“You’re not from around here..

are you?” 

was the innocent question the tall, young Aussie asked me in a crowded Cann River, Victoria pub in 1994. Warwick was on a solo motorcycle tour. I was doing the same on a push bike. At the time, Warwick’s future was to stand up in a church and stammer, “I do!”

This wasn’t the same as my future.

We made beer/small talk about destinations and life in general. Warwick figured out my route would take me close to his “Redbank” family farm in Greenethorpe, NSW.

“Would you care to drop by and meet the family and Kristie my fiancé? I’ll show you around the farm too.”

When I realized Warwick was being sincere, (he always is) I answered, “Sure! I’ve never been on a Australian working farm before.” 

A few weeks later, I had the pleasure of meeting his sweetheart Kristie, Warwick’s parents and the original Red Dog. I received a tour of the 3,000 acre dry land Redbank farm too. (Dry land farming means no irrigation.) 

Since then, I’ve visited their spread four other times. Redbank seems timeless. Outbuildings and farm implements lay scattered about since the days of Warwick’s grandfather. In the front yard of their home, an out of place palm tree ekes out a living. Warwick’s father planted it in 1940. Warwick himself has discovered ancient aboriginal stone tools in paddocks. There’s heaps of history here.

What isn’t timeless are the human inhabitants. I’ve seen Warwick and Kristie’s three children grow from being polite, healthy and smart tykes to polite, healthy and smart young adults. The kids have now flown the coop to university,. Their career paths will more than likely steer them away from Redbank. 

In place of human children,  there’s now six dogs, four peacocks, a gaggle of geese, two horses, one donkey, two alpacas, two nocturnal cats and numerous hens and cock-a-doodle-doo roosters. Warwick also feeds possums while he feeds himself dinner. All in all, their real children were better behaved.

There’s been other changes as well. 

When I first started showing up, Warwick was growing vegetable matter. Namely wheat and canola. Now he’s growing animal matter, sheep and cattle. On my last visit in 2014, Warwick ran about 750 sheep. Five years later, he’s managing over 2,500 four-legged vegetarians. His only helpers are the six dogs in various stages of training. It’s body aching work. (Warwick required a back surgery years ago.) In Aussie lingo, “It’s hard yakka.” 

It’s an Olympic endurance event without a finish line. There’s no time clock to punch or days off. One chore seems to begat two-three others. It’s a long day spent opening and closing gates, moving mobs of sheep from one paddock to another, feeding them grain when necessary, fixing fences, spraying invasive weeds, repairing water lines, being a Veterinarian to injured or sick livestock, shearing the wool and countless other tasks.  

Yet, through it all Warwick and Kristie maintain a stoic Zen-like attitude.

The village of Greenethorpe has undergone changes as well. When Warwick was attending school, he had 49 classmates. Now there are 15 students total. Fellow farmers are cashing in their properties and moving to greener pastures. They are selling out to corporations who are driving up the price of a hectare. The real coup de gras has been the shuttering of Greenethorpe‘s one and only pub. 

Even an Ex- city bred New Yorker noticed the difference. So I asked, “What happened?” 

“Jeff, our summers have gotten hotter and drier. This year we already had over 30 days of above 40 degree Celsius (104 F) temperatures. Our last measurable rain was in the second week of January. It’s been going on like this since before you were here last. Our harvests were becoming too unreliable. We adapted to sheep because they handle the extremes better than the grains. Unfortunately, tending sheep is a lot more labor intensive than sowing, weeding, fertilizing and harvesting grains. Somehow we’ll manage.”

See? Zen-like. 

Then I broached the 800 kilogram kangaroo in the corner. “Warwick? Do you think climate change is happening?”

Warwick rationalized it this way, “Yes! All that carbon that was locked up in ancient dinosaurs and vegetation is now being burned. It has to have an affect on the planet. I’m seeing it at ground level.” 

Side note: Warwick is probably one of the wisest human beings I’ve ever had the pleasure to have met.

After a few days, I grew restless. (Story of my life.) it was time to say “until we meet again” to Redbank’s inspirational couple. 

From the brackish river town of Moruya, I noticed a large low pressure system descending upon the region. There was a high probability of rain associated with it. That wet stuff was supposed to even hit Greenethorpe.

I emailed Kristie in the morning and told them I was doing a rain dance for them. When showers began in Moruya, I emailed again and asked, “did the you get rainstorms?”

Kristie replied back later, “No. Dust storms.”

“Damn!” Was all I could think.

Last photo to all my faithful readers including those wannabe hackers from Russia, Ukraine and the Unknown Region, there will never be another like ewes.

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.