The T-Team with Mr. B — Glen Helen

We walked past a pair of gum trees bent in homage to the sacred place. A bell hung between them. I imagined Mum as a young girl racing across the red-hot sand of the compound, bare foot. “You were a wussy if you wore shoes,” she once told me.

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The T-Team with Mr. B (37)

Mr. B was not in a good mood as we headed for Kingoonya. He moaned, ‘Hurry! No more stops.’ Then he groaned, ‘Oooh, I’m feeling a bit seedy, you know.’
Dad frowned and glanced in his side mirror. ‘O-oh.’

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The T-Team With Mr. B (30)

In the front, Mr. B spread a detailed map over his knees and dashboard.
‘I say, ol’ chap,’ Mr. B cleared his throat, ‘where, exactly are you taking us?’
‘Mount Liebig bore,’ Dad replied.
‘Are you sure we can get there without our trusty guides?’
‘Eventually, we have the map.’
‘But, where’s the road?’

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SALA Special

Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds. Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’

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