Memoir

Fifth Friday with Art–Bunyip Chasm

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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…

Travelling Friday…with some Family History

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T-Team, Next Generation: Uluru (1)

Central Australian Convoy 2013

[Eleven 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.

[Photo 1: Ron Trudinger(snr), second from the left © scanned from slide courtesy of L.M. Kling circa 1913)]

I add here, that today, is my paternal grandfather’s birthday. In 1886, he was the first of his family to be born in Australia, a true-blue Aussie. His 12 siblings had been born in England, and his parents in Germany. Like the rest of his family, he was full of adventure and yen to travel. Seven of his siblings were missionaries. Some in China, while he and his brother were missionaries in the Sudan. Although his brother then went on to be a missionary in Korea, my grandpa continued his mission work in Sudan for decades until he retired in 1954. But, even after his retirement, the spirit of adventure spurred my grandpa on to travel to Central Australia to visit my uncle in Ernabella at the top end of South Australian, and my dad in Hermannsburg, Northern Territory.

On that note, over the next few weeks, I will continue to 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.]

Uluru—The Sign Not to Climb

Monday, July 8, 2013

Last night, over a game of cards, the T-Team decided to stay an extra night in the Yulara Campsite.

So, that morning, after a well-deserved sleep in, we pottered around the campsite, cooking, sorting, and relaxing. My husband, Anthony was doing a great deal of hunting…things, where were they?

Around midday, the T-Team, loaded up with hampers for a picnic lunch, set off for the Rock. We dutifully lined up at the National Park check point, for our passes.

[Photo 2: First glimpses of Uluru © L.M. Kling 2013]

Once through, Anthony gazed at the Rock. ‘Wow! It’s huge!’

‘It’s even more spectacular third time round,’ I remarked.

‘How long does it take to climb the rock?’ he asked.

‘Oh, a couple of hours, although, we are older; more like my Dad’s age when he climbed with us kids in 1981. He took longer to climb than us.’ I wasn’t keen on climbing and was going to give my excuses (such as inadequate footwear) when we arrived at the climbing site.

[Photo 3: Memories of the T-Team climbing the Rock © L.M. Kling 1981]

We parked the Ford in the first free space we could find. Before us, stood rows upon rows of busses. The area was already swarming with tourists.

‘This’ll be fun,’ I muttered, ‘the Rock’ll be covered with climbers.’

‘Where do we go?’

‘Follow the crowds.’ I sauntered behind a couple with packs on their backs and decked out in state-of-the-art hiking gear. ‘This way.’

We reached the climbing site and gazed up at the empty expanse of rock.

[Photo 4: An empty expanse of Rock © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘What’s happening?’ Anthony asked.

‘Read the notice,’ I answered.

Anthony peered at a sign and read, ‘No entry.’

‘The one behind it,’ I sighed.

Anthony frowned. ‘Hmm, due to high winds the Rock is off-limits.’

The rest of the T-Team arrived. They milled around the gate as if willing the sign to change.

[Photo 5: The Forbidding Sign © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘Well, that’s a bummer!’ Mrs. T said. ‘I wanted to climb the Rock.’

‘We can explore the Olgas instead.’ Rick pointed at the pale blue (distant) stumps of Kata Tjuta. ‘We can have lunch there.’

With long faces, the T-Team trekked back to their vehicles, and we sped west down the Lassiter Highway to Kata Tjuta.

[Photo 6: And leaving Uluru behind…for now © L.M. Kling 2013]

Over lunch, my brother and wife discussed with us their reservations about staying another night, as they had not budgeted for it. A reluctant Anthony agreed we would cover the cost of the extra night. After all, having seen the magnificence of the Rock and the Olga’s, Anthony wanted to spend more time exploring these wonders—and hopefully, climb the Rock…another day.

Kata Tjuta

[Photo 7: Then: Walpa Gorge in 1981 © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

As the afternoon light bathed the conglomerate boulders of Kata Tjuta in bronze, the T-Team explored Walpa Gorge. Except Mrs. T who had retreated to the van. She had a headache.

The site had been seriously sanitised since the T-Team’s last visit in 1981. All for the tourists and preserving the environment. Parts of the track were paved, with plastic bridges over ditches. The edges were roped off and signs warning of fines for those who chose to stray from the path.

[Photo 8: Walpa Gorge in 2013 © L.M. Kling 2013]

The wind howled through the steep valley between the massive lumps of rock. A hoard of tourists followed us as we marched up Walpa Gorge.

[Photo 9: Tourist Group a-marching © L.M. Kling 2013]

Richard and the T-Lings met us on their return.

‘Boring!’ Richard said. ‘You have to stick to the path.’

‘But I want to still see what’s up there,’ Anthony said.

‘You can get a $135 fine if you go off the path,’ a random lady warned as she passed us.

My younger niece nodded. ‘I know, my brother just went a little off the path and this Indigenous guy appeared from nowhere and told us we’d be fined.’

‘So, I jumped right back on the path again,’ my nephew added. ‘I didn’t want a fine.’

As the T-Team Next Generation, we then hiked up Walpa Gorge as far as we could go. Not far, actually. Not like the old days when we climbed to the top of the gorge and could see the “plum pudding” rock formation on the other side.

[Photo 10: The Billabong was as far as we could go © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 11: Top of Walpa Gorge back in the old days © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Valley of Winds

From Walpa Gorge, the T-Team drove along the road to the Valley of Winds. After a short hike to the vantage point, we admired the view of boulders that had taken on the formation of rounded steppingstones. A school group passed by. They chatted amongst each other entertaining us onlookers with snatches of assorted topics ranging from food, to adventures in the cold.

[Photo 11: The Valley of Winds © L.M. Kling 2013]

The Mystery of the Missing Boots

Evening and Anthony insisted on cooking sausages using the camping BBQ facilities provided. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the snags were ready. Even shared a few with the teenaged T-Lings who have hollow legs when it came to food.

Then, as the campsite descended into darkness, Anthony’s voice rose in frustration. ‘Lee-Anne, where are your boots?’

‘Boots? Why do you need my boots?’

‘You need proper hiking boots for hiking,’ he snapped. ‘How are you going to climb the Rock in your sandshoes?’

‘Not going to climb,’ I muttered.

‘Where are they? I’m sure we packed them.’

‘Maybe we didn’t,’ I bit back, then wandered off to the BBQ facilities. There I heated up milk for hot chocolate.

Later, after drinking hot chocolate, I rang Son 1 back in Adelaide. During the conversation, I said, ‘By the way, I am missing my hiking boots. Would you be able to find them and bring them up when you and your brother and Grandma come up to Alice Springs next Saturday?’

Son 1 assured me that he would.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2024

Feature Photo: The Empty Flanks of Uluru © 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 memoir,

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

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

Travel into Family History–Switzerland

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Last night, August 1, my husband’s maternal family hailing from Switzerland, we celebrated Swiss National Day. My husband’s mother was born in Basel and then grew up in Zurich. Her mother came from Wattwil, St. Gallen.

So, the family gathered at our home and enjoyed a firepit fire in the backyard.

[Photo 1: The firepit and family © L.M. Kling 2024]

Then we consumed loads of cheese and bread which is the traditional Swiss cuisine called fondue.

Now, while, for many years my husband received the accolades for being half-Swiss, when embarking on my family history journey, I discovered a solid Swiss connection and ancestry in my family tree. Not only did some of my Trudinger third or fourth cousins settle in Basel, Switzerland, (that fact I already knew from the family tree constructed by my uncle), but I found on my father’s side, a noble line stretching back in the French part of Switzerland, in Lausanne. (Familie Schammer © Reinhold Becker 1922) Although, I have to admit that Vaud, or Savoy, where those ancestors come from, only became Switzerland after Nepoleon’s invasion and influence, which was at the beginning of the Nineteenth Century.

[Photo 2: Fondue all gone © L.M. Kling 2024]

When I asked my husband where fondue was “invented”, he said that fondue comes from the French part of Switzerland. In winter, the poor farmers used their cheese and bread to make a meal—fondue.

So, in memory of all things Swiss, here’s a revisit of an earlier post when the T-K Team travelled to Switzerland in 2014.

K-Team in Switzerland—2014

Welcome with Alphorns

Sunday, August 17, the real fun began—and so did the early starts.

Up by 6am to race to Zurich Airport to meet the rest of the K-Team, Hubby’s family: his mother (Mum K) brother (P1), niece (Miss K), our son (Son 1) and his fiancé. Drove into the airport car park where Hubby became confused and drove out again and then in again. After finding a park we made our way to arrivals where an English man chatted to Hubby.

‘We’re from Australia,’ Hubby said.

The English man nodded. ‘I can tell.’

A young woman accompanied by a man dressed in Swiss costume who’d been standing next to us spoke to us. We soon established that we had been standing next to Hubby’s second cousins.

We then waited together for the K-Team fresh from Australia to roll through the arrival gate. Tired of waiting, Hubby wandered down the hallway and there near an alcove of shops, he found our weary travellers.

[Photo 1: Zurich from above © L.M. Kling 2014]

Must be the atmosphere in Zurich, or just jetlag as after greeting us, they stood around for at least an hour discussing what to do. Hubby and I took custody of their luggage and had a coffee while they lingered in the hall in suspended animation apparently organising the lease car and then debating how to change Australian dollars into Swiss Francs.

Just as I pulled my diary out to write, movement, and then we were on our way to the farm near Wattwil of Toggenburg in the Canton of St. Gallen.

There Alphorns, and cow bell ringers, and the stunning green hills and blue mountains of the Santis greeted us. Mum K shrieked and cried and hugged her relatives. Our niece exclaimed, ‘It’s all so beautiful!’

[Photo 2: Welcome with alphorns © L.M. Kling 2014]

Willing members of the K-Team tested their muscles swinging the huge cowbells, or their lungs playing the Alphorn. Some had more success than others. I escaped the test by recording the event with my camera.

[Photo 3: P1 with cow bells © L.M. Kling 2014]

 

Then a banquet of kaffee und kuchen (coffee and cake) on a balcony with the view. Perfect…until Miss K said, ‘Ugh! I have a fly in my plate.’

‘Is it doing backstroke?’ I asked.

‘It’s on its back and struggling.’

‘Oh, you have a fly!’ Mum K stabbed the fly several times with a knife. ‘There.’

‘What did you do that for?’ Miss K asked.

‘I put it out of its misery,’ Mum K said.

‘You murdered it.’

[Photo 4: View of Santis © L.M. Kling 2014]

After the insecticide incident, our hosts showed us our rooms and one of our cousins gave us instructions about the bathroom and how to place the flywire in our windows to keep out the “fleas”. She meant flies.

[Photo 5: Evening View of mountains and Hemburg © L.M. Kling 2014]

Mum K went missing. Found her in the dairy—yes, we were on a dairy farm that is still owned by the family. I was amazed that Swiss farmers have as few as ten cows and yet they make a living! Wouldn’t happen in Australia. And our hostess promised us fresh milk, dare I say it, raw milk, straight from the cow the next morning. Ah, the advantages of living on a dairy farm in Switzerland!

‘Actually,’ Hubby stated, ‘the Swiss Brown milk is known for its high fat content, so the milk is used for making cheese.’

[Photo 6: Promise of milk from the family farm cow © L.M. Kling 2014]

As the T-Team talked to their dairy-farmer cousins, in this barn for the cows, I held my nose and edged towards the door. The up-and-personal experience with the cows and their calves in their enclosures, proved too much for my senses, and I suggested, ‘Let’s go for a walk to the forest.’ I moved out of the barn, sure that my bovine-close-encounter would be used in what was at that time in 2014, a future story—The Lost World of the Wends.

From the barn, the K-Team took a ramble to Mum K’s beloved forest—a smaller forest than one she remembered from her youth, but one she recalled vividly in a novel she wrote, A Teenager Long Time Ago.

 © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014 (original); updated 2017; 2024

Feature Photo: K-Team heads for the pine forest © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014

***

Want more travel?

More Australia?

More than before?

Check out my historic and intrepid adventures with the T-Team in Central Australia…

Click the link below:

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Family History Come Travel Friday–Amsterdam

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Postcards — Amsterdam

Remember the humble postcard? My maternal grandfather used to collect them…100 years ago. This week, I’m embarking a journey into K-Team history as well as glimpsing life in the past from a postcard taken 100-years ago.

I am amazed at what one can glean from a simple card. Imagine, a postcard in 1921 cost 1-cent to post from the Netherlands! On the flip side, a tiny little script in the middle reads “nadruk verboden”(copying is forbidden). I’m hoping from my understanding of copyright laws, that this restriction has long since expired.  That being said, I acknowledge the publishers “Weekenk and Snell, den Haag” and have shared this postcard for historical and educational purposes.

So, we travel forward in time, when my husband and I visited Amsterdam at the start of our European adventures in 2014.

We arrived in Amsterdam and after breezing through customs, Hubby rang up Renault to get someone to pick us up and drive us to the Renault office to pick up the leasing car, the Duster. ‘You’ll recognise us,’ the Renault guy promised. We waited half an hour. No guy, no van. Dragging my big red suitcase, Hubby paced back and forth along the front entrance and I trailed behind him, his smaller suitcase bumping over the pavement. After 45 minutes of no joy, no guy, and no Renault van, Hubby rang Renault again. Apparently, the pickup guy had made several laps of the Airport pick up area searching for us. Hubby suggested we rendezvous by a well-known hotel near the overpass. We waited there for a couple of minutes before Hubby got itchy feet and off he went a-wandering. I began to follow and then looked back. The Renault van rolled around the corner. I ran, and with my free hand I waved at the driver getting out of the van.

[Photo 1: Another mode of transport more common in Amsterdam—bikes, lots of them © L.M. Kling 2014]

‘Yay!’ I called out.

‘I was looking for a red suitcase,’ the guy said.

I apologised for my husband’s impatience and then we waved at him as he approached.

After picking up the Duster from the office, Hubby embarked on the challenge of driving in Amsterdam on the right side of the road. He took a little while to adjust to not over-compensating and bumping into the kerb on the right. Which he did a few times.

[Photo 2: Bikes abandoned over canal © L.M. Kling 2014]

We gingerly drove the short way to the service station and after parking and hunting through the French instructions, found how to open the fuel cap. Hubby had learned French at school, so was able to decipher the information without spending too many hours trawling through the tome of a manual. So, we filled up with fuel and began our journey to our apartment. Our navigation system, a Tom-Tom which we named “Tomina” since it had a pleasant, if not slightly passive-aggressive female voice, lead us to the highway and then off the beaten track, then told us to turn around. Back where we started, Tomina said, ‘Turn right.’

‘Turn right,’ I said.

Hubby obliged by tuning left and into the highway. Cars coming from our right tooted us as we entered the highway. We had to go ‘round the block to get back on track. Then we saw that where Hubby turned was a sign that read, “No Left Turn”.

[Photo 3: Rabbits in the car park near our hotel accommodation © A.N. Kling 2014]

We found the apartments and since check-in was only from three o’clock, we had the staff hold our luggage while we explored the local station. We admired the rainbow-coloured flags that decorated the apartment block and surrounds, thinking they looked so pretty and decorative. Hungry by this time, we ate lunch, then bought a card, wine and flowers for his aunt Ada who had her birthday on the 30th July. A highlight of the trip for Hubby was visiting his aunts and cousins that afternoon. Had a lovely time meeting and getting to know his father’s relatives over coffee and cake. Some of his aunts Hubby hadn’t seen for 40 years.

[Photo 4: Motorbike racing down rich Amsterdam road © L.M. Kling 2014]

The next three days in Amsterdam we spent walking. Hubby had taken it upon himself to become my personal trainer. We must get fit. We walked the roads of Amsterdam absorbing the summertime atmosphere, admiring the canals, the graceful architecture, the boats and hundreds of bikes—everywhere people riding bikes. The town was packed with people, tourists, and revellers, eating, drinking and shopping. As it turned out, we had chosen unwittingly, I might add, to spend the weekend when Amsterdam was celebrating the Rainbow Festival. We did see some unusual sights as well as the usual antics common to drunken behaviour. My foot suffered blisters as it adapted to new hiking sandals. Good thing we had a first aid kit and some blister pads from Rogaining a couple of years ago.

[Photo 5: Canals of Amsterdam © L.M. Kling 2014]

We did the usual tourist stuff, one day five hours in the Reich Museum, next day lining up and herding through the Van Gough museum-art gallery, and then an hour cruise through the canals. We had a 24-hour pass so we could hop on and off certain trams around the city. One tram though, decided to close its doors on me as I tried to get off leaving Hubby abandoned on the footpath. I alighted at the next tram stop around the corner and walked back. What joy to see my husband walking towards me.

[Photo 6 & 7: Canal cruising © L.M. Kling 2014]

Although we mostly ate at our apartment, the last day in Amsterdam we enjoyed pancake with apple and honey for lunch, and for dinner Argentinian steak—tender juicy steak. I’m not sure what it is about Argentinian steak houses, but in Amsterdam, they’re everywhere.

[Photo 8: Crowded Streets of Amsterdam © L.M. Kling 2014]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014; updated 2020; 2024

Feature Photo: Postcard of Amsterdam, Kalverstraat © Weenenk & Snel, den Haag circa 1920.

***

And now, for something different…from Europe…

Dreaming of an Aussie Outback Adventure?

Click on the links below:

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

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 Centre of Australia 1981…

Travelling Friday–T-Team Next Generation (3)

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[Over ten 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 weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to relive and rekindle memories of our travel adventures. This time again to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.]

Yulara

Sunday 7 July 2013

Creature Comforts

Anthony tore off the tarpaulin and then, armed with the foldable shovel, stomped off in the direction of the bushes.

In the harsh light of morning, the scene into which we were brought under the shroud of darkness last night, was revealed. Road trains thundered past on the nearby Sturt Highway. On the opposite side of the road, a couple of these road-monsters basked in the golden rays of the rising sun. Camper vans and caravans crowded the free camping area.

*[Photo 1 and Feature: Early morning road train onslaught © L.M. Kling 2013]

I pottered around the wire fence that protected us from the Adelaide to Darwin rail line. I did not fancy an oncoming Ghan crushing me. Toilet paper littered the stony ground, shreds of it caught in the barbed wire of the fence, and nests of it rested under the salt bush. I gingerly picked up an armful of wood scraps. Hope it wasn’t contaminated.

Anthony returned from his morning adventure; a frown fixed on his face.

*[Photo 2: Our free “camping” accommodation © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘How did you sleep, dear?’ I asked.

‘Not good, I didn’t sleep a wink.’ He pointed his shovel at the quiet mound resembling my brother and wife. ‘I had a chorus of snorers keeping me awake all night.’ He then glared at my pitiful gathering of sticks. ‘What’s that?’

‘Sticks for a cooking fire.’

My husband rolled his eyes. ‘And where are you going to put that?’

‘Where there’s a clear space.’

‘Good luck.’ He sniffed. ‘There was nowhere even to do my business. I had to walk miles.’ Anthony loves to exaggerate. ‘I can’t believe people don’t cover their mess.’

My nephew came jogging up to us. ‘I want a fire. Where’s the campfire? It’s freezing.’

I glanced around. Spying a clear patch of ground, I announced, ‘Here, I’m getting it started now.’

‘Watch out for any poo. This place is full of it,’ Anthony said.

My nephew chuckled. ‘We’ll use it as fuel, Uncle Anthony.’

Anthony shuddered. ‘Won’t be eating anything from that fire, then.’

I bent down, then cleared stones away to create a shallow basin to make the fire. Soon a small but functional campfire crackled away. Perched on top of the coals, a billy bubbled with boiling water.

Anthony sat some distance from the fire munching on his cereal. There was no way he’d get close to the fire. After all, who know what lies beneath or nearby, on the ground in this part of the world, unregulated by OC Health and Safety.

*[Photo 3: Fire master Anthony © L.M. Kling 2013]

My nephew fried eggs on a frypan on that small but adequate fire.

The free camping site slowly emptied itself of vehicles. First, the trucks disappeared. Then, the Grey nomads, and their luxury on wheels vanished. I imagined they had left once the sun had peeped over the horizon. The caravans had gone too. Just us, the not so grey T-Team stumbled around the parking bay, slowly packing up bedding, wandering beyond in search of a bush in lieu of a toilet, and then gulping down breakfast.

I picked up a stray piece of wood for the fire. A poopy looked up at me. I recoiled. ‘Ee-yew!’

To avoid the inevitable “told you so” from Anthony, my nephew and I announced the fire a success, doused it and covered the remains with dirt.

‘Time to go!’ Mrs. T yelled. ‘Next stop Marla.’

‘What?’ Richard, my brother asked. ‘That’s only about twenty kilometres away.’

‘There’s no way I’m squatting anywhere ‘round here. It’s a tip!’ his wife replied.

*[Photo 4: Making progress; SA-NT Border gathering of T-Team, Next Gen © L.M. Kling 2013]
*[Photo 5: T-Team Climbing the Wall, SA-NT border © L.M. Kling 2013]

So, after a day of driving with the quick toilet stop at Marla, an obligatory exploration and photo stop at the South Australian—Northern Territory border, and then a petrol pause at Erldunda, we turned down the Lassiter Highway to Uluru.

We travelled in convoy on this perfect sunny day. Anthony’s mood seemed to thaw, and he was happy to take the wheel while I filmed parts of the drive with my Dad’s digital movie camera. The bold purple mesa, Mt Conner emerged above the rusty-coloured sand dunes.

We parked at the viewing station to take a photo of this spectacular landform. Some of the T-Party took advantage of the facilities. I had in mind to follow them. But as I approached the wooden huts, the stench and surrounds thick with flies buzzing, made me turn back to the car. I decided to hold on until we reached the Yulara camping ground.

*[Photo 6: Mt. Conner in the afternoon light © L.M. Kling 2013]

The stretch to Yulara wowed us with tantalising glimpses of the rock, in shades of mauve peeping through the waves of low sand dunes and desert oaks.

*[Photo 7: Glimpses of Uluru © L.M. Kling 2013]

We reached the Yulara Camping Ground which lies just outside the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. Then, we had to wait in line to register and pay for our camping allotment.

Anthony drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and muttered, ‘Unbelievable! Hope we’re not too late.’

‘No wonder the grey nomads left early,’ I joked. ‘Anyway, I thought we’d booked.’

‘You know what thought did.’

Yep, after no sleep and all the driving, Anthony was not happy. Fortunately, though, our sites were still there and after tolerating the queues, we paid our fees and were directed to our adjoining grassy patches near the edge of Yulara. Not too distant were the toilet/shower blocks. As soon as we had parked, I made a beeline for these creature comforts.

Anthony set up our barely used 4-man tent with only the bare minimum help from me. Must remember that the thick pole has to go at the front and the thin pole next in line. While Anthony hammered in the tent pegs to secure the tent, I stood holding the pole and watching my brother’s family battle in the construction of their new tent. Five of them, twisting and turning, standing and sitting, lifting walls and dropping them, labouring at snail’s pace to build their tent.

*[Photo 8: Our tent and campsite in the Flinders Ranges 2007 © L.M. Kling 2007]

‘Amazing,’ I remarked, ‘Their tent needs five people to build it and you’ve put ours up by yourself, Anthony.’

Anthony looked over at the T-Team and grunted, ‘Well, since I put up the tent, you can cook tea.’

This I did, using our portable camp stove. Signs all about the camping ground warned that there would be consequences, a fine for making one’s own personal campfire. The BBQ facilities opposite our campsite were monopolised by other campers.

As I stirred the spaghetti sauce, Anthony walked up to me and narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you using that for? Can’t you see?’ He pointed at the now vacant BBQ stands.

‘They weren’t available when I started,’ I replied. ‘Too late now, tea is almost ready.’

Later, I tried boiling water on the stoves that Anthony preferred. I stood, hovering over the billy of water, watching and waiting for something to happen for twenty, then thirty minutes.

*[Photo 9: Billies boiling on fire—Ah, those were the days when campers could have their own fires © L.M. Kling 1989]

Anthony marched over to me. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Waiting for the water to boil.’

We waited another twenty minutes in the icy cold darkness. ‘Seems that it’s too cold for the water to boil,’ I concluded.

Anthony and I sauntered over to the T-Team’s camp. Richard invited us to play cards and enjoy a hot drink. My brother had hooked up lights and electric cooking facilities courtesy of an inverter/generator which he had brought along for the trip. My brother connected the inverter to a spare car battery which was charged as the car travelled, and voila, the T-team had light, and their own personal electric cooking facilities.

Beyond, on route to the shower block was a communal fire pit. But on our first night in Yulara, no one was taking advantage of that.

*[Photo 10: Stories around the Campfire © L.M. Kling 2017]

I pondered that with a bit of distance between us and the snoring T-Team, perhaps Anthony will sleep more soundly this night.

[to be continued…next chapter, The Awe of Uluru]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; Updated 2024

Feature Photo: Mt. Conner © 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 (Australia)

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977 [United States)

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

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

Family History Friday–Family Mythology

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The Deep Fake of Family “Myth-ory”

Gaslighting—it’s something we believe is a modern practice, AI generated. But, in truth, fudging the truth is as old as history itself.


You could say that creating one’s own reality is a global pastime and no one is immune to it. As humans, we interpret, or mis-interpret the world around us through our experiences, what we see, hear, taste and touch. We use our worldviews to form our identity and place in the world and to serve as a personal force-field to protect our beliefs. Our personal paradigm helps us navigate our way through life, predicting the challenges life may throw at us.


It is fair to say that our worldviews are limited, and often skewed as we encounter the worlds of others. Naturally, we believe our truth is the one and only way. To feel secure, we impose our version of reality on others. We are right. They are wrong.


Have you ever had the experience where someone reckons you said a certain thing, but you’re sure you didn’t? I have had friends “quote me”, attributing wise words to me, and I have no idea I’d ever said that. Wish I had. Maybe I had; I just can’t remember. Either way, our respective worldviews have filtered facts in and screened information out.

*[Photo 1: Sculpture in courtyard of Basel Kunst Museum © L.M. Kling 2014]

Anyway, the same can be said for our own personal family history. I remember reading an article in a Genealogy magazine about family myths and to be wary of them. It’s not enough to believe a story, a narrative. Good research requires facts, preferably primary resources.


With this in mind, I have been researching on the internet, the history of Nördlingen and the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sönne. Did my Trüdinger ancestors own it for two hundred years, as my relatives have been led to believe? It wasn’t our branch as my great-grandfather Karl August Trüdinger and family emigrated from Bavaria to England in the 1860’s, and then from England to Australia in 1886. He was a textile merchant trading in wool in Yorkshire England and then in Australia he set up a business selling textiles in Adelaide city. Now, here again, the details get a bit murky, and I need to do some more research into the actual work history of Karl August in Adelaide. Suffice to say, from my gleaning of Trove, Karl August was a fine Christian family man who together with his wife Clara Theresa, raised eight of his twelve surviving children to enter the mission field. Vastly different from the family origins in Nördlingen who were apparently rich and influential enough to own the hotel that entertained royalty.

[Photo 2: Trudinger Family in Adelaide, South Australia courtesy L.M. Kling circa 1890]


Yet, as I delved deeper into the rabbit-hole of internet searches, I discovered that my four-times great grandfather, Balthas Trüdinger was a soldier in the Teutonic order. Why else was he living in Lierheim (a castle near Nördlingen) which at the time was owned by the Teutonic order? Oh, the shame that this brought on the family, having a mercenary soldier in their ranks! Another myth. Sure, Balthas was a soldier. Sure, as a soldier in the Teutonic Order he was paid. But was the Teutonic Order so bad?
When I first mentioned the fact of Balthas belonging to the Teutonic Order, my son and husband joked that he was most certainly a neo-Nazi of his time. I began to imagine Balthas all buff, shaved head and going around on crusades killing anyone who wasn’t Christian. According to my research, Wikipedia, mainly, Hitler portrayed the Teutonic Order as the exemplar of the Aryan race and cause.
Again, this was a myth. As soon as Hitler had achieved his purpose using them, he then turned against them and discarded the Teutonic Order.

*[Photo 3: Reminders of war, Dinkelsbuhl © L.M. Kling 2014]


According to my limited research, although the Teutonic Order went on Crusades to Christianise Europe, and paid mercenaries to fight, they also did a great deal of good. Way back when they formed in 1191, they protected travellers making their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They organised and built hospitals, initially for wounded soldiers and these days the order is primarily a charitable organisation.
Anyway, it would seem from the records compiled from my uncle Ron Trudinger, that Balthas didn’t stay in Lierheim, but, after the birth of his son Georg, he moved to Nördlingen. Here, no mention of Georg being an innkeeper, but instead a linen weaver and Burgermeister of the town.


From a research paper on Nördlingen in the 17th Century called Early Capitalism and its Enemies: The Wörner Family and the Weavers of Nördlingen* (Published online by Cambridge University Press: 11 June 2012) which I accessed online through Jastor, I was able to surmise that for Georg to become the Mayor of Nördlingen, he would’ve needed to be seriously cashed up. I mean rich, one of the wealthiest in the town, if not, the wealthiest. It would seem he landed on his feet so to speak as a linen weaver or had come into a sizable inheritance. Or, had he or his father married into money in the town? The owner of the hotel, perhaps?

*[Photo 4: Unbroken Wall of Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014]

Nowhere in my gleanings on the town do I see that he was the innkeeper or owner of Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne. The above-mentioned article had a breakdown of income, which I presume was yearly, of people in the town. According to a study accessed online called “Nordlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war”, in 1700, the owner of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne had the highest income of all, a salary of 41 Florin. A teacher at the time received one to four Florin per year. And a soldier, which is what Georg’s father, Balthas was, received eleven Florin per year.

[Photo 5: Red rooves of Nördlingen made famous by the movie “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” © L.M. Kling 2014]

Again, as far as the Trüdinger family is concerned, it’s all conjecture and where myths start to grow and take a life of their own.

One thing for certain, though, is that in family history, experiences that family members have had hold weight for evidence. After all, they are the life-experience of that person and from their point of view. My second cousin, who married a German, and lived in Bavaria, decided to visit the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne in the 1960s. Family there living in Germany, informed her that a Trüdinger relative owned the hotel. Upon seeing the hotel, my second cousin was impressed by how high-class it was with fancy décor and loads of antique furniture. The food offered was out of her budget, but my second cousin tried to talk to her hotel-owning relative.


The encounter didn’t progress the way my cousin had hoped. Although my second cousin could speak fluent German, the hotel owner seemed distant and appeared reluctant to engage with her. Maybe, the lady was having a difficult day…Or hadn’t been given enough warning that a cousin was going to visit the hotel unannounced.


My second cousin left the establishment and decided to eat elsewhere.

*[Photo 6: Our experience dining at Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne, Nördlingen © A.N. Kling 2014]


When we visited my second cousin in Germany, she told me this story and mentioned that by the end of the 1960s the Trüdinger relatives had sold the hotel. She believed that the hotel had been in the family for 200 years.


I am still trying to figure out if this a fact, or if it is a myth.


Do you or someone you know have information on the history of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne Nördlingen? Are you related to the Trüdinger family? You are most welcome to leave a comment. Or you may contact me through the My Heritage Trudinger-Kling website.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024: updated 2026
*Feature photo: Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne, Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014

References
Teutonic Order – Wikipedia
Nördlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war

***

Want more, but different?

Check out my Central Australian adventures.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Travelling Friday–T-Team Next Gen: Coober Pedy

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Saturday 6-7-13

Coober Pedy

Meet by the Monument. What monument?

[Day 2 of the T-Team Next Gen’s pilgrimage to Central Australia to scatter Dad’s ashes…]

Mambray Creek greeted us with a picture-perfect morning; a morning that, in years to come, we could boast about to the T-Team who missed it in all its delicate beauty. Kookaburras announced the sunrise with their manic laughter. Parrots chattered in the trees. The air was calm, but not too cold.  And the shower in the stone toilet block was warm and refreshing. I wondered where the MB (My Brother) component of the T-Team had camped. If they had camped. And if they’d enjoyed a warm shower in the morning.

[Photo 1: Morning glow at Mambray Creek © L.M. Kling 2013]

When I returned from my shower, Hubby was busy sizzling chops on the portable butane gas cooker. The aroma drew me in and soon I enjoyed lamb chop sandwich for breakfast.

[Photo 2: Hubby with cooked lamb chops © L.M. Kling 2013]

Then we were packed and ready to hit the road to Coober Pedy by 9.30am. The plan, meet the rest of the T-Team at Coober Pedy.

[Photo 3: A magpie wanted some chops too. Mambray Creek © L.M. Kling 2013]

On the way, we stopped in at Port Augusta where we bought those inevitable forgotten items such as a wooden board and soap. Now, if I hadn’t had a shower that morning…and if Hubby hadn’t cooked breakfast…

We then commenced the journey on the Stuart Highway, flat, straight, gibber plains each side and the white dividing line disappearing into the distance. Hubby was happy to tackle this new kind of boring.

[Photo 4: Start of the Stuart Highway. Goodbye, Flinders Ranges © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Hubby’s phone tingled breaking the monotony at 11am. My niece informed us that the T-Team had already reached Coober Pedy.

‘They must’ve driven most of the night,’ Hubby remarked.

I had visions of MB and co not sleeping until they were on the outskirts of Coober Pedy.

As the phone reception was seriously patchy, the bare amount of information was exchanged. Arrangements were made to meet at the monument when we arrived. They would be spending the day at Coober Pedy, enjoying the sights and attractions of this mining town.

We continued our trek towards Coober Pedy, obeying the speed limit of 100km per hour. The Gibber Plains sparkled like silver. I took some photos of the gibber when we had a short break.

[Photo 5: Gibber Plains by the Stuart Highway © L.M. Kling 2013]

Six hours after the T-Team had called us, we arrived in Coober Pedy. In an effort to find the agreed monument, we took a scenic tour of Coober Pedy and its grid of streets. No Monument. No T-Team.

‘What does this monument look like?’ Hubby asked.

I shrugged. ‘Like a monument.’ I had a vague recollection from my youth and the T-Team’s trek with Mr. B in 1977. MB and I had our photos taken by this so-called monument, or on this monument. But finding something that resembled the fuzzy memory in my mind? Nup, not today.

I rang my niece. ‘Where are you?’

‘We’re at the playground with the giant tyres,’ she replied. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s the first thing you see when you enter Coober Pedy.’

‘We’re having a barbeque!’ Mrs. T yelled.

‘Where are they?’ Hubby asked.

‘The playground near the entry of Coober Pedy,’ I said, ‘We must’ve driven right past them.’

‘How could you miss them?’ Hubby snapped. ‘Are you blind?’

‘Must’ve been in a parallel universe,’ I muttered. Sure, there was no one there when we drove into the town.

[Photo 6: Had they fallen down a mine shaft? The many mine shafts on the outskirts of the opal mining town, Coober Pedy © S.O. Gross 1955]

Hubby wound his way through the straight streets to the playground with the tyres. He glanced at the giant tyre structure. ‘Did you mean this monument?’

‘I don’t know, but obviously the MB did.’ I pointed. ‘There they are.’

MB was fiddling with the barbeque hotplates while Mrs. T stood behind him with a packet of sausages. The T-ling girls played on the swings, while the boy sat in the van, eyes glued to his iPad. A sign near the picnic area warned that the barbeque was only to be used during daylight. The sun hovered just above the horizon.

Over sizzling sausages, Mrs. T apologised for deserting us. But she just wanted to reach Coober Pedy and spend the day there. We had planned to explore Coober Pedy on our way back, after spending a night camping there. However, Mrs. T had a sense that plans at the end of the trip may not work out and wanted to get Coober Pedy in on the way up to Central Australia.

[Photo 7: Opal from Coober Pedy cut by Hubby’s Omi (grandma) © L.M. Kling 2018]

‘Did you get any sleep?’ I asked.

‘We parked in some parking bay, just outside of the town,’ MB said.

‘It was terrible!’ the younger niece said. ‘We were all cramped in the van, and we got no sleep at all.’

‘Mum kept kicking me in the head,’ my nephew cried.

‘You were snoring!’ Mrs. T bit back.

‘No, I wasn’t. You were!’ Nephew laughed. ‘I was just imitating you.’

‘Yeah, the kids were pretty cranky that we didn’t stay at Mambray Creek,’ MB whispered to me.

‘Yeah, but, who wanted to have KFC at Port Augusta? Hmm?’ Mrs. T didn’t miss a trick. ‘I wasn’t going to go backwards once we had takeaway and had gone as far as Port Augusta.’

[Photo 8: More Stuart Highway, more gibber plain © L.M. Kling 2013]

In darkness we drove endless kilometres to some elusive free parking bay. Mrs. T’s dream was to sleep under the stars, just as the T-Team in 1981 had done. In the pitch blackness of night, about 9 – 10pm, we settled in a spare patch in an already crowded free parking area.

On the unforgiving stony surface, MB and wife constructed their questionable number of star accommodation of raised camp bed, piles of doonas topped with a tarpaulin. A little distance from them, actually, right next door, Hubby and I arranged our bedding on that rocky ground covered by tarpaulin then blow-up mattress. We had no camp bed, but we had our minus five sleeping bags in which to wrap ourselves. We also covered our swaddled selves with another tarpaulin. Hubby grumbled about this, but he had no choice; the ground was too hard to hammer tent pins in.

[Photo 9: Free camping and our questionable number of star accommodation © L.M. Kling 2013]

The T-lings opted to sleep in the van.

My nephew chuckled. ‘At least I won’t have mum’s foot in my face. I should get some sleep.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Photo: Those Gibber Plains © 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. (Australia)

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

T-Team Next Generation–The Convoy…

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Trekking With the T-Team, Next Generation:

Central Australia Convoy 2013

[More than ten 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 monthly Travel Fridays, 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. Then, it’s about time I put this story together into a book.]

Friday 5 July, 2013

The Convoy that Never Was

T-Team Next Generation’s convoy to Central Australia only took six hours to fragment and evaporate.

The said convoy consisted of Brother T’s family Mistubishi van containing my brother (Dad), Mrs. T (Mum), and three Teen-Lings (one boy, two girls), and Mum T’s trusty Ford Falcon Station wagon with Hubby and me. Mum T with our sons (S1 and S2) would be joining us in approximately a week’s time, flying up by plane to Alice Springs.

That was the plan.

With camping at Mambray Creek in the Flinders Ranges in mind, the T-Team Next Generation Convoy, took a recess break at Port Pirie where Mrs. T checked out a craft shop. Nearby, what appeared to be a church, was in fact a Barnacle bills Family Seafood Restaurant. Mrs. T, armed with crafting supplies, allowed the convoy to continue. But thoughts of an easy takeaway had been planted in some of the T-Team Next Generation’s minds.

[Photo 1: Crafty Stop at Port Pirie © L.M. Kling 2013]

Then, there was the obligatory stop at Port Germein. For Brother T and friends who frequented the Flinders Ranges, a pause in the trip at Port Germein was tradition. Although the sun was fast sinking below the horizon, we braved the brisk winter air and took a stroll up the longest jetty in the Southern hemisphere.

[Photo 2: Dancing by the Port Germein Jetty in times gone past ©L.M. Kling 1984]
[Photo 3: Port Germein Jetty stretching into the distance © L.M. Kling 2013]

And so, at 6.30pm and in darkness, Hubby and I turned off to Mambray Creek…

And Brother’s team, driven by Mrs. T…didn’t.

I fumbled for my mobile and called MB. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Mrs. T’s decided to keep on going,’ my brother sighed. ‘Once she makes up her mind, you don’t argue with her. Besides, the kids want Hungry Jacks for tea a Port Augusta, they have vouchers.’

Hubby had made up his mind. We weren’t about to follow. We’d be camping at Mambray Creek and would continue our journey north fresh after a good night’s sleep. In the morning. After all, they promised to catch up with us in Coober Pedy; we had mobile phones to keep in contact, after all.

[Photo 4: Mambray Creek towards sunset © L.M. Kling 2018]

Despite the darkness, Hubby managed to set up the two-man tent in minutes. Then, although suffering the pangs of disappointment, we downed a light tea of bread, with packet soup and hot chocolate using water boiled from Hubby’s eco billy. ‘We’ll have the chops when there’s more light,’ I said, ‘in the morning.’

[Photo 5: Our trusty two-man tent on a previous visit to Mambray Creek © L.M. Kling 2005]

‘Now, to see if these minus-five sleeping bags keep us warm in the desert.’ Hubby snuggled into our co-joined sleeping bag. ‘Did I ever tell you how when camping with my family in the Flinders, I had to sleep in a cotton sleeping bag? It was freezing!’

[Photo 6: K-Team appearing suitably chilled in the Flinders Ranges © N. Kling 1982]

To which I replied, ‘Yes. But when the T-Team were in the Musgrave Ranges, it was so cold…’

[Photo 7: Chill in the morning near Mt. Woodroffe, Musgrave Ranges © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]

I looked over to Hubby’s side. Was he snoring? I snuggled close to him. I guess for him, this minus-five sleeping bag passed the test.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2024

Feature Photo: Approaching Darkness at Port Germein © 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. (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]

Travel on Friday–Schwarzwald (Black Forest) and Alsace…

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Virtually Revisited

[Over ten years ago, we visited the Black Forest, Germany and the following day the Alsace where we walked through the remains of the battlefield between the Germans and the French.]

The Battle of the Tom Tom in the Black Forest

Friday August 8, 2014, we braved the German highways and byways (our Tom Tom has a tendency to lead us astray down byways) and made our way via the scenic/economic route (thanks to Tom Tom) to Badenweiler on the edge of the Black Forest. My relatives, invited us to stay with them in beautiful Badenweiler. When we called them at lunchtime, our estimated time of arrival was 3.00pm. But, after Tom Tom had finished executing her agenda, we arrived at 4.30pm. I think Tom Tom was enjoying the quaint narrow roads and geranium garnished buildings, but we weren’t as we stressed driving down narrow lanes narrowly missing oncoming traffic. What joy to arrive—in one piece—and enjoyed good southern German hospitality and the kaffe und kuchen on the balcony overlooking their garden, then a balmy summer evening walk in the town.

[Photo 1: View of Badenweiler © A.N. Kling 2014]

Next morning, Anthony and I went bather shopping in the town. My cousin explained that Badenweiler was known for its warm summers and mild winters, so we must swim in the thermal pools while we were in Badenweiler. But, how could we bathe in the thermal pools if we didn’t have bathers? Some Germans do in the Roman baths but not us modest Aussies.

I entered the hairdressers who had a rack of bathing costumes displayed in the front of the shop. I asked the manageress if she spoke English. No, she didn’t. But somehow, I managed to understand enough German to select, try on and buy a pair of bathers. I couldn’t fault the German quality, style and service.

125 Euros less in our bank account later, Anthony then entered the store next door for men’s bathers. The man who owned the shop could speak English. ‘Did you forget yours? You know I make a good trade. At least 20% of the French who come here forget their bathers and I guess Australians do too.’

‘Yes, I did,’ Anthony replied. He then selected a pair—mini lycra pants. At least they weren’t budgie smugglers—Anthony avoided those ones.

[Photo 2: The Black Forest © L.M. Kling 2014]

After lunch we climbed a local mountain Hoch Blauen which is just a little higher than our (Adelaide’s) local rise, Mount Lofty, well 1165m really. Cousins told their son we’d be back by 6pm. We trudged up the gentle slope. I hadn’t climbed any mountains in years and like the tortoise ambled behind the others. Every so often they stopped for me to catch up.

‘Are you alright?’ they asked.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘We can stop and go back any time.’

‘No, I’m fine.’

We reached a hut with a table and bench seats. While I drank water, the others ate croissants.

[Photo 3: Resting on way up © L.M. Kling 2014]

I gazed at the hillside covered with pine trees. Surely the top isn’t far. We set off again.

‘Look, Lee-Anne, some level ground,’ Anthony said.

But not for long and worse, a sign indicated another 4km to the summit.

[Photo 4: Basel visible from the summit © A.N. Kling 2014]

After a saddle, the slope grew steeper. But I soldiered on with the occasional stop to take snapshots of the forest, and the distant mountains. After plodding for what seemed an eternity, we reached the summit. I scrambled to a seat to sit and recover. Anthony still had energy to climb a tower. Basel was visible from there.

‘Oh, you must go to the guest house,’ my cousin said.

‘Nup, I’m not moving,’ I said.

But later, tempted by the panoramic view and a man floating in the sky with a parachute, I joined Anthony in a final trek to the guest house.

[Photo 5 and feature: Vista with paraglider © L.M. Kling 2014]

The return hike took half the time and effort. We arrived back at the house at 8pm.

Sunday, August 10, Anthony and I relaxed our weary muscles in the thermal pool. I sun baked and napped on the deck chairs provided.

Remembering a Battle 100 years ago

Monday, August 11, our hosts took us over the border to France. Their Sat Nav like the Tom Tom, lead us on a scenic and highland tour. They stopped to ask French farmer who directed us to drive further up the mountain. Our driver reversed his Rover, and asked another farmer raking leaves off the road. Yes, this was the right road.

[Photo 6: The farmhouse restaurant in Alsace © L.M. Kling 2014]

My cousin drove the vehicle around the tight bends, and narrow alpine road. Great scenery, mountains like waves, rising and falling in the distance. Finally, civilisation—a cheese house. Again, directions were sought. Yes, just up and around the summit, the ‘La Grand Ballon’ at ~1400m. And…yes, up and around the peak, the farmhouse restaurant…and we were on time. I savoured an entrée of goat’s cheese on herb toast and then beef with mashed potato.

Then a quiet and meditative walk through the trenches of the French-German front of WW1.

Hard to believe the carnage. It’s so peaceful and what remains is overgrown with ferns, plants and trees.

[Photo 7: French WWI gravesite in the Alsace © L.M. Kling 2014]
[Photo 8: Overgrown fortress © L.M. Kling 2014]
Photo 9: Overgrown mementos © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014

Tuesday August 12, we left Badenweiler, to contend with trucks, road works, traffic jams in Freiburg, and our wayward Tom Tom to find our way to Burgau in Bavaria. Our Tom Tom led us right to a dead end of road works, just five kilometres from Burgau. Anthony managed to find our way around the “dud” roundabout exit and we arrived ten minutes after I rang the manager to say we’d arrive in half an hour.

[Photo 10: Our half an hour in Freiburg © L.M. Kling 2014]

[Read about the battle with the Tom Tom continuing in Bavaria— click on the link here.]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014; updated 2020; 2024; 2026

Feature Photo: Paraglider launching off the Hoch Blauen

***

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:

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari

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

Final Trek Friday–T-Team Next Gen

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Woomera, Then Home (part 2)

[I never actually finished the story of the T-Team, Next Generation’s adventures in Central Australia in 2013. So, here is the final chapter in the series. Next month, I will commence the journey at the beginning, as I revisit our journey to scatter my dad’s ashes in Central Australia eleven years ago.]

Woomera II and the Final Leg of our Journey

In the cool crisp morning, sun shining lemon yellow rays but not much warmth, we strolled around the Woomera Rocket Museum. Rockets of all shapes and configurations stood in the open-air, testimony of what once was. This RAAF Base and village was once a lively town in the 1950’s and 60’s, as an Anglo-Australian Cold War defence project. On this day Saturday July 20, 2013, the place seemed a mere shell of its former self, a cemetery of what once was, rockets rising like giant tombstones to the sky.

We meandered around the rockets, reading signs, eulogies from the past when threats from enemy nations was imminent. I was reminded of older friends telling me of a time when they practised drills of hiding under their school desk in the event of enemy attack.

*[Photo 1: Monument, A Rocket at Woomera © L.M. Kling 2013]

My mother recalled when on February 19, 1942, Darwin was bombed. She was a girl in Hermannsburg at the time and whenever a plane flew over, the Aranda women would wail, fearing disaster.

*[Photo 2: Twists and turns © L.M. Kling 2013]

Now, Hermannsburg was a mission set up by German missionaries in 1877. Although, by the 1940’s the mission was fair dinkum Australian having existed in Australia for all that time, with the advent of World War II and the conflict with Germany, the name, being German, raised the suspicions of the Allies. Hence, Mum remembers British Officers* drove into Hermannsburg to check the place out. They had to make sure there were no German spies. My grandpa, Pastor Sam Gross and his wife (my grandma) hosted these officers and put on a lovely spread of lunch for them.

[Photo 3: The Hermannsburg welcome Spread © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

After investigating any mitigating threats, the British Officers* drove away in their propeller plane satisfied that Hermannsburg was no threat. Never-the-less, they confiscated the one and only link to civilisation, the community pedal radio. Just in case they really were spies, I guess. Further, to make sure that no threat to the allies arose from this humble mission, they sent Rex Batterbee, a world War I veteran, to oversee the mission in the role of “protector of the aborigines”. As he had visited and then lived in Central Australia since the mid-1930’s, Rex taught Albert Namatjira to paint watercolours and helped him launch his career as a renowned artist.

*[Photo 4: Albert Namatjira at work © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

Homeward Bound

Needless to say, in 2013, such threats of foreign enemies seemed in the distant past. But, being only 446 km from our home town, Adelaide, we were reluctant to linger amongst the rockets. Having packed, and checked out of our overnight accommodation, we were eager to start our journey home.

At a steady 90 km/h, we made progress down the highway that split the gibber plains in halves.

‘I bet the T-Team (my brother’s family) are home by now,’ I said. ‘No hanging around of taking time to look at any more places for them.’

‘Why don’t you ring them just to see where they’re at,’ my hubby said.

I texted my niece. The time was 10:30am.

“We are in Port Augusta,” she replied by text.

‘There’s no way we’ll catch up to them,’ I said, and then texted back, “Have a safe trip home.”

*[Photo 5: Off we go over the gibber plains © L.M. Kling 2013]

Clouds and rain descended on the land the further we drove south. By the time we reached Port Wakefield, the cold had seeped into the car. I put my parka on my legs to keep warm. Yet, for lunch Hubby insisted we eat alfresco in the rotunda at Port Wakefield. After all, despite his aversion to the cold, he needed to stretch his legs. Plus, it seemed no café existed in the town.

The rain and cold became more intense as we approached Adelaide. After driving through the grey, sodden streets, we arrived home, just as darkness fell at 5:30pm.

What disaster awaited us?

Hubby opened the door and we trod inside. Son 1 played a computer game on the PC in the dining/living annex. He ignored us. We tiptoed through the family room. Not too much mess and the carpet remained visible, and clean.

We found Son 2 all rugged up and cosy in his room playing World of Warcraft. He said, “Hello” and then asked for a coffee, then followed the conversation up with, “I’m hungry, what’s for tea?”

In the kitchen, as I prepared a drink, I noticed the dishes had been done and the cats fed. I thanked Son 1 for the effort. He took all the glory and remarked that his brother had done nothing.

The Aftermath

There’s always casualties that follow every holiday. And this one was no different. Two paintings which I had planned to exhibit in the upcoming Marion Art Group exhibition had gone AWOL. I’d like to think they were stolen…but I reckon they would be found in some odd place sometime in the future.

*[Painting: Dad’s resting place, Ormiston Gorge © L.M. Kling 2018]

Eleven years hence as I write this final chapter, I wonder what paintings they were.

Oh, and the other casualty, Hubby, who proudly exalted that he had taken thousands of photos of the Central Australian trip on his mobile phone, can no longer find where those photos went. It would seem those photos went AWOL too.

As for the T-Team, they actually arrived home after us, having spent a night at Port Germaine. They decided to treat themselves after roughing it for the past two weeks.

*[Photo 6: Port Germaine Jetty © L.M. Kling 2024]

***

Note: *My mum, Mrs. T checked this and questioned whether they were British. She thinks they were more likely to be Australian. However, I have read a letter written by these officers and the words they used made them sound British. When I find the letter, I will investigate the background of the visiting officers and plan to write a more detailed account of my grandparent’s experience.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Photo: Woomera Open-air Museum in the morning © L.M. Kling 2013

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