T-Team Series–Ormiston Gorge

June 28, 2021 / lmkling / 1 Comment

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

Fishies in the Billabong

After relishing the sweet crunch of cornflakes for breakfast, the T-Team drove back to Ormiston Gorge. We hiked through the gorge admiring the red cliffs, ghost gums and mirror reflections in the waterholes, and took less than an hour to reach the end with the view of Mt. Giles, lumpy and sapphire blue.

*[Photo 1: Hike through Ormiston Gorge © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds, Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’

*[Photo 2: The Other Side of Ormiston © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

Our cousins, C1 and C2 raced over to TR. ‘Where?’ They peered into the pond. I trailed after them, hunting for fish through the plumes of muddied water near TR’s white calves.

‘There!’ TR waved his finger at the middle of the waterhole.

C1 squinted. ‘Oh, yeah.’

C2 waded into the water and peered. ‘I don’t see anything.’

*[Photo 3: Waterhole closer © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

Richard hunted and fossicked through the cooking equipment Dad had scattered around the campfire. ‘You got a sieve? A net? Anything?’

‘What for?’ Dad asked.

‘The fish.’

‘Ah, you know, those fish can lay dormant in the dry creek bed for years and when the rain comes, they spawn.’ Dad just had to tell us.

‘Well, this little fishy is going to be our lunch.’ Richard snapped his fat fingers together like crab claws. ‘I’ll catch it with my hands if I have to.’ He strode into the pool with such force the waters parted like the Red Sea. ‘Now where’s that fish?’ He said as he sank up to his waist.

‘There it is!’ TR gestured. ‘To your right.’

*[Photo 4: Mt Giles over pound © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

Richard glanced, his smile faded. ‘Oh, is that all? It’s just a piddley little thing. Not enough for lunch.’ He was neck deep in the water and prepared to swim. He shot up. ‘Ouch! Something bit me!’

‘Better watch out, might be Jaws,’ I said.

‘You didn’t tell me there were yabbies.’ Richard bobbed up and down, then reached down to catch his feet. ‘Ouch! It bit me again!’

‘Why not yabbies?’ C1 said.

‘Now that’s an idea.’ Richard replied.

‘Ah! Shrimp!’ C2 waded towards his cousin. ‘I love the taste of shrimp.’

‘Hmm, yabbies,’ Richard said. ‘We used to catch yabbies all the time when we were young.’ With an explosive splash, he submerged in search of the yabby that had bitten him.

Dad, TR and I waited for the damper scones to cook and watched Richard and C1 turn bottoms up like ducks in the water in their quest for yabbies. C2 waded in the shallows of the pond, a roughly sharpened stick in hand ready to skewer any hapless water-creature.

*[Photo 5: Eating lunch © C.D. Trudinger 1992]*

Soon we breathed in the sweet aroma of baked scones. Dad flipped the foil wrapped balls out of the coals. ‘Lunch is ready!’ He clustered the silver spheres together using a small branch as if they were balls on a snooker table. Empty-handed the lads dragged their soaked bodies from the waterhole and schlepped to the fire place to collect their consolation prize of damper scone.

Richard held his stubby index finger and thumb in the form of the letter “C”. ‘I was this close to getting a yabby.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; Updated 2018; 2021

*Feature Painting: The Other Side of Ormiston © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

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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]

Story Behind the Painting–Standley Chasm

June 7, 2021June 7, 2021 / lmkling / 1 Comment

An Episode from The T-Team With Mr B

[While painting this scene of a group of older men gathering to admire the glowing walls of Standley Chasm, I was reminded of the T-Team’s trek in 1977 with Mr. B. This wealthy man used to comfort and luxury, took on the challenges of roughing it camping with the T-Team. This stunning chasm is about 50km west of Alice Springs and is one of the first of many beautiful sites to visit in the MacDonnell Ranges.]

Standley Chasm — Angkerle Atwatye

Mr. B slowed the Rover and eased it into a park joining the line of cars, land rovers, and buses awaiting their owners’ return. The T-Team piled out of the Rover and in single-file, followed Dad along the narrow track heading towards Standley Chasm. In the twists and turns of the trail that hugged the dry creek bed, I spotted ferns in the shadow of rock mounds the colour of yellow ochre, and ghost gums sprouting out of russet walls of stone. Hikers marched past us returning to the car park.

*[1. Photo: Path to Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling © L.M. Kling 2013]*

‘G’day,’ they said. ‘Well worth it.’

Dad checked his watch and quickened his pace.

I ran to catch Dad. ‘Have we missed out?’

‘We better hurry,’ Dad snapped.

A leisurely short stroll became a race to the finish as we struggled to keep up with Dad; scrambling over boulders on the track, squeezing past more tourists going to and from the chasm, Dad snapping and cracking the verbal whip, and Mr. B moaning and groaning that “it’s not for a sheep station”.

*[2. Photo: Ghost gum and ferns on way to Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

The crowd thickened, stranding us in a jam of people, fat bottoms wobbling, parents hauling their whinging kids, and men clutching cameras to their eyes for the perfect shot. Dad checked his watch and then shifted the weight from one foot to the other.

‘Are we there yet?’ I asked.

Wrong question. Especially when asking a grumpy Dad.

‘Not yet!’ Dad barked.

‘I reckon we’re not far away,’ I said. ‘All the tourists have stopped. Must be some reason.’

Dad screwed up his nose. ‘I dunno, it doesn’t look right.’

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ Mr. B, one arm stretched out before him, parted the sea of people and strode through.

We followed in Mr. B’s wake and within twenty paces, there it glowed. Standley Chasm. Both walls in hues of gold to ochre. Dozens of people milled around its base.

*[3. Photo: No quite the right time but still awesome: Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Dad gazed at the chasm, and then squinted at the position of the sun. ‘It’s not there yet.’

‘How long?’ I wanted to know.

‘Not long, just wait.’ Dad paced towards a white gum that bowed before the grand wonder of the chasm.

‘Wait! I’ll take a photo of you,’ I said.

‘Do you have to?’

‘Why not?’

‘We might miss the walls turning red.’

‘They turn red that quickly?’

Dad leaned up against the tree. ‘I s’pose not.’

I dug out my instamatic camera and photographed my grumpy Dad.

*[4. Photo: While we wait, a grumpy Dad before the chasm © L.M. Kling* *(nee Trudinger) 1977]*

Then we waited. The tourists snapped their shots and then filtered away.

‘When’s it going to turn red?’ I asked for the fourth time.

‘Be patient,’ Dad said.

‘This is boring,’ Matt mumbled.

‘Let’s see what’s the other side.’ Richard tapped Matt on the arm. The two lads scrambled over the rocks and I watched them hop from one boulder to the next over a small waterhole.

*[5. Photo: The rocks’ reflection, Stanley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Dad paced from one wall to the next while Mr. B photographed Standley Chasm from every angle.

I watched mesmerized by the sunlight playing on the walls. They turned from a russet-brown on one side, gold on the other, to both glowing a bright orange. But by then, most of the tourists had left, thinking the Chasm had finished its performance for the day.

*[6. Photo: Well worth the wait; Stanley Chasm, just the right time © L.M. Kling* *(nee Trudinger) 1977]*

*[7. Painting: Dad’s Standley Chasm in watercolour © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

As the other wall turned in hue to sienna, Mr. B packed his camera in his leather case and stood back admiring the view.

‘Get some good shots?’ Dad asked.

‘I reckon I did.’ Mr. B patted his camera bag. ‘You know, once the crowds thinned out, I reckon I got some good ones.’

‘Ah, well, I’ve seen Standley Chasm put on a better show in the past.’ I think Dad was trying to justify not having a functional camera.

‘Well, I enjoyed it,’ I said. ‘This place is amazing!’

*[8. Photo: Stanley Chasm mid-afternoon; still the same perfect light 36 years later © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Dad patted me on the back. ‘Ah! Lee-Anne, you haven’t seen anything yet. Wait till you see Ormiston Gorge.’

‘By the way, where are tha boys?’ Mr. B asked.

‘Looks like we have to be patient and wait for them now.’

‘I hope your son doesn’t get ma boy lost.’

Dad laughed. ‘No worries. There they are, just the other side of the chasm.’ He waved at the boys.

Richard and Matt scrambled through the chasm to join the T-Team on the hike back to the Rover.

*[9. Photo: Actual photo of men admiring Stanley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2018; 2021

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

***

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Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

T-Team Adventures–Lost on Mt. Liebig (1)

May 22, 2021 / lmkling / 3 Comments

Apologies for the week of the lost blog post. Been one of those weeks in one of those months (in our family the horror month filled with birthdays). Plus, I have spent the last week editing the MAG newsletter. Check out Marion Art Group’s website if you like.

Anyway, here’s a revisit to an old favourite of mine, Mount Liebig in Central Australia.

The Quart Can

[While Mr. B and his son, Matt stayed back at camp,

three of the T-Team faced the challenge of climbing Mt. Liebig.

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

Dad parked the Rover at the foot of Mount Liebig. ‘This will be our reference point,’ he said pointing to a rocky outcrop.

I took a photo of the mountain slopes bathed in deep orange reflecting the sunrise.

*[Photo 1: Sunrise on Mt. Liebig © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Dad hoisted the pack on his back and studied the peaks. ‘Now which one is the highest?’ He squinted. ‘I think it’s the one on the right, I’ll just check.’ He took out his binoculars and adjusted the focus. ‘Hmm, I think I see the trig.’ He lowered the binoculars. ‘Oh, yeah, you can see it without them.’

‘Where? Where?’ I grabbed the binoculars, and before I even lifted them to my eyes, I spotted the thin line on top of one of the peaks. I pointed. ‘Yeah, there it is.’ I gave the binoculars to Rick to look through.

‘I can’t find them,’ Rick said.

*[Photo 2: View of the trig © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

‘Come on, we must get a wriggle on, or we’ll be hiking back in the dark,’ Dad said.

Dad’s dream to climb this mountain was to be fulfilled. Ever since he had lived and taught in Hermannsburg in the 1950’s, he had wanted to venture way out west, to conquer this mount which is 1274 metres (about 4179 feet) above sea level.

*[Photo 3: A dream from the past; Mt Liebig from a expedition long ago © S.O Gross 1946]

We commenced scaling the hills filled with prickly spinifex and scrambling down the valleys of loose rocks. We reached the gully leading to the peak in no time.

‘Hey, Dad, this is easy!’ I said. ‘We’ll be up and back to camp in no time.’

‘Oh, no!’ Dad moaned.

‘But, Dad, I thought you’d be pleased.’

Dad turned around and peered at the ridges we had traversed. ‘I’ve lost my quart can.’ He tottered down the slope, his gaze darting at every rock and tree. ‘I put it down to get something out of my back pack…now where did it go?’

*[Photo 4: The ridges and valleys that must be traversed without Dad’s beloved quart can © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Rick rolled his eyes and then raced up the gully like a rock wallaby. Nothing was going to stop him reaching the summit for morning tea.

I called out to Dad. ‘Let’s climb to the top. Maybe we’ll find the quart can on the way back.’

‘Very well, then,’ Dad said as he paced back to me.

While Dad mourned his loss, we continued to march up the steep gorge that we hoped would lead to the summit.

Halfway up, we rested under the shade of a ghost gum.

*[Photo 5: Resting taking in the view north © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

*[Photo 6: No quart can, but we discovered ant hills © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

‘The other side of the slope is a two-thousand-foot drop,’ Dad remarked.

Rick and I contemplated this fact as we sucked slices of thirst-quenching lemon and gazed on the foothills sloping up to Mt. Liebig. These hills shaped like shark’s teeth, were a miniature replica of the mountain’s formation; slope on one side, and treacherous cliffs on the other. Lemons, though sour, actually tasted sweet.

*[Photo 7: Sucking lemons © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Refreshed, we continued our plodding upwards. My shins ached from hiking up this steep incline. My ankles itched from spinifex needles lodged in them. And the growing number of boulders around which we had to manoeuvre, proved to be a challenge. But we pushed on.

We reached the top of the gorge.

*[Photo 8: View down from where we’d come © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Dad peered up at the eight-foot high rock wall. ‘Hmmm.’ He looked stumped.

‘Now what?’ I asked.

Each side of us was a wall of rock blocking our way. One side, lower than the others, led to the precipice Dad mentioned before.

After studying the walls, Rick grasped a few nooks, and then mounted the rocky barrier. He wriggled up a hollow cranny.

Dad and I waited.

The wind whistled through the gap.

‘I hope he’s alright,’ I said.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Dad replied.

‘I hope he doesn’t fall off the cliff.’

‘No, he’ll be fine. Stop worrying.’

Rick poked his head through the hole in the wall above us. ‘I’ve found a way to the top.’

He then helped Dad and me up through the hole and led us through the labyrinth of a path between the boulders to the spinifex-covered mountaintop. A cairn of stones adorned with a rusty pole and barrel marked the summit.

*[Photo 9: Conquerors of Mt. Liebig © C.D. Trudinger 1977]*

‘Look at that,’ Dad said, ‘It’s only eleven thirty. Let’s stay here an hour and enjoy the view. We can have an early lunch.’

So, while enjoying our cheese and gherkin sandwiches, we sat on the cairn and feasted our eyes on the aerial view of the landscape below. The MacDonnell Ranges and Haasts Bluff far in the east were painted in hues of pink and mauve. And closer, south of the Liebig Range, Mt Palmer and her friends were clothed in shades of ochre. North, on the other side of Liebig, the land stretched out in waves of red sandy desert.

*[Photo 10: The land below—MacDonnell Ranges © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

*[Photo 11: Ranges closer to Liebig © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Rick decided to explore the summit. I watched him like a hawk, especially when he approached the edge of the cliff.

‘Don’t get too close, it’s a long way down,’ I said tottering after him.

‘What do you think I’ll do? Jump?’ Rick replied, with his usual hint of sarcasm.

He disappeared behind a bush.

*[Photo 12: The drop © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

In a panic, I followed him, making sure I stayed a good distance from the cliff edge. ‘Rick? Are you alright?’ I peered down at the land below, the shrubs and trees seemed like dots. The sheer drop gave me the creeps. ‘Rick, are you still with us?’

Rick emerged from the other side of the bush. ‘Can’t you leave me to do my business in peace, Lee-Anne?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Hoy!’ Dad called.

We looked to see Dad waving at us.

‘Get back from the edge!’ Dad said. ‘We better get going. See if we can make it back to camp by two.’

*[Photo 13: Beginning our descent © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

We picked our way through the maze of boulders and climbed down into the gully. Rick, eager to reach the rover first, raced ahead. Dad stuck with me, offering his help as I negotiated my way down the gully.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2021

Feature painting: Mt Liebig © L.M. Kling 2015

***

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Story Behind the Art–Ormiston, the Other Side

May 4, 2021 / lmkling / 1 Comment

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

Fishies in the Billabong

*[Photo 1: Hike through Ormiston Gorge © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

*[Photo 2: The Other Side of Ormiston © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Our cousins, C1 and C2 raced over to TR. ‘Where?’ They peered into the pond. I trailed after them, hunting for fish through the plumes of muddied water near TR’s white calves.

‘There!’ TR waved his finger at the middle of the waterhole.

C1 squinted. ‘Oh, yeah.’

C2 waded into the water and peered. ‘I don’t see anything.’

*[Photo 3: Waterhole closer © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Richard hunted and fossicked through the cooking equipment Dad had scattered around the campfire. ‘You got a sieve? A net? Anything?’

‘What for?’ Dad asked.

‘The fish.’

‘Ah, you know, those fish can lay dormant in the dry creek bed for years and when the rain comes, they spawn.’ Dad just had to tell us.

‘There it is!’ TR gestured. ‘To your right.’

*[Photo 4: Mt Giles over pound © C.D. Trudinger 1986]

‘Better watch out, might be Jaws,’ I said.

‘You didn’t tell me there were yabbies.’ Richard bobbed up and down, then reached down to catch his feet. ‘Ouch! It bit me again!’

‘Why not yabbies?’ C1 said.

‘Now that’s an idea,’ Richard replied.

‘Ah! Shrimp!’ C2 waded towards his cousin. ‘I love the taste of shrimp.’

‘Hmm, yabbies,’ Richard said. ‘We used to catch yabbies all the time when we were young.’ With an explosive splash, he submerged in search of the yabby that had bitten him.

Richard held his stubby index finger and thumb in the form of the letter “C”. ‘I was this close to getting a yabby.’

*Feature Painting: The Other Side of Ormiston © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016

***

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]

Story Behind the Art–Mt. Giles

April 12, 2021May 30, 2025 / lmkling / 1 Comment

Quest to Conquer Mt. Giles

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

Dad sucked on his lemon (a proven refreshment and guard against dehydration). ‘About a-quarter-to-twelve.’ He continued to sit and suck on his lemon as if in no hurry.

‘A-quarter-to-twelve?’ I stood. ‘We’ll never get there. We can’t even see the trig.’

‘Well, um-er, we better get a move on.’ Dad rose and slung his pack over his shoulder. The T-men shuffled up a worn kangaroo track. I took a quick swig of water and bounded after them.

*[Painting 1: Mt. Giles—our goal (Acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2010]*

We stopped at a three-pronged fork in the trail. Three mountain points stood before us. ‘Now, which way shall we go?’ You’d think Dad would’ve worked the route out before we embarked on this project, using his compass and detailed maps. But apparently, he hadn’t.

C1 (Older Cousin) raised an eyebrow. MB (My Brother) scratched his chin. C2 (Younger Cousin) shook his head, and I shrugged.

Dad hummed and hawed.

‘We could hike up and down the gully to see,’ MB said.

C2 sighed. ‘That would take too much time.’

‘What about the saddle?’ I asked.

The men looked at me, their eyes narrowed. ‘To which point?’ Dad spoke for them all. For the next few precious minutes, the men bantered about what option to take, cutting me out of the decision making.

‘Ah, well, time’s running out. I guess we can’t expect to reach the top,’ Dad announced with the damning tone of resignation.

I stomped off towards the saddle.

*[Photo 1: Mt Giles from the Pound © C.D. Trudinger 1986]*

‘Oy! Oy! What do you think you’re doing?’ Dad yelled.

I bolted on southwards and upwards to the spur. Even menacing prickle bushes didn’t stand a chance as I charged through them. Behind me I could hear the Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! as Dad hacked his way in pursuit of me. ‘Come back! You can’t go off on your own!’

Scratched and sore from the fight with the bushes, I stopped. A tight-rope path lay ahead. Not even enough width for my feet on this razor back. I turned and watched the shrubs shake.

Dad emerged brushing seeds and thorns from his arms. He shaded his eyes as he looked up. ‘You’ve taken the correct action.’

‘What?’ I scratched my eye-brows. Dad’s big words confused my exhausted mind.

Wheezing, Dad caught up to me. ‘See?’

He pointed at the nearest mound. ‘See, the trig?’

I squinted towards where the hill met the cobalt blue of the sky. At the highest point, a thin wire shimmered in the heat. ‘Oh, yeah!’

While Dad and I gulped down some water, MB, C2 and C1 galloped past us. ‘Watch your step on the spur!’ Dad warned.

We picked our way along the razor back ridge. I held my breath and resisted the urge to look down past the tight-rope path where I placed each step. Holding my arms out straight either side, I teetered and tottered to the end of my ordeal. When I reached the slope at the other end, an incline with generous girth and no cliff in sight, I collapsed to my knees, then bent over and kissed the sand stone.

*[Photo 2: Razor-back Ridges of Giles © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

However, my rejoicing was short-lived and I rose to my sore feet to push on. After plodding up and down more ridges, more rocky slopes, and more frequent rests to nurse my aching calves, our allotted time to reach the summit by 12:30pm lapsed.

We gathered around Dad.

‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked. A breeze cooled the back of my neck.

Flies gathered on C1’s back. MB slapped between C1’s shoulder blades and clapped the flattened insects from his palms. ‘Twenty.’ He flicked the last of the sticky flies from his palm.

‘Well,’ Dad took a deep breath, ‘We’ve come this far, we might as well go all the way.’

‘We have a full moon, that’ll help,’ C2 said.

C1 waved a pesky fly from his face. ‘Okay!’

‘Let’s go!’ MB slapped his hands together near C1’s nose and killed that fly too.

‘Alright!’ I said.

Determined to reach the peak, we plunged forward, despite being famished, wrung of perspiration, weary and late. We were so close. Every so often, the trig teased us appearing as we reached a high point, and then vanishing as we dipped into a valley. MB and C1 raced each other.

I climbed over a wall of rock and saw the trig wobbling above the slope in the oily heat. I scrambled upwards. A saddle stretched and rose before me. Damn! Another false top! I struggled over the saddle to face another false top. After staggering over the fifth false top, I saw the trig and blinked. Was it real? Or was it a mirage? I limped up the jagged path, pain shooting down my calf muscles with each step. The trig disappeared behind an outcrop of rocks. We’ll never get there!

*[Photo 3: One Ridge After Another © C.D. Trudinger 1992]*

I skirted the rocks and saw the trig fifty meters away, bold, rusty, and high. Under the shade of an orange sheet that fluttered like a flag in the wind, MB, C1 and C2 lounged by the stone cairn, packs off their backs, stirring Salvital into their cups of water and then sipping with delight the reward of their labour. The time was one o’clock.

Ten minutes later, Dad dragged himself over the last ridge and limped to the summit. There, he sat on a rock and rubbed his knee. ‘O-o-oh!’ He inspected the damage, red and swollen. ‘I tripped and fell on my knee. I hope I can get down alright.’

‘You better,’ C1 laughed. ‘You can’t exactly camp up here.’

‘You’ll have to get down,’ MB said.

‘Yeah!’ I gazed at the view entranced by the once-ancient ocean bed surrounded by islands of mountain ranges that snaked like the backbone of a prehistoric creature into the haze on the horizon.

*[Photo 4: View from the summit—Foreground, the Pound, Ormiston Gorge behind, and in far distance, Mt. Sonder (left) and Mt. Ziel (right) © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]*

‘Hey, look at these!’ C1 excavated some calling cards from a tin can wedged in the monument to the summit. Our predecessors had conquered the mountain one year earlier to the day. The scribe wrote: “The climb was well worth the effort”. They described ascending to the peak by the southern ridge starting from Giles Spring. This tip gave us the idea to descend by the south ridge and traverse west through the pound to the camp.

We celebrated with lunch of scroggin and copious amounts of Milo and strawberry flavoured Quick mixed with powdered milk and water. We took photos of the stunning scenery and each other as evidence of our triumph over adversity.