Grey Nomads

The changing winds and shifting sands of ones fortune are often caused by man-made errors in judgement, others by nature, sometimes it is by the decissions thust upon us by bureaucrats or worse still a committee thereof, but in Australia they are also likely to be created by the impact of an introduced species.

In the Australian vernacular “Back of Bourke” implies a very remote location. In the past four weeks we have been to the back of Bourke and beyond.

Six months ago, on Christmas Eve 2009, the town of Bourke was in the midst of one of it’s longest and most sever drought in years. The flat lands around Bourke had been in the grip of drought for almost 10 years. They were on the verge of evacuating the town as the sadly depleted water supply had all but dried up.

The next day, Christmas Day 2009 up to 100mm of rain fell as an Ex-tropical Cyclone tore across bringing the heaviest rain falls in a decade to centres including Nyngan, Coonamble and Bourke.

The big wet has brought good fortune to many in the outback. Apart from the obvious benefit to the farmers, almost every country town is booming from the influx of domestic tourism. The rains have encouraged many people to visit the outback to see the Darling River flowing again. The region has experienced an increase of over 30% in tourism.

Visitors are flocking to see South Australia’s Lake Eyre full of water and combining their voyage with trips up the Darling to NSW towns such as Lightning Ridge, Broken Hill and White Cliffs, and with visits to national parks such as Paroo-Darling, Gundabooka, Mutawintji, Kinchega and Mungo.

I made a poor judgement when I decided we would spend the night in Gundabooka National Park just 40km south of Bourke. We had spent the day enjoying the marvellous vistas of the red cliffs and gorges and thought we would camp in the park for the night. Of course when I made the decision I was unaware that it was to be the coldest June day in over 100 years and after we departed the campfire we had shared with two other travellers, Ken and Len, for the confines of our caravan, spent the rest of the night shivering. Although we had climbed into our beds fully clothed we could not keep warm. Being a National Park, we were forbidden from firing up the generator to power our heater and awoke to discover the temperature outside had plummeted to minus 4.1 degrees C and was minus 0.4 inside. But spare a thought for poor Ken and Len who had spent the night in tents.

As the crow flies, less than 300km south-west Bourke lies Wilcannia; a town that has seen an enormous shift in fortunes, it has benefited little from the boom in tourism, many drive through without stopping. Wilcannia had a rich and vibrant history. Once known as the “Queen City of the West”, it was the third largest shipping port in Australia boasting a population of over 3000 and 13 pubs in its hay day.

During the boom years of the 1880’s sandstone was quarried locally for the beautiful buildings many of which still stand today albeit in varies states of disrepair. Just over 120 years since those heady days, virtually the only people left in this dilapidated town are the remnants of the original inhabitants.

The traditional Aboriginal population, the Barkindji people have been calling vast areas in and around Wilcannia home for some 40,000 years. They had lived in sync with nature preserving their environment and resources. Their world was turn upside down with the arrival of the white man. A large percentage died from illnesses that arrived with the white man; illnesses to which they had little or no immunity. Many that did survive the illnesses suffered annihilation at the hands of the settlers. The remnants of the once great tribe were placed in Missions where they were taught white-man ways. Those still living in the area today have lost their traditional way of life and been left to fend for themselves in this now derelict backwater.

Our arrival in Kinchega National Park, South of Menindee, coincided with the winter solstice. The waters were still flowing into the Menindee lake system, which is now 85% full after a decade of laying empty after little or no rain, though much to the chagrin of the residence down stream, little has been released into the river system.

Kinchega-Kars pastoral lease covered 800,000 hectares and extended all the way from Menindee to Broken Hill.

In 1861 Robert Gow headed north-west from Menindee in search of new grazing country. Parts of the west Darling plains and ranges that Gow explored later became Kinchega station. He crossed wide expanses of saltbush, herbs and grass. This ‘wilderness’, predicted Gow, ‘will become a land flowing with milk and honey … this enormous tract of country I have been examining… is fit for occupation and is well supplied with pasture. Horses, cattle and sheep will roll in fat if they can get water’.

At the time, he was probably unaware that two years earlier, across the border in Victoria, the pompous fool, estate owner Thomas Austin, wanting a bit of sport, released Twenty-four European Rabbits onto the unsuspecting native flora and fauna.For years, a flourishing wool industry bloomed at Kinchega. They built a substantial shearing shed, “built to last a life time”

However between 1894 and 1899 the number of sheep shorn in the district plummeted from 136 000 to 31 000. It had taken just 45 years for those 24 rabbits to bread like….well, like rabbits and infested the station eating them out of feed in what was already lean years. The majority of the sheep starved to death.

The Kinchega station has closed and a large portion was handed over to the NSW National Parks in 1967 and although it has been over 33 years since the last clip the woolshed, which has stood the test of time, still emits the unmistakable scent of lanolin.

Australia has the dubious reputation of having sent 23 bird, 4 frog, and 27 mammal species into oblivion since European settlement of Australia. It is worth making special mention of the three great human-introduced killer species: the European rabbit, the European Red Fox, and the domestic cat. Although many other introduced species have played a destructive role, so far these three have been far and away the most significant.

South of Menindee on the dirt road from Pooncarie we had a yarn with a station manager who we met while we were parked on the side of the road to have an espresso. He has seen the station weather years of drought. Surprisingly we learnt that another introduced species, the feral goat, was the only thing that kept the station afloat during the tough years. Brought into the country with the first settlers they are now estimated to number over 3 million mostly in the semi-arid west. This station of over 58,000 hectares musters over 1,000 goats a month, and ships them off shore, predominantly for the overseas meat market.

More recently another introduced species has reeked havoc in Australia. The Welsh, red-crested, pinched-face, back stabber introduced in the mid 1960’s. It has turned out to be like a cuckoo in the nest of the Australian Labor Party and has caused the demise of the former Prime Minister K.Rudd. Luckily the only specimen in the wild is a non-breeding female so should be easier to contain than the dreaded cane toad.

After departing Melbourne nearly two weeks ago we headed off in a north-westerly direction through Ballarat and on to the Grampians National Park. It has long been on my radar and now we were in the vicinity we made the most of the opportunity. We approached along the Glenelg Highway, a road I like not only because its name is a Palindrome, but also because of the magnificent vistas it affords as you approach Dunkeld. The jagged peaks of the Grampians dramatically punctuate the surrounding perfectly flat landscape like the spine of an extinct Dinosaur erupting through the genteel pastures.

We could, however, have timed it better. Winter has now arrived and the weather has become decidedly nippy. After two nights of chilly free camping we decided to avail ourselves of a powered site at Takaru Bush Resort (a fancy name for a caravan park) where we could leave the heater running all night; sheer luxury, a wake to a balmy 16 deg Celsius! We really have little to complain about, I recall this time last year, we were in England and it was just as cold, even though it was summer over there.

Our first full day in the Grampians started when the early morning fog lifted to reveal a stunning blue-sky day. It tempted us from our caravan cacoon and into the great outdoors. Since arriving in Melbourne two months ago we have done nothing more strenuous than walking around a shopping mall. The reduction in our muscle tone was inversely proportional to the increase in our waistlines; in short we were totally out of shape. So what did we decide to do the very first day in the mountains? We trekked 5.5km up and down a rugged mountain trail to the Pinnacles, closely followed by 264 steps down to the base of the Mackenzie Falls. This was not so bad; the arduous 264 steps back up again was what broke the camel’s back, and almost mine as well. Not only was I carrying a few extra kilos of body mass but also, to make matters worse, I tend to burden myself with what feels like half a tonne of camera equipment, a high definition video camera, a digital camera and associated filters and a tripod to boot. The few times I do give in to the temptation of venturing out sans camera there is always something of great beauty I spy along the way and now never leave home without it.

Returning to the caravan later that day, we stopped off at the small supermarket in Halls Gap to replenish a few supplies. Talk about highway robbery. The prices were higher than those we had encountered in the most remote township we have visited to date, Borroloola NT. A bottle of tonic water cost 3 times as much as in Melbourne but a girl needs her G&T to get through this tough lifestyle so we paid the price and vowed to stock up on a few bottles at the next decent size town we encounter.

In the morning we awoke to many aching muscles and were predicably not aghast to discover overcast skies and rain clouds on the horizon. However the threat of rain alone can’t keep us down and we did still manage to climb up the mere 1.4km to the Beehive falls but the constant drizzling did dampen our enthusiasm to continue on to the top of Mt Dangerous…drats, our disappointment was palpable. And if you believe that, you probably still believe in the Tooth Fairy too. A picnic lunch at the old Zumstein’s Picnic area fortified us before heading to the Boroka Lookout which I’m told offers some of the most spectacular views though we could barely see through the rain clouds that had descending into the valley below.

The following day we drove to Horsham where I managed to post off my latest creations in knit wear to Charlie. We decided to overnight there en-route to the Little Desert National Park. Horsham, we discovered, is a delightful, thriving outback metropolis. It hosts a charming regional art gallery and some very good shops and restaurants. The Botanical Gardens are charming, all the locals we encountered were tremendously friendly and the real estate out here is terrifically affordable almost on par with Sydney……. 25 years ago that is.

After ascending Mt Arapiles we arrived in The Little Desert National Park. Encouraged by the information sheet produced by Victoria Parks we explored the park and enjoyed a day driving along the sandy tracks of the Eastern Region to the Salt Lake. Australia has more than its fair share of salt lakes and this was definitely not the largest nor most impressive that we’ve seen to date. The allure of the possible sighting of a rare Mallee Fowl enticed us into the Sanctuary Reserve. We did discover its impressive sandy nest mound but unfortunately nobody was home and we left unrewarded for our effort.

When we awoke the following morning it was real brass-monkey weather and the temperature inside our caravan was colder than the inside of our refrigerator. We decided two nights camping in the park was probably about as much as we could endure and we high tailed it to Dimboola, a small country town made famous by the 1969 Jack Hibberd play by the same name. Little has changed in Dimboola since the play was written; it still boasts some quaint historical buildings and an air of having seen better days. The play is still the most viewed in Australia and is produced here a few times a year.

Adjacent the Little Desert National Park is the Wail State Forest on the opposite banks of the Wimmera River. It has only been six months since the river was little more than a dry dusty trough. After years of drought sufficient rains finally fell last September to enable the river to flow again and the annual rowing regatta to recommence after a five hiatus.

We traversed the peaks and troughs of the sandy roller coaster ride that is the Wimmera Track through the State Forest. Almost seasick from the experience we finally stumbled across the Ski-park where we picnicked on the banks of the river before returned to the caravan for a restorative hot cup of coffee.

All things being equal, tomorrow we will depart Dimboola heading north and plan to free camp in the Big Desert National Park for a few days while we await a very special delivery in Hopetoun, our monthly coffee supply from Nespresso…. Life is too short to drink bad coffee.

Growing up in the 1960’s I recall all the historic events of the day played to the sound track of a monotonous click clack, click clack, click clack; knitting needles a blur, as my mother’s nibble fingers wove their magic.

“This is Brian Henderson, live from the studios of TCN Nine” click clack, click clack… “President Kennedy has been shot”, click clack, click clack… “The Beatles have touched down in Australia”, click clack, click clack… “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah”, click clack, click clack… “I have a dream!”, click clack, click clack… “Choppers flying into Nui Dat” click clack, click clack, “Harold Holt is missing” click clack, click clack…. “One small step for a man”, click clack, click clack… “one giant leap for mankind” click clack, click clack.

I can still picture my mum perched on our very modern black and white sofa, beneath her version of a Kandinski abstract that she had artistically rendered on the base of our old playpen, surrounded by balls of wool.

As a young child I would spent hours at her knees observing her knit until, at the age of four, I nagged her into casting a few stitches onto a pair of knitting needles for me and so I learnt to knit. With my little fat fingers I was no match for her agility but still I managed, in my awkward style, though my first endeavours more resembled Venetian lace than the rows of neat little chevrons my mum produced. Gradually I became more proficient and I outfitted all my dolls with leftover scraps of wool.

Money was hard to come by back in those days and my mum, who was born during the great depression, took recycling seriously. The jumpers she knitted for my elder sister were handed down to me 12 months later and when I outgrew them they were fastidiously unravelled. I remember, as a small child, sitting on a kitchen chair opposite my mother, while she wound the wool into skeins around my out stretched hands, held about 30 cm apart. I loved to watch it unfurl from its knitted form, all kinky from the years it had spent confined in a garment, washed and worn and washed again innumerable times. The skeins of limp wool were then laundered and hung out to dry on our Hill’s hoist. By the time the leaves had fallen from the trees it had all been re-knitted into new garments.

Knitting seems to have become a lost art, one which younger women, even many my age, have been reluctant to embrace. Perhaps it is considered old fashion or superfluous in this modern age of all things disposable.

For three weeks we house-sat for a lovely couple, Paul and Deb, who had gone sailing off the coast of Turkey (tough life for some). During that time the curbs of Melbourne’s charming south-east suburbs groaned under the mounds of redundant household cast-offs as the council collection day drew near. Outside most homes the amount of wares disposed of was more than some African villages would see in a lifetime. Apart from old couches, computers, prams, wardrobes and mattresses, the growing number of bulky old CRT TV’s signify the enthusiasm with which Australians have embraced the wide-screen, digital television phenomenon. I would never have imagined, the day we brought home our very first colour TV, that one day they would end up as litter on the footpath, free for the taking. Any thief, worth his salt, could easily calculate which homes would be likely to have a new flat screen TV sitting in their living room, ripe for the picking.

Since leaving Sydney 4 months ago I have rekindled my passion for knitting and even though I still knit in a ham-fisted, fat-fingered, four year old fashion I have still managed to produced a veritable hoard of cardigans, bootees and bonnets. They are now all coming to good use since 30 April at 2:15am, when we were presented with our first grandchild. A son and heir to our son and heir. The dynasty continues with Charlie Ray and though I may be a tad biased, he is indeed perfection personified.

Our daughter-in-law’s parents were over here from Wales for the birth of their first grandchild too. When we all got together it was amazing to watch these six mature, well educated, intelligent adults all going completely ga-ga over this tiny bundle of joy.

The transformation in our elder son, the father of our grandson, is nothing short of miraculous. Overnight he has morphed from a self-interested, generation ‘x’er into a doting daddy. He fusses over Charlie and doesn’t even mind changing dirty nappies. He has become emotional and affectionate, even his daggy old parents are suddenly acknowledged as being human after all.

Tomorrow we will be departing Melbourne and leaving our 4 week old grandson in the loving care of his doting parents. It will be the hardest thing, to leave him, knowing it could be months before we see him again. I will miss breathing in his sweet, baby smell, and feeling is gentle breaths upon my skin as he slumbers peacefully, snuggled up against me, all soft and….. Oh damn, the tears are welling up already, excuse me while I run to fetch a tissue before I short circuit the keyboard.

After returning from our sojourn in Canberra in 1982 we settled back into the routine of life in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. However after a period of three years, bringing up two little boys and working full time, life got a bit too hectic. Each child was at a different stage. Our elder son was in primary school and thus need before-school-care and after-school-care and during the school holidays, vacation care needed to be organised. Family-day-care mothers first cared for our toddler before he was old enough to be enrolled in a child-care centre. School functions came and went; sports days were missed. We were too busy trying to make ends meet to be able to be the type of parents we longed to be.

It was then that we decided a change was needed. We bought a hundred acres in Queensland and a year later we sold the family home in Bronte and packed up our goods and chattel and migrated to the small country town of Maryvale, a distance of 900km. By Australian standards, where farms can be larger than some European countries, our farm was considered tiny in comparison.

The change was fantastic. The tight knit community embraced us with open arms and we quickly became an integral part. The boys rode their bicycles to and from school each day and came home each afternoon, not to an empty house, but to a home where I was always ready to serve afternoon tea and supervise homework. We could finally let the boys have some pets; apart from the chooks and goat we also adopted a kelpie dog called Coodah and a kitten that we named Monty.

I had time to join the P&C (PTA) at the small school the boys attended and to volunteer to teach classes of science and help with craft lessons. I was a regular on tuck shop duty and spent hours ferrying troops of kids to and from swimming lessons where I also taught them to swim.

I served on several committees and was elected president of the CWA (Country Women’s Association) and the P&C. Both hubby and I performed in several local theatre productions and in between all this we also managed to find the time to build our house which I had designed and to set up a hydroponic flower farm to provide us with an income. Our dreams of self-sufficiency had been a tad optomistic; to my amazement, toilet paper didn’t grow on trees…. at least not in a form that didn’t leave splinters.

The demand for our flowers grew, and so did the area under cultivation. Before we knew it, we had become slaves to the farm. Every day the plants needed watering, dependent upon the weather conditions, igloos needed opening or closing twice a day . Flowers required cutting before the heat of the day wilted them. Markets had been established in Brisbane and we would get up at 4am to pack boxes of fresh flowers for me to hand deliver into a dozen different florist shops a few times a week. It was almost as time consuming as being dairy farmers. We were unable to take a holiday together. The few times hubby visited his family overseas, I was left at home to manage the farm and when I wanted to stay with my mother on the Gold Coast, hubby selflessly volunteered to stay on to oversee the flower production…what a saint! By the time our elder son was in his last year of high school we had had enough and sold the farm in Maryvale and moved onto bigger and better things in Brisbane.

Because of all this past history I was sympathetic when I saw an ad whilst searching for somewhere to housesit in Melbourne. The owners of a sheep and cattle farm in Victoria’s High Country near Mt Buller wanted to take 9 days off and fly to Alice Springs to attend a family wedding and needed someone to take care of the farm animals and pets.

At this point of our journey we were ahead of schedule for our planned arrival in Melbourne late in April for the immanent arrival of our first grand-baby and could easily afford to take 9 days out of our hectic travelling schedule.

We know how hard it is for farmers to take a holiday and were only too happy to assist. The promise of fresh lamb for dinner was just an added incentive. We were warmly greeted by our hosts, Greg and Kerrie and bowled over by their dogs, Oscar and Merle. I hope they felt confident leaving two strangers in charge. As we waved them good-bye at the cattle grid we were looking forward to our new role as farmers.

It had been a long time since we lived in a small farming community. It was refreshing to see that door keys were still an optional extra and people were happy to stop and have a good old chinwag when they met you in the street. It didn’t take long to fall into the country pace of life… a slower pace. Feeding the chooks and gathering the warm freshly laid eggs, checking the electric fences, making jams and preserves from the fresh garden produce and lavishing loving affection on the pets was all in a days work before falling asleep in front of the TV of an evening; soon it all came back to us.

see hubby, the chick magnet

The crisp clear mornings heralded the end of summer and we were back in long pants for the first time since returning from the UK. There were interesting places to investigate; Mansfield, Mt Buller, Craig’s Hut, Jamieson and Lake Eildon all lay within a short distance from the farm.

We learned a thing or two during our stay. We learned to ride quad bikes. We learned that no matter how carefully you watch your step, the sole of your shoe will act like a magnet to goose poo and I learned that since last riding a horse at the age of 14 my bum has become far more tender. I’ve been walking like John Wayne for days.

After 9 days of stuffing our selves on fresh eggs and tender lamb we waddled to the gate to welcome Greg and Kerrie home again. It might take us a while to get our figures back but gee it was worth every minute fit.

On 6 September 1940 the 20^th century’s equivalent of convicts arrived in Australia.

With the outbreak of World War II and gripped with the fear of a threatened German invasion the British government decided to deport males over the age of 16 who fell into the category of Enemy Aliens. As a staunch supported of Mother England the Australian government agreed to accept 6,000 internees from the United Kingdom. However, only one shipment was dispatched to Australia. Under the orders of Winston Churchill, they were sent from Liverpool on the military transport ship the HMT Dunera.

On board, the passengers included 2,000 German Jewish refugees aged between 16 and 45, who had escaped from Nazi Germany. Some of the boys had arrived in Britain through “Kindertransport“, the name given to the rescue mission that took place nine months prior to the outbreak of World War II. The United Kingdom took in nearly 10,000 predominantly Jewish children from Nazi Germany, and the occupied territories of Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland and the Free City of Danzig. The children were placed in British foster homes, hostels, and farms. Once those who had arrived on German passports reached the age of eighteen their status changed overnight, from refugee to that of Enemy Alien.

Also on board the Dunera were 200 Italian and 250 German Nazi prisoners of war (P.O.W.’s).

Under appalling conditions, the trip lasted 57 days. Apart from overcrowding on the ship with the attendant problems of hygiene and harsh treatment by crew members, the journey was also made unpleasant by the fear of torpedo attacks, the uncertainty of the destination, and by tensions between Jewish refugees and German Nazi passengers.

When the Dunera set sail, its internees were told they were bound for Canada. Watched over by 309 poorly trained British soldiers, the men endured horrendous conditions. They were stripped of their possessions, including documents and false teeth, many of which were thrown overboard. They were beaten and insulted as “Jewish swine” and had to sleep below deck on floors awash with human waste, with portholes battened shut.

The first Australian on board when the Dunera docked in Sydney, medical army officer Alan Frost, was appalled. His report led to the court martial of the officer-in-charge, Lieutenant-Colonel William Scott.

Upon arrival in Australia the refugees were interned together with the P.O.W.’s in a purpose built detention centre near the remote township of Hay, selected due, in no small measure, to its isolated location. They arrived at Hay on 7 September 1940 by four trains from Sydney.

While awaiting release, the ‘Dunera Boys’, as they were collectively known, developed rich cultural and intellectual programs at their camp, giving concerts and establishing an unofficial university. After a period of time the injustice of their situation was realised.

The opportunity and the first possibility of freedom came with the Japanese strike at Pearl Harbour, in December 1941. Australia found herself short of manpower, and they were given the choice to volunteer to serve in the Australian army.

The internment at Hay of this assemblage of refugees from Nazi oppression in Europe had been an important milestone in Australia’s cultural history. Just under half of those interned at Hay eventually chose to remain in Australia. The influence of this group of men on subsequent cultural, scientific and business developments in Australia is difficult to over-state; they became an integral and celebrated part of the nation’s cultural and intellectual life. Their arrival in 1940 was seen as the greatest injection of talent to enter Australia on a single vessel.

The ‘Dunera Boys’, are still fondly remembered in Hay; every year the town holds a ‘Dunera Day’ in which many surviving internees return to the site of their former imprisonment.

Recently as we meandered along the length of Murrumbidgee River westward from Wagga Wagga we happened upon the township of Hay. It lies on the very flat alluvial plains of the Riverina. The plains cover and area over twice the size of Holland and just as flat, stretching 350k east-west and 270k north-south. It reminded us of the Nullarbor Plains due to the almost complete absence of trees as far as the eye could see.

Hay lies along part of the great network of stock routes that in the 1860’s became colloquially known as The Long Paddock - a web of tracks and trails that linked the stock-breeding areas of the inland New South Wales with the growing markets in the south. The sudden influx of carnivorous Gold Miners into Victoria and the yet undeveloped refrigeration technologies provided the necessity to bring a constant supply of fresh meat into the gold fields. Today we can travel the length on bitumen and in the comfort of our air-conditioned vehicles. Back then it took weeks to traverse and it was often plagued by suspicions such as that of the headless horseman. It turned out to be an enterprising local butcher. He was taking advantage of the gullible drovers and after scaring the bejeezus out them dressed in coat draped over a frame that concealed his head he pilfered the cattle to beef up is own stock - so to speak. 

Described as ‘a modest splat’, by author, Bill Bryson in his novel “The Big Island”, Hay has remained a typical small country town. The population has not increased much since before the camp was built and the infux of prisoners and caused it to double overnight. There is a very inauspicious museum to the Dunera Boys in two railway carriages behind the now defunct railway station.

Most people would consider the incarceration of refugees in such a way, inconceivable today. Just imagine if refugees arriving in Australia today were kept behind bar ….oops, wait a minute…they are. Perhaps not a lot has changed in the past 70 years.

If you have been watching our map lately, as we daisy chain around this country, it may appear to some to resemble a snail trail on the garden path. We do generally have a long-term big plan to which we adhere. We had to be in Melbourne by October 2008 to meet hubby’s brother and sister-in-law. We had to be in Darwin in May 2009 to catch our flight to the UK and now we have to be in Melbourne by late April 2010 for the imminent arrival of our first grandbaby. But we seldom have a short-term plan, set in stone, as to where we will be much beyond the next day. If the weather is fine and the view is agreeable we may hang around one particularly pleasant spot for a few days. If there is a better view to be had by travelling the long way round from point A to point B, then you will find us there.

As it had been well over 25 years since we had last visited the Kosciuszko National Park we decided to head there after leaving Canberra. Kosciuszko National Park is one of the world’s great national parks, and the largest in New South Wales. Covering 690,000 hectares, the park contains the highest mountain on mainland Australia, the famous Snowy River and all NSW ski fields and is nationally and internationally recognised as a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve.

We spent almost a week discovering the beauty of the north end of the park. In the park are some delightful camping areas. At Yarragobilly we discovered one such campsite near the historic Cotterill’s Cottage, beside a babbling brook and stayed three nights. During the day we traversed several four-wheel drive tracks through beautiful, alpine landscape.

We trekked to the Blue Waterholes, shimmying across sheer rock faces and doing a delicate balancing act as we trod carefully over slippery stepping stones before discovering the easiest way to ford the shallow creek beds was to throw caution to the wind and simple step into the icy water.

The original plan was to travel through the northern end of the park, up along the east side of the Blowering Reservoir to Tumut then turn south along the West side of Blowering before entering the southern end of the National Park.

But as the old Yiddisch saying goes: “Mentsch tracht, Gott lacht.” (translation: “Man plans, God laughs.”) And so it was that we arrived in Tumut only to be advised that this road into the south end of the park was unsuitable for caravans. Due to this we headed north to Gundagai, then back east to the coast via Goulburn and Moss Vale.

This is was not the first time that we have been thwarted in our efforts to traverse this continent with our current rig, but an optimist is someone who can enjoy the view on a detour. It did give us the time to really enjoy the south coast of New South Wales and it give us a good excuse to drop in on my old mate Helen, her husband Gerard and their tribe of delightful off-spring, most of whom are now quite grown up.

The last time we saw Helen and Gerry, 20 something years ago, they had produced just two kids, now there are five. They visited us on our farm in Maryvale soon after we had moved there from Bronte. Though time has dulled my memory somewhat, I do recall through the fog, that it was a very joyful time we spent together and I also remember, but would rather forget, a rather appalling hangover as a result. It did teach me, however, that I suffer from an allergy to champagne; it makes me believe that I can sing and dance, and there was that rumour of having danced the ‘Hora’ to the strains of “Hava Nagila” on the bar of the Maryvale Pub….but more about that another time.

As we have been known to do, we brought with us some drought breaking rains, much to the delight of the inhabitants of Narooma. See my previous blog “rain maker - drought breaker”

We had managed to out run the rain for a few days but they eventually caught up with us again just as we arrived in Eden at the Southern part of the Ben Boyd National Park, a place of great natural beauty - evidently, but not as spectacular through rain splattered glasses. As the rain created rivulets, the colour of Café au Lait, beside and across the badly corrugated roadside, we decided to make good our escape before we got bogged in completely. After perusing the Bureau of Meteorology web site we changed our plans again and headed for the hills. The rain had, by now, brought fresh green shoots to the drought-starved fields between Bombala and Cooma and covered them in what looked like a coat of green corduroy.

So here we are back in Cooma again at the gateway to the Kosciuszko National Park. It has taken us almost four weeks to travel from Canberra to this point and upon consulting my map was appalled to discover that we had managed to cover, as the crow flies, just a tad over 80km. As for the route we travelled; it was well over 500km up hill and down yonder dale dragging our 3 tonne caravan behind us, for a large percentage of the time barely getting out of first gear, much to the consternation of the poor sods travelling behind us. This has caused us to long deliberate whether or not to replace this rig with something more suitable…but what? There is not one perfect method to travel around Australia. Since embarking upon this trip we have seen them all. From the million dollar Winnebago to the light weight camper-trailers that unfurl like the pop-up nursery books of old.

We have considered our options, and they are numerous. We considered a 4×4 truck with slide on camper and dirt bike strapped to the boot. However a great idea struck me while we were camped alone on acres of land by the banks of the much-depleted Blowering Reservoir. As I float in the reservoir on my foam noodle (not that, with my body mass index, I require much assistance to float.) a nearby kangaroo perplexed by the sight as if he had spotted the Loch Ness Monster. I was watching a dragonfly hovering above me when the proverbial light bulb suddenly illuminated the speech bubble above my head. A helicopter; that is what we need. Of course it would have some drawbacks. It’s hard enough to find parking at Woollies as it is. So I thought it might need to be something big enough to carry a small all terrain vehicle such as a Tomcar, for getting around town as well as driving across sand dunes. Also we would still need accommodation, so something big enough to fit out like a motorhome. We might need some thing the size of…oh; I don’t know…a Chinook perhaps.

Hmmm…didn’t I reading somewhere that the Australian Government has recently retired its fleet of Chinook Helicopters? What do you reckon a second hand Chinook is worth these days? How many kilometres per litre do those babies consume? Probably more like how many litres per kilometre? And does our GPS come with the option of aerial navigation?

Excuse me while I go jump onto Ebay. Now where should I start my search; “surplus military helicopter”, or “aviation hardware”?

As we travel along life’s path, we all come upon forks in the road that ultimately force us to make decisions and choose our own destinies. Sometimes it seems to me that I have come across more than my fair share. In my 53 years upon this earth I have stumbled upon a whole canteen of forks. But I make the most of every experience and live by the ethos that what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger and to date I have managed to turn every experience into a positive one.

In 1981 a series of seemingly innocuous events conspired to throw up forks in our road. The ultimate result of which was that we packed up our kit and caboodle and together with our pre-schooler, moved away from our family and friends in Sydney and set up home in Canberra.

Paramount among these events where the following: 

1. Late in July of 1981 I sold the business I had established in Artarmon a few years prior. 
2. In August the company that employed hubby decided to close the branch where he worked. 
3. On 9 September 1981 Sir Robin Askin, ( A.K.A. Sir Robert Askin) the 32nd premier of New South Wales (from 1965 to 1975), passed away. 

These may appear, at first glance, to be random, unrelated events and hardly conducive to moving to another state hundreds of miles away. But in reality they were all relevant, perhaps not in the same context as the alignment of the planets on the same side of the sun in 1982 which may or may not have played a pivotal role in drawing us to return to Sydney, but relevant all the same.

After I explain, all will become apparent. 

With the proceeds from the sale of the business in Artarmon we were able to pay off the mortgage on our first home and at the tender age of 24 and 29 respectively, we became debt free. Due to the ensuing celebrations a few weeks later I discovered I was expecting our second child…it was some party! 

Then reality struck; it looked as if hubby was about to join the ranks of the unemployed when they closed the branch he worked for.

We were deliberating what to do when out of the blue, at the age of 74 Sir Robin Askin passed away. Not that we had any direct link to the former premier but a friend of ours from Canberra, John, was a second cousin twice removed, or some such relation. Six degrees of separation, and all that jazz! Whilst in Sydney to attend the funeral John visited with us and suggested we move to Canberra where he could offer hubby employment in his printing business.

As we were able to find tenants to rent our house in Bronte for a larger sum than an equivalent house in Canberra would cost us, we did not hesitate and decided to take a chance and move inter state.

Although our stay in the nation’s capital was brief, lasting less than a year, we enjoyed every moment of it. While there, we discovered a warm and caring community unlike any we had experienced in the ‘big smoke’. Lifetime friendships were forged. Our elder son passed some unforgettable milestone such as starting big school and loosing his first baby tooth whilst trying to pries apart two recalcitrant Lego blocks. 

The highlight of our time in Canberra however, came after an arduous 48-minute labour one warm April morning, when I brought into this world a healthy baby boy, the product of our celebrations.

Unfortunately, on the business front, things were going base over apex. In hindsight we should have heeded the old adage; never do business with family or friends. Needless to say the friendship with John evaporated when the business arrangements turned sour, perhaps relevant to the alignment of the planets, but more likely due to the poor management skills of our delusional ex-friend.

All this occurred the day I came home from hospital with our new little bundle of joy and prompted us joining the dole queue. Eventually we bit the bullet and returned to our home in Sydney’s beachside suburb of Bronte, none the worse for the experience and even perhaps a little the wiser.

I have come full circle. Last week we drove into Sydney and took up residence in a unit on Hall Street, just a hop, skip and jump from my old stomping ground, Bondi Beach. We are house sitting for Mary, a lovely lady who has left us in charge of her unit while she is overseas for a couple of weeks attending her son’s wedding.

During my youth, before the word ‘melanoma’ entered my vocabulary, I whiled away many hours sunbaking at South Bondi, frying myself to a crisp. Lathered in coconut oil, I lay upon the sand for hours on end ogling the bronzed Aussies, as they strut their stuff in their designer ‘budgie smugglers’ (Speedos). This was back in the days when my white pointers still looked heavenwards, now they’ve just gone to Hell. Gravity sucks!

 

  

 

High Hi from Nimbin, the counter-culture capital of Australia. Before the early 1970’s this was just a sleepy, little farming town. To the bemusement of the conservative local community it was catapulted into the psychedelic era as hoards converged on this peaceful, rural paradise when Australia’s universities held their combined Aquarius Arts Festival on the green slopes around the town. With cheap, fertile land abounding, Nimbin became a magnet for the disillusioned youth of Australia’s major cities looking to turn on, tune in and drop out. It quickly became an incubator for a communal society that aimed to get back to grass roots living.

In my early teens I dreamed of buying a Kombi or panel van, painting flowers on the side and heading to Nimbin. Unfortunately, at the time, I was too young to qualify for a driver’s licence let alone the resources necessary to purchase the vehicle. By the time I was old enough my life had taken a different direction. I chose instead to travel the world, get married, raise a family and have a career. Now 40 years later, as an aging Grey Nomad, I have finally found my way to Nimbin.

 Today the alternate population of Nimbin is older and a tad on the saggy side, their dread locks thinner, their beards greyer and their tattoos drooping. The hippies of the 1970’s have not aged gracefully. With a permanent population of 1,100, Nimbin has, on any given day, a transient population of at least double that, made up predominantly of foreign tourists and old yuppies in Birkenstocks trying to recapture their miss spent youth. Most of the inhabitants who are under 50 seem to be German back-packers. I presume majority of the second generation Nimbinites have grown up, moved back to the capital cities and become stockbrokers and corporate lawyers. Such is the law of nature that most young people want to do the complete opposite of their parents.

As we meandered along Cullen Street unmistakable fumes permeated the environment. It is possible to get high just by sitting, long enough, in any one of Nimbin many cafes. I suspect that when Thunderclap Newman penned the title to his anthem for a generation of baby boomers, “Something in the Air”, it may very well have been Nimbin he was writing about. Beware; when someone offers to sell you a pot plant; it may not an African Violet you depart with.

As the afternoon drew to a close we watched a couple of aging hippies attempting to play a game of chess while their heads were all but obscured by a haze of fragrant smoke. It’s very hard to know who wins such a game while stoned. Not that I would know, I’m taking a leaf from Bill Clinton and claiming to never have inhaled…but as we all now know, Bill’s grasp on reality left a lot to be desired.

While you enjoyed your trip abroad.

Your house-sitters here were never bored.

We watered the lawns and mowed the grass.

Dusted the shelves and polished the brass.

And turned your engine over.

We swept the floors and beat the mat.

And fed the bird and scratched the cat.

We kept their bowls all full of food.

And walk your dog until he pooed.

Then scooped the poop of Rover.

We put out the trash & collected the mail.

And answered your phone calls without fail.

We cleaned the mirrors on the walls.

And never made long distance calls.

And most the time were sober.

We collected the eggs and fed the chooks

And put clean towels upon the hooks.

When it’s due, we’ll meet your plane

And drive you home to keep you sane

Thus ends our life in clover.

We’ll miss our home away from home.

Though maybe not the garden gnome.

We really have enjoyed our stay.

We’ll keep in touch until the day.

You need our help all over.