Storm Over Musgrave Ranges

Our first 40-plus degrees Celsius day, and our hills of Adelaide are menaced by bushfire. Although our home was not threatened, the fire raged on roads familiar to us; roads that we take on the “scenic route” to Hahndorf, and people we know live in those particular towns that were in danger. Fortunately, the threat of fire has been eased by drenching rain—just in time.

Such is the plight of living in the driest state in the driest continent…

So, today, as the smell of smoke filled the air and a pall of brown smoke covered the city, I recalled a time when a storm and fire threatened the T-Team.

[Excerpt from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981 ]


Monday 27 – Tuesday 28, July 1981

‘Oh! I give up!’ I hauled myself out of the sleeping bag, bundled up my bedding and parka, and blundered my way to the back of the Rover. I glanced at the men comatose in sleep and oblivious to the mini cyclone engulfing them. Our central campfire blazed, flames sweeping over the clearing. The smell of burnt plastic hit my nostrils. At my feet lay the remains of a little blue bowl, my bowl. I washed my face in that basin every morning. Now what was I to do?

[Photo 1: Ominous Sunset over Musgraves © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I knew this wind meant business, dangerous business. I rushed to Dad and told him the whole story—the wind, the sparks, the wild fire, and my little blue bowl.

‘What campfire?’ Dad smacked his lips, yawned and turned over.

‘But Dad! The fires have to go out!’ I shook my father. ‘We’ll burn to death.’

‘Oh, all right!’ Dad squirmed his way out of his layers of blankets and bedding. ‘I don’t know why you have to disturb me. I was just getting to sleep.’ He picked up the shovel and tramped over to my fire. The coals had sprung to life and tongues of flame licked at my rumpled groundsheet.

Dad shovelled several heaps of dirt over my fire. I picked up a bucket and fought my way to the creek through a wall of wind. My bucket full of water, I marched back to camp. I tossed water on the coals and with the light of my torch watched them sizzle and steam. I put rocks in the bowls and buckets as insurance against being blown away in these gale-force conditions.

[Photo 2: The fog warning over Musgraves © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I returned to my sleeping quarters with bucket half-full of water and found Dad disposing of the menacing flames of my fire. A few rebellious coals glowed with fresh gusts. So, I chucked water on these reheated stubs, quenching any urge for the embers to flare up.

Dad stepped forward and made a grab for my bucket. ‘Hey! What are you doing?’

‘All in the aid to save us from a bushfire,’ I replied.

On my trek back to the Rover, I checked the campfire. Coals glowed angry red, and blue-yellowy-green flames wobbled over the molten surface. I drowned the recalcitrant coals with water, killing any ability to resurrect with the wind once and for all, I hoped.

I carried the gas lantern with me and walking towards the Rover battled the surging torrents of wind. Dad called out, ‘Take care, Lee-Anne!’

‘Yes, Dad!’ I called back, my words getting sucked away in the storm. I put the lantern on the tucker box while sorting stuff to place under the protective weight of rocks. A fresh gust of wind whipped and roared. It cut right through me. Crash! The lantern smashed to the ground, slivers of glass smattered all over the ground. Woops! There goes the light for tonight.

[Photo 3: Dad in his ski mask should’ve known…© L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]

I tramped back to Dad’s bed. ‘Um, Dad, I have some bad news.’

Dad sounded muffled through layers of blanket and his ski mask. ‘What now?’

‘I broke the lantern.’

‘Oh! Lee-Anne!’ Dad groaned in that tone of voice that made me feel ashamed for being so stupid as to put the lantern on a tucker box in the middle of a wild storm.

On my way back to the Rover, book bag slung over my shoulder and everyday bag in hand, I saw the flames reignite and spread their hot fingers over the tinder-dry site. I attacked the offending piece of wood, this time with a rock. The flames splayed under and around the stone with a blast of wind. Down the creek I ran, and returned with a bucket of water. I drowned the smouldering lump in a deep puddle.

Dusting my hands of residual ash, I returned to the Rover in which I’d set up my bed. Wind howled around the cabin, rocking the whole vehicle as I huddled in my layers of bedding. I looked out the window. Dad’s light from his undying campfire flickered and sent violent flames and sparks flying over his tarpaulin. I leapt out of the Rover and raced over to save Dad. There he lay, wrapped in comfort in a wad of blankets, fast asleep and unharmed. I smothered the glowing coals with a few heaps of sand.

[Photo 4: Better times sleeping around the campfire © C. D. Trudinger 1981]

I set my face against the wind and battled my way back to the Rover. Once more I settled into my nest of sleeping bag, blankets and parka on the narrow bench seat. I shut my eyes and tried to block out the howling winds and the Rover rocking from side to side.

Then that feeling began. I tried to ignore it. I have to pee. I crossed my legs and pretended it didn’t exist. I have to pee. The wind moaned. I’m not going out there, not in that weather. I’ve got to pee. I’ve done my dash; nature will just have to wait. This is urgent. I rocked with the Rover and tried to think of other things. I must pee, I’m busting! Once more I unwrapped myself out of mummification, forced open the Rover door against the wind and stumbled to the nearest bush down wind. I hoped I didn’t splatter my pants.

Relieved, I pushed my way back to the Rover. A faint alarm bell bleeped somewhere in the campsite. I stopped before getting into the Rover and watched Dad jerk up and out of his sleeping bag. He staggered towards Tony’s quarters. ‘Wake up!’ he yelled, his words getting sucked up by the wind.

[Photo 5: The morning after and hunting for TR’s missing socks © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

The pile of bedding remained lifeless and unresponsive.

‘Hoy!’ Dad shouted.

No answer.

Dad knelt, with his mouth close to the hood of the sleeping bag, he shouted, ‘What’s the time?’

His friend stuck his head out the sleeping bag. ‘What?’

‘Oh, never mind,’ Dad snapped and then stomped off to bed.

Safe from the atomic explosions of wind and chill, my head burrowed deep within my sleeping bag, I prayed. I was reminded that though the world may lash us with rage and storms, God keeps his children safe. God had kept us safe.

Finally, I dozed into the welcome peace of sleep.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018; updated 2021

Feature Photo: Calm before the storm, Musgrave Ranges, South Australia © C.D. Trudinger 1981


Join the adventures of the T-Team.

On the virtual shelves of Amazon.

Available in print and as an e-book.

Click on the link below

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981  

And enjoy the Safari…

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