[Over our Australian summer Holidays, I have been down that proverbial rabbit-hole of family history research.
While researching the Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne in Nördlingen, which my family have claimed the Trüdinger ancestors owned for a couple of hundred years until the 1960’s, I discovered that, according to the information provided by the hotel’s website, that Goethe lived there for a year in 1788.
It’s amazing how life works and how the threads of our lives weave in and out. How our attitudes and values are influenced by how we see the world, and who we see in it. While Goethe was living in Nördlingen, Captain Cook in the Endeavour claimed Australia as belonging to Britain (as one who belonged to the British Empire would back then). And I wonder what Goethe thought of Nördlingen and my ancestors. Did he give much thought to the discovery of Australia and that someday, a little over a century hence, a descendant of those Trüdinger ancestors, or perhaps a relative who may have visited the hotel, would be emigrating to Australia with their family…erm, from Great Britain. That’s another story, suffice to say, my great-grandfather, a Trüdinger from Bavaria, was not a fan of Bismark.
Meanwhile, in 1788, a former Swiss noblewoman, Henriette Jeanette Crousaz de Prelaz (her father had died leaving the young family of mother and ten children in financial strife) relocated to the Christian community of Herrnhut. Did she have any idea that almost one hundred years later, her grandchild would marry my great-grandfather Karl August Trüdinger and relocate to Australia? Below is our modern experience of this famous road, joining the many people who have travelled it.]
The Romantic Road
We passed through Ulm which was featured in this postcard but didn’t visit Ulm. We stayed in a town nearby called Burgau for a few days while we explored the Romantic Road. Our Tom-Tom, which we named Tomina, took great delight in leading us astray. In our quest to reach our Burgau apartment, Tomina decided to take us on a roadway that was closed to traffic. Similarly, over one-hundred years ago, this postcard chased Theodora Bellan across Bavaria, originating in Sofflingen (a town that Google maps doesn’t recognise), then Nussdorf, and finally found her in Ludwigsburg.
The Romantic Road was one part of Germany, that despite the wars and modernisation of the twentieth century, never lost its Medieval charm. A reason I so wanted to travel this road of the Romans when we travelled to Germany in 2014.
Romantic Road
The next few days we explored the Romantic Road, although Tom Tom always tried to get us on the freeway. Friday, we did Tomina’s circuits in by never obeying her commands and instead following the Romantic Road signs. Highlights of the Romantic Road: • Nördlingen–the town of my Trüdinger ancestors and having lunch in the Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne restaurant which, we believe, was owned by the Trüdinger family until the 1960s. We then walked around the medieval wall. Hubby amused fellow travellers by greeting them with an Aussie “G’day”.
Photo 1: Red Rooves were filmed in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.Photo 2: The Wall of Nördlingen.Photo 3: Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne Photo 4: Rain in WassertrüdingenPhoto 5: Reflections in the water of Wassertrüdingen
• Dinkelsbuhl–the church, St. Georges Minster, the ornate carvings and artwork and the bejewelled skeleton of a martyr executed by Emperor Nero on display. And…that day, Goths and Emos aplenty.
Photo 6: St. Georges MinsterPhoto 7: Segringer Tor
• Rothenburg ob der Tauber where we enjoyed the delicious sweet pastry as well as the beautiful sunny day that showed off its cobblestone roads and medieval buildings at its best.
[Photos 8 & 9: Rothenburg ob der Tauber (c) L.M. Kling 2014]
Photo 8: Sweet TreatsPhoto 9: Typical Rothenburg StreetPhoto 10: Rothenburg ob der Tauber most popular
Challenges of the Romantic Road:
• Too many tourists especially at Füssen on the Saturday we visited, caused us to be trapped in a massive traffic jam that held us in a virtual carpark for an hour. • So many tourists at Neuschwanstein (Mad Ludwig’s Castle). If we’d attempted to buy a ticket, we would have waited four and a half hours or more to enter the castle! • Traffic jams and rain, both especially heavy that particular Saturday in August.
Photo 11: Neuschwanstein with Schloss Hohenschwagau in foregroundPhoto 12: Schwansee
We took a break from the Romantic Road one day to visit my relatives. Tomina had trouble with the “dud” roundabout, so we ended up travelling the “scenic route” through the back way off the motorway through corn fields and behind slow tractors. The hour’s trip took two hours, but once we arrived, we had a wonderful day. Back in our apartment in Burgau we had no internet. I think Hubby coped…although to be honest, he was grumpy at times. I guess there’s something to be said to slow down to the pace of snail mail and send postcards as folk did over 100 years ago…especially when there’s no internet.
[An unexpected shower while walking along the beach the other day reminded me of our Tasmanian adventure back in 2001, when our boys were young (about 11 and 8). That time Hubby was most concerned about keeping his charges dry. However, he went to great lengths to make sure all was done as frugally as possible.]
K-Team, the Younger: Tasmania 2001
Dove Lake Hike in Garbage Bags–Cradle Mountain National Park
Hubby paced the floor of the mountain cabin. ‘Yes, that’ll work. Garbage bags’ll work.’ He was in his frugal element and raced around the small room as if he’d won the lottery. ‘Oh, and so cheap!’
He spent the rest of the evening cutting and taping two garbage bags and fashioning them into ponchos for our young sons.
Sons 1 and 2, unaware of the fate that awaited them, marvelled at the possum perched on the balcony.
***
Next morning, a shroud of mist covered the valley.
‘Hmm, the weather doesn’t look good,’ my husband said. ‘Don’t know if we’ll see much of Cradle Mountain. Boys’ll definitely need the ponchos I made when we hike around Dove Lake.’
Hubby grinned as he pushed the garbage bags into our packs.
I slung my camera’s bulky telescopic lens in its case over my shoulder and tucked it under my parka. I remembered the words of a professional photographer friend who had visited Cradle Mountain before me. ‘Even on cloudy days, you never know when the peak will appear. So, be prepared.’ Besides, I thought, mist and fog give the scenery character.
In our hire car Ford sedan, we crawled in the tourist-congo to Dove Lake. Signs warned us of an unsealed section of road suitable only for four-wheel drive vehicles. But did that stop Hubby? No, we bumped along the track behind a bus with him plopping in remarks. ‘Brachina Gorge was worse.’ Or, ‘What are they talking about, this is nothing.’
After parking, Hubby leapt from the car. ‘Oh, looks like rain.’ He pulled out the “raincoats” and waved them in the air. ‘Come on boys, you need to be waterproof.’
Son 1 recoiled. ‘I’m not wearing that.’
‘No!’ Son 2 screamed and hid behind me.
‘Oh, yes, you will!’ their father said. ‘You’ll get wet and a chill and then catch a death of cold, if you don’t.’
‘No!’ both boys squealed and then scampered up the path.
A battle ensued; Hubby with garbage bag-ponchos verses sons refusing to wear the garbage bags.
Dad won, and with the g-b-ponchos draped over two unhappy boys, the young K-Team trooped along the Dove Lake track.
A blanket of cloud covered the mountain, and drizzle blurred the view of the lake. The shifting mist mesmerised me. I slowly pulled out my camera and then attached the telescopic lens.
‘Get this off me!’ Son 2 cried. He fought with his garbage bag in the wind, and then tore it off.
‘No! You must keep it on!’ his dad grabbed the bag-poncho and struggled to put it back over him. Then, with success, clasping his son’s hand, Dad marched ahead, dragging Son 2 behind him.
‘I hate this walk!’ Son 1 cried. ‘Why do I have to wear this sack!’
‘So you don’t get wet!’ Dad said as they disappeared around a bend of pine trees, branches like arms all twisted and gnarled; monsters in the fog.
As I progressed around that same bend, I spied No. 2 son sitting on a stump by the path. The sun peeped through the clouds. ‘I’m not wearing this,’ Son 2 said. ‘It’s too hot.’
I glanced around. No Hubby. ‘Okay.’ I took the garbage bag cloak off Son 2, then peeled off my parka.
The lake shimmered as rays of sun filtered through the mist and gaps in the cloud. A photographer’s paradise. I aimed my camera and snapped several shots of Dove Lake.
‘Wow!’ I halted, shed my rain-jacket, shrugged off the tangle of bags and camera equipment, then caught the image of the mountain before it disappeared.
Son 2 shed his garbage bag-cloak too. He sighed, ‘How embarrassing!’
I packed the embarrassing cover into my bag and we continued the trek around Dove Lake. Every few metres I paused to take another photo.
‘Are we there yet?’ Son 2 asked as we crossed a stream.
Hubby stood before us. ‘What’s taking you so long?’
‘There’s so many beautiful scenes to capture,’ I said. ‘The clouds are always shifting and changing. How can I resist?’
‘Should only take an hour. It’s been two hours and we’re only half-way.’ Hubby said.
‘But, the photos…’
A pair of hikers passed us from the other direction.
‘How far to go?’ they asked.
‘A couple of hours,’ I said. ‘How long have you been hiking?’
‘From the boathouse, about half-an-hour.’
‘Not long to go then.’
‘Right, I’m off,’ Hubby said. ‘See you at the boathouse.’
Hubby and Son 1 marched off while Son 2 and I shuffled behind. We tried to keep up.
Emerging through the twisted branches of snow-gums, the lake beckoned, then hints of Cradle Mountain begged me to photograph. Father and Son 1 drifted further…and further ahead, while I remained suspended in the fairyland of Dove Lake, Cradle Mountain and fast-shifting mist and cloud. Even Son 2 deserted me to catch up with his dad and brother.
I arrived at the boathouse.
‘Four hours!’ Hubby greeted me. ‘That must be a record.’
Our sons, minus garbage bags, skipped stones on the smooth surface of the lake while mist descended over the mountain. I extracted my camera and aimed, taking care to focus.
‘Hurry up!’ Hubby snapped, ‘It’s way past lunch.’
During lunch Hubby scrunched up the green plastic of garbage bags and dumped them into a nearby bin.
[Stay tune for next fortnight and see what a difference a few years make. And how the K-Team the younger, just a little bit older, tackle the hike around Dove Lake on a perfect sunny day in the summer of 2009.
Next week I will be sharing some of my discoveries in my venture into family history, perhaps I can find the reason why I would take 4 hours to walk around Dove Lake. Is it written into my genetic code???]
***
Want more? More than before?
Take a virtual trip with the T-Team and their adventures in Central Australia.
[As I may have mentioned in a previous post, I have embarked on a journey of discovery, down the rabbit hole of family history. To be honest, I have spent more time researching than on writing new blog posts. So, as it’s my late-dad’s birthday tomorrow, I am revisiting his life-story which was the eulogy read out at his funeral.
It is interesting that usually at this time of year, way back when he was with us, we would plan to celebrate his birthday. Inevitably, being Adelaide, South Australia and the middle of summer, the temperature would be nudging 40 degrees Celsius, or over, and the party would be cancelled. Too hot for my mum who, having lived in the heat of the Centre of Australia in her youth, couldn’t tolerate the blazing heat.
When we finally did celebrate his birthday, on a cooler day several weeks later, if there was a lull or even if there wasn’t, Dad would rest his head in his arms at the table and take a nap. He even did this once when his brother was visiting from Canada.
This week is no different, after a cooler and wetter than usual start to summer, today is typically the hot, dry heat that Adelaide does best; a reminder of all those cancelled birthdays of Dad’s, yet remembering what he emphasised was most important in life—God’s love.]
He Wanted Us to Know God’s Love
In Memory and celebration of my father’s life…
Remembering his birthday 96 years ago, Saturday January 13…
DAVID BY NAME CLEMENT BY NATURE
Ron and Lina Trudinger’s third child was born in Adelaide on January 13, 1928. His parents named him Clement David Trudinger. He was a much longed for child as he arrived eight years after his older sister, Agnes.
“Clement?” his aunts cried. “We don’t like the name Clement.”
So they called the babe by his second name, David, and David he has been ever since. Except, of course when he goes to hospital, then he’s Clement, officially.
Throughout his life, God watched over David who has shared many stories of how he showed His love towards him, protecting, and providing for him and his family. He shared how he felt he didn’t deserve God’s love; he wasn’t perfect, yet God loved him. It is this love that David would want all of you to know.
He began to write down his life-story, and in the last few weeks began to tell all, especially his grandchildren, how God worked in his life and how his Heavenly Father protected him.
When he was two years old, his missionary parents took David and his younger brother Paul to Sudan. Not the kind of place to take small children. But God protected David and his brother from a hippopotamus, cobras, car accidents, and mad men. (He’s written in more detail about these incidents and I will share these in the future.)
God also blessed him with a loving and God-fearing family. Some may say, too God-fearing, for his parents continued their mission work in Sudan while David from the age of seven, and Paul from five, commenced their schooling in Adelaide. As a student, David only saw his parents every five years when they returned home on furlough. He shared how despite missing his parents, he enjoyed his childhood, with so many aunts doting on him, and the game afternoons they had. I think his love of games started there in the Northumberland Street parlour. He’d even created a few games in his latter years.
His other great love was sport, especially football. God blessed David with fitness, agility, and a few trophies along the way. In retirement, he played golf, and when his legs couldn’t keep up trekking the 18 holes, he took up table tennis instead. He was still playing table tennis up until a few months ago. Sport kept his body and mind young.
David also enjoyed hiking and exploring. During school holidays he’d visit his brother Ron, a teacher at Ernabella. While there, he made friends with the Pitjantjatjara children and go into the Musgrave Ranges on hiking expeditions. One hot day, David and a friend became lost in the ranges without water, or salt. They wandered for hours parched and at the point of dehydration, before coming across a waterhole, the most welcome sight David had ever seen. I’m sure God protected and guided them back home. I’m also sure that’s when David’s love of salt began.
David progressed through his schooling, and gifted in art, he trained to be an art and woodwork teacher. After a couple of years at Lameroo, he won a position at Hermannsburg Mission as headmaster.
He taught at Hermannsburg for five years. In that time, he became close to the Aranda people, especially the students he taught. They took him on expeditions into the MacDonnell Ranges, Palm Valley, and gorges and beauty spots along the Finke River. David also became close to Pastor Gross’ daughter, Marie.
On January 23, 1958, he married Marie in Hermannsburg.
However, his romance with Central Australia was cut short, when, for health reasons, he and Marie had to move down to Adelaide. On October 30, his first child, Richard was born.
David continued teaching, first at Ridley Grove Primary School, and then St. Leonards P.S. The little Trudinger family moved from schoolhouse to schoolhouse.
May 3, 1963, his daughter, Lee-Anne was born. By this time, Glenelg Primary School planned to convert their little rented home into a library. As his family grew and Marie grew more unsettled with the constant shifting, David faced the challenge to buy a house. But how could he on a teacher’s wage? He looked at his lovely stamp collection of rare Sudanese stamps. Could he trade them in to help pay for a deposit?
They looked at a few homes. A bungalow on Cross Road appealed to him, but not Marie. His father wasn’t impressed either. Marie didn’t like that pokey little home on the main road with no back yard at all and the property was right next to the rail line. Then a trust home at Gilbert Road Somerton Park came up for sale, and the deal was done. David regretted selling his stamp collection but reasoned that this was an investment for the children. And, many years down the track, it was, especially with the two lovely court yard homes, one of which David and Marie have lived in from 2006.
God blessed David’s career. He taught at Port Adelaide Primary School from the late 1960’s until he retired in 1985 at the age of 57. In that time he studied to teach Indonesian, became Deputy Principal, and won a government research grant to go to Indonesia. He became interested in the Indonesian musical instrument, the Anklung. He brought a set home and proceeded to teach pupils how to play. He had bands of students playing in the Festival of Music until 2010. He continued to visit the school now LeFever Primary and train students to play the Anklung, right up till the beginning of this year. He also tutored indigenous students.
David lived life to the full and grasped every opportunity to explore the wild and untouched land God has created, especially Central Australia. With his long service leave, and then time in his early retirement, he made regular pilgrimages to the Centre. And God protected him. I like to think that now he is with the Lord, his guardian angel is enjoying a well-deserved rest.
One example he gave of God’s protection was on a hiking trip in the Western Wilderness of Tasmania with a friend. On one narrow path climbing around a cliff-face, he felt his heavy pack over-balance and he began to fall. “This is it,” he thought. Then he felt the pressure of someone pushing him back against the rock and he was able to step two metres further to a wider path. He knew an angel of the Lord rescued him, preserving his life, not just for his sake, but for his friend’s sake, and also because his work on earth was not complete.
But on August 25, 2012, David’s work on earth was done. There are probably many things he has done that will be remembered as a blessing and encouragement to all who knew him. He was a regular member of Faith Lutheran Warradale church; he took an active role and was a vital member of the congregation for over 54 years. He was a Sunday School teacher, an elder, and a Bible Study leader.
We will miss his cheerful nature, how he grasped life, lived it to the full and shared God’s love with all he came across.
He may have been David by name, but he was Clement by nature.
[Slowing down after Christmas/ New Year and feeling nostalgic, this time I meander down to my childhood stamping ground, Glenelg.]
My Old Stamping Ground
I grew up in Somerton Park which is about a ten-minute bike-ride from Glenelg. Even today, though I live in the Adelaide foothills, I go to Glenelg to shop, have coffee at the Broadway Cafe with Mum, and many times I drive through Glenelg on my way up north to Salisbury, or to the Barossa.
So, while tourists snap their memories of Glenelg frozen in time, for me images of my childhood and grown-up years remain fluid, layers in my head and marinated with the changes and experiences over the decades. Glenelg has changed; the land/seascape of my memories unrecognisable as the shops, the trams, the jetty and the coastline shift and develop. Although some places have changed, some have stayed the same.
At the tender age of one-year-old, I committed my first (and only) criminal offense at this shop; a five-finger discount of a face-washer. Mum caught me in time, and blushing, returned the stolen item, replacing it on the shelf before anyone noticed.
The gift store, a favourite of mine, provided birthday presents for me to buy for friends and knick-knacks with my pocket money.
One with its red carpet, sweeping staircase and chandeliers. It’s a Woolworths complex now. Many happy moments with family and friends watching movies, eating popcorn and occasionally rolling Jaffa’s down the carpeted aisle.
The other, halfway down Jetty Road towards the sea, disappeared in the 1980’s. I remember watching the film Heidi there, and before the movie started, the pre-film entertainer conducted a singing competition. My friend won first prize.
That cinema space became a mini shopping mall which, as a university student, I mopped every Saturday morning for $12. Today, a restaurant resides in that space.
After several years bereft of cinematic entertainment, a new cinema complex has been built off Partridge Street.
Gone: Tom the Cheaper Grocer
While Mum shopped at Toms the Grocer on Mosely Square, my brother and I hung out near the sea wall by the jetty. I loved winter when the waves crashed against the wall. Toms was sold off decades ago and today the old building houses cafés and restaurants.
At three, I crawled under the table at Charlies Café and my auntie uninvited me to her wedding reception.
When sixteen, we dined at Charlies as a youth group. The guy I was dating didn’t show. After the supper, near tears from being stood up, I waited with my friends for this guy to arrive and drive us home. There were not enough cars amongst the group to drive us all. In a flash, this guy appeared in his silver car. He glanced at us and then kept on driving down Jetty Road.
My brother had to make two trips to carry us all safely home.
Charlies is long gone. So’s that guy. I dropped him.
***
Here today Despite Time and Changes
As my friend from Youth Group was fond of saying, ‘Thank God somethings stay the same.’
At least an updated and cemented version from one of many over the years of storms that regularly destroy the jetty. Each time the jetty is damaged by a “storm of the century”, it’s repaired or another one is built to maintain that steady icon that makes Glenelg.
Tarted up over the decades, today with tall palms and water-features. The shops, cafés and restaurants that line jetty road leading up to Moseley Square, though they change, they are still there and most importantly for the tourists, are open Sundays and public holidays.
That’s why we go to Glenelg, right? A famous dating place or hang-out for youth. In my teenage years, I followed my date around the games arcade as he sampled all the pinball machines. Yawn!
A friend sourced the sideshow for lovers and got herself into “trouble”.
Memories of parking in the carpark in the early morning under the inert Ferris Wheel, and furtive romantic moments before the inevitable knock on the window by the local policeman.
Over the years, the sideshow alley vanished, but still near the carpark at the end of Anzac Highway, the Ferris Wheel sat idle, a skeleton of its light-garnished self. Then this carpark turned into a round-about, high-rise apartments grew along the foreshore, and the sideshow morphed into a massive brown lump called “The Magic Mountain”.
My sons enjoyed birthday parties in this mountain’s cave, chasing Pokemon, bumping in floating boats, and slipping down the waterslide.
Then the “Magic Mountain” went off, replaced by “The Beach house”. Same amusements as before without the “magic” of the mountain. The Ferris Wheel now sits in front of “The Beach house”.
Ever faithful, ever beautiful, the setting to summers filled with family teas by the beach on the lawns, fish ‘n chips with soft drink or cheese and gherkin sandwiches with cordial. Grandparents busy themselves with crossword puzzles while Mums and Dads swim in the waves with kids by the jetty. Then after, while sitting and licking an ice-cream, families watch the sun bulge bright orange as it sinks below the horizon of sea, overhead in the cloudless sky, a plane from Perth streaks a jet-stream, and on the water, there’s a sailboat, swimmers and paddle-boarders.
And people, who walk the boardwalk, play on the sand, and frolic in the water, on a balmy summer’s evening, beam with smiles on their faces. This is the constant memory, through the decades of changes, this is the memory that stays with me of Glenelg.
‘I remember you,’ says a lady from church, my mum’s age, ‘you couldn’t keep still. I felt sorry for your poor mother.’
Another lady nods. ‘She had her hands full, your mum.’
‘Ooh, there was the time you escaped and ran up to the altar—oh, your poor mother!’
I smile and nod. So different now.
***
Back then, mid 1960’s…
The Children’s Carol service Christmas Eve—the bag full of sweets and honey biscuits stacked under the live Christmas tree, an incentive to stand in front of the congregation, singing my little three-year-old heart out. I love singing. Then when the Pastor preaches, the Sunday School teacher, Mrs. S, tells me to sit still, be quiet and don’t sin. Be good if you want your bag of lollies.
So, unless I’m told, I sit, am quiet and I don’t sin. Being good means not singing unless told to sing. I thought that’s what Mrs. S meant. And, being good means the reward of sweets at the end of the service. Oh, dear! How long is the pastor going to preach! I try not to wriggle. Everyone’s looking at me. But it’s so hot and stuffy in the church. Poor baby Jesus born in the middle of summer when it’s so hot! My halo’s itching my head. I take it off and scratch my head.
Mrs. S holds up her hand to me. ‘Lee-Anne! Be still! You want your sweets, don’t you?’
I try and put the halo on my head. It’s crooked and slips over my ear.
Mrs. S snatches the halo off my head. She has a cross look in her eyes.
Oh, dear, I hope I haven’t been naughty. I wasn’t sinning, was I? I hunch over and hold my fidgety hands tight. Must be still. Must be quiet. Must not sin. Want those sweets.
Mrs. S gestures for us children to rise. Goody, I can sing! I stand, take a deep breath of pine-air. ‘Joy to the World!’
The service ends. We wait by the tree. I marvel at the white “crismons”, the symbolic decorations from our great-great Grandfathers from Germany. These white shapes made out of Styrofoam and sprinkled with glitter make me wonder, is this what snow looks like? I’ve never seen snow. Snow is for cold places and Adelaide is always hot. Except in winter when it’s cold enough to have the kerosene heater going in the kitchen. But Adelaide’s not cold enough for snow, mummy says.
I go up to the tree and she hands me my bag of sweets and a children’s book with my name in it.
‘This is for attending Sunday School every week and learning all your bible verses,’ Mrs. S says. ‘Good girl.’
I take the gifts in my arms and careful not to drop my cargo, I take one step at a time out the church as if I’m a flower girl in a wedding. I know about weddings. My Aunty K was married in this church and I wore a new pink dress that my mummy made. And I had this lacy hat, and everybody took photos of me.
I’m in the courtyard, lost in a forest of legs. I search for mummy’s legs. She has ones under her pretty aqua dress with frills at the bottom. That’s her new dress for Christmas. My mummy’s a dressmaker and she always makes a new dress for her and me at Christmas. I mean, what are daughter’s for but to be dressed up in the prettiest, frilliest dresses at Christmas?
I can’t see mummy’s dress, or legs. I weave through the legs and scamper down the gravel drive to the back of the church to the car park. She’s in the car, our FJ Holden, Bathsheba, surely. I look in the car. No, she’s not there.
Tramping behind me. A roar. ‘Naughty girl!’ Dad all red-faced. ‘You know not to go down the drive on your own!’ Dad smacks me on the back of my legs.
‘But I was looking for mummy!’ I howl.
Mummy comes running. ‘Ah, you found her. I was getting worried.’
My always-good-brother strolls up to the car. He rolls his eyes and mutters, ‘Lee-Anne, always getting lost.’
‘Now get in the car,’ Dad snaps.
I adjust my load. A biscuit drops onto the dirt. I bend to pick it up. Can’t waste good food.
‘I told you!’ Dad says with another stinging slap to the legs. ‘Get in the car! Behave yourself, or else!’
I climb in and assume “or else” means another smack on the legs. Dad crushes the biscuit with his shoe and then slams the door behind me.
‘Doesn’t matter how much you smack her,’ Mummy mumbles. ‘She never seems to learn to be good.’
As Dad drove down the road he glances at me and says, ‘We’re off to Grandma’s now, so be good, or else.’
Be good, what does that mean? I pondered in my three-year-old mind. I thought it had something to do with not getting into trouble or getting a slap on the legs. I still hadn’t worked it all out, this “being good” business. It had something to do with following my older brother’s and cousins’ example. Something to do with being still. Being quiet and not upsetting the big people. But I don’t know, just when I think I’ve got it worked out, I do something I’ve no idea is wrong and the next thing, I get a smack. All I know is sitting still and being quiet means I’m being good.
Our car tyres crunch on the stones in Grandma’s driveway. We climb out of Bathsheba and enter the house through the back door and greet Grandma who’s piling plates with honey biscuits. We side-step around the table in the dining area and into the lounge lined with couches, dining chairs, and a piano. The lounge room is filled with the smell of pine tree. Pinned in the corner another real Christmas tree, all lit with electric candle lights and decorated with colourful baubles. I move to the tree to touch the pretty decorations. I must be careful not to step on the presents wrapped in red and green paper under the tree.
‘Now, Lee-Anne, you sit on the floor,’ Mum says. ‘The chairs are for grown-ups.’
I sit cross-legged by the fireplace.
‘You better sit still and be quiet,’ Dad warns, ‘or else.’
Cousins, aunts and uncles, and the odd, lonely soul from church crowd into Grandma’s lounge room.
I try hard to follow my cousins’, all older than me, example. Sit still and don’t make a sound. I must be good. I watch the grown-ups all chatting, getting up and down, laughing and joking. Must be fun to be a grown-up.
Clothed in her purple swirly dress and beige apron, Grandma settles her generous backside on the piano stool. ‘Let’s sing some carols,’ she says and begins hammering on the keys.
In joyous and rousing strains, we sing our way through the black hymn book’s carols.
I like singing and can’t help but join in. Then I remember. Be still. Be quiet. Maybe only big people can sing. I glance at Dad. He’s singing, eyes closed. My brother next to me barely opens his mouth. He fidgets. Not a good sign. I’m meant to follow my brother’s example, aren’t I?
But I love singing. I love Christmas carols. I raise my voice and sing. Everybody’s happy. Everybody, except Richard sings. I check my cousins. They’re singing. Must be alright to sing if my cousins are singing. So, I keep singing.
Mum pipes up. ‘Well, surely that’s enough singing. The children want to open their presents.’
‘What’s wrong with singing some more Christmas carols?’ the odd, lonely guy from church asks.
Mum points at the mantelpiece clock from the Fatherland. ‘I just think it’s getting late for the children.’
Dad blushes and cleares his throat while the other grown-ups look from my mum to Grandma.
Grandma looks down and wipes her hands on her apron.
Was my mum being naughty?
I reckon they’ve got the wrong person being the naughty one. Who’s the one who’s always told to sit still, be quiet and not sin? Me, of course.
I stand up and say, ‘It’s alright. I like sinning.’
Everyone laughs.
‘She means “singing” carols.’ Grandma’s tummy jiggles up and down as she chuckles. ‘Yes, it is getting late. Let’s open the presents. And Lee-Anne, since you are the youngest, you can help your mother hand out the Christmas presents.’
Fat dollops of rain struck my sleeping bag, waking me.
‘Oh, al-right!’ I mumbled before peeling the sleeping bag from me. I slipped on my shoes and as I was already fully clothed, I shuffled to the campfire.
Hours dragged as we struggled to eat our cereal, drink beverages, answer the call of nature, and then pack our bags.
My older cousin, C1 was missing for what seemed an eternity. Younger cousin, C2 commented that his brother liked to read on his “business” ventures.
I laughed, ‘Our toilet is inaccessible for hours when my brother goes. He doesn’t like books, so I don’t know what he does when he goes.’.
‘Well, at least it’s only twice a week,’ my body-building brother said.
Dad’s eyes widened. ‘What? You only go twice a week?’
‘Yeah? How often do you go, Dad?’
‘Two or three times a day,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘Yeah, that’s normal.’ Dad poked the coals and flames leapt into action. ‘Sure you’re not constipated? I’m not sure your Protein diet is a good idea.’
[Photo 2: Desert Storm (c) C.D. Trudinger 1981]
Richard shook his concoction and examined the plastic Tupperware containing Protein-powder mixture. ‘Nup, it’s fine.’ With a teaspoon, he stirred the raw egg floating on top of the bubbles, and then swallowed his liquid breakfast in three gulps.
C1 returned shovel in hand and a grin spread between his over-night shadow. ‘Ah! That’s better!’
Dad grabbed the shovel and toilet paper and disappeared into the bush. As we waited for each member to do their “nature-walk”, rain plopped into the sand.
We left the Flinders camp mid-morning in the rain, then rattled over corrugations and lumbered through water-washed floodways. An hour into our journey, we stopped at Hawker where the boys selected lollies, and chewing gum to occupy their bored mouths for the hours of travel to come.
C1 and C2 picked out miscellaneous items they’d forgotten to pack. C1 placed his purchases on the weathered bench and reached for his back pocket. He patted it, and his eyes widened. He jammed his fingers into his pocket, patted his side pockets, and pushed his hands into them and pulled out the lining. He glanced around his feet. ‘Oh, oh! I think I left my wallet behind in the creek,’ he said. While he continued to search the floor, and his pockets, we pooled our money to cover C1’s expenses.
Despite C1’s lamentations that his wallet contained his driver’s license, passport, visa, and thirty dollars, a wall of steady rain threatening floods, discouraged us from returning to the camp. Dad was sure it was too late to find it. ‘The floods would’ve washed it away,’ he said.
On the road through the Flinders Ranges, Dad stopped driving for us to photograph the ranges cloaked in mist. On one of our photo stops, the boys discovered the sport of rock-throwing.
Our family friend, TR tracked us with his film camera as we all tried to smash beer bottles with rocks.
Further north, rain pelted our vehicle and lightening flashed. At the bridge near Leigh Creek, we passed a car, bonnet jacked up, and a couple peering at their dead engine.
Richard, came to the rescue and within thirty minutes, resolved their engine issues and sent them on their way. I wish he could have been that efficient with the Rover’s pack-rack!
While Richard was repairing the car, we inspected the railroad track, the bridge of the over-flowing creek, and then watched a Volkswagen splashing through a pool of muddy water.
At Lyndhurst, we filled up with petrol. Twelve miles out from there, we camped by a disused train track. We used some of the sleepers for firewood. Birds gathered in a cluster of She oak and eucalyptus trees. Stratus and high cumulous clouds gave rise to a stunning sunset of gold, orange and flares of red.
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.
Adelaide experienced another spectacular storm last Tuesday. Lightning, thunder, heavy rain…the lot. Our home received at least 45mm, according to the rain gauge. The ceiling leaked and we had to get our builder out to locate the cracked tile.
Anyway, all that rain reminded me of a story way back in my youth being caught in the rain while waiting for my mum to pick me up from school. The experience sparked this story, a re-blog, but hey, what are memories for?
Feature Photo: Rain, Kaniva, Victoria (c) L.M. Kling 2023
I’m still trying to figure out where we went off track. Were we off track? Was I that slow that the whole trek was taking twice, perhaps three times as long as the initial map instructions suggested? Four hours they promised us. Only 8.9 km, the sign said.
Mistake number 1: The map of Alligator Gorge my dear husband had printed from the internet was then forgotten to be loaded into his backpack.
Six hours into the hike, deep in some tributary of Alligator Creek (according to the map-less husband), and no sign of the Terraces, nor the steps, nor the Narrows. Did we miss a turn off? Did we stray into a neighbouring gorge? Signs to direct our path were ominously absent. So were people…except us, the K-Team comprising of his brother P1, two Swiss relatives (Mother A and Daughter E), Hubby and me with my bung knee.
Now that we’d descended into the gully, I had kept up with the Able-Bodied four. My knee no longer hurt, but for some weird reason, although we walked along a narrow path and negotiated the stony creek, at a fair pace, we seemed to be getting nowhere fast. The red slated walls to our left, and occasionally to our right, just kept on going.
Four-thirty in the afternoon and we stopped by a bend in the dry creek.
‘I reckon if we keep on going, we’ll get there; this gorge will eventually lead us to the start of Mambray creek,’ I said. ‘What does the map say? Oh, that’s right, my hubby’s forgotten the map.’
The K-Team decided to send Hubby and E down the creek for any signs that we were on the right track. Off they went at a cracking pace now that they weren’t hampered by the “cripple” (me).
The remaining three, P1, A and me, waited in the cool of the native pine trees common in these parts of the Flinders Ranges.
P1 was not impressed with Hubby’s, much boasted and legendary navigational skills. In silence, I began to reflect. I had been this way, surely. Way back, some forty years ago with my friends from youth. The landmarks, the endless rock walls, the keeled-over gum trees, and the native pines resonated faint familiarity. Even the trek that seemed to take for eternity took me back to when our youth group had hiked from Alligator Gorge to Mambray Creek starting with the same ring route.
I had asked the same question to one of the leaders, ‘When is this going to end?’
‘Soon,’ he replied and as if by magic, we reached the Terraces. My brother, and his friends lay in the creek and cooled their tired muscles.
I began to wonder if we hadn’t been swallowed up in some dimensional impasse. Had our trek led us into a parallel universe where Alligator Gorge has no Terraces nor Narrows and we’d be lost on some distant and forgotten planet? Or had we stepped into the past before the Terraces and Narrows had formed?
Either way, my phone had no signal.
Hubby and E were taking eons to return. Had some errant neutrino activity swallowed them up into another place and time?
The hike had begun in a mundane fashion. Hubby strode ahead up the fire track from the Blue Gums campground.
I marched behind the Able-Bodied K-Team like a demented zombie with trendy hiking poles. The Able-Bodied stopped at the sign, the first of many waits for their knee-challenged companion.
I glanced at the sign, and remarked, ‘This way is an8.9-kilometre ring route.’ Nothing wrong with my eyesight.
‘Yes,’ Hubby sniffed with an air of arrogance. He implied that if I didn’t like the distance, I could sit back at the car in the campground and wait for them.
Glad I didn’t.
So onwards and upwards on the fire track we trekked. Judging by the position of the hills, the terrain and the fact that we’d left the Mambray Creek-Alligator Creek junction, and behind, (Mambray Creek running to our left and Alligator Creek to our right), I summised that we were walking the route clockwise.
Hence Mistake Number 2.
So, for the next two and a half hours we (or should I say, me with the group having to make frequent stops for me) laboured up the rise. I don’t do uphill at the best of times and had to stop and rest for my breathing to catch up. The Able-Bodied with their superior fitness would wait for me, and then as soon as I caught up, they were off. Like racehorses.
On the way we encountered a couple, smiles wide on their faces, tramping down the fire track.
As they approached, I asked, ‘Are we there yet?’
‘Not far now,’ they replied.
Another couple, Grey Nomads, also with grins rivalling Alice In Wonderland’s Cheshire cat’s, passed us.
‘How far to the top and then into Alligator Gorge?’ I asked.
‘Nearly there,’ the man said.
‘But the walk is quite difficult,’ the lady said. ‘It’s more like nine kilometres.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ I remembered the dodgy distance estimations from the previous hike 40-years ago. Seems as though nothing had changed in Alligator Gorge.
By this time, we had stopped at a Eaglehawk Dam campsite where we ate our lunch and rested for thirty-minutes. An oasis after a long hot thirsty uphill hike.
Ten minutes from the dam, we reached our goal, the long-awaited sign; the virtual “top” and fork with directions. Signs and map indicators were scarce on this ring route. One sign pointed to a path leading to Alligator Gorge, about 3.1km hence. The other to the lookout.
We opted for the gorge. After all, it was only 3 km away, an hour’s walk at the most.
Confident we were on the “homeward” stretch, we trundled down the slope and into the gorge. The time, around 2pm. Now that we hiked downwards and the path appeared well-worn, I kept up with the Able-Bodied. In fact, they held up my progress by stopping to photograph lizards, flowers, and birds.
An hour and a half later, we still hadn’t reached the Terraces. Nor had we completed the circuit that would have taken us back to Blue Gums Campground. Hubby was adamant that we were in a tributary of Alligator Gorge and thus missed all the interesting features. There was talk of camping the night in this so-called tributary. After all, we did have an emergency blanket. However, the fire-danger season having commenced, we would be banned from lighting a campfire. Hubby had stressed that even lighting a match was “verboten” (forbidden).
Hubby and E emerged through the growth that glowed emerald and gold in the late afternoon sunlight.
‘The creek just goes on forever,’ Hubby said.
‘Best to go the way you know,’ I said. ‘We’ll just have to go back the way we came, to be safe.’
This we did. Uphill again, but this time steep rises. Hubby helped me negotiate the uneven path and rocky terrain. He pulled me up and over fallen logs and big boulders. He told me off for hampering the progress of the group.
‘I feel faint,’ I replied, and he softened. Besides, he needed to pace himself too. Hubby looked pale and exhausted.
Within an hour we’d reached the signpost and were hiking with happy faces down the fire track. I named the tributary we’d been lost in, “Deviation Gorge” as it had led us astray.
We arrived back at Blue Gums Campground just as the sun set at 7:30pm. The back tracking taking us just two and a half hours to complete.
Most of all, by the end of what we calculated to be a twenty-kilometre hike, my knee didn’t hurt at all. My feet did, but not my knee.
***
Friday, we revisited Alligator Gorge. This time, we parked at the more populated carpark and took the steps down into the gorge.
I wasn’t going to do the two-kilometre circuit with the Able-Bodied through the Narrows. But I just had to know, just had to discover for myself what went wrong the previous Tuesday.
So, after a slow descent owing to my knee, I hobbled over the stony creek bed and down the narrow gorge. My frequent cries of “Ouch!” heralded my presence to all and sundry. Hubby marched ahead oblivious to my defiant presence and will over pain to be there and see for myself.
The drama of the Gorge was rewarding. Red rock walls and stunning reflections all in this ancient peaceful setting. Another pair of Grey Nomads sat in a shallow cave, absorbing the tranquility and beauty.
Hubby and the Swiss relatives tramped through the Narrows as if it were a race.
P1 rested at the Narrows’ entrance and said, ‘I don’t know what the rush is.’
Once through and on the short, I stress, “homeward” and upward trail to the road, Hubby scolded me for holding up the group. In his estimation, “cripples” like me are not allowed to attempt the two-kilometre circuit of Alligator Gorge. ‘Now we’ll be late getting back to Adelaide,’ he warned.
Just so I wouldn’t impede the Able-Bodied further, I parked myself at Blue Gums Campground, and waited for them to return with the “royal” Toyota Hilux Carriage to pick me up.
While waiting for the Able-Bodied crew, I discovered a sign that directed the ring route in the anti-clockwise direction—through the Narrows and onto the Terraces. If only we’d ventured this way, we could have seen the most interesting parts of Alligator Gorge first and then decided to return the way we came…or not. To this date, Hubby has never witnessed the Terraces. At least we would’ve had happy, smiling faces walking down the fire track and taken less time.
So, if you’ve read my books and would like to give a review on any of them, please feel free to share in the comments section of my blog.
I am pleased to share a review from one of my followers, Lynne on The T-Team with Mr. Bwho writes:
“An excellent memoir that takes the reader to some of the most beautiful and remote areas of the Northern Territory. Fourteen-year-old Lee-Anne, a budding artist and writer describes the colours, sights and people with fresh eyes. Uluru, the Olgas and Hermannsburg are covered but it’s the exploration of Haast’s Bluff, Talipata Gorge and Mount Liebig, places off the popular tourist trail that make this book exceptional. All are brought alive by wonderful prose and authentic pictures in the book. Her descriptions of characters and situations provides humour and interest. A must for people who intend to visit the Red Centre.”
To whet your appetite, here is an episode from the book where Mr. B and Dad have a disagreement about lunch…]
The T-Team with Mr. B–Episode 6
Fruitless Foray
Again, we raced at 50 miles per hour along the highway boldly going where too many trucks had gone before. The graded road was a sea of corrugations. As we travelled along the road at high speed, our Land Rover juddered over the sand waves. Dad was on a mission to reach Ernabella and not even corrugations on the unsurfaced road were going to get in his way.
We paused at Indulkana, an Indigenous settlement, where we topped up the tank with petrol from one of the Gerry cans.
‘Only fifty miles or so to go to Ernabella,’ replied Dad with a sniff. He could smell his Holy Grail, and he was bent on reaching his destination. ‘Pity, there’s a school here I’d’ve liked to visit. Ah, well!’
Mr. B spread out the map on the bonnet of the Rover. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and then pointed at Indulkana. ‘Are you sure it’s only fifty miles, David?’
Dad cleared his throat and then glanced at the map. ‘Er, um, I think so.’
‘It looks a damn lot further to me. Are you sure we’ll get there? I mean to say, it’s past one o’clock and we still have to have lunch.’
‘We’ll eat when we get there.’
‘Really?’ Mr. B gazed at the fibro houses scattered like abandoned blocks in the red landscape. ‘Damn! No place to shop in this shanty town.’
I gazed at the mirage shimmering, reflecting the khaki bushes on the horizon of ochre. This tiny Indigenous settlement seemed more heat-affected and miserable than Oodnadatta. A dingo skulked across the road in search of shade. The town seemed empty—except for the flies.
I swished several of the pests from my eyes and searched for a toilet block. We had stopped, so I considered it timely to make a comfort stop. ‘Where’s the loo?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Dad said.
As far as we could see, public toilets didn’t exist in Indulkana.
A kangaroo hopped through the spinifex. Rick grabbed his rifle and aimed.
‘Hoy!’ Dad said. ‘Stop! You can’t be shooting so close to the town.’
Rick lowered his gun.
‘I say,’ Mr. B said. ‘Why don’t we go down the road a bit. We can find a few accommodating bushes for our business and the boys can do a spot of shooting. Besides, we need a break and some lunch.’
Dad sighed. ‘Very well, then.’
We piled back into the Rover and trundled several miles down the road where some trees and bushes were clumped close to the road. We all made use of the improvised “bush” facilities. Then Dad pulled out the tucker box and made a simple lunch of peanut butter sandwiches.
‘Do you want to have a go shooting?’ Rick asked me.
‘Okay,’ I replied.
My brother handed me the .22 rifle and we walked into the scrub.
Dad called after us. ‘Shoot away from the Rover, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
‘What do I shoot?’ I asked Rick.
‘Rabbits. Kangaroos. Birds.’
I looked at the lemon-coloured grasses dotting the red sands. ‘Where are they?’
Rick shrugged.
Matt aimed his rifle at a stump of a mulga tree. A galah had settled there. But not for long. Matt pulled the trigger and at the sound of the bullet hitting the sand, the bird fluttered into the air.
Some white cockatoos decorated the skeleton of a dead tree. I aimed and pulled the trigger. ‘Bang!’ The butt hit my shoulder and knocked me to the ground. ‘Ouch!’ I cried.
The flock of parrots squawked and scattered.
‘I wasn’t expecting that to happen,’ I said rubbing my bottom.
Rick grabbed the rifle off me. ‘Watch where you point that thing.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
Rick and Matt stalked further into the scrub in search of more prey. I was glad my hunting time was over as it was not as much fun as I thought it would be. At least no one was hurt.
The break and the lads’ fruitless hunting foray caused the night to catch up with us. After a couple more hours of driving, we camped near Mimili. A hill close by served as adventure for us young ones in this otherwise flat desert. I climbed the small rise and explored, while the boys went shooting as usual. The hill was little more than an outcrop of rocks and I imagined, something of a smaller version of Uluru. From the top, I scanned the terrain. The setting sun’s rays caused the grasses in the plain to sparkle like gold glitter and a cool breeze hinted at the freezing night ahead. I climbed down from my vantage point and ambled back to camp. As darkness descended upon us and stars flooded the night sky, the boys returned empty-handed, except for their rifles.
While Dad stirred a billy can of stew, Mr. B warmed his idle hands by the fire, his mouth busy whining at the prospect of sleeping on a bed of stones.
Dad tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the billy can and said, ‘We are camping in the desert, aboriginal style. What we do is make up one fire for cooking, and then have our individual fires.’
So, we did in the nights to follow. Although we all had blow-up mattresses and cotton sleeping bags, we still hunted for the softer ground, and prepared it for the bedding by clearing the area of rocks. Each of us would scout around for sticks and logs in preparation for our personal fires. By bedtime, our fires were crackling away, and we only woke from our slumber to poke the coals to keep the small flame going. Still, I slept fully clothed, as the clear nights were freezing.
But did this arrangement satisfy Mr. B? Apparently not. Every night he complained of his unsatisfactory sleeping arrangements. And his back, oh, the pain in his back. Oh, for a decent bed and a warm night’s sleep. And oh, the pain, oh, the discomfort! And then, just as he sank into a deep slumber, dawn broke with Dad clattering around the campsite preparing breakfast once again.
‘Why do we have to get up so early?’ Mr. B would ask each morning.
‘It’s my mission to get…somewhere,’ Dad would reply.
