Memoir

The T-Team With Mr. B–Free, Free, Free!

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[The last few months The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977, prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981 has been available on Amazon.  However, this platform, in an attempt to weed out “fake reviews” makes the down-to-earth honest customers jump through an inordinate number of hoops to give a comment on an author’s work. Most give up.

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. B who 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.

*[Photo 1: Road Train at dawn © L.M. Kling 2013]

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.

[Photo 2: A future visit to the school at Indulkana © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]

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.

*[Photo 3: Tucking into some lunch. Rick always did like his food. © C.D. Trudinger 1986]

‘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.

*[Photo 4: The Central Australian terrain. But where’s the game? © C.D. Trudinger 1986]

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.’

*[Photo 5: Camping near mini-Uluru © C.D. Trudinger 1986]

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.

[Photo 6: Dreams of sleeping in the warmth and comfort on the river bed under kangaroo skin blankets © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

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.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2022; updated 2023

*Feature Photo: T-Team with Mr. B book cover © L.M. Kling 2023

***

The T-Team with Mr. B

Free from 29 October 2023 until 2 November 2023

Read the whole story of the T-Team’s adventures with Mr. B

Click on the link:

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

***

Want more?

More than before?

Join the adventure with the T-Team, click on the link below:

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981 

Trekking Thursday–Way out West

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Lost on Liebig (2)

[While Mr. B and his son, Matt stayed back at camp, three of the T-Team faced the challenge of climbing Mt. Liebig. And finding their way down. After a successful climb (except for the lost quart can) to summit Mt. Liebig, (Read Part 1 of this adventure), the T-Team lose their way…]

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

The T-Team Lost

We heard a blood-curdling scream.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Rick, I hope he’s alright.’

We scrambled down the last of the gully and ran along the ridge in the direction of Rick’s cries.

Rick rose above the mounds of spinifex rubbing his behind.

[Photo 1: Surveying the descent © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

‘Are you okay?’ I fought my way through the prickly barbs to my brother.

‘I’m fine, except I fell, bottom first in the spinifex.’

‘Oh, so it’s just a false alarm then, we thought you were really hurt,’ I said. His scream was worse than the prickly bushes’ sting.

‘Well, I’m going to avoid any more painful encounters,’ he said and with that he stomped away from me and within minutes, drifted out of view.

[Photo 2: Dangerous descent as far as Rick and spinifex is concerned © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

We also diverged. Dad was confident that all gullies lead to the big one at the base of the slope. ‘Ah, well! We will meet Rick in the gully below,’ he assured me.

But contrary to Dad’s prediction, we did not meet Rick. I could not help thinking, this was not the first time as far as Rick was concerned. We’d already lost him in the sand dunes near Uluru. Almost.

[Photo 3: Memories of a lost Rick in the sand dunes near Uluru © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Dad continued to search for his quart can. But that little friend Dad had cherished since the fifties, eluded him also.

We weaved our way down the main gully for about an hour. A huge spider in a web spanning the width of the gully confronted us. The spider, the size of a small bird, appeared uninviting, so we backtracked and decided to hike up and down the ridges.

[Photo 4: Another big uninviting spider (Orb Weaver); they’re everywhere in Australia © L.M. Kling 2011]

For several hours, we struggled over ridges. Up and down, we tramped, yet seemed to make little progress; the rise and dips went on forever. The sun sank low, and so did our water supplies.

[Photo 5: Late afternoon on the Liebig Range © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

The heat drained me. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. But we had to ration water.

Dad slumped on a slab of rock at the bottom of a gully. ‘Drink?’

I took the canteen from him and filled my cup. Then I spooned in some Salvital. I chugged down the water as it fizzed. So refreshing!

‘Oh, Lee-Anne!’ Dad quibbled. ‘You didn’t leave much for me!’ He poured the last drops of water from his canteen into his mouth and gazed in despair at the lengthening shadows of the mountain.

‘Oh, but Dad! It’s not fair! We will never get out of this place! We are lost forever.’ I had visions of future hikers coming upon our dried-up old bones thirty years later. ‘What are we going to do?’

[Photo 6: Dried bones; not human, kangaroo. Brachina Gorge Flinders Ranges © L.M. Kling 1999]

‘Well, um, perhaps we better pray God will help us.’ Dad bowed his head and clasped his hands. ‘Dear Lord, please help us find our way back to the truck. And forgive me for growling at Lee-Anne.’

‘Forgive me too. Help us not to run out of food and water, too.’

‘Bit late for that,’ Dad muttered. ‘Ah, well.’

We had barely finished praying, when an idea struck me. ‘Why don’t we climb up a ridge and walk along it. Surely if we go high enough, we’ll see the landmark and the land rover.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. We need to conserve our energy.’

‘Just one ridge won’t harm us.’

Dad sighed. ‘Okay, it’s worth a try.’

I raced up the hill and strode along the ridge. I climbed higher and higher. I glanced towards the east expecting, hoping, willing the Rover to appear. But with each stride, each hopeful gaze, nothing. I resolved to climb further up the slope before turning back.

[Photo 7: Ridges leading up to Liebig © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

After a few more steps, still nothing. With the heaviness of defeat, I turned to climb down. Then I saw it. The Land Rover sat at the base of the mountain, glistening in the last rays of the setting sun.

‘There it is!’ I jumped up and down over-reacting with excitement.

‘Praise the Lord!’ Dad’s shout echoed in the valley.

With renewed energy, we attacked the last mounds that lay between the vehicle and us.

‘Rick will probably be sitting there waiting for us wondering what has happened,’ Dad said puffing as we strode up to the land rover. ‘Can’t wait to have a few gallons of water.’

We rambled over to the rover. Dad circled the vehicle and returned to me shaking his head. ‘He’s not here.’

[Photo 8: Foreboding, Mt. Liebig at sunset © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I wandered around the clearing searching for Rick. I looked behind bushes and under some neighbouring bean trees. My brother was nowhere in sight.

But worse still, when Dad tried to fill his cup, only a few drops of water trickled from the land rover’s water tank.

Dad stared at the ground and tapped his pockets. ‘This is not good. This is not good,’ he said.

The sun had set and a cold chill cut through me. He’s lost. My brother is lost in this wilderness. ‘What if he’s had an accident?’

‘We need to pray,’ Dad said.

Dad prayed, ‘Father, bring Rick home and provide us with water too.’

We waited watching the colours on the mountain fade and our hopes fade with them.

‘I guess we better get going,’ Dad said. He opened the door of the Land Rover.

Rick staggered around a nearby outcrop of rocks.

We ran to greet him.

‘Rick, you’re okay,’ Dad said hugging him.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘I took the long way and trekked around the base of the mountain. I thought it wouldn’t take that long, but it just went on and on.’

[Photo 9: Around the base of Mt. Liebig © S.O. Gross 1946]

As we walked to the Land Rover, Dad studied the vehicle. ‘You know, it’s on a slope, if I get it to level ground, we might have enough water.’

Dad drove the Rover to where the ground flattened out. Water never tasted so sweet.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; 2021;2023

Feature: Painting acrylic on canvas: Descent from Liebig © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014

***

Find out how the adventure with Mr. B progresses.  

Click on the link, The T-Team with Mr. B and join the journey back in time to the 70’s and into the Centre of Australia.

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

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

Trekking Thursday–Ernabella

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[The T-Team with Mr. B — Dad’s friend Mr. Banks and his son, Matt, joined Dad, my brother (Rick) and me on this journey of adventure. I guess Dad had some reservations how I would cope… But it soon became clear that the question was, how would Mr. B, a middle-aged man who was used to a life of luxury, cope?]

Deserted

[An extract from The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977, my newly released travel memoir, based on true events but names and events may have changed.]

We stopped in at Fregon, another Indigenous settlement much like Mimili; a row of tin sheds and deserted. Then at about 2.30pm we arrived at Ernabella.

A teacher friend of Dad’s invited us into his home for refreshments and each of us had a hot shower. I enjoyed the warm cascade of water on me. My treat for the week. Below rivers of red mud spun into the drain hole of the bath. I scrubbed my hair with shampoo. The soap refused to lather. I scrubbed and scrubbed.

‘Lee-Anne!’ Dad called. ‘Don’t take all day, the boys need a wash too.’

‘Oh, alright.’ I turned off the tap. I guess the boys did need to wash, probably more than me. They were getting quite ripe at close quarters in the Rover. After all, it had almost been a week since we had a proper wash.

All showered and smelling sweet again with soap and deodorant, we trailed after Dad who gave us a tour of the settlement, including the school. Ernabella lies at the foot of the Musgrave Ranges, south of the South Australian and Northern Territory border. The land belongs to the Pitjantjara people. The mostly prefabricated buildings were neatly arranged around a random collection of unsealed roads.

[Photo 1: Approaching Ernabella © C.D. Trudinger circa1942]

Dad guided us around the school which appeared empty. We followed him circling the white building. ‘Must be closed,’ Dad said.

‘School holidays, I guess,’ I remarked.

Dad scanned the transportable blocks and then screwed up his nose. ‘We need to find someone to fix up the trailer.’

We walked through the settlement. The white buildings stood sentinel to the roads void of human activity and traffic. The crunching of stones under our feet was magnified by a town suffering from a bad case of abandonment.

‘Where are all the people?’ Mr. B asked.

‘Wow! The place is tidy and look how clean the streets, are,’ I said.

‘Except for the gravel,’ Richard mumbled.

Matt sniggered.

We wandered after Dad who was having a hard time finding someone to fix our trailer. Anyone…No one seemed to be around. I wondered if Ernabella was a ghost town.

Mr. B suggested we wait by the store that seemed closed and suffering a severe case of neglect. This we did.

‘The reason the settlement is so tidy,’ Dad explained, ‘is because everybody, I mean the aborigines, have a job to do here. They don’t get their welfare payment unless they do their job. They probably have someone cleaning the streets of rubbish and all sorts of other jobs.’

‘Not the store, apparently,’ Mr. B said.

‘Ah, well, they have to get the stock from down south, from Adelaide. Perhaps they’ve run out.’ Dad coughed.

[Photo 2: Building in Ernabella © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

An Indigenous man sauntered up to us.

Dad strode to meet the man and he guided him to the trailer still perched on top of the Rover.

While the trailer was being repaired, I climbed a hill. I figured the trailer would take ages to be fixed so I had time to sun bake. I wanted a tan. Treading up the hill, I noticed Matt running after me.

I stood and sighed. Great! Just when I wanted space to myself.

Matt held up a stick. ‘Look what I found!’

I examined the carved piece of wood. ‘Oh, yeah?’

‘What do you think it is?’

‘I dunno, a corroboree stick, I suppose.’

‘Oh, cool! Can you take a photo of me with it?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

[Photo 3: Corroboree Stick on Trudinger Hill © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger)] 

I photographed Matt proudly holding a corroboree stick. The Musgrave Ranges behind were cast in hues of gold from the rays of the late afternoon sun. When we had descended the hill and found Dad, he told us that the “mountain” we had climbed was named “Mount Trudinger” after his brother who had been a teacher in Ernabella.

Near evening, we visited an Indigenous pastor. As the Musgrave Ranges is sacred to the Pitjantjatjara People, Dad and the pastor discussed the possibility of getting a couple of guides to be our companions as we climbed Mt. Woodroffe.

[Photo 4 and feature: Dead Tree Sunset © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992]

For the night we camped in Two Mile Creek which is not far from Ernabella. Dad conceded to camp not alongside, but right in the dry creek bed on the soft sand. This arrangement made Mr. B very happy. ‘For once I get to sleep on soft sand,’ he said.

‘Just remember, if we have even a hint of rain, we pack up and go to higher ground,’ Dad answered.

Mr B chuckled. ‘No chance of that, the weather’s been as dry as the bones of that deceased camel we saw on the side of the road.’

‘The water comes rushing down if there’s a storm,’ Dad said.

‘Oh, of course, Captain.’ Mr B then turned over and snored.

Rick muttered, ‘The only storm will be if Mr B doesn’t get a good night’s sleep.’

Matt sniggered.

[Photo 5: Picinic on Soft Sand, at last! © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Photo: Dead Tree sunset in Musgraves © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992

***

Keen to read more of the adventures of the T-Team with Mr. B?

Click on the link and come along for the adventure.

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

Want more but too expensive to travel down under?

Why not take a virtual travel with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on:

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Travelling Thursday–Gosse Range

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T-Team Series — Tnorala Mystery

 [The T-Team with Mr. B — Dad’s friend Mr. Banks and his son, Matt, joined Dad, my brother (Rick) and me on this journey of adventure. I guess Dad had some reservations how I would cope… But it soon became clear that the question was, how would Mr B who was used to a life of luxury cope?

*A story based on real life events but some names and how those events have been remembered have changed.]

Tnorala — Gosse Range

An episode in the prequel to my memoir, Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981. Books both in Kindle and paperback available on Amazon.

Our Indigenous guide, Sammy jiggled his knee. He clutched the paper-bag containing his pie, his fingers curled tight scrunching the top of the bag.

‘Aren’t you going to eat it?’ I asked.

The T-Team had just left Papunya; our first contact of “civilisation” since the trek way out west to Mt Liebig and Talipata Spring. Sammy’s first meat pie for at least a week, I reckon, and all he did was hold it in the bag like a prized souvenir.

[Photo 1: Haasts Bluff near Papunya © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Dad promised us barbeque beef steak and sausages at Gosse Range before travelling onto Areyonga. Mr. B, our family friend who with his son Matt, had accompanied us on this trip, seemed pleased with this proposal.

‘I dare say, David,’ Mr. B said, ‘I can’t help having a certain satisfaction eating steak after what one of their sort did to us, there, camping near Mt Liebig. I mean, that beast of a bull terrorized Matt and me while you and your son and daughter hiked up the mountain.’

Dad sighed. ‘It is cattle country and we did camp on their territory.’

‘Hmm, I thought you would’ve checked that out, mate. Most uncomfortable.’

[Photo 2: Cattle near Gosse Range © L.M. Kling 2013]

With the mention of uncomfortable, I glanced at our Indigenous guides, Sammy who I’ve mentioned, and Harry. As the Rover lurched and rumbled along the corrugated road to the Gosse Range, Sammy fidgeted, twisting the top of the paper bag in his fist, while Harry sat relaxed, rolling with the bumps.

[Photo 3: Road to Gosse Range © L.M. Kling 2013]

I nudged my brother, Rick. ‘Why isn’t he eating his pie?’

Rick shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’s being polite, not eating in front of people.’

‘I don’t mind.’ I gestured to Sammy. ‘It’s okay, you can eat it.’

I watched Sammy pull the meat pie from the bag and bite into it. He chewed each piece as if a cow chewing cud. He grimaced. He looked like he was eating a pie full of worms. With each bite and grimace, I giggled.

Sammy persevered, his mouth downturned. Every so often, he muttered to Harry in their Aranda language. Harry nodded.

‘I reckon he doesn’t like the pie,’ I muttered to Rick.

‘Probably cold,’ Rick mumbled.

I snorted. ‘He took long enough to start eating it.’

[Photo 4: Outside Gosse Range © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

A glimpse of the jagged peaks of the Gosse Range flitted past through the dusty Rover windows. I peered past Sammy who had finished his pie to catch more views of the range.

‘Hey, Rick, look!’ I pointed. ‘The Gosse Range, it’s just like the painting Grandma’s got in her lounge room.’

From the front of the Rover Mr. B asked, ‘Did you say, David that you met the famous Albert Namatjira when you lived up in Hermannsburg?’

‘Oh, of course. My father-in-law was a great supporter of Albert’s art.’

‘How did the Gosse Range come about?’ I asked my audience from the back of the Rover.

Rick sniffed. ‘A meteor, I think.’

‘Or comet?’ I added. ‘What do you think, Sammy?’

Sammy wiped his mouth and didn’t respond.

‘Harry?’

Harry smiled and also remained mute on the subject.

I sighed and said, ‘Another thing I have to look up in the encyclopaedia.’

Harry looked in my direction. ‘Sammy wants to leave before we go to Areyonga.’

‘Why?’

‘He doesn’t want to go there. No friends. Not his family.’

‘Oh, that’s a funny reason.’

The Rover began to jerk and rumble over rocks and ditches. The jagged walls of the Gosse Range towered above us as the T-Team navigated the track leading into the middle of the range.

[Photo 5: Track leading into the Gosse Range © L.M. Kling 2013]

Sammy glanced left and right and wrung his hands together. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead and temples.

Once inside, Dad built a fire for the barbeque. Rick and Matt dangled sausages on sticks over the yellow flames. I gazed around the plain, its dry flat surface dusted with red-tinted sand and golden grasses. The range in shades of salmon pink surrounded this paddock. There seemed to be one lonely tree in the vast field that spanned several kilometres, and this was the tree we found to picnic under. While Mr. B and Harry set up picnic essentials on the tarpaulin, I watched Sammy pace back and forth.

[Photo 6: Picnic in the Gosse Range © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

‘Lee-Anne, can you select your beef steak, please, and put it on the grille?’ Dad called.

I turned and picked out a smaller portion to add to the sizzling pieces of meat on the grill on top of the coals. Then I looked up to track Sammy’s progress. Sammy had vanished.

‘What’s the matter with Sammy? Where’s he gone?’ I asked Harry.

Harry nodded. ‘The real reason Sammy no want to go to Areyonga—there’s a big initiation ceremony, a corroboree going on there.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Dad said. ‘He’s scared.’

‘Sammy’s not from that tribe,’ Harry explained.

‘Would he get killed if they saw him?’ Dad asked.

Harry nodded. ‘Even if he didn’t see the ceremony, they’d kill him just for being there.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘No wonder Sammy wasn’t himself. He’s usually laughing and so funny. But not today.’

[Photo 7: Inside the Gosse Range © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Munching on my steak, I absorbed the expanse of dried grass, and the ochre range that’s eroded, yet the mystery of the rites and customs of the Indigenous of this land on this day at least, fascinated me more than a crater created by a meteorite thousands of years ago. Still, I did wonder at the devastation and effect on the Earth such an impact would’ve had. The crater spans 4.5km in diameter, so must’ve been one big rock.

[Photo 8: Gosse Range from lookout © L.M. Kling 2013]

After lunch, we left Sammy in the Gosse Range, his country, and headed for the lookout. There the Gosses appeared mauve in the afternoon light.

Dad tapped his pocket. ‘I think we’ll go from here to Hermannsburg, it’s too late to drop into Areyonga.’

‘Pity,’ I remarked, ‘Sammy could’ve come with us, after all.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018; Updated 2019

 Feature Photo: Sunset on Gosse Range © S.O. Gross circa 1946 (courtesy of M.E. Trudinger)

***

Keen to read more of the adventures of the T-Team with Mr. B?

Click on the link and come along for the adventure.

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

***

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

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Travelling Thursday–The T-Team with Mr. B: Uluru

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ULURU SUNSET—Lost

 [Finally, The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977 is published on Amazon Kindle.

This time, the customary viewing of an icon of Australia, doesn’t quite go to plan.]

Dad meant what he said; he believed we, as the T-Team were travellers, not tourists. So, when the sun began its journey to the other side of the earth, and edged towards the western horizon, Dad drove further west and far away from the popular tourist haunts for the sunset on the Rock.

‘Don’t go too far,’ Mr. B said as he glanced back at the diminishing size of the Rock. ‘I want a red rock of considerable size.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Dad replied.

But every vantage point that we considered photo-worthy, so did clusters of tourists. The ants may have been heading for bed, but the road west of Uluru swarmed with sightseers scrambling over the landscape to capture that momentous event of the sunset on Uluru.

*[Photo 1: Two blokes waiting for Uluru to turn © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

‘I hope we’re not going to miss Uluru turning red, ‘cos that’s what I came here to see,’ Mr. B said.

‘Plenty of time,’ Dad said. ‘Trust me.’

‘I’ll hold you to that promise, mate.’

Dad sighed and then turned into the next available place to park the Rover.

Mr. B glanced at his gold watch. ‘I mean to say, it’s nearly six o’clock. The sun sets at six, doesn’t it?’

We joined the tourists in the small clearing to take the Uluru-at-sunset-photos. There’s one snap I took of two travellers admiring the Rock as it deepened in colour, more a rusty-red, than the scarlet I’d seen on calendars. So, it’s taken with an instamatic camera and the quality is pitiful compared to the chocolate-box number my grandpa took in the 1950’s, but I reckon it captures the atmosphere.

*[Photo 2: Nothing like the Uluru sunset my Grandpa took © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

‘Enough of these tourists,’ Richard grumbled. Clutching his polaroid camera, he stormed up the nearest hill.

‘Wait!’ I called and raced after him.

My brother ignored me and quickened his stride. I tried to catch up but soon tired of his fast pace. I watched him vanish behind some spinifex bushes and decided his quest for tourist-free photos was pointless. I gazed at the Rock squatting behind waves of sand-hills and bushes. The view’s going to be just as good, if not better by the road and the masses, I thought and rushed back to Dad before the sun went down too far and the Rock had lost its lustre.

*[Photo 3: I mean, where’s the colour?? © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Uluru faded from clay-red to a dull grey and the tourist congregation thinned, trickling away in their cars and buses towards the camping ground situated east of the Rock.

‘Is that it?’ I quizzed Dad. The Uluru at sunset in my mind had been spectacular in its failure to deliver. ‘Why didn’t it turn bright red?’

[Photo 4: You mean, like this? Picture perfect, chocolate box in 2013 © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘You need clouds for that. Clouds make all the difference,’ Dad said, his lips forming a beak. ‘Glad my camera’s out of action and I didn’t waste film on it.’

‘You mean, the Rock doesn’t always turn red?’

‘No, it’s the clouds that make the difference.’

‘What on the Rock?’

‘No, to the west, where the sun sets.’

*[Photo 5: Yeah, clouds like the ones we had in 2013 © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘But the photo of a red Ayres Rock taken by Grandpa had clouds around it.’

‘Yeah, well, there would’ve been clouds in the west too,’ Dad explained. ‘See, the sky is clear tonight, so that’s it for the Rock.’

‘Disappointing! A very poor show, ol’ friend.’ Mr. B sauntered past us with Matt tagging behind. ‘Come on, we better get to camp. Don’t want to be cooking in the dark. Don’t want the likes of egg soup again.’

Dad peered into the distant black lumps of hills. ‘Where’s Richard?’

I stared into the thickening darkness. No Richard. ‘Dunno, went into the sand-hills,’ I said with a shrug.

‘Oh, well, I guess he’s gone for a walk,’ Dad said.

*[Photo 6: So different in 2013—All golden © L.M. Kling 2013]

The Rock became a dull silhouette on the horizon. We packed away our cameras and waited. And waited for Richard. Darkness settled on the land. We waited some more. The icy cold of the night air seeped into our bones. We waited but he did not appear.

‘Where could he be?’ Dad said and then stormed into the bush.

Minutes later, Dad tramped back to us waiting at the Rover. His search in the nearby scrub was fruitless.

Each one of us stood silent; silent sentinels around the Rover.

‘I hope he’s alright,’ my comment plopped in the well of silence. A chill coursed down my spine. What if an accident had befallen my lost brother? The dark of night had swallowed my brother up.

Dad grabbed the torch from the glove box in the Rover, and then marched back up the sand-hill.

I paced up and down the road. Mr. B folded his arms across his chest and scrutinised the shadows of bush that had now consumed Dad. Matt gazed up at the emerging mass of the Milky Way.

‘I hope they’re okay. I hope Dad finds Richard.’ My chest hurt with the pain of losing my brother.

Mr. B sighed. ‘Probably just a—’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘There they are,’ Mr. B said. ‘All that worry for nothing. You’ll get grey hairs if you keep worrying like that.’

I pulled at my hair and then raced up to my brother. ‘Where were you?’

‘I went out along the dunes. I kept walking and walking trying to find a good spot,’ Richard said.

Dad chuckled. ‘And when he did, he waited for the Rock to turn red.’

*[Photo 7: More of the “Red” Rock close up © L.M. Kling 2013]

For the night we camped in an aboriginal reserve seven miles out of the Uluru—Kata Tjuta Reserve. In preparation for the trip, Dad had successfully applied for permission to camp there. This time Dad and I had two fires going each side of us as the previous night was so cold that I had little sleep. We hoped that two fires would be better than one to keep the chills away. Mr. B and his son Matt on the other hand, settled for one shared fire and superior fibres of their expensive sleeping bags to keep the cold out.

And Richard, after all his effort to scare us by almost getting lost, buried himself in his rather ordinary cotton sleeping bag, next to his single fire, and was the first one, after our rather simple rice dinner, to be snoring away, lost in the land of nod.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2018; 2022; 2023

*Feature Photo: Sunset on the Rock © Lee-Anne Marie Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977

***

Find out how the adventure with Mr. B progresses.  

Click on the link, The T-Team with Mr. B

And join the journey back in time to the 70’s and into the Centre of Australia.

Arty Friday–Ocean Beach, Tasmania

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Virtual Trekking Behind the Art: Ocean Beach Tasmania

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

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

Calm on Ocean Beach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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Frolicking Friday–Fantastic Fleurieu

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Our Mother’s Day Secret

 [May’s our horror party month. We endure enjoy several family birthdays plus Mother’s Day. The last few days I have been stressing because the chosen restaurant for a special “0” birthday, seemed to be dragging their proverbial heels in getting back to us confirming if we could be seated there. Actually, I had used a tried and, so I discovered, not so true that uses the symbol of a familiar table implement, and they had been the one’s inconveniently delaying the response. So, I contacted the restaurant directly by email and received confirmation in the positive of our booking the next morning. Big sigh of relief!

Anyway, this trial reminded me of the recently celebrated Mother’s Day and one that happened and that I shared a few years ago. I will share some of our celebrations and scenery from May/June parties past and present.]

FROM KUITPO TO MEADOWS

Everyone, and I mean everyone in Adelaide must celebrate Mother’s Day. And everyone and their mother go out—eat out, picnic out, filling the parks, beaches, hills and car parks. The whole city—and their mothers, jump on the bandwagon of “mother-worship”, the restaurants filled to capacity, and unless you book months in advance, you won’t get a table for you and your mother.

[Photo 1: A pancake party at Le Paris Plage © L.M. Kling 2023]

My mother doesn’t like crowds, and our family struggle to organise themselves a few weeks in advance, let alone months. So, with that in mind, my mother has designated the Sunday after Mother’s Day, as her day.

On that Sunday, a week after all the mother-fuss was over, or so we thought, my family and Mum set off for Kuitpo forest (about forty kilometres south-east of Adelaide CBD). After a week of rain which began the previous Sunday, we were treated with the sun shining, no clouds and a clement twenty-two degrees Celsius. Perfect for sitting around a small wood fire and barbeque. Just what Mum and I wanted for our “Mother’s Day”.

[Photo 2: A different type of Party. Rogaining Second Valley, Fleurieu Peninsula © L.M. Kling 2012]

We piled into Mum’s station wagon and cruised down past Clarendon taking the road to Meadows.

‘What happened to the others?’ my older son asked.

‘They couldn’t make it. They had other things on,’ I said. I guess there’s always a cost to changing “Mother’s Day” to suit ourselves as mothers.

After my faulty human navigation skills led us astray as we turned down a road too early, we turned and we trundled back to the Meadows Road. There we sailed to the next turn off, this one sign-posted, white letters on brown, to Kuitpo. I apologised for leading us astray while my husband reminded me he knew the way.

Within ten minutes, we rolled into Chookarloo Camping ground. We’d picnicked here for our designated “Mother’s Day” a few years earlier and had found a clearing for a wood-fire with ease. I remembered a happy, though cloudy day, cold, but the company of family warm. The kids collected a stick insect and I took photos.

[Photo 3: Weber party © L.M. Kling 2007]

The sign at the entrance, though, warned of change. I read it and exclaimed, ‘Oh, we can only have fires in designated fire-rings.’

‘And where are these rings?’ Hubby asked.

‘Around,’ I said. ‘We have to drive around.’

We circled the camp grounds twice. Every clearing furnished with a fire-ring was filled with jolly campers and families munching on their chops and sausages. Cars guarded the cement rings where the occupants had finished lunch and gone on a hike.

[Photo 4: K-Team party, Kuitpo © L.M. Kling 2017]

We crawled past a clearing surrounded by a ring of trees but no fireplace.

‘If only I’d packed the portable barbeque,’ Hubby said.

‘Let’s go to the bakery at Meadows,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ Mum said.

‘What a shame they’ve spoilt Kuitpo with these rules,’ my younger son said.

‘It’s not the same, anymore,’ my older son said.

‘They have the rules because of the fire in Kuitpo a couple of years ago. They’re making sure it doesn’t happen again,’ I explained.

‘Stop complaining, Lee-Anne,’ my husband raised his voice, ‘the rules say you can’t have a fire.’

‘That’s what I was explaining, the National Park are making sure we don’t have another fire. The last one was pretty bad.’

My sons grumbled.

‘We had all this rain.’

‘How’s there going to be a bushfire?’

‘Let’s go to the bakery at Meadows,’ Mum said. ‘Anyway, it’s been a nice drive.’

Hubby shook his head and then exited the Chookarloo Camping ground.

[Photo 5: Braizier Party © L.M. Kling 2015]

We trekked off to Meadows, parked in the main street and trooped into the bakery. The aroma of fresh baked bread and brewed coffee greeted us. So did a variety of empty tables and chairs in the wide porch area with wall-to-wall views through the glass of the Meadows country-side. We settled down at a long table and basked in the sun shining through the windows.

As we supped on our pies and sausage rolls and sipped our cappuccinos, my younger son gazed out at the majestic gum trees, green hills and people with smiles walking up and down the street.

‘I like it here,’ younger son said. ‘It’s peaceful.’

After a pleasant family time, we wound our way back home. More than once, each of us in the car commented on the stunning scenic drive to and from Meadows: the golden sun glinting through the autumnal leaves of the deciduous trees that line the road, the gnarled eucalypt tress, the cows nibbling on grass in the paddocks and horses grazing in the field. We stopped for my older son to photograph the view of the rolling hills to the sea.

[Photo 6 and Feature: View over Fluerieu and beyond © L.M. Kling 2011]

At home, I fired up the brazier. The crowds had commandeered all the fire-rings at Kuitpo, but they couldn’t touch my brazier in my back yard. Let me tell you, we have a country-feel in our back yard. The neighbours’ two huge gum trees with wide girth shade our lawn, parrots congregate and chatter in the branches of those trees, and we even have the occasional koala visit.

My husband cooked the chops and sausages that had been assigned for our lunch in Kuitpo. We had the meat for tea instead. As a family, we sat around the brazier fire and enjoyed a simple barbeque, with a glass of wine. Family stories and adventures were shared into the night.

A perfect end to a perfect day, even though, perhaps as a result of the rule-change at Kuitpo. The secret? We actually talked with each other and listened to each other’s stories.

[Photo 7: Party around the home fire pit © L.M. Kling 2022]

‘Thank you for a lovely day,’ Mum said, ‘and I mean it. Because going for a drive in the hills, sitting around at the café and then the brazier fire, I got time to spend with my daughter, son-in-law and my grandsons. That’s what I wanted to do.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2023

Photo: Willunga Hills near Meadows © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2011

***

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Trekking the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Travelling Thursday– Road Trip in the Charger (6)

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Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (final)

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.

Finally…the intrepid road trip travellers reach Sydney.]

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

The conference and Rick’s never had a girlfriend

As far as conferences went, not a bad one. Lots of singing, worshipping God, that is, lectures, Bible Study, eating, and meeting new friends and old friends too. Our accommodation was down Anzac Parade, about five kilometres, halfway to the beach. I shared a small apartment with Rick and Dad. Dad drove me back and forth from the conference centre at Randwick. Not sure what Cordelia did, but I think she connected with other members of her family who attended the conference and stayed with them. Rick, I think ferried Mitch and Jack to and from the conference centre.

This arrangement becomes relevant later in the week of the conference.

One session that stands out, was the one on relationships.

Rick and I sat side by side, in the front row.

This will be interesting, I thought. Maybe I’ll get some tips on how to get a boyfriend and be popular like Cordelia.

‘So,’ the speaker said, ‘How many of you have had a boyfriend or girlfriend?’

Everyone including me, raised their hands. Everyone, that is, except my brother Rick.

‘What? You’ve never had a girlfriend, Laddie?’

‘Nope?’

The speaker pointed at me. ‘What about that lovely girl next to you?’

‘She’s my sister.’

Laughter.

[Photo 1: A lone tall ship in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Abandoned at the hostel and trek up Anzac Parade

Towards the end of the conference, one more event stood out.

Dad told me to wait for him at the hostel apartment where we were staying. After lunch we had an afternoon of free time before the final worship session.

I returned to the apartment lunch with my brother and friends eager to catch up on some rest and losing myself in a book. Maybe some journal writing which had been neglected in all the activity and excitement of the conference.

However upon my return to the dreary grey corridors of the hostel, my door was locked. Oh, well, Dad said he won’t be long.

I had nothing with me. All my supplies of entertainment and comfort were locked away in the apartment.

So I sat.

For hours.

After two hours, I began to sniff.

Then snivel.

Then finally, cry.

A lady poked her head out of a nearby door. ‘Are you all right?’

I wiped my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

She retreated into her apartment.

I looked at my watch. Five o’clock! Almost three hours I’d been waiting for Dad.

Convinced that he’s forgotten me and I’d be waiting further five hours with that lady sticking her nose in my business every so often, I stood up. Stiffening my lip in grim determination, I marched out the hostel and strode up Anzac Parade.

I prayed that God would protect me.

[Photo 2: Yachts in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Along the cracked pavement. Past long neglected houses. And cared-for ones. Over busy roads at the lights. Narrowly escaping any impact with red-light running cars. In the humidity. Under light rain. Taking a wide berth around the many hotels. And leering drunks who spilled out onto the footpath. In the ever-fading light that faded into dusk.

Five kilometres and forty minutes later, I entered the conference centre. The session where all had gathered, was concluding with prayers. All in a circle holding hands. I slipped in the circle. 

The boy next to me squeezed my hand.

Oh, he’s just being kind to poor little old me, I thought. After all, if even my father forgets me…

After, over tea and biscuits, my miffed Dad asked, ‘Where were you?’

‘What do you mean? I waited three hours,’ I retorted.

‘Couldn’t you be patient?’

‘Not when I couldn’t get into the room,’ I said. There was a limit to my patience.

‘I went to pick you up and you weren’t there,’ Dad said. ‘I told you to wait.’

‘And, what time was that?’

‘Oh, er, um, about…’ Dad’s voice faded, ‘about five.’

‘Well, I was there at five, and I didn’t see you.’ I sniffed. ‘So, I walked.’

‘But don’t you know how dangerous that was to walk here?’ Dad showing so much concern, after forgetting me for the whole afternoon.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I replied. ‘I prayed and God protected me.’

‘He did. Praise the Lord,’ Dad said and then wagged a finger at me. ‘But don’t you ever do that again.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ As long as you don’t forget me again.

Passing through the Blue Mountains

[Photo 3: A view of the Blue Mountains from actual trip © L.M. Kling 1979]

Our return to the less crowded and more sedate city of Adelaide, was serene and uneventful as the fair city itself. Especially at the time in 1979.

A few highlights. Mostly, in fact, all associated with the Blue Mountains. We had missed the beauty and wonder of the mountains on our journey to Sydney, so, Rick endeavoured for us to see these mountains in daytime on our trek home.

At the lookout to the Three Sisters, we lunched and admired the majesty of God’s creation. Even Rick using his polaroid camera, took photos of us admiring the scene. He was taken with the layers of misty blues and subtle greens cascading down into the depths, while the cliff tomes forming the Three Sisters presided over the valley.

I burst out in song and Cordelia joined in.

After a chorus, Cordelia said, ‘You should try out for the worship band.’

‘Me?’

‘You have such a sweet voice, although it does need to be stronger.’

On the drive home I considered the prospect of trying out for the band. Perhaps singing in front of the church would make me more popular with the boys. Like Cordelia. But in the end, I decided against it. Too hard. Too much of a challenge for plain old me. After all, the worship band was a highly coveted affair, where lead singers jealously guarded their position. I’d never have a chance. Sweet voice, but not strong voice would never cut it.

Back at school, I continued my enjoyment of music singing in the choir. But I’d always secretly envy the solos with their stand-out song voices. The stars with their melodic strong notes, the audience’s focus on them alone.

Instead, that new year of 1979, my passion turned to art…and writing. These were the gifts God had given me.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

***

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

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

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Wandering Wednesday–Road Trip in the Charger (3)

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Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (3)

Crammed in the Charger of No Sleep

We parked in the car park of a closed service station come garage. By this time Cordelia’s request for a doctor had been forgotten. She remained silent and didn’t remind us. I wasn’t going to mention her need. She looked well enough to me when we extracted ourselves from the car and stretched our legs. She was upright and not running off to the nearest public toilet.

After a brief stamp of our legs and rubbing of our arms, Rick said, ‘We’ll need to get some sleep.’

‘How are we going to do that?’ asked Jack.

‘In the car, I guess,’ Rick replied.

Mitch herded us back into the car. ‘Come on, in we go.’

Again, we piled in. Again, Mitch crammed in the middle of us two girls, while Rick and Jack reclined in semi-luxury in the front seats.

I observed that Cordelia had no complaints and her need for a doctor remained a non-urgent issue. For now. She snuggled up to Mitch, who also made no drama of the arrangement. No sleep for me, though. I squashed myself up against the side, putting as much space between me and my cousin as humanly possible. All through the hours of darkness, I sat upright trying to sleep while Mitch twitched, and my brother snored.

[Photo 1: Full moon © L.M. Kling 2009]

In the grey light of pre-dawn, I spied Mitch pacing the gravelly clearing of the carpark. How did he get out? The Charger is only a two-door car. On the other side of the back seat, Cordelia slept soundly. Rick snorted and shifted his weight in the driver’s seat while Jack lay stock still. Looked like a corpse. Then he moved.

In an effort not to disturb the three sleepers, I slowly, gingerly, silently, crawled over Rick. My brother snorted as I landed on his knees.

‘Sorry,’ I whispered. ‘Have to answer the call of nature.’

‘Why didn’t you say so,’ Rick said, smacked his lips and continued snoring.

I pushed open the car door and crept out.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked my cousin.

‘Stretching my legs,’ he said.

‘Weren’t you comfortable?’

‘No,’ Mitch said, ‘sleeping upright and squashed up next to…next to,’ he jerked his head in the direction of the car, ‘I found it very—very…uncomfortable.’

I glanced at Cordelia sleeping like a kitten but decided not to comment on the arrangement. ‘Well, it wasn’t a Sunday School picnic for me, either. I didn’t sleep a wink.’

‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Mitch said. ‘You were snoring.’

‘No, I wasn’t; that was Rick. He always snores. Anyway, I was awake all night.’

But Mitch was adamant that I snored. Just like Rick.

‘What do we do for breakfast?’ I asked.

Mitch shrugged.

‘Perhaps there’s a roadhouse around here somewhere,’ I said. ‘I’m starving.’

Mitch though advised that we must wait until the others had risen before we venture into town to find a place to eat.

I gazed in the direction of the main street with the shabby buildings all monochrome, the sun’s rays yet to burst over the horizon. I hoped that there was a place to eat in this sleepy town.

‘Is this Dubbo?’ I asked.

Mitch again shrugged.

‘Looks awfully small for Dubbo.’ I remembered when our family had visited Dubbo on the way back from Canberra three years earlier. We had toured the zoo there at that time. Didn’t take much time to tour the zoo. Rather small, actually and I went away disappointed. Still, my memory of Dubbo was that it was much bigger than this tiny collection of real estate.

‘I think so,’ Mitch replied. ‘We’re on the outskirts.’

‘Lucky I found this garage,’ Rick said while strolling up to us.

Mitch smiled. ‘Well, that’s an answer to prayer. We won’t have to go looking for one.’

‘No, just a place to eat. I’m hungry,’ I said.

[Photo 2: Country town NSW © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

By the time the sun had peeped over the horizon, Jack and Cordelia had woken and piled out of the Charger.

While Rick commenced preparatory work on the Charger, the rest of us four, ventured down the main street in search of a roadhouse. We figured that at this early hour of the day, nothing much else would be open. However, the roadhouse remained elusive, and we returned to the Charger at the garage hungry.

Upon our return we noticed Rick and a man standing under the raised bonnet of the car. They were in deep discussion.

As we approached, the man waved at Rick and walked away towards the garage, now open.

[Photo 3 and Feature: On the bonnet of the Charger © courtesy R.M. Trudinger 1983]

‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

‘That’s the owner of the garage,’ Rick replied. ‘He saw our car here and came over to find out what we were doing parked here.’

‘Oh, yeah, and?’

‘He thinks he might have an alternator for us, so I’ll be able to fix the car and then we can be on our way.’

‘That’s good,’ Mitch said. ‘How long will that take?’

‘Oh, not long, just a half an hour once I get the part.’

‘So, we can swing by the roadhouse on the other side of the town on our way out once the car is fixed, then,’ Mitch said all hopeful.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

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

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…