Over the Easter break in 1986, Dad took my boyfriend (future husband) and me to the Gammon Ranges. Dad had gone there the previously with his photographer friend and he was keen to show us some of the scenic secrets these ranges held.
We bumped and rolled in Dad’s four-wheel drive Daihatsu down the track into the Gammon Ranges. We camped near Grindell’s Hut, backpackers’ accommodation. A murder-mystery from the early Twentieth Century involving the hut’s owner, spiced our discussion around the campfire that night. Then we set up a tent, for boyfriend, on the ground above the bank of the creek. I placed my bedding also above the creek under the stars. Dad opted for his “trillion-star” site underneath a river gum. No tent for him, either.
The next day Dad guided us along the Balcanoona creek bed shaded by native pines to Bunyip Chasm. After an hour or two of hobbling over rounded river stones, we arrived at a dead-end of high cliffs.
‘Come on, we better get back,’ Dad said and then started to hike back the way we came.
We trailed after Dad. Although native pine trees shaded our path, the hiking made me thirst for a waterhole in which to swim. I gazed up at the lacework of deep blue green against the sky and then, my boot caught on a rock. I stumbled. My ankle rolled and twisted. I cried out. ‘Wait!’
After about ten minutes, with my ankle still swollen and sore, I hobbled after the men. We climbed down a short waterfall and at the base, I looked back. The weathered trunk of an old gum tree leaned over the stream, three saplings basked in the late-afternoon sunlight against the sienna-coloured rocks, and clear water rushed and frothed over the cascading boulders and into pond mirroring the trees and rocks above.
‘Stop! Wait!’ I called to the men.
‘We have to keep on going,’ Dad said and disappeared into the distance.
Boyfriend waited while I aimed my camera at the perfect scene and snapped several shots.
Then holding hands, we hiked along the creek leading to our campsite and Dad.
‘I’m going to paint that little waterfall,’ I said.
We walked in silence, enjoying the scenery painted just for us—the waves of pale river stones, the dappled sunlight through the pines, and a soft breeze kissing our skin.
[More than ten 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 monthly Travel Fridays, 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. Then, it’s about time I put this story together into a book.]
Friday 5 July, 2013
The Convoy that Never Was
T-Team Next Generation’s convoy to Central Australia only took six hours to fragment and evaporate.
The said convoy consisted of Brother T’s family Mistubishi van containing my brother (Dad), Mrs. T (Mum), and three Teen-Lings (one boy, two girls), and Mum T’s trusty Ford Falcon Station wagon with Hubby and me. Mum T with our sons (S1 and S2) would be joining us in approximately a week’s time, flying up by plane to Alice Springs.
That was the plan.
With camping at Mambray Creek in the Flinders Ranges in mind, the T-Team Next Generation Convoy, took a recess break at Port Pirie where Mrs. T checked out a craft shop. Nearby, what appeared to be a church, was in fact a Barnacle bills Family Seafood Restaurant. Mrs. T, armed with crafting supplies, allowed the convoy to continue. But thoughts of an easy takeaway had been planted in some of the T-Team Next Generation’s minds.
Then, there was the obligatory stop at Port Germein. For Brother T and friends who frequented the Flinders Ranges, a pause in the trip at Port Germein was tradition. Although the sun was fast sinking below the horizon, we braved the brisk winter air and took a stroll up the longest jetty in the Southern hemisphere.
And so, at 6.30pm and in darkness, Hubby and I turned off to Mambray Creek…
And Brother’s team, driven by Mrs. T…didn’t.
I fumbled for my mobile and called MB. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Mrs. T’s decided to keep on going,’ my brother sighed. ‘Once she makes up her mind, you don’t argue with her. Besides, the kids want Hungry Jacks for tea a Port Augusta, they have vouchers.’
Hubby had made up his mind. We weren’t about to follow. We’d be camping at Mambray Creek and would continue our journey north fresh after a good night’s sleep. In the morning. After all, they promised to catch up with us in Coober Pedy; we had mobile phones to keep in contact, after all.
Despite the darkness, Hubby managed to set up the two-man tent in minutes. Then, although suffering the pangs of disappointment, we downed a light tea of bread, with packet soup and hot chocolate using water boiled from Hubby’s eco billy. ‘We’ll have the chops when there’s more light,’ I said, ‘in the morning.’
‘Now, to see if these minus-five sleeping bags keep us warm in the desert.’ Hubby snuggled into our co-joined sleeping bag. ‘Did I ever tell you how when camping with my family in the Flinders, I had to sleep in a cotton sleeping bag? It was freezing!’
Fat dollops of rain struck my sleeping bag, waking me.
‘Oh, al-right!’ I mumbled before peeling the sleeping bag from me. I slipped on my shoes and as I was already fully clothed, I shuffled to the campfire.
Hours dragged as we struggled to eat our cereal, drink beverages, answer the call of nature, and then pack our bags.
My older cousin, C1 was missing for what seemed an eternity. Younger cousin, C2 commented that his brother liked to read on his “business” ventures.
I laughed, ‘Our toilet is inaccessible for hours when my brother goes. He doesn’t like books, so I don’t know what he does when he goes.’.
‘Well, at least it’s only twice a week,’ my body-building brother said.
Dad’s eyes widened. ‘What? You only go twice a week?’
‘Yeah? How often do you go, Dad?’
‘Two or three times a day,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘Yeah, that’s normal.’ Dad poked the coals and flames leapt into action. ‘Sure you’re not constipated? I’m not sure your Protein diet is a good idea.’
[Photo 2: Desert Storm (c) C.D. Trudinger 1981]
Richard shook his concoction and examined the plastic Tupperware containing Protein-powder mixture. ‘Nup, it’s fine.’ With a teaspoon, he stirred the raw egg floating on top of the bubbles, and then swallowed his liquid breakfast in three gulps.
C1 returned shovel in hand and a grin spread between his over-night shadow. ‘Ah! That’s better!’
Dad grabbed the shovel and toilet paper and disappeared into the bush. As we waited for each member to do their “nature-walk”, rain plopped into the sand.
We left the Flinders camp mid-morning in the rain, then rattled over corrugations and lumbered through water-washed floodways. An hour into our journey, we stopped at Hawker where the boys selected lollies, and chewing gum to occupy their bored mouths for the hours of travel to come.
C1 and C2 picked out miscellaneous items they’d forgotten to pack. C1 placed his purchases on the weathered bench and reached for his back pocket. He patted it, and his eyes widened. He jammed his fingers into his pocket, patted his side pockets, and pushed his hands into them and pulled out the lining. He glanced around his feet. ‘Oh, oh! I think I left my wallet behind in the creek,’ he said. While he continued to search the floor, and his pockets, we pooled our money to cover C1’s expenses.
Despite C1’s lamentations that his wallet contained his driver’s license, passport, visa, and thirty dollars, a wall of steady rain threatening floods, discouraged us from returning to the camp. Dad was sure it was too late to find it. ‘The floods would’ve washed it away,’ he said.
On the road through the Flinders Ranges, Dad stopped driving for us to photograph the ranges cloaked in mist. On one of our photo stops, the boys discovered the sport of rock-throwing.
Our family friend, TR tracked us with his film camera as we all tried to smash beer bottles with rocks.
Further north, rain pelted our vehicle and lightening flashed. At the bridge near Leigh Creek, we passed a car, bonnet jacked up, and a couple peering at their dead engine.
Richard, came to the rescue and within thirty minutes, resolved their engine issues and sent them on their way. I wish he could have been that efficient with the Rover’s pack-rack!
While Richard was repairing the car, we inspected the railroad track, the bridge of the over-flowing creek, and then watched a Volkswagen splashing through a pool of muddy water.
At Lyndhurst, we filled up with petrol. Twelve miles out from there, we camped by a disused train track. We used some of the sleepers for firewood. Birds gathered in a cluster of She oak and eucalyptus trees. Stratus and high cumulous clouds gave rise to a stunning sunset of gold, orange and flares of red.
I’m still trying to figure out where we went off track. Were we off track? Was I that slow that the whole trek was taking twice, perhaps three times as long as the initial map instructions suggested? Four hours they promised us. Only 8.9 km, the sign said.
Mistake number 1: The map of Alligator Gorge my dear husband had printed from the internet was then forgotten to be loaded into his backpack.
Six hours into the hike, deep in some tributary of Alligator Creek (according to the map-less husband), and no sign of the Terraces, nor the steps, nor the Narrows. Did we miss a turn off? Did we stray into a neighbouring gorge? Signs to direct our path were ominously absent. So were people…except us, the K-Team comprising of his brother P1, two Swiss relatives (Mother A and Daughter E), Hubby and me with my bung knee.
Now that we’d descended into the gully, I had kept up with the Able-Bodied four. My knee no longer hurt, but for some weird reason, although we walked along a narrow path and negotiated the stony creek, at a fair pace, we seemed to be getting nowhere fast. The red slated walls to our left, and occasionally to our right, just kept on going.
Four-thirty in the afternoon and we stopped by a bend in the dry creek.
‘I reckon if we keep on going, we’ll get there; this gorge will eventually lead us to the start of Mambray creek,’ I said. ‘What does the map say? Oh, that’s right, my hubby’s forgotten the map.’
The K-Team decided to send Hubby and E down the creek for any signs that we were on the right track. Off they went at a cracking pace now that they weren’t hampered by the “cripple” (me).
The remaining three, P1, A and me, waited in the cool of the native pine trees common in these parts of the Flinders Ranges.
P1 was not impressed with Hubby’s, much boasted and legendary navigational skills. In silence, I began to reflect. I had been this way, surely. Way back, some forty years ago with my friends from youth. The landmarks, the endless rock walls, the keeled-over gum trees, and the native pines resonated faint familiarity. Even the trek that seemed to take for eternity took me back to when our youth group had hiked from Alligator Gorge to Mambray Creek starting with the same ring route.
I had asked the same question to one of the leaders, ‘When is this going to end?’
‘Soon,’ he replied and as if by magic, we reached the Terraces. My brother, and his friends lay in the creek and cooled their tired muscles.
I began to wonder if we hadn’t been swallowed up in some dimensional impasse. Had our trek led us into a parallel universe where Alligator Gorge has no Terraces nor Narrows and we’d be lost on some distant and forgotten planet? Or had we stepped into the past before the Terraces and Narrows had formed?
Either way, my phone had no signal.
Hubby and E were taking eons to return. Had some errant neutrino activity swallowed them up into another place and time?
The hike had begun in a mundane fashion. Hubby strode ahead up the fire track from the Blue Gums campground.
I marched behind the Able-Bodied K-Team like a demented zombie with trendy hiking poles. The Able-Bodied stopped at the sign, the first of many waits for their knee-challenged companion.
I glanced at the sign, and remarked, ‘This way is an8.9-kilometre ring route.’ Nothing wrong with my eyesight.
‘Yes,’ Hubby sniffed with an air of arrogance. He implied that if I didn’t like the distance, I could sit back at the car in the campground and wait for them.
Glad I didn’t.
So onwards and upwards on the fire track we trekked. Judging by the position of the hills, the terrain and the fact that we’d left the Mambray Creek-Alligator Creek junction, and behind, (Mambray Creek running to our left and Alligator Creek to our right), I summised that we were walking the route clockwise.
Hence Mistake Number 2.
So, for the next two and a half hours we (or should I say, me with the group having to make frequent stops for me) laboured up the rise. I don’t do uphill at the best of times and had to stop and rest for my breathing to catch up. The Able-Bodied with their superior fitness would wait for me, and then as soon as I caught up, they were off. Like racehorses.
On the way we encountered a couple, smiles wide on their faces, tramping down the fire track.
As they approached, I asked, ‘Are we there yet?’
‘Not far now,’ they replied.
Another couple, Grey Nomads, also with grins rivalling Alice In Wonderland’s Cheshire cat’s, passed us.
‘How far to the top and then into Alligator Gorge?’ I asked.
‘Nearly there,’ the man said.
‘But the walk is quite difficult,’ the lady said. ‘It’s more like nine kilometres.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ I remembered the dodgy distance estimations from the previous hike 40-years ago. Seems as though nothing had changed in Alligator Gorge.
By this time, we had stopped at a Eaglehawk Dam campsite where we ate our lunch and rested for thirty-minutes. An oasis after a long hot thirsty uphill hike.
Ten minutes from the dam, we reached our goal, the long-awaited sign; the virtual “top” and fork with directions. Signs and map indicators were scarce on this ring route. One sign pointed to a path leading to Alligator Gorge, about 3.1km hence. The other to the lookout.
We opted for the gorge. After all, it was only 3km away, an hour’s walk at the most.
Confident we were on the “homeward” stretch, we trundled down the slope and into the gorge. The time, around 2pm. Now that we hiked downwards and the path appeared well-worn, I kept up with the Able-Bodied. In fact, they held up my progress by stopping to photograph lizards, flowers, and birds.
An hour and a half later, we still hadn’t reached the Terraces. Nor had we completed the circuit that would have taken us back to Blue Gums Campground. Hubby was adamant that we were in a tributary of Alligator Gorge and thus missed all the interesting features. There was talk of camping the night in this so-called tributary. After all, we did have an emergency blanket. However, the fire-danger season having commenced, we would be banned from lighting a campfire. Hubby had stressed that even lighting a match was “verboten” (forbidden).
Hubby and E emerged through the growth that glowed emerald and gold in the late afternoon sunlight.
‘The creek just goes on forever,’ Hubby said.
‘Best to go the way you know,’ I said. ‘We’ll just have to go back the way we came, to be safe.’
This we did. Uphill again, but this time steep rises. Hubby helped me negotiate the uneven path and rocky terrain. He pulled me up and over fallen logs and big boulders. He told me off for hampering the progress of the group.
‘I feel faint,’ I replied, and he softened. Besides, he needed to pace himself too. Hubby looked pale and exhausted.
Within an hour we’d reached the signpost and were hiking with happy faces down the fire track. I named the tributary we’d been lost in, “Deviation Gorge” as it had led us astray.
We arrived back at Blue Gums Campground just as the sun set at 7:30pm. The back tracking taking us just two and a half hours to complete.
Most of all, by the end of what we calculated to be a twenty-kilometre hike, my knee didn’t hurt at all. My feet did, but not my knee.
***
Friday, we revisited Alligator Gorge. This time, we parked at the more populated carpark and took the steps down into the gorge.
I wasn’t going to do the two-kilometre circuit with the Able-Bodied through the Narrows. But I just had to know, just had to discover for myself what went wrong the previous Tuesday.
So, after a slow descent owing to my knee, I hobbled over the stony creek bed and down the narrow gorge. My frequent cries of “Ouch!” heralded my presence to all and sundry. Hubby marched ahead oblivious to my defiant presence and will over pain to be there and see for myself.
The drama of the Gorge was rewarding. Red rock walls and stunning reflections all in this ancient peaceful setting. Another pair of Grey Nomads sat in a shallow cave, absorbing the tranquillity and beauty.
Hubby and the Swiss relatives tramped through the Narrows as if it were a race.
P1 rested at the Narrows’ entrance and said, ‘I don’t know what the rush is.’
Once through and on the short, I stress, “homeward” and upward trail to the road, Hubby scolded me for holding up the group. In his estimation, “cripples” like me are not allowed to attempt the two-kilometre circuit of Alligator Gorge. ‘Now we’ll be late getting back to Adelaide,’ he warned.
Just so I wouldn’t impede the Able-Bodied further, I parked myself at Blue Gums Campground, and waited for them to return with the “royal” Toyota Hilux Carriage to pick me up.
While waiting for the Able-Bodied crew, I discovered a sign that directed the ring route in the anti-clockwise direction—through the Narrows and onto the Terraces. If only we’d ventured this way, we could have seen the most interesting parts of Alligator Gorge first and then decided to return the way we came…or not. To this date, Hubby has never witnessed the Terraces. At least we would’ve had happy, smiling faces walking down the fire track and taken less time.
It could’ve been Good Friday; most probably was. One thing was for certain, it was the Easter long weekend, when throngs of city folk in South Australia head for the outback to camp. My brother and I joined our youth group friends on a camping trip to Brachina Gorge, Flinders Ranges. Ah, those were the days!
Another thing was for sure. We had reached Brachina Gorge after a long day of driving and everyone was, let’s just say, less than civil with each other. At least no kangaroos had been slaughtered by car, no copious amounts of beer had been drunk in the car, and thus no unfortunate accidents causing us to escape the car had happened either. Not like some Easter in the future when the T-Team explored Chambers Gorge.
So, late Good Friday afternoon, we stopped in Brachina Gorge just before the track became too suspension-crunching rough.
B Calm sautéed his dehydrated rice on his personal gas cooker. He wasn’t grumpy.
I peered at the sizzling stubs of rice and deliciously smelling onion. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Cooking,’ B Calm replied.
‘Looks good.’ I mused how B Calm could settle down and cook his dinner. The rest of the crew bumbled about the narrow sandy rise above the riverbed, searching for a decent-sized patch to plant their tents.
Storm stomped down the road that led further into the gorge and disappeared around the bend. The sun, by this time had slunk below the horizon to light up other parts of the Earth. Twilight lingered, dusting wisps of cloud in shades of crimson.
B Calm glanced in the direction of Storm’s venture. ‘He’ll be back.’
Sure enough, as the twisted bushes on the neighbouring ridge turned to ink against the fading sunset, Storm returned. ‘Still reckon this place is a dump,’ he muttered.
For the rest of us, the ancient mystery of the Brachina cliffs had convinced us to stay put. Tents lined the banks of the creek. And our small group of friends gathered around the roaring fire, sausages sizzling in frypans and billies boiling for a cup of tea. Brachina, and the campsite Rick had chosen, was more than good enough for us.
[This time, some of the T-K Team step back in time into the Mt. Painter Sanctuary, Northern Flinders Ranges, South Australia; a land offering a glimpse of prehistory…]
Late 1980’s, and my husband and I planned a honeymoon stay in Arkaroola, the town within the Mt. Painter sanctuary, Northern Flinders Ranges. When we arrived, we rolled up to the motel and presented our VISA card for payment.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said the manager, ‘we don’t take VISA. Only MasterCard.’
‘What?’ But we were counting on our VISA to cover the costs.
We scraped together the cash amount for the three-nights of accommodation and emptied our wallets of all but a few notes. Romantic dinners in the restaurant, off our menu. The longed-for Ridge-Top Tour, off our track. Then cold hard panic struck, how were we to pay for petrol when we returned to Adelaide? The amount in our tank, Dad’s four-wheel-drive vehicle that he loaned us for the holiday, may not last the journey back to Hawker. All because the town in which we chose to spend our honeymoon, was so remote, they did not deal in VISA.
We sat on our motel bed and counted our measly amount of cash. What were we going to do? It’s not like I hadn’t gone without before—on the T-Team with my Dad. Being like-minded and frugal, we dealt with the disappointment, and decided we’d cook our own meals using the barbecue facilities and not venture too far from the town. Besides, there were plenty of places to which we could hike.
I took a deep breath and picked up the book our pastor had given us as a wedding gift. Inside the front cover I discovered an envelope. ‘I wonder what this says,’ I said to my husband.
I took out the card and opened it. An orange-coloured note fluttered onto the floor. I picked it up. ‘Hey, look! Twenty dollars.’ I waved the note in my husband’s face. ‘Twenty dollars! Pastor must’ve known we’d need the money.’
‘I think God did,’ my husband said. ‘Twenty dollars makes all the difference.’
In the restaurant, and eating the cheapest meal offered, I spied a photo adorning the wall behind my beloved. A waterhole with red cliffs on one side and cool but majestic eucalypt trees on the other side. ‘Echo Camp,’ I read. ‘I want to go there.’
He who was driving, turned into the track. ‘You’re quite right. Ready for some adventure?’
‘Okay, well, it says Echo Camp’s only a few kilometres down the track.’
My husband drove up and down the track. It soon became obvious why the track was meant for “authorised” vehicles. But we were committed, and the track became so narrow, with one side rocky cliffs and the other sheer drops, we had no choice but to lurch forward, upward, downward, sideways and every-which-way. While I clutched the bar on the dashboard, my husband had fun, relishing the roller-coaster ride to Echo Camp.
We reached a relatively flat area where we parked our four-wheel drive vehicle. The Painter Sanctuary mountains rose and dipped like waves before us. A feast for the eyes with shades of sienna, blue and mauve. I captured this beauty with my Nikon film camera.
We back tracked and found the way leading to Echo Camp. By this time, the sun hung low in the sky, so our time savouring Echo Camp was limited to no more than half an hour, wandering near the rock pool, taking photos, and enjoying the peace and silence of this land untouched by civilisation, and reserved for the “authorised” apparently.
My most recent painting of Arkaroola landscape, Dinnertime Northern Flinders is for sale at the Marion Art Group exhibition at Brighton Central. You can also check out my work on the Gallery 247 website.
Marion Art Group’s exhibition (first in three years) is to be held from Monday October 17 to Sunday October 30, Brighton Central, 525 Brighton Road, Brighton, South Australia.
[Last few days filled with cold weather and rain. But today the sun has come out just as in 1984, after the rain in the Flinders Ranges the sun emerged offering a beautiful day for the T-Team The Younger to explore Chambers Gorge…]
Doris sidled up to me and asked, ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
I shrugged. ‘Sort of…maybe…um…not really.’
‘Come on, you can tell me. I bet you have.’
‘Nah, just a lot of bad luck.’
‘Oh, like what?’
‘Nothing…no one,’ I replied. ‘What about you? Are you and Barney…?’
‘Are you kidding? No way!’
That shut down the conversation in romance and we hiked along in silence. Up the gorge. Towards Mount Chambers.
‘Cor!’ Barney exclaimed. ‘What’s all this rubbish? It’s like Chamber-Pot Gorge, not Chambers Gorge.’
‘I wish people would clean up after themselves,’ Doris remarked.
I gazed at my brother, Rick who was racing ahead. He seemed oblivious to the discarded soft drink cans scattered on the dry creek bed, plastic stranded in the sand, and toilet paper fluttering on prickle bushes.
‘Where are all the campers?’ I asked. But for all the litter, there seemed a distinct lack of people that morning as we trekked to Mount Chambers.
Barney sniggered, ‘I guess the rain the previous night had flushed them out of the gorge.’
‘Not literally,’ Doris added.
‘I remember our mate Mel saying how when he and his family camped in the Flinders, at the first sign of rain, they packed up their belongings and were gone.’ Barney clicked his fingers. ‘The rivers in outback Australia can flood, just like that.’
‘Yep, they don’t call it flash-flooding for nothing,’ Doris said.
‘We survived,’ I reminded them. ‘We’re not floating down Chambers Gorge in Rick’s Charger, are we?’
‘We got to higher ground,’ Barney said.
Doris smiled. ‘We were lucky.’
‘Yep, I guess we were,’ I sighed and thought, I wish such luck translated to romance.
More silence as we trudged along the creek bed, the dry creek bed; all the rain from last night had been absorbed into the sand. The gorge had narrowed, and Barney had disappeared; absorbed by the copper brown cliffs and pale yellow shrubs.
‘I heard there’s some rock carvings on Mount Chambers,’ Doris said.
‘That should be interesting,’ I muttered. ‘Just my luck, Rick would’ve left us behind, and we won’t find them.’
‘He won’t.’
Sure enough, as we rounded the bend in the gorge, there Rick and Barney sat, perched on a tree stump.
So, after back-tracking, the T-Team laboured up the slope. My shins ached from the steep gradient. While Rick sprinted up, my two other companions struggled up the slope. Before Rick would vanish over the lip of the hill, I had to take a photo of this priceless moment. I raised my camera.
Doris turned. ‘No, that’s a boring! Come on everyone, let’s dance.’ She waved and hollered, ‘Rick! Come on, dance-photo time.’
Rick, Doris and Barney took their dance poses and I snapped a couple of shots.
My brother then pointed at some caves. We took the slight detour and well-deserved rest break. Near the caves we ate our scroggin (nuts, dried fruit and chocolate), and admired the Indigenous rock carvings.
Refreshed and energy restored, the T-Team of Chambers crusaders, marched up the hill to the summit of the mountain.
Doris chuckled, ‘Remember Mount Ohlsen Bagge when Mel kept saying to his girlfriend, ‘Just five more minutes’?’
‘Ha-ha, five-minute Mel,’ Barney snorted.
‘Yeah, didn’t help much, his girlfriend gave up halfway up,’ I said.
‘She had asthma,’ Doris said.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘Promising that you have only five minutes to go to the top, doesn’t help much if you can’t breathe.’
[Photo 8: Future memories of Mt. Ohlssen Bagge with the K-Team: L.M. Kling 2007]
Mount Chambers didn’t seem as high as Mount Ohlssen Bagge, and by lunch time, we had reached the cairn of stones that marked the summit. The T-Team gathered around the stones and I took a photo as proof of our achievement.
While trekking down to the plain, Doris spotted a white Holden Kingswood with two strapping young fellas attached to it. Being the bush, and the guys being the only other humans in the vicinity of Mount Chambers, Doris approached them.
I followed.
We had a good yarn with them. They were from Melbourne on a road trip. We swapped addresses.
Some months later, one of them actually wrote to me. So, on a road trip with my Dad to Melbourne, I caught up with this fellow. But, just my luck, by the end of the meeting, I realised that he was interested in Doris, not me. In hindsight, now, lucky for the future Mr. K., or more appropriately, God’s plan for my life.
[Unusually cold and rainy for November here in Adelaide. Reminds me of the younger of the T-Team with roughin’ it on their minds, exploring the Flinders Ranges; their sights set on Chambers Gorge…]
The rain followed the ants and began pelting down on the car roof.
‘Get to higher ground.’ Barney thumped his thighs. ‘Argh! An ant!’
‘Remember our friends from church?’ I said. ‘They got caught in a flood in the Flinders.’
Barney nodded and nudged my brother. ‘Yeah, remember?’
‘It’s like raining cats and dogs—and all those ants. We’ll be caught in the flood if you don’t do something.’ Doris slapped her arm. ‘Yuk! Another one! They’ve invaded the car. Get a torch!’
Barney handed Doris a torch. My brother fired up the engine.
‘Where are they?’ Doris cried. Beams of light from the torch bounced around the cabin.
‘Get that light off!’ my brother said. ‘I’m trying to drive.’
‘Don’t believe you,’ Doris murmured. ‘Anyway, it’s raining, I’m staying in the car.’
‘Are we high enough? Barney asked. ‘I don’t want us getting flushed down Chambers Gorge.’
‘Ha! Ha! Very funny,’ I said.
‘I’m serious,’ Barney said.
‘Yep, we went up a bit,’ my brother said. ‘We’re above the creek, now.’
‘Don’t trust you, get higher,’ Doris said. ‘I don’t want to be washed away.’
My brother mumbled, ‘Like that’ll happen.’ Then he sighed, ‘Oh, alright, if you insist.’ He revved up the car and mounted another small slope and then settled on a hill.
No one dared move from the car as the rain steadily fell and the fear of inch-ants crawling up and over our sleeping bodies. Plus, the bother of putting up the tent in the rain, kept us locked in the car all night. We made the best of sleeping sitting upright for another night.
Morning, we woke to blue skies and the creek transformed into a luxurious chain of ponds. Birds, big black ones called “butcher birds”, galahs, and parrots, converged on the edges of marsh. They searched for fish, poking around the lily pads scattered like floating pebbles on the water’s surface. White cockatoos congregated and chattered in the gum trees with leaves glistening in the early morning sun, washed clean by the rain.
Doris and I took the opportunity to take a dip in a nearby pool. I marvelled how this rain made reeds spring up overnight. ‘They weren’t there yesterday, I’m sure,’ I said.
‘Wow! All that rain, and we didn’t get washed away,’ Doris said.
[A mild spring with some happy warm days interspersed with bouts of thunderstorms and heavy rain. And the ants making me hop and dance when out in the garden. A reminder of the younger of the T-Team with roughin’ it on their minds, venture closer to home and into the Flinders Ranges; their sights set on Chambers Gorge…But never in their wildest dreams did they expect these little, or not so little, crawly things, ants, to spoil their first night camping in the Flinders Ranges…]
By mid-morning, and a half-a-dozen or so beers later for Barney, my brother chauffeured us on the rough road to Chambers Gorge.
‘Are you sure you know where we’re going?’ Doris asked.
‘Sure I do,’ my brother said. ‘I’ve been there before.’
We bounced over the gravel road and its abundant potholes. Then came the roller-coaster—up and down, almost flying and then stomachs thudding to the floor in the dips.
‘Stop the—’ Barney gurgled, and he leaned forward, his hand cupped over his mouth.
My brother slammed on the brakes and stopped the car in the middle of the road. Too late! Liquid breakfast splattered every corner of the car’s interior.
We spent the next half an hour using dampened beach towels to flush out the worst of the mess, and then the next few hours driving to Chambers Gorge, doing our best to ignore the smell—windows open, nostrils filling with bull dust in preference to the smell.
‘I feel sick,’ Doris said.
My brother stopped the car and we all jumped out.
Doris leaned over a salt bush and then stood up. ‘Nah, it’s okay.’
‘Better safe than sorry,’ my brother said. ‘We don’t want another accident.’
So without a map, my brother found Chambers Gorge. We lumbered along the rugged road that followed the dry creek bed.
‘Where’s the water?’ Doris asked.
‘All underground, unless it rains,’ my brother said.
We glanced left and right, sighting tents and camper vans. Four o’clock and already all the best campsites had been taken. We ventured further into the gorge crawling along the creek bed of boulders. The rocky slopes of the low hills that defined Chambers Gorge were shrouded in grey tones of an over-cast sky.
I pointed to a clearing. ‘What about here?’
‘Too small,’ my brother said.
Doris indicated a site near a clump of twisted gum trees. ‘Hey, what about one over there?’
‘Nup, where would we park?’
‘There’s a spot,’ Barney said.
‘And how am I going to get up there?’
‘We have to camp somewhere, or we’ll be cooking tea in the dark,’ I said.
‘I don’t feel so well,’ Barney said. ‘I have a headache.’
‘You shouldn’t’ve had so many beers for breakfast,’ Doris snapped.
My brother stopped the car. ‘Here will do.’
We climbed out of the car and inspected the mound of gravel no larger than a small bedroom.
‘Bit small,’ Barney said.
‘You reckon you can find somewhere better?’ my brother answered.
My brother and Barney unpacked the car and then set up Barney’s tent. Then my brother pumped up his blow-up mattress—no tent for him, he preferred to sleep under the stars. So did I. A billion-star accommodation for me. I persuaded Doris to also sleep under the stars. One problem, clouds covered our star-studded view.
Doris and I searched for firewood.
‘Seems like Chambers Gorge is well picked over,’ Doris remarked.
‘It’s like Rundle Mall,’ I replied. ‘Won’t be coming here again. Too many people.’
We found a few sticks, just enough for a fire to cook our canned spaghetti for tea. For dessert, we ate fruit cake.
As our thoughts drifted to bed and enjoying sleep under clouds as it seemed tonight, my brother said, ‘Oh, er, I did a bit of exploring. Found a better camping spot. Bigger, near a waterhole.’
‘Really?’ Doris sighed.
‘Can’t we just stay here?’ Barney asked.
My brother stroked the red mound upon which we sat. ‘Could be an ant hill.’
So again, we followed my brother’s leading, packed up and piled into the car. Once again, we crawled to my brother’s El Dorado of campsites.
There, in the dark, we set up our bedding. Barney abandoned the idea of a tent and settled down, content with the cloudy canopy to cover him like the rest of us.
Ants, two and a half centimetres long and called “Inch Ants”, swarmed the ground, their pincers snapping. They streamed from a hole on the mound where Doris had been sitting, ants multiplying and invading our clearing.
We scrambled to the car and threw ourselves in. Doris and I sat in the back, Barney and my brother in the front.
‘Looks like we’ll be camping in the car tonight,’ I grumbled.
[Watched the first two of the Mad Max series, lately. Memories ofthe younger of the T-Team(my brother and me with a couple of friends) surfaced. Wepiled into my brother’s Chrysler Charger or whatever, and with roughin’ it on our minds, we travel up north of Adelaide to the Flinders Ranges; our sights set on Chambers Gorge…]
Back in the mid-1980’s my brother rarely used a map, not a map I could see. The Adelaide Street Directory, all faded and lying on the back seat under the stiff-from-salt-beach towels, doesn’t cover way-out country areas such as the Flinders Ranges.
[Photo 1: A street directory much like this one, courtesy of L.M. Kling]
Every Easter, commencing Maundy Thursday, we’d pile into my brother’s latest Chrysler charger or whatever, and roll along to the car stereo-cassette player blasting out local South Australian band Red Gum. Up Port Wakefield Road we’d go, and if we were fortunate enough not the break down there, as one tends to do on Port Wakefield Road, we’d sally on forth to the Flinders Ranges, about four hundred kilometres north of Adelaide.
We’d start our journey late, usually after nine at night, as some of my brother’s friends had work and had to eat dinner, then finally pack before they were ready to leave.
One time, my brother and I took friends Barney and Doris (not their real names) on a planned trip to Chambers Gorge, situated in the north-eastern part of the Flinders Ranges. We must’ve left closer to midnight, and my brother and Barney shared the driving through the night. Dirt roads at that time, caused the driving to slow and by the time we neared our destination in the Flinders, the watery blue sky of dawn crept over low hills in the east. In the back seat, Doris and I rested our heads on our bags and slept, while my brother willed himself to keep awake rocking to British band, Dire Straits. There was a short stop as he then, too weary, swapped with Barney.
We spilled out of the car. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. The sun peeped over the horizon of flat desert plains, mountains to the west, jutted like pimples on the edge, still dark, untouched by the sun.
My brother checked the front of the car. ‘It’s all right, no damage. The bull bar took the brunt.’
Barney sauntered down the road, and then returned to us. ‘We hit a roo,’ he said.
‘So, we’ll have roo for breakfast?’ I asked, half-joking.
So as the sun rose over the distant mountains capping the peaks in pink, we roasted the skinned roo-roadkill over the campfire. While we waited for the meat to cook, Barney swilled his breakfast beverage of choice—beer. My brother, a teetotaller and body builder, drank his concoction of protein powder mixed with water and raw egg. Doris and I boiled a billy of water and then brewed ourselves a cup of instant coffee and condensed milk.
Doris clutched her metal mug, then sipped her coffee and said, ‘Not sure about the kangaroo for breakfast.’
‘It’ll be alright,’ I said. ‘I’ve had kangaroo—not so bad. Although, not sure about eating after the way Barney’s cooked it. We fried it once like that on our Central Australian trip, and I had a terrible tummy ache and bad gas. Smelt like rotten eggs. My brother and his cousin had competitions rating the potency of their gas. They thought it was hilarious, but the stink was awful.’
Doris grimaced and put down her coffee mug. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘You won’t have any choice when we’re stuck in the car driving to Chambers Gorge.’
‘Speaking of Chambers Gorge, where is it from here?’
‘Haven’t a clue. I guess my brother will just keep on driving until we see a sign to Chambers Gorge.’
‘Oh.’
Barney called, ‘Roo’s ready.’
Doris and I trooped over to the campfire and inspected Barney’s efforts. Barney waved away the smoke to reveal bone and sinew reduced to charcoal.
Doris screwed up her nose and said, ‘I’ll pass.’
‘Me too.’ I grimaced. ‘I don’t fancy the after-effects from that.’
‘Aw, bit over-cooked, but charcoal’s good for you,’ Barney said. He took a few bites and then frowned as he forced the hardened lumps of gristle down.
Barney then took the remnants of the roo behind a bush and gave the poor animal a good Christian burial in a shallow grave.
Tru-Kling Creations 