Art

Travelling on Friday–Farewell Glen Helen

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

T-Team Next Generation
All In a Sunday

Sunday Morning: Farewell Glen Helen

[Twelve years ago, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few months, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-Team farewell Glen Helen, then struggle with the concept of driving in convoy.]

The sound of boots scuffling in the boys’ section of the tent woke me. I wormed my way out of the sleeping bag, careful not to wake Hubby. He still puffed out the sweet dreams while softly snoring while I crept next door to investigate.

[Photo 1: Dawn Breaking © L.M. Kling 2013]


Son 1, his face clouded in a frown greeted me. ‘Couldn’t sleep, so went for a walk,’ he snapped.

‘Best time of morning to enjoy the views.’

‘Sure you don’t have sleep apnoea? You kept me awake with your snoring all night.’

‘It’s just the cold desert air,’ I replied, then left for my own walk with views.

[Photo 2: Mount Sonder at sunrise 2 © L.M. Kling 2013]


Captured more of Mt. Sonder at sunrise; this time in blue and mauve hues rising above helicopter landing pad. In 2010, Mum and her sister had splashed out and taken this helicopter ride over the MacDonnell Ranges. In some ways an easier way to have a birds-eye view of the ranges without all the huffing and puffing and effort climbing a mountain.

[Photo 3: Birds-eye/helicopter view of MacDonnell Ranges © M.E. Trudinger 2010]


Mum had been there and done that in her youth when she climbed Mt. Sonder with my dad and other Hermannsburg friends. Mum shared just recently, that one of the friends was a rather luscious looking fellow. She puzzled why there seemed to be no photos of this chap in Dad’s slide collection of the occasion.

[Photo 4: Victorious and a much younger Mum T on the summit of Mt. Sonder © C.D. Trudinger 1957]


On my return from this venture down memory lane, I collected some firewood from an old campfire.
Hubby narrowed his eyes and growled, ‘We’re not making a fire.’

‘Okay.’

I approached my nephew who squatted by a campfire which he had lit. ‘We’re not making a fire,’ I said and then dumped my wood collection into the fire. ‘We’re not having a fire?’

My nephew laughed. ‘I was just playing with my stick and it broke and went in the fire.’

‘And my pieces of wood just fell into the fire,’ I added.

We watched the flames grow, both chuckling at our insurrection to his Lord-ship’s ban on fire.

After a toilet break, I filled a billy can with water and it made its way onto the coals. The family gathered, enjoying its warmth and relative scarcity of flies and other insects. But for some, like my younger niece, the fire failed to ward off all the flies; especially those tiny little sticky flies that crawl in one’s eyes, nose and mouth. For her, the only solution was to put a re-usable cloth shopping bag over her head.

[Photo 5: One way of keeping the flies at bay © L.M. Kling 2013]


Following breakfast by the fire that my husband said we weren’t going to have, I washed and packed up my bedding and stuff in the tent. Having done as much as I could to pack the Ford, I walked up to the restaurant with Son 2. He wanted an iced coffee. There, while Son 2 drank his iced coffee, I bought a book about Uluru, and then had a coffee with Mum. We talked with the owner and Mum shared that she had visited Ayers Rock (Uluru) in 1953.

‘We were the only ones there,’ Mum said.

‘Was Dad there that time?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but I was much younger, and we weren’t going out then.’ Mum laughed. ‘One of the ladies lost the sole of her shoe when we were climbing, and Dad gallantly lent his shoes to her and walked down the rock barefoot.’

‘Just like my brother did in 1981 with his cousin. Only they did it as a dare.’

‘Must be in the genes,’ Son 2, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, snorted.

[Photo 6: Historic climb of Ayers Rock 1953 © M.E. Trudinger 1953]


By 10.30am, the T-Team convoy had left Glen Helen, its red cliffs, its flies and the doused and covered fire in a distant mirage and we headed for Ormiston Gorge, again. My sister-in-law wanted to buy a souvenir magnet at the Ormiston Gorge information centre.

We parked at the turn-off, where Mum, Son 2 and I waited in Mum’s hire car for the Ford containing Hubby and Son 1 to arrive, and the T-Team in their white van to appear.

‘What’s taking them so long?’ Son 2 asked.

‘Maybe the Ford won’t start.’ A definite possibility, I thought.

‘Don’t say that,’ Mum said.

‘What about the T’s? They’re late too.’ Son 2 grumbled. ‘We’ve been waiting twenty minutes!’

I sighed. ‘Perhaps the Ford has broken down and brother is under the bonnet trying to fix it up.’

‘Should we go back then?’ Mum asked.

‘Yes, I think we should,’ I sighed again while starting up the engine. I rolled the car forward, performed a U-turn and then headed back to Glen Helen.

Just as we reached the road to Glen Helen, the Ford appeared and sailed past us on its way to Ormiston Gorge.

Down the valley we travelled until we could safely do a U-Turn, at what we had coined the “U-Turn Crossing”. This was the place where a couple of nights ago, Son 1 had collected firewood while I collected photos of Glen Helen’s iron-red cliffs bathed in the golden rays of the setting sun.

[Painting: Wood for fire under red cliffs of Glen Helen (acrylic on canvas) © L.M. Kling 2018]


Then, stepping on the accelerator, we chased the Ford. Upon catching up to the Ford, we beeped the horn and flashed the lights of our rental car.

‘What the…?’ Son 2 pointed at a white van on the opposite side of the road, heading back towards Glen Helen.

‘No,’ Mum said, ‘we’ve all missed the turn off to Ormiston.’

More sighs. A brief park by the side of the road, our car with the Ford, and then exchange of information with Hubby and Son 1. Then with my brother who had also missed the turn off to Ormiston and had to retrace his tracks back. We turned around (in our cars) and in convoy, bumped our way down the rough track to the Ormiston where we waited for Mrs. T to buy her fridge magnets.

Transactions done, we began our journey to Hermannsburg. This time, the T-Team in their white van, waited for us to catch up. Again, this time in convoy, to Mum T’s childhood home.

[to be continued…]


© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021
Feature Photo: Red Cliffs of Glen Helen © L.M. Kling 2013

***
VIRTUAL TRAVEL OPPORTUNITY

FOR THE PRICE OF A CUP OF COFFEE (TAKEAWAY, THESE DAYS),

CLICK ON THE LINK AND DOWNLOAD YOUR KINDLE COPY OF MY TRAVEL MEMOIRS,

THE T-TEAM WITH MR. B: CENTRAL AUSTRALIAN SAFARI 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

***

One Day Left!

If you’re in Adelaide, don’t miss out!

Come and See!

Marion Art Group’s Exhibition at Bayside Village, Glenelg

One day left.

Excellent Quality paintings for sale.

Just in time for Mother’s Day.

Exhibition ends tomorrow, Saturday May 10 at 3pm.

Travelling on Friday–Standley Chasm

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

[Twelve years ago, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
One Friday every month, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-Team part ways for the day, and two of us set off to explore Standley Chasm.]

Bonus! An all-you-can-eat breakfast greeted us at the Chifley the morning after. The same can’t be said about the T-Team. Richard had slept in and not much was happening in my brother’s “camp”. Meanwhile, we had made the most of the morning, walking to the town centre.

[Photo 1: Chifley Resort © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘Gotta get tyres for the trailer, ‘n nothing’s open yet,’ Richard mumbled on the other end of my mobile phone.

‘Having a quiet day, then,’ I replied gazing around the near-empty local Big-W department store. Anthony held up a pair of cargo pants and indicated that he’d try those on. Then he began rifling through the bargain rack for more pairs to try.

‘Not exactly,’ Richard sniffed, ‘gotta get tyres.’

‘Oh, well, we’re thinking of going to Standley Chasm. Maybe we can all go together in the afternoon if your tyres get sorted.’

‘Hmm, will let you know.’

‘Okay, will hear from you then.’ I clicked off the phone and said to Anthony, ‘He doesn’t sound optimistic on the tyre-issue. Might be busy all morning.’

[Photo 2: Remember the tyre carnage? © L.M. Kling 2013]

By noon, the T-Team still weren’t ready; Richard still had to take the car to get the new tyres.
‘At least I’ve found a place that can do our tyres,’ my brother mumbled to me on the phone before he left on his tyre-mission.

[Photo 3: Ranges surrounding Alice Springs, Olive Pink Botanic Garden © M.E. Trudinger 2010]

So, Anthony and I travelled alone on our quest to explore Standley Chasm. Actually, we’d barely left the outskirts of Alice Springs travelling west on Larapinta Drive to the MacDonnell Ranges before Anthony piped up, ‘How far is it to Standley Chasm?’

‘Not far,’ I replied, then retrieving the map from the glove box, I hunted for the chasm’s location and then calculated the distance from Alice Springs. ‘It’s 50km, so about half an hour’s drive.’

‘Oh, you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cos, if it’s further, we’ll miss the red cliffs, or getting in, or we’ll be home after dark.’

[Photo 4: Spectacular view of Stanley Chasm we wish to see © S.O Gross circa 1950]

‘Already have,’ I sighed. ‘But I’m sure the chasm will still be spectacular. And the hike there will be good exercise.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘Anyway, it’s not far. Besides, there’s plenty of other gorges to explore.’

Before Anthony could voice any further misgivings or regrets that we should’ve left earlier and not waited for the T-Team, the sign for Standley Chasm appeared to our right. We parked in the carpark shaded by a gathering of majestic eucalypt trees and then followed the path to the kiosk.

While waiting in line to pay the entry fee, we read the sign which assured us that we had plenty of time before the park closed at 5pm.

I nodded at the notice board and remarked, ‘All that worry for nothing.’

‘Depends how long the walk takes,’ Anthony said while nibbling a nail.

‘Doesn’t take long,’ I said. ‘I’ve been here before. Takes less than an hour.’

‘I hope so.’

I shook my head. ‘Look, we’ll walk for an hour and then turn back, okay?’

Just to be sure, when we paid for our entry tickets, I asked pleasant Irish man who ran the kiosk, how long the walk should take. He explained that it was mostly easy and would take the average hiker about half an hour.

[Photo 5: Along the way © L.M. Kling 2013]

So, rather than waste precious Anthony-time having lunch first, we set out on the adventure to the chasm. Anthony raced ahead. I wandered along the meandering path taking note of various scenes I would snap on our return. Who knows, we may make it in time for the spectacular red cliffs on both sides. Although the lack of tourists hiking either way, made me suspect that, that time had passed.

[Photo 6: Billabong © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 7: Just beyond, tempting us © L.M. Kling 2013]

Twenty minutes later, Anthony and I beheld the awesome cliffs of the chasm; one side glowed golden orange, while the other side was a dark sienna. We sensed the peace and serenity of the place.

[Photo 8: The Chasm at last © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 9: Perfection of Light © L.M. Kling 2013]


I scrambled over the tumble of boulders in the chasm and made my way to the pool. Beyond the rockpool, a sign prohibited us from venturing further. The deep water caught a perfect reflection of the boulders and cliffs.

[Photo 10: Pool’s reflection © L.M. Kling 2013]

In memory of my Dad, I photographed Anthony by the same tree where I had captured Dad in all his grumpiness some 36-years prior.

[Photo 11: Anthony by tree near Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 12: Grumpy Dad by tree © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Upon our return to the entrance, we munched on our sandwiches and observed a group of aspiring hikers pitch their tents and then pull them down again. What’s that about? we wondered.

Then, a group of tour guides sat to eat their lunch on a picnic bench below us on the other side of the creek. Anthony had to comment, ‘There’s seven of them and only one of them is Indigenous.’

[Photo 13: Standley Chasm admired by tourist group © L.M. Kling 2013]

On our return to Alice Springs, we stopped by the caravan park where I booked our sons in. We had already booked ourselves into a cabin at the caravan park and had originally thought they could stay with us. And Mum, all concerned about missing out, had her cabin organised months ago. Even so, we had no problem arranging a separate cabin for our grown-up sons who we felt would be happy with more space.

[Photo 14: Vision of near Future at the Alice Springs Tourist Park © L.M. Kling 2013]

With late afternoon casting the long shadows of the approaching night, we made our way to where the T-Team were staying. We had been in touch with Mrs. T and had arranged to meet there. When we arrived at the appointed time, no T-Team. Calling Mrs. T on her mobile phone yielded no joy, nor answer.

‘’Not again!’ Anthony groaned.

‘Let’s go to the shops and buy some meat for a BBQ. Then we can find a picnic area and cook up our meat.’

My suggestion sounded reasonable to Anthony, so, off we drove to the local IGA supermarket. Just around the corner. Won’t be long. Maybe the T-Team will be back by the time we return.

‘That’s funny,’ I pointed at some bushes on the traffic island, ‘there’s a cop car hiding.’

‘I didn’t see anything,’ said he who was concentrating on driving.

I ducked into the shops to by some lamb chops and bread. Not much choice; I wanted to snag some sausages but couldn’t see any around. So, armed with the purchased, at some expense, meat and bread, I hopped back in the car.

[Photo 15: Ye good ol’ Aussie Barbeque © L.M. Kling 2020]

Anthony laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

‘While you were in the shops, a bikie guy was arrested right next door in front of the bottle shop.’ Anthony fired up the engine with the characteristic roar of the Ford. ‘I wonder what he was up to?’

Just then, Mrs. T rang back. ‘Sorry we weren’t there when you came. We was down the street and bought tea for all of us.’

So, with the chops saved in the ice box for camping at Glen Helen, we joined the T-Team for dinner, followed by a raucous game of “Chook Chook”, an educational card game trading poultry.

[Photo 16: Chook Chook © L.M. Kling 2017]

Afterwards, Mrs. T joined her friends on the back deck for a drink or two, the T-Lings continued with another round of card-playing with their father, while Anthony and I returned to another night of luxury at the Chifley Hotel.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020

*Feature Painting: Standley Chasm Men © L.M. Kling 2018

VIRTUAL TRAVEL OPPORTUNITY

FOR THE PRICE OF A CUP OF COFFEE (TAKEAWAY, THESE DAYS),

CLICK ON THE LINK AND DOWNLOAD YOUR KINDLE COPY OF MY TRAVEL MEMOIR:

THE T-TEAM WITH MR. B: CENTRAL AUSTRALIAN SAFARI 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

More Art–Last Few Days

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

MY LIFE—WORK VERSES ART:

The joy of creating over creating wealth

As a child, I enjoyed creating what I see or images in my mind with colour on paper or canvas. I would go into “the creative zone” and spend hours drawing or painting. Once I missed a visit by favourite relatives because I was “in the zone” painting a Central Australian mountain range.

[Painting 1: Mt. Sonder © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) Circa 1977]

I remember at eight years old, painting with acrylics at my grandmother’s house. I loved the process of paint gliding and flowing from the brush and how my mountain became a volcano smoke billowing from its mouth and snow gracing its slopes. I was hooked.

[Painting 2: Volcano © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) circa 1973]

But, in the 1970’s, with the rise of the status of women in society, the prevailing attitude was that every woman has a right to education, university and a career. The culture of the day was instilled in me that art was merely a hobby. So I never considered doing art as a career. My year eleven teacher cried as I chose Chemistry over Art for my final year. I reasoned I could always pick up art (as a hobby) once I left school.

[Painting 3: Calendar Butterfly © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

This I did in 1981, my gap year. I joined a local Art Class in Glenelg and Arthur Phillips taught me to paint with precision, like a photograph, layer upon layer, with acrylics. I admired Arthur’s skill and enjoyed the classes that were always filled with laughter.

[Painting 4: Mt. Liebig © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]

However, as a poor university student, I had to give up Art Classes. I thought the Art Club at University would suffice. But it didn’t. The University Art Club at that time, seemed to be more focussed on social activities than getting together to paint.

[Painting 5: One Day in the Barossa © L.M. Kling 2018]

After graduating in 1985 with a Bachelor of Arts (majoring in Japanese and English), and then in 1986 a Graduate Diploma of Education, I entered the teaching profession and in 1987 relocated to Melbourne for my first job. After eighteen months of teaching teenagers, many of whom did not want to learn, coupled with a feeling my life had been hijacked by school, I quit teaching. I then took up a Research Officer position with Fusion Australia, a youth and community organisation that had an office in Murrumbeena, not far from where my husband and I lived.

[Painting 6: Great Ocean Road in pastel © L.M. Kling 2020]

Soon after I began working there, the community centre associated with where I worked, put on a community event—painting a mural with the help of a well-known local artist, Arthur Boyd. He shared his struggles as a professional artist over his career, making ends meet. This conversation opened my mind to the idea that for some (who were good enough) art can be more than a hobby. I now wonder what happened to the mural he helped us paint. The church in which the community centre was housed at Murrumbeena was knocked down and the land developed into a nursing home in the early 1990’s.

[Painting 7: Echo Camp, Mt. Painter Sanctuary © L.M. Kling 1989]

In 1989, my friend from church, organised art classes with artist Geoff Rogers as our teacher. Geoff taught me to loosen up with my paintings—more flow and movement in the scenes of the Flinders Ranges I painted.

At the same time, the local community centre offered art classes which I joined. There I continued my loose-with-palette-knife rendition of the Gammon Ranges’ Bunyip Chasm. The art teacher discouraged me. ‘You can’t do that, it looks awful,’ she said.

Later a friend came up to me as I was painting and remarked, ‘I love it! Can I buy it when you’re finished?’

I decided Geoff Rogers’ style suited me and kept with the loose style. I framed Bunyip Chasm which at the time cost $80 and then offered the painting to my friend for $100.

‘Oh, I can’t afford $100, dear,’ she said, ‘can you make it less?’

I loved my Bunyip Chasm and said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t lower the price as the frame cost $80.’ To be honest, I was too attached to my painting to part from it.

[Painting 8: Bunyip Chasm © L.M. Kling 1989]

For the next twenty-two years, Bunyip Chasm decorated the walls of the homes we lived in. I gave it as a fiftieth birthday present to my sister-in-law as it was a favourite of hers. I then painted another Bunyip Chasm in the same style, but different, and that sold too.

When my children entered our world, I couldn’t paint—no room in a two-bedroom unit, and even when we progressed to a larger home, life was busy raising a family. So nineteen years passed without touching a brush or canvas. When we returned to Adelaide, with the boys at school, I enquired about art classes, but was told the same story again and again—the classes are fully booked, you’d have to go on a waiting list. There must be a lot of people doing art in Adelaide, I thought.

Then in 2009, I joined a writers’ group. At the same time, the art-bug had bitten, and I began painting with an artist friend from church. I shared how I found it hard to separate from my paintings, they were like my babies. My friend’s husband said, ‘But you need to share your work and bring happiness to others.’

Half-way through the year, a fellow writer invited me to join Marion Art Group (MAG). ‘Just bring along some of your work,’ she said.

Gulp! What if they don’t like my work? But I steeled myself and armed with three recent pieces of art, I went down to the hall where the group was held.

No worries, I was accepted. And by the end of the year, I’d sold my first painting, Cockling at Goolwa, to another MAG member.

[Painting 9: A more recent Cocking at Goolwa (in Pastel) © L.M. Kling 2023]

In my first MAG exhibition at a local shopping centre, I sold my second painting, Brachina Sunrise. Then…nothing sold for two years. Effects of the GST, perhaps. Customers not spending on luxuries like art.

I persevered with painting, attending MAG studio sessions every Monday morning, and exhibiting my work with MAG and with the local Rotary Art Show. Through workshops, videos and practice, I taught myself watercolour painting. The sale-drought made me work through why I paint. I came to the conclusion I paint because I enjoy it and can express the joy and glory of God’s creation. Perhaps that’s why I mostly paint landscapes.

[Painting 10: Sunrise on Brachina Hills © L.M. King 2010]

Then, in 2012, I put my work in another exhibition. This time, I invested in a full screen—I had so many paintings piling up and reasoned if they don’t sell, at least my friends and family can enjoy going down to the shopping centre and looking at them. I came home one afternoon, and the phone message light was flashing. I listened to the recorded message. ‘Congratulations you have sold…’

[Painting 11: Sleeping Beauty over Huon, Tasmania (acrylic) © L.M. Kling—A pastel version is available as an unframed in the basket in this year’s MAG exhibition at Brighton Central]

Hooray! Since then, I have sold paintings—some years more, some years less. I guess at this stage the money made is “hobby money”. And I remind myself, it’s not what I sell, that’s important, but that I enjoy the process of painting…getting in the creative zone. And maybe for others who connect with my paintings, bringing joy into their lives too.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2024

Feature Painting: Wood for fire, Glen Helen, Northern Territory (acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2022

 [Check out more on our Marion Art Group Website: marionartgroup.org, and enjoy…

Or if you are in Adelaide come and see our exhibition at Brighton Central Shopping Centre. We are here until Sunday, October 27.]

OR…

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoirs,

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Art Break–Story Behind the Muse

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

Oops! Almost one week into Marion Art Group’s (my art group) exhibition at the local shopping centre, and I have failed to mention it. Been too busy writing, appraising hopeful writer’s works, and transcribing a friend’s biography of her mother who lived through the horrors of World War II. Plus burrowing away in the family history rabbit hole.

I have been pondering where my art genes have come from. No mention of renown artists in my ancestry. My dad was an artist with some potential, emphasis on potential as he channeled his talents more into music than art. My maternal grandfather, Sam Gross was an amazing photographer. But as a missionary pastor in Central Australia, he was discouraged from furthering his photographic endeavours as the mission board frowned on it and said he was spending too much money on camera equipment and film.

So, in light of my predecessor’s unrealised potential and the fact that I am still using the watercolour paints and brushes my dad left behind, I will share an afternoon that we spent painting in Central Australia in 1981.

Mount Hermannsburg

My father and I sat in the dry river bed of the Finke River painting Mt Hermannsburg which towered above the river gums and spinifex. We painted our muse on site; Dad painted in watercolour and I painted in acrylic.

After a couple of hours, Dad packed up his brushes and palette and returned to the town of Hermannsburg. I stayed, in the creative zone, dibbing and dabbing, the setting sun casting shadows over the river bed and a cool breeze pricking me with goose bumps on my bare arms.

I made the final touches as the sun sank below the horizon and I was called in for tea. I signed with my maiden name, naturally, as I was only 18.

Dad’s painting and mine sat side by side on our host’s piano where all who saw, admired our work. I kept walking past and gazing at my painting. Did I really do this? Wow! Did I really?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2024

Mt. Hermannsburg, MacDonnell Ranges Northern Territory, Australia. Painting by Lee-Anne Kling (nee Trudinger) in acrylic 1981. Not for Sale

***

If you are in Adelaide, check us out.

Fifth Friday with Art–Bunyip Chasm

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

Story Behind the Painting: Bunyip Chasm

[In memory of my father clement David Trudinger (13-1-1928—25-8-2012)]

You need to loosen up with your painting,’ my art teacher said.

So, with a palette-knife, I did with…

Feature Painting: In Search of Bunyip Chasm, Gammon Ranges, South Australia—acrylic on canvas with palette knife. © L.M. Kling 1990

THE BIRTH OF “BUNYIP CHASM”—THE PAINTING

Over the Easter break in 1986, Dad took my boyfriend (future husband) and me to the Gammon Ranges. Dad had gone there the previously with his photographer friend and he was keen to show us some of the scenic secrets these ranges held.

We bumped and rolled in Dad’s four-wheel drive Daihatsu down the track into the Gammon Ranges. We camped near Grindell’s Hut, backpackers’ accommodation. A murder-mystery from the early Twentieth Century involving the hut’s owner, spiced our discussion around the campfire that night. Then we set up a tent, for boyfriend, on the ground above the bank of the creek. I placed my bedding also above the creek under the stars. Dad opted for his “trillion-star” site underneath a river gum. No tent for him, either.

[Photo 1: The Daihatsu © L.M. Kling 1986]

The next day Dad guided us along the Balcanoona creek bed shaded by native pines to Bunyip Chasm. After an hour or two of hobbling over rounded river stones, we arrived at a dead-end of high cliffs.

[Photo 2: Balcanoona Creek, beginning our hike © L.M. Kling 1986]
[Photo 3: Trekking of the T-K Team in search of Bunyip chasm © L.M. Kling 1986]
[Photo 4: Waiting for me to catch up © L.M. Kling 1984]

‘Is this it?’ my boyfriend asked. ‘Is this Bunyip Chasm?’

‘I think so,’ Dad said as he squinted at the waterfall splashing over the cliffs. ‘It looks familiar.’

‘I don’t see any chasm,’ I said.

‘Just wait a minute,’ Dad said and then disappeared through some scraggly-looking bushes.

I waited and took photos of the water spattering over dark cliffs set against a cobalt blue sky.

[Photo 5: Is this it? The end of the gully with cliffs dotted with native pines © L.M. Kling 1984]

[Photo 6: Water cascading over cliffs © L.M. Kling 1984]

Dad tramped back to us. ‘It’s over here. The water’s deeper than last year, so I don’t think we can go through.’

We trekked after Dad, pushing the bushes and then reeds aside. There, the split in the hillside, and a deep pool of water lurking in the shadows.

[Photo 7: Beginnings of Bunyip Chasm © L.M. Kling 1984]

‘Do you think we can swim through?’ I asked. I had worn my bathers in the hope of swimming in a waterhole.

‘Nah, it’s too deep and cold,’ Dad said. ‘I wouldn’t risk it.’ Dad then scanned the surrounding cliffs and shook his head.

I took more photos of the cliffs, hillside and of course the chasm.

[Photo 8: Waterfall near Bunyip Chasm © L.M. Kling 1984]

‘Come on, we better get back,’ Dad said and then started to hike back the way we came.

We trailed after Dad. Although native pine trees shaded our path, the hiking made me thirst for a waterhole in which to swim. I gazed up at the lacework of deep blue green against the sky and then, my boot caught on a rock. I stumbled. My ankle rolled and twisted. I cried out. ‘Wait!’

[Photo 9: Afternoon return to camp © L.M. Kling 1984]

‘What?’ the men said at the same time.

‘I hurt my ankle; I need to soak it in cold water.’

Dad stamped his foot. ‘Well, hurry up. We have to get back to camp before dark.’

I pulled off my jeans and t-shirt.

‘What are you doing?’ my boyfriend asked.

‘I’m soaking my ankle; I twisted it, and I learnt in first aid that you need to apply a cold compress to it.’

Boyfriend put his hands-on hips and sighed.

I gave him my camera. ‘Here, take a photo of me in the pool.’

Boyfriend swayed his head. But as I soaked my foot and the rest of me—any excuse for a swim—boyfriend took my photo.

[Photo 10: My Foot-soaking pool © A.N. Kling 1984]

[Photo 11: Waiting for me to foot-soak © L.M. Kling 1984]

After about ten minutes, with my ankle still swollen and sore, I hobbled after the men. We climbed down a short waterfall and at the base, I looked back. The weathered trunk of an old gum tree leaned over the stream, three saplings basked in the late-afternoon sunlight against the sienna-coloured rocks, and clear water rushed and frothed over the cascading boulders and into pond mirroring the trees and rocks above.

‘Stop! Wait!’ I called to the men.

‘We have to keep on going,’ Dad said and disappeared into the distance.

Boyfriend waited while I aimed my camera at the perfect scene and snapped several shots.

[Photo 12: The scene that inspired the painting © L.M. Kling 1984]

Then holding hands, we hiked along the creek leading to our campsite and Dad.

‘I’m going to paint that little waterfall,’ I said.

We walked in silence, enjoying the scenery painted just for us—the waves of pale river stones, the dappled sunlight through the pines, and a soft breeze kissing our skin.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2024

Feature painting: In Search of Bunyip Chasm © L.M. Kling 1990

***

Want more but impossible to travel down under? Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on the links:

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Friday Crime Fiction–Under the Bridge (4)

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

Chapter 3

Painting Pals

Monday, January 17, 2022

Church Hall in a Seaside Suburb of Adelaide

Eloise

The sun’s rays filtered through the dust motes of the church hall near the seaside. The air conditioner thrummed pumping out the sticky 40-degree Celsius heat that Monday afternoon in January.

Eloise Delaney unloaded her motley collection of watercolour palettes, colour-splattered former honey jars and 300-gsm paper framed with masking tape. She then arranged her brushes. Thick sable, round and soft, like the tip of her tabby cat, Spike’s tail. Great for that initial wash of sky, sea and sand.

She had lined up the thinner brushes in order of detail as the painting progressed. She stroked the finest brush, the one used for her flourish of a signature; the one more than 70-years old from her maternal grandfather’s collection salvaged after the bombing of his home in Nördlingen, Bavaria 1945. It was premium quality being made in Germany.

She sighed, ‘Must do this so nothing is lost.’

‘Talking to yourself already?’ a voice sang. ‘Sign of madness, ya know.’

‘Consequences of early retirement, I guess.’ Eloise laughed. ‘Least I had a social life when I was working.’

‘What do you call this?’ Eloise’s pear-shaped friend flicked a wiry lock of henna tinted hair from her freckled face. ‘Is this seat taken?’

‘Nah, go ahead. I could do with the company, Fi.’

Fifi settled herself on the plastic chair diagonally opposite Eloise, and after fumbling in her tote-bag, produced a mini flask. The thin mauve cannister wobbled on the newspaper that covered the trestle table. ‘I’m economising today; made my own brew.’

‘I’m celebrating,’ Eloise said and held up her takeaway cappuccino from the café down the road. ‘The “Rabbit hole” beareth fruit.’

Fifi pulled out her sketch pad, set of Derwent pencils and three scrunched up tissues. Then she leaned forward ‘What? Oh, your family history. Any noble? Kings and queens? Or, let me guess, some royal fruit from the other side of the royal bed?’

‘Well, actually, sort of…’ Eloise dipped her brush in the former honey pot full of water. ‘France, actually. And a bed of his ancestor’s made long, long ago.’

[Photo 1: Eiffel Tower, Paris © L.M. Kling 2014]

‘Well, I could have told you that, him being French, I mean.’ Fifi wiggled her generous behind on the chair, and then smoothed a fresh page of her sketchbook. ‘Do tell.’

El opened her mouth to spill forth all the juicy gossip about tracing her husband’s tree, a royal line stretching way back beyond Charlemagne and to Julius Caesar—all done without the help of DNA, but hours of research—when the leader stood and welcomed the small art group back from the holiday break.

Plus, there was that strange woman sitting behind them who was listening to every word El spoke. That woman, Sharon Katz, nicknamed Shatz, with the mouse-brown hair and the poisonous mushrooms (picked from the forest and dried) she foisted on El just before Christmas—insisted she take them. Lucky for El, her husband, Francis Renard, as a keen gardener and scientist, warned her of the dangers and she threw the suspect fungi into the bin. The next week, Shatz made a point of asking how El how she was feeling. All holidays El puzzled over Shatz. Had she had a run-in with this Shatz in times past while doing her duty as a police officer? Or was Shatz one of Francis’s former lovers?

‘Tell you another time,’ El whispered. ‘Probably should get Francis’ permission first.’

‘Oh, okay, then.’ Fifi sighed. ‘So, how was your Christmas?’

‘Meh! Glad it’s over for another year, Fi.’ Eloise smiled. ‘Francis and I had a quiet one on the actual day, then we all went to my cousin’s in Flagstaff Hill on Boxing Day. It was a disaster. You know, in the middle of Christmas lunch, which I might add, was leftovers from their Christmas day, someone, not mentioning any names, just had to bring up the latest controversy circulating on Fox News. Next thing, arguments all round. Renard and I left early and walked around the newly opened Happy Valley Reservoir. At least that part of Boxing Day was enjoyable.’

[Photo 2: Happy Valley Reservoir © L.M. Kling 2022]

‘Well, my Christmas Day, thanks for asking, Eloise,’ Fifi’s lips tightened for a moment, ‘I don’t know why we bother and make such a fuss about the whole thing.’

‘Yeah, I know, the novelty wore off years ago. I just wish we could get back to the basics, the real meaning of Christmas and celebrate that.’

Fifi nodded. ‘Yeah, who needs another voucher? All we do is exchange money and vouchers these days. Where did the love go? Although, in my family, even with all those kids my parents had, there wasn’t much love.’

‘Really? I always envied your big family.’

Fifi sniffed. ‘If you really knew my family and what went on behind closed doors, you wouldn’t be envious.’

‘Why?’ Eloise may have been taking time out from her job as a detective, but she had not lost her inquisitive nature. ‘What went on behind closed doors?’

‘My dad, when he was around, was a pompous twat.’

‘How so?’ Eloise asked. She noticed Shatz, lifting her head, looking at them and listening again. Her curiosity annoyed El and she turned around and glared at the woman. Shatz dropped her eyes down to her sheet of paper and pretended to work on her pastel rendition of a bullfrog.

Shatz’s eavesdropping didn’t bother Fifi who continued, ‘He was hard on us kids. If we did the slightest thing wrong, he’d thrash us. Typical of his generation and background, European, you see. He thought you hit kids into submission. And, as for girls, they were to be seen, but not heard. He treated us girls like slaves.’ Fifi thumped the table. ‘I hated him.’

Fifi’s cannister of coffee toppled from the table and rolled on the floor.

Shatz picked up the cannister and handed it back to Fifi. ‘My dad was the same,’ she said before El’s frown drove her back to her seat to resume painting.

El then said, ‘He didn’t mellow in his old age?’

‘He left and…’ Fifi paused, ‘…and I was glad. Life improved after he was gone.’

Eloise studied Fifi and the freckles that danced on her face as her eyes blinked and her mouth twitched. ‘I sense that your father did more than just leave, Fi.’

Fifi’s eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Part of the job, Fi. So, what did he really do?’

 ‘It was the strangest thing, Eloise.’ Fifi took a deep breath. ‘One day, my friend Lillie, and Jimmy my brother and I went for a hike up to Mount Lofty. On the way down, we did a bit of exploring. I can’t remember whose idea it was. Anyway, I go looking at this culvert. I had in mind that this hole in the side of the hill could be some disused mine and that I could find gold there. But, when I go down there, I see this body. Just bones and leathery skin over the bones like…but I recognised the boots. Those boots. I had lost count of the times those boots had kicked me…I knew it was my dad. But at the same time, I didn’t want it to be true. I just hoped they, whoever they were, were somebody else with the same type of boots.’

[Photo 3: Mt. Lofty Botanical Gardens © L.M. Kling 2014]

‘Oh, right, when was that?’ Eloise had turned over her paper and had begun to take notes with a piece of charcoal. ‘How long ago, did you say?’

‘Over forty years.’ Fifi replied softly. ‘He’s been gone since January 1978.’

‘Forty-four—exactly.’

‘How did he end up in a ditch? Near an old mine?’

Fifi shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he had enemies.’

‘I see.’

‘You see, we did report it to the police. But nothing happened. Forty years, and nothing. I mean, I know he was a creep and often rubbed people up the wrong way, but he was still my dad. And I just wanted to…you know, find out why he ended up there. Why anyone would. Dead. And no one seems to care.’

Silence for a few minutes. Fifi sipped her coffee while Eloise studied her notes. The happy chatter from fellow artists provided background noise. The air conditioner continued to thrum.

‘Mm,’ Shatz began in a soft voice, ‘my brother was killed in a motorbike…’

El turned and narrowed her eyes at Shatz. Was this woman trying to get attention? she thought.

‘Sorry,’ Shatz said. ‘But I knew Mr. Edwards, he was a real…’

‘Well, of course you did,’ Fifi huffed, ‘we went to the same church, remember?’

‘Never mind, sorry,’ Shatz mumbled.

Another pause.

After the pause, Eloise looked up. ‘Would you like me to follow this up?’

‘I don’t know.’ Fifi wiped her eye. ‘I guess. But isn’t it a bit awkward for you now that you’re…?’

‘No trouble. I can call Dan, my partner, or should I say, my ex, or whatever he is now that I’m on leave. I can still use the phone.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. No promises. But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’

[Painting 2: Late Summer Sunset Kingston Park, Brighton in Watercolour © L.M. Kling 2023]

The rest of the afternoon, Eloise and Fifi occupied their thoughts with painting and sketching. The cheerful chatter of the other artists continued, none the wiser of Fifi’s loss and childhood trauma. Except for Shatz. El wished that woman who attempted to poison her wouldn’t be so nosey and would mind her own business.

The air conditioner kept on thrumming until the rush for pack up and departure. Then as the last person locked up the building, they turned off the infernal humming machine and the heat of late afternoon in Adelaide seeped into the empty hall.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Painting: Seacliff Beach Sunset in pastel © L.M. Kling 2021

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Sometimes real life is just real life.

Check out my travel memoirs,

And escape in time and space

To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

***

Or for a greater escape into another world…

Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,

And click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends

Travelling Thursday–Mt. Giles, Central Australia

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

Christmas Holidays are approaching. For me it’s been party time this week. One party after another, especially yesterday with three parties, all in one day. I’m hoping that once the rush and busyness is over, I can rest, relax and start planning our next holiday. Perhaps it’s the same for you.

In the meantime, here’s a revisit to Central Australia and the T-Team. This time when my brother and I became lost on our descent from Mt. Giles.

Trekking with the T-Team–Mount Giles

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoirs,

The T-Team With Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking Thursday–Ellery Creek and…

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

The Gorges of the MacDonnell Ranges

In this episode, the T-Team valiantly explore as many gorges in the MacDonnell Ranges as they can…in one afternoon. The challenge, avoid the crowds of tourists while keeping Mr. B entertained.

Ellery Creek and Serpentine Gorge

[Extract from The T-Team with Mr B: Central Australia 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.

The T-Team with Mr B — In 1977 Dad’s friend Mr Banks and his son, Matt (not their real names), joined Dad, my brother (Rick) and me on this journey of adventure. I guess Dad had some reservations how I would cope… But it soon became clear that the question was, how would Mr B who was used to a life of luxury cope? And how many times would my brother lose his way in the bush?]

With our two Indigenous guides, Dad drove the Rover along the rough dirt track (probably a “short cut”) to the road that parallels the MacDonnell Ranges, Namatjira Drive. These days, the main roads are sealed, but not back then. Dust billowed into the cabin as we drove on a road that parallels the MacDonnell Ranges.

[Photo 1: View of MacDonnell Ranges from Namatjira Drive © L.M. Kling 2013]

Nearing the intersection of Namatjira Drive from the unknown track, Dad turned to Mr. B. ‘Ellery Creek? Or Serpentine?’

Mr. B gazed at the mountain range and pointed. ‘Ellery Creek. You did say it’s like the local’s swimming pool.’

‘There’s many interesting gorges and creeks in these hills to explore,’ Dad said. ‘We won’t be staying at any for too long.’

[Photos 2 & 3: Gorges Dad dreams of visiting again and again: Ormiston (2), Glen Helen (3) © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Mr. B frowned. ‘Just long enough to take a few snaps like the tourists, I expect.’

‘You sure you don’t want to start at Serpentine to our right? We could hike up while the morning’s still cool.’

‘What morning? It’s already past noon.’ Mr. B flicked his map flat. ‘Ellery Creek, I say, for lunch.’

Dad sighed, ‘Very well, then, Ellery Creek.’

Ellery Creek

After lumbering along the wider but corrugated road, Dad turned into the barely discernable trail that led to Ellery Creek. After entering the clearing for parking, we hunted for a car park. Not an easy feat as the car park was full; even the spaces in between swarmed with tourists.

Dad squeezed the Rover into what seemed the last remaining gap, and the T-Team piled out.

[Photo 4, & 5 Aspects of Ellery Creek © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 6: Recent visit to Ellery Creek © L.M. Kling 2021]

‘It’s like Glenelg beach,’ I said, ‘it’s stuffed full.’

Richard looked at the offering of water; a disappointing dam at the end of a sandy bank. ‘There’s more sand and water at Glenelg.’

‘As many people, though,’ I replied.

Matt sniggered.

Mr. B stomped past us and with elbows akimbo he stopped at the water’s edge. ‘Is this it?’

Dad joined his friend. ‘I warned you.’

So, with obligatory photos taken while dodging the crowds, we made our way to Serpentine Gorge.

[Photo 7: Said obligatory photo of T-Team with guides at Ellery Creek © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

As he turned the Rover left so heading east towards Alice Springs, Dad smiled. Mr. B pouted and folded the map. He insisted we have lunch before we start on the hike up the gorge. Dad went one better announcing that, since it was Sunday, we’d have lunch AND a Sunday Service.

Mr. B’s response was to shake his head and mumble something not-so-polite into his red dust-stained handkerchief.

Serpentine Gorge

Less populated, Serpentine Gorge begged to be explored. Our Indigenous guides were not interested in joining us, so we bravely set off on our own adventure. To get to the narrowest part of the gorge, we had to cross a deep pool of water on our air mattresses and then walk along a rocky creek barefoot. We had forgotten to bring our shoes. Not that it concerned the men, they raced ahead leaving me behind hobbling on tender feet over sharp stones.

[Photo 8: Later lilo exploits © C.D. Trudinger 1986]

Then, disaster. Mud and slime replaced jagged rocks. In the shadows of gorge, I trotted on the path near creek. My heel struck a slippery puddle lurking by a pool of sludge. Next, I skated, feet flew from under me, and I landed bottom-first in the murky depths of the Serpentine Creek.

[Photo 9 (left): That special part of Serpentine Gorge at that special time of day © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I pulled myself from the rock-hole, my clothes caked in mud and stinking of slime.

Dad jogged up to me, his barefoot steps slapping, the sound bouncing off the slate walls that lined the gorge.

‘What do you mean special part of the gorge?’ I snapped at Dad. ‘It’s not so special to me. It’s too dark, and I’m just too uncomfortable.’

[Photo 10: Not so special to me © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

‘Ah, well,’ Dad sighed. ‘We better get back to the Rover. We need to find camp before it’s dark.’

As we hobbled back in the fading light, I mumbled, ‘Sure it’s not dark already?’

Other Gorges for Another Day

Dad endeavoured to distract me from my discomfort with descriptions of the many other gorges in the MacDonnell Ranges and tales of adventures exploring them. His stories whetted my appetite to view these wonders myself one day, on this trip, or perhaps in future journeys to Central Australia.

[Photo 11 & 12: Other Gorges to look forward to. Redbank (11) © C.D. Trudinger circa 1950, and more Ormiston © L.M. Kling 2013]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2022; 2023

Feature Painting: Ellery Creek Big Hole in Pastel © L.M. Kling 2023

***

Find my travel memoirs on Amazon and in Kindle.

Read more of the story, click on the link and join in the adventures of the

T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977…

***

Dreaming of adventure in Australia’s Centre? Take your mind and imagination on a historic journey with the T-Team…

Click on the links below:

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Arty Friday–Ocean Beach, Tasmania

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Virtual Trekking Behind the Art: Ocean Beach Tasmania

[This week Adelaide has endured a dramatic start to winter. After a beautiful warm weekend, storms descended upon the city with a bang of rolling thunder and constant flashes of lightning early Wednesday morning. Then the rain like an apocalyptic flood dumped on us. I walked to the bathroom and felt a damp patch on the carpet. Oh, dear, the roof is leaking …again! Still nothing like the church where I go for Bible Study. Arrived there to find the whole foyer flooded and mopping up in operation. The ceiling had collapsed under the weight of a leaking roof and had the heavens descended. Fortunately, there were still dry areas to meet. Then, that afternoon, after Writers’ group, my friend and I began our trip home in sunshine. But, ten minutes into the journey, hail pummeled my car. We quickly sought some refuge under a tree until the hailstorm passed.

So, seeking respite from the rugged week, here’s an old piece of calm from our Tasmanian travels.]

Calm on Ocean Beach

Ocean Beach lies on the West Coast of Tasmania near Strahan. The wild winds of the roaring forties (between the 40-and 50-degrees latitude) attack the coast with relentless ferocity.

In 2001 I visited Ocean Beach with my family to see the mutton birds coming home to roost for the night. I had barely stepped out of the car before the biting cold wind blasted me and I made a hasty retreat back into the car. No view of mutton birds that evening. Result, no photos.

Ten years later, my mum and I visited Ocean Beach. While the East Coast was inundated with floods, Ocean Beach that afternoon was calm. We explored the beach, taking many photos of this rare state of the beach.

*Photo 1: Ocean Beach through Dunes © M.E. Trudinger 2011
*Photo 2: Ocean Beach View the Distant storm © L.M. Kling 2011
*Photo 3: Ocean Beach gentle tide-flow © L.M. Kling 2011
*Photo 4: Ocean Beach—Lunch at the Lookout © L.M. Kling 2011

October 2016, the K-Team ventured onto the sands of Ocean Beach on perhaps a not-so-calm day; calm enough though, that we were able to walk along the beach. Not being satisfied with just an obligatory few metres up and down, my husband led us way up the estuary where we spotted a variety of birds, some fishermen, and the lighthouse sitting out there near the heads. Gotta get our money’s worth. After all, he’d seen the potential from the dizzy distance of the cruise boat as it sailed past the heads of Macquarie Harbour. I think if we’d allowed him, we’d still be walking along the coast somewhere around Tasmania.

*Photo 5: K-Team in dunes of Ocean Beach © L.M. Kling 2016
*Photo 6: Rough Surf of Ocean Beach © L.M. Kling 2016
*Photo 7: Debris from Storm of Ocean Beach © L.M. Kling 2016
*Photo 8: Walk of Ocean Beach and view of island © L.M. Kling 2016
*Photo 9: Fishermen of Ocean Beach © L.M. Kling 2016
*Photo 10: The birds of Ocean Beach © L.M. Kling 2016
*Photo 11: The Lighthouse of the Macquarie Harbour Heads © L.M. Kling 2016

Still, nothing like a thorough study of my muse which I have now painted in miniature on Huon Pine and on canvas in acrylic—each time different.

*Painting 1: Calm on Ocean Beach (Watercolour) © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016
*Painting 2: Ocean Beach Calm (Acrylic on canvas) © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018
*Painting 3: Misty Calm, Ocean Beach (Pastel) © L.M. Kling 2022

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; Updated 2018; updated 2020; 2023

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Wandering Wednesday–Camping Hazards near Mt. Liebig

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

[I have been preparing The T-Team with Mr B: Central Australia 1977 to be ready for publication soon. So, below is an extract from the T-Team’s adventure.

While three of the T-Team faced the perils of climbing Mt. Liebig, a drama of a different, yet equally challenging kind unfolded for Mr. B and his son, Matt as they stayed back at camp.

Extract from The T-Team with Mr B: Central Australia 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.]

Bull Meets Mr. B

Mr. B and his son, Matt napped under the shade of a bean tree. A southerly breeze ferried through the dry creek bed, spiriting away the father’s snorts. Matt tossed and turned on his inflatable mattress that was exhausted of air resulting from a small, elusive puncture. He imagined the three others of the T-Team, beating a path through the sweltering heat and stinging spinifex in their quest to the summit of Mt. Liebig. Matt chuckled to himself. “Suckers!”

[Photo 1: Mt Liebig at sunrise with bean tree © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

In a nearby tributary, a bull spied the T-Team’s father, son and daughter trekking in the distance, and stamped its massive hooves in the loose dry sand. Once the family had vanished, the bull trotted towards his stamping ground which possessed a gigantic bean tree as a feature in an otherwise dull bed of dust. His quest was to reclaim his territory that the humans had invaded.

“Matt, ma boy, do be careful. Don’t go too far from camp. A bull might get you.” Mr. B squinted in the direction of distant thumping, then rolled over and resumed snoring.

A monstrous brown hulk loomed through a cloud of dust.

[Photo 2: Resident cattle © L.M. Kling 2013]

Matt bolted upright “Dad! Dad! Th-there’s a big- ugly- brown – ugly- big – brown – ugly – b-b-bull!”

“Aw, Matt, stop kidding me.” Mr. B blinked and rubbed his eyes. “That’s enough of the jokes.” A short rumble from behind sent him scrambling to his feet. He flailed his arms while galloping. “Quick! Into the Rover. Now!”

“But Dad!” In the sweltering heat and moment, the boy froze, glued to his air mattress under the bean tree. Terrified, he witnessed his Dad bound over the dirt and fly into the empty Rover parking space and onto a thicket of spinifex. Matt winced. The massif of angry brown trod closer. It paused, pawing the ground, taunting its human prey.

[Photo 3: Cattle Yard © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

After rubbing his punctured behind, Mr. B scrambled for the tarpaulin and rummaged through the baggage. “Er, d-don’t worry Matt. I-I’ll charge this bull before it s-sh-shoots — er — us.”

“But, Dad, the bull doesn’t have a gun.”

“Well, neither do we, we’ll just have to be satisfied with this boomerang and spear, till I find the damn gun.”

The bull stalked, narrowing the gap. The son clambered up the tree and gasped as his father fought with a rucksack that had entangled his legs, while he waved the pathetic weapons above his head.

[Photo 4: Mr. B wishing his nemesis “subdu-a-bull” © S.O. Gross circa 1945]

“But Dad, they’re only souvenirs.”

“Why Matt, how can you say such a thing? Where do you think these genuine Australian artefacts are made?” With all his effort, Mr. B thrust the spear at the beast.

“Yes, Dad, sold in Australia, but made in China.” Matt watched as the menacing bulk of fury stomped the ground, dust billowing into a cloud around it. “Too bad the bull doesn’t know the difference.”

“Don’t be sarcastic at a time of crisis, son.” Mr. B flung the boomerang at the charging bull and ducked behind the tucker box. The projectile bounced off the bull’s hide, provoking it into a tumult of frenzy. Grunting like an eight-cylinder engine, he stormed towards its human attacker, screeching to a halt at the edge of the tarpaulin. As the bull glared down at him, Mr. B could smell its leathery breath.

[Photo 5: Meanwhile, Mt. Liebig in afternoon and more generous ghost gum © S.O. Gross circa 1946]

With a nervous smile fixed on his face, the father edged his way to the bean tree and climbed aboard. The bull stomped and snorted around the sacred bean tree while its victims trembled in the lofty branches amongst the beans.

From this vantage point, Mr. B spotted the rifle leaning up against the tucker box. Unfortunately, the bull sat between him in the tree and the tucker box.

Hours passed.

Father and son sat in the tree.

“Dad my bottom hurts,” Matt whined.

Mr. B sighed, “The others’ll be back soon. They have a rifle.”

“But Dad! I have to go!”

“Hold on,” Mr. B snapped.

The sun edged to the horizon.

Mr. B bit his lip wondering if he’d be stuck up this tree forever.

“Dad! I really have to!”

Mr. B turned to his son who was now rocking.

The distant hum rang through the golden landscape. Mr. B adjusted his grip on the branch.

The hum became louder. An engine.

The bull rose and sauntered out of the campsite, then disappeared into the bush.

“Just wait, Matt,” Mr. B said. He scrambled down the tree and grabbed the rifle.

Matt’s voice floated down. “Dad, it’s too late.”

As the sun disappeared below the horizon, the rest of the T-Team returned to find Mr. B clutching a rifle and pacing the clearing. Matt remained lodged high up in the bean tree.

“As you can see, while you’ve been climbing your mountain, we’ve had a not-so-welcome visitor,” Mr. B remarked.

[Photo 6: Mt. Liebig at sunset © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

“Somehow, I think the B-family will be taking a guided bus tour next time they go for a holiday,” I muttered to Rick.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2023

Feature Painting: Mt. Liebig in watercolour © L.M. Kling 2017

***

Dreaming of an Aussie Outback Adventure?

Click the link below:

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981,

To download your Amazon Kindle copy of the story…

And escape in time and space to the Centre of Australia 1981…