1 hour ago
1
June 22, 2026 — 5:00am
Now and then, if you’re very lucky, you’ll spot it: a grey shape above you. Eyes dart and heads follow towards gum tree branches in the hope of spotting the prize – a koala!
It’s the creature that unites us all. Grey fluffy ears, black leathery noses and chubby teddy bear bodies that make you want to hold them close to your chest.
I’ve seen more than a dozen in the decade since I arrived in Carina Heights, and I almost always stop to snap a picture, or let the person coming in my direction know I’ve stumbled upon a treasure.
Love for the marsupial is strong around these parts. Posters, crucifixes and Facebook rants appear if one dies, and speed limits are sometimes changed to prevent it from happening again. In 2024, they even got their own road bridge.
It’s nice to know we share a common interest despite our differences.
When I first moved to Carina Heights, I was a teenager – brought to the leafy suburb by my parents’ divorce. But it’s been over a decade, so why am I still here?
The short answer: I’m a sucker for a good view.
Reckoned to be Jagera land, the suburb is named after Kate Carina Thorne, daughter of an 1850s landowner. In the 1970s, Carina Heights split from Carina in a bid to improve census reporting. The area got a little confused along the way; for example, Carina State School is actually in Carindale.
My street pays homage to that confusion, lined with a mix of old Queenslanders, renovated postwar properties, housing commission, and the occasional multimillion-dollar new build. No two houses are the same, much like the occupants that reside in them.
Every day when I go out for my morning walk I get to interact with just about all of them.
Although I’ve never seen a Hemsworth or any identifiable city council members, potholes get fixed quickly. A blessing to both my ankles and my car tyres. Drivers usually follow the speed limits and give walkers a wide berth.
Footpaths are well maintained, shared by parents pushing strollers, children on bicycles and the occasional teenager on an e-scooter. Mostly without incident.
On this part of my walk I’m joined by the usual retirees in their wide-brimmed hats, and the fitness couples sporting matching workout sets. Although on opposite sides of the age spectrum, both will answer my “good morning” with a “hello”, a polite smile, or a short conversation that doesn’t require you to stop walking.
But if you’re looking for a chat, Whites Hill Reserve is the place for it. Plenty of places to talk here, and plenty of things to talk about. While the hill part technically resides in Camp Hill, the reserve part sits in Carina Heights’ south-west. The two suburbs share custody of the 170-hectare space without issue.
Here, young families bring overexcited children and undertrained dogs. The oldies bring their walking sticks. The occasional bird watchers bring expensive binoculars and cameras. There are more than 50 species of bird, a handful of echidnas, and (from what I’ve seen) at least two wallabies.
The koalas share my love for a good vantage point; following their lead, my walk continues towards the crest of the reserve. Thirteen different trails offer a choose-your-own-adventure depending on your mood and the amount of time you have. I don’t have a go-to; in fact, I rarely walk the same way twice, but I do have my favourite spot, 120 metres above sea level. I just call it the top.
The view is both spectacular and painfully suburban. From one angle, it’s rows of houses, from another, it’s the Pine Mountain Quarry, now an asphalt recycling site, and from another, it’s twinkling views of the city. Somehow it all feels an arm’s length and hundreds of kilometres away at the same time.
Sometimes when it’s quiet, I’ll lie down in the grass and imagine what I’d be doing if I were somewhere else or someone else. If I saw more of the world, would I still enjoy the view in front of me?
The thing is, I have been elsewhere. I’ve lived in dorm rooms in Tokyo, slept in huts in the Himalayas, and spent nights in hostel beds in Italian villages, but the idea of coming home doesn’t bother me. I wonder if anywhere will ever feel as much like home as the place in front of me.
The walk back home is lighter after all the introspection. I can appreciate the new houses as much as the old, and the way cafes are owned by locals and offer both coffee and mimosas, no matter the day of the week.
So maybe it’s not just the view that keeps me here. It’s the koalas. The quiet. The conversations. The feeling that, for now, this is enough.
