Trekking Thursday–Ernabella

July 20, 2023 / lmkling / 1 Comment

[The T-Team with Mr. B — Dad’s friend Mr. Banks and his son, Matt, 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, a middle-aged man who was used to a life of luxury, cope?]

Deserted

[An extract from The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977, my newly released travel memoir, based on true events but names and events may have changed.]

We stopped in at Fregon, another Indigenous settlement much like Mimili; a row of tin sheds and deserted. Then at about 2.30pm we arrived at Ernabella.

A teacher friend of Dad’s invited us into his home for refreshments and each of us had a hot shower. I enjoyed the warm cascade of water on me. My treat for the week. Below rivers of red mud spun into the drain hole of the bath. I scrubbed my hair with shampoo. The soap refused to lather. I scrubbed and scrubbed.

‘Lee-Anne!’ Dad called. ‘Don’t take all day, the boys need a wash too.’

‘Oh, alright.’ I turned off the tap. I guess the boys did need to wash, probably more than me. They were getting quite ripe at close quarters in the Rover. After all, it had almost been a week since we had a proper wash.

All showered and smelling sweet again with soap and deodorant, we trailed after Dad who gave us a tour of the settlement, including the school. Ernabella lies at the foot of the Musgrave Ranges, south of the South Australian and Northern Territory border. The land belongs to the Pitjantjara people. The mostly prefabricated buildings were neatly arranged around a random collection of unsealed roads.

*[Photo 1: Approaching Ernabella © C.D. Trudinger circa1942]*

Dad guided us around the school which appeared empty. We followed him circling the white building. ‘Must be closed,’ Dad said.

‘School holidays, I guess,’ I remarked.

Dad scanned the transportable blocks and then screwed up his nose. ‘We need to find someone to fix up the trailer.’

We walked through the settlement. The white buildings stood sentinel to the roads void of human activity and traffic. The crunching of stones under our feet was magnified by a town suffering from a bad case of abandonment.

‘Where are all the people?’ Mr. B asked.

‘Wow! The place is tidy and look how clean the streets, are,’ I said.

‘Except for the gravel,’ Richard mumbled.

Matt sniggered.

We wandered after Dad who was having a hard time finding someone to fix our trailer. Anyone…No one seemed to be around. I wondered if Ernabella was a ghost town.

Mr. B suggested we wait by the store that seemed closed and suffering a severe case of neglect. This we did.

‘The reason the settlement is so tidy,’ Dad explained, ‘is because everybody, I mean the aborigines, have a job to do here. They don’t get their welfare payment unless they do their job. They probably have someone cleaning the streets of rubbish and all sorts of other jobs.’

‘Not the store, apparently,’ Mr. B said.

‘Ah, well, they have to get the stock from down south, from Adelaide. Perhaps they’ve run out.’ Dad coughed.

*[Photo 2: Building in Ernabella © C.D. Trudinger 1992]*

An Indigenous man sauntered up to us.

Dad strode to meet the man and he guided him to the trailer still perched on top of the Rover.

While the trailer was being repaired, I climbed a hill. I figured the trailer would take ages to be fixed so I had time to sun bake. I wanted a tan. Treading up the hill, I noticed Matt running after me.

I stood and sighed. Great! Just when I wanted space to myself.

Matt held up a stick. ‘Look what I found!’

I examined the carved piece of wood. ‘Oh, yeah?’

‘What do you think it is?’

‘I dunno, a corroboree stick, I suppose.’

‘Oh, cool! Can you take a photo of me with it?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

*[Photo 3: Corroboree Stick on Trudinger Hill © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger)]*

I photographed Matt proudly holding a corroboree stick. The Musgrave Ranges behind were cast in hues of gold from the rays of the late afternoon sun. When we had descended the hill and found Dad, he told us that the “mountain” we had climbed was named “Mount Trudinger” after his brother who had been a teacher in Ernabella.

Near evening, we visited an Indigenous pastor. As the Musgrave Ranges is sacred to the Pitjantjatjara People, Dad and the pastor discussed the possibility of getting a couple of guides to be our companions as we climbed Mt. Woodroffe.

*[Photo 4 and feature: Dead Tree Sunset © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992]*

For the night we camped in Two Mile Creek which is not far from Ernabella. Dad conceded to camp not alongside, but right in the dry creek bed on the soft sand. This arrangement made Mr. B very happy. ‘For once I get to sleep on soft sand,’ he said.

‘Just remember, if we have even a hint of rain, we pack up and go to higher ground,’ Dad answered.

Mr B chuckled. ‘No chance of that, the weather’s been as dry as the bones of that deceased camel we saw on the side of the road.’

‘The water comes rushing down if there’s a storm,’ Dad said.

‘Oh, of course, Captain.’ Mr B then turned over and snored.

Rick muttered, ‘The only storm will be if Mr B doesn’t get a good night’s sleep.’

Matt sniggered.

*[Photo 5: Picinic on Soft Sand, at last! © C.D. Trudinger* *circa 1992]*

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Photo: Dead Tree sunset in Musgraves © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992

***

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

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T-Team Series–Mt. Woodroffe

May 7, 2022 / lmkling / 1 Comment

[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.

In this episode, the T-Team with Mr. B scale the heights of the highest mountain in South Australia, Mt. Woodroffe. Even back in 1977, Mt. Woodroffe being on land owned by the Indigenous people, we needed permission and a guide. Don’t know what happened to the guide back then, but we had permission. The situation has changed in the 44 years since we climbed…more about that later.]

The Top of SA — Mt. Woodroffe

The sun climbed over the horizon, its rays touching the clouds in hues of red and Mount Woodroffe in pink.

*[Photo 1 and feature: Mt. Woodroffe, our goal © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

In the golden light, packs on our backs we filed up the gully. The narrow creek in the hill-face gave way to the slopes leading to the summit. With no defined track except for euro (small kangaroo) ruts, we picked our way through the spinifex. Rick carried his .22 rifle in the hope of game for dinner.

‘You’ve got to watch that spinifex,’ Dad said. ‘If you get pricked by it, the needle stays inside your body for years.’

‘Years?’ I asked. ‘What does it do there?’

‘It works its way through your body and eventually it comes out through your hands or feet or somewhere.’

‘Yuck!’

‘Ouch!’ Rick screamed. ‘The spinifex just stung me.’ My brother stopped and pulled up his trouser leg to inspect the damage and then muttered, ‘Next time I’m making shin-guards.’

‘I guess one should be careful when one answers the call of nature out here,’ Mr. B said.

Matt sniggered.

I gazed at the acres of spikey bushes and decided to resist the call of nature.

*[Photo 2: The sting of Spinifex © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

After about two hours of weaving our way through spinifex, climbing over rocks, scaling waves of ridges, we reached the summit.

We gathered around the cairn and surveyed the mountain range that spread like ripples of water in shades of mauve below us.

Dad pointed to the north. ‘Can you see? Ayers Rock, The Olgas and Mt Conner.’

*[Photo 3: View of the North from the summit © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I studied the three odd-shaped purple monoliths popping up from the plain. After the strenuous hike to the top of South Australia, I gazed at the ranges resembling waves rising and falling in the sea of the desert was filled with euphoria.

‘Wow!’ I gushed. ‘Apart from spinifex, the climb was a walk in the park—a most worthwhile journey.’

Mr. B folded his arms and grunted.

Still on a high, I ran around the stone pile, snapping photos from every direction with my instamatic film camera. Then I gathered the T-Team. ‘Come on, get around the cairn. We must record this momentous occasion for posterity.’

The men followed my orders like a group of cats and refused to arrange themselves. Mr. B hung at the back of the group and snapped, ‘Hurry up! We need to eat.’

Lunch of corned beef and relish sandwiches at the top of South Australia was Dad’s reward to us for persevering. We rested for an hour on the summit taking in the warmth of the sun, the blue skies dotted with fluffy clouds and the stunning views of the Musgrave Ranges and desert.

*[Photo 4: Musgrave Ranges view from the summit © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

My adventurous brother climbed on his own down the slope and out of sight.

‘Where’s your brother gone, girl?’ Mr B asked.

‘Probably gone to hunt kangaroo for tea,’ I chuckled, ‘he’s had no luck so far.’

‘Better than egg soup, I guess,’ Mr B muttered.

‘Well, aren’t you going to follow him?’

‘Nah, I need to rest before the hike down.’

About twenty minutes later, I detected his head bobbing up and over the rocks and bushes. I watched as he sauntered along the scaly rocks towards us.

Dad frowned. ‘Careful walking over those rocks.’

Rick looked up. ‘What?’ He caught his shoe on a wedge of stone, lost balance and stumbled, crashing on the rocky surface.

‘O-oh!’ Dad scampered over to my brother. I followed while Mr. B and Matt stayed planted on their respective rocks.

*[Photo 5: More Musgrave Ranges view from the summit © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Rick pulled up his trouser leg and with our father they inspected the damage.

I peered over Dad’s shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve bruised my knee and leg.’ Rick sniffed.

Dad helped Rick hobble to the cairn and then gave him a canteen flask of water to wash over the injury.

‘How are you going to get down the mountain?’ I asked.

‘I mean to say, laddie, you can’t camp up here,’ Mr. B added.

Rick sighed. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s nothing.’

Matt chuckled at my brother’s bravery.

Dad patted Rick on the back. ‘Ah, well, you’ll be right.’

With the T-Team all in one spot, I took advantage of the situation and seized the moment on camera.

Mr. B glared at me. ‘Make it snappy.’

‘Okay,’ I said capturing the less than impressed Dad, Mr. B, Matt and my brother nursing his bruised knee.

*[Photo 6: T-Team at the summit © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

After photos, we began to climb down those jagged rocks, carefully avoiding the spinifex. But try as he might to avoid the menacing bushes, more spikes attacked Rick’s tender legs. ‘Definitely going to wear leg guards the next time I come to Central Australia to climb mountains,’ he grumbled.

We reached a rock pool, just a puddle of slime, actually. I pulled off my shoes and emptied grass seeds and sand onto the surface of slate. Then I ripped off my socks. They looked similar to red-dusty porcupines, covered in spinifex needles. My feet itched with the silicone pricks of the spinifex. I dipped my prickle-assaulted feet in the muddy water.

‘You mean, David, old chap,’ Mr. B massaged his feet and turned to Dad, ‘we’re stuck with the prickly critters long after our climbing days are over?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Dad replied.

*[Photo 7: Rock pool of rest © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

During rest at the poor excuse of a rock pool, nature called, and this time I could no longer resist. I hunted for a suitable spot, but everywhere I looked, ants scrambled about, millions of them. The longer I looked, the more ants congregated and the more desperate I became. But I had to go, ants or no ants. At least the patch was clear of spinifex. I suppose for the ants, my toilet stop might have been the first rain in weeks.

*[Photo 8: Honey Ant; not the same at I encountered, but a sweet delicacy according to the Indigenous © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

Back at camp, we began our ritual of preparing the bedding. Mr. B stomped around the creek bed until he found the softest sand. Dad grabbed the sleeping bags one by one and tossed them to each of us.

‘Argh!’ Mr. B cried.

‘What?’ Dad asked.

‘Oh, no!’ Rick moaned.

‘What?’ Dad asked.

‘Who’s been piddling on my sleeping bag?’ Rick grizzled.

‘Piddling?’ Dad stomped over to Rick.

‘It’s all wet.’

‘I say, boy, why’s my sleeping bag all wet? Couldn’t you use a bush?’ Mr. B remarked.

Matt turned away. ‘Wasn’t me.’ He unrolled his sleeping bag. ‘Oh, no, mine’s wet too.’

Rick looked at me.

‘Hey, I stopped wetting the bed years ago,’ I snapped. ‘Anyway, mine’s dry.’

‘I wasn’t going to say anything,’ Rick replied.

I raised my voice. ‘You were, you were looking at me like…’

‘There, there, cut it out,’ Dad strode over to Rick and me. He held up a bucket. ‘The washing buckets leaked on the sleeping bags.’

*[Photo 9: Desert Sunset © S.O Gross circa 1950]

***

These days, in the days of the “new normal”, as a result of Covid, climbing Mt. Woodroffe may not be possible. I did a little Google research about it. During the times of the “old normal”, permission from the Indigenous Owners of the APY Lands was still necessary, but it seems the Mt. Woodroffe climb was part of an organised tour. To find out more, here are the links below:

https://www.diversetravel.com.au/aboriginal-tours/nt-mt-woodroffe-climb

Mt Woodroffe – Aussie Bushwalking

Best summit hikes in South Australia | Walking SA

[An extract from The T-Team With Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977; a yet to be published prequel to my travel memoir, Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981, available on Amazon.

***

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Storm Over Musgrave Ranges

January 25, 2021January 27, 2021 / lmkling / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

THE STORM

Monday 27 – Tuesday 28, July 1981

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I broke the lantern.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pile of bedding remained lifeless and unresponsive.

‘Hoy!’ Dad shouted.

No answer.

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

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

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

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

Finally, I dozed into the welcome peace of sleep.

Tru-Kling Creations

Travel Trekker, Artist and Writer

Musgrave Ranges

T-Team Series–Mt. Woodroffe

The Top of SA — Mt. Woodroffe