Australian Culture

T-Team Next Gen–From Alice to Adelaide (1)

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

[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 weeks, 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 commence their return to Adelaide from Alice Springs.]

Back to the Big Smoke of the South

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.

[Photo 1: Conglomerate Landscape © C.D. Trudinger 1986 ]

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.

[Photo 2: Probably one of the most effective ways to keep the flies at bay © L.M. Kling 2013]

I drove the following 180 kilometres to Marla. A slow drive at times stuck behind cars pulling caravans.

‘Why don’t you over-take?’ Anthony 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 Northern Territory.

[Photo 3: Distant memories of entering the NT two weeks prior © L.M. Kling 2013]

There, at the border we parked to check our itinerary of food for fruit and vegetables. Owing to the prevention of fruit fly 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 Australian’s so precious?’

‘Yes, we are,’ I muttered to Anthony, ‘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,’ Anthony snapped.

‘Maybe someone should tell them that it’s only fresh vegetables that need to be disposed of.’

Anthony 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.

[Photo 4: Down the Stuart Highway we go. Map of the South Australian outback in information kiosk at Marla© L.M. Kling 2013]

A sign warned penalties for the non-disposal of fruit and vegetables.

Anthony breathed in. ‘Oh, no, what about the potatoes?’

‘We have potatoes?’

Anthony 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 (Swiss potato bake) on the BBQ facilities provided,’ Anthony sighed. ‘Good luck getting a campsite.’

[Photo 5: Better late than dead on time—car body at Marla © L.M. Kling 2013]

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, Rick 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.’

Rich laughed. ‘Oh, yeah! Maybe we won’t go that way…’

[Photo 6: Reminiscent of past ventures with the T-Team: Lunch at Ernabella with Dad’s brother © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

We waved the T-Team off on their venture south at around 8.30pm. Then Anthony crawled into the tent and began tossing out clothes, bags, and stuff into the frigid cold 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.

[Photo 7: Like Father like son-in-law, parting with one’s water container brings such sorrow. Somewhere in this landscape of Liebig is my dad’s lost quart can © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Having lost the battle to mourn the temporary loss of his water bottle alone, Anthony crawled into bed at 10pm. Soon after, I followed him and in the warmth of the thermal sleeping bag, I soon fell asleep.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Mini Ayers Rock © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2013

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoir,

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

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

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Out of Time (5.2)

/ lmkling / 5 Comments

A Computer Called Clarke

Part 2

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…

In this episode (5.2) Fugitive Tails and his stolen charges await Tails’ partner in crime, Maggie’s promised return from Antarctica …]

Delayed

Liam preferred to forget that day. The Adelaide plains surrounding the airport were blanketed with the chill of an unseasonal sea-fog, and icy rain drops which seemed imported directly from Antarctica. After the broiling heat of summer in Alice Springs; a heat that drives even the locals to seek refuge down south, Adelaide’s weather proved to be just too cold for Liam’s liking. The city skyline hunkered down beneath the mist as if trying to keep warm. Liam vaguely remembered this sister city of his youth, the one in Mirror World, where buildings rose tall and proud and way out of the flight path of sleek-looking aircraft. In contrast, these low-lying buildings and stumpy hills were shrouded in a murky mist, gathering, full of foreboding.

Liam, Max and their father, lined up at the glass; sad pathetic ducks at a sideshow. Waiting. Hoping. Expecting the aeroplane from Melbourne to land any minute. The giant-sized screen of scheduled landings flicked and clicked promised landings and departures.

 ‘The flight should have landed five minutes ago.’ Tails paced behind his sons. ‘You said she rang and that she was coming, Liam. You told me!’

‘It’s 1967, Dad,’ Liam spat, ‘That’s what you keep telling us.’

‘Yeah, Dad,’ Max rolled his eyes and added, ‘and it’s not Mirror World. So, the planes are old-fashioned and not as efficient.’

‘You still remember, that? I mean, Mirror?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Max sighed, ‘We’re not stupid.’

‘And it was mum what spoke to you from ‘obart?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Liam replied.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature photo: Swans on the Torrens, Adelaide circa 1960 © S.O. Gross circa 1945

***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

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

/ lmkling / 3 Comments

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

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

The Quart Can

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I can’t find them,’ Rick said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, no!’ Dad moaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We reached the top of the gorge.

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

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

‘Now what?’ I asked.

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

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

Dad and I waited.

The wind whistled through the gap.

‘I hope he’s alright,’ I said.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Dad replied.

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

‘No, he’ll be fine. Stop worrying.’

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

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

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

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

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

*[Photo 10: The land below—MacDonnell Ranges © C.D. Trudinger 1981]
*[Photo 11: Ranges closer to Liebig © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

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

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

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

He disappeared behind a bush.

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

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

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

‘Sorry.’

‘Hoy!’ Dad called.

We looked to see Dad waving at us.

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

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

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

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2021

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

***

Dreaming of an Aussie Outback Adventure?

Click the link below:

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

To download your Amazon Kindle copy of the story…

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

Out of Time (3.2)

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Point of Battery

Part 2

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…

In this episode (3.2) Letitia delves into her friend’s past and makes some intriguing discoveries…]

Frieda led Letitia into her room and rifled through a room-sized walk-in robe packed-full of clothing. From what Letitia could discern from the king-sized bed which faced a wall-sized window view of the Derwent, there were at least three decades worth of fashions represented. 1940’s to mid- ‘60’s, she surmised. A bold red and green floral print dress flew through the air and gracefully landed on the bed next to her. As she picked up the polyester-cotton dress, she remarked casually, ‘Blood and bone? Isn’t that something you do to roses in springtime?’

Frieda’s voice floated out from the depths of the clothes cupboard along with a pair of knickers still in the original plastic wrapping. ‘Yeah, don’t remind me! You know Will. He’s always gunna do, but then he’s on call, then there’s a golf tournament, and then Christmas, and then the bothersome yacht race! And in the end the job never gets done. Then before you know it, the damn dog’s got into it. Poor roses!’ More rustling could be heard from the vacuous hole of the cupboard, punctuated by Frieda’s verbal explosions, that spanned several European languages. ‘Now where are those dumkopf shoes? Merde! Can’t find anything in this hole!’

Standing by the bed like a dummy awaiting further instructions, Letitia chuckled, ‘You’d fit well into Mirror World.’

‘What? What the blazes is Mirror World?’

Realising that this Frieda may have never experienced such a world, Letitia shrugged. ‘Never mind.’

After a few more crashes and angry expletives, Frieda popped her head through the door. ‘Oh, er, Letitia, you can use the en suite shower and get changed. Just throw the dirty clothes outside the door. I’ll get them and put them in the wash. They won’t take long to dry in this weather.’ Then, almost as an after-thought, ‘Oh, er, Johnny’s coming home with his nanny soon.’

Letitia raised an eyebrow. ‘Johnny? Is that…?’

But Frieda had already flown out of hearing-range.

Letitia spied the adjoining door to the closet and assumed that this led to the en suite. It did. After peeling off the offensive manure laden garb, and depositing it just out the door, she turned on the shower revelling in the warm water flowing over her parched and soiled body.

For a couple of minutes, she enjoyed the refreshing and steamy streams run over her tired skin and aching muscles. Her mind wandered over postcards of lush fertile temperate forests of the West Coast of Tasmania (Mirror, of course, and East Coast there). She had not been there yet but remembered the pristine photographs from Geographic calendars and books that Jemima had sent in years gone by (or in future years as the case seemed to be in this out-of-time world). At Christmas, a tradition was established: she would send Switzerland, and Jemima would send the Tasmanian wilderness.

Hot spicy drops of water seared Letitia’s skin, jarring her out of her Tasmanian wilderness daydreams. She leapt to the far corner of the bevelled glass shower cubicle to escape the stings of boiling hot water. Through the steam, she noticed a knob marked with a blue ‘C’. She had forgotten that even showers were not computer-adjusted in 1967. With a sigh and with careful manoeuvring, she twisted the cold tap handle until the water simmered down to a more ambient temperature. How the soft water lathered the speck of shampoo to froth into a huge volume, she marvelled. Adelaide’s desalinated water of 2018 on Mirror World, never did that. It was a good day if you managed to conjure up a few stray bubbles from that water from drought-stricken Adelaide of the 2010’s on Mirror. Since global warming had taken a firm hold, the mainland of Mirror-Australia had been in perpetual general drought for more than twenty years.

Conscious of impending future water restrictions that might even extend to Hobart, even on this world, she terminated her shower after a few minutes of bliss, and dried with a towel compliments of Frieda. Actually, the white fluffy Dickies towel had “Frieda” embossed in dark pink across one corner. She did not feel comfortable using the one marked “Wilhelm”. Carefully, she dried her long dark locks and donned the blue patterned loose-fitting dress, and underclothes Frieda had provided.

‘A bit of a tent,’ Letitia said admiring her slim figure in the mirror, ‘but cool all the same. The white floral design I like.’

Finally, she began to thaw from the freezer of the South Pole.

Her limbs felt like rubber after the warmth of the shower and for once she could move them freely without the stiffness of cold, threatening frostbite and muscle-cramp. She wandered out into the bedroom of Wilhelm and Frieda. Was that the same Wilhelm Frieda had begun dating back before the Boris disaster of the Lagrange Point? she pondered. The Derwent was bathed in the first flushes of sunset, reflecting pleasant pinks and glowing orange on the hills beyond, the flickering lights of the city shimmering against the warm dark grey blue of river and evening. She read the analogue clock that sat in its own foldable leather case on the cluttered bedside table.

‘Nine o’clock!’ she muttered. ‘I was only in the shower for a few brief minutes. Who’s been messing with my time? I was sure it was only two or three in the afternoon, surely…’

She noticed a family history book that was stacked on top of a pile of neglected receipts and used airline tickets. ‘I wonder if I’m in this family history in this particular world and time?’ She flipped distractedly through the stiff A4 sized pages. Caught a glimpse of Frieda’s brother. Their mother remained a mystery. ‘I wonder who she was? What happened to her?’ She flicked back in search of the page and elusive image. She found John, Minna’s brother. Born 1963. ‘You didn’t waste any time, Frieda,’ she muttered. Then she gulped in momentary, reflection, ‘Neither did I, I mean, we. Wow, Jemima and John are the same age, technically…’ Distracted, Letitia turned page after page, hoping to uncover her or her counterpart’s existence.

‘Wise guy! Jolly joker! Who may I ask are you?’ A man’s voice echoed through the room while a golf club nudged Letitia in the back.

With a shriek, Letitia tossed the genealogical document into the air causing it to splat inelegantly onto the homemade patchwork quilt.

‘Who are you in my bedroom, wearing my wife’s clothes, and reading my family history?’ the man accused half in jest.

Letitia replied, ‘Just seeing if…I hope you don’t mind.’

The man she assumed was Wilhelm Thumm interrupted her. ‘Well, of course! Go ahead. Have a look. You helped Frieda with the research. Letitia! How good to see you, after, after…’ He paused thoughtfully, ‘after all these months! Or is it years?’ And gave her an obligatory hug. ‘Frieda informed me of your auspicious discovery. So, this is where you escaped to! What a surprise! You know, to be honest, we all thought you were, you know,’ he cleared his throat, ‘um, gone…dead. Although, we never did find a body, so, of course certain members of the IGSF, you know the likely characters, never gave up. After all, with what happened to me…’ Wilhelm’s voice trailed off into the realm of uncertainty.

What a bonus! Letitia mused. She recalled a few discussions with Frieda as they sun-baked on the sands at Bondi but didn’t think she had done that much to help write the family history. ‘I ended up in another dimension, Mirror World, and was busy helping the IGSF there. Anyway,’ she smiled, ‘It’s good to see you too, Will. You don’t mind if I have a look through the book, you know check for, check for typos, inconsistencies and, and there’s these distant relatives from Switzerland that I want to check up on, see if they were put in here,’ she rambled. Figuring that she had to get her facts straight if she was going to appear convincing in this time frame and realm.

‘Sure!’ Wilhelm nodded. ‘Come on down to the deck. We are having a nice glass of Riesling from the Barossa, and Frieda’s grilling up some salmon on the Weber. The latest thing from America, you know. Tasmanian salmon, it’s the best!’ he sucked in the twilight air between his gritted teeth and lead the way out to the deck.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Focus on Sandy Bay, Derwent River, Hobart © L.M. Kling 2016

***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Below…

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

Storm Over Musgrave Ranges

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Our first 40-plus degrees Celsius day, and our hills of Adelaide are menaced by bushfire. Although our home was not threatened, the fire raged on roads familiar to us; roads that we take on the “scenic route” to Hahndorf, and people we know live in those particular towns that were in danger. Fortunately, the threat of fire has been eased by drenching rain—just in time.

Such is the plight of living in the driest state in the driest continent…

So, today, as the smell of smoke filled the air and a pall of brown smoke covered the city, I recalled a time when a storm and fire threatened the T-Team.

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

THE STORM

Monday 27 – Tuesday 28, July 1981

‘Oh! I give up!’ I hauled myself out of the sleeping bag, bundled up my bedding and parka, and blundered my way to the back of the Rover. I glanced at the men comatose in sleep and oblivious to the mini cyclone engulfing them. Our central campfire blazed, flames sweeping over the clearing. The smell of burnt plastic hit my nostrils. At my feet lay the remains of a little blue bowl, my bowl. I washed my face in that basin every morning. Now what was I to do?

[Photo 1: Ominous Sunset over Musgraves © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I knew this wind meant business, dangerous business. I rushed to Dad and told him the whole story—the wind, the sparks, the wild fire, and my little blue bowl.

‘What campfire?’ Dad smacked his lips, yawned and turned over.

‘But Dad! The fires have to go out!’ I shook my father. ‘We’ll burn to death.’

‘Oh, all right!’ Dad squirmed his way out of his layers of blankets and bedding. ‘I don’t know why you have to disturb me. I was just getting to sleep.’ He picked up the shovel and tramped over to my fire. The coals had sprung to life and tongues of flame licked at my rumpled groundsheet.

Dad shovelled several heaps of dirt over my fire. I picked up a bucket and fought my way to the creek through a wall of wind. My bucket full of water, I marched back to camp. I tossed water on the coals and with the light of my torch watched them sizzle and steam. I put rocks in the bowls and buckets as insurance against being blown away in these gale-force conditions.

[Photo 2: The fog warning over Musgraves © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I returned to my sleeping quarters with bucket half-full of water and found Dad disposing of the menacing flames of my fire. A few rebellious coals glowed with fresh gusts. So, I chucked water on these reheated stubs, quenching any urge for the embers to flare up.

Dad stepped forward and made a grab for my bucket. ‘Hey! What are you doing?’

‘All in the aid to save us from a bushfire,’ I replied.

On my trek back to the Rover, I checked the campfire. Coals glowed angry red, and blue-yellowy-green flames wobbled over the molten surface. I drowned the recalcitrant coals with water, killing any ability to resurrect with the wind once and for all, I hoped.

I carried the gas lantern with me and walking towards the Rover battled the surging torrents of wind. Dad called out, ‘Take care, Lee-Anne!’

‘Yes, Dad!’ I called back, my words getting sucked away in the storm. I put the lantern on the tucker box while sorting stuff to place under the protective weight of rocks. A fresh gust of wind whipped and roared. It cut right through me. Crash! The lantern smashed to the ground, slivers of glass smattered all over the ground. Woops! There goes the light for tonight.

[Photo 3: Dad in his ski mask should’ve known…© L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]

I tramped back to Dad’s bed. ‘Um, Dad, I have some bad news.’

Dad sounded muffled through layers of blanket and his ski mask. ‘What now?’

‘I broke the lantern.’

‘Oh! Lee-Anne!’ Dad groaned in that tone of voice that made me feel ashamed for being so stupid as to put the lantern on a tucker box in the middle of a wild storm.

On my way back to the Rover, book bag slung over my shoulder and everyday bag in hand, I saw the flames reignite and spread their hot fingers over the tinder-dry site. I attacked the offending piece of wood, this time with a rock. The flames splayed under and around the stone with a blast of wind. Down the creek I ran, and returned with a bucket of water. I drowned the smouldering lump in a deep puddle.

Dusting my hands of residual ash, I returned to the Rover in which I’d set up my bed. Wind howled around the cabin, rocking the whole vehicle as I huddled in my layers of bedding. I looked out the window. Dad’s light from his undying campfire flickered and sent violent flames and sparks flying over his tarpaulin. I leapt out of the Rover and raced over to save Dad. There he lay, wrapped in comfort in a wad of blankets, fast asleep and unharmed. I smothered the glowing coals with a few heaps of sand.

[Photo 4: Better times sleeping around the campfire © C. D. Trudinger 1981]

I set my face against the wind and battled my way back to the Rover. Once more I settled into my nest of sleeping bag, blankets and parka on the narrow bench seat. I shut my eyes and tried to block out the howling winds and the Rover rocking from side to side.

Then that feeling began. I tried to ignore it. I have to pee. I crossed my legs and pretended it didn’t exist. I have to pee. The wind moaned. I’m not going out there, not in that weather. I’ve got to pee. I’ve done my dash; nature will just have to wait. This is urgent. I rocked with the Rover and tried to think of other things. I must pee, I’m busting! Once more I unwrapped myself out of mummification, forced open the Rover door against the wind and stumbled to the nearest bush down wind. I hoped I didn’t splatter my pants.

Relieved, I pushed my way back to the Rover. A faint alarm bell bleeped somewhere in the campsite. I stopped before getting into the Rover and watched Dad jerk up and out of his sleeping bag. He staggered towards Tony’s quarters. ‘Wake up!’ he yelled, his words getting sucked up by the wind.

[Photo 5: The morning after and hunting for TR’s missing socks © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

The pile of bedding remained lifeless and unresponsive.

‘Hoy!’ Dad shouted.

No answer.

Dad knelt, with his mouth close to the hood of the sleeping bag, he shouted, ‘What’s the time?’

His friend stuck his head out the sleeping bag. ‘What?’

‘Oh, never mind,’ Dad snapped and then stomped off to bed.

Safe from the atomic explosions of wind and chill, my head burrowed deep within my sleeping bag, I prayed. I was reminded that though the world may lash us with rage and storms, God keeps his children safe. God had kept us safe.

Finally, I dozed into the welcome peace of sleep.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018; updated 2021

Feature Photo: Calm before the storm, Musgrave Ranges, South Australia © C.D. Trudinger 1981

***

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