[The last few months I have revisited The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977 which is a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981. In preparation for its release later this year, I will be sharing posts of this adventure.
Here’s how it all began…]
Beginning With Mr. B–Adelaide
1977, August, mid-winter and I was excited. Dad had never taken me camping. Then, when I turned 14, he decided to take the risk and allowed me to join the T-Team on a Central Australian safari. 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 had gathered from Dad’s reluctance to invite me on previous adventures out bush, that he had some reservations how I would cope…
Our trip began in the grey dawn in the foothills south of Adelaide, where we collected our companions, Mr. B, and his son Matt.
August, two weeks before the September school holidays, and Dad eased the truck, as he called the red hired Land Rover, to a stop on the slope. He yanked up the handbrake and sighed.
‘I hope it holds,’ he said.
‘Is this where Mr. Banks and Matt live?’ I asked. Mr. B, as we nicknamed him was Dad’s friend and Matt, a few years younger than me was his son. Only fair as my dad had the nickname of Mr. T.
A tall man, about Dad’s age, dressed R.M. Williams trousers, checked shirt, and polished hiking boots, bowled up the steep driveway to meet us. ‘Come into our humble abode,’ this man, Mr. B said gesturing to his home; hardly humble, as inside, it was more like a 1960’s style Swiss Chalet set on the hillside with a vista of the Adelaide plains.
We admired the view, through a large window spanning the wall, a panorama of Adelaide, lights winking as the city woke up.
My brother Rick nudged me and whispered, ‘I wonder how this bank manager is going to cope on one of Dad’s camping trips.’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ At fourteen, I did not consider too deeply how a man of class would cope with a camping trip minus all the luxuries a well-to-do city slicker like him would be used to. ‘I wonder how I’m going to manage. I mean to say, this is my first time camping in the bush.’
Matt slung his sports bag over his shoulder and after reluctantly hugging his mother and older sister who made a brief appearance, followed us out to the Land Rover.
‘I say, girl,’ Mr. B strode to the truck, ‘you take a photo of me. We must mark the occasion.’
‘I’m not sure, it’ll work out, Mr. B,’ I said. ‘It’s still pretty dark.’
‘Go on, girl, there’s light enough.’
As Dad packed Mr. B’s and Matt’s baggage into the back cabin, I lined Mr. B with the road and, with my nameless brand instamatic camera, snapped a photo.
‘It won’t work out, Lee,’ my brother said as he passed me. ‘It’s too dark.’
‘I know,’ I mumbled.
Mr. B appeared in my photo to be keeling over, such was the slope of his street. Little did I know how prophetic that photo would be of Mr. B’s adaption to the ways of the bush.
[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 past year, I have taken 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, with the trip coming to a close, the T-K Team continue their return to Adelaide after camping at Marla for the night.]
The Trucks of Terror
Morning and the dawning realisation why this campsite may not have been popular. Anthony stomped around the tent grumbling.
‘I got no sleep last night,’ he snapped. ‘Kept getting woken up by those trucks rumbling all night. And their lights. Just as I drifted off to sleep. Those lights kept shining into our tent.’
‘Will you be alright to drive?’ I asked.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he sniffed. Anthony was a man after all and infallible.
We moved like snails packing up. I loaded the Ford’s rear with stuff. Next minute, Anthony was there unloading and repacking. Must do it right, even on the last leg of our journey.
While he played his version of luggage-tetris, I wandered off to the BBQ hut to check for any forgotten items that might lurk there. And behold, sitting rather smugly in a rather obvious position on the bench next to the BBQ facilities, Anthony’s water bottle. You just have to wonder whether the water bottle had legs and hid when we were searching for it the previous night. Then, when it realised that it might be left behind, it positioned itself in the fail-safe position to be found. The water bottle is not the first item to “hide” from me and then “reappear” in a place where I have looked a dozen times before…
There was much rejoicing over the lost water bottle that was found.
Owing to Anthony’s meticulous care in packing, we were the last to leave the campsite.
As we travelled the long monotonous stretch, I slept a bit, wrote in my diary a bit, and then stared out the window at the red earth, gibber plains and twisted corkwood trees. I even filmed the landscape flitting past a bit.
‘That’s okay, blame it on the trucks that kept us awake all night.’
‘I swear that there was a truck that shone its lights straight into our tent.’
‘Yeah, it seemed that way,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we can stay at Woomera in a cabin tonight and get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘Yeah, why not!’
Around two o’clock and the landscape evolved from flat, and stone scattered to low-lying hills pockmarked with what appeared to be giant rabbit holes. Signs warned visitors to beware of mine-shafts.
A tour of Coober Pedy yielded no service-stations that we could find. And He who wanted to save money and eat a picnic lunch was not willing to enter a pub for the loo in case it entrapped us into eating in there.
‘What about the playground and BBQ area where we had tea with the T-Team on the way up to Central Australia?’ Anthony suggested.
Bad suggestion…
But, at the time I agreed. Lunch and loo visit in one hit.
[to be continued…next time I contend with a psycho dunny…]
After relishing the sweet crunch of cornflakes for breakfast, the T-Team drove back to Ormiston Gorge. We hiked through the gorge admiring the red cliffs, ghost gums and mirror reflections in the waterholes, and took less than an hour to reach the end with the view of Mt. Giles, lumpy and sapphire blue.
Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds, Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’
Our cousins, C1 and C2 raced over to TR. ‘Where?’ They peered into the pond. I trailed after them, hunting for fish through the plumes of muddied water near TR’s white calves.
‘There!’ TR waved his finger at the middle of the waterhole.
C1 squinted. ‘Oh, yeah.’
C2 waded into the water and peered. ‘I don’t see anything.’
Richard hunted and fossicked through the cooking equipment Dad had scattered around the campfire. ‘You got a sieve? A net? Anything?’
‘What for?’ Dad asked.
‘The fish.’
‘Ah, you know, those fish can lay dormant in the dry creek bed for years and when the rain comes, they spawn.’ Dad just had to tell us.
‘Well, this little fishy is going to be our lunch.’ Richard snapped his fat fingers together like crab claws. ‘I’ll catch it with my hands if I have to.’ He strode into the pool with such force the waters parted like the Red Sea. ‘Now where’s that fish?’ he said as he sank up to his waist.
Richard glanced, his smile faded. ‘Oh, is that all? It’s just a piddley little thing. Not enough for lunch.’ He was neck deep in the water and prepared to swim. He shot up. ‘Ouch! Something bit me!’
‘Better watch out, might be Jaws,’ I said.
‘You didn’t tell me there were yabbies.’ Richard bobbed up and down, then reached down to catch his feet. ‘Ouch! It bit me again!’
‘Why not yabbies?’ C1 said.
‘Now that’s an idea,’ Richard replied.
‘Ah! Shrimp!’ C2 waded towards his cousin. ‘I love the taste of shrimp.’
‘Hmm, yabbies,’ Richard said. ‘We used to catch yabbies all the time when we were young.’ With an explosive splash, he submerged in search of the yabby that had bitten him.
Dad, TR and I waited for the damper scones to cook and watched Richard and C1 turn bottoms up like ducks in the water in their quest for yabbies. C2 waded in the shallows of the pond, a roughly sharpened stick in hand ready to skewer any hapless water-creature.
Soon we breathed in the sweet aroma of baked scones. Dad flipped the foil wrapped balls out of the coals. ‘Lunch is ready!’ He clustered the silver spheres together using a small branch as if they were balls on a snooker table. Empty-handed the lads dragged their soaked bodies from the waterhole and schlepped to the fire place to collect their consolation prize of damper scone.
Richard held his stubby index finger and thumb in the form of the letter “C”. ‘I was this close to getting a yabby.’
[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-Team go their separate ways…]
Monday Morning
After a fitful sleep and then early rise, I looked forward to coffee with mum and the boys. With the sun peeping over the horizon, shining in the watery blue winter sky and reflecting golden on the gum trees surrounding the campground, the frigid desert air slowly began to thaw.
First, though, after a warming shower and filling breakfast, the tent had to be packed up. Anthony needed my help with that. Then, he spent an eternity repacking the station wagon. While waiting, I jogged on the spot and puffed out steam of my breath into the below ten-degrees air.
As if a surgeon performing a delicate operation, Anthony punctuated his packing with commands. ‘Bags!’ So, I passed over the bags which he grabbed and pushed into the boot of the car. Then, ‘Tent!’ I hauled over the packed tent to him. Then, ‘Esky!’ I lugged the cool box (esky) to him. Then, waving his hand while head stuck in the boot of the car, ‘Box!’
‘What box?’ I asked.
‘Kitchen box!’
‘Huh?’ I glanced at the piles of stuff still waiting a home in the Ford. Finding the green crate with breakfast cereals, bread and cans of beans, I passed that one to him.
‘No! No! No!’ he snapped and pointed at the red crate, same size but with cooking utensils. ‘That box!’
Apparently, the green crate must go under the back seat with a blanket covering it.
Finally, with Anthony’s version of luggage-tetris complete, we drove the short distance in the caravan park to mum’s cabin.
Again, we found Mum T glued to the phone. On the small pine table, she had spread out a brochure opened to camel farms. In between phone calls she muttered, ‘Mrs. T has asked me to find a camel farm for them to visit.’ She was not having much luck finding a camel farm or someone from the camel farms advertised, to answer her calls.
While Mum T remained occupied with the phone, Anthony and I popped next door to visit our boys. The first words out of their Dad’s mouth when he entered was, ‘Have you packed?’
Son 1 and 2 duly showed Dad their packed luggage waiting by the door.
Satisfied that the lads were ready to depart Alice Springs and not miss the flight, we sat down to enjoy a coffee with the boys.
Mum joined us. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said over her much-needed coffee to wake up, ‘the park manager came over. They were most apologetic about the mix up yesterday. Apparently, whoever took my booking assumed the people were T’s, because when they asked them, the lady didn’t hear clearly and just nodded and said “Yes”.’
‘You mean the guy behind the counter assumed the lady was you?’ I asked to clarify.
‘Apparently, the guy asked the lady, ‘Are you Mrs. T?’ and she said, ‘Yes.’’
We shook our heads.
‘Maybe the lady who took our cabin had a hearing problem,’ I said.
‘Oh, well, it all worked out in the end,’ Mum T concluded.
After visiting the Strehlow Centre and its Art Gallery again, we travelled to the airport to see our sons safely, and in time, board the plane back to Adelaide. Then a brief stop at Woolworths for Anthony to buy some shorts, before commencing our return to Hermannsburg.
[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-Team leave camping in the desert behind and tackle the complexities of civilisation—Alice Springs…all on a Sunday.]
Impostors
Less than one hour later after leaving Hermannsburg, we checked into the Stuart Caravan Park on the edge of Alice Springs. The reception, cast in long shadows, signalled the fast-approaching night and uncertainty that comes with not booking a site. Would there be one for us?
Fair point. Why book a cabin and campsite if you can stay with friends and save money?
‘Looks like someone impersonated our mum and snaffled up her cabin,’ I said.
‘Mmm! That’s a bit rough,’ Mrs T said, ‘Hope she can get her money back. She can stay with us, if she likes.’
I looked to Mum T. ‘You can stay with the T-Team at their friend’s.’
Mum T smiled. ‘It’s okay, the manager has given me another cabin free of charge.’
Glad that we had decided to return to Alice Springs and had been there to support Mum. Still, rather ironic that, Mum, who had been the first to book her cabin way back in March or April to ensure she had a booking and not miss out, was the one who almost did.
In the golden tones of late afternoon, Anthony and I set up our tent and then took a leisurely stroll around the caravan park and onto mum’s cabin. Fortunately, her cabin was near our sons’. On the way we ‘happened” to pass the cabin containing the fake T-Team. There they sat, out on the front porch, an elderly couple and a younger couple. Didn’t appear to be your average criminal type or distant relatives even.
Visited the boys’ cabin. Son 1 and 2 had settled in for the night, happy with the comfort that the rooms afforded. Son 1 particularly pleased that he wouldn’t have to hear our snoring.
Son 2 however asked, ‘What are we doing for tea?’
‘Maybe we can go to a hotel to eat,’ I said.
My husband frowned. ‘What? Are we made of money?’
‘You want to cook?’ I questioned. ‘Anyway, it’s Mum’s and the boys’ last night up here, they leave for Adelaide tomorrow.’
Anthony sighed, ‘Oh, alright!’
Sprinted over to mum’s cabin and knocked on the door. Mum, holding the phone, ushered me in. Then I stood in the small lounge area while Mum sat at the tiny wooden table, phone glued to her ear.
I waited.
Mum, with phone at her ear and silent, waited.
‘What…?’ I began.
Mum batted her free hand at me to be quiet.
So, I waited.
And waited.
Might as well do something while waiting for goodness knows what. Must be something to do with the imposters, I thought.
‘Yes…’ finally, mum gets a response, ‘yes, right…nine o’clock tomorrow…be there half an hour before…no, we don’t have any luggage; only hand luggage…Right, thank you.’
‘Not news about the T-Team imposters, then?’ I laughed.
‘No, just had to do the check in with Qantas for the boys’ return trip tomorrow,’ Mum replied.
Only then, was I able to discuss with mum about going out for tea. Of course, the suggestion was fine by her.
[Seven years ago, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to 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-Team visit Hermannsburg, Mum T’s old stamping ground.]
Midday, and Mt. Hermannsburg rose up above the desert scrub; just red sand dotted with tee tree bushes, spinifex and the invasive buffel grass. At regular intervals, horse poo appeared in high piles on the roadside.
I read later that buffel grass was introduced to stablise the desert soil and reduce the risk of bushfire. The problem with this grass is that it is pervasive, compromising the growth of native plant species. PIRSA (Primary Industries and Regions, South Australia) has declared “Buffel Grass under the Landscape South Australia Act 2019”.
A massive animal carcass on the side of the road flitted past.
‘What’s that?’ I pointed, then placed my hand back on the steering wheel. ‘It’s too big to be a roo and too woolly to be a brumby.’
Son 2 piped up. ‘Camel?’
‘Hmmm, hate to think what happened to the vehicle that struck that camel,’ I said.
Not long after the camel carcass, we passed the memorial to Hermannsburg Mission and then a sign welcoming us to Ntaria—Hermannsburg. To our left, a supermarket, a pale brick structure languishing on the edge of a paddock near the road.
‘That’s where our friend, P, from church works,’ I announced. Our friends, P and wife, K had invited us to stay with them in Hermannsburg.
The convoy came to stop on the gravel road edge by the store.
I hopped out of the car and entered the store. Searching for P, I wandered up and down the aisles, filled with the owners of the Land, the Arunda people, but shelves empty of anything to buy. Except for the pie warmer, choc-full of pies, chips and other fast foods.
I approached the check out where an Indigenous lady served a long line of customers, who each held pies, chips, hot dogs, and burgers. I stood in line and waited my turn to purchase an answer to my question.
Finally, my turn. ‘Could you tell me where I can find P?’
The checkout lady stared past me.
‘P? I thought he worked in the supermarket,’ I said.
I waited about 10 minutes while she served a stream of customers purchasing their pies and other junk food.
So, I left.
‘Perhaps we’ll find an answer or P at the Historic Precinct,’ Mum said.
The T-Team convoy led by Mum’s hire car, then continued through Hermannsburg to the Historic Precinct. We passed a gated community. Yes, you heard right, a gated community. Houses painted in bright pastel green, yellow and pink, could be viewed through the cyclone fence, and their occupants sitting in backyards of red sand.
Further on, we rolled past another store. This one painted in pastel blue and decorated with a mural of native bush, mountains, and a kangaroo. Near a broken window, a faded sign, stating its identity as the “Finke River Mission” Store.
Mum waved a hand in the store’s direction. ‘I reckon P works here.’
The door appeared locked by a security gate of thick metal bars. Without stopping, or alighting from the car, I said, ‘I think it is closed on Sunday.’
A few metres on, we parked just outside the Historic Precinct. The wooden gate leading to the old buildings swung in the breeze, open. To one side, though, a formidable sign discouraged us with the words in black letters, “Closed”. Despite this sign and its statement, people wandered across the compound and in and out the buildings.
[Seven years ago, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to 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-Team farewell Glen Helen, then struggle with the concept of driving in convoy.]
The sound of boots scuffling in the boys’ section of the tent woke me. I wormed my way out of the sleeping bag, careful not to wake my husband, Anthony. He still puffed out the sweet dreams while softly snoring as I crept next door to investigate.
Son 1, his face clouded in a frown greeted me. ‘Couldn’t sleep, so went for a walk,’ he snapped.
‘Best time of morning to enjoy the views.’
‘Sure you don’t have sleep apnoea? You kept me awake with your snoring all night.’
‘It’s just the cold desert air,’ I replied, then left for my own walk with views.
Captured more of Mt. Sonder at sunrise; this time in blue and mauve hues rising above helicopter landing pad. In 2010, Mum and her sister had splashed out and taken this helicopter ride over the MacDonnell Ranges. In some ways an easier way to have a birds-eye view of the ranges without all the huffing and puffing and effort climbing a mountain.
Mum had been there and done that in her youth when she climbed Mt. Sonder with my dad and other Hermannsburg friends. Mum shared just recently, that one of the friends was a rather luscious looking fellow. She puzzled why there seemed to be no photos of this chap in Dad’s slide collection of the occasion.
On my return from this venture down memory lane, I collected some firewood from an old campfire.
Anthony narrowed his eyes and growled, ‘We’re not making a fire.’
‘Okay.’
I approached my nephew who squatted by a campfire which he had lit. ‘We’re not making a fire,’ I said and then dumped my wood collection into the fire. ‘We’re not having a fire?’
My nephew laughed. ‘I was just playing with my stick and it broke and went in the fire.’
‘And my pieces of wood just fell into the fire,’ I added.
We watched the flames grow, both chuckling at our insurrection to his Kling-ship’s fire-ban.
After a toilet break, I filled a billy can with water and it made its way onto the coals. The family gathered, enjoying its warmth and relative scarcity of flies and other insects. But for some, like my younger niece, the fire failed to ward off all the flies; especially those tiny little sticky flies that crawl in one’s eyes, nose and mouth. For her, the only solution was to put a re-usable cloth shopping bag over her head.
Following breakfast by the fire that my husband said we weren’t going to have, I washed and packed up my bedding and stuff in the tent. Having done as much as I could to pack the Ford, I walked up to the restaurant with Son 2. He wanted an iced coffee. There, while Son 2 drank his iced coffee, I bought a book about Uluru, and then had a coffee with Mum. We talked with the owner and Mum shared that she had visited Ayers Rock (Uluru) in 1953.
‘We were the only ones there,’ Mum said.
‘Was Dad there that time?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but I was much younger, and we weren’t going out then.’ Mum laughed. ‘One of the ladies lost the sole of her shoe when we were climbing, and Dad gallantly lent his shoes to her and walked down the rock barefoot.’
‘Just like Richard did in 1981 with his cousin. Only they did it as a dare.’
‘Must be in the genes,’ Son 2, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, snorted.
By 10.30am, the T-Team convoy had left Glen Helen, its red cliffs, its flies and the doused and covered fire, in a distant mirage and we headed for Ormiston Gorge, again. My sister-in-law wanted to buy a souvenir magnet at the Ormiston Gorge information centre.
We parked at the turn-off, where Mum, Son 2 and I waited in Mum’s hire car for the Ford containing Anthony and Son 1 to arrive, and the T-Team in their white van to appear.
‘What’s taking them so long?’ Son 2 asked.
‘Maybe the Ford won’t start.’ A definite possibility, I thought.
‘Don’t say that,’ Mum said.
‘What about the T’s? They’re late too.’ Son 2 grumbled. ‘We’ve been waiting twenty minutes!’
I sighed. ‘Perhaps the old Ford has broken down and Richard is under the bonnet trying to fix it up.’
‘Should we go back then?’ Mum asked.
‘Yes, I think we should,’ I sighed again while starting up the engine. I rolled the car forward, performed a U-turn and then headed back to Glen Helen.
Just as we reached the road to Glen Helen, the Ford appeared, and sailed past us on its way to Ormiston Gorge.
Down the valley we travelled until we could safely do another U-Turn, at what we had coined the “U-Turn Crossing”. This was the place where a couple of nights ago, Son 1 had collected firewood while I collected photos of Glen Helen’s iron-red cliffs bathed in the golden rays of the setting sun.
Then, stepping on the accelerator, we chased the Ford. Upon catching up to the Ford, we beeped the horn and flashed the lights of our rental car.
‘What the…?’ Son 2 pointed at a white van on the opposite side of the road, heading back towards Glen Helen.
‘No,’ Mum said, ‘we’ve missed the turn off to Ormiston.’
More sighs. A brief park by the side of the road, our car with the Ford, and then exchange of information with Anthony and Son 1. Then with my brother who had earlier missed the turn off to Ormiston and had to retrace his tracks back to the Ormiston road. Then, we turned around (in our cars) and following each other, bumped our way down the rough track to the Ormiston where we waited for Mrs T to buy her fridge magnets.
Transactions done, we began our journey to Hermannsburg. This time, the T-Team in their white van, waited for us to catch up before launching into the T-Team’s convoy to Mum T’s childhood home.
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.
‘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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tru-Kling Creations 