I caught up to the fellers who lingered at the base of these three adjoining cliffs near a small rock-hole. We marvelled at the chasm, and the steady stream of tourists like ants trailing along the edge of the cliffs above.Read more "Trekking With the T-Team: Kings Canyon"
I knew this wind meant business, dangerous business. I rushed to Dad and told him the whole story—the wind, the sparks, the wild fire, and my little blue bowl.
‘What campfire?’ Dad smacked his lips, yawned and turned over.
‘Hey, Rick, look!’ I pointed. ‘The Gosse Range, it’s just like the painting Grandma’s got in her lounge room.’
From the front of the Rover Mr B asked, ‘Did you say, David that you met the famous Albert Namatjira when you lived up in Hermannsburg?’
‘Oh, of course. My father-in-law was a great supporter of Albert’s art.’
‘How did the Gosse Range come about?’ I asked my audience from the back of the Rover.
Dad’s dream to climb this mountain was to be fulfilled. Ever since he had lived and taught in Hermannsburg in the 1950’s, he had wanted to venture way out west, to conquer this mountRead more "The T-Team with Mr. B (32)"
“Matt, ma boy, do be careful. Don’t go too far from camp. A bull might get you.” Mr. B squinted in the direction of distant thumping, then rolled over and resumed snoring.
A monstrous brown hulk loomed through a cloud of dust.
At Haasts Bluff station we filled up with petrol, water, and supplies to last us in this virgin land. We were going where not many people, except the Indigenous, had gone before. Upon entering the land belonging to these people; there would be no shops, no houses, and no roads. To salute our departure from civilisation, we bought something to eat and drink. I ate a meat pie.Read more "The T-Team with Mr. B (28)"
I strode up to Dad. ‘We need to swim, now!’
‘All good things come to those who wait,’ Dad replied. ‘I reckon it’s just around the next corner.’