Moving Along...

My stint as a cotton farmer is up. From October 7 to January 8, I planted cotton, irrigated with siphons, threw siphons, offset disced (weeks of this), hoed weeds, drove a fuel truck, and watched the cotton plants I planted grow. After making a small dent in Australian agriculture, providing a bit of fabric for the world's blue jeans and polo shirts, I'm moving along, heading east, then south. Let the adventure continue:)

The first adventure on the docket (already accomplished) was the Green Gully. Jordan and I, after weeks of anticipation, having bought the passes sometime in early December, wound our way into Oxley Wild Rivers National Park, towards this gully, marginally aware of what it held for us. He had been idly looking through hiking and backpacking opportunities in our area when he came across it; the gully sold itself well: huts to stay in each night, beautiful hikes through dry rain forest and a deep, solitary canyon. On the 11th, a Sunday, we drove our Commodore into the park and stayed that night in Cedar Creek cabin, a spacious accommodation with several bunk beds, a shower (believe me, quite a luxury), and a deck overlooking the green, wild expanse of the park.

The first day was the easy hike, a ridge walk mostly that plunged us 17.5 kilometers (10.8 miles) into Oxley Wild Rivers. That first hike, starting at 7:00 a.m., ending at 1:00, took us only six hours, and we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. Although our packs were at their heaviest (we carried all of our food and over a gallon of water in), we rocketed through that part of the expedition in no time. The first hut, known as the Bird's Nest was basic: tin walls and roof, wooden beams, some sketchy cooking supplies inside with a little gas-burner stove, army cots for sleeping. But we loved it. We felt adventurous and had a grand time napping outside on our cots, until we were run inside by a torrential downpour, and playing in the creek.

The second day took us "off track", and we wended our way along a ridge, picking out the faint trail left by previous hikers. All was well and we were feeling strong until we started the stark down-hill plunge, which dropped over 1,000 feet into the Green Gully bottom. Much to my chagrin, my right knee started acting up about 1/3 of the way down this ridiculously steep hill, and it only grew worse as we descended. By the bottom, I was hobbling along like an old crone, and the 4 km.-to-the-next-hut sign at the bottom of that evil hill nearly burst into flames with the power of my anger towards it. But I did manage to gimp my way to Green Gully Hut, awash with relief that I had to go no further for that day.

The next day I floundered through a creek for about six hours, and though my knee kept popping and making ungodly, awful grindy noises, I had a great time. We played trail games, fell over slippery rocks, went swimming in the most beautiful, clear pool surrounded by towering shelves of rock on each side, and managed to see a brush-tailed rock wallaby, an endangered species that inhabits the park. I was physically miserable but in comparatively good spirits by the time we reached Colwell's Hut after 8 hours of frustration with my knee and the creek, which I threatened with a boiling death each time I fell in it.

That night, we slept outside under an awning of sorts, and the next day we climbed out of the gully, reliving the second day but in the opposite direction. I thought I was moving slowly, my knee still hurt pretty badly and my left leg was sick and tired of taking all the weight, but we managed the uphill, 17.8-kilometer hike in about 5 hours. Overall, we hiked 65 kilometers, or 40 miles, and had a grueling good time.

Do you speak the language?

Ebor Falls, New South Wales

Rosellas

One seriously sleepy koala.

I’ve been thinking (as I bump along on a GPS-guided tractor) about various blog posts that might be of interest and amusing for those reading this blog. And I came up with the obvious. It has been floating in the air around me since I arrived in this country, but I haven’t had the sense to comment on it.

English is the official language of Australia. But the language Australians speak is certainly Australian English. Let me demonstrate. This is a likely conversation:

Me: “What time is it?”

Wayne: “About smoko.”

Me: “Where should we have it?”

Wayne: “I reckon on the back of the ute.”

Me: “Let me see what you have in that esky of yours.”

Wayne: “Quit your sticky beaking.”

Translation:

Me: “What time is it?”

Wayne: “About 10:00 AM tea time.”

Me: “Where should we have it?”

Wayne: “I reckon on the back of the pickup.”

Me: “Let me see what you have in that cooler of yours.”

Wayne: “Quit looking in my stuff.”

This is a small example of Australian English. I’ve been confused, I’ve been peered at like I might be a bit slow, and I’ve been laughed at, but I think I’ve finally earned the right to write about this version of the language I claim to know so well (English teacher pride).

So for your edification and entertainment, here is a list of the words and phrases I’ve learned. Some of them are just common phrases used that I find to be hilarious coming out of grown men’s mouths. And some of them are products of the Australian impulse to shorten every word that can conceivably be shortened.

Tea: 10:00 tea, lunch, dinner (basically anything that isn’t breakfast)

Smoko: morning tea

Ute: utility vehicle, pickup

Esky: cooler

Fair dinkum: I’m serious! For real!

Rego: registration

Macko's: McDonald's

Sticky beaking: snooping

It’s no drama: It’s not a big deal.

Bikky: biscuit

Biscuit: cookie

Chip: French fry

Lollies: candy of any kind.

Paddock: pasture

Lah: short for "galah", a very simple-minded (but beautiful) bird; this word is generally directed towards a person acting stupidly.

Bogan: redneck

My word: exaggerator that emphasizes the goodness, largeness, impressiveness, etc. of something. Ex: “That was the best bikky I’ve had in a fortnight. My word!” (they also use fortnight—apparently one week isn’t an adequate enough measurement of time).

Renovation: reno (as in “home reno”)

This next part deviates a bit from conversational Australian English into the names of places in Australia. You’ll find when travelling in this country that there is a distinct line between the British influence and the Aboriginal influence. Australians are like anyone else; they’re of their country, just a much a part of it as it is a part of them. So I’d imagine they grow tired of people choosing to only comment on the “British influence” or “Aboriginal influence” when all of this melds together to create a uniquely “Australian influence”. They love their country and their land, and for this reason, they name their farms and ranches with what I can comfortably called pride and affection. These are the names included in the place where I’m working:

Kilmarnock—this is the home place and this is where I live.

Brigadoon, Nandewar, Calandar, Milchengowrie, Palara, Merrybungle (I know, right?!), Woodgrain

These are the names (and Australian modifications) of the surrounding towns:

Boggabri (Boggy), Gunnedah (Gunny), Narribri (…Narribri), Coonabarabran (Coona), Tamworth, Brisbane (Brissy, as we already know), Baan Baa, Wee Waa

There are hundreds of small towns in New South Wales and thousands of towns across this expansive country (my word!) that sound like they’ve come out of some ancient fairy tale. And there are towns like Townsville and Tamworth that reflect the culture of the colonizers.  Now I’m going to continue my string of days off due to rain and rain and rain. I think the Namoi River is going to flood. Here is a video:

A Salute

We never seem to think about the impact people have on our lives until we’re impacted by their death. Two days ago, a woman who is present in most of my elementary, junior high, and high school memories passed away unexpectedly, and I was stunned and suddenly aware of how much of a constant she had been for most of my life. So this one is for Mrs. Rogers.

I’m not going to pretend that I was Mrs. Rogers’ best student because I wasn’t. And I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t give her grief because I did. I spent many awkward moments at the other end of her sharp glance, and many more moments struggling between alto and soprano in choir class (I still haven’t figured it out). But I can say with confidence that Mrs. Rogers sparked something in me; I don’t feel like I was gifted with musical talent as others have been, but she managed to make me a trombone player, of all things, and a reasonably good one at that.

She also managed to stick with me, and after the ill-fitting, post-graduation tension students feel around their teachers (most often their strictest and best teachers), I began to look forward to happening upon her in the Winifred Grocery or alongside the road for a chat. She was happy to see me, happy to hear about my life, and never reproached me for the time she sent me to the office for talking back too much, or all the times she had to stop the entire band practice to tell Casey and I to shut up (if any of my students are reading this, please don’t judge me too harshly).

I don’t know what the Winifred High School halls will sound like without the constant metronome tap of her rings on the piano top or “Holy Toledo!” echoing in the students’ ears. She has been a building block of our school and our community, and she deserves the highest respect for the years of passion and time she put into WHS.   

The Wanderer

Most people know that wandering through the desert often leads to insanity. The wanderer's mind cracks, leaving a gap between illusion and reality: "Is that water?! No, it's a rock."  "That's most certainly water! Nope, a lizard that looks like a rock." 

Planting cotton, I've found, is similar. It's like wandering through a GPS-mapped desert. I've been on this feild for two full days, 26 hours, and I'm still not done. I think I'm about to crack, so you can read this as a farewell-to-Sarah's-sanity post. 

Unlike the poor desert wanderer, I'm not looking for water. I have my water jug (he's a friendly sort, very chatty).

Instead, I'm looking for the end of the field. And trees. And signs in the trees (bye-bye, sanity). 

This specimen, for example, is undoubtedly a sign meaning that the end is near.

That's all.

I'm a Farmer!

I have a job! Many jobs, actually, most of which include driving green tractors—oh yes, John Deere gets a nod from Australia—and struggling with irrigation and its ups, downs, flows, and stops. The Watsons hired me while I was still in Montana, kind of a wing and a prayer I suppose, thanks mainly to Laura Boyce. I can’t thank her enough. I am now living in one of their cottages and enjoying their kindness and hospitality and surplus of farm work, some familiar, some entirely new to me. Along with lateral irrigation, the Watson farm uses mostly siphon irrigation, which falls into the category of work that is unfamiliar to me. Well, it’s at least marginally familiar now, but I did struggle and elicit quite a lot of laughter from my trainer, Cliff, in the early period of my irrigation expertise.

I now can start many siphons in a much shorter time period. The basic formula is water in an irrigation ditch, a black plastic tube about 6 feet long, and an arching motion that includes creating suction with one hand and plunging the tube into the ditch and back out with the other hand until it is full and ready to be thrown down. The full pipe is thrown into a rotor buck, an earthen, wide ditch that is dug by an implement on the back of a (green) tractor, on the other side of the irrigation ditch. So the pipe is draped across the field side of the irrigation ditch and siphons water until it is lifted, kicked, flipped into inertia. It’s definitely an acquired kind of enjoyment.

The idea is to direct the water between two cotton rows; the water runs down every other ditch between the cotton rows and is “subbed up” in the remaining rows from exposure to water for 12 to however-many hours it needs to run through the rows. Cotton came up first on the field I irrigated with much assistance from Cliff and my boss, Andrew Watson. Here’s photographic evidence for your records!

Other than actual irrigation, I’ve spent hours with Wayne, another of my coworkers, throwing siphons into the ditches, aiming for the rotor bucks on the other side of the irrigation ditch. Roads skirt every field, every irrigation ditch, and we drive along them pulling the pipe trailer, throwing siphons from the back. The result: I have the shoulders of a football player.

Every morning and evening that I went to my field, W9, I was berated by cockatoos and galahs. If ever I’ve been happy with a thorough butt-chewing, this is the time. To think that I can wake up in the morning, say hello to the inevitable yard kangaroos that hop away with a reproachful wave of their tails, listen to the countless songs, chirpings, and crowings of the hordes and hordes of birds, and weave my way through stands of gum and eucalyptus trees, leaves me with a pleasant feeling and a solid justification for my choice of country to live in for a year. 

I'm sorry there are no pictures. The internet is deplorable, and it takes over an hour to upload two or three pictures. When I find better internet, I'll add pictures; I promise!

Brissy, baby!

 I should have written this blog days ago. For that reason, there is too much to tell in one blog, so I’ll limit this one to telling you about my time in Brisbane (Brissy, as the locals endearingly call it) and a bit about what I’m doing now. On either side of this are pictures I took on my first and second days in the city.

Emma and I arrived in Brissy ( pronounced like fizzy, not prissy) on the 29^th of September and proceeded to the apartment of a person I had met in Airlie Beach. The apartment was right on the South Bank of Brisbane, arguably the prettiest part of the city, and the view at night was phenomenal. The first night we met the other Americans (yeah!) staying there, a traveling musical group from Nashville, Tennessee, of all places. The singer’s name is Anysia Lane—check her out; her music is worth a listen (http://www.anysialane.com/#!media/c17bp). On a side note, it was unusual for me to meet with many Americans while I was backpacking. Once again, Germans everywhere.

That night I slept in a swag on the floor. A swag is the camping Australian’s pride and joy and is basically a tricked out sleeping bag that can be gusseted into one-person tent. I’m sure these exist in America as well, but I’m not so sure they call them “swags”.

The Brisbane River runs through the middle of the city, and locals often catch river ferries to and from work. I loved this idea, so we spent most of the next morning riding the ferry, finding cheap sushi spots for snacks, and walking around the rest of downtown Brisbane. Across the river and up from South Bank lies the downtown proper, or where the big businesses in their too-big buildings loom, blocking (or creating, depending on your view of the world) the skyline.

                 Brisbane Wheel

Satisfied with our exploration of the city, Emma and I decided to visit the Steve Irwin Zoo on the 31^st. Dad and I used to watch Steve Irwin's show "The Crocodile Hunter" and laugh and call a calf or a garter snake a “ripper” and call each other “mate”. Mr. Irwin, if you aren’t familiar, is mainly known for his exorbitant amounts of energy, walk-in-the-park attitude towards handling the world’s deadliest animals, and in Australia I’ve noticed, his respect and care for native wildlife. If you don’t remember, here is a video refresher of the glory that is Steve Irwin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mlDXZywedvc

I saw the tigers he introduces in the video, but they are now full grown. These pictures are of Kaitlyn, a 7-year-old female Sumatran Tiger. Below is one seriously sleepy koala. Sloth is a forgivable vice in koalas; they are adorable no matter how little they move.

The next morning, I took Emma to the airport at 3:00 AM. I’ll tell you now, navigating a city the size of Brisbane on the left-hand side of the road is much easier when there is no traffic. She was off to Sydney for a few days and then catching another flight to Perth to meet with her boyfriend, so I was left to wander Brisbane solo. 

Being centered in the South Bank, I had easy access to the Brisbane Cultural Center, which includes the state library, the Queensland Art Gallery and Museum of Modern Art, the Queensland Museum, and the Queensland Performing Arts Centre. I visited all but the state library (regrettably, but I’ll return to Brisbane in November). The art gallery and Museum of Modern Art were beyond comparison; they held everything from Aboriginal art to Impressionism. If you haven’t picked up on it through my blog, I’ll just say that Brisbane is a pleasant and enjoyable city. I would recommend visiting it if you just happen to be passing through Aus.  

This was my last full day in Brisbane; the next day I left for Tamworth on the Greyhound, bound for cotton farming and irrigation. This is where I’ll end. Blogs should be fairly short to keep the attention of the Information Age cohort, right? I’ll continue with the next blog in a couple days. G’day mates.

Kangaroos!

This is a mama and her two joeys in the middle of a small town called Boonooroo on the Queensland coast. We had driven there to get a look at Fraser Island from across the channel, and we had the good luck of seeing some town kangaroos.

I was happy to see them alive; up to this point, I had the impression that kangaroos were strictly road kill in Australia.