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

I have an aversion to Wilderness Huts...

We don’t have many in the US. The few I’ve seen are in the Eastside Appalachian Mountains. They are sort of respectable. They have bunkbeds set apart. The sleeping units are more than a breath away from your neighbor. I could handle the space. 

While visiting New Zealand in 2015,  I was handed a harsh reality. People in some countries don’t share this Westside American’s idea of personal space. Upon seeing a hut where 24 hikers were coexisting and sleeping in a 12’x20’ space. (There were three levels of sleeping platforms.) I raised the Sambur White Flag. I surrendered and realized this won’t work for me. 

Read about it here:

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/01/a-hut-too-far.html

On my recent Overland Track hike, I was saddened to see the sleeping arrangements were still of the Chinese Opium Den variety. (A cramped crash pad.) I slept in my tent four out of five nights. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/01/when-aussies-speak-about.html

Steve, an Aussie Buddy of mine from the 1980’s knew about my phobia. While plying him for Tasmanian hiking info, he suggested the Three Capes Walk. 

The trail is relatively new. It’s three years young. It took five years to construct the huts and trail. It cost 30,000,000 Australian Dollars to make. The Three Capes Track was created for the brand-new-gear-crowd and people like me. Folks who are willing to pay more for a bit of luxury in the Great Outdoors. (Cost $355 USD/person). 

I booked a spot for one and forgot about it until I arrived in the one hotel town of Port Arthur. There’s not much else there besides the National Historic Site. 

I dawdled around until my 11:30 am ferry ride to the start. Little did I know, one of the Capes views would be from a small boat. For those who are unaware, a cape is “surrounded by water, big water, ocean water” (Quote by the Commander of the Drama and Crisis Creation). It was an hour of swaying, cold salt water spraying and me choking down a heaving. I didn’t sign up for this. 

Once landed, I donned my pack to hit Terra Firma. An hour later, I was at the Surveyor Hut. Glen the Warden came out to see me and showed me to my four bunk room. I tossed my pack on a lower bed and went exploring. 

Unbelievable! There was an outdoor gas grill, two kitchens with pots, pans and utensils, three gas stoves in each kitchen, a library, board and card games, yoga mats, comfy outdoor chairs, a deck with picnic tables, a cellphone and I Pad charging station, toilet paper in the WC, hand soap and 8” thick memory foam mattresses to sleep upon. The huts themselves were made of wood, steel and glass. A definite sturdy construction type. The second hut had a hot water shower. I was wowed at first sight. 

A note about the trail conditions: They were the best I’ve ever seen. I think staff members dust them each morning. If that doesn’t work, they must use a leaf blower with a silencer. 

I grabbed snack food, a book and a comfy deck chair. Group by group my fellow travelers arrived. (The Huts accommodate 48 hikers/day). It didn’t take long for me to realize once again, I was the solo Wandering Wondering Yank Jew among the many family units. (There were five young women, but they interacted more with each other and their cell phones than the other guests.) A few families placed invisible “Do Not Disturb” signs around themselves. It was quickly apparent they wanted quality family time. 

Good thing I brought a book and the library was well stocked.

As Yogi Berra said, “You can observe a lot by just watching.” So I did. This is what I noticed. Most hikers were new at this. They hauled in steaks, salmon, fresh veggies, bottled wine and three complete clothes ensembles. Women wore makeup and stylist silk scarves. Men-folk brought a variety of headwear. I saw real plates, Tupperware and silverware too. Cotton socks with boots were observed as well. Earbuds and Bose headphones were the rage. Texting and phone calls were a constant reminder we weren’t too far from civilization. 

Those 47  Aussies must have thought I was feral. I wore the same cotton shirt and two pairs of shorts. I ate dehydrated dinners, almonds, cashews, dried apricots, Starbucks shots, PB&J sandwiches and Clif Bars. I carried a plastic lightweight cup and spoon. That’s it. I survived. 

After awhile, I met my roommates. They were a pleasant family unit consisting of a married couple and one brother. I decided not be an interloper. I grabbed a thick mattress and slept outside and in the dining room area for the next three nights. The first outside sleep, I woke to a wallaby staring up at me. I’m pretty sure she winked. The second night outside, I was run over by an opossum. I moved indoors after that. 

By the second night, a few family units invited me to join them for dinner. The conversations were cordial and friendly. Eventually I thanked all for their kindness and let them be.

Each morning I headed off early.  I wanted the solitude. I had  hoped to see wildlife too. That didn’t work. I saw two poisonous snakes, one shy wallaby and a few flittering birds. I scored my quiet time though. 

Ahh! But the ocean side views were amazing. Even a curmudgeon like myself appreciated them. See for yourself. 

I’ll say this about the Three Cape Walk. I loved it. I would enjoy going back again with a potential First Lady. I would just politely ask her to leave her cell phone behind. For that favor, I’d carry in salmon,  fresh veggies and two plates. I’d put the bottle of wine in a plastic container too. 

Seriously, it’s well worth the Aussie or US bucks.

From Hobart, 

Cheers,

Jeff

When Aussies speak about...

 Tasmania at first they sigh. Then they weep a bit. When they regain their composure they’ll blurt, “ You must see Cradle Mountain!” 

So I did.

Let’s digress back to my time in Scottsdale, Arizona. 

While training for life in general and particularly the Cradle Mountain Track, I injured my knee. Eventually, I received a hit of cortisone to alleviate the signs and symptoms. It didn’t work. I’ll  just say, I began the 50 mile Cradle Mountain hike with a knee the size of the Hindenburg, before the fiery explosion. 

In essence, I’d be backpacking with half of my drive train out of service.

Did I mention, I’d be carrying the most burdensome pack I’ve donned in decades?  My personal metric to pounds conversion was way off. What I thought was two pounds of almonds and cashews turned out to be four. With a forecast of dodgy weather, I packed a down jacket, Windstopper, hat, gloves, fleece tops, tights and rain gear. More weight. No Bueno.

On a Tasmanian summer day, I set out from Ronny Creek with a distinguishable limp. The forecast was for biting blustery conditions with a chance of White Death. I wasn’t feeling keen about any of this. I knew right there and then, I’d be going into Sir Ernest Shackleton survival mode, minus the pack-ice sledging and the 800 mile open sea voyage. There would be no bonus miles on this track for me. This would be a hobble to the finish line.

The powers that be claimed the first day’s hike was the toughest. I concur. Leaden with a Volkswagen on my back, the ascent to Marion’s Overlook wasn’t the worse part. (Despite the spitting White Death and “rock me baby” winds.) it was the relatively flat section that came afterward. Rocks! Big ones, bowling bowl-sized ones and some in between, all at knee twisting awkward angles. It was a slow go. 

A side note about the trail conditions: Not all of the Overland Track is composed of boardwalk. All in all, the trail is in hardscrabble shape. As a fellow hiker described it. “I came on this walk thinking I’d be looking at the scenery and thinking about life. Bloody Hell! I had to concentrate on ever step!” 

When the clouds took a break, I saw Cradle Mountain. The Park’s namesake has the appearance of concave ridge line rather than an Alpine mountain. The upper reaches are composed of crumbly columns of dolerite rock. The prominence sits alone between valleys. This was a scene that repeated itself again and again along the Overland Track. Sometimes the ridge lines were lengthy, more often the mountains appeared as punctuation points in the sky. Like everything else about Australia (IE: egg laying mammals with duckbills like the platypus), it’s different. 

I was the first hiker at the Waterfall Valley hut. I hung up my wet gear, grabbed a snack 

and looked the cabin over. The information packet said the hut could accommodate 24 hikers. I saw a relatively small living area for heaps of humans. So much open space outside and so little open space inside. I grabbed my book, and took a seat at one of two tables.

My quiet time didn’t last long. BAM! The hut’s door flew open. A typhoon of surly aloof kids had made entry. They gave me a quick glance and decided to ignore me. A few minutes later the adults arrived. It was pretty obvious the parents were taking a holiday from child rearing on the Overland Track. The noise level and chaos increased. My personal space was being nuked. The coup de gras came when I noticed a barefoot youth carrying a unsheathed knife. 

To quote the Big Lebowski, “This aggression will not stand.” So I packed up my gear and left. Fortunately there was a tiny hut down valley. That night I had my own Bachelor Pad. 

The next morning, I decided to go deep to make my escape. I’d double down and skip a hut. I needed to put the feral mob behind me. A mellow five mile day was about to become a seven hour, fifteen mile ordeal. The weather wasn’t very nice either. Off I went supercharged on two hits of Starbucks instant. I stayed focused, and only took breaks to fuss. IE :Put on an extra layer, take off an extra layer. Once in awhile I ate. 

The Pelion Hut looks like a Ritz Carlton compared to Waterfall Valley. The weather was improving so I decided to set a tent in a soft meadow. I wasn’t the only one. Once established, I ventured inside to check out the opulence. I took a seat in a corner and read. This is what I heard. People speaking in hushed tones. Strangers making an effort to be  friendly , respectful, pleasant and courteous. That included the kids. I smiled to myself. I had found, “My People.” 

At dinner time the hiss of Jetboil Stoves filled the air. I looked around and quickly figured out what I had suspected. I was the sole Yank and senior citizen in the group. The rest were Aussie families and couples. It didn’t take long for Bruce, Rachelle and their brood, Loren and Ryan to chat me up. In the next few nights they sort of adopted me as an honorary Grandpa. A trip highlight for sure. 

The next few days turned fine, blue and warm. It was a Dream Time of solitary hiking through the narcotic scent of eucalyptus forests. There were many options for side hikes up and down mountains and waterfalls. I didn’t dare. I was averaging a grimace/100 steps.The photo below is me pointing at Mount Ossa, the tallest in Tasmania. That’s as close as I’d get.

I double downed once again to stay at a remote campsite on the shores of Lake St Clair. There I accepted advice from Otis Redding and “sat on the dock of the bay, wasting time.” 

On my walk back to civilization, I got an early start to take advantage of the shade. By 10 I was out.

A few hours later after scraping a week’s worth of mud, dust, sweat, blood and human nastiness off this weary body, I was sipping a pint back in Launceston. With a beer buzz and a salmon dinner in front of me, I thought about my trips to Australia. 

What makes me endure the seventeen hours of air travel abuse? 

It’s never been about the scenery, although I’ve been to heaps of pretty places here. It’s always been about the people. In the past week, two people went out of their way to give me a lift, one nice man lent me his phone to make two business calls, and a stranger took time to help me don an unruly poncho. There were heaps of other random acts of kindness.  People are just nicer here. The Aussies are optimistic, easy going with a “she’ll be right” attitude. In others words, they are everything I’m not. 

BTW. Bruce and Rachelle invited me to stop in for a home cooked meal in Brisbane. I’m sure this honorary Grandpa will have a few new yarns by then.

G’Day!

From the one pub town of Saint Mary’s. I’m sleeping there too.