Tuesday 1st May, 2007

   Awake bright and early but it feels a bit colder this morning. I check and the thermometer tells me that it is a brisk 11 degrees. After a quick trip behind a bush (but there is no-one around) I stirred the fire and a wisp of smoke and a glint of red ash tells me that there is life in there. I grabbed a handful of dead, very light twiggy stuff from a half metre high deceased shrub nearby, and put it in the middle of the fire after I pushed the top, dead ash away. It started smoking almost immediately, so I got down on hands and knees and gave a gentle blow. It burst into life straight away and I was able to gather up some small twigs just a couple of steps away from the fire. Within seconds (maybe a minute) I had a good fire going again and I was warm from the activity. Even so, I had already made up my mind that it was too cold to pack up yet and I would be at Wirrealpa in 3 to 4 hours so I could afford the luxury of a lie in and watch the fire from inside my warm sleeping bag.

   After I had watched the fire and restoked it a few times, the thermometer said it was time to get up. A more acceptable 15 degrees. And a more reasonable 8 o'clock. It was pleasant to pack up with the camp fire going. As I moved around I picked up small to medium dead branches and kept it going till I was ready to start. Finally it was time to go so I had to deal with ensuring that the fire would not cause any trouble. Normally, the best way to be sure is to wet the fire down well with water but that is out of the question for me. The second option is to bury the fire by digging up some dirt and burying it. That is also out of the question for me most of the time as I have no shovel and the ground is very hard. Whenever I get lucky and find some river sand to camp on, I am able to scoop up sufficient sand to cover the remains of the fire.

   Being aware of the choices available,  I chose the firewood size carefully as the time approached to depart. By the time I am ready to go, I am left with a lot of dead ash, some small pieces of hot coals and maybe one or two pieces of burning wood no thicker than a broomstick.

   I always choose a site for my fire that is downwind from my tent to minimise the possibility of a flying ember damaging my tent. It is made from very light 'plastic' (siliconised nylon) which is not particularly flammable but it is so thin that any size ember would put a hole in it on first contact. I also either choose a large clear space or make one so there is no chance of the fire spreading to surrounding shrubbery, not that there has been much of that. On the few occasions when there was nothing around but long(ish) dead grass, I used the road verge or a side road or just didn't have a fire at all. And if the wind was strong and there were any dead leaves, twigs etc around, I would also choose to go without a fire. That would mean just powdered, flavoured milk (or nothing) but, heh, "Get used to it, Jeff". One night I tried soup made up with cold water but only once.

   When I was finally ready to leave, I would scatter the ashes over an area about the size of a card table so that the individual coals would slowly die away. The few remaining, unburnt sticks are simply rubbed vigorously into and along the ground to wear away any hot parts and then left away from any hot coals. If I had any doubt about any smoldering bits I would scuff them with my shoes.

   By 8.30 I was 'into it' and moving along at a very healthy pace. My GPS can show the speed I am walking and this morning I averaged 5km/h for the first 3 hours. This is very good going. If I kept at it and took no break, I only had to go a bit over 5km/h to average 5. The 'bit over' allows a stop to take a picture or a pit stop. And in the morning, when it is, well, not warm, a brisk pace helps to bring up the body temperature. As the day wears on and I wear out, my pace slows and I average 3.5 to 4km/h and finally fall into a 3km/h slog, putting one foot in front of the other. But even at that very slow rate I put 6km behind me in the last 2 hours. I found that I would cover half the day's distance by 11 o'clock and the other half of the day's distance by 4 to 4.30.

   I had hardly noticed the time going when I came to what you would call a "major intersection" by local standards. The road at this time was wide enough for 2 cars to pass comfortably and as it swung very slowly to the left, a road going off at right angles to the right was the same size as the road I was on. Usually, side roads are just station tracks and are just that, two tyre tracks, often with grass and small eucalypt re-growth sticking through. One sign said "Wilpena 82km" telling me this is where I would have come out if I had not gone to Blinman. With nothing in between, I shuddered at the thought of covering that distance soaking wet with no heated room or hot shower, not to mention hamburgers and chips. Thanks again Tony. There was another sign, but faded, damaged and barely readable.

   WIRREALPA 1

  I had to walk right up to it to confirm that it said "one". I did not expect to be here so soon. There are no markers along the road every 5 kms and I don't have a speedo in front of me all the time to tell me distance travelled. The GPS would tell me the distance (ATCF) from my last camp which I loaded each night. But I don't leave it on as it would flatten the batteries. But, I can tell how far I have walked by just checking the time. Easy you say, just check your watch. I have not worn a watch for 20 years. No special reason, I probably just never replaced the last one when it died. I do carry "devices" that have clocks, like my satellite phone, my camera and the GPS, but they are not "easy" like a wrist watch. They are tucked away, on my back or in the belly bag and they are turned off.

   I looked hard and close at the battered sign and it said "one" all right. I took out my camera from the belly bag and turned it on and it was really 11.30. How time flies when you're having fun. I looked around and couldn't see a windmill or radio mast, sure signs of a homestead. All indications were that I should turn right here and walk one km, but I remember Warren, boss man of Wirrealpa that I met at the opera, did tell me it was "on the main road".  Still that might be "on the road" by 4WD not by walking. "Met at the opera". That's got a nice ring to it. You would not expect too many "bushies" to be saying that.

   I started off and had gone no more than 50 metres and there was another gravel (sandy) road heading to my right. That is, back the way I had come on the main road. And a reasonable sized sign on two posts alongside the road proclaimed WIRREALPA. The other side also had a sign and it was NO THROUGH ROAD. Looks like we are all right. Wirrealpa homestead is "just off the main road". Trouble is you can't see it.

   Actually, now, I can see buildings a few hundred metres ahead. There's not much in the way of trees to block the line of sight, but the land rises and falls and there is a bit of a hill between me and the station buildings. I went through an open gate, past a shearing shed with its distinctive yards for controlling the sheep in and out of the shed and up past several buildings clumped together that were neither modern nor "ruins". They were early settler style of structures but were obviously still in use. But there were no station vehicles or machinery or people or, even, dogs around. There was a circle of six or seven chairs around a dead fire where the yarns were spun each night and a bar-b-que off to one side. It looked to be occupied by a considerable number of people and recently but deserted. There were several garbage bins with plastic liners and all the surrounding ground was flat and bare. Well walked over. Like coming across a floating ship on the ocean and no crew on board but all the signs that they are there. Weird.

   Still with my pack on, and turning constantly to see as much as I could, I decided to follow a couple of well used tyre tracks that dipped down to cross a dry creek bed and climbed the other side to, what looked like, one more but less significant building, 150 metres away. Well, surprise, surprise. As I walked up out of the dip the 'smaller' building grew out of the now visible, large gum trees and emerged into a low, broad, obvious, "homestead". There was a suburban like fence, with a "person" gate and a well kept, well watered, very green lawn with rose gardens around. Wow.

   Coming out of my dream state, I hollered "ANYONE HOME".

   All hell broke loose. The dogs must have been asleep and I woke them up. Their bark was coming from behind me and I didn't know whether to go through the gate first and close it behind me or look back to see if they were rottweilers or foxies. I did both at once. I reached for the gate and turned around at the same time. My fear (or lack of love) for strange dogs had got the best of me. They were 50 meters away behind a very strong enclosure and no threat at all.

   I heard the screen door of the house swing closed and turned back towards the homestead to see an image out of "Home Beautiful". You will have to look at my photos to really "get the picture" here. I'm at the garden gate of what could easily be a suburban home, if you couldn't see the backdrop, with lawns, rose gardens, a paved patio with overhead cover, hanging baskets, outdoor furniture and there's Barbara, walking towards me, as neat as you'd expect an upper middle class "home maker" to be.

   She very pleasantly asked "Can I help you?" as if I was in a suit with a briefcase and selling insurance door to door.

   But remember. I am dusty, disheveled, wearing a face net, big pack on board, solar panel around my neck and a month old beard and the dogs want me for lunch.

   "Uh. I met Warren at the opera (sounds good eh?) and he invited me to drop in when I came past."

   Now at this stage, I got a response that indicated that I was more likely to be telling a porky than being the guy walking for charity that is "expected" any time now. Or maybe, being a woman at home alone in the outback, caution was called for. I had not met Barbara at the opera and only use her name now in a friendly manner as I got to know her pretty well in the few days that I ended up staying.

   "Warren is out on the station now and will be back shortly."

   I stood there, not knowing what to do. Barbara could see that. "Why don't you take your pack off and have a look around. There is a trig point on the hill" she said, pointing to 'the hill', "its only a short walk and there is a great view from up there".

   That broke the ice and suggested how I could fill in the time that I would be waiting for Warren without the need to be invited inside. Smart lady. Barbara opened the gate and indicated that I could put my pack and gear down by the patio table.

   "Would you like something to drink?"

   "Uh. No thanks. I'm right. I'll just put my gear down and have a look around."

   I got my camera and headed out through the gate as Barbara went back inside. The dogs started up again when I moved around taking pictures as I walked towards the base of the hill. There was a chook pen with the dogs in their own enclosure behind the half a dozen chooks

   Next, as I headed towards the base of the hill, was a setup that I have seen on many properties over the years. It was a bench the size of a dining room table with a one metre diameter saw blade sticking up through it. In this case, it was covered with half a car tyre for safety. I was to find Warren to be a very good manager. There was a 300mm diameter pulley that would take a belt driven by a tractor "power take off". Off to the back and sides of the workbench there was an assortment of tree limbs and a stack of cut logs. Winter in this house was never going to be miserable.

                 

   Then I walked past the "machinery shed" that was the width of 6 garages. I could see an old, unregistered Land Rover 4WD in one of the bays with the bonnet up and a water bag hanging off the bull bar. This would be the "bush basher" used for rough work when getting down and dirty off road, over rocks and through muddy creeks. There was also a motor bike, trail bike really, and a quad bike. All the modern replacements for the horses that used to do this kind of work. I poked my head inside a bit and when my eyes had adjusted to the light I could see a neat, everything in its place, workshop complete with pit and welding gear. I'm starting to like this place.

   With my nose into Warren's shed, where it really shouldn't be, I spotted what I immediately recognised as electronic control cabinets for their electricity. Not just the diesel generator type of switchboard but extra, electronic stuff. I went back outside and looked around and then I found it.

   The solar panel array. Massive. By my standards. I have seen, and helped maintain, three 50watt solar panels on Evan's houseboat and that was considered to be big.

   But this was a row of 18 panels. They were up on the shed roof. I had not seen them as I walked up. Now I stepped well back and circled around looking at the installation and I could see a second row of 18 more 50watt panels behind the first row. Yikes. That is a massive1800watts. 1.8kilowatts. This station runs on solar power. I'll have to get the guff on this setup out of Warren. Hope he lets me do some work so I can stay a day or two.

   Now you have all seen old vehicles abandoned for years, paint faded, windows missing, wipers awry. I came across a 5 ton truck, used to be red, stock crates (sheep cages) on the back, under a big tree. At first glance, just another bit of station junk that never got cleaned away properly. But a closer look showed that the tyres were all pumped up and in good condition. Where I thought the passenger's door window was missing it was just wound down. The bull bar needed a coat of paint but was sturdy and not badly damaged. It was not registered but would not need to be to move the sheep around when they could not be walked. Just like the rest of this place, old but functional. Just like me!

   On the way to the trig hill, I stopped to read the headstone of what I will call a "pioneer" grave site. They seem to look alike and there are a few on nearly every property. The gravestone is quite readable and an "old but functional" fence surrounds the site.


   Francis Duffield was the station manager at that time and he now rests in the most pleasant surroundings. I couldn't read all of the bottom line as it was obscured by some grass and I couldn't bring myself to venture in and disturb it.

                   

   The trig point is a pyramid of rocks, on a hill supporting a tall stick. This can be seen for kilometers around and is set up by the early surveyors and its position painstakingly calculated with references back to previous known trig points. And then all the way back to the State's capital city. This trig point is then used as a reference for surveying the local area and trig points further out. I am aware of their existence and look for them as I travel the country. There was one on a hill overlooking Blinman that shows up in one of my photos. I don't need them for navigation, nor do surveyors use them anymore, as GPS units give a more accurate position.

   On the way back to the homestead, at the foot of trig hill, I came across another grave site. Again the slightly ornamental fence, with some stronger added pipes, surrounding a reasonably well kept headstone. But this time, I was reminded of the lack of medical care available at the time and distance from the big smoke.


   A few moments silence for baby Katherine and her saddened parents.

   When I was just about back at the homestead I heard a couple of vehicles approaching. It was Warren in one and a young couple in the other. I was there to shake Warren's hand as he stepped out of the 4WD.

   "I thought you weren't coming. Or got lost. Or went passed. How are ya?"

   "Yeah. Good. I got stuck in Blinman with the rain. Did you get it here as well?"

   "It was more thunder and lightning but we got a bit. This is my son John, and his friend, Anna."

   "Hi Jeff." "Hi John." "Hello." "Hi."

   Warren waved his hand, "C'mon in. We'll have some lunch and you can tell us what you've been up to." Barbara had the table set and the cold meat and salad beautifully prepared. There was a place set for me. Smart lady.

   Over lunch I learned that John was studying law at Adelaide University and they have been helping out at Wirrealpa for a week. John visiting home and Anna on a sort of working holiday. Wirrealpa offers farm stay accommodation and there is currently a bus load of  28 Asian students visiting Wirrealpa. The students are in Adelaide studying English and the group also includes the bus driver and two tour coordinators. Barbara, with the others helping, provides a full catering service for the group who have been based here while touring nearby places on day trips.This information filled in the gap for me explaining the other well kept buildings and the apparent "occupied" look and feel as I walked through earlier today.

   My request to Warren for some meaningful work was welcomed immediately. His plan for the afternoon was a two man job and if I went with him it would release John for something else.

   After lunch we headed off in a 4WD ute into the scrub following minimally defined "roads" with lots of other similar tracks leading off from left and right. We stopped at a windmill and I learned that Warren was to climb the windmill and paint the wind blades with "silver" paint to make them highly visible from a distance. Wirrealpa is 1650 square kilometers and Warren covers it mostly in his Cessna 172, a light, 4 seat aircraft. Painting the windmills makes them stand out and help identify where he is.

   1650 square kilometers. That doesn't mean much to most people. Certainly not to me. It is 40km by 40km. Or to put in a perspective I can understand, about the size of Sydney. 4,000,000 people in Sydney and 2 here. Well, 2 when John and Anna and the bus load leave tomorrow and I leave the next day on Thursday. Did I hear someone say it was a big country.

   So what was my job? I had to take the pictures. Well, take the pictures while I was on standby. As I said before, Warren is a good manager and practices safety in the workplace. Something that Government has had to force on most employers. While there is a ladder going up the windmill tower and there is a tiny platform to rest a knee or pair of pliers on, the job of painting the vanes did present risks. He was hanging on with his legs and painting with his right hand and holding the windmill "disk" from spinning with his left. Not only was the platform small, but it only allowed Warren to paint the back of the vanes. To paint the front he had to reach around and paint "blind". He could not see what he had done. With  lot of guessing, he didn't do too bad. Now I came into it.

  "Up a bit. That's it. Now over to the right. No, your right. Ok, next one."

   There are 18 vanes on this "mill" and each vane had to be painted front and back. Very time consuming, but obviously made his flying safer. Oh, and if he fell, I was there to take him, or his body, back to Barbara to patch up.

   I also learned that the existing well, dug in the 1800s, was still there and the water was just 20 feet down. It seemed highly incongruous that the surface ground was parched and the native animals and the sheep would die of thirst without the aid of windmill pumps and yet the water was in abundance all over the property but underneath and neeshooting at a target, butded to be pumped up and presented to the stock in troughs with control valves. And they had to be checked regularly. Not that they broke down very often. But if they did, the sheep would only last a week without a reliable source of water.

   When we (Warren) finished that windmill he called me back to the ute (I had wandered off a bit taking photos). Getting back in I once again had to gently move the rifle, with its lethal looking 'scope, away from where it was leaning on my seat. I am ok with guns and even a reasonable shot with a 22, but I don't like them "around". This was different of course, the rifle being a necessity and one of the tools of the trade. I treated it with the greatest respect. We went on to a second windmill and repeated the process. I was experienced by now and much more valuable to my new employer. Right!

                    

   Back at the ranch, Warren was going to demonstrate shearing some sheep for the visitors. He had maintained the old diesel and belt driven shearing equipment and was skilled at using it. This was part of the farm-stay experience. He had already been out to a nearby paddock and selected four "woolies". These are sheep that missed out on the last muster and had not been shorn. They were waiting in the yard by the shearing shed.

   The other equipment in the shed was the wool press and the wool classing tables and storage bins. When each fleece was removed, a rouseabout gathered it from the floor at the shearers feet and spread it on the classing table. He (or she) would then clean up the fleece by picking off burrs and low quality bits of wool around the edges (belly, crutch area etc) and then leave it to get another. This is when a crew of shearers were in operation. A wool classer would move along the tables deciding the quality of the fibre and instruct the rouseabout to store it in one of the bins. When a bin was full, the fleeces were put in the two halves of the press and the wool was compressed into one side containing the "bail" (or bag)  the final weight being between 100 and 200kg. Average is about 170kg for the Australian sheep industry.

  The students couldn't take their eyes off Warren as he handled the sheep and expertly sheared them. There was an obvious look of disappointment when he told them that it was all over. They all took a sample of the wool and walked back to their quarters while Warren and John cleaned up. I headed back as well to set up the antenna for a check of the radio for tonight. I told the students what I was going to do, but eventually I talked to Bill and Roger without an audience. Shearing sheep is a much better spectator sport.

   We all chipped in feeding the multitude. Barbara had cooked a huge amount of  spaghetti bol at the homestead and we loaded this into a vehicle and took it to the dining hall. All the visitors queued past and we served it out. They all sat at the long tables and came back for seconds and then sweets and coffee. There was a good kitchen area next to the dining room and we worked like good kitchen hands and washed and wiped and stacked and headed back to the homestead for a final tidy up. They gave me a room next door to Dennis, the tour bus driver and after a hot shower I crashed and slept, on my sleeping bag spread on the mattress, like the proverbial log.

                   

   What a huge day. Walk 17 kms, do an historic tour of the trig point and cemetery, lunch with a genuine outback, pastoral family, fix (at least help) windmills, watch the sheep shearing and cater for a small army (I assisted with the dishes).

   Who scripted this wonderful adventure? I feel like a character in a book.

   Tomorrow couldn't possibly top this! Could it?
  
       
   Tomorrow, more life in the isolated outback (with 30 visitors)