It’s all about the...

BIGLY views.

It always has been with me. That is why I dawdled a bit more in the Australian Alps. There, I made it a point to hike to the tall stuff. 

I didn’t need much of an excuse to hang there. I never tire of seeing areas Zip Codes away. I like breathing thinner air. I smile more at altitude. Mountains are my Happy Places. 

Mount Kosciuszko was calling my name. “Jeffy! Get your kosher butt up here. I don’t care if you have a dodgy knee. It’s going to be a beautiful day.” 

When the highest point in Australia gives a “shout out”, you listen. But Jeffy! Why does this 7,310’ Australian prominence have a Non-Anglo name? 

Because Polish explorer Pawel Strezelecki scored naming rights by being the first recorded White dude up it in 1840. That’s why.

It’s cool. Mr Kosciuszko was a Polish-Lithuanian freedom fighter. He fought the good fight under many flags including the wannabe United States. Yes, he and George Washington probably exchanged High Fives.

Back to current events: With an assist from the World’s smallest rental car, I arrived at Charlotte Pass. A nice National Park employee had told me about the Main Range trail. She said, “You’ll be above tree line the whole way. From there it’s a short detour to Kosciusko.” She was right. 

So what if the hike was about fifteen miles long and the no-ozone  layer Aussie sun burnt my flesh to the color of beet root. Look at these photos!

I know a few of you might be snickering at the idea of a 7,310’ peak being the tallest point on a continent. (Why Colorado’s foothills are taller than Kosciusko!). Remember Australia is the oldest, flattest and driest continent on Mother Earth. 

All mountains deserve respect.

To prove my point the following photos display a morbid sight. Here’s a National Park Service crew removing the bodies of a mob of selfie stick wielding hikers who were caught unprepared in a sudden summer white out.

OK OK. That’s Fake News. Although people have died on these mountains. Mostly in the season of White Death. I implore hiking neophytes to refrain from saying, “I conquered the mountain.” I prefer to look at it as the mountain granted the hiker safe passage.

Last photo: This will be the site of my final resting place. I’ll get to look at the above tree-line views from Colorado’s Handies Peak for eternity. It might be cold and lonely in the winter though. 

Cheers! From Tumut, NSW

Jeff

Remembering Black Saturday.

A little over a decade ago, I was on Mount Bogong on the very early morning of what would become infamous as Black Saturday. Yesterday, I hiked back to Victoria’s highest point. 

Ten years ago, I wrote an article about Australia’s Natural Caused 911. There were 173 fatalities that cataclysmic day.

Read all about it from my pre-blogging day’s perspective:

Of Push-Bikes, Heat Waves and Bushfires…

 

  “This land must change or the land must burn.” From the song Warakurna, recorded by Midnight Oil.

 

    The Lizard. That’s the nickname my bicycle buddies bestowed upon me years ago. On the days they were turning tomato-red from the heat, I felt that the temperature was tepid. When they were feeling cool and comfortable, I was cold and clammy. Needless to say, I seem to thrive when most are singing those summertime blues.

    In the antipodal summer of 2009, while on a bicycle tour in the state of Victoria, Australia, my tolerance for heat was surely tested. The thermostat began to crank up after Australia Day on January 26th; a day commemorating the arrival of the First Fleet into Sydney Harbor in 1788. 

At the time, I was ambling though the Goldfield region, an area rich in mining history.  Now its wealth can be measured with its rolling-hills scenery and towns possessing lovely, old buildings. It is bicycle touring hog-heaven.

    When I heard the forecast in Maldon that the heat is on, I had to change my morning regime of waking, drinking lots of coffee and dawdling for a few hours. It became waking before the sun was a rumor, drinking lots of coffee, eating some sort of breakfast substitute (two donuts) and quickly setting off in gentler temperatures. At first it was a novelty and added to my feeling of adventure. As the days of over 100-degree heat added up to a week, I sought accommodations with air conditioning and turned nocturnal. I took naps and hunkered down in the afternoon as the temperatures raged to 105 and above. OK, at this point I felt heat stressed. 

    However, I wasn’t the only living thing that felt that way. I witnessed sparrows panting in the meager shade after a short flight, herds of cattle bathing in a farmer’s dam and trees shedding their leaves as if it were fall. At night in the pubs, there was talk of koalas descending from their eucalyptus abodes to skinny dip in the creeks.

    The heat wave couldn’t have come at a worse time. Victoria and parts of New South Wales were in the midst of a multi-year drought. Reservoirs were emptying at unprecedented rates. The week of heat became double-digit days and still the worst was yet to come. On Saturday, February 7th, I looked upward for my own relief from the heat and hiked up to Victoria’s highest point, Mount Bogong elevation 6,520 feet. The day before at the Mount Beauty visitor center, the good-intentioned volunteers tried to dissuade me from my plans. “It’ll be the worst fire danger day in Victoria’s recorded history. If something breaks out, you will be on your own!” I assured them that I would keep my eyes open and monitor the situation. I also promised not to take up smoking before then.

    Very, very early that Saturday morning, I rode uphill to the trailhead in pre-dawn light so sparse, I couldn’t read my bicycle’s odometer. When I topped out on Mount Bogong (named after a sizeable moth) at 10 AM, all was quiet on the north, south, east and western fronts. I sat and ate a few sandwiches and savored it all, except the hot and heavy northerly winds.

    By the time I returned to my bike, the temperatures had seemed to rise exponentially. Once again, I sought refuge in an air-conditioned room. The few times I ventured out, I can honestly say it was the most scorched feeling I had ever experienced. The mere strain of writing e-mails in the shade caused me to break out into a sweat. And it wasn’t even Hotmail. 

    That evening at the Settler’s Pub, the word was that Mount Beauty had reached a high of 112 degrees. This was mild compared to Melbourne’s new record temperature of 117 degrees.

    I woke on Sunday at 6AM and took my coffee outside to test the mercury; yes; it was still stifling for pre-sunrise conditions. There was a thin layer of ash on my chair and the sky was an eerie gray. The air smelled like a fireplace. On the TV, there was news that bushfires had broke out in Beechworth and Myrtleford, in a valley to the west of my present location. 

    I quickly packed and headed down Kiewa Valley way. My original plan was to visit Yakandandah, a village that seemed to be a local Victorian favorite. En route, I couldn’t help but notice the billowing plumes of smoke over my left shoulder, in the general vicinity of Yakandandah.  I also noticed that the CFA (Country Fire Authority) fire stations were on full-alert or already out on calls. Since my mother (God bless her), didn’t raise a seriously stupid child, I changed my course to the twin-cities of Wodonga and Albury, reasoning that a bushfire would have a difficult time invading concrete. 

    I phoned a distant acquaintance in Albury, NSW. “Hello, Pat. This is Jeff Sambur, the guy on the push-bike who said he was bypassing Albury. Well, the flames forced me to change my plans. Can I be a guest for a night?” He and his wife, Tracey kindly agreed and just like that I became Victoria’s first bicycle-fire refugee. That afternoon, the conversation flowed along with the news reports. Outside, the sky had the look of impending Armageddon, with a complete blockage of the sun’s rays. The air was three cigarette packs-per-day smoky. Basic breathing was a chore. I felt content to be safe and inside.

    On the morning of February 9th, the horrors of the fire’s fury was beginning to drift in; over 100 confirmed dead and at least 700 homes destroyed. Tracey sat mesmerized in front of the TV news reports. “I have things to do, but I can’t pull myself away from all this awful news.” 

    I slowly replaced gear on my bike for my short saunter east and away from the bulk of the flames to Tallangatta. Tracey was concerned when I left. “If you get into a bind, please ring us. Pat and I will come and get you!” I assured her I’d be careful and with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, I set off. You have to love Australians.

 

    By the time I arrived in Tallangatta, my eyes were rose-colored red and my throat scratchy. The smoke was now thicker and the sunlight had that solar-eclipse weirdness about it. By that evening, the wind shifted from the south and the temperatures plunged. It was quite apparent that the heat wave had finally abated.

 

    While eating a pizza at the Tallangatta Hotel and Pub, Herb the publican informed me that a small fire had broke out south of Koetong, the direction I was heading. A few “handles” of beer later, a worn out, off-duty Country Fire Authority volunteer stepped in for a six-pack of thirst relief. Herb questioned him on behalf of my account, “This Yank is on a push-bike. Will he be able to get to Khancoban tomorrow?” Without hesitation and displaying a sooty smile he said, “She’ll be right!” If you can’t trust a CFA hero, who can you trust? However, just to be on the safe side, Herb took me aside and offered, “If you get stuck here, mate, I’ll give you a discount for a room.” Like I said, you have to love Australians.

    That Tuesday morning, the air was autumn-crisp and it was a “no worries” ride to Khancoban. That CFA firefighter was spot-on in his assessment.

 

    I had been fortunate to be at the right place at the right time, something that could not be said for the fire victims. The news was brutal. The Victorian bushfires were the worst natural disaster in Australia’s short history. As the days unfolded, the harsh reality struck: Whole families had perished, 1,831 homes were destroyed, the towns of Kinglake and Marysville had been obliterated, people were incinerated in their vehicles in their attempts to escape and the oh-so-many causalities making a valiant effort to save their homes but not fully understanding the extreme conditions at that moment.  I wondered did the fallen ever realize that the whims of Mother Nature had already deprived them of their choice between fight or flight? 

    If there was a silver lining to this calamity, it proved once again the kindness and generosity of the Australian spirit. I saw bartenders strolling around the pubs collecting coins from the very-willing patrons. In the tiny farm village of Greenethorpe, NSW, the entire school class (18) raised $287 for the cause. Selfless children asked their parents to forego birthday and Christmas presents in lieu of donations. Coles Supermarkets donated their profits for one day to the charity. And as the Aussies would say, there are “heaps” more stories than those.

   Even a lizard has a conscience; I went to the Red Cross website and made a donation.

    

    

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please take a seat for today’s lesson...

“Emergency: a serious, unexpected, and often dangerous situation requiring immediate action.”

Oxford Dictionary 

I was a firefighter for 28 years. I have an idea on what constitutes an emergency. 

Here’s two examples. 

On a winter’s night at Dark-thirty Hour, an alarm came in for a working fire in a nearby trailer park. I was the driver operator that night. When I pulled the cord to open up the bay doors, my crew and I were more than surprised. We saw flames from our station about a quarter mile away. The ultimate no bueno. 

By the time we arrived the trailer was nearly fully involved. Excited neighbors shouted at us about a woman trapped inside. Bystanders used garden hoses in a futile attempt to knock down the red stuff with a dribble of wet stuff. Through the din, I could hear a woman scream. 

We went to work. After parking the engine away from the flames, I set the pump and placed an initial attack hose line at the front door. My crew had donned their air packs and made entry. I then placed a back up line for deployment by the next incoming engine company.  I was listening to the soon to be victim, while  I was setting up lights, a fan for ventilation, piling up a supply of spare air bottles and pulling an even larger diameter hose line. Eventually it got quiet. 

This was a cooker. All in all, it took both crews spraying 300 gallons of water/minute to extinguish the blaze. It wasn’t much longer before a young woman’s body was removed and whisked away to a waiting ambulance. There wasn’t any medical treatment for the patient. She was already dead.

This was an emergency with a bad outcome.

Another emergency call:

On a pleasant spring evening a call came in for a possible suicide attempt involving a college coed. With sirens blaring and lights flashing we raced to the Colorado State University dormitory. More dispatch information trickled in. Apparently the young woman had jumped from the third story. She shattered the window glass on her exit. A shard had impaled itself in her femoral artery. 

We found the patient lying face up in a Lake Erie size pool of blood. The paramedics arrived at the same time. We all knew our roles. A large trauma dressing was hastily applied to the gash. A backboard and cervical collar were put in service. Large diameter IVs were spiked and inserted. A high flow oxygen bag valve mask was placed over her nose and mouth. This was a true “load and go” situation.

I was one of two firefighters who dove into the back of the ambulance to assist the attending paramedic. For a minute or more we had to perform CPR until a weak pulse returned. Miraculously her eyes were open by the time we arrived at the ER. We handed our patient to an awaiting trauma team. Our job there was done.

A few weeks later, that same coed made her way into Fire Station Two. My crew and the paramedics were there to meet her under better circumstances. She apologized for her rash act. She sincerely thanked us all for making a difference that evening. She left a homemade apple pie and store bought ice cream as a small token of her appreciation.

We were speechless.

This was an emergency with a positive outcome. 

Now here’s two examples of perceived emergencies. 

A call came in for another college coed with “extreme leg pain.” We ran “Hot” to the campus. We found the patient sitting up conscience, oriented and alert. She didn’t appear to be in much pain. 

A paramedic asked her, “what’s going on?” 

“I have tendinitis in my knee. It really hurts more today than usual. So I called 911.”

We all let that sink in. A lit up fire engine and ambulance had just ran a few red lights. Never a good thing. All for an ongoing bout of tendinitis.

Me being me said, “Yeah! Tendinitis is painful. I have it in my shoulder from playing racquetball.” 

Before you knew it the other crew members were singing the Blues to her about their personal physical pains. 

We left her thinking about making that 911 call. 

A non-emergency with a thoughtful outcome. (Hopefully).

Last example: Dispatch “toned us out”  about a woman sniffing “unusual smells” in her home. When we arrived on scene, we donned our breathing apparatus but allowed the masks to dangle below. With a gas monitor already humming, we went to the door. A distraught woman met us there. “Can’t you smell it?” she asked. 

At this point our detector showed normal readings. 

She then said, “Please! Follow me. This is where it’s the worst.” She led us toward the living room where we found an aging Golden Retriever nodding on a rug. “Now, can you smell it?” 

My Boss and I started to laugh. We smelled it alright. We both pointed to the gaseous pooch.

“Oh My God! I called 911 because my dog was farting! I’m so embarrassed!” 

She handed us chocolate chip cookies on our way out. 

This was a non-emergency with a funny outcome.

Recently the Commander of Constitutional Chaos has declared a National Emergency in regard to the building of the Great Wall of Racism. 

Before I proceed, I’ve give a brief history lesson on the US and Mexico relationship. (I always try to entertain, educate or enlighten my readers. If I score one out of three, I’m happy.)  

In a bottle caps worth, the relationship has been awkward since the time of the Mexican-American War in the years 1846-48. It was a one sided affair, with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo the end product. 

From Wikipedia: 

“It gave the United States the Rio Grande as a boundary for Texas, and gave the U.S. ownership of California and a large area comprising roughly half of New Mexico, most of Arizona, Nevada, and Utah, and parts of Wyoming and Colorado.”

In other words, a BIGLY block of land. In 1853, the US secured what is now Arizona and New Mexico with the Gadsden Purchase for a mere $10,000,000. Chump change. 

America was then in Manifest Destiny Mode. An Imperialistic concept of Westward expansion. Of course Racism was involved. Those slave owning southern states wished to export that “Peculiar Institution” to the newly acquired territories. Think of this as coughing a flu bug  into the faces of family and friends. 

Historically things took somewhat of a breather until 1916 when Pancho Villa and his gang invaded Columbus, New Mexico. There they killed seventeen Americans. Pancho was trying to instigate another war between the countries.

Instead what Pancho got was  General “Blackjack” Pershing and an Army force of 12,000, who invaded Mexico in a nine month spree to capture or kill the Rascal. Pershing summed up the situation this way, “Villa is everywhere, yet he is nowhere.” 

Finally President Wilson saved Pershing and his men from further embarrassment and shipped them off to fight in the Great War. 

Since then relationships between the countries have been uneasy yet civil. At least their have been no bullets flying. 

All that changed on Black Tuesday, 2016. Candidate Demagogue became President Demagogue. One can’t  be a Demagogue without Scapegoats. Mexicans and Muslims foot the bill. “Those People” were the cause of all of America’s plights and problems. So from chants of “Build the Wall” at campaign rallies, President “Don’t know much about History” recently upped the ante to a declared National Emergency. 

My fellow Americans! Don’t be fooled! This is no emergency. (See the above definition and examples). 

This perceived emergency is nothing more than Fido Flatulence. It’s an Executive abuse of 911. 

Yes, I’m still running for President in 2020. Once elected, I will immediately declare a National Emergency to combat racism. We have to nip this social disease before it gets any further out of hand. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/06/a-presidential-platform-worth.html

Cheers,

From Bright, Victoria

Your next President.

BTW. The Aussies don’t like him either.

An Introspective Trip...

“Think! How the hell are you going to think and hit at the same time?”

Yogi Berra

Lately I’ve been thinking too much. Not so much about the present as much as my future. A few months ago, I blogged that 2019 will be a year of changes. Lots of them. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/11/ch-ch-changes.html

This will be the year, I’ll settle down. Sort of grow up. It’s time. 

Back to the Present temporarily: 

Lately the psychotic Aussie weather has received my attention. The constant force has been wind and heaps of it. I’m not talking a Seals and Croft “Summer Breeze.” There’s been some full-on rock a cabin gales. The type of wind that knocks down thick, healthy looking trees. A class of wind that makes my brain go turtle-like into its shell. It doesn’t help that I’ve noticed a visual famine of single people making the rounds. What I’ve known for decades in coming front and center. Its a couples or family oriented world. Even Down Under.

When a well meaning Aussie now asks me if I’m traveling alone, my first thought is, “Why don’t you throw some kosher salt on that festering wound!”

 

But I don’t say that. I look down at my feet and embarrassingly say, “Yes.” 

Then those well meaning Aussies change the subject.

“Life Is What Happens to You While You’re Busy Making Other Plans”

John Lennon

I’m a planner. I have to be. Without a daily regime, I’d be the proverbial rudderless ship. I need a reason to drink my coffee and get going in the morning.  I require a rudimentary schedule. 

So...presently with an injured knee (maybe a torn meniscus) which will eventually require a surgeon, my plans of hiking in the Australian National Parks, backpacking the Grand Canyon, more hikes in Zion, Canyonlands and the UK are now in the wait-and-see mode. My mind wants to play but the body is rebelling. I’m not thrilled about this.

“Someone to watch over me.”

Ella Fitzgerald 

This is when my over caffeinated mind starts to rebel too. I’m no stranger to waking up in an post-operating room. After the release forms have been signed, a family member or friend picks me up from the surgery center. Eventually, I get deposited into an empty house. That’s when I fully understand what it is to be alone. In the past, I’ve been forced to pick up the pace of recovery. I drive my Physical Therapists nuts. I want the bad times to go away. I don’t want to dwell more than I have to about my social situation or lack of it.

A scenario like the above is for a mere orthopedic injury. What would happen if something really backfires in me? I’m no youngster anymore!

No one wants to grow old alone.

This is why (after the UK trip), I’ll put a tentative hold on International travel. 

I’m burnt out on people asking me if I’m traveling alone. 

From cold, windy and rainy Mansfield, Victoria

Wasn’t it supposed to be summer here?

Jeff 

Lastly an introspective song from Toad the Wet Sprocket. 

Walk on the Ocean

We spotted the ocean at the head of the trail
Where are we going, so far away
And somebody told me that this is the place
Where everything's better, everything's safe

Walk on the ocean
Step on the stones
Flesh becomes water
Wood becomes bone

And half an hour later we packed up our things
We said we'd send letters and all those little things
And they knew we were lying but they smiled just the same
It seemed they'd already forgotten we'd came
Now we're back at the homestead
Where the air makes you choke
And people don't know you
And trust is a joke

We don't even have pictures
Just memories to hold
That grow sweeter each season
As we slowly grow old

Humanity’s Quest for that

Iconic Selfie.

In Australia’s summer of 2014, I decided to forgo bicycle riding the Great Ocean Road. Instead I chose to amble the Great Ocean Walk. 

Back then, I hired Pete to shuttle me from trailheads and accommodations for five days. He charged me A$450 in cash. Pete was meticulous about his timing. His pickups and drop offs were spot on. His didn’t charge extra for weather forecasts, gear storage or transfers, sound advice or entertainment. 

On one particularly windy morning, he admonished me not to walk the beaches that day. “I won’t be able to pick you up in Antarctica if a rogue wave sweeps you away!” 

Pete’s shuttle service was a steal. 

This time I had the World’s smallest car rental. I wanted to do a few day hikes along the GOW. I emailed a shuttle service about a drop off at a trailhead. Cost for a nine mile hike back to my sedan? A$120. (If I spent that sort of money each time I hiked, I would be living full time in my van down by the river by now.) I said thanks, but no thanks. 

Something changed.

I checked accommodations in the Great Ocean Road’s western entry town. Port Campbell motels were not only booked out for the whole month of February, the costs were Andromeda Galaxy sky high. 

My WW J senses screamed out the answer, “The Tour Bus Crowd discovered the Great Ocean Road!” 

With that thought in mind, I lit out from the affordable housing town of Warrnambool at first light.  It was so early the only place open to catch a “flat white and hot cakes” was Maccas. ( Aussie speak for MacDonald’s. ) 

I caught a front row spot at the Twelve Apostles parking lot. (Upon my return, the lot was full. There were three attendants directing traffic too). I headed out with a delicious morning sun for photos. There were only a few humans around. With the help of a friendly couple, I scored my iconic selfie of the eight Apostles. (There never was twelve. ) I dawdled a bit, but then noticed an increase of humanity. It was time for me to walk east on the Great Ocean Walk. 

Let me say this about the GOW. You don’t actually see the ocean all that much. Although even a deaf guy like me can hear the soothing white noise of the waves. Oftentimes, you walk through tunnels of bush land. Not very scenic, but high scores for solitude. I went east a respectable way and started back to my sedan. 

Overhead helicopters were gouging passengers of their money, while horseflies were gorging on the walkers below. By this time there were plenty of meals available for the biting swarms. However these hikers weren’t carrying backpacks or water. They were clinging onto cell phones for upcoming selfies. They were well coiffed and recently showered. The women were making fashion statements. Some carried parasols to block the scorching no ozone Aussie sun.  Many were wearing inappropriate footwear. They were the Nouveau Riche Chinese Nationals I had recently read about!

My tour bus assumption was correct. According to the article, many Chinese are willing to pay up to A$1000/night to be chauffeured, pampered, placed in better than average accommodations and fed non-pub grub meals. They probably were guaranteed high speed WiFi to upload their selfies on Facebook too. (Chinese visitors rank number two in Australia. They will quickly surpass the Kiwis if the trends continue). 

To give my readers a frame of reference, I’m spending around A$200/day including the care and feeding of the world’s smallest rental car. I sleep in budget cabins in caravan parks where I have to deploy chemical warfare on thousands of unwanted squatters. (An ant infestation.) My lunches are PB & boysenberry sandwiches. My teas (Aussie speak for dinners) are takeaway Asian food, fish and chips or pub meals of chicken parmi. AKA parmigiana. I’m definitely not starving. 

Now I’ll get to my point, (finally). Many of the World’s iconic places are now approachable by motor vehicles. IE: Twelve Apostles, Machu Picchu, Yosemite Valley, the Maroon Bells of Colorado, Crater Lake, Grand Canyon and the fiords of Milford Sound to name a few. With very little effort or discomfort people are scoring those show-the-world-I’ve-been-there pictures. 

So the pretty places are getting more crowded. This has been a constant lament of my blog. Remember Genesis 1:28? That’s the “be fruitful and multiply, and fill the Earth and subdue it” part of the Old Testament. Maybe humanity is doing too good a job of performing God’s well intentioned suggestions. Our mere presence is polluting the places we love. 

Ahh, but if you are willing to do the sweat labor to get to scenic areas, there’s still heaps of beauty out there. You will probably have to wear appropriate footwear though. 

On another theme. By now many of you are thinking, “Jeff! How’s your knee?”

So I’ll tell you. It’s no bueno. They say denial is more than a River in Egypt. I decided to finally go to the source of all knowledge. I Googled signs and symptoms of a torn meniscus. I checked off pain, swelling, snap, crackles and pops ETC. 

BINGO! 

I scored them all. Eventually, I will require a surgery to repair this problem.

On a positive note, recently I sold a paperback copy of my book to someone in Denmark. For this I was paid 89 cents. That should help defray the cost of the inevitable surgery.

Here’s the book link:

 

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006VXRMUG?keywords=Jeff%20Sambur&qid=1447125667&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1b

Better than donating to a GoFundMe. At least you’ll receive an IPPY Gold Medal Award Winning book. (Available on Kindle too). 

Happy Chinese New Year.

It’s the year of the pig, which is appropriate for my coming months of sloth.

Cheers from stormy Apollo Bay, Victoria 

Jeff 

An Aussie Trip like no

other. 

I’ve been traveling to Australia since the pre “Crocodile Dundee” year of 1986. Currently this is my sixth time Down Under. I guess you can say I like it here. In my past journeys, I’ve brought along a “push bike.” (Aussie-speak for bicycle). It was my primary mode of transportation, exercise and entertainment. 

In the Aussie summer of 2013/2014 I brought a push bike once again. On a personal note, it was post July 11th, 2011. The date where I came so close to being an ex-Wandering Wondering Jew. The day I nearly got killed while riding my bicycle. 

Read all about it: 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/07/maybe-i-believe-in-god.html

During that five month stay, I tested the tire pressure to see if I was still willing to share space with speeding sedans, trucks and motorcycles. The answer turned out to be “NO!” When I boxed my bike in Adelaide at the end of the tour, I knew my passion for cycling had been heaved into a dustbin. I was done. 

One door closes, another one opens. 

Now instead of two tires to get around, I use two legs. (One with a dodgy knee). For the first time Down Under I’m renting a sedan as my primary mode of wandering to arrive at places to hike, sleep, Happy Hour and eat. 

I rented the World’s smallest car. Its a luxury item compared to living out of two bike panniers and a small duffle bag. I now have space  for a used coffee maker and coffee, extra food, recently purchased T-shirts and shorts and a slab (Aussie speak for a case) of tasty locally brewed IPA. I’m living large. 

As far as the knee goes. I’m feeling helpless as my fitness level goes south while my girth goes north. I tried lying low in Hobart, Tasmania in order to rest it. I practiced being a tourist. I visited the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens (Two Thumbs Up!), the Maritime Museum (don’t waste a schooner’s worth of beer on this one), the Mawson’s Hut replica from his 1912 Antarctic Expedition (Outstanding) and my favorite the Hobart Brewery. 

Quick story about the brewery. I walked in after a BUSY day of touristing. I glanced at the beer list. I blinked. FYIPA! That’s my go to IPA from Boulder, Colorado’s Mountain Sun brewery. Next to it was a decal from Mountain Sun. I just happened to be wearing my Mountain Sun Brewery T shirt. That garment was worth a few shouts, (Aussie speak for a free round). Turns out a brewer from Mountain Sun (Scott) immigrated to Tasmania. 

BTW. He’s still creating great beers. 

It’s a small world, but you wouldn’t want to paint it.

Back to the knee. It’s still not right. I’ve had a few readers give me referrals for a Doctor. They say one of his treatments would take care of all my problems. There would be no need for a second opinion. They assure me he’d be the last physician I’d ever see.

His name? Doctor Kevorkian.

Why am I so nervous about my appointment?

From Portland, Victoria (birthplace of the winds),

Cheers,

Jeff