Tomorrow, August 1, is Swiss National Day. The K-Team who hail from Switzerland are coming to our place to celebrate a fondue dinner.
I’m so glad I have discovered I have some Swiss ancestry too, although, mine’s not the German part, but the French part–from Lausanne.
Anyway, in the spirit of celebrating Switzerland, here’s a re-visit of the K-Team’s adventures in Switzerland, 2014.
[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 in my travel memoir The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977 ), the T-Team lost their way … ]
Extract from The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team Central Australian Safari 1981. Available on Amazon.]
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.
‘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.
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.
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.
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.
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?’
‘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.
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.’
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.’
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
***
[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]
After relishing the sweet crunch of cornflakes for breakfast, the T-Team drove back to Ormiston Gorge. We hiked through the gorge admiring the red cliffs, ghost gums and mirror reflections in the waterholes, and took less than an hour to reach the end with the view of Mt. Giles, lumpy and sapphire blue.
Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds, Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’
Our cousins, C1 and C2 raced over to TR. ‘Where?’ They peered into the pond. I trailed after them, hunting for fish through the plumes of muddied water near TR’s white calves.
‘There!’ TR waved his finger at the middle of the waterhole.
C1 squinted. ‘Oh, yeah.’
C2 waded into the water and peered. ‘I don’t see anything.’
Richard hunted and fossicked through the cooking equipment Dad had scattered around the campfire. ‘You got a sieve? A net? Anything?’
‘What for?’ Dad asked.
‘The fish.’
‘Ah, you know, those fish can lay dormant in the dry creek bed for years and when the rain comes, they spawn.’ Dad just had to tell us.
‘Well, this little fishy is going to be our lunch.’ Richard snapped his fat fingers together like crab claws. ‘I’ll catch it with my hands if I have to.’ He strode into the pool with such force the waters parted like the Red Sea. ‘Now where’s that fish?’ He said as he sank up to his waist.
‘There it is!’ TR gestured. ‘To your right.’
Richard glanced, his smile faded. ‘Oh, is that all? It’s just a piddley little thing. Not enough for lunch.’ He was neck deep in the water and prepared to swim. He shot up. ‘Ouch! Something bit me!’
‘Better watch out, might be Jaws,’ I said.
‘You didn’t tell me there were yabbies.’ Richard bobbed up and down, then reached down to catch his feet. ‘Ouch! It bit me again!’
‘Why not yabbies?’ C1 said.
‘Now that’s an idea.’ Richard replied.
‘Ah! Shrimp!’ C2 waded towards his cousin. ‘I love the taste of shrimp.’
‘Hmm, yabbies,’ Richard said. ‘We used to catch yabbies all the time when we were young.’ With an explosive splash, he submerged in search of the yabby that had bitten him.
Dad, TR and I waited for the damper scones to cook and watched Richard and C1 turn bottoms up like ducks in the water in their quest for yabbies. C2 waded in the shallows of the pond, a roughly sharpened stick in hand ready to skewer any hapless water-creature.
Soon we breathed in the sweet aroma of baked scones. Dad flipped the foil wrapped balls out of the coals. ‘Lunch is ready!’ He clustered the silver spheres together using a small branch as if they were balls on a snooker table. Empty-handed the lads dragged their soaked bodies from the waterhole and schlepped to the fire place to collect their consolation prize of damper scone.
Richard held his stubby index finger and thumb in the form of the letter “C”. ‘I was this close to getting a yabby.’
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; Updated 2018; 2021; 2026
*Feature Painting: The Other Side of Ormiston © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016
***
So, out of toilet parole we escaped Coober Pedy, destination Woomera. I drove.
‘We’re running late,’ Anthony grumbled.
‘Ah, we’ll only arrive after dark,’ I replied. ‘Let’s get a cabin in the caravan park if we can.’
‘And, if we can’t?’
‘I don’t fancy camping in this weather. We’ll sleep in the Ford if we can’t.’
‘Hmmm. I doubt we’ll be able to get a cabin; we haven’t booked.’
‘We’ll take our chances.’
Drops of rain splattered our windscreen.
A large lake loomed to the left of the highway.
‘What lake is that?’ I asked.
Anthony read the sign. ‘Lake Hart.’
We pulled into the rest area, come viewpoint to have a break and take some photos. The sun had neared the horizon, casting the salty waters of Lake Hart in hues of pink and lemon.
Some free campers had built fires beside their campervans. One couple had pitched their tent underneath the canopy of the Information Kiosk.
Anthony glanced at the tent and then muttered, ‘Not sure if you’re allowed to do that.’
‘Perhaps a ranger will come along and tell them off.’
‘Nah, probably not.’
‘I guess we’ll never know. We’d better get a move on to Woomera to try our luck.’ I adjusted my hold of the camera. ‘After I take a few more shots while there’s a break in the clouds.’
By the time we reached Woomera, the town was shrouded in darkness, and rain fell steadily. Light still shone from the Caravan Park manager’s cabin. We entered through the unlocked sliding door and rang the bell. The manager appeared with a smile on his face.
No trouble getting a cabin. He explained that normally cabins were filled with workers from the nearby Roxby mine. But this night, there were a few vacant cabins. We were fortunate.
Ah! Luxury! After all, we needed some TLC after no sleep the night before. The simple one-room cabin with a queen-sized bed, kitchen facilities, an en suite bathroom and toilet to the side, and a television would do just fine.
I cooked pasta with canned spaghetti sauce, corn, and chopped up spam. For dessert, canned pears and custard.
Anthony was in his element as he propped himself up on the bed and watched the football.
At 10 pm, I woke with a start. Beside me, Anthony, head bowed, snored while the football commentators bantered. ‘You’re snoring!’ I mumbled. Anthony smacked his lips and sank into the bedding.
I switched off the TV and snuggled into the warmth of the quilt and Anthony. With the sound of rain pattering on the roof, once more, we fell into a deep and satisfying sleep.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2022; update 2026
Feature photo: Last rays of the sun on Lake Hart © L.M. Kling 2013
***
Here I was, merrily thinking the exhibition at Brighton Central finished on Saturday. Then my art and writing friend informed me it’s Sunday. So, there you go, a bonus day. If you have time and are in Adelaide, head down to Brighton Foodland, corner of Edward Street and Brighton Road, to view this brilliant display of artwork. Again, Marion Art Group (MAG) has done well, paintings selling like hotcakes at times.
So come, treat yourself, and have a look.
Meanwhile, click on the link below and read my story behind one of my paintings, Ghost gum, Western MacDonnell’s.
Feature Painting: Ghost Gum, Western MacDonnell’s © L.M. Kling
[In 2013, 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.
Once every month, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, a crazy robot toilet incarcerates me.]
Morning and the dawning realisation why this campsite may not have been popular. Anthony stomped around the tent, grumbling.
‘I got no sleep last night,’ he snapped. ‘Kept getting woken up by those trucks rumbling all night. And their lights. Just as I drifted off to sleep. Those lights shining into our tent.’
‘Will you be alright to drive?’ I asked.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he sniffed. Anthony was a man, after all, and infallible.
We moved like snails, packing up. I loaded the Ford’s rear with stuff. Next minute, Anthony was there unloading and repacking. Must do it right, even on the last leg of our journey.
While he played his version of luggage-tetris, I wandered off to the BBQ hut to check for any forgotten items that might lurk there. And behold, sitting rather smugly in a rather obvious position on the bench next to the BBQ facilities was Anthony’s water bottle. You just have to wonder whether the water bottle had legs and hid when we were searching for it the previous night. Then, when it realised that it might be left behind, it positioned itself in the fail-safe position to be found. The water bottle is not the first item to “hide” from me and then “reappear” in a place where I have looked a dozen times before …
There was much rejoicing over the lost water bottle that was found.
Owing to Anthony’s meticulous care in packing, we were the last to leave the campsite.
As we travelled the long monotonous stretch, I slept a bit, wrote in my diary a bit, and then stared out the window at the red earth, gibber plains, and twisted corkwood trees.
Anthony took my hand. ‘I’m sorry I was grumpy.’
‘That’s okay, blame it on the trucks that kept us awake all night.’
‘I swear that there was a truck that shone its lights straight into our tent.’
‘Yeah, it seemed that way,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we can stay at Woomera in a cabin tonight and get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘Yeah, why not!’
Around two o’clock, the landscape evolved from flat and stone scattered to low-lying hills pockmarked with what appeared to be giant rabbit holes. Signs warned visitors to beware of mineshafts.
‘Lunch at Coober Pedy?’ Anthony said.
‘Yes, but … first a toilet stop.’
‘And where do you suggest?’ Anthony glanced at me and then gazed at the mineshaft-littered hill face.
‘A service-station? Or a pub?’
‘And where’s the service station?’
A tour of Coober Pedy yielded no service stations that we could find. And he who wanted to save money and eat a picnic lunch was not willing to enter a pub for the loo in case it entrapped us into eating in there.
‘What about the playground and BBQ area where we had tea with the T-Team on the way up to Central Australia?’ Anthony suggested.
Bad suggestion …
But, at the time, I agreed. Lunch and loo visit in one hit.
We settled down at a picnic table near the automated toilets. Anthony prepared the sandwiches while I dashed into the “robot” dunny to do my deed.
While I sat on the tin throne, country and western-come-Hawaiian music clanged away. Did I detect a banjo while the toilet roll unfurled itself for me? No button to flush. Oh, well. Once I washed my hands, the toilet duly flushed. Then, I placed my hands under the air-dryer. As usual, I am invisible to this universe and the cohort of air-dryers that belong to it. The air-dryer refused to acknowledge me and blow air on my wet hands. Oh, well, I’ll dry my hands with my own towel from the car that exists quite happily in my universe.
I step to the sliding door and press the large blue button. The music volume increased. But the doors did not oblige. I pressed the blue button again. Nothing. Just the demented music. Becoming more demented.
I read the instructions. And pressed the blue button again.
Nothing.
I hit the button.
Kicked the door.
I sat down by the stubborn, un-sliding door.
And waited.
Instructions said I must vacate this automated, locked-down establishment in ten minutes. As if to press its point, the “robot’ toilet ramped up the annoyance level of the music.
What’s worse, I had entered this pongy prison without my mobile phone. Or jumper. It was cold in there.
Anthony called from the outside. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m trapped,’ I replied. ‘The toilet won’t open.’
‘Have you tried to push the button?’
‘Yes, a million times.’
‘Well, you must’ve done something wrong.’
I noted that the blue button had written on it “touch free” and then I figured, That’s why the toilet’s incarcerated me. Touching it must’ve broken its rules. ‘Has it been ten minutes yet?’
‘Not yet.’
Then, the blue button, which I’m meant to push for my release from this demented can, the button that has “touch free” displayed on it, lit up and vibrated. But the door refused to budge.
I pushed the door. No joy. It stayed locked, and the not-so-ambient music went on and on like some crazy organ-grinder.
I was starting to imagine a security guy in some dug-out office in the middle of Coober Pedy laughing at this old jailbird (me) … when …
A voice from above warned, ‘You have exceeded your stay; you must exit immediately.’
‘Not that I haven’t wanted to,’ I snapped back. Pushed the vibrating bright button, yet again. Pulled the door. Still as stubborn as.
‘You have exceeded your stay. You must exit immediately.’ Followed by the crazy music.
I rolled my eyes. ‘I wish.’
Watched the door. Hoping. Praying it would open.
‘You have exceeded your stay. You must exit immediately.’
I waited and watched. ‘You might need to call the police or emergency services to release me,’ I told Anthony.
As if it heard my warning to call the authorities, the door slid open. I leapt out. ‘Yay! I’m free! I’m free!’ I jumped and danced in front of a rather unimpressed husband. ‘I’m never going to be in one of those things again! I thought it was never going to open!’
‘Come on, let’s have lunch,’ Anthony snipped, ‘We’ve already wasted twenty-five minutes.’
‘Not before I get my jumper, I’m freezing. You don’t know how cold it was in there. I’m never going into a toilet without my mobile phone or a jumper. Ever.’
As we munched on our sandwiches, a brisk wind chilled us to the bone, even with an extra layer of clothing on. A little indigenous boy scampered into the evil “robot’ toilet. Less than a minute later, he exited. Anthony then went into the same crazy “can” and was out in two minutes.
‘How did you do that?’ I asked.
Anthony replied smugly, ‘I pressed the blue button.’
‘So did I, a dozen times.’
‘You must’ve done something wrong.’
‘Just my luck, I had to be incarcerated by the toilet.’
So, out on parole from the Cooper Pedy “jerry can”, we escaped this town and headed for Woomera.
[to be continued …]
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021; updated 2026
*Feature painting: Desert Storm Brewing, Lake Hart © L.M. Kling 2025
***
[In 2013, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few months, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-K Team commences their return to Adelaide from Alice Springs.]
After packing up our belongings into our trusty Ford, topping up with petrol, and cash supplies, we departed Alice Springs and headed south to Adelaide. It’s amazing what one discovers retracing our steps to South Australia. In the morning sunlight, there, mini-Ulurus, mini–Kata Tjutas, and mini-Mt Conners.
At Kulgera, we shared lunch with flies. All around us, people swished at their faces. My glasses kept falling off as I fanned the flies away. In the end, I put on my sunnies. Then, when that strategy failed, we retreated into the roadhouse and had coffee in the restaurant. Self-serve for $3.
I drove the following 180 kilometres to Marla. A slow drive at times, stuck behind cars pulling caravans.
‘Why don’t you overtake?’ Hubby whined.
‘I’m playing it safe,’ I replied. ‘Better to be late than dead on time.’
‘Humph!’
The caravan convoy eased into Agnes Creek.
‘Ah, freedom!’ I said and pressed on the accelerator. The Ford powered up to 100 km/h.
‘Careful!’ Anthony warned. ‘Don’t go too fast.’
‘I won’t.’
I kept my promise and maintained a steady 100 km/h all the way to the border of South Australia and the Northern Territory.
There, at the border, we parked to check our itinerary of food for fruit and vegetables. Owing to the prevention of bringing any fruit fly infestation into South Australia, fruit and vegetables had to be disposed of in the bins provided. More flies hovered around, joining our forage in the back of the Ford.
A passing Northern American tourist remarked, ‘Are South Australians so precious?’
‘Yes, we are,’ I muttered to Hubby, ‘how else have we kept the scourge of fruit fly out of our state?’
All around us, fellow travellers hauled out their luggage from their cars or four-wheel drive vehicles and disposed of their fresh produce. None of them looked happy.
Sitting on a picnic table, a lad about Son 1’s age, and wearing a fly net, boiled up a pan of canned corn and peas on a portable gas cooker.
Nodding in their direction, I remarked to my husband, ‘Do they think canned vegetables are a problem?’
‘Quiet, Lee-Anne, they might hear you,’ my husband snapped.
‘Maybe someone should tell them that it’s only fresh vegetables that need to be disposed of.’
Hubby shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’
After depositing the few offensive apples and oranges in the bin, we piled into the Ford and charged forth on our journey south down the Stuart Highway.
A sign warned of penalties for the non-disposal of fruit and vegetables.
Hubby breathed in. ‘Oh, no, what about the potatoes?’
‘We have potatoes?’
He nodded. ‘What are we going to do?’
I shrugged. ‘Eat them? For tea?’
‘How are we going to do that?’
‘I guess we’ll have to stop over at Marla and camp there tonight. Then cook up the potatoes.’
‘I guess I could try and make rösti on the BBQ facilities provided,’ Hubby sighed. ‘Good luck getting a campsite.’
With the potatoes securely stored in the cooler hidden in the Ford, we stepped into Marla’s red brick tourist park office. Tent site? No problem. Plenty of room on the grassy park for campers.
However, fearful that the biosecurity police might emerge from under a mini-Ayers rock and ping us with a hefty fine, I was designated to cook up the potatoes and one offending onion, while Anthony pitched the 2-person tent in the middle of the verdant camping reserve. My potato dish was not exactly rösti, though.
While frying up this “contraband” fare, a familiar white van whizzed past. I stepped out of the BBQ shelter and waved to them. The white van turned around.
The T-Team joined us for our potato and onion fry. Our nephew contributed their stash of vegetables to make a stir fry. Mrs. T shared the T-team’s adventures visiting a friend’s cattle station south of Alice the past couple of days.
My older niece was not her usual cheerful self. While helping me wash the dishes in a crummy camp kitchen with little light, Brother T confided in me that she may not have been happy about driving the Oodnadatta track.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘she must know that track is full of tacks to bust tyres.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, yeah! Maybe we won’t go that way…’
We waved the T-Team off on their venture south at around 8.30 pm. Then Hubby crawled into the tent and began tossing out clothes, bags, and stuff into the frigid frosty night.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Where are you hiding the drink bottles?’ he cried.
‘Are they in the car?’
‘No, I’ve looked there.’
‘Sure, they’re not in the BBQ hut?’
‘No, where have you hidden them?’
‘I don’t remember, “hiding” them. They must be left somewhere,’ I said. ‘It’s too dark to look for them now, so you might just have to be satisfied with the thermos.’
With a grunt, he, who is always right, shrugged on an extra coat, sat outside the tent, sipping hot chocolate from the thermos, and playing with his phone. Wrapped in my sleeping bag, I sat beside the man who had lost his water bottle and wrote my diary by torchlight. Ours was one lonely tent in an expanse of couch grass.
Having lost the battle to mourn the temporary loss of his water bottle alone, Hubby crawled into bed at 10 pm. Soon after, I followed him, and in the warmth of the thermal sleeping bag, I soon fell asleep.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021; updated 2026
Feature Photo: Mini Ayers Rock © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2013
***
Jack woke and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’
‘What are you doing?’ Mitch asked.
‘What do ya think?’ Rick said as he slowed to the 60 km/h speed limit of the town.
Mitch pointed the other way, out of town. ‘Couldn’t we just…’
‘No,’ Rick said.
‘Cordelia’s going to be sick,’ I chimed in.
Rick slammed on the brakes and skidded on the rubble on the side of the road.
‘Not yet,’ Cordelia said in a soft voice. ‘But I need a hospital.’
None of us asked the reason we needed a hospital for Cordelia. Under the light of the newly functioning headlights, I studied the strip map for the district hospital. Not much joy there. The map only showed the strip of road or highway from town A to town B, no diversions. However, we did find a 24-hour service station where Mitch asked for directions to the hospital.
Upon arriving, Cordelia insisted on entering the premises on her own while the rest of us waited in the car park. Making the most of the opportunity not to be cramped up in the car, we sat or paced around the car in the balmy night.
An hour or so later, Cordelia emerged feeling better. No explanation.
And once more, we piled in the car and headed for Sydney.
‘If we drive through the night, we’ll reach Sydney by morning,’ Mitch said. ‘Plenty of time for the conference.’
Rick adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and grunted. ‘As long as nothing else happens.’
I squeezed myself against the back passenger door. I had lost my place in the front with Rick to Cordelia. I had been relegated to the back seat with Mitch and Jack.
The gentle rocking of the drive lulled me to sleep.
I yawned and stretched.
‘Hey, watch it!’ Mitch said and pushed my hand away.
‘Sorry.’ I covered my mouth and yawned again.
The Charger crawled along following bumper-to-bumper traffic. High-rise buildings towered over the narrow road, and every side street garnered either a black and white “One Way” sign or red and white “No Entry” sign. Sydney Harbour bridge, appearing like a giant coat hanger, peeped through a gap in the buildings.
‘Where are we?’ I asked.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Rick said.
‘Oh, Sydney,’ I said. ‘How come we’re not at the conference?’
‘You tell me,’ Rick muttered.
‘We’re having trouble …’ Mitch began.
‘It’s all these one-way streets,’ Rick said. ‘Whoever designed Sydney must’ve had rocks in their head.’
Jack suggested we head for Bondi Beach for a swim as it’s so bleeping hot, reasoning that if we hadn’t had the car trouble, we’d have had a day to take in the sights and go for a swim.
‘Aren’t we late for the conference?’ I asked.
Rick rolled his eyes. ‘Rate we’re going, we’ll never get there.’
‘But, if we go to Bondi,’ Mitch said, ‘perhaps we can find a park and work out where we are and how to get to the conference.’
‘But how do we do that?’ Rick asked. He moved the car at the speed of a tortoise along the road chock-full of nearly stationary vehicles.
I pointed at a sign which read, “Bondi”. Head east, follow that sign. I’d given up on attending the conference, and, believing we’d be stuck in Sydney city traffic forever, resolved to content myself with the promise of the beach sometime in the next week. Not sure how Dad would feel about us not turning up, though. He’d made it his mission to persuade our little tribe to come. And, here we were, lost in the city traffic, wandering in circles around one-way streets.
I imagined Dad pacing the floor of the conference centre, wearing a groove in the carpet, glancing at his watch, and peering out the window. ‘Where are those children?’ he’d be saying, ‘They should be here by now.’
‘Where, exactly, is the conference?’ I asked. ‘Is it near Bondi?’
‘Have you got rocks in your head?’ Rick said. His face was flushed with beads of perspiration dripping from his temples. ‘Of course it’s not. And at this rate, no matter where it is, we won’t get there. We’re stuck.’
‘Um,’ Jack interrupted Rick’s rant, ‘I think it’s at Randwick Racecourse.’
‘And where’s that?’ I chimed in.
‘Perhaps, if we go to Bondi, find a park, then we can study the map, and work out where to go,’ Mitch said.
‘Or we could lob into a corner shop and ask someone directions,’ I suggested.
The guys ignored my idea, as guys do. All this time Cordelia remained silent, contributing nothing to the discussion. Perhaps to be more popular with the boys, as Cordelia certainly was, I considered I should remain silent. But me, being me, I just couldn’t help myself. Being one of the “lads” and voicing my opinion, that is.
We reached Bondi. Early afternoon.
I remember the weather. Warm, cloudy, and humid. Specks of rain assaulted the windscreen. Despite the inclement weather by my Adelaide standards, the streets around this beachside suburb were cluttered with more cars and even more people. It seemed to me that Bondi was crowded with the entire rest of the population of Sydney, the ones who were not still stuck in traffic in the city centre.
As a result, no parks. Nowhere. Not a thin strip anywhere to put the Charger.
Rick sighed and drove through the park-less and crowded Bondi, along some coastal road, and then up a road heading east again.
Jack, who had been studying a simple map of Sydney that the RAA strip map provided, pointed at a road on the map. ‘I’m pretty sure if we turn down Anzac Parade and follow it all the way down, we will reach our destination.’
Rick followed Jack’s directions, and we arrived at the conference just in time for afternoon tea. And, I might add, a roasting from Dad who could not understand how we could get lost in Sydney.
Mitch, though, was philosophical. ‘It could’ve been worse, but I was praying the whole time, and God got us here safe and sound.’
Dad sniffed and tapped his trouser pocket. ‘Hmm, yes, you are right, Mitch. Ah, well, praise the Lord.’
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023; updated 2026
***
Want more, but now, probably due to current world events, (Again! Sigh!) too impossible to travel down under? Why not escape all the world drama and take a virtual journey back in time and space, with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?
Click on the links below:
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…
Or if you are looking for more escape, say into Science Fiction Fantasy, check out my War Against Boris series:
Click on the links below:
Diamonds in the Cave (Newish release)
The Lost World of the Wends (most popular)
Mission of the Unwilling (the mischief and mayhem Boris gets up to)
The Hitch-hiker (how the war began for Minna and her friends)
Story Behind the Painting: Bunyip Chasm
Have a Happy and Blessed Easter.
As it is the Easter weekend and in keeping with Arty Friday, a story of my Easter break camping in the Gammon Ranges with my father and then future husband.
THE BIRTH OF “BUNYIP CHASM”—THE PAINTING
You need to loosen up with your painting,’ my art teacher said.
So, with a palette-knife, I did with…
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.
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.
‘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.
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.
‘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.
‘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!’
‘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.
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.
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.
[In memory of my father Clement David Trudinger (13-1-1928—25-8-2012)]
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2024; 2026
Feature painting: In Search of Bunyip Chasm © L.M. Kling 1989
***
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…
Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (part 4)
Waiting for the Alternator
Mitch’s hopes turned to practicalities as the morning dragged on while we waited for another elusive item, the alternator. I figured the alternator must be hiding in the same place the roadhouse in Dubbo must be.
By the time my watch read 8am, us four who were not mechanics, once more headed down the main road to the town centre in search of a “deli” as we in South Australia call corner shops, or a supermarket of some description.
We found a supermarket come snack bar, and treated ourselves to a meat pie, chips and Famers Union iced coffee. Just the sort of food one has for breakfast after a gruelling sleepless night. Mitch, appreciative of my mechanic brother’s efforts, brought him back the same fare as we had eaten.
Rick was leaning against the side of his precious Charger, still waiting for the elusive alternator.
A heated discussion ensued amongst the fellows. Mitch put forward that we could be using daylight to drive to Sydney.
Rick refuted that suggestion with, ‘Do you want to sleep in the car again?’
Jack began to raise his hand, but Mitch cut in. ‘No, you’re right, Rick.’
Rick went onto explain that the problem with faulty alternators is that they affect the battery. He described how in the short but slow drive to Dubbo, he drove the car in a lower gear to get the most out of the failing battery.
And so, we waited, sitting in what little shade the garage’s carpark afforded, waiting for the alternator to arrive.
Early afternoon, the sun’s heat beating down on us, Jack, Mitch, Cordelia and I again walked down to the main street for some lunch. Upon our return with stale ham sandwiches to share, Rick was hunched over under the Charger’s open bonnet.
I put my hands together in a half-hearted clap. ‘Hooray! The cavalry has arrived!’
‘No,’ Mitch had to be correct, ‘it’s the alternator.’
‘I had an idea how to repair the existing one,’ Rick said.
‘Hooray! Rick has worked out how to fix the alternator,’ I laughed.
‘You have a strange sense of humour,’ Cordelia said. ‘No wonder you find it hard to make friends, Lee-Anne.’
‘Praise the Lord!’ I raised my hands. ‘My brother can fix…’
‘Don’t make it worse,’ Cordelia said.
Perhaps she’s right, I thought, then took my sandwich pack, split from the “social police” before drifting over to Rick, to watch him as he operated on the car. Strange thing was, Mitch made a speedy dash away from Cordelia and followed me.
‘Hey, Rick,’ Mitch asked while hovering over his shoulder, ‘how long till you’re finished?’
Rick grunted in reply and swore.
I stepped back, knowing all too well not to crowd my brother when he was concentrating. Obviously, Mitch was not as aware. He leaned over Rick, blocking the sunlight from the engine. Rick poked out his tongue as he tackled a stubborn bolt.
Mitch stuck by Rick’s elbow. ‘Is that all you have to do?’
Where’s the social police now? Oh, there she is, staring at her sandwich and grimacing. She looked like a chipmunk.
I smiled observing Rick as he gritted his teeth and muttered expletives. Mitch seemed totally unaware that his attention wasn’t helping.
‘Bu#@%er!’ Rick cried.
A ping and a clunk, and the spanner dropped into the engine of no return.
‘What happened?’ Mitch asked all innocent.
Rick narrowed his eyes at his friend. ‘What do you think?’
‘Did you drop the spanner?’
‘Yes. And now I’m going to have fun getting it out.’
Mitch rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I help?’ Mitch loved to help.
A grin slowly formed on Rick’s face. ‘I think you can, Mitch.’
Mitch was dancing on the spot in anticipation. ‘How?’
‘See the engine?’
Mitch nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I want you to find the spanner and pick it out for me.’ Rick wiped his sweaty brow. ‘This is hot and thirsty work and I need a drink and some lunch.’
‘Okay,’ Mitch said while studying the engine, ‘I can do that.’
In the shade of a scraggly bush by a low stone wall, I handed Rick a quarter of sandwich and bottle of Fanta. My brother and I sat on the wall and watched Mitch hunt for the spanner. Rick munched on his ham and relish sandwich, unperturbed by the dryness of bread and ham tasting too salty. He washed down some of the fizzy drink and then said, ‘Well, I better go and rescue Mitch.’
The sun travelled westwards, and shadows lengthened as the “quick” job took several hours to complete.
Just before the sun set, Rick rubbed his grease-covered hands on an old cloth and declared the vehicle ready for action. He hoped the battery would give us no trouble.
Once again, we piled in the car and Rick turned the ignition.
A squeak.
A sputter.
Then a roar.
The Charger puttered and shook as the engine turned over and the beast began to move out of the garage carpark.
We entered the main street, passing the store which had provided our breakfast and lunch. Closed for the night. Jack gazed at the store and sighed.
As if reading his mind and everyone else’s, Rick said, ‘We’ll need to drive for an hour or so before we stop.’
Mitch put on a brave face. ‘We’ll find a roadhouse sometime later tonight to have tea.’
We watched Dubbo’s Shell service station come roadhouse flit past as we left the town.
Sitting in the front passenger seat next to my brother who was driving, I pulled out the RAA strip map and flicked through the pages. Locating the one with Dubbo, I scanned the last few pages and calculated the distance and time to reach our destination.
‘According to the strip map, it will take us about six hours to reach Sydney,’ I said.
‘So,’ Mitch from the back replied, ‘we shall make it in time for the conference.’
‘Where, exactly is the conference?’ Jack asked.
‘Randwick Racecourse, if I remember correctly,’ Mitch said.
‘Where’s that?’ I asked.
‘Beats me,’ Rick said.
‘Do we have a map of Sydney?’ Mitch said with an edge to his voice.
Rick shrugged and planted his foot on the accelerator. The Charger roared to the highway’s maximum speed of 110 km/ph.
*[Video: Long stretch of outback highway © L.M. Kling 2021]
‘I guess we’ll have to…’ Mitch began.
Cordelia who seemed to be quieter than her usual demur self (I guess she had no social mores to report on), clutched her stomach and whispered, ‘I don’t feel very well, I need to find a hospital.’
Slowing the car, Rick sighed and shook his head. ‘I guess we better go back to Dubbo.’
Tyres crunched on the gravel before he swung the car in an arc performing a seamless U-turn and headed back towards the twinkling lights of Dubbo.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023
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Tru-Kling Creations 