Hands up if you think one of the best parts of camping and being in the outdoors is camp food.
On our travels we try and cook around an open fire using our cast-iron camp oven at every opportunity…
It is a way of bringing us all together at the end of a day, to talk about what we did, our experiences, and usually the only sounds you hear are the crackle of twigs burning, of birds heading to their favourite roost for the night, and of laughter, friendly banter being exchanged around the fire…
Janet, my partner, is a wonderful cook, and without fail she will cook up a batch of scones or a damper in the camp oven to be devoured with lashings of butter and golden syrup much to the delight of all…
Looking back at old photographs is like opening a time capsule, you just never know what you are going to find, and usually there are one or two little gems to bring a smile to your face.
I was at my partner’s parents home recently, Clare and Archie who are 83 and 98 years old, and over a cup of tea we were flicking through books of old photographs. The themes varied from trips overseas, the children growing up, and of Archie’s childhood in India.
You could pick any photograph and Archie would narrate a rich account of when it was taken, and the story behind those who were in it. And there were photographs of Clare’s childhood days, growing up in far western Queensland on the family’s sheep property, and of her days at boarding school in Charters Towers.
The conversation turned to our upcoming adventures, and my journey to climb an 8,000 metre peak close to where Archie grew up. Over the years I have listened to the many stories of Archie’s trips to Darjeeling, situated in the foothills of the Himalaya’s, and in later years of visits both he and Clare made back to Calcutta.
One story is about a mountaineering expedition group who turned up at the offices of James Wright and Company, General Merchants, the family business in Calcutta. The suave and handsome couple were in a rather irate mood as they stepped out of the taxi, demanding to know why they had not been met at the ship upon their arrival. Being general merchants, Archie and his father dealt in all kind of goods, and were the agent’s in India for the popular drink Ovaltine.
“These mountaineers were here to climb Mt Everest and they were going to drink Ovaltine all the way to the top, extolling its virtues to the world.”
It had all been arranged in England prior to their departure and there was surprise and indignation that they had not been afforded the courtesies expected upon their arrival. They even had a copy of the telegram from the Head of the company that made Ovaltine in England informing of their visit.
This was a gentlemanly age and young Archie arranged for the expedition to be put up at a first class hotel where they could rest after their long sea voyage, and ahead of their attempt to climb Mt Everest.
And rest and avail themselves they did indeed…
Unfortunately, there was to be no attempt on Mt Everest as the mountaineers were well practiced con people. After spending a number of nights in the luxury of the first class hotel, taking advantage of the young Fawthrop’s generous hospitality, they disappeared into the night, leaving Archie with an expensive hotel bill and the need to provide an account to his father of how he had been done by a slick group of con artists’.
But he could be forgiven, after all Ovaltine accompanied Sir Edmund Hilary on his ascent of Mt Everest with Tenzing Norgay in 1953, and the company went on to sponsor Chris Bonnington’s 1975 Everest expedition.
And speaking of Tenzing Norgay, as we continued our journey through the albums one particular photograph caught my attention, a black and white snapshot of Clare and Archie, and I was sure it was Tenzing Norgay, the famous mountaineer, standing beside them.
On a visit to Darjeeling, Archie and Clare met and spoke with Tenzing, a remarkable and quietly spoken man, whilst dining at the Darjeeling Club.
TomO, our son, was very excited at the discovery, a link to where we will travel next year when I attempt to climb three 6,000 metre peaks, Lobuche East, Island Peak, and Pokalde, all situated not too far from Mt Everest.
“Was the Ovaltine story and the photograph a sign-post on our own journey, a connection to the region brought about from Archie’s younger days? In the least, it enriches the experience for us…”
And as I climb in the Himalaya’s Archie’s Ovaltine story will be sure to put a smile on my face, warming me like a hot cup of Ovaltine on a bleak winter’s night…
There was a hint of an Indiana Jones Adventure in the making as we stood at the top of Nellies Glen, the sky darkened by a moonless night as we readied ourselves to go in search of…
“The Exotic Treasures of The Temple of Baal”
Fellow adventurer, Ray Tong and I set off in near sub-zero temperatures along an old bridle track, The Six-Foot Track, taking our first steps cautiously to ensure we didn’t slip on the ice covering the ground. Established in 1884, it is a well trodden path linking the township of Katoomba in the Blue Mountains to the picturesque Jenolan Caves to its west.
The 45 kilometre track initially traverses majestic forests and national parks deep in the Megalong Valley and is often trekked as a 2 or 3-day walk. Although, every March there is a six-foot track marathon run and the front-runners will complete the distance in around 3 to 4 hours despite the mountainous terrain.
Angel’s Wing, Temple of Baal, Jenolan Caves
The Jenolan Caves, containing some of the world’s most spectacular calcite crystal formations, have been entrancing visitors since 1838 and are the world’s oldest, dating back over 340 million years.
The glorious Orient Cave and the glittering Temple of Baal are indisputably among the world’s best…
Our route took us along fire trails and well-worn tracks in the Megalong Valley, an area steeped in early Australian settler history, before heading up on to Black Mountain Range, a tough section as the route winds its way up the mountain.
When the route was first surveyed in 1884 it took the exploration party around 11 days to make their way through the rugged Australian bush. We had planned on around 11-12 hours of walking to cover the distance to the caves carrying 15 kilogram packs.
And whilst that was the plan, we were content with just getting out and about in the mountains on another adventure.
The area is important to the Gungungurra people who moved throughout the various valleys in the region. The track even passes the site of the last recorded Gungungurra corroboree and a cricket ground where an all-aboriginal team played the Megalong settlers in the 1890s.
“And it would hardly be an adventure worthy of Indiana Jones unless there was a swing bridge of some kind along the way”…
Baz & The Swing Bridge
An interesting feature on the track is Bowtell’s Swing Bridge, a suspension bridge over the Cox’s River that was constructed by the army in 1992. It is used as an alternative crossing when the Cox’s River is too high to cross safely. It is such a beautiful spot that we were tempted to set up camp, but we were still a long way from our destination so we settled on a break to take in the peace and solitude that the flowing river brought.
The area teemed with wildlife, kangaroos feeding on fresh green shoots of grass, and Gang-Gang cockatoos, squawking, as though heralding our passage through the tall standing gum trees.
As we made our way up along the Black Mountain fire trail the silence of the Australian bush was punctuated every so often by motor-cycle riders who use the area for recreational riding, and occassionally, a four-wheel drive vehicle.
And as the sun lowered in the western sky, disappearing behind the mountains, and the air cooled, the Stately Caves House came into view, a most welcome sight after 11 hours of trekking.
Caves House
We took a look around the caves area and were later met by our families before heading to the small rural township of Oberon, situated about 30 kilometres away, where we were able to relax over a beer, reflecting on our journey, and…
The other day I came across an inspirational story, the story of Andy Campbell.
On 7 June, Andy left London to travel 30,000 miles around the world in a wheelchair, a journey that is expected to take two years, will cross four continents with environments ranging from oceans to deserts, an odessy that has never been attempted before in which he will ski, scubadive, kayak, and even paraglide.
Eight years ago Andy had an abseiling accident, a fall from a rock-face that left him paralysed, losing the use of his legs.
But, in his own words, he kept his “ life and his ambition”.
“The more I tasted freedom the greater my appetite became and I realised the only way to ensure something’s impossible is to not try, to accept failure and physically stop”.
Motivated by a desire to escape the concrete jungle and urban environments that often confines those in wheelchairs, Andy has continued to pursue what he enjoys most, adventure. Following the accident he went on to learn the skills necessary to be able to ski, sitting down, kayak, bike ride, scuba dive, and even rock-climbing again, all without the use of his legs.
Andy Campbell Paragliding
Andy will use his journey as a way to help increase the accessibly and enjoyment of the outdoors for those with spinal cord injuries.
His vision is simple, “to help create a world in which people with a spinal cord injury are not restricted from active participation in outdoor recreation by a lack of access to adequate equipment.”
His goal, “to raise 1 million pounds.”
Good luck Andy, you truly are an inspiration, a great example of how ordinary people, achieve great things!
Phew! That wasn’t too bad now I’ve finally got it off my chest, in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that before.
Actually, I did admit it to TomO, my 12 year-old son a few years back when he was struggling with the concept. And I recall being a little snookered at the time, especially when he asked for a demo of how it was done. I just didn’t want to go there and let’s face it there are plenty of things that can mess around with a young mind and this didn’t need to be one of them. So I ‘fessed up and sent him to speak with his mother.
And speaking of his mother, I did mention it to Janet, as there was some risk of tripping over as I led her arm-in-arm down the aisle on our wedding day. Believe me, I’m assured of tripping at least once a week with the way I tie my shoelaces. Imagine the wedding shots with me sporting a black eye in them, all because I tripped on a rogue shoelace that had come undone. I’m sure many would find the recounting of such a story funny, but I’d be the brunt of endless jokes down at the local football club.
“Hey Baz, you didn’t even get down the aisle and you’re sporting a black eye already”. Bluey and the boys would be on to me with the ferocity of a ‘pit-bull terrier’ nipping at your heels…
I ran the gauntlet when playing football as a pre-pubescent teenager growing up in Townsville. The other boys were always impressed my mother turned up for every single game we played, always on the sideline cheering away, but of course I never told them that mum and I ducked around to the back of the sheds before the game so she could tie my boots up.
Only a loving mother could do that, and boy it saved me from embarrassment at a very delicate age. We won every game that year and the boys nominated mum as our lucky charm.
I think I can even trace back my life-long habit of sleeping without bed-clothes, you know, in the nude, due to this problem, despite telling Janet I was just a new-age type of guy. It did start a trend though…
Stay with me here!
Remember those flannelette pyjamas, the ones with the draw-cord that you had to tie off?
I still have nightmares over them, and go into a cold-sweat whenever I pass a rack of them at our local K-Mart store…
I used to tie them off in my usual way, but after a few tosses and turns in the bed my bow would become a knot. Invariably I’d wake up needing to visit the little room, you know, the call of nature, make a quick dash down the hallway worried I might only just make it, only to find the knot at the last critical moment.
Talk about panic, sheer panic!
No one ever owned up to who hid the scissors in the little room, although I think mum has always suspected me. Perhaps the tell tale sign was a severed cord in my pyjamas, but funny as it seems now, she never asked why I didn’t need any new pyjamas from that moment on.
And what about Dunlop Volleys, I had stacks of those in my young adult years. The first thing I did when I opened the box was to rip the laces out and throw them away, problem solved. I thought it looked so cool walking around in them without laces. Mind you it should come as no surprise that I would put that sort of spin on it.
It did look cool, didn’t it?
I mean Janet never said it didn’t, but back then we were freshly wedded and you know how those things work, nodding yes, but thinking no! Mind you she never criticised those yellow pants I used to wear, well not back then anyway, but she’s managed to toss that one out there a couple of times recently…
These days if I had a pair of the old Dunlop’s on without laces someone would be offering me 5 bucks to buy some and telling me to keep the change to get myself a feed.
While we’re on shoes, how good are running shoes these days? The ones with the Quicklace for one pull tightening, no need to tie anything. I was right on to them when they first came out. My running mates were impressed and I was singing their virtues so often that I’m sure they must have been thinking I was on some sort of retainer from the company. The unfortunate downside is they made my stockpile of Dunlop Volley’s redundant, after all how am I supposed to offload a dozen pair without shoelaces?
So by now you are probably thinking, okay Baz, bravo, but what’s with it? I’m sure there are others with a similar problem even if we’ve never come across them…
Well you see any mountaineer worth his or her salt will have a repertoire of some complex knots that they can perform blindfolded. And I’m sure there is one knot for every letter in the alphabet, and then a hundred more! The girth hitch, a water knot, a figure eight fisherman’s knot, the munter hitch, and something called a stopper knot that sounds like it’s a pretty important one.
On a recent abseiling course my marker was finally called in…
I had a quick mental debate over whether I should admit to our instructor that I couldn’t tie my shoelaces, but thought better of it because it might be me first up on the rope after I’ve tied it off.
Besides, I’m sure there is a climber’s creed that says something like, you tied it, you try it!
And it would save them any embarrassment when under cross-examination in a coronial inquiry.
Imagine having to defend a fact that you allowed someone who could not tie their shoelaces to tie off the anchor points on top of the cliff that lead to the sudden demise of some poor family man with a dozen mouths to feed.
Yep, there’d be no doubting they’d be too smart to be caught out like that, so it was more likely to be me abseiling at 100 kilometres an hour with one end of the rope in each hand.
Mind you I did think of mum, but a fear of heights ruled her out. Besides, would I really want my mother with me asking have I got my handkerchief just as I’m about to abseil over the edge?
So here it was, my moment of truth. Actually it wasn’t too bad.
They all thought it was a great joke and everyone laughed loudly. Even though this was serious business it could still be fun and there is nothing like a rope joke to break the ice.
But the laughing floated away into the valley below when I explained it was true! I could even see a couple of them processing this and clearly questioning in their minds whether it was in fact a tree root I tripped on as we made our way down to the cliff-face from the carpark. And like wandering eyes drawn to the busom of a woman in a low cut dress, they spent the rest of the day fixated on my shoes.
Our instructor was quite good about it really and offered some comforting words and said I shouldn’t worry as there are probably many people like me, and thinking they probably weren’t abseilers though.
As soon as I turned my back he was right on to those knots I tied. Struth, I would have been if I was him, especially as he was clipped on a safety line that I had just tied-off. The colour drained from his face as he stepped back from the cliff edge, shaking visibly!
But we did work away at those knots; the figure eight was popular, very strong and guaranteed to hold everything in place, just as long as you got it right. I practised away, at times feeling like I had a fistful of thumbs as I worked on those fisherman’s knots. But I was mastering it, on my way to becoming a pro!
And my rigging was successfully put to the test; but mind you I still have a problem of sorts.
I’ve been working so fervently on my climber’s knots that I still haven’t got around to working out how to tie my shoelaces.
Remember as a kid when you got your first pair of shiny black shoes?
I do. I refused to take them off for a week, even insisting on wearing them to bed despite being offered as much ice-cream I could eat in return for removing them.
You see I’ve been practicing my fisherman’s knot on my work shoes (Doh!) and anyone with even a basic understanding of knots will know the fisherman’s knot is designed to never come undone, something I overlooked as I was high-fiving TomO.
The penny dropped as I headed for a shower and I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, and a couple of those naughty words did slip out.
But there we have it, tonight it looks like I’m going to bed with my shoes on for the first time in years and no amount of ice-cream is going to save the situation. I just need to broach the topic with Janet.
It’s kind of funny really; here I am dressed to the nines for bed in just my work shoes. Who would have thought my mountaineering journey would have a twist like this in it?
Am I alone on this one, or is there a huge group, inspired by my confession, about to come-out?
Come on; join the movement… if you belong, I’ve got some Dunlop Volley’s you can have for the asking!
The Three Sisters, Katoomba, New South Wales, Australia.(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Last weekend I headed to the mountains for a couple of days of abseiling and climbing with the team from the Australian School of Mountaineering (ASM) at Katoomba.
The setting was the spectacular Blue Mountains, an internationally recognised World Heritage Area where you can bush walk, mountain bike, abseil, climb and canyon in any number of spectacular locations, and at night sit around a log fire in one of the many inviting hotels, or bed and breakfast establishments. Unless you choose to camp out in the elements, and there are plenty of places where you can do that, all within two hour’s drive from the centre of Sydney.
Janet, my partner, and two of her girlfriends joined me for the weekend, although they were there to support the local economy in the numerous dress shops and art and craft boutiques that are part of the make-up of the small towns and villages in the region, not to dangle from the end of a rope!
The weekend was a follow-up to some recent training I undertook and an opportunity to learn more advanced skills. The first day was spent learning about gear selection and fitting, rigging of suitable anchor systems, hazard identification and avoidance, self-belaying techniques, and basic rescue and self rescue systems. Whilst there was some theory involved all the training was on the cliffs, and I was joined by two other people from Sydney who came to brush up on some abseiling skills learnt from boy-scout days.
Carrington Hotel (Photo credit: tolomea)
After a tiring first day I stopped by at the Carrington Hotel, a beautifully renovated Art Deco style hotel in the centre of Katoomba, to meet with the girls who were strategically seated in the couches around a log-fire sipping on champagne. Later, we went to a local restaurant, Avalon, situated in an old picture theatre, where we had a few good laughs as the girls discussed their day, and purchases. Although I did keep quiet about the two new ropes I purchased as I’m sure I would have been subjected to some friendly banter, especially after recently writing about their shopping exploits!
The second day was spent on more specialised rope rescue skills, tips and tricks that you need to know if you are going to dangle from a rope down a cliff face. And this included the use of mechanical ascenders and prusiks, and importantly, an improvised casualty evacuation method using Z–drags. These skills will form an important of my tool kit as I make my journey to Cho Oyu and Beyond, as much of the mountaineering I will be doing in the next two years will be glacier based and have the ever present risk of crevasses, so learning to rescue oneself from deep within is important. But like many things, this is all about practice, and you need to take the military approach to learning, just keep on drilling it until you can do it backwards in your sleep!
But alas, despite the serious side to the course it is supposed to be fun, otherwise why would you be doing it? And we did have lots of fun, and lots of laughs. Although the girls were heard to quip that how could anything be fun if it didn’t involve shopping!
Shane, ASM Instructor
Shane, our instructor from ASM, has a strong climbing background and also instructs at a local college on Outdoor and Recreational activities. He was able to impart his knowledge with ease and in a way that could be readily absorbed. This was great as there is a fair amount of stress happening as you are trying to self-rescue yourself from half-way down a cliff. I’ll be doing some more climbing with Shane in two weeks time which will give me the opportunity to hone in and practice the skills learnt this weekend.
And we had spectacular weather for the two days, a little cool at times when the sun slipped behind a cloud, but from our position at Mt York we were sheltered from most of the wind and the view was spectacular from our cliff-top perch – I couldn’t help but think, you wouldn’t be dead for quids!
Dope on a rope?
On the Rope, Mt York, Blue Mountains
Well there were times I was feeling that way as I worked to master the necessary skill level with what seemed like a fist full of thumbs, but hanging-out on a rope is a blast and I can’t wait to be back out there again!
Okay, there are many pursuits that could be classed as risky, dangerous, some more so than others, but really, it still comes down to one’s perspective, doesn’t it?
So Janet, my partner, and I were having a bit of a debate about this earlier today ahead of a trip we are making to the Blue Mountains, just to the west of Sydney this weekend.
And I will set the scene here, Janet is no wallflower, together we have flown aeroplanes, jumped out of them, abseiled off the side of the AMP building in Sydney side-by-side, and even rafted down some wild rivers in Papua New Guinea – so there’s no doubting she’s up for adventure and happy to balance risk against outcomes.
So when I said to her that a weekend of shopping in the Blue Mountains with her two girlfriends, we’ll just call them Kimbalee and Lisa to protect their identities, is risky and dangerous it seemingly fired her up a touch. It actually made me chuckle a bit, because it was a bit like when you were a teenager, you know, when you got sprung by your parents, as though they were mind readers, before you did whatever it was that you weren’t supposed to, and left you with no option but to go on the defensive…
“How’s that she asked? And besides, aren’t you climbing and abseiling off some rock walls isn’t that a little risky?”was the retort…
And true, I will be doing that, thankfully spared from being dragged from boutique to boutique, art gallery to art gallery, mind you, some of the art galleries are very nice, and the prospect of being in the company of these three attractive young ladies was pleasing, but I was looking forward to the outdoor activities I had planned.
I thought I’d better choose my words carefully here because as lovely natured as Janet is, she could stare down a stampede of cattle at a hundred paces.
Well I suggested these girls, Kimbalee and Lisa, were seasoned shoppers, fearless and old-school who live to the creed “if you can’t decide which one you like, buy the lot”. In the right setting that might be okay, our bank balance might just scrap through relatively unscathed, but these boutiques were high fashion, and that’s before we get to the galleries…
Sensing she had me on the ropes, of which there was a certain amount of irony, and with a glint in her eye she said…
“But haven’t you always said that if you are going to do something, learn to do it properly, and then go out and practice it until you are an expert?”
True I thought, and about this time I was wishing I hadn’t tried to be so smart, and had just gone about my daily routine without throwing out the bait, so to speak.
I should have seen it coming…
“So how much did you say those climbing boots are, you know the ones you’ll need for New Zealand, $700, $800, I’ve never bought a pair of shoes that have cost anywhere near that amount”. Was that a smile I detected, a cheeky little grin, as she turned away slightly?
I was looking for that big hole to swallow me up, and started to understand just how a stampede of cattle might just be feeling right now, stared down by Janet.
Yes risk and danger, it’s there wherever we look, in whatever we do, and as I climb and descend tomorrow, I’m sure that the klinking sound of carabineers on carabineers will be equalled by the ringing sound of a cash register playing the tune of three wonderful lady’s having fun, and of course, giving their cards a workout…
You’ve got to love the Aussie Shed, a beacon in a sea of green grass that is usually found near the back fence on any Australian suburban house block. I love my shed and even though it was designed to house a couple of cars, and all that stuff that you accumulate over the years, you know, the Christmas presents that you couldn’t stand but didn’t have the heart to send to the refuse tip, they all invariably end up hidden away in a dark corner of the shed.
As a long-term fitness junkie, my shed houses surfboards, kayaks, a Concept C2 rower, and my weight-lifting racks and associated equipment, as well as numerous bikes collected over the years. Not surprisingly there is a small collection of old Landrover parts and camping equipment. And yes, the odd Christmas present that seemed like a good idea to someone long-ago.
Mind you, not all Aussie sheds house exercise equipment, unless of course you count the bar fridge in the corner which is standard equipment. Often you’ll see the men-folk doing some elbow bending as they drink a toast to the day passed, usually just around the time the sun is going down over the yard-arm. And like a bunch of Cockatoos, high on the fermenting nectar of fruit consumed under a hot Aussie sun, the squawking tends to increase as the amber fluid flows. And you can be sure a fair amount of advice is passed around, an exchange of ideas, thoughts, happenings, and the odd joke or two. A bit like Speakers Corner where everyone is given a chance to say their bit, to tell their yarn in a not too serious way.
But I’m digressing…Each morning around 4.30am, or silly-o’clock as Janet, my partner suggests, I make the journey out the back door and up the driveway to the shed. Even the dogs, Milo and Jack, can’t be bothered to get out of their beds, preferring to wave me through, especially on these colder winter mornings. Although, usually after about 30 minutes or so one of them will wander up to see what is going on, but I suspect if they could speak they’d actually be asking for a feed, seemingly oblivious to anything else, such is a dog’s life. Depending on the day I’ll either pursue my strength training, or use the rower for my daily cardio fix and although I would prefer to be out on the water kayaking it isn’t always convenient during the week, so the rowing machine is a great substitute.
I must confess upfront to being an early morning person, I guess you’d have to be to manage a 4.30am start each day, but it does have its advantages. In between the clanging of weight plates being moved, or interval sets on the rower, I can stand outside in the pre-dawn silence and marvel at the stars in the sky, the wondrous universe with you at its centre, once a month watch a full moon setting in the western sky, and if I’m lucky even a shooting star to ponder a thought on.
And what of the neighbours I hear you ask, what if they don’t share my love of the early morning? I must say it is hard not to be tempted into playing some heavy metal, AC/DC or Led Zeppelin (okay I’m showing my age here!) to help the mood and give that much needed pump for the session. But alas, it is mostly done in silence, apart from a moan or groan under the weight of a squat bar, or the last 500 metres on the rower. But fair to say, if I head up for an afternoon session, which is more often than not, it is always accompanied by some loud rock or heavy metal music. I’ve always said that Theo, our next door neighbour, is a closet heavy metal fan, so the relationship has never been strained, he doesn’t always say much mind you, but smiles a lot, so maybe he’s actually deaf. And I’m frequently visited by Janet, and TomO, our son, during these sessions, which is always welcome, mind you there would never be any chance of that happening in the morning, in fact I don’t think they know what 4.30am actually looks like.
There was a suggestion not too long ago that maybe the shed could be converted and upgraded to have a loft, an upstairs area where TomO and his mates could hang out, maybe even move into as he advances in his teenage years. You know, a brand new building without the cracks that have accumulated over the years, possibly from too much heavy metal music resonating through the walls, or perhaps just cracking up from the tall stories that have echoed from within – but it just wouldn’t be cricket, and besides where would I put the bar fridge?
No thanks, I like my shed just the way it is, and as the sun slowly sinks below the yard arm in a brilliant display of burnt orange…Cheers, from the shed!
As a kid I relished the chance of playing in the mud, waiting for the rains to come to create that oozing, chocolate slush that you could roll in, throw at your mates, and of course get a dressing down from your Mum when you got home with clothes so dirty they needed two wash’s to get clean.
Surely I wasn’t alone in this pleasant past-time? And if the rise and success of the various adventure races, the ones that invariably have numerous mud pits strategically placed around the course is any guide to go by, then clearly I wasn’t.
Recently, my 12 year old son, TomO, and I headed off to compete in a Tough Bloke Challenge which was staged just to the south of Sydney. And I do use the word compete lightly as this was intended to be a fun day out and whilst there were some serious looking competitors’ lining up at the start, for the most part everyone was similar to ourselves, eager to get down and dirty!
The first challenge was almost on the start line and required us to scale a stack of hay bales, and then on to a 3-kilometre trail run to warm us up for what lie ahead. There was mud trenches covered with barbed wire, dark concrete tunnels, monkey bars to negotiate, flying foxes to ride, and all this along a 7-kilometre course. We egged each other on, laughing our way around the course, jostling with thousands of others sloshing through the mud.
A lot of time could be spent hypothesising on what has encouraged so many weekend-warriors to line up with their mates, seemingly happy to put themselves through a gruelling work-out just to receive a medal, and a cold beer to drink a toast to crossing the finish line. But let’s face it – rolling in the mud is just great fun!
An anniversary passed a couple of days ago marking 70 years since a defining moment in Australian history, the Kokoda Track campaign in the jungle of Papua New Guinea.
Starting on July 21, 1942 and lasting until 16 November of the same year it was more than a battle to save Port Moresby, and possibly Australia from a Japanese invasion, this was a time where the attributes of mateship truly shone through like a beacon to lead and guide future generations of Australians.
It is hard to stand at the monument at Isurava, which looks down to Kokoda and not be moved. The fighting here was intense, and it was in this very place that Private Bruce Kingsbury committed an act of bravery and valour that ultimately led to his own life being lost, and for which he was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross, Australia’s highest Military Award.
Courage, Endurance, Mateship, Sacrifice
A few years ago I stood at the very rock where Private Kingsbury fell, the scene was serene, and it was hard to imagine the heavy fighting that resonated from this hillside, the sound of Bren guns rattling, of Japanese mountain guns being fired over the ridge from nearby Deniki, not knowing where the shells would fall, or whose life they would next claim.
The story of the 39th Battalion is legendary, and the enormity of the task they faced has only in recent years started to be truly understood. Increasingly Australian’s are making the pilgrimage to Kokoda, walking the track in recognition of the suffering and sacrifice these men made, to pay homage where a family member fell, a father, an uncle.
Often mocked by the regular Australian forces, the 39th were essentially the equivalent of a Citizens Military Force. They faced an elite Japanese fighting force, the Sasebo, in the initial stages of the battle, but what they may have lacked in military prowess, if anything, was certainly overcome by the qualities of, mateship, courage, and endurance.
In 2006 I was fortunate to walk the track with a good mate, and a group of like-minded people and led by a man passionate about telling the story of the 39th. Adopted by Australia, but of Irish descent, Aidan Grimes is an infectious person, with a typical Irish humour, who believes that the Australian quality of mateship is one of our country’s greatest assets.
Aidan Grimes
Aidan has walked the track more times than he can remember, and has spent countless hours talking to those involved in the campaign. He relayed their stories as we progressed along the 96 kilometre track to Owers Corner.
There wasn’t one dry eye to be seen as Aidan sang Danny Boy at the very spot that Stan Bissett cradled his mortally wounded brother, Lieutenant Harold ‘Butch’ Bissett, in his arms before he silently slipped away.
And we should never forget the sacrifices that were made by our good friends. Our Wantoks, legends of the Kokoda Track, the Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels, the Papuan New Guineans who carried supplies and our wounded, often making the ultimate sacrifice at the hands of an unyielding foe.
Standing at the top of the final hill after six days along the Track, we looked back over the ranges and I swear we could hear that distinctive Aussie drawl, the sound of mates helping their mates, our memory of them will live on forever…Lest We Forget.
As a financial markets professional who has been involved in the foreign exchange market for over a quarter of a century I must say one of the most enduring lessons I learnt from an early time in my career is an old adage that has served me well – ‘plan the trade and trade the plan’.
Banking, and later financial markets was not always my career goal and as a young school boy growing up in Townsville, North Queensland, I frequently looked out the school window to watch a Mirage or Neptune heading into land at Garbutt airbase. My heart was set on a career in the air force flying aeroplanes. Of course, in reality, very few people get to achieve that dream, but mine was cut short when I discovered at the air force medical that I shared an impairment that many males do, colour deficiency. Over the years it has been graded as moderate to severe, seemingly dependent on what test was being given, and who was interpreting the result.
Naturally it was hard to accept that something totally outside of my control had cut short a potential military flying career.
My early days in the banking industry were spent within the branch network of a major bank, and then into a specialised department dealing in international trade. It was around this time that the Australian dollar was freely floated by the Labor Government of the day and by luck or design, perhaps a bit of both, I found myself involved in the fast-paced and stimulating world of foreign exchange trading.
I have often been asked why I didn’t pursue a career in commercial aviation, but at the time, colour deficiency was a major barrier to advancement in the industry. But as the years passed, I decided that it was time to revisit my goal of flying aircraft and headed to Bankstown to undertake my Private Pilot’s licence course. I achieved this in 1994, and purchased a Piper Arrow 111, a retractable, constant speed aircraft, that myself and my partner, Janet, could tour the country in.
Being a methodical planner and risk manager, I relished the task of planning trips, many didn’t come to pass because of the conservative approach I took to considerations such as weather. In fact many people both within the flying fraternity, and outside of it, congratulated me on my approach, but of course hidden within this seemingly good trait was a dangerous flaw that had the potential for deadly consequences.
In 1996 I planned a flight from Bankstown to Essendon to visit family members who had just given birth to their first child. The planning had been done and the VFR route I was taking was west from Bankstown over the Blue Mountains via Katoomba, Wagga, Albury, Eildon Weir, and on into Essendon. I had reviewed it numerous times and had programmed the route into a newly purchased GPS.
The Saturday morning arrived and I was looking forward to the three-and-a-half hour flight. The weather was to be fine to Wagga, with some showers developing along the ranges to the south of Albury.
I settled into the flight over the Blue Mountains and was on track according to my maps, and confirmed by the GPS, and the weather was as forecast and expected for this stage of the flight. After passing Wagga and setting course for Albury I made the required radio calls for clearance through the Albury control area which I received with a word of caution from the controller that there were showers on the western side of the ranges and I would most likely encounter these along my route. Would I like to consider diverting via Wangaratta?
I took the time to process this suggestion, the weather ahead still looked okay, despite what I was being told, and I would always have the option to backtrack, or divert should conditions become unacceptable for VFR flight. Of course, what really was happening was a reversion to the ‘plan the trade, and trade the plan’ lesson learned all those years ago. I had planned this flight immaculately, it was in my GPS, it would be a hassle to change, and besides sticking with a well thought out plan had always served me well.
And perhaps that might have been a reasonable decision to make if experience was on my side, and if I had the capacity to not only realise when the flight along the planned route was no longer acceptable, and only if I was capable of acting immediately once realised.
I informed the controller I would be continuing as planned, to which he put the question one more time – would I like to divert via Wangaratta where the weather was fine.
The flight proceeded towards Eildon Weir, but the cloud base was lowering, and so was I, and I did look behind me frequently to ensure I had an out should it be required. But of course that option closed about the time the weather ahead of me deteriorated, and not surprisingly in the hilly region nearer to Mansfield. My concern elevated quickly, realising I was now confronted with the possibility of needing to do a precautionary search and landing, which was not without its risks, and I was looking fervently out the window for a place to do this. But even at this point, I don’t believe I was fully committed to this action. The second flaw was now kicking in, failure to act. Seemingly I was delaying any action in the hope luck would be on my side.
I contacted Melbourne arrivals, whom were possibly monitoring developments and was given clearance to track towards Essendon, the weather had improved slightly and as I tracked west it cleared into a fine day, highlighting that had I tracked via Wangaratta the flight would have been much safer.
I have frequently looked back at this flight as a defining moment on many levels. It encouraged me to go on and obtain an instrument rating so I could better recognise marginal VFR conditions, and have a safety release valve for dealing with it when encountered.
But importantly, it demonstrated to me that I was very inflexible once I had planned something, it may have saved me and my employer a lot of money over the years, a product of ‘planning the trade, and trading the plan’, but this inflexibility has no place in the cockpit, and of course it almost cost me my life on this particular day.
And over the years I have read many accident reports, loss of control in cloud, VFR flight into marginal conditions, failure to act despite recognising that action is required – it is all there, and yet I never thought it would be referring to me.
An invaluable lesson was learned that day, one that has been at forefront of mind each and every day since…and of course it takes on a new level of importance these days as mountaineering requires a high level of flexibility!
Footnote: At the time of this flight I had logged around 200 hours of flying time and went on to log around 1,000 hours, including IFR time. I sold the aircraft in 2000, and have flown very little since.
I’m sure much can be said and written about someone who has two Landrover Defenders, and I’ve had a good chuckle at the usual Landy jokes that frequently come my way!
But after my Defender 130 Twin Cab, ‘The Landy’, was overhauled and configured for long-range remote touring in 2006 my attention turned to another project. I was actually in need of a vehicle to drive to work, so I decided, much to the consternation of Mrs. Landy, to buy a Defender 110 in need of work, but adequate for the job until I got around to it.
In 2007 I settled on a 1994 Defender 200 TDi that was in reasonable working order, and over a period of time simply drove it to find out what needed to be done and what I wanted to do with it. This was the three door Panel Van style Defender, as distinct from the usual five door Station Wagon format; it had three seats in the front and not one piece of computer controlled equipment!
Cavernous
The rear is cavernous and consequently Red Rover spent many weekends over the past four years transporting garden rubbish to the local refuse point, an important fallback point for both vehicle and myself when the time came to discuss finances for the overhaul…
Now Mrs. Landy quite enjoys driving ‘The Landy’ and does so frequently, however when it came to ‘Red Rover’ she suggested that driving a tank would be easier and would save having to do strength-training just to enable her to depress the clutch, or wearing ear muffs to stave off the early onset of deafness. I was tempted to point out the onset of deafness had indeed commenced as whenever we discussed ‘the overhaul’ it appeared to fall on deaf-ears, however not being one to push my luck I settled on highlighting an overhaul would fix all those issues…
Fast-forwarding to 2011, the time had come to ‘update’ Red Rover and after giving it much thought and putting aside many of the ‘ideas’ I had for it, I settled on keeping it as original as practical. So it was off to Bruce Davis Performance Landy’s, Sydney, for a complete ‘going-over’ and check-up.
As with ‘The Landy’ the brief was simple, ‘Red Rover’ had to be at a standard that you would be happy to take to any of the remote areas in Australia, with confidence…
The running gear and drive-line was overhauled, new Tough-Dog shock absorbers and maxi-drive axles were fitted to replace the standard issue. All hoses were replaced, the radiator overhauled, a Safari Snorkel and front bash-plate added and two new seats to replace the ones that were falling apart. The centre seat was not replaced.
The engine was in good condition, and apart from fitting a new head-gasket late in 2010, little else has been done to it despite having over 330,000 kilometres on it today.
After getting the mechanical ‘nod’ of approval it was off for the cosmetic work, which included a respray, new door seals so I no longer need to wear wet weather gear when driving in the rain, and an interior make-over supervised by Norm from the Department of Interior, Sydney.
Trimmed out
For those not familiar with this model Defender the only trim it came with was a hood lining in the front seating compartment, other than that it was very ‘rural’. The middle seat has been replaced by a custom made console that also houses a GME 4400 TXUHF Radio, and an across the windscreen shelf roof console inserted along with map reading lights.
The rear was kept very simple; a floor put in across the wheel arches, with an under floor access section fashioned into it at the front. This was done to provide ease of access due to the depth of the rear area and the whole panel has been covered in marine carpet. The roof has also been lined providing some much needed insulation in winter.
A near new set of Cooper ATRs were fitted along with TPMS tyre pressure monitors. We have trialled the TPMS monitors on ‘The Landy’ for some time and are very happy with the product. And it even got a new set of LED taillights.
It has been pleasing to take the vehicle from its previous condition to something that presents well, and is capable of doing any tracks or touring we might throw at it (Anne Beadell 2012?). And I did suggest to Mrs. Landy that it could play ‘wingman’ to our Defender 130 (The Landy) on our trip to the Gulf Savannah that commences in late June. However, whilst casting an eye of approval over the final result, she did quip that whilst it no longer sounds or rides like you’re in a tank she thought it best to leave it at home, and with a wink quickly added it was far too early to expose it to the risk of getting a ‘scratch’…….
You can’t miss it on the road, fire-engine Red so be sure to give it the ‘Landy Wave’ if you’re passing!
If you ever harboured an inclination to walk from Sydney to Newcastle it is worth knowing that the price of a one-way rail ticket is $18 and the journey takes approximately two hours. And I have undertaken this trip on a number of occasions and must say it is a pleasant trip, especially as the train winds its way around Brisbane Waters and Lake Macquarie en-route to Newcastle.
However, on the other hand if you want to save the train fare and have around ten days to spare, then I thoroughly recommend you take The Great North Walk.
The Great North Walk was initially constructed as a celebration of Australia’s Bicentenary in 1988. In 1981, two walkers from Sydney, Garry McDougall and Leigh Shearer-Heriot, came up with the idea to walk from Sydney to Newcastle.
After spending some time identifying an appropriate route, they decided to try and create a formal track. In 1983 they approached the NSW Bicentennial Committee for support. Minor grants followed and in 1986, the Bicentennial Committee allocated a major grant.The track was then adopted by The Department of Lands and became a reality in 1988.
The Department of Lands continues to undertake its maintenance, construction, conservation enhancement and future development.
It is estimated that more than 40,000 local, interstate and international visitors use the walk annually, either taking the challenge of the full 12-16 day hike, or enjoying short walks of one or two days in different sections of the walk.
On the ferry
My walking partner, and good friend, Ray Tong, set out on the walk in April of this year with another friend Michael Hawxwell and walked for six days, but was quickly extracted from the track one morning when his partner, my sister-in-law, put a call in to say that the birth of Aubrey James was going to be three weeks earlier than expected. Now Ray could have started this walk from where he left off… but he didn’t and there we were, five months later on the 7.20am ferry from Circular Quay, heading under the Sydney Harbour Bridge on our way to the start of the walk in the pretty harbour-side suburb of Woolwich.
I doubt if those waiting to be transported to their city offices even noticed these two people stepping off onto the jetty, loaded up with maps and back-packs, so it was with little fan-fare that we headed off up the road, passing bleary eyed school kids and women walking their dogs.
Perhaps I should set the scene for the first couple of days as this was spent walking through the inner, and outer northern suburbs of Sydney, mostly along bush tracks, as the walk winds its way towards the Hawkesbury River. I could say that we roughing it those first three nights, and if you call coming back to a home cooked meal, and a nice warm bed, at Dinsmore, our family home at Epping, than consider we were roughing it.
In fact, the number of days actually camping out were less than those spent tucked up in a regular bed, as the walk can be done in a way that allows you to stay at bed & breakfast type accommodation along the way. Not that either of us was unaccustomed to camping out in the elements, however let’s face it, with an average of twenty-six kilometres to walk each day a nice bed to sleep in at night has its appeal.
On the second day we were fortunate to have our good friend and frequent walking partner, Bob Todd, join us on the picturesque Crossland to Berowra Waters section of the walk.
And there was no rest on father’s day which we celebrated walking through a number of valleys to arrive at Brooklyn, a fishing village nestled on the banks of Hawkesbury River. However, we did arrive to a fan-fare of sorts with Thomas and Aubrey greeting us with a welcome afternoon tea.
Train across he Hawkesbury
There are two ways to get to the other side of the Hawkesbury; one is via a ferry to Patonga, and the second on the train to Wondabyne.
We elected to take the train, and its departure from Wondabyne station marked our moment of truth as we stood there, back-packs loaded with twenty kilograms of gear and water, another seven days ahead of us, and a rather imposing walk up a hill from the station.
As we trudged along there was plenty of banter exchanged during the first hour and it mostly centred on the weight of our packs and whether there were items we could have done without to lighten the load.
Too late to worry about that now!
The landscape was changing as we progressed towards the Somersby Store, from open ridges to secluded and moist valleys.
Ray had quipped that the Somersby Store had the best Icy Poles, a frozen fruit delight, he had ever had. However, this was a delight I wasn’t going to experience on this day as the bus to Gosford was pulling up at the store just as we arrived.
On boarding the bus we quickly slinked back into the seat for a well earned rest as we were transported to our night’s accommodation. Oh, did I mention, we were toughing the night out at a motel in downtown Gosford.
Day five was billed as a long walk to the small locality of Yarramalong nestled in the Central Coast hinterland. And similar to previous days the day’s walk it had its fair share of hills, gullies, and at times open forestry trails.
A couple of scarecrows
We were greeted to the sleepy township by a scarecrow at almost every house, part of the area’s welcome to spring celebrations. I’d venture to suggest that had we stood still many would have been forgiven for mistaking this couple of weary and dishevelled walkers as just another pair of scarecrows.
The kind staff at the local store rustled us up a couple of steak sandwiches and refreshing cold drinks. In fact, the food was so good we were back there for dinner a couple of hours later after settling into our accommodation at the town’s local bed & breakfast.
As we turned in for the night Ray suggested the next day was going to be a real slog and that we should get an early start. But when the alarm clock went off a two-thirty something in the morning I was left to ponder, half comatose, just how far this days walk was going to be if we had to rise so early.
It turns out the alarm clock in the next room, which was unoccupied, had been set for this time, and Ray was still blissfully asleep as I lay there listening to the mind-numbing sound. Fortunately, this lasted only two hours, but unfortunately, this left me half an hour’s sleep before there was a knock at the door from a refreshed Ray who was arising from a restful night’s sleep.
To his credit, Ray did organise with the local storekeeper to have our twenty kilogram packs transported to a track head some eleven kilometres down the road, so our first two hours walk this day was done in relative comfort and without our back-packs weighing us down.
The walk took us along a quiet country road to Cedar Brush track head, the point from which we would launch our assault, and long climb, into the Watagan Mountains.
This was quite an arduous day, although I wasn’t to have the long climb to the top of Mount Warrawolong inflicted on me, something that Ray insisted that Michael and he undertake on the last crossing of their paths in April. As fate would have it, had it not been for their climb to the top, and an overnight camp there, Ray would never have got the call on his mobile that his was only hours away from becoming a father.
Given there was no chance of that happening again on this trip, the part of Ray becoming a father again, we gleefully walked past the turn-off that lead to the highest point in the Watagan Mountains, observed only by a rather large goanna.
Watagan Creek
Our camp was still another hours walk down a steep fire trail, with our only respite being a welcome encounter with two people from Challenge Ranch, who were providing vehicle based support to a group of young adults undertaking their Duke of Edinburingh Silver Certificates. This entailed them undertaking a two night hike through the bush. We could only dream of vehicle based support!
Nightfall came fairly quickly and with it a cool evening and after enjoying some rehydrated food we tucked ourselves into our respective accommodation, two tents, and snored the hours away until the kookaburra’s awoke us just before sunrise the next morning. Mind you when you go to bed at six o’clock at night you get plenty of sleep in before the birds start their early morning wake up calls.
After six full days on the walk you would think the hills would come just a little easier, especially as our fitness levels were increasing each day. Our walk to Barraba Trig threw a number of hills and gullies at us, but it saved the best till last. This was an hour and half’s walk up the side of a hill that got steeper with every step we took.
And we had the added imposition of another two kilograms each in our pack, after we picked up additional water supplies at the bottom of the hill.
Ray had secreted this away in a hollow log a week or so earlier, along with some refried beans and corn chips for dinner that night.
I’m not sure who was more pleased to see each other, the leaders on the Duke of Edinburingh walk, who were looking forward to some adult company and relief from the giggles of six young adults, or me. I mean, I know Icy Poles are desirable, but Ray had a strange fixation on them by this time. Okay, there is some literary licence being taken here, but hey, he scoffed a few down when we once again encountered civilisation.
The Watagan Mountains is a beautiful place with many walking tracks and fire trails to be explored, and the view from our campsite was magnificent and took in parts of the Hunter Valley wine growing region.
Hunter Valley
The next day was spent wandering in quiet contemplation along shaded fire trails before arriving at Heaton’s Lookout, and a wonderful panorama of the hinterland through to the ocean.
From here we could even see our destination, a mere forty-five kilometres away.
However, before we could wind down for the day and relax at the cabins located at Heaton’s Gap we had to negotiate our way down a steep power line track. We had walked this route previously and I can attest it doesn’t get any easier on your legs the second time around.
However, the bottom of the hill would signify a couple of things though, Icy Poles and a refreshing shower, and importantly, we would be rid of some of the gear out of our back-packs as we were to be joined by Janet, my wife, and son Thomas that evening.
In fact, we even had a visit from Michael, his wife Emma, and good friends Ian and Stella who were keen to see how we were going. The term ambulance chasing did come to mind briefly after all this was day eight. The night quickly passed though with good company, ample food and plenty of good humour……
However, there is a downside to most things, and over dinner Michael casually mentioned that with the sign suggesting it was only forty-one kilometres to the Brewery Pub at Newcastle (yes the walk finishes at a pub) that we should give consideration to knocking it off tomorrow instead of over the planned two days.
There was an awkward, but silent moment, as Ray and I caught glances, and Michael with a hint of a wry smile on the corner of his mouth recognised the bombshell he had just dropped.
I thought, that confirms my thinking, and Ray had a look of disbelief and no doubt was hoping that I hadn’t actually heard what Michael had said. But the penny had dropped!
The next day we were greeted to a lovely sunny spring day and with a hug and a kiss from Janet and Thomas we headed off on what was to be our last day on the walk.
Oddly, there was no discussion of Michael’s suggestion; I didn’t want to raise it too early, and Ray surely didn’t want to remind me of what Michael had said just on the off chance that a good night’s sleep may have erased the thought from my mind.
But like an irritating blister on the heel of your foot I raised it with Ray just as we walked into what was supposed to be our night’s rest spot at Warner’s Bay.
And yes there was some animated discussion at that point, but in the fine tradition of what goes on tour stays on tour it is best left at that, but fair to say Ray was cursing both Michael and me for a good hour or so at least.
Red Beach Newcastle
But to his credit, Ray, a Kiwi, showed the grit and determination usually reserved to the New Zealand All-Blacks performing the Haka ahead of a Bledisloe Cup match, and he pushed through the pain of his blisters, egged on by my promise that I would have us sitting at the Brewery Pub downing a pint of lager as the sun set over Newcastle harbour.
And after being met by Michael at Burwood beach for the final six kilometre walk to the centre of Newcastle, we were met by our families and did just that…
And was the nine day walk worth the saving of an $18 train fare – you bet it was!
‘The Landy’ was packed, the Tvan attached for its first extended trip, and we were ready to head-off on another northern adventure and whilst it seemed like an eternity since our last trip north, in reality it had only been twelve months…
Thomas,Tomo (the walking hat,) gave the grandparents a lasting hug, Janet was seen giving last minute instructions to Milo, the wonder dog, and was heard to mumble something about making more sense out of Milo then she does me, most of the time anyway, and I did a final check to make sure the Tvan was in fact attached… and with the usual puff of smoke The Landy chugged to life, seemingly to the annoyance of a flock of cockatoos’ nestling in the tree opposite who protested in a most vocal way.
The drudgery of the freeway to the north-west, the escape route from suburbia, soon gave way to the foothills of the Blue Mountains and as we settled into the dawning moments of our sojourn we began to reflect on what it must have been like for the early explorers’ as they made their way westward, journeying on foot, horseback, and bullock dray. These days the trek over the mountains is done mostly in the relative comfort of a modern vehicle, although Janet was heard to whisper, under hushed breathe, something about there being little difference between a bullock dray, and The Landy.
Progressing westward my thoughts crossed to the characters that have passed this way in days long gone. Who were they, what took them this way, and did they find what they were looking for? Of course the obvious and famous were at fore of mind, visionaries such as Blaxland, Lawson, and Wentworth, three intrepid and famous explorers who helped open the way west. But what of the others, people who have lived in this rugged land, those who visited fleetingly, those who never left…
With this in mind I vowed to spend time looking for those characters that have enriched the Australian Outback, who have helped define Australia’s identity, and that would mean visiting the social centre of many towns and communities we would pass through, the local pub – all in the name of research, of course…
The first day was spent travelling on the black-top via the towns of Lithgow, Ilford, Mudgee, Dubbo, Narromine and finally to Nyngan. Passing Narromine I recounted it is often referred to as the town of Champions being the birthplace of Olympian Melinda Gainsford-Smith, and cricketer Glenn McGrath. On a previous trip to the Corner Country we stayed at the caravan park located on town’s substantial airfield. The airfield, established after World War 1, is home to the oldest rural aero club in Australia and was used as a training ground for RAAF pilots in World War 2. Over the years it has counted Charles Kingsford-Smith, Charles Ulm, Chuck Yeager, Nancy Bird Walton, and Barry O’Malley as visiting aviators.
In 1835, explorer, Major Mitchell was the first European to document a journey along the Bogan River, describing the area around Nyngan as ‘a long pond, with many birds, ducks, and brolgas’. The local aboriginal word ‘Nyngan’ is said to mean ‘long pond of water’. In 1882 the town’s site was surveyed, and buildings from an earlier settlement at Canonba 30 kilometres away were moved to the present Nyngan Township.
Many will remember the notorious floods in 1990 that focused the attention of Australians’ on this rural township. Despite the laying of 260,000 sandbags around the town, it was to no avail and the entire population was evacuated to safety by army helicopters. And one of the helicopters used in the evacuation is usually located in the town’s main street, standing as a monument to the work it performed in helping this community, but for reasons unknown it wasn’t there on this occasion. Tomo has had countless photographs taken with it, and we had hoped to get another for the collection before heading to the local RSL to dine and drink a toast to our first night on tour.
Early morning Nyngan
Henry Lawson wrote (The Paroo River 1893), “Tis said the land out west is grand! I do not care who says it”. And with that resonating in my head we set off towards the Paroo River area and a camp near Hungerford in the Currawinya National Park.
Heading north along the straight road to Bourke we passed the small township of Byrock, a favourite place of ours, and we stopped for morning tea, but I’ll write more on Byrock later as we will be returning this way. In fact, we had planned to head further west, before turning northwards, taking in Tilpa, the Corner Country and Innamincka, but we decided against it due to the flooding in the region over the past couple of months. Mind you, we needed little encouragement to visit Hungerford and Currawinya.
Bourke has a very colourful history, and was once a major river port, and much of this is still visible today. You only need to trace the Darling River to see what a major feat it must have been for the river boats to ply their trade along its course. Henry Lawson once wrote, “If you know Bourke, you know Australia’’ and whilst we didn’t spend a lot of time here on this occasion it is easy to see what he was saying.
Of course, we’ve always said that when you cross the Darling River you’re in the outback and with that in mind we cheered in the outback as we crossed the river at North Bourke. Tomo had bought a new hat before leaving Sydney, so he christened it into the outback here! Along the dusty road we gave up counting the emus’ after a while, they were prolific!
Crossing the border at Hungerford
Pulling up at the dog-proof fence at Hungerford, Tomo jumped out of The Landy and did the honour of waving us through before running the last 100 metres or so towards the pub, The Royal Mail which was once a Cobb & Co staging post. Now the grandmothers may not approve, but Tomo has been a frequent visitor, with his parents of course, and we wasted little time in quenching our thirst after the long drive from Nyngan.
Even Henry Lawson has enjoyed a drink at the ‘Royal’ although his description of the township in ‘While the Billy Boils’ upon his arrival was far less enthusiastic then ours. And we were pleased to meet up with the publicans Mock and Sherrie, who had been here on previous occasions and it was Sherrie who had placed a photo of Tomo, the walking hat on the wall of the pub after a previous visit.
Tomo in the Royal Mail
We planned to spend a couple of nights in Currawinya, and fortunately we were be able to visit the lakes, Lake Numalla, and Lake Wyara as the roads had just been opened after extensive flooding. Our first night was spent around the campfire eating one of Janet’s famous dampers and although it wasn’t a particularly cold night it was very pleasant sitting around the fire. We did throw in the yabby traps, but to little avail.
The dawn broke through the camper trailer signaling the start of a fine day, and one in which we would visit the lakes. After breakfast I headed off on the bike and under peddle power made my way towards the lakes, albeit in a round-a-bout way. Seemingly I did not take the correct turn and ended up close to the town before realising my error, and this added about 20 kilometres to my ride.
Janet and Tomo became a little worried when they didn’t pass me in The Landy as they made their way, and came back to look for me. I was very thankful for that as I was running out of water and needed something to eat, but finally I made it to Lake Numalla after riding about 70 kilometres in total. And I felt every single corrugation and made a note to myself to always run correct tyre pressures in The Landy to avoid making more corrugations!
Lake Numeral
After a couple of nights in Currawinya we bid Hungerford farewell until next time, and headed towards Thargomindah and the night’s destination a camp by the waterhole at Noccundra
It has been a while since we had passed this way and it was nice to reacquaint ourselves with the region. Thargomindah was the site of Australia’s first hydro-electricity system, driven by artesian water pressure and we stopped by to show Tomo as he was much younger on our last visit.
After spending some time in town we headed west towards Noccundra which is about 140 kilometres from Thargomindah. The last time we camped here it was on a ‘boys’ trip, two adults, and three boys under seven years old, and we experienced a very heavy dust storm. And previous to that, Janet and I flew here in our Piper Arrow aircraft, Foxtrot-Tango-Hotel, following a flying trip to the Gulf, landing right behind the pub. And I must say the airstrip is in much better condition today than it was back then!
The pub is built on Nockatunga Station and the town was established in 1882. It even has a link to the explorer Leichardt, with members of Andrew Hume’s expedition to find survivor’s from Leichardt’s 1848 expedition perishing from thirst to the west of Noccundra. We camped by the water-hole and enjoyed a warm shower and visit to the pub, before settling in for the night, with half the world’s population of field mice. Outback Australia is experiencing a plague of them presently and I awoke to one ‘snuggling’ up to me at around 1.30am in the morning. Janet was quite controlled and after about 10 minutes of frantic activity it jumped into her shoe making it easy to man handle it back outside.
We had a rather relaxed start to the next day as it wasn’t a long trip to Innamincka and a camp alongside the Cooper Creek. The road has changed significantly since our last visit and contains a lot of blacktop, a result of the substantial oil and gas development in the region.
We stopped at the Dig Tree situated on Nappa Merrie Station in far-western Queensland on our way and had lunch. Of course the story of Burke and Wills is well known, and much text has been written over the years, some favourable, and other less so, but it is hard to not be in awe of what they achieved at the time.
The Dig Tree
The name Innamincka will be very familiar with outback travellers as today the township, which has grown in size since our last visit, is reliant on the tourist trade that is ushered in by the cooler months of winter. It might have almost been inevitable that the Innamincka region played a substantial role in many of the early explorations of the interior. The fact that it is on the way from east and south to the unknown north and northwest, with a virtually permanent water source, guaranteed the arrival of a number of expeditions to Inamincka. Charles Sturt became the first European to set eyes on the wetlands in 1844-45, and it was only fifteen years later that Burke and Wills died here. A fact that is hard to understand given the supply of water, and presumably food that would have been available to them.
We camped along the Cooper Creek just out of town, and we managed to put on a roast lamb dinner in the camp oven, washed down by a couple of beers, and in the company of some other travellers.
Apart from tourism, the oil and gas industry is playing a significant role in the recent development of this region, and this is quite evident on the drive north from Innamincka. We made an early start the next morning as we decided to head to Birdsville in one day to enable us to stay a couple of nights in the town.
The Landy crossed the flooded causeway and headed northwards, but not before Janet and Tomo managed to get in a coffee and hot chocolate at the pub while The Landy was being fuelled. I must say I was a touch disappointed to see the pub going a little up market and in the process losing some of its rustic appeal, a product of changing times and the need to cater to a new age of tourism, I guess…
The Landy crosses the causeway at Innamincka
We had to turn off the Cordillo Downs road and head towards the border crossing at Arrabury as the northern section of the road was closed due to flooding which was of little concern for us as we had not been along the northern section of the Arrabury road previously and were looking forward to it. We passed Haddon’s Corner, the intersection of the Queensland and South Australian State border and truly, this is big sky country.
Big Sky Country
We encountered a slow trip along the Birdsville Development road into Birdsville from Betoota as it had become quite muddy due to a thunder storm depositing a significant amount of water on it the previous day. Needless to say The Landy was covered in the red stuff when we arrived at our camp alongside the Diamantina River.
And if it is characters you are looking for in Birdsville then there is only one place to head, The Birdsville Pub. In fact, speaking of characters, Tomo, the walking hat, found his first love here on a visit in 2003 at the tender age of three, oddly enough the daughter of the local policeman. And cross-my heart Tomo, this is the last time I’ll recount the story, well at least on this trip… we enjoyed a great meal and a number of beers before retiring for a very restful sleep.
The sun doesn’t appear over the eastern horizon until after 7 o’clock in far Western-Queensland during the winter months, and what a blessing, and change, to our normal routine at home. So it was another lazy start to the day before Tomo stirred us into getting up to greet the day, breakfast, and a walk around town.
And still speaking of characters, a visit to Birdsville would not be complete without stopping by the Working Museum which is owned and operated by John and Judy Menzies. The couple have collected a vast amount of gadgetry and items relating to life in the outback and brought it to life in a comprehensive and interesting way. John’s guided tour is well worth taking just to see him talk with such great passion of the items he has collected and restored.
Unfortunately, John is apparently closing the museum in ‘about’ three months time as he and Judy are ready to retire to Isisford and they have been unable to find a buyer to take over… this will be a great loss to Birdsville and everyone who has met John will attest to that.
Before our walk around town Tomo and I set a couple of yabby traps down on the Diamantina River earlier, and typically, the yabby traps were empty apart from one lone yabby that was spared the pot on the basis it would be little more than an appetiser for one of us.
Tomo the yabby hunter
After dinner by the Diamantina River we headed to the pub for a couple of beers with the gathering locals and fly-in aviators. Tomo had made himself acquainted with a number of the commercial pilots who were either doing tours out of Birdsville, or flying in tourists. As we sat at the bar I gave up counting the number of pilots who walked past and said g’day Tomo, seemingly he knew them all, and had in fact managed to sit in the cockpit of about half of the planes parked on the tarmac.
Another character we were able to catch up with was Henry, a local boy who Tomo met on the infamous night that he chased the policeman’s daughter around the front bar (or was it she who did the chasing?). Henry was playing pool with his mother, Fiona, a number of locals, and the aviation fraternity. So we joined in, and Tomo played his first game of pool.
Reluctantly, we left Birdsville after a couple of fun days to continue our northward journey and today we were heading to Boulia. We had been looking forward to travelling north along the Bedourie road as we hadn’t been that way previously, and a highlight was crossing the Eyre Creek, which was teeming with bird-life and had not long been re-opened after flooding in the area.
Cuttaburra Crossing Eyre Creek,
Travelling north we came across a memorial to WJS (Will) Hutchison who died nearby from drowning in 1920. The memorial was placed by the Coober Pedy historical society only a couple of years ago. Five years prior to his tragic drowning, and as a lad of 14, Will, along with his father discovered the first opal near Carryingallama Creek in SouthAustralia, it became known as Stuart’s Opal Range, later to be renamed Coober Pedy. Today, Will is recognised as the founder of Coober Pedy!
Will Hutchison Memorial
We had always heard Bedourie referred to in glowing terms from other travellers, but somehow we had by-passed the town previously. It is now the Diamantina Shire’s administrative centre and, not surprisingly, has a ‘Royal Hotel’. The Royal was built in the 1880s and apparently is little changed from its original state
Bedourie also claims as its own the famous Bedourie Camp Oven which is a metal dish and lid and was fashioned for use on Bedourie Cattle Station after the stockman found that the heavy cast iron ovens were too heavy and often broke when falling off pack-horses. Bedourie was playing host to a rodeo and gymkhana that weekend and as tempting as it was to stay we pressed on towards Boulia.
One thing that struck us on this trip is just how much greener the country is compared to last year, and the abundance of Mitchell Grass on the open plains. And this was very evident on the road north to Boulia. Banjo Paterson once wrote… “He sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended. And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars…” It isn’t hard to see what he was writing about.
Before arriving at Boulia we crossed the Georgina River where there was a plaque commemorating Eddie ‘Jolly’ Miller who has been billed as the last of the outback mailmen. And whilst I think a few have claimed this title it was interesting to read of one account of his trip from Boulia to Glengyle Station, located south of Bedourie. Eddie passed away in Redcliffe Queensland in 1991, coincidently my birthplace.
Our stop in Boulia was in the camp area alongside the Burke River. A very pleasant spot were Janet cooked up Tomo’s favourite dinner, spaghettibolognaise, while the boys’ took a ride around town on the bikes. It was a pleasant night spent in the company of a couple who had been following us north since Innamincka.
Last year on our exodus north we stopped at Dajarra, on a very cold day, and we thought this trip would be a good opportunity to spend a night there and explore it further. Its claim to fame is it was once the largest trucking depot in the world and was a hub for cattle trains from far and wide. However, it wasn’t to be on this trip either, as we had decided to head to Camooweal via Mt Isa.
Dajarra
Dajarra has a strong aboriginal population and native languages are taught in the local school and I suspect there are some gems to be found in this town, if you are able to spend the time to scratch beneath its surface.
We were edging closer to the Gulf Country and Camooweal, a town located on the far western, Queensland-Northern Territory border beckoned. From Mt Isa we travelled along the highway that was built in the Second World War, although we had considered coming north via Urandangi, a route we had taken previously, however the roadconditions were uncertain.
The explorer William Landsborough was apparently the first European to pass through the region, in search of Burke and Wills around 1862, and his glowing report of the region led to pastoralists establishing themselves in the area, and a town soon followed in 1884. Just to the south of the town is the Camooweal National park which protects a number of caves that date back to the Cambrian Period, over 500 million years ago!
After a couple of beers at the pub, a good meal, and restful sleep we awoke to a perfect day, one of great anticipation for all of us, especially Tomo, who had been looking forward to another visit to Lawn Hill National Park, and Adel’s Grove.
The area has been a favourite for Janet and me since we first flew Foxtrot-Tango-Hotel into Adel’s Grove from Burketown in 1997 and the drive north was through familiar country having driven it on two previous occasions, but you could never become blasé with the beautiful countryside, and before arriving at Adel’s Grove we took the time to stop for a swim at the O’Shannesy River.
O’Shannesy River
Boodjamulla, as it is known by the Traditional Owners, the Waanyi Aboriginal People, or Lawn Hill as it is more commonly called is situated in the remote north-west region of Queensland and takes in Lawn Hill Gorge and includes the World Heritage listed Riversleigh Fossil area. The gorge, nestled in the Constance Range, is fed by a number of freshwater springs, abounds in wildlife and vegetation and could only be described as an oasis in a scorched and barren land.
Adel’s Grove is situated adjacent to the park’s boundary and was originally gazetted in 1904 as a Miners Homestead Lease according to the information provided. In 1920 Albert de Lestang took up the property as an experimental Botanical Garden, and in fact our campsite was situated in the old Botanical Garden. Albert supplied many Botanical Gardens around the world with the seeds of the over 1,000 species of plants he produced in his nursery. Tragically, in the early 1950s fire destroyed the grove, Albert’s dwelling, and all his research papers.
Tomo and friends at Adels Grove
And after a couple of days of swimming, (and swimming), bike rides, walks, and camp oven roasts, we were not disappointed we had made the trip north once again. The weather was perfect, a lovely campsite just alongside Lawn Hill Creek. Our nearest neighbour was only about 5 metres away from us, but he (or she) didn’t make too much noise, although we might have actually felt a little easier if it did – it was in fact a four metre long olive python. It seemed more than content to simply laze about in the sun, occasionally moving towards the water; I knew just how it felt!
Olive Python
After a couple of days lazing about and soaking up the beauty of the area I rode down to Lawn Hill Gorge on the bike, Janet and Tomo followed in The Landy, and we took the opportunity to do a walk with a swim at nearby Indarra Falls. Back at camp, as the sun settled towards the distant horizon, the sounds of laughter and banter could be heard as visitors toasted another day in the Outback.
I had lost count of how many days we had been at Lawn Hill but found myself sitting around the camp fire, mid-morning, eating one of Janet’s delicious scones that she had just freshly baked in the camp oven…
Camp oven scones
Our visit to Lawn Hill was marked by an important event on the Rugby League calendar, one when State revelries come to the fore with the culmination of the State of Origin series, and for a change the final game was to be the decider. We joined many other travellers huddled into the reception and bar area of Adel’s Grove to watch the game on a big screen. And the Queenslanders were not to be disappointed with a convincing win over the Blues! Needless to say we toasted the victory with a few ales before retiring for the night.
Baz on his way to Riversleigh Fossil Site
And given I had toasted the previous night’s victory to the Maroon’s with a number of ales I thought it best to work it off with a bike ride to the Riversleigh Fossil site which is located about 50 kilometres from Adel’s Grove. Yes, more corrugations, and I must say it always seems as though you are into a headwind when under pedal power. None-the-less it was a great ride rewarded with glimpses of various birds and wildlife.
Janet and Tomo followed behind in The Landy and I was greeted with the news that Tomo had ‘hauled’ in an enormous Sooty Grunter, his first catch ever. The catch was heralded by much noise heard all over the camp, and proud Mum was there with the camera to record the event. After loading the bike into The Landy we headed to the O’Shannesy River where we wiled away the time swimming, fishing, and trying to catch those elusive yabbys’.
Tomo & his catch
Our last full day at Adel’s Grove started with a great treat for breakfast, the fish that Tomo caught the previous day was dispatched to the frying pan over hot coals and devoured by Janet and myself. Tomo passed on the opportunity declaring he would sooner catch them rather than eat them.
And that set the tone for the day as the rest of it was spent resting, swimming, and eating Janet’s scones that she expertly prepared in the camp oven. Surely this must be paradise!After six wonderful days at Adel’s Grove we reluctantly packed The Landy and said good-bye to some new friends and headed towards The Curry as I have often heard Cloncurry referred to, stopping for a while at Gregory Downsalong-the-way.
Gregory Downsis a small township and the pub is an original coach-house, a great place to stop and enjoy the atmosphere of the Gulf Savannah! On last year’s trip to the area Janet bought a cookbook produced by the CWA at Gregory Downswhich contained a wealth of information on the early days of settlement in this area. I recommend it to anyone with an interest in the life of early settlers in Outback Australia.
After exploring Gregory Downs we settled into the drive to The Curry. And speaking of explorers’ Burke and Wills passed this way on their trip to the Gulf of Carpentaria. Burke named the river, Cloncurry, after his cousin, the Lady Elizabeth Cloncurry. Ernst Henry is credited as the founder of the town, he came looking for grazing land, but found copper instead, and the town was established in 1876. The town has many pubs, and no doubt they have seen their fair share of characters over the years…
Qantas flew its first paying passenger, Alexander Kennedy, from Longreach to Cloncurry on November 23, 1922, and the original hangar is still standing with Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Service emblazoned on the front. The town also boasts a museum to commemorate John Flynn of the Outback.
Qantas Hangar Cloncurry
We explored the town after a good night’s sleep and before heading towards the Blue Heeler pub at Kynuna for an overnight stop.
There are many Australians who have made significant contributions to society and a common theme amongst their ranks is they are usually people who never sought accolades for what they did. Often is the case it is years after their passing that the significance of their achievements are fully recognised. We were able to learn more about two such Australians on this trip, John Flynn, whose drive was instrumental in bringing medical services to ‘those of the outback’ and one of my favourite Australians, Banjo Paterson.
Cloncurry, the birthplace of what is today known as the Royal Flying Doctor Service, houses a museum that pays tribute to the man, his drive, and those who made the Royal Flying Doctor Service possible.
Walk-a-bout Creek Hotel
Travelling south we stopped in at the Walk-About-Creek Hotel at McKinlay for lunch. Crocodile Dundee fans will recall Mick Dundee and his mates, among them Donk, whose lives were centered on the pub. And we had a good chuckle as we walked through the pub picturing various scenes from the movie, reminded by the many photos on the walls.
Walkabout Creek Hotel
But Janet’s memories went back past the movie fame to when as a young girl (she’s still young), and along with sister Leah stayed on Wolseley Downs, a property not far from town. Apparently a book could be written on that period of their lives; needless to say it brought back many memories for her…
Speaking of memories, we visited the Combo Waterhole, which is located not far from Kynuna. Many (c’mon, everyone) will know that the Combo Waterholewas the scene at which the Swagman, with Jumbuck in his tucker bag drowned after being confronted by ‘the law’ in Banjo Paterson’s Waltzing Matilda, Australia’s unofficial National Anthem.
In part, it is as tale of a very dark time for the Australian Outback, when Australian’s were pitched against Australian’s during the great shearers’ strike in 1894. There we sat by that very waterhole singing Waltzing Matilda which I ‘m sure resonated through the Coolibah trees, witnessed only by the resident budgies who seemingly looked on curiously, but undoubtedly had watched the scene unfold many times before…
Combo Waterhole
And as we settled into a sumptuous rump steak at the Blue Heeler we drank a toast to Banjo. Tomorrow, we would visit the North Gregory Hotel in Winton where they say Waltzing Matilda was first recited…
North Gregory Hotel Winton
What a steak it was, in fact so big it took a number of beers to wash it down, which was fortunate as we learned about the Dicks Creek Hotel ruins located on Bendemeer Station while we were dining. We were talking about outback history when a local, Ben and his partner Talia, overheard us and told us about it.
Ben is the son of the owner of Bendemeer and he suggested we take the stock route east towards Winton which starts near the Combo Waterhole, indicating the route will take us past the old Dagworth Cemetery before arriving at the Dicks Creek Ruins, which is on the road towards Dagworth Station. We enjoyed a good chat, and a few more beers, before retiring for the night, being careful to avoid the cantankerous, but more or less friendly Brolgas that were roaming the area around the pub earlier in the evening.
Brolgas at Blue Heeler Pub Kynuna
And a restful sleep it was before we headed off down the stock route towards Winton via the Dicks Creek Hotel ruins. About 15 kilometres along the route we came across the old Dagworth Cemetery which had six known people buried there. Tragically, the youngest was only twelve days old, a young girl, Catherine Sewell, who passed away on 23/01/1894, perhaps her death standing testament to the harshness of the Australian Outback despite its majestic beauty.
Dagworth Cemetery
After unsuccessfully trying to speak with Ben’s father on Bendemeer as we passed by the homestead, we headed about a kilometre on the track towards Dagworth Station where the ruins of the Dicks Creek Hotel stood clearly. We spent some time wandering about amongst the ruins (and bottles!), before coming across a plaque noting the last licensee of the pub.
Eventually we made our way to an outback favourite of ours, the town of Winton, where we visited the Waltzing Matilda Museum, the only museum in the world dedicated to a song, Banjo’s song, our Nation’s song.
Winton has quite a history, and certainly fits the bill of having quite a lot of characters passing through it over the years. During the 1860s a number of explorers passed through the region whilst in search of the ill-fated Burke and Wills expedition and Winton was originally named Pelican Waterhole, but later renamed Winton in 1879.
Another Winton character worthy of mention is James Francis ‘Gidge’ Taylor, the town crier. Gidge was given a retainer by Bill Evert, owner of the open air picture theatre The Royal to announce attractions of the night and it is said his imaginative description of the picture was often entertainment in itself.
And with a fresh brew of tea, we watched the sun head towards the western horizon, the sun-drenched red bull dust illuminating the western skyline in a blaze of red ochre colouring…
Our intention was to head towards Welford National Park after leaving Winton but not before a visit to the North Gregory Hotel were the first recital of Waltzing Matilda is said to have taken place in 1895. And what a magnificent night we had, a couple of beers, followed by dinner at the majestic Tattersall’s Hotel in the company of some fellow travellers’.
Bidding farewell to Winton we headed south towards Welford National Park a favourite of Janet’s, well all of us in fact. Along the way we detoured to Opalton, a small opal mining settlement approximately 100 kilometres south of Winton. We had a chuckle though as there was no-one about…We guess they were all underground! We also came across an old grave near Mayneside, that of twelve year old Alice Ellen Dakey, who passed away in July 1920. It was very well looked after and some-one had placed flowers recently…
Grave at Mayneside
We had a later departure than we had anticipated and with the detour to Opalton our arrival at Welford would be around sunset. And let me say it was a beautiful sight as the Mitchell Grass on the open plains changed colour with the advancing moments of sunset.
Our last visit to Welford was only last year, however due to the onset of rain in the area we didn’t camp at the park and headed to Jundah, seeking refuge in the pub. Now it is funny how things work out, but we had a very enjoyable stay at the Jundah Hotel. And like a magnet drawing us in, we stayed at the pub once again, after all we couldn’t resist with such a wonderful host, licensee Monique Rayment.
Jundah Pub
I encourage anyone who gets the chance to visit Jundah to do so, and be sure to call into the pub. Tomo had a great night playing bingo with the locals, and a game of pool later. Now I can’t say I’m a regular bingo player, and judging by the crowd you wouldn’t think half of them would be either, but there they were going at it harder than the old days of the 6 o’clock swill…
The next day after bidding Monique and the friendly township of Jundah farewell we made the short drive to Welford.
There are large permanent waterholes on the Barcoo River and these are a haven for wildlife, especially birds. And for those lucky enough, they say it is possible to see a yellow footed rock-wallaby sheltering in the rocky outcrops of the park. They have proved to be elusive on previous visits, but perhaps it will be a case of third time lucky.
Tomo, the walking hat, was immortalised in a Christmas card photo, many years ago on a previous visit, along the banks of a waterhole on the desert drive within the park. We did the drive before making camp, and another photo opportunity on ‘the tree’ beckoned. And Janet’s favourite, the rich red sand-dunes were a sight to behold.
Welford National Park
And as we sat alongside the banks of the Barcoo River, the fire was coming to life in preparation for a camp oven roast, the whistling kites soared overhead, and budgies flittered through the river gums in a brilliant display of colour.
For the first time on this trip we awoke to an overcast sky, and the possibility of rain. Despite this we had a camp fire breakfast of jaffles, baked beans, and bacon. Tomo is a big fan of bacon jaffles and just as we were breaking camp for our drive to Toompine some very light rain started to fall.
On our trip north last year we stopped at Toompine for afternoon tea, but vowed to work in an overnight stay at the South Western Hotel. It is the only building in the area and was a Cobb & Co staging post between 1884-1915. The town was originally called Thuenpin which is the aboriginal word for ‘leech’ and was named so by pioneer Pastoralist JD Steele who arrived in the area around 1875. The Survey Department later changed the name to Toompine.
Before arriving at Toompine we travelled to the site of Maggee’s Shanty and Richard Magoffin’s Grave which were not too far from Welford and just before the turn on to the Budgerygar-Thylungra Road. Those familiar with the writing’s of Banjo Paterson will recognise this is the place immortalised in his poem A Bush Christening. The grave of Richard Magoffin who perished in 1885 is nearby.
Magoffin came to Australia from County Down in Ireland in 1853, digging for gold in Victoria and fighting at Eureka. Later he settled with a brother at Chiltern, Victoria, before moving to Bourke, where they sank dams and ran a carting business before tough times sent them further north, to Queensland.
Richard Maggofin’s Grave
There was very little to see of Maggee’s Shanty, although a plaque indicated its site, but Magoffin’s Grave was very well kept. Our drive along the Budgerygar-Thylungra Road was pleasant and in keeping with our desire to travel the less traversed route. However, by now light rain was falling and it appeared it had been heavier earlier as the road was starting to feel like glue, initially, and a touch slippery later.
The Landy, with Tvan in tow, arrived in Quilpie covered in mud, and I was relegated to the duty of cleaning it while Janet and Tomo spent some time in town. Like many towns in this area there is an artesian bore providing water and there was a washing point just on the outskirts of town.
The Landy & TVan covered in mud
And just as the sun was disappearing below the horizon we arrived in Toompine, set-up the Tvan and headed to the South Western Hotel for a couple of beers and a hearty meal. The next day’s arrival was heralded with the pat…pat…pat of rain on canvas, although we had little reason to complain given the fabulous weather we had enjoyed on this trip.
We departed Toompine in the rain, but eventually, much later in the day, we caught glimpses of the sun as we headed towards the township of Bourke for the second time on this trip and before arriving at our destination of the Mulga Creek Hotel at Byrock.
Earlier we stopped at Eulo for a visit to the leather shop where Tomo purchased a leather pouch for his Leatherman tool, and The Landy got a whip, something that clearly amused Janet who suggested it might come in handy when the time came to cross the Blue Mountains once again. Tragically, not long after our return home we were saddened to learn that the general store in Eulo had burned down in a fire, a great loss to this small community.
We have passed through Byrock on many occasions, and flown over it at other times, and whilst we have often stopped for a ‘cupper’ we wanted to stay for the night and enjoy the area’s hospitality. One of the things that had stood out for us on previous visits is its military history. The town counts a Victoria Cross, Military Cross, three Military Medals, and a Distinguished Flying Cross, as being awarded to members of its community for service in both World Wars.
Byrock Memorial
It seems no-one is quite sure how the town got its name, but it seems to have some origin in the near-by rock hole which is situated not far from the highway just north of the Mulga Creek Hotel. The local Nyamimba people referred to the rock hole as ‘bai’ and could be one explanation for the town being named Byrock.
As with many other towns, the coming of the railway in 1884 attracted people to the area and eventually the town boasted five hotels, a baker, butcher, and a number of other stores to support the 500 people living in the area, although the town did exist prior to the rail. Cobb & Co also ran a service to Bourke each week, and the journey lasted around 12 hours but must have felt like an eternity on the rough track. Janet mumbled something about The Landy and knowing how they must have felt…
Our evening was spent in the company of locals around a warm fire, having a few laughs and Tomo continued to perfect his pool playing talents. Eventually we retired to the Tvan and the patter of rain on the canvas during night.
Our last full day on tour would take us to the winery region of the upper Hunter Valley. And we had a great day travelling through some familiar and some less familiar places as we headed towards an overnight stay at Mudgee.
The Mudgee region is part of Wiradjuri country, and the Wiradjuri language group is the largest in New South Wales. Apparently, in Wiradjuri Aboriginal dialect, the word ‘Mudge’ means ‘nest in the hills’. And I must say after traversing the wide open plains country over the past three weeks it was a change for The Landy to be hauling itself over some hills, and no, the whip was not required, although Janet seemingly was poised and ready!
Wine, fine food, well we’ve had plenty of that over the three weeks we journeyed through outback Queensland and the Gulf Savannah, so it was fitting we celebrated our last night on tour in the fine food and wine country of Mudgee.
And as we headed home we began to recount the many memorable moments we enjoyed on this trip… the golden Mitchell Grass swaying in a light breeze, rich in golden colour as the last rays of a setting sun lightly touch its tips, the splash of colour as a flock of budgies sprint past, the sounds of the whistling kites overhead, and of freshwater crocodiles basking in the sun; the outback is truely alive!
As for characters, well we met some, learnt about many, and without doubt we had one travelling amongst our midst and who went by the name of Tomo, the walking hat…
It was going to be a dark, wet, and strenuous night, but after months of rigorous training there I was facing the starter’s gun in the Hawkesbury Canoe Classic. Twelve hours and twenty one minutes later I crossed the finish line at Brooklyn Bridge just as the first rays of light were piercing the eastern skyline.
The Hawkesbury Canoe Classic is a paddling race covering 111 kilometres of the Hawkesbury River from Windsor to Brooklyn. The race had its beginnings in 1977 when members of the New South Wales Outward Bound Ex-students Association decided to organise a canoe race along the route they had paddled during their course, raising money for medical research in the process. The first race attracted 250 paddlers and raised $8,500. Twenty seven years later the event attracts over 600 paddlers in about 400 boats and raises in excess of $1.7M for medical research. Of the original 250 paddlers, two have completed every race since then.
Fenn Mako XT
The race is held annually in October as close as possible to the full moon. The weather at this time is usually more stable, with lengthy daylight hours. You might be left wondering what the full moon has to do with the race. No, it isn’t some sort of pagan ritual, although being a little affected by a full moon might go some way to explaining why you would subject yourself to this type of gruelling punishment.
The race was originally run overnight to take advantage of calmer weather conditions and lighter traffic on the river. The Hawkesbury is a mecca for water-skiing enthusiasts who are more likely to be partying than skiing on a Saturday evening. It also allows the slower paddlers to make the last painful strokes in daylight.
The organisation of the event is outstanding, with hundreds of volunteers working towards one common goal—the safety of the paddlers and their support crews throughout the event. This was no mean feat, given that 600 paddlers had to be accounted for at the nineteen checkpoints throughout the evening. But it was seamless, a credit to the hard-working officials and the army of untiring volunteers.
So just how did I come to be in this event? Many years ago, more than I care to remember, I was living in Papua New Guinea where I took up paddling a surf ski. A number of my work colleagues joined me over time, and we even had our own surf club of sorts—The Loloata Surf Club, based at Loloata Island. The surf ski kept me fit and provided many enjoyable hours paddling along the Papuan coastline.
Well you know how the story goes, returning to Australia and a new job in Sydney the focus changed and the Loloata Surf Club became something to raise a toast to when the boys got together for a reunion, although the only exercise seemed to be the bending of the elbow and talk of times, enjoyable ones mind you, long past.
A couple of years ago I decided to buy myself another surf ski (they tell me my original is still going strong in Papua New Guinea). It took me another twelve months to translate that into action and at the beginning of this year I purchased a shorter version of a typical racing ski. This lasted me about two months before I outgrew it. It had whet my appetite for paddling again so I decided to buy myself something faster and commit to paddling in the Hawkesbury Canoe Classic. Christine Haywood from Pro-Kayaks, a specialist Kayak shop situated on Sydney’s Narrabeen Lake, assisted me in selecting the right craft, which for me ended up being a Fenn Mako XT.
The team at Pro-Kayaks run a training clinic each Saturday morning and on joining this group I quickly discovered the only thing I knew about paddling was that you needed a boat and a paddle. Whilst still trying to perfect that elusive technique exhibited by the champions I’ve improved immensely since my first session. In fact to the point that I’ve felt confident enough to join the Manly Warringah Kayak Club which races every Sunday on Narrabeen Lake.
But what about the race I hear you ask? In typical fashion I committed myself to the Classic without giving much thought to what an overnight paddle totalling 111 kilometres really entailed. Those who know me are probably saying, so what’s new Baz?
In the lead-up to the event there are a number of familiarisation paddles that effectively cover the whole course in sections over a number of weeks. This was really helpful for me as it took out some of the mystique of what lay ahead. In addition to many paddling sessions, some covering thirty kilometres and more, I spent a fair amount of time cross-training, doing weights, swimming and riding a bike to increase my fitness level.
Originally I entered myself in the Veterans 45—unclassified craft. This group was timed to start last at 6pm. However, on one of the familiarisation paddles someone casually remarked that the 6pm starters was the fastgroup comprising all the serious paddlers. Rightly or wrongly so, I had visions of myself bringing up the rearguard, paddling into a dark abyss by myself and as back-marker in the event. I quickly amended my entry to start in the Brooklyn or Bust category, a group reserved for those who aren’t out to break any records, and as it suggests, just want to make it to the finish line.
Scrutineering
After spending the later part of the morning registering myself, having the craft checked (there was no hidden outboard) and my life vest certified, the time had come—I was in the starters hands. Too late now, the gun sounded and off we went.
We had some light showers of rain in the first 20 kilometres and darkness descended very quickly. This didn’t bother me and I settled into a routine, after all I only had to put one blade in after another and pass one check point at a time. The moon came up about midnight, although it spent a lot of time behind the cloud and didn’t provide much light at all.
I stopped at Sackville, a ferry crossing on the river, and the first major check-point in the race. My support crew was made up of Janet my wife, and a long-time friend, Bob Todd. They were a welcome sight as I pulled into refill my water supply and grab a quick bite to eat. The paddle to Wiseman’s Ferry, the event’s major checkpoint, was hard as I was now challenged by an incoming tide. I stopped at Wiseman’s much longer than I had anticipated, in fact my total stop time for the event was a lengthy ninety minutes, however I was running ahead of my planned time and my crew thought they should not push me back out onto the river until I was ready to go.
Leaving Wiseman’s behind I was quite relaxed and felt that I was actually going to finish; that was the plan from the outset mind you, but there is always a sneaking element of self-doubt. I stopped at the pit stop barbeque which was situated about twenty kilometres past Wiseman’s. It isn’t an official checkpoint, but on a bend in the river a small band of men serves you scones and jam, soup, and a hot drink. At 1.30 am in the morning and some eighty-five kilometres downstream from the start it is hard to put into words just how good those scones and jam tasted. They were so good I actually had three!
Rounding checkpoint Q and heading towards Milsons Passage I felt a renewed vigour. Perhaps it was the sense that the finish line was little more than a few kilometres away or maybe it was just a relief knowing that in a handful of minutes I would be able to get my butt out of the boat, either way the last three kilometres weren’t easy. I could see the finish line, but it just didn’t seem to get any closer. Eventually a town crier was ringing a bell and announcing my name, the crowd that had gathered was cheering and there was Janet and Bob clapping and waving frantically—I had made it!
As I stepped out of the boat I was presented with a medallion to signify just that—it wasn’t a fast time, I didn’t break any records, but none-the-less I felt like a winner.
The question seemed innocent enough, and I must confess to jumping to attention like a new recruit whenever I hear the call go out, and let’s face it, on a Saturday afternoon the chances are you will be escaping the lawn mowing that you’ve been promising for the last two weeks. So when brother-in-law, fellow hiking companion and adventurer, Ray Tong, sounded the bugle I was all set. And even the wry smile on his face didn’t alert me to the journey I was about to embark on so I grabbed my wallet and there I was at the back door panting like a faithful dog ready for a walk.
I assumed this was going to be our chance to discuss the possibility of participating in the London to Mongolia car rally conducted by a group calling themselves the Adventurists’ which was a hot topic for us as one of Ray’s work colleagues had just completed it and loved every moment of the journey. It sounded like our kind of adventure…and I was ready for it.
As the beer flowed there was a long and animated discussion about the merits and cost of such an undertaking, punctuated by bellowing laughter of the trouble we might find ourselves as we headed to Mongolia and by about the time the third schooner had been downed I was convinced we would be heading to London and on our way before long at all. But somehow it was all lost in the translation, the beer Ray was referring to was the one handed to you after completing the Speight’s Coast to Coast Adventure Race in New Zealand and as the liquid amber flowed the implication was lost on me!
It is worth noting that ever since we hiked from Sydney to Newcastle a couple of years ago along the Great North Walk I have been wary of the pay-back for the day I made Ray walk double the distance we had planned, oddly enough, all in the name of getting to the finish and a beer one day earlier. Mind you I figured after I had helped lay about 5,000 pavers in his driveway last year the incident had well and truly been forgotten, clearly not – but I digress…
Sunday morning and I was staring down the barrel of an entry into one of the world’s toughest multi-sport events, and not to mention the disapproving eye Janet was casting between me and the knee-high grass in the backyard. Although on the later, Ray had smoothed Janet over already by telling her I was taking the family on a New Zealand holiday in February – thanks mate!
So just what was entailed to get the beer, Ray laid the information out for all to see. And the teasing grin on Janet’s face seemed to be saying, if only you had mowed the lawn instead! I read on.
The Speight’s Coast to Coast has been billed as the world’s premier multi-sport event, and a benchmark by which all other multi-sport events are judged, in New Zealand and all around the world. The race traverses the South Island of New Zealand from Kumara Beach on the Tasman Sea to Sumner Beach on the Pacific Ocean. There are options for a one day event, or a two-day, both entailed cycling 140 kilometres in stages of 55kms, 15kms, and 70kms. Running 36 kilometres, including a 33km mountain stage that crosses New Zealand’s Southern Alps, and finally a 67 kilometre kayak down the Waimakariri River through the Grand Canyon of New Zealand, the Waimakariri Gorge.
I pleaded, even offering to mow the lawn without further haste, but the King’s Schilling had unwittingly been accepted and like an impressed man my fate already had a predetermined path over the next six months. Entries were dispatched and my acceptance letter from Robin Judkins, the man who conceived this event thirty years ago, into the individual two-day event gave some relief and signalled my surrender to the journey ahead.
I’ve never trained for a multi-sport event, wasn’t much of a runner, I had done a lot of cycling in younger days, but an enthusiastic kayaker having competed in winter marathon events and two Hawkesbury Classics, a 111 kilometre kayak race in Sydney. In more recent times I had been focussing on power-lifting along with rowing on the roster of a virtual rowing team based in America. So I had a good base level of fitness to work from.
A visit to the City Bike Depot in Sydney saw me walking out with a brand new Cannondale CAAD 10 racing bike and a wealth of knowledge imparted by Hugh Flower, a previous competitor in the Coast to Coast. In fact I had regular discussions with Hugh on the various facets of the race and he was always willing to offer soothing advice, perhaps it would have been better had he just given it to me straight! But he had me training up and down the Sphinx Track at Bobbin Head, a wonderful part of Sydney’s North Shore, along with some sound advice on cycling. Janet was even heard to quip on more than one occasion that I must be a shareholder of CBD by now after all the money I had invested there.
As time progressed I was actually looking forward to the adventure that the Coast to Coast promised and I threw myself into the training with great vigour. Christmas was always going to present a challenge in balancing training with the festive season, but Ray and I managed to transition this period with little dent to our training regimes, in fact it actually provided some good quality time to train.
By this time we had obtained our grade two kayak certificate, a prerequisite for the event, although we were yet to master rolling in the kayak, perhaps that will come in time! And that brought up the question of kayak selection for the event, would we take one, or hire one in New Zealand? As it turned out Rob Howarth, from Canoe and Kayak in Auckland, a sponsor of the event, was most helpful in this regard and we each hired a Barracuda Beachcomber kayak to use. These boats have proven to be a popular choice for the event as evidenced by the number of yellow boats on the river on race day.
Beachcomber Barracuda
The organisers suggest a familiarisation paddle and run over the mountain prior to race day, so with cheap airfares on offer I headed to Christchurch in mid-January. It is often said some things you have no control over and weather is one of them. I arrived on a Thursday evening, and seemingly my arrival marked the end of a week of fabulous weather and kayaking. Friday was raining, windy and cold and it was against this backdrop I headed off with Rob Howarth and a group of fellow competitors for an introduction to the Waimak. Rob judged that the conditions were not suitable for a kayak through the gorge as the water level had risen significantly in the past 24 hours and the wind was gusting up to 100 kph – welcome to New Zealand!
For me it was a real eye opener as we kayaked the first and last 15 kilometres of the course the race would take, and whilst we avoided the gorge it was a most enjoyable day enhanced by a visit to the Sheffield pie shop, a must do for anyone passing by that way.
The next day was scheduled as a run over the mountain, but the weather was no better and it came as no surprise that the run had been cancelled. In fact, whilst we were kayaking the previous day two groups training for the race were air-lifted off the mountain at Goat’s Pass by helicopter after being caught in the extreme conditions. So I tagged along with Rob for another paddle along the route we followed previous day. The river was completely different, the water level much higher and the flow much faster…
Unable to complete a training run over the mountain I took the opportunity to travel to the transition point at Klondyke Corner, near Arthur’s Pass, on my final day in New Zealand to get a sense of what it was like – it was snowing on the mountains, very cold, and left me pondering whether this beer was going to be worth it…
Having survived the temptations of Christmas only a couple of weeks earlier, a real test was coming up with a planned holiday at Khancoban, a small town on a lake nestled in the foothills of the Australian Alps region. With good intentions I loaded my race bike into the car to enable some cycle training, but on the morning of departure I took it out having decided that with just over two weeks before the event little would be gained from a fitness perspective and the risk of injury was at the forefront of mind. So with that mindset we headed off to Khancoban with our friends and had a great week on the lake, a couple of steaks, a good laugh, and a beer or two!
Fitness is a given for this event and the physical aspect is not to be understated, but often it is mental fortitude that will see you through to the end of a physical endeavour. I adopted this line in any case realising that my training had not been specific enough and too late to correct, so I would be drawing on that mental fortitude to get me across New Zealand’s Southern Alps.
It seemed like ions ago that my entry had been submitted but here we were seated on board an Air New Zealand flight on our way to the inevitable firing of the starter’s gun on Kumara Beach. Once again I was welcomed to the North South Holiday Park in Christchurch by wonderful hosts Julie and Steve Fraser who were pleased to see me back. The park was clearly popular with Coast to Coast competitors with a number of them staying, readily identified by bikes and kayaks atop cars.
One of my greatest fears was my race bike not turning up at the luggage carousel at Christchurch Airport, but it did and in doing so extinguishing another excuse for not being on the start line. The next morning was spent putting it back together whilst Janet headed off to pick-up the Brtiz Campervan she’d organised for our travel.
And who ever said Kiwi’s don’t have a sense of humour? When Janet returned she was in an All-Blacks Rugby Campervan, one that was used during the World Cup series and from that moment on Janet was known as Aussie All-Black, there was no missing us!
All-Blacks Van
With our gear packed into the van we headed in convoy for the West Coast, Kumara racecourse to be precise where we would spend the night prior to the event, pick-up our final registration pack, race numbers, even a six-pack of Speight’s before heading off to the final briefing given by Robin Judkins and dinner at the Kumara Town Hall. And whilst the serious safety stuff was discussed at the briefing, Robin was very entertaining and humourous when recounting past race stories, some of which are now Coast to Coast folklore.
Kumara Beach
This was the business end of the trip, one last sleep, for those that could, before the silent ride and walk to the start point, Kumara Beach on the Tasman Sea. I needn’t have bothered setting the alarm for I tossed and turned most of the night, as predicted by the old-handers, and before long it was time to get ready. And with one final hug from all Ray and I were on our way, our fate well and truly sealed.
Out of the drizzle and pre-dawn light, in what seemed to be a moment suspended in time, a black helicopter emerged, swooping down onto the beach like a seagull in pursuit of a hot chip, and from it Robin Judkins emerged, megaphone and air-horn in hand. Both Ray and I had been pacing the beach, saying very little to each other, although I probably mumbled bastard toward him at some stage, with a smile of course!
At the start line
I felt like I should be saying or doing something profound, after all I was about to cross the South Island of New Zealand for goodness sake but I couldn’t think of anything worthy, so I picked up a small pebble and placed it in my bike shirt intending to place it on the East Coast when I finished – I never saw the pebble again, most likely disgorged unceremoniously somewhere along the 243 kilometre route.One minute to go the big fellow bellowed, and in an instant I had an enormous surge of adrenaline through my veins which nauseated me to the point of almost throwing up, but no time for that even, the air-horn sounded and we were off. And I can remember those first few steps I took and thought perhaps this was my profound moment, but I’m not sure why!
The residents of Kumara Junction were out in force, cheery face and clapping as we made our way along the 3 kilometre run to the bike transition, but let’s face it anyone would be cheery in the knowledge you could head back to bed after waving this bunch on their way. Seemingly, in almost no time at all I was clipped into my bike peddles, Ray was tucked in behind me and we were making our way along the 55 kilometre cycle to Aichens Corner in light rain. There was a cruel twist as I cleared the bike transition, a sign that said only 240 kilometres to go!
Settling into the bike ride Ray, who hired his bike in New Zealand, was having some gear trouble and found himself going faster than he wanted to – if only I had that sort of problem I thought! The ride was pleasant and undulating with some small hill climbs. Mind you when I saw the hills the previous day on our drive to Kumara I was cursing under my breath, I thought they said it was flat, but I guess this was Kiwi Flat.
The road had been closed to vehicle traffic for the first 40 kilometres of the ride although we were warned to expect vehicles at anytime, but the last 15 kilometres would be open so the appearance of a road sign warning of oncoming traffic was welcoming as it meant only 15 kilometres to Aichen Corner and the commencement of the run.
The last 15 kilometres passed quickly and in no time I was off the bike and running towards TomO and Janet, both beaming large smiles and clearly happy to see I’d made it to the first transition. They did a superb job of getting me into my running clothes and shoes, and slipping my alpine survival pack with all my sustenance in it onto my back. But it was at this point I diverted from a well laid plan, thought out in the comfort of our living room, and discarded the idea of changing into my running shorts instead opting to leave my bike shorts on for the mountain run. Well blow me down, what a mistake that was and a week later I’m still paying for that spur of the moment decision, mind you it was because of a spur of the moment decision that I was here in any case…
On the bike
When it comes to training I had done as much running on rough bush tracks as time permitted and some of these runs spanned five or more hours, but I hadn’t actually prepared myself for getting off a bike after 55 kilometres and straight into a run. And yes, it was suggested by the girls that we do this type of training but we never got around to it and here we were slogging it out and that was before we even got to the timing gate!
You wouldn’t believe there could be so many rocks in one place. The terrain had large size boulders increasing from the size of a softball to the size of a car and they had to be negotiated as you made your way up the river valley. Competitors’ in the know cross the river 10 or so times, those that aren’t probably do it twice as many times. Mind you, it was a reasonably warm day and the river crossings provided an opportunity to rehydrate and for this purpose I carried a plastic cup and simply scooped water at each crossing.
Perhaps it wasn’t the gears on the bike that was Ray’s problem as he was now stepping out in front of me, possibly spurred on by the fact that we had been passed by a couple of grand-mothers in hiking boots, bless their souls. He offered plenty of encouragement and I settled into a quick paced walk, albeit slower than his. Realistically very few could actually run the whole mountain, although the fastest time recorded this year was 2 hours 58 minutes, by Trevor Voyce, for the 33 kilometres, but I’m sure he probably spent the last three years living with a herd of mountain goats, for at times there wasn’t even a track to follow.
Mountain Run
Eventually it was with some relief that Goat’s Pass Hut came into view framed against a spectacular blue sky. Though I’m not sure I should have felt so much relief as I was only around the half-way point and the downhill was not going to be any easier. I caught up to a young lady named Yvonne, who had twisted her ankle, but still making great progress. With true Kiwi grit she simply said I have to suck it up to which I quipped, with a chuckle, that I was trying my hardest. She had a good laugh and we were the best of mates from that time, mind you she put on a cracking pace despite her injury.
The final section of the run took us down a river gorge towards the Beeley River confluence and Yvonne suggested she had a short-cut and I recall thinking maybe Ray won’t know about it and I’ll catch up to him. I suspect everyone knew the short-cut and it was to no avail as he was at the timing gate to cheer me in from the mountain run. TomO was waiting on the river bed about 500 metres from the finish, I think Janet sent him out on a search and rescue mission as the clock was ticking away and many had finished by this time, but I got a cheer from the crowd as I made my way down the timing chute, and much to Janet’s relief I was in one piece and looking okay, relative to the undertaking of course…
End of the run
I enjoyed the day immensely despite taking much longer than I anticipated, but equally I was also glad to be sitting in a chair devouring a pie from Sheffield pie shop and reflecting on the past few hours. Dieticians’ might have a differing view on recovery food but let me say for the record, that pie was bloody good!
Prior to the event I spent time researching at length my nutrition requirements and had it covered between gels, liquid nutrition and solid muesli type bars, in fact none other than Em’s Power Cookies, a New Zealand product produced by previous Coast to Coast winner Emily Miazga. But I did struggle to get the solids down on the run and without doubt I was underdone on the nutrition throughout the day – I can see that eating on the run is an art form that requires plenty of training to achieve successfully…
At the conclusion of day one, support crew Team Big Bad Baz went to great lengths to ensure I was okay, constantly checking in on me, in fact Janet is always looking after her boys something TomO and I appreciate greatly. But all I really wanted was a shower and a bit of a snooze. And it was at the point the hot water flowed I realised I had a serious chaffing problem, in fact anyone within a 500 metre radius of the All-Blacks Van would have been alerted to my problem!
I wish I could say I slept like a baby – but I didn’t, and it seemed like I had only put my head to pillow when the alarm jolted me into the start of day two of the event. A 15 kilometre cycle, 67 kilometre kayak, and a final 70 kilometre cycle into Christchurch. I don’t think Janet and TomO actually knew what 4.30am in the morning actually looked like, neither are known as early morning people but dutifully they were up and fussing over me before preparing themselves to head to the kayak transition – they needed to leave the campsite by 5am and down to the Mt White Bridge for the kayak gear scrutineering. Fortunately for me, Leah, Janet’s sister and Ray’s partner, was staying behind with their son Aubrey so I was able to stay in the relative warmth of their camper van until it was time to head over to the start line.
Kayak scrutinising
The morning was cold and it was with some relief that we were eventually dispatched in groups of 10 towards the Mt White Bridge on the Waimak River, climbing a couple of hills along the way. The 15 kilometre ride finishes on the highway and it was a requirement to dismount from the bikes and run approximately 800 metres down a dirt road to the kayaks and despite planning to take my kayak shoes, I didn’t and was left to run in my cycle shoes, consequently many people passed me who obviously had the sense to stick with their plans! Before long Janet and TomO were pouring me into my life vest, kayak, and with a hug sent me on my way down the river. This was to be my first encounter with the gorge, an unknown for me, which actually made it quite exciting. Ray hadn’t been on the river at all and due to our different start times he was about 15 minutes ahead. And okay, I’ll fess up that I did think to myself, with a slight snicker, if he falls out I might catch up to him, besides it would have been fun going down the river together…
Down the Waimak
The first of the braided section was fairly straight forward and the river was quite low which was good and bad. The paddle would be slower, some of the more difficult bits would be gone, but the lower river level would expose many more obstacles to be avoided! I recognised the Rock Gardens, a series of four rapids, seemingly thrown at you as a teaser for the gorge ahead. They had some kayakers in play boats at hand to rescue those who went for a swim, fortunately I negotiated this area with little trouble and was back in to the braided section ahead of the gorge in no time at all.
On the Waimak
The gorge was spectacular and whilst this was a race I took in the view between negotiating some of the more difficult rapids, although it was whilst looking around admiring the view that I found myself upside down and swimming alongside my kayak – how’s that for karma, sorry Ray! The waters of the Waimakariri River are usually a beautiful turquoise blue and its name roughly translates to River of cold rushing water and it is fair to say it lived up to its name on both counts. After a short swim I was back in the boat only to find myself swimming about 5 minutes later, and my mind turned to thoughts of being the recipient of a trophy, an old washing machine agitator, which is given to the person who swims the most in the gorge. Fortunately this was the last time I swam, and I must say that on both occasions the river was fairly benign where I came out, the first was just after passing through a fairly large wave train, the second time I can’t even be sure, but clearly I was relaxing too much!
There were numerous jet boats and check points on the river, monitoring our progress and Woodstock was the final checkpoint prior to the kayak finish. Woodstock was about 1 hour from the finish and required you to negotiate braided sections of the river, but the river makes you work right to the end with a couple of bluffs with large pressure waves and boils to negotiate literally in sight of the finish.
I rounded the corner and up onto the beach, TomO was excitedly calling to Janet who was anxiously scanning the monitor board. It turns out that they were sending through race numbers as kayakers passed Woodstock and these were being placed on a notice board, but apparently they missed a number of us, myself included…
End of he kayak
The transition area for the bike leg was at the top of a small rise, so after a few hours of having your legs cramped in the boat you need to make your way up the hill and onto the bike. TomO led the way and got me onto the bike and pointed me in the direction of Christchurch and the finish line at Sumner Beach. At first I was just going to head-off in my kayak shorts, but a mental whack across the back of my head saw me changing into bike shorts, as planned!
Ray and I had rationalised that once on the bike it was only 70 kilometres to the finish – yeah, right. There was nothing easy about this ride and whilst the wind was initially coming side on from the south eventually it turned easterly into a head-wind just to make it a bit harder. Fortunately I passed another competitor, Robert from the Cook Islands just after the transition and without hesitating he jumped onto my back wheel and simply said move out when you want a break and I’ll take the lead. We did 5 minutes on, 5 minutes off all the way to the finish line without speaking a word to each other – there wasn’t much to say at that stage and the job was still ahead of us, but we gave each other a congratulatory hug as we crossed the line. The value of teamwork well and truly highlighted.
The ride to Christchurch was via long flat roads and starting about 40 kilometres out there were cars parked alongside with people cheering and clapping as we passed. The crowds got bigger as we passed through the city and the police halted traffic at all intersections waving competitors nearing the end of this epic journey through like royalty, ensuring a clear, safe cycle to the finish line…
A sea breeze was blowing as I rounded the final bend, officials were ahead waving me in and at the ready to take my bike so I could make the final sprint, okay … let’s just settle on a jog, down to the finish line.
Number 4-6-0
The announcer’s call went out, number 4-6-0 Barry O’Malley from Australia… Janet and TomO were there smiling ear to ear, Leah, and Deb were fussing over Ray, who glanced my way with a big smile, and the crowd cheered loudly – I felt like a champion and welled inside with pride as Robin Judkins handed me my Speight’s Beer, put his arm around me and said, good onya mate! This was a fantastic event run by an army of enthusiastic volunteers and the flamboyant Robin Judkins is to be congratulated on conceiving it 30 years ago, our friends across the Tasman welcomed us warmly wherever we went, even if they did take the puss out of us about the All-Blacks van, the camaraderie was second to none, and I enjoyed every minute of it…
And over the din of the cheering crowd I could hear a small voice in my head echoing the advice TomO had given me many months earlier… Dad, just embrace it…
As part of my journey to Cho Oyu and beyond I thought it best I start with some basics, learning the ropes so to speak. And for someone who still to this day can’t tie shoelaces in the normal way, learning the ropes and how to tie them off has taken on a different level of importance given the implication will be far greater than tripping on an untied shoelace.
I will confess to having some previous experience at abseiling, my first and only abseil prior to this weekend was off the AMP Building in Sydney a couple of years ago with my partner, Janet, in support of the Sir David Martin Foundation, and assisted by a great Australian Mountaineer and Adventurer, Andrew Lock. I have even exited a plane on numerous occasions, with a parachute strapped to my back, and spent many hours upside down in aerobatic planes, but when our guide for the day suggested I abseil upside down, head-first after a morning of abseil practice, I thought this is crazy, in a nice kind of way!
Baz & Jaz
The setting was the Blue Mountains which is situated just to the West of Sydney and easily accessed along the Great Western Highway. In fact the route to, and over, the Blue Mountains is much the same as that taken by the intrepid explorers, Blaxland, Wentworth, and Lawson when they crossed the Mountains for the first time in 1813. And it was a perfect weekend to undertake my basic abseil course, as we were joined by two couples and their boys, close friends, who both happened to be celebrating their wedding anniversaries on the Saturday. So the Saturday night always promised to be full of cheer, and festivities, if I survived the day. There was even the chance of an encounter with the big guy in the Red Suit, Santa, given the area was hosting its Yuletide in July festival.
Saturday morning in downtown Katoomba and I met up with fellow course participants at the Australian School of Mountaineering located in the Paddy Pallin store in the main street. Some were doing a half day course and three of us had signed up for the full day. And what a fantastic winter’s day, the sky was a deep blue, little cloud, but the wind was blowing quite hard from the west, leaving me with a vision of trainees’ swinging in the wind off the side of a cliff – but our guides, Alice and Jem, or J as she preferred, didn’t look the type that were about to send us to our end…but I’ve found looks are often deceptive and there was a kind of mischief in their smiles.
It was a short drive to Mt York, the site of our first abseils for the day, and following a safety brief, we were gearing-up for our first descents. I was very pleased the gear I had recently bought, a Petzl Adjama climbing harness, as it fitted well and was very comfortable, and let’s face it, this is the thing that you will fix a rope to and so having confidence in it was paramount.
Oddly enough, you would think walking up to the edge of a 100 metre tall building and leaning back over the edge would be much harder than doing it on a small rock formation little more than 10 metres in height, but the heart was racing a bit as I stepped backwards, but what a buzz. We spent the morning on a number of different formations, some with overhangs, practicing newly learnt skills, and of course seeing how many bounces you could get to the bottom in . And I must say the emphasis was on safety, as you would expect.
Mt York
Time goes quickly as they say when you are having fun, and before long we were heading back towards Katoomba to drop off the half-day participants. It was then on to Narrow Neck for a picnic lunch, and more abseiling. Now I did think it was rather ambitious putting out a small table-cloth onto the ground for lunch, as the wind was howling, and the setting was blown in the air like a spinnaker cast adrift. But it was a great lunch and the company was great, Alice and J were imparting their stories of climbing and caving exploits, which only whetted our appetite for more adventure, so we headed over to the cliff. The first was about a 20 metre drop with an overhang, but the wind was full on as it raced up the cliff. Surely we weren’t going over the edge? My mind ticked over as Alice tossed a rope over the edge, saying watch this! The strength of the wind blew the rope straight up into the air in what would be a great party trick, except the next thing going over was me!
And what a vista we had, looking out over the valley I couldn’t help but think ‘you wouldn’t be dead for quids’ so off I went, and surprisingly, once over the edge and into the full blast of the wind it wasn’t quite what I expected, I wasn’t being blown around like a fly-strip under the ceiling fan after all. A number of descents later we headed over to a larger cliff face, about 30-40 metres with a large over-hang which meant a free-descent down the rope. I couldn’t get enough of it and did quite a few descents, along with the scramble back up the side of the formation to the top, before a short-drive back to Katoomba at day’s end.
And as I headed up the hill to meet family and friends, who were well established around the fire in the Carrington Hotel, champagne flutes in hand, I was pleased how the day had gone, having some adventure in a spectacular setting, learning and developing new skills – and as for being upside down, as tempted as I was to give it a go I didn’t want to scratch my new helmet, so I’ll save that for my next trip…
Fun in the mountains
I’m booked to do the Senior Abseil Certificate and Rope Rescue course in early August, and Janet said she could get used to me abseiling in the Blue Mountains, after all, there was unfinished business in the local art, craft, and dress shops! And TomO, our adventurous 12 year old, who is already an old hand at abseiling, is itching to be out there with me, can’t wait mate (he can tie his shoe laces – phew!)…
I have been driven by a quote from the legendary mountaineer, Walt Unsworth, who said in part, “But there are men for whom the unattainable has a special attraction. Usually they are not experts: their ambitions and fantasies are strong enough to brush aside the doubts which more cautious men might have. Determination and faith are their strongest weapons. At best such men are regarded as eccentric; at worst, mad…”
I have been discussing high altitude climbing with a number of people and organisations over the past twelve months and have been encouraged by the support and enthusiasm shown by all. I have been working specifically with Adventure Consultants in New Zealand, a company founded by Rob Hall, very professional and they have provided some great advice and insight to what is required, both mentally and physically.
I will be climbing in New Zealand in early and mid-2013, and in Nepal towards the end of 2013 on three, 6,000 metre peaks to assist in honing my skills. If all goes to plan I am aiming to join an expedition to climb Cho Oyu, situated in Tibet, in 2014. Cho Oyu is the world’s sixth highest peak, and one of the world’s fourteen 8,000 metre peaks. In between I may head to Alaska to climb Mt McKinley, often referred to as Denali for further experience.
And beyond this, well who knows, if I can pull that off, and it is a big ‘if’ mind you, than Mt Everest would be a possibility. And the goal I have set myself is to achieve the skills and fitness required where those with the ability to judge can say you would be a chance at giving that a go! And I’ve always said better to dream big, than not at all. That is the road-map, but journey’s often end at a totally different destination to the one you plan…
But putting aside the skills required, fitness plays a key role in this pursuit, and fortunately the type of training I undertake, which includes a strong emphasis on strength and weight training, combined with High Intensity Cardio (HIT) work, which comes from my rowing, fits perfectly like a glove. Over the past few months I have been doing a lot of endurance walking with a 30/35 kg pack, great training for those who care to give it a go. In fact I completed a 100 kilometre walk a couple of weeks ago, and there will be a few more of those coming up, in part, to simulate long-tiring days as many summit attempts involve 15-20 plus hour days.
Over the months ahead I will be back on the bike as it is a good cardiovascular builder. In fact, I have been reading about an Australian couple who both successfully climbed Mt Everest in 2007 and who took up competition cycling as a way of increasing their cardio-vascular capacity.
For me this is a journey, and it can only be made one step at a time, and the best advice I have been given is to enjoy every step, and let it take you where it wants to go! And whilst I am a big believer in the power of positive thinking, and goal setting, I am tempered by this advice, and it is a healthy life-style choice as it requires plenty of exercise, positive mental attitude and good nutrition, which can’t be a bad thing!
Oh, and Janet, my very supportive partner, said recently, ‘just as well money in the bank account isn’t too important to me’ – I kind of took that as a green light, but I’m yet to tell her how much my boots cost!
Janet, my partner, is a wonderful cook, and without fail she will cook up a batch of scones or a damper in the camp oven to be devoured with lashings of butter and golden syrup much to the delight of all…
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