps. But other days were ahead for this. Our ski ran fast on the hard snow of late afternoon, on the way home, and a pleasant trip was concluded by a glorious swoop on the end of the ridge. The swerve at the foot, designed to avoid a flight into the creek, claimed a few victims, evidenced by spurts of snow and a whirlwind of limbs and ski.

Most of us were feeling confident of attempting a proposed Journey to Jagungal, or the Big Bogong as it is locally known, some eight miles away and 2,000 feet above the plains. Talk and threats of its difficulty seemed to encourage everyone rather than deter, but seven in all, after having wished hard for good weather, set off one fine morning leaving Beryl and Esther to hold the fort and practice on nearby ridges. A mile or so were covered on foot, ski being fitted as soon as we were on the ridge. This proved a long yet consistent one, finishing on the Main Range in a graceful sweep of snow. As we panted over the last pinch, we were confronted with a glorious aspect of the Bogong standing proud and white above a wide snowy waste, a scene to encourage a feeling of Julius Kugy when he asked “Was this but the influence of the silver radiance around, or of excess joy which sand within me?” – “I stood over the vast abrupt, in the luminous heaven, on this small white island of my hard won summit.” With seeing The Bogong, part of our aim was fulfilled, but we moved on, ran down to and crossed the Doubtful River by a deep snow bridge ribboned with glacier blue cracks. A solid mass settled as I gained the far bank, not encouraging Bruce who had to follow and at this time became unhappy at the likelihood of an exhilarating swim. There were foxes on the next ridge, two of which came up at a gallop to Tom’s whistle. One was a stone’s throw away before seeing us, clear though we must have been in the open. A sudden stop, a stare, and he was off as fast as his wiry legs could carry him.

The Bogong foothills were steep in places. Even with sealskins it was heavy work following Dudley, John and Tom as they herringboned up swiftly on bare ski. Snow had commenced to flutter down, there was mist on the Bogong, and the afternoon was well advanced. As we toiled up a spur from which we saw the dim summit, a few hundred feet above, it was certain that we had no chance of gaining the top that day. It was with no feelings of regret that we turned back, for among Nature it is just as logical to fail as it is to win. Defeat is disliked only in material living, for there is personal humiliation, born of the competition for individual success, which does not exist in this simpler game in the hills. Hills are our associates, not our competitors.

We skied down from the Bogong on wide, steep declines, on which I disgraced myself by numerous falls. Dusk was near as we arrived on the edge of the Main Range, to be enclosed by a blue and infinite vista of hills, from the Snowy Plains to beyond the Yaouks. We sailed off, one by one, and before running into the timber I saw the usually erect Ede emulate a windmill. Her amusement, I believe, changed instantly when she raised a smashed ski, it’s jagged tip waving loosely on steel edges. There was nothing but sympathy for her, for it is no happy prospect to founder home for many miles sinking to the knees at times, while the others ran smoothly. Really, it was not quite perfect for those with ski, at least for me, for in getting off that range, more time seemed to be spent in untangling my skis, arms and legs from deep down in the snow than in the expected vertical position. Long before we were off the snow ridge it was quite dark, and the weather had deteriorated. At nearly eight o’clock we saw, from a sleep-charged darkness, a warm glow from our hut window, and it was a soaked and steaming but happy party which squelched in to struggle over the stew which thoughtful Beryl and Esther had made in large quantities.

It is advisable to intersperse days of great activity with days of rest, in order to “catch up” on one’s thoughts. This is indeed particularly desirable when one spends much time in skiing, for a quiet day walking or lazing on a grassy hill gives you an opportunity to absorb the pleasures of the previous days and prepares you for subsequent active days. It affords too, a happy contrast to the more determined procedure of ski running. Thus we spent the day after the Bogong trip merely enjoying the nearby greenery and accompanying the boys in a search for foxes. On the remaining days we went up the Gungarlin looking for new snow fields, for the river was now high with thaw and prevented our crossing to the usual fields. Saying goodbye to our friends was our first experience which was unpleasant, but we followed them some days later when we travelled to the hut lower down where we had spent the first night. We had arranged for transport a couple of miles from here at noon, and it proved, on Monday morning, that our plan to make two journeys instead of having a long one in the morning, was a wise one. Snow had fallen heavily during Sunday afternoon and evening, and our hut was surrounded by deep drifts. It required several hours of floundering in these to cover the two miles, on a wild and cold morning in which a powerful wind lifted the light fresh snow and blew it everywhere. Yet the snowy Plains presented an enchanting sight; white to the edge of the Gungarlin; its muzzlewood trees standing out in a vivid splash of green, silver and tan against an ultramarine sky. Just as we wanted to remember it: to keep our memories bright until we return – who knows when!

Footnote:

Office bearers of CMW at time of writing were:

President                       Mr G W Kenyon

Vice Presidents           Messrs Ferris & Speirs

Secretary                       Miss D Ball

Treasurer                      Miss T Day

Recorder                        Mr L Turton

Social Secretary         Miss J Kerr

(Article Copyright - Glover Collection)

By “Samford” (G.W. Kenyon)

Article from INTO THE BLUE

Coast and Mountain Walkers of NSW No 26, July 1943

One blazing hot afternoon two cattlemen, sitting crosslegged on the cool verandah of their shack, were astonished to see two footsloggers raising the dust on the Wollondibby Road. We may forgive them, however, for not knowing that there are folk, even clubs of them, who like to walk and even carry their house and a week’s supply of food on their back, for in cattle country no man walks unless he has lost his horse. The specks enlarged until two perspiring red faces, escorted by a cloud of flies happy over a change from the eternal cattle, looked over the gate. The faces were offered shade and tea, but a dusty voice merely wanted to know the short cut to the river, and how much longer it was than the long way.

Long white roads are so depressing as to give rise to evil thoughts such as wishing that one had a motor car. Thus it was a relief to turn on to the track and set to work on the ridges. The route wandered aimlessly, but one can forgive even a track for being in no hurry in this green country rich in grass from regular rains and winter snow; and a rabbits’ Paradise judging from the hundreds of bobbing white tails.

Boots were removed for crossing the Little Thredbo which noisily scampered over the boulders, seeming excited over the nearness of his union with his big brother. In an evening warmed and stilled by an approaching storm, we thankfully dropped packs on to a soft patch under some snow gums on the Thredbo bank. Nearly two thousand feet above were the Rams Head Peaks, tipped by black swirling clouds which clutched at the granite crags. We secured the tend hard down with extra wooden pegs driven through loops of the wire pegs at an angle, closed up the flaps and prepared for what the gods of alpine weather were about to serve for the evening.

The Performance opened with a tympanic toll along the Ram’s Head, followed by a flood of light and without further introduction the storm orchestra in tutti; bass drum and cymbals in tumultuous announcements; a fury of strings as the rain and wind lashed at the trees and our straining tent; a multitude of trumpets echoing the thunder in the lower gorge. The drenched and worn rocks stood out clearly in the almost continuous light. Nothing alive was out in this weather, when the forces of Nature took control of the Crackenback country. Its energy abated towards morning when we looked out on to a grey subdued world, the mists still swirling over the rocks and snow drifts far overhead. Owing to the more compact grass of the lower alps, we did not have a flood in the floor of our tent. In the higher country the grass tufts are separated by earth channels along which the water races, and camping in a thunderstorm is a nerve-racking affair.

With the faithful tend tucked away, a start was made up the river, through the thick and almost tangled snow gums. It has a rough bank, this young and energetic stream which leaps and sparkles over the boulders and has only short rests in its few quiet pools. The cattle too are taken up here, but their route must be well back from the water’s edge which is no place to take stock. A great trout stream too, rivaling the Gungarlin and its neighbor, the Mowamba (with whom it begins its career south of Dead Horse Gap.) There are a few small open flats, one with a tumbledown shack – a home for foxes now. A lively little creek crossed the flat here with the usual boulders inviting ‘rock hopping’. Hitching up my pack and gripping firmly the billy of beans which were soaking in preparation for the evening meal, I sprang on to the first boulder, then the second, then the third but only for an instant as hobnails failed to grip. With a sickening splosh down went billy and Billy into the thick black mud. The lid flew off the former billy and shining beans rolled gracefully into the mire or made a quick journey to the Thredbo. I believe that this looked very funny.

A camp was made on a broad high flat opposite Gore’s Ridge, some four miles below Friday Flat. From the tent one could look right down the Thredbo, which, notwithstanding its numerous twists and turn, generally follows an amazingly straight course, with the Ram’s Head range running parallel to it. In the evening and following morning the range was bathed in lights of indescribable beauty.

In the early morning the icy stream was crossed – an agonizing process requiring many minutes of frantic leaping and slapping to restore life to our lower limbs, and persuade them to take books and socks ready for the climb up. The lower slopes of the ridge were covered in a forest of tall mountain ash and among them we saw two foxes, or maybe a fox and a vixen (an assumption which is the result of long experience in the bush). I tried to imitate the rabbit whistle which Tom used with great success during our ski trip to the Bogong, never failing to bring up at a gallop any fox within earshot. Our fox could not make up his mind over my version of a trapped bunny, but nevertheless it did not run away. Both of them strolled around at barely thirty yard’s distance without any evident concern. Higher up was a tangle of snow gums broken down by heavy snow, and which was a problem to negotiate. Beyond were soft grassy slopes covered in snow daisies which curved right up to the summit. A large snow drift had to be crossed before the final pull, from which we gazed enthralled at a view covering the Thredbo gorge, the great range which separates the Thredbo from the Mowamba, and the plains beyond Jindabyne. With reluctance we left the scene behind to walk over the soft wet alps towards Mt Stilwell, and passed the Chalet where we saw the husky dog team still in their yard and no doubt earnestly wishing for winter to come.

From the Kosciusko Summit, Hotham, Feathertop and Mt Bogong could be seen clearly each having large snow patches. The icy wind drove us around to Carruthers – with snow all along the route. Heavy scouring here indicated the danger of removing grass for track making where rain is heavy – one track was four foot deep! The Murray plains – yellow among the blue hills, were an enchanting sight. The Blue Lake had snow drifts down to the water’s edge.

Our footsteps were directed homeward down the Snowy to Pound’s Creek, and then across the Perisher and Blue Cow to Piper’s gap. A long road walk from there was shortened by a lift from some road workers in a utility truck, who were bound for the Creel to collect their pay. The last night was spent at Jindabyne – a glorious spot under great pines with the river and its spurwing plovers to charm our rest.

By Bill Kenyon

In 1962 six members of the Kosciusko Alpine Club agreed to spend a week each year ski touring. Mawson Hut was to be the base for this. About April each year the winter supplies were to be carried in and buried in a cache near the hut. Because of this the group was named the Squirrel Club, later the Exclusive Squirrel Club because there would be no additional members.

Neville Gare, Superintendent of the then Kosciusko State Park, was a good friend and supportive of our activities. He helped us in many ways and accompanied us on our summer trips to the cache. I think he also wanted to educate the Squirrels about Park preservation policies. He told us – “No Ratsak in Mawson” – these were broad toothed bush rats which are protected. On one occasion Neville accompanied us on a trip in April via the Snowy Plains – we could not use the Schlink Pass route because of snow. I had built a sledge, based on the design of Antarctic sledges where the joints are made of rawhide lashings to give greater flexibility over uneven surfaces. We carried the sledge with our supplies and articles for the repair and improvement of Mawson, including the library, from Kidmans Hut to Alpine Hut, where we stayed overnight. Next day the party carried the sledge and gear to the top of the Brassy. Because of the snow which covered the ground to the Valentine River, all supplies had to be loaded on the sledge and towed to Mawson, Neville being one of three on the tow ropes.

In 1965 Neville told us about the Park policy which would result in the removal of huts which the service could not maintain, and which were in any case incompatible with wilderness values. We had a conference with him that year at Mawson and proposed that the Squirrels would act as honorary caretakers of Mawson Hut and effect repairs to it so that it could remain as a refuge for walkers and skiers who may be in need of shelter in emergencies.

It was hoped that bushwalking clubs would follow this example for there were many other huts also in need of maintenance. To this proposition Neville gave his tacit approval, although official approval under Head Office policy could not be given. So for about five years the Squirrels carried out maintenance work on Mawson until 1970 when Squirrel activities ceased, after which the Kosciusko Huts Association was formed to continue the work on an organized basis. I made another sledge for Grey Mare which was despatched by rail to Cooma and Neville Gare transported it to Grey Mare on the fire trail from Round Mountain.

The Squirrels used Mawson as a base between 1962-1970 making many day trips to Jagungal, Grey Mare, Bulls Peaks and other places.

In 1982 four of the Squirrels walked to Mawson from the Schlink Pass Road accompanied by Beryl Kenyon and Ros Furse, on what proved to be their last visit. A large party of bushwalkers staying there were dumbfounded to witness the group of not so young and nondescript men arrive and announce their identity. The party apparently thought the story of the Squirrels was a mountain rumour. Their doubts were dispelled when the Squirrels dug up the cache of 1970 – some canned Beaujolais, tinned tongue and other luxuries. The hole was carefully re-turfed to its natural condition.

Written by          George William Beresford (Bill) Kenyon – November 1990

                            Bill died in December 2008

                            Coast and Mountain Walkers – joined 1938

                            Kosciusko Alpine Club – joined 1948

Members of the Exclusive Squirrel Club 1962-1970

                            Bill Kenyon (Chief Squirrel)

                            Gus Fay

                            Fred Porter

                            Dr Maurice Joseph

                            Tony Furse

                            Tom Blyton (Berridale)

Note: Mawson Hut is situated in the Mt Jagungal area, in the northern part of the Kosciusko National Park.

Price guide
10cm x 15cm  print - $4 - plus postage
20cm x 30cm print - $40 - plus postage
30cm x 45cm print - $80 - plus postage
40cm x 60cm print - $120 - plus postage
 

Canvas prints are also available
 

INCINERATOR ART SPACE - 2 Small St, Willoughby

EXHIBITION DATES: Wed 14 May to Sun 1st June 2014

OFFICIAL OPENING: Saturday 17th May at 3pm

EXHIBITION TIMES: Wed to Fri 11am to 5pm, Weekends 11am - 4pm

EXHIBITORS: John Bardell, Susan Buchanan, Des Crawley, Jan Glover

In association with Nebuli Arts and the HeadOn Photo Festival