Verboten in Hermannsburg

July 5, 2021July 5, 2021 / lmkling / 1 Comment

[Last week safety in South Australia was threatened by that all too familiar nemesis Co-vid, and again restrictions were put in place. Many activities were “verboten”, including singing. Having weathered the latest threat, I recalled forty years ago in the remote centre of Australia where trespassing on the “verboten” could spell disaster…]

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

The Consequences of Changing One’s Mind

Back at in Hermannsburg, Mrs. R presided over the kitchen bench.

‘How did the ice-cream-making go?’ I asked.

She flitted to the fridge and opened the freezer section. ‘C1 and that nice girl, J have both gone, but not together.’ She sounded far-away in the land of the fairies.

As if I wanted to know what my older cousin, C1 was up to. ‘Did it work out,’ I asked.

‘Hmm, maybe.’ She remained distant, still in fantasy land. ‘Possibly, give it time.’

‘I mean, the ice-cream, are we going to have fried ice-cream for dessert?’ I rose, walked over to the fridge and peered over her shoulder. ‘Is there fried ice-cream in there?’

‘Oh, no,’ she spoke with a dead-pan expression. ‘We ate all that. Just ice-cream for you folks, I’m afraid.’

*[1. Photo: Ice cream also all eaten in Paris by my two boys © L.M. Kling 1998]*

I believed her and assumed we’d have plain old ice-cream for dessert. J returned unannounced. ‘Oh!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Just stay there, don’t go away.’ She vanished out the door.

Lamenting the loss of the fried ice-cream experience, I comforted myself with a cup of tea. Dad buzzed around the kitchen, chopping vegetables, boiling rice, deep frying shrimp crackers and splattering oil all over the walls. I knew I should help but I just sat, sipping tea and wishing I had stayed behind. Now I’ll never have fried ice-cream. Anyway, Indonesian fried rice is Dad’s domain, his glory, and heaven help anyone who offers to help. Our job was to taste its wonders and compliment him. I could do that.

J reappeared with a small postcard-sized paper in hand. ‘It’s a photo of you.’ She handed me the image of me looking shocked by the camera flash at the sing-sing. ‘I think it’s a rather nice one of you. Don’t you think?’

*[2. Photo: Camera shock at sing-sing. Where’s my beau? © Courtesy of L.M. Kling 1981]*

Not particularly. I accepted the picture of me appearing ghost-like on a bad-hair day. Never did like pictures of me. The camera picks out all my faults. ‘Yes, thank you.’ I rose and then headed for the room holding my luggage. ‘I’ll put it in my diary straight away.’

While Mrs. R departed for business with J, and Dad slaved over a hot stove of many fry pans and saucepans creating his Indonesian meal, I wrote my diary and then retreated into the world of Wuthering Heights.

‘Dinner is ready!’ Dad rang the brass hand-held bell. ‘Come and get it.’

I left my Heathcliff to brood on the moors, and drifted into the kitchen-dining area for the auspicious Indonesian meal. Seven o’clock and three young ladies, two pretty blondes and a stunning brunette, accompanied C1 and C2 to the round white table decorated with knives, forks and plates. The atmosphere bubbled with excited chatter and introductions. In one corner, the fellers, my brother, C2 and C1 fidgeted and grinned, and the girls giggled and squealed as they stood in the other corner and checked out the talent. I sat in the middle like the referee at the table. I clutched my knife and fork upright in each hand and glared at Dad bustling at the sink.

*[3. Photo: Not a tradition to take photos of meals for the T-Team, so here’s a spread for the Hermannsburg male choir © courtesy C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

‘Okay, I’m here.’ I glanced from one corner to the other. ‘Where’s the dinner?’

‘Don’t be so impatient.’ Mrs. R hurried past me carrying a tray of glasses. ‘Go and talk to the girls.’

I pointed from the boy group to the girl group. ‘You couldn’t find a partner for me, could you?’

‘Lee-Anne!’ Mrs. R said. ‘This is Hermannsburg, not Alice Springs!’

‘No stockman or lonely explorer, then?’

‘No, this is as good as it gets.’ She placed the glasses on the table. Besides, the blokes up here, I don’t think they’d be your type.’

Then I’m destined to be an old maid then. I sighed.

*[4. Photo: Maids waiting on the Hermannsburg Mission Truck © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

The young people gathered and selected seats at the table. Dad presented his massive bowl of Indonesian fried rice to a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. The girls’ eyes widened at the sheer enormity of the rice project. The boys licked their lips and breathed in the aroma of cumin, cardamom, turmeric and chilli. Dad had excelled himself. He puffed up his chest, and strutted around the kitchen.

C1 charmed the ladies with his dry humour and subtle flirting. Stuck in their own shyness, MB and C2 remained spectators, while C1 did all the entertaining with the girls. I sat back in my chair observing the interactions, piling my plate full of rice, and shovelling the stuff down like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. The ladies opposite me, picked at miniscule portions of the fair. So what! I can make a pig of myself! No one for me to impress. Not like I had to diet. Someone’s got to show Dad his food is good, not just tell him with platitudes. Besides, got to make the most of it, only boring old ice-cream for dessert. The young lassies each passed up offerings of seconds while I was on my thirds. I bet they were full from eating all the fried ice-cream. Well, serves them right. Polishing off the plate, I felt full and bloated. There was a lull in the conversation. C1 had run out of things to joke about.

*[5. Photo: Plain old boring ice cream, but for some, a special treat. Especially, South Australia’s own Golden North ice cream. © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

Mrs. R moved to the fridge. ‘Dessert, anyone?’

All at the table put up their hands except me.

‘Lee-Anne?’ Mrs. R pulled the ice-cream container from the freezer. ‘Sure you don’t want any?’

‘Nup, I’m full.’ Boy, they are a sad lot wanting plain boring vanilla ice-cream.

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yep.’ Why is she making such a big deal about it?

Mrs. R opened the lid and spooned out frittered balls of ice-cream into bowls.

Hey, just wait a minute. I raised my hand. I’ve changed my mind.

‘Changing your mind is verboten,’ Mrs. R announced.

‘Oh, but—she, Mrs. R lied.’

‘Now, Lee-Anne, stop grizzling,’ Dad hammered his index finger at me, ‘you said you didn’t want dessert, those are the rules.’

Everyone at the table looked at me. Heat, burning more than curry rose to my face. ‘Mrs. R said there was none.’

*[6. Photo: Walls of Glen Helen, and probably a much younger Dad in the window © courtesy C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

The boys joined Dad in dumping brick-tonnes of scalding and jesting at my expense. C1 played the condescending parent and elicited a laugh from the girls. ‘Now, there’s no need to make a drama out of it.’

‘You should see her when she plays games like ‘Chook-Chook’, almost breaks down the house with door-slamming,’ my brother chuckled, followed by more roars of laughter.

‘She did nothing the whole trip, just eats all the food in the camp,’ C2 snorted. More roars of mirth. As if on a roll, he added, ‘And she’s always changing her mind.’

‘A woman’s prerogative,’ I muttered.

‘Not in this household,’ Mrs. R pointed at me. ‘My three-year-old behaves better than her.’

*[7. Photo: Escape to Salzburg, Austria © L.M. Kling 2014]*

As they all scored points at my expense, I went off in my mind to Austria and The Sound of Music and the trouble with Maria. Perhaps one day I’ll go off into the Alps with my Count von Trapp. For the moment I was trapped, demonised by the perpetuation of false perception of my image. I felt like no one knew who I really was. Glad there weren’t any eligible males for me to witness my humiliation. I held my tongue and my position at the table. Anything I said would be held and used against me.

Mrs. R served up the fried ice-cream. A bowl appeared before me.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered. I kept my head down and eyes fixed on the ball of fritter. I waited for further remarks and comments about how undeserving I was of this peace-offering, but they had moved on.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; updated 2021
Photo: Mt. Hermannsburg © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2013

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

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]

T-Team Series–Ormiston Gorge

June 28, 2021 / lmkling / 1 Comment

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

Fishies in the Billabong

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.

*[Photo 1: Hike through Ormiston Gorge © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

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!’

*[Photo 2: The Other Side of Ormiston © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

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.’

*[Photo 3: Waterhole closer © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

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.’

*[Photo 4: Mt Giles over pound © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

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.

*[Photo 5: Eating lunch © C.D. Trudinger 1992]*

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

*Feature Painting: The Other Side of Ormiston © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016

***

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]

T-Team Series–Palm Valley

June 21, 2021June 21, 2021 / lmkling / 1 Comment

The T-Team with Mr B

Lost in Palm Valley

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

The T-Team with Mr B — In 1977 Dad’s friend Mr Banks and his son, Matt (not their real names), 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? And would my brother survive?]

Our truck lumbered over the designated four-wheel drive track-come-dry Finke Riverbed to Palm Valley.

*[Photo 1: Dry river of the Finke © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

Dad turned to Mr. B and chuckled. ‘How would you like to sleep on this riverbed?’

Mr. B pouted, folded his arms and looked out the window.

We continued to bump over the rocks and sand where two-wheel drive vehicles fear to tread. Dad recalled his days travelling by donkey along this same track when he explored Palm Valley with his Arunda students.

*[Photo 2: Those were the days when only donkeys trekked the path to Palm Valley © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

‘O-oh!’ Dad uttered as the Rover’s underside scraped over some boulders. When our vehicle continued to move, though slowly, we all sighed with relief.

‘O-oh!’ Dad gritted his teeth and sucked air through the gaps in them. The Rover jolted to a stop. The engine screamed. The body rocked. The wheels spun. ‘O-oh! I think we’re bogged.’

Mr. B groaned, ‘I hope that doesn’t mean we’re sleeping on this god-forsaken creek tonight.’

‘Okay—oh, better put it into four-wheel drive. Now, for one more try.’

Dad readjusted the grip of his fingers on the steering-wheel and pressed his foot on the accelerator. The Rover leapt out of the bog-hole.

‘Good thing you remembered that the Land Rover has four-wheel drive,’ Mr. B muttered.

We crawled along the creek bed for a few more minutes, until confronted with formidable boulders where we were forced to stop. Dad reckoned we were a mile or two from the valley, so we had to hike the rest of the way.

Rick raced ahead. As was his habit, he lost us.

*[Photo 3: Palm Valley with me © C.D. Trudinger 1977 (taken with my instamatic camera)]

We entered the land that time had misplaced, forgotten and then found preserved in this valley. Lofty palms swayed in the breeze. Fronds of green glittered in the sun while their shadows formed graceful shapes on the iron-red cliffs. Here a cycad, spouting from the rocks, there a ghost gum jutting from those same deep red walls. This sanctuary for ancient prehistoric palms, which had existed there since the dawn of time, distracted us from my errant brother. We trundled over the stone smoothed by the running of water several millennia ago, admired the mirror reflections in the remaining pools, and breathed in the tranquility.

*[Photo 4: Mirror reflection © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Then, as if the ancient palm spell was broken, a frown descended on Dad’s face. He stood up, tapped his pockets checking to feel if his keys and small change still existed, and then marched down the valley. When he’d disappeared into a gathering of palms, I asked Mr. B, ‘What’s my dad doing?’

‘I think he’s looking for your brother,’ Mr. B replied. ‘He seems to have a habit of getting lost.’

Matt, Mr. B’s son sniggered.

*[Photo 5: Wiggly Palm © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

Still in the zone of swoon, I sat beside the billabong in the shade of the palm trees and changed my film. Then I stretched, and leaving Mr. B and Matt to their rest, I ambled along the stone-paved bed looking for Dad. Again, time lost relevance in the beauty and wonder of the palms: tall skinny ones, wiggly ones, short ones, clustered ones and alone ones.

*[Photo 6: Pa peaceful amongst the palms © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]*

I found Dad, but there was no sign of my brother. The sun had edged over the western walls of the valley casting a golden-orange glow over the opposing cliffs.

Dad huffed and puffed. ‘It’s getting late. I s’pose Rick has gone back to the Rover.’

‘Better head back, then,’ I said.

On the way, we collected Mr. B and son. They had not seen my AWOL brother either.

*[Photo 7: Sunset on the cliffs of Palm Valley © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

We waited back at the car for Rick. Dad’s concern turned to annoyance, then frustration. Dad had plans for a picnic, but as the sun sank lower, his well laid plans were becoming remote. Dad paced the sand, hands on hips, and muttering discontentedly. Trust my brother to spoil a perfect place and time for a picnic tea. The idea of proceeding with the picnic without Rick did not occur to Dad. I guess the thought that some peril had befallen him had sabotaged any appetite. Dad nervously tapped his right pocket; at least his keys hadn’t gone AWOL.

Every few minutes Dad paused in his pacing. ‘Ah—well!’ he’d say. Then sucking the warm air between his gritted teeth, he’d resume pacing.

An hour passed as we watched Dad track back and forth across the clearing.

*[Photo 8: Memories of a ghost gum © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

‘I swear you’ve made a groove there in the sand,’ Mr. B said.

Dad halted and narrowed his eyes at Mr. B.

I peered at the sand, straining my vision to pick out the path Dad had created.

A branch cracked. Footsteps, thudded. Distant. Then closer…louder.

Dad turned. All of us in the clearing froze and we fixed our gaze on the path leading to Palm Valley. The prodigal son stumbled into the clearing.

*[Photo 9: Waiting for the prodigal son—view amongst the palms © C.D. Trudinger 1977]*

Contrary to the parable, Dad snapped, ‘We were going to have a picnic tea. But it is 5 o’clock, now. We have to get going!’

So, with less than an hour before darkness descended, we navigated the bumpy Finke River ride, and Dad’s grumpy mood, back to Hermannsburg.

After tea, Dad recovered from the grumps as we played cardgames; first “Pig”, followed by “Switch”.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2021

Feature Photo: Palm Valley © C.D. Trudinger 1981

***

Dreaming of an Aussie Outback Adventure?

Click the link below:

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

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

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

June 14, 2021 / 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]

Story Behind the Painting–Standley Chasm

June 7, 2021June 7, 2021 / lmkling / 1 Comment

An Episode from The T-Team With Mr B

[While painting this scene of a group of older men gathering to admire the glowing walls of Standley Chasm, I was reminded of the T-Team’s trek in 1977 with Mr. B. This wealthy man used to comfort and luxury, took on the challenges of roughing it camping with the T-Team. This stunning chasm is about 50km west of Alice Springs and is one of the first of many beautiful sites to visit in the MacDonnell Ranges.]

Standley Chasm — Angkerle Atwatye

Mr. B slowed the Rover and eased it into a park joining the line of cars, land rovers, and buses awaiting their owners’ return. The T-Team piled out of the Rover and in single-file, followed Dad along the narrow track heading towards Standley Chasm. In the twists and turns of the trail that hugged the dry creek bed, I spotted ferns in the shadow of rock mounds the colour of yellow ochre, and ghost gums sprouting out of russet walls of stone. Hikers marched past us returning to the car park.

*[1. Photo: Path to Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling © L.M. Kling 2013]*

‘G’day,’ they said. ‘Well worth it.’

Dad checked his watch and quickened his pace.

I ran to catch Dad. ‘Have we missed out?’

‘We better hurry,’ Dad snapped.

A leisurely short stroll became a race to the finish as we struggled to keep up with Dad; scrambling over boulders on the track, squeezing past more tourists going to and from the chasm, Dad snapping and cracking the verbal whip, and Mr. B moaning and groaning that “it’s not for a sheep station”.

*[2. Photo: Ghost gum and ferns on way to Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

The crowd thickened, stranding us in a jam of people, fat bottoms wobbling, parents hauling their whinging kids, and men clutching cameras to their eyes for the perfect shot. Dad checked his watch and then shifted the weight from one foot to the other.

‘Are we there yet?’ I asked.

Wrong question. Especially when asking a grumpy Dad.

‘Not yet!’ Dad barked.

‘I reckon we’re not far away,’ I said. ‘All the tourists have stopped. Must be some reason.’

Dad screwed up his nose. ‘I dunno, it doesn’t look right.’

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ Mr. B, one arm stretched out before him, parted the sea of people and strode through.

We followed in Mr. B’s wake and within twenty paces, there it glowed. Standley Chasm. Both walls in hues of gold to ochre. Dozens of people milled around its base.

*[3. Photo: No quite the right time but still awesome: Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Dad gazed at the chasm, and then squinted at the position of the sun. ‘It’s not there yet.’

‘How long?’ I wanted to know.

‘Not long, just wait.’ Dad paced towards a white gum that bowed before the grand wonder of the chasm.

‘Wait! I’ll take a photo of you,’ I said.

‘Do you have to?’

‘Why not?’

‘We might miss the walls turning red.’

‘They turn red that quickly?’

Dad leaned up against the tree. ‘I s’pose not.’

I dug out my instamatic camera and photographed my grumpy Dad.

*[4. Photo: While we wait, a grumpy Dad before the chasm © L.M. Kling* *(nee Trudinger) 1977]*

Then we waited. The tourists snapped their shots and then filtered away.

‘When’s it going to turn red?’ I asked for the fourth time.

‘Be patient,’ Dad said.

‘This is boring,’ Matt mumbled.

‘Let’s see what’s the other side.’ Richard tapped Matt on the arm. The two lads scrambled over the rocks and I watched them hop from one boulder to the next over a small waterhole.

*[5. Photo: The rocks’ reflection, Stanley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Dad paced from one wall to the next while Mr. B photographed Standley Chasm from every angle.

I watched mesmerized by the sunlight playing on the walls. They turned from a russet-brown on one side, gold on the other, to both glowing a bright orange. But by then, most of the tourists had left, thinking the Chasm had finished its performance for the day.

*[6. Photo: Well worth the wait; Stanley Chasm, just the right time © L.M. Kling* *(nee Trudinger) 1977]*

*[7. Painting: Dad’s Standley Chasm in watercolour © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

As the other wall turned in hue to sienna, Mr. B packed his camera in his leather case and stood back admiring the view.

‘Get some good shots?’ Dad asked.

‘I reckon I did.’ Mr. B patted his camera bag. ‘You know, once the crowds thinned out, I reckon I got some good ones.’

‘Ah, well, I’ve seen Standley Chasm put on a better show in the past.’ I think Dad was trying to justify not having a functional camera.

‘Well, I enjoyed it,’ I said. ‘This place is amazing!’

*[8. Photo: Stanley Chasm mid-afternoon; still the same perfect light 36 years later © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Dad patted me on the back. ‘Ah! Lee-Anne, you haven’t seen anything yet. Wait till you see Ormiston Gorge.’

‘By the way, where are tha boys?’ Mr. B asked.

‘Looks like we have to be patient and wait for them now.’

‘I hope your son doesn’t get ma boy lost.’

Dad laughed. ‘No worries. There they are, just the other side of the chasm.’ He waved at the boys.

Richard and Matt scrambled through the chasm to join the T-Team on the hike back to the Rover.

*[9. Photo: Actual photo of men admiring Stanley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2018; 2021

**Feature Painting: Men Admiring Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2018**

***

Want more? More than before?

And binge on True Aussie Adventure with the T-Team in my book available on Amazon and in Kindle. Just click on the link below:

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

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

May 22, 2021 / 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

***

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

T-Team Next Gen–Emily Gap

April 26, 2021 / 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 visit Emily Gap.]

Lunch With the Ants

Our plans changed. Anthony decided we could take a risk with our fuel situation, and so, since we were in the vicinity of the Eastern MacDonnell Ranges, we would visit Emily Gap and have lunch first before getting the gas for the Ford.

*[Photo 1: Emily Gap entrance © L.M. Kling 2013]*

‘After all,’ I said to Anthony, ‘it is almost two o’clock, and I’m hungry.’

He just had to reply, ‘Hungry? Unlike you, I can wait till teatime.’

‘Hmm, yet another similarity you have to my father. Only he could fast from breakfast as well as lunch.’

As we rolled into the shady climes of the Emily Gap car park, I remarked, ‘But such a lovely place to sit and have picnic, don’t you think?’ I had already sourced some nuts and chocolate from my bag in case he disagreed with my suggestion.

‘We’ll go for a walk first to see the rock paintings and then have some lunch,’ Anthony grumbled. ‘I don’t want to walk on a full stomach.’

*[Photo 2: Emily Gap Rock Formations © L.M. Kling 2013]*

While Anthony marched ahead to find the rock paintings before they disappeared, I trailed behind and nibbled my nuts and chocolate. Needed reinforcements to do the walk.

Anthony vanished around a corner. A few minutes later, he appeared, jogging towards me. ‘They’re here! Come look!’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I replied, remembering 1981 when TR baited us with some significant discovery of Indigenous art. That art turned out to be less ancient and more modern.

I followed Anthony. Around the bend, he pointed. ‘Look! There they are.’

Gazing at the entrance to a shallow cave, I said, ‘Oh, yeah! So, there are. They look like giant caterpillars.’

*[Photo 3: Rock paintings © L.M. Kling 2013]*

We spent some time examining the array of caterpillar paintings and carvings; the totem of the Eastern Arrernte people, we assumed.

‘I think my dad took us to Jesse Gap,’ I said as we walked back to the picnic area. ‘I have never seen those paintings before. When he took us out to the Eastern MacDonnell’s all we saw was artwork of the Western kind, graffiti. When we suggested visiting Emily Gap, it was already nearly dark, and Dad thought there would only be graffiti there too.’

*[Photo 4: Shade Creep, Emily Gaps later afternoon © L.M. Kling 2013]*

In the shade of the gum trees in the picnic area, we “shared” our lunch of canned tuna and buttered bread with some inch ants. Had to put our food on a rock and then move the picnic rug, but the inch ants followed us.

*[Photo 5: Inch ants © L.M. Kling 2019]*

After lunch, we found the BP petrol station that Richard had told us about. And finally, the Ford had its fill of LP Gas. Then on our way back to the Caravan park where we were staying for the night, we swung by the local IGA, where I bought mince, button mushrooms, two onions, shampoo and conditioner. Would you believe that the shampoo and conditioner I had brought from home, had not lasted the distance of our two-week Central Australian journey?

In the golden light of late afternoon, while I helped Anthony put up the tent, I watched another family, pitch theirs. The father sat in his director’s chair and directed the rest of the family, women, and children, how to put up their tent.

But, ah, what bliss to cook tea in the light of the common kitchen. Spag Bog, and plum pudding. Dessert, hot chocolate.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Emily Gap Rock Paintings © L.M. Kling 2013

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

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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]

Story Behind the Art–Mt. Giles

April 12, 2021May 30, 2025 / lmkling / 1 Comment

Quest to Conquer Mt. Giles

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

Dad sucked on his lemon (a proven refreshment and guard against dehydration). ‘About a-quarter-to-twelve.’ He continued to sit and suck on his lemon as if in no hurry.

‘A-quarter-to-twelve?’ I stood. ‘We’ll never get there. We can’t even see the trig.’

‘Well, um-er, we better get a move on.’ Dad rose and slung his pack over his shoulder. The T-men shuffled up a worn kangaroo track. I took a quick swig of water and bounded after them.

*[Painting 1: Mt. Giles—our goal (Acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2010]*

We stopped at a three-pronged fork in the trail. Three mountain points stood before us. ‘Now, which way shall we go?’ You’d think Dad would’ve worked the route out before we embarked on this project, using his compass and detailed maps. But apparently, he hadn’t.

C1 (Older Cousin) raised an eyebrow. MB (My Brother) scratched his chin. C2 (Younger Cousin) shook his head, and I shrugged.

Dad hummed and hawed.

‘We could hike up and down the gully to see,’ MB said.

C2 sighed. ‘That would take too much time.’

‘What about the saddle?’ I asked.

The men looked at me, their eyes narrowed. ‘To which point?’ Dad spoke for them all. For the next few precious minutes, the men bantered about what option to take, cutting me out of the decision making.

‘Ah, well, time’s running out. I guess we can’t expect to reach the top,’ Dad announced with the damning tone of resignation.

I stomped off towards the saddle.

*[Photo 1: Mt Giles from the Pound © C.D. Trudinger 1986]*

‘Oy! Oy! What do you think you’re doing?’ Dad yelled.

I bolted on southwards and upwards to the spur. Even menacing prickle bushes didn’t stand a chance as I charged through them. Behind me I could hear the Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! as Dad hacked his way in pursuit of me. ‘Come back! You can’t go off on your own!’

Scratched and sore from the fight with the bushes, I stopped. A tight-rope path lay ahead. Not even enough width for my feet on this razor back. I turned and watched the shrubs shake.

Dad emerged brushing seeds and thorns from his arms. He shaded his eyes as he looked up. ‘You’ve taken the correct action.’

‘What?’ I scratched my eye-brows. Dad’s big words confused my exhausted mind.

Wheezing, Dad caught up to me. ‘See?’

He pointed at the nearest mound. ‘See, the trig?’

I squinted towards where the hill met the cobalt blue of the sky. At the highest point, a thin wire shimmered in the heat. ‘Oh, yeah!’

While Dad and I gulped down some water, MB, C2 and C1 galloped past us. ‘Watch your step on the spur!’ Dad warned.

We picked our way along the razor back ridge. I held my breath and resisted the urge to look down past the tight-rope path where I placed each step. Holding my arms out straight either side, I teetered and tottered to the end of my ordeal. When I reached the slope at the other end, an incline with generous girth and no cliff in sight, I collapsed to my knees, then bent over and kissed the sand stone.

*[Photo 2: Razor-back Ridges of Giles © C.D. Trudinger 1981]*

However, my rejoicing was short-lived and I rose to my sore feet to push on. After plodding up and down more ridges, more rocky slopes, and more frequent rests to nurse my aching calves, our allotted time to reach the summit by 12:30pm lapsed.

We gathered around Dad.

‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked. A breeze cooled the back of my neck.

Flies gathered on C1’s back. MB slapped between C1’s shoulder blades and clapped the flattened insects from his palms. ‘Twenty.’ He flicked the last of the sticky flies from his palm.

‘Well,’ Dad took a deep breath, ‘We’ve come this far, we might as well go all the way.’

‘We have a full moon, that’ll help,’ C2 said.

C1 waved a pesky fly from his face. ‘Okay!’

‘Let’s go!’ MB slapped his hands together near C1’s nose and killed that fly too.

‘Alright!’ I said.

Determined to reach the peak, we plunged forward, despite being famished, wrung of perspiration, weary and late. We were so close. Every so often, the trig teased us appearing as we reached a high point, and then vanishing as we dipped into a valley. MB and C1 raced each other.

I climbed over a wall of rock and saw the trig wobbling above the slope in the oily heat. I scrambled upwards. A saddle stretched and rose before me. Damn! Another false top! I struggled over the saddle to face another false top. After staggering over the fifth false top, I saw the trig and blinked. Was it real? Or was it a mirage? I limped up the jagged path, pain shooting down my calf muscles with each step. The trig disappeared behind an outcrop of rocks. We’ll never get there!

*[Photo 3: One Ridge After Another © C.D. Trudinger 1992]*

I skirted the rocks and saw the trig fifty meters away, bold, rusty, and high. Under the shade of an orange sheet that fluttered like a flag in the wind, MB, C1 and C2 lounged by the stone cairn, packs off their backs, stirring Salvital into their cups of water and then sipping with delight the reward of their labour. The time was one o’clock.

Ten minutes later, Dad dragged himself over the last ridge and limped to the summit. There, he sat on a rock and rubbed his knee. ‘O-o-oh!’ He inspected the damage, red and swollen. ‘I tripped and fell on my knee. I hope I can get down alright.’

‘You better,’ C1 laughed. ‘You can’t exactly camp up here.’

‘You’ll have to get down,’ MB said.

‘Yeah!’ I gazed at the view entranced by the once-ancient ocean bed surrounded by islands of mountain ranges that snaked like the backbone of a prehistoric creature into the haze on the horizon.

*[Photo 4: View from the summit—Foreground, the Pound, Ormiston Gorge behind, and in far distance, Mt. Sonder (left) and Mt. Ziel (right) © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]*

‘Hey, look at these!’ C1 excavated some calling cards from a tin can wedged in the monument to the summit. Our predecessors had conquered the mountain one year earlier to the day. The scribe wrote: “The climb was well worth the effort”. They described ascending to the peak by the southern ridge starting from Giles Spring. This tip gave us the idea to descend by the south ridge and traverse west through the pound to the camp.

We celebrated with lunch of scroggin and copious amounts of Milo and strawberry flavoured Quick mixed with powdered milk and water. We took photos of the stunning scenery and each other as evidence of our triumph over adversity.

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

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

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

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

Or Check out the prequel:

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

T-Team Next Gen–Tnorala (2)

April 5, 2021 / 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 continue their venture out West of Hermannsburg to explore Tnorala (Gosse Bluff).]

Big Day Out West (2)

Afternoon

After eating a snack, we walked the designated paths, taking care not to stray from the designated paths. Off track, the land was reserved for revegetation, and it certainly had revegetated since 1977. Then, the crater had been a barren wasteland. In 2013, green and full of native bushes and trees.

*[Photo 1: Inside Tnorala © L.M. Kling 2013]*

*[Photo 2: Back in 1977, T-team with Mr B © L.M. King (nee Trudinger) 1977]*

Upon completing the various walking tracks in the crater, we trekked back to the Ford, and then trundled out and off the unsealed part of the Mereenie Loop Road continuing north along it towards the road to Glen Helen.

*[Photo 3: Aspects of the Walk in Tnorala © L.M. Kling 2013]*

*[Photo 4: Re-vegetation © L.M. Kling 2013]*

*[Photo 5: Views on way © L.M. Kling 2013]*

But not for long. Roadworks rendered the road unsealed, so, more crawling. Until we reached Tylers Pass Lookout. Hence, in the mellowing sunlight of mid-afternoon, we supped on our cheese and gherkin sandwiches which we had bought from the store while feasting our eyes of the panoramic view of the Gosse Ranges and the MacDonnell Ranges.

*[Photo 6: View of Tnorala from the Tylers Pass Lookout © L.M. Kling 2013]*

‘Well, time to get going,’ Anthony said. ‘We don’t want to be driving in the dark.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Although, just one more photo.’

‘Well, hurry up.’

*[Photo 7: View of MacDonnell Ranges from lookout © L.M. Kling 2013]*

I snapped a few more photos and climbed into the Ford. Anthony was drumming the steering wheel. After I’d fastened the seatbelt, Anthony turned the ignition.

Nothing.

‘O-oh!’ Anthony muttered and tried the ignition again.

The Ford started, then shook and shuddered.

‘Oh, shoot!’ Anthony snapped.

He turned off the protesting Ford. Extracted himself from the car. And looked under the bonnet. While I sat like the queen in the car, he spent some time “working” and exclaiming at intervals, “We’re stuffed!”

I jumped out and joined him in the under-the-bonnet examinations. By this time Anthony was in the process of attaching the air-filter hose back on the air-filter. ‘We’ll see if that works,’ he said.

*[Photo 8: On another memorable occasion of car-fail way out West © S.O. Gross 1941]*

We resumed our positions in the Ford, sent up an arrow-prayer, and Anthony turned the ignition. The engine ticked over smoothly, and we breathed out our sighs of thanks to God. Anthony, then climbed out the car again to close the bonnet.

Just at this particular time, a pair of tourists in a ute, drove into the viewing area. They noticed the bonnet up on our car and called out, ‘You need some help?’

Anthony, with a tone of pride in his voice replied, ‘Nah, we are fine. All good.’

They waved, then drove past us to find a park and take in the view of the Gosses.

Late Afternoon

On our return, we passed a group of stranded owners of the land, kids waving. But Anthony kept driving. I guess, he wasn’t going to push his luck with mechanical prowess too far. In that way he was different from Dad who would’ve stopped and bantered in Aranda with them. And back then, in 1981, we had Richard, our mechanic.

By the time we reached Glen Helen, the fuel needle sank to less than a quarter of a tank, the gas-guzzler that the Ford is. We filled the tank there and then, now that we were on bitumen road, glided along enjoying the golden and purple hues of the MacDonnell Ranges in late afternoon. These I captured on my camera, with frequent stops, some with Anthony’s prompting.

*[Photo 9: Namatjira Country © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Sundown

Ellery Creek languished in shade when we arrived there. In the cooling shadows, we walked down the path leading to the water’s edge. Just as I remembered, Ellery Creek offered a big pool of water in which to swim. In fact, it’s the go-to place for swimming for the locals. In fact, as we walked the track to the pool, we passed a German tourist clad in bathers and hair wet from a dip.

*[Photo 10: Ellery Creek—Go-to place for swimming © L.M. Kling 2013]*

*[Photo 11: Tree Reflections at Ellery Creek © L.M. Kling 2013]*

As we drove westward to Hermannsburg, Anthony squinted at the setting sun glaring through the windscreen, and whined, ‘I can’t see a thing!’

‘Do you want me to drive?’ I asked.

‘No, no, I’ll be right.’

Just then, a kangaroo darted across the road. Anthony slowed and we watched the kangaroo and its joey tagging behind her, skitter over the verge and disappear into the bush.

‘That was close,’ Anthony sighed.

*[Photo 12: Approaching dusk, Ellery Creek © L.M. Kling 2013]*

We arrived back in Hermannsburg at around 7pm. I rang mum while waiting for tea. After a tasty meal of Chow Mein, we relaxed watching a video, and enjoying fellowship with our friends.

*Feature Photo: Gosse Bluff at sunset © S.O. Gross 1946*

***

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]

Tnorala (Gosse Bluff) Revisited

March 29, 2021 / 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 ventured out West of Hermannsburg to explore Tnorala (Gosse Bluff).]

Big Day Out West

Night

An alarm wailed.

I sat up and nudged Anthony. ‘What’s that about?’

Anthony snorted, smacked his lips and mumbled. ‘I don’t know. An alarm, I think.’

‘Shouldn’t we tell P? It might be their shop.’

Anthony snorted, turned over and recommenced snoring.

For some time, I lay in bed. Sleepless. The alarm bleating, lights flashing through our window. I assumed that like car alarms in the city, a cat or dog had set the thing off and the owners will sort out the problem…eventually.

Eventually, the alarm stopped and somehow, I fell into a good, deep sleep.

*[Photo 1: Sunrise in the Centre © C.D. Trudinger circa 1981]*

Morning

I stretched and then yawned. ‘Good morning, Anthony, did you have a good sleep?’

‘No,’ he grumbled. ‘You snored!’

Breakfast

After a shower, and getting dressed while Anthony caught up on the sleep he apparently missed out on while I snored (nothing about the alarm, I might add), I chatted with K over breakfast.

‘The store was broken into last night,’ she said.

‘So, that’s what the alarm last night was all about,’ I remarked.

‘Yep, happens on a regular basis. One of the windows need replacing, again.’

P joined us. Leaning on the kitchen table, he added, ‘If you want anything at the shop, you’ll have to wait until it opens. Store was broken into.’ He chuckled. ‘One lady has tried to impress the cops with her tracking skills.’

‘Who tried to break in? Do the police have any idea?’

P shrugged. ‘Kids probably.’

*[Photo 2: Back in 1940’s, some roads in the centre of Australia were virtually non-existent and had to be built © S.O. Gross circa 1941]*

Late Morning

After a slow morning, mooching, chatting with P (K had gone to work) bible study and then preparing some lunch, Anthony and I commenced our daytrip to the Gosse Range which is a meteorite crater formed some millennia ago. After some twenty kilometres of bitumen, we took the turn onto the Mereenie Loop and the road deteriorated. The Ford suffered the juddering of corrugations and slipping and sliding on silty red sand. Anthony slowed the car and crawled at a tense 20 km per hour.

I clutched the handhold of the door. ‘Is the car going to survive? I feel like the car’s going to fall apart.’

‘Why do you think I’m driving so slow,’ Anthony snapped.

*[Photo 3: My Grandpa’s truck did break down and they had to use donkeys to pull the truck back to “civilisation” © S.O. Gross 1941]*

In the distance, a truck approached us, powering up the road at speed, bull dust billowing behind it.

‘Close your windows,’ Anthony said.

‘They are,’ I replied. ‘I know what bulldust is and does.’ Didn’t fancy my nose, mouth and eyes filled with the stuff as they were in 1981.

*[Photo 4: Rough road—Mereenie Loop. Gosse Ranges in background © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Midday

The truck powered past, leaving us behind in a cloud of bull dust. Thankfully, the Ford, with its windows wound up, shielded us from the red menace, and we continued to judder along the corrugations for what seemed an eternity.

*[Photo 5: Vehicle comes closer. Tnorala in background. © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Then we rounded a bend in the road and, there, the Gosse Range spread out before us.

We stopped and captured the range, dressed in a soft mauve in the midday sun. As we prepared to jump in the car, another vehicle came roaring up the road towards us. This time, I caught the car with my camera as it sped up the road as if it were a racing track.

*[Photo 6: Gosse Range Approach © L.M. Kling 2013]*

With the car disappearing in a cloud of dust behind our Ford, with us safely in it, we prepared to complete our journey to the Gosse Range.

Anthony glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘Oh, cattle.’

‘Must get photos,’ I retrieved my camera from its bag, ‘evidence for she who does not believe that cattle exist in Central Australia.’

Anthony switched off the engine, and we piled out to take these important photos.

*[Photo 7: Proof of cattle © L.M. Kling 2013]*

After the cattle were caught on camera, we crawled our way to the Gosse Range turn off. By this time, the jiggling and juggling along the route, must have rattled Anthony’s senses and he had become quite cavalier. ‘What the heck, the road doesn’t look too bad.’

I stared at the two-tyre rutted track. I knew, having been there some 36 years before, that the track would not be much of a track further on. ‘Better to park the car just off the side of the road and hike to the Gosse Range, actually.’

‘Looks alright to me.’

‘Okay, if you must. We’ll drive as far as we can and then walk the rest of the way.’

This we did. Our trusty old Ford lumped and hurumphed over the rocks and ruts until we decided to spare the Ford any further risk and indignity to its under-carriage and suspension. Then we hiked the final kilometre through the gap and into the pound.

*[Photo 8: Trek into Gosse Range © L.M. Kling 2013]*

‘I’m so glad we were able to walk through the gap,’ I said while marvelling at the cliffs and boulders on each side. ‘If we’d been able to drive through, as we did in the Rover in 1977, I would’ve missed the beauty of these formations.’

[to be continued…]

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