Long May His Story Be Told

Our final days in Oz have been spent with our friends Blanca and Philip at their comfortable Rockdale home, not far from the airport where we will depart tomorrow morning. They have been so kind to us, and Blanca's cooking skills have been very much on display for the past two nights. Home made corn tortillas, chicken mole, and Philip's delicious breakfast biscuits have been our lot; the best you can imagine!

Today I went to the library of New South Wales to view some Australian published Wyatt Earp comic books from the 1950s. It was quite an experience, having my trail in pursuit of the Frontier Marshal take me all the way to the southern hemisphere, but it was worth it. The staff allowed me to photograph as many pages as I wanted, and they were efficient in retrieving the material once I got used to their system. I am most grateful to them, and to my own library, for this opportunity to do this research. Now back to the states to write it all up! Until we are back in Bozeman, this is goodbye.

Paddycake, Paddycake, Shopper's Man

Back in Sydney for our final days in Oz we are comfortably situated in another backyard cottage at an airbnb rental. This time we are in Narrabeen, and about 300 yards away from our friend's home up the hill (by foot, and it is a hell of a hill!) We arrived on Wednesday night after a combination airline flight, train jaunt, ferry ride, and finally a taxi trip to this place that left us less exhausted than you would think. We even had the energy to pick up some wine and dinner during this multi-stage Oddessy, which helped us settle in with ease. On Thursday morning we went with Ronald, our friend, into the city by means of a large double decker bus that makes limited stops. Not as fast as a train, to be sure, since even a bus must stop at traffic lights, but it was easy enough to get to Paddy's Market, a giantic flea market, cheap Chinese goods, t-shirt emporium, and produce stand. We picked up a couple of souvenirs and then had lunch in the adjacent Chinatown where I had the best fried rice I have enjoyed in many a year.

Adios, West Coast

In all honesty, I must say it was more fun getting to Perth than being here. Our last day in the city was spent going to museums that were either closed, under construction, or (more often) both. Our meals were mediocre at best, with the exception of our relaxed visit to one of those rotating restaurants on top of a skyscraper where we had kangaroo croquettes, gnocchi, and a delicious steak. Figuratively and literally, it was the high point of our time in Perth.

There is a rough edge to this city which may reflect its geographic position; after all, you can't go any further than here. I do not believe this city has more homeless than Sydney, but it certainly seemed like it at times. But there are many good things about the place too, including an efficient bus service that is absolutely free, and very pleasant downtown pedestrian malls (at least the portions that were not under construction.

I type these lines while waiting in the airport for our flight back to Sydney. It will be a tough four hours on both of us, but interesting to contemplate the fact that we will cover the distance in that short time span in contrast to the four days it took to get here!

A Full Quota of Quokkas

At the end of the earth, off the coast of Western Australia and on the edge of the vast Indian Ocean stands Rottnest Island, an interesting lump of limestone that has served the same function as a magnet for shipwrecks much like a trailer park for tornadoes. Discovered by a Dutchman in the seventeenth century, the island's name literally means "rat's nest," because the seafarer thought the creatures he saw on shore were giant rodents. They were actually a cute little species of marsupial called quokkas, but more about that later.

The Perth locals refer to the place as "Rotto," and it is a popular destination in the summertime for swimming, snorkling, and bicycling. This last activity is pursued in the wintertime as well since the island has a bewildering network of roads that lack any traffic save the occasional golf cart and obnoxious tourist buses. In that sense, Rotto

is much like Catalina Island in attracting those traffic weary souls who just want to pedal around and look at the sights. This is what drew our attention, and I signed us up for a ferry ride and bike rental on Monday that promised an idyllic time in an ocean isolated paradise. We enjoyed the sensation of being farther from the United States than we have ever been before, (9,796 miles) but several factors came into play when we tried to enjoy the bike ride.

First there was the wind. A gale was howling on the ocean that swept over the island in punishing gusts, and try as we might we discovered our course always included a headwind. Then there was the geography of the place. I believe Rottnest Island is unique on the planet as being a place where all the roads are uphill. Our bikes had three speeds, but we could never shift out of the lowest gear, and many times we had to push our machines up the most brutal inclines. We did a 10 kilometer route which, by the time we drew near our starting point, taxed our aging bodies to the limit. Jayne was a real trouper, managing to finish the ordeal in spite of her constant neck pain. It was not all a negative experience, though.

The ocean was arrayed in such a beautiful shades of blue that the effect was absolutely stunning. All around the island are a number of old shipwrecks that are a boon to snorkelers who wish to commune with the fish that live among the rusting hulks. Some of the wooded areas of the route were also lovely, especially the path that took us past the "lake district" of several large salt ponds. It was here that we encountered our first quokkas, and they were indeed much like rats with their large, nude tails and pointed faces. Tame enough, they posed for photographs like champs.

It was not until we returned to the settlement for our late lunch and some cold drinks that the true nature of our journey was revealed to us. The small museum on Rotto tells the sad story of the island's history as a prison for aboriginals in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. To think the quaint buildings that we viewed, and that vacationers

rent for the night or week, were actually constructed as cells by the prisoners themselves was a sobering realization. It almost makes one feel guilty to enjoy oneself on Rotto. Add to that an invasion of quokkas who scurry about the outdoor dining facilities, leaving deposits of excrement visible everywhere, and one almost wishes he or she had never come. I say "almost" because in spite of a return voyage that seemed an eternity, I think we enjoyed our visit to the ends of the earth.

A Tough Act to Follow

A transcontinental trip by rail with interesting companions, great food, stunning scenery, and all the beer and Bundy one cares to consume is rather difficult to top. The journey on the Indian Pacific was one of the high points of our travel experiences, and it was somewhat of a letdown once we unloaded in Perth. From now on, our adventures would be self directed and planned, and the truth is I am no better at picking out excursions than the Indian Pacific was in picking wineries to patronize.

A short cab ride from the station to our hotel brought us to the first beds in three nights that we could enjoy without constant movement, and the hotel room also featured a small range and microwave. Thinking to save a few dollars on dinner, we made our way to the Murray Street pedestrian mall where we eventually found a "Woollies" for groceries. Alas, a warmed up curry from the frozen food section is a poor substitute for a railway chef's offerings, but we soldiered on until bedtime. This quiet evening at home also allowed us the luxury of checking email, writing in this blog, and all other things internet for the first time since Sydney. (There is no wifi on the train, as it should be.)

Sunday morning we went to King's Park and Botanical Gardens. Larger than New York's Central Park (as the locals are continually pointing out) Kings is situated on a hillside overlooking the Swan River and Perth's CBD. We had a difficult time navigating since the place is poorly mapped and signed, and efforts to enter the interior of the reserve were continually met with failure. In this aspect the park reflects the geography of Australia itself with the developed areas around the fringes near water and the interior a more or less abandoned expanse of bush. At the Botanical Garden we went along for a nature walk led by a very nice old chap named Hamish who gave a great explanation of many of the plants and wildlife we encountered. Although it is mid winter, many of the flowers and trees bore blossoms, and the day was sunny and comfortably warm.

On the Other Side (part 2)

Our traveling companions were impossible to escape, even if we had been so inclined, due to the position of the lounge car and its proximity to the respective cabins of these interesting people. The entire ensemble would have made a convincing roster for a production of Murder on the Kangaroo Express. For the most part retirees, these people would welcome us every time we staggered our way down the narrow three-car passageway to the lounge. We grew to enjoy them very much.

The train sped on through the day after leaving Broken Hill, and while we had requested a rather simple off train experience at an Adelaide cheesemongers, for some reason this was denied by the rail authorities. We were forcibly assigned to the Barrossa Valley wine tasting tour, and lest my readers congratulate us on our good fortunes let me quickly disabuse them of that notion. The train stopped short of Adelaide where we were disembarked many, many cars distant from our own cabin and herded onto two coaches fitted out with seats that would have provided adequate room for a preschooler. Fortunately we were among the last off the train and assigned to the second coach which was not full, allowing us the luxury of occupying two seats each as the vehicle sped into the hinterland of South Australia while our train itself headed on to Adelaide. Our destination was a winery, Seppeltsfield, located deep into the distant Barrossa Valley

Have you, dear reader, ever had the misfortune of attending a wine tasting? I mean the kind where the vintner drones on, and on, and on, about the aroma of cherries, with a hint of oak, and the essence of marsupial drool? This is the ritual that awaited us after an hour's journey by coach when we landed at Seppeltsfield. The grounds were truly beautiful:

a palm-lined drive leading up to a complex of nineteenth century stone buildings, and the storage shed into which we were shuffled was charmingly decorated with hanging incandescent bulbs and standing propane heaters. However, there followed a lecture by the proprietor on each of the four glasses of wine on the table before us that would had tried the patience of the Buddha himself, and if that were not enough, he only yielded the floor to the chef who described the various canapes to which the wine had been paired with excruciating detail. Four glasses of wine took more than forty-five minutes to consume, as a result, and the time to tour the lovely grounds was cut short by the announcement our coach would shortly be departing to ANOTHER winery where our dinner would be served. Our endurance was tested to the limit, and the coach did not return to Adelaide (which we glimpsed by night through the coach windows) to rejoin the train at ten pm. The entire expedition took over seven hours, which would have been better spent by your humble correspondent by a casual reconnaissance of downtown Adelaide with a slice of pizza and a bottle of Coopers Sparkling Ale.

But on we went across the continent of Australia. The next morning dawned and we found ourselves in the midst of the desolate country leading to the Nullarbor Plains, a treeless expanse of several hundred miles where the tracks are laid in a perfectly straight line for nearly 300 miles.

I personally saw kangaroos, emus, and even a very lonely camel along this stretch, and it was enchanting in its desolation. It was much like being at sea, with a horizon flat all around you. How do I know this? Because we stopped in the middle of it at a railroad town called Cook (population 4). It was the only place for hundreds of miles that actually had some trees, and then only because they were intentionally planted to break up the horizon at this lonesome outpost.

It was weirdly beautiful, and we continued on into the night to another stop, Rawlina, where we disembarked into the night to "enjoy" the same guitar strumming crooner who gave a spirited rendition of the very worst of Roger Miller. However, we wandered away from the entertainment to seek a dark place away from the campfires where we marveled at the Milky Way and the Southern Cross, so clearly visible in the canopy above, along with Mars and Saturn. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.

We finally arrived at Perth on Saturday, having crossed the continent in comfort and style. I type these lines at the end of our second day here, which featured an expedition to a rather exotic locale, but that will wait until my next installment.

On the Other Side

DISCLOSURE: I purchased a copy of Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens to read on this trip, and the composition of this entry is a poor imitation of his writing style. Forgive my presumption.)

Travel by train requires an attitude and a set of expectations that are shared generally by pensioners and lunatics. Not wishing to classify myself in either category, I must nevertheless say this latest sojourn into the transportation choice of a different era has been a delightful experience that we had more or less anticipated all along. We started in Sydney last Wednesday afternoon when we made our way to Central Station to await the departure of our mobile steel hotel. The night before we had stayed in a hostelry adjacent to the station which was comfortable if soulless, and we awaited check-in time with real excitement. Unfortunately, our first impressions were less than stellar. The efficient crew checked our luggage and invited us back to the platform an hour prior to departure in order to enjoy "canapes, drinks, and entertainment." The entertainment consisted of a guitar strumming crooner who resembled someone's uncle seated at the end of of a Thanksgiving dinner table, and his choice of musical performances consisted of some of the very worst of American

pop music from the sixties and seventies, delivered with a panache that was not improved by his enthusiasm. The drinks consisted of sparkling lemonade or bottled water, and the canapes were cold assemblages of canned vegetables and lunchmeat served on a curved cracker that could be easily concealed by a fifty cent piece. A rather inauspicious start, to be sure.

By now my impatient reader will protest mightily that the above described incidents betray the mood set by the opening sentences of the paragraph. Let me hasten to assure you that all doubts about the wisdom of undertaking a rail journey across the continent of Australia vanished the moment we were directed to our cabin.

A comfortable wood paneled space complete with an ensuite restroom awaited our placement of the limited luggage we brought on board, and if there was no complimentary bottle of wine resting on the the window side table, Jayne speedily rectified that oversight by a brave solo journey the length of three coaches to the bar lounge where necessary refreshments were speedily secured. Our attendant, a delightful girl named Kimberly, visited us next and provided all the information we needed to enjoy our compartment and our traveling companions as she scheduled us for our first meal in the dining car.

The Indian Pacific got underway at three o'clock pm and we were rapidly approaching the Blue Mountains beyond the western Sydney suburbs when we took our positions in the lounge car to enjoy a few libations prior to dinner and socialize with the other strangers with whom we had cast our lot. They were an interesting mixture of people for the most part of our own age, representing a number of trades and professions that the majority had left behind when they reached that blessed status to which I aspire: retirement. Some had taken this journey many times before, some had made up their minds to try it for the first time, but all of them were from Australia, New Zealand, or the UK, making us their resident Americans. To our delight we found each and every one as friendly to us as they were disgusted with the idiot who currently designates himself as our President, a sentiment we heartily returned. It was quite interesting to hear from representatives of a society that has its own concerns about immigration, crime, and unsustainable population growth to nevertheless find our current Occupant of the Oval Office a vile and loathsome creature. That they were able to do so without the slightest transfer of hostility to ourselves was a refreshing relief.

The dining experience on the train was extraordinary. Sumptuous meals served on linen tablecloths and accompanied by any drink, alcoholic or otherwise, proved to be the rule rather than the exception. Each table in the dining car seats four travelers, so one never knows who will be sharing your repast, but it is far more comfortable than it sounds. In fact, if given a choice, I doubt anyone would have opted for private seating even if such a luxury were available. We enjoyed every session in that car and I can honestly say I did not have a bad meal, or bad company.

The Indian Pacific makes its way to western New South Wales for its first stop at Broken Hill, an isolated mining community that, much like Butte, is attempting to transform its economy by promoting the arts once the ore depletes.

We got a brief tour of the metropolis by coach, and enjoyed a miner's union reenactment at a hall reminiscent of those I have visited that are associated with Freemasonry. After that stop we continued on to Adelaide, South Australia, where I will resume this tiresome narrative in my next installment. (After all, Dickens published his greatest works serially too.)

Trains, Planes, and Automobiles

We left Byron yesterday by means of an efficient bus that took us back to the Gold Coast airport. It was time to leave; we spent our final hours just lounging in the public library since we had visited all the restaurants and shops we cared to. Once at the airport, we caught a quick one hour flight back down to Sydney. Although the plane was small and cramped, the service was dizzyingly quick and efficient. We were even served chicken and potatoes for a snack (compare that to the 9 or less stale pretzels you get on an American airline). We landed in Sydney and got on the commuter train that took us practically to the doorstep of this fancy hotel. It is now the following morning, and we are waiting to take our baggage to the train which will convey us across the continent to Perth. I am not sure when I will be able to add a new entry; I assume there will be wi-fi on the Indian-Pacific Railroad, but I will post this now to make sure there is something before we disappear into the interior of Australia. All aboard!

Sweet Pea Down Under

While we have been cooling our heels in the coolest place on earth, the annual Bozeman Sweet Pea festival has been going full bore back home. I cannot say I miss it; for the last several years we have not attended and gotten no closer to the loud revelry than to listen to blaring band music booming up the street from the direction of Bogert Park. However, we did take a nod to the event yesterday in Byron by attending the "market day" gathering on the Butler Street Reserve.

This Sunday event featured dozens of food vendors and hundreds of artists and shopkeepers trying to sell everything from woven plant pot slings to handpainted ceramic doo-dads. In other words, it was Sweet Pea on steroids, and I tired of the display after reviewing just a few booths, just the same as I would have at Bozeman. However, Jayne found a nice dress, and I managed to buy a frozen banana treat, so all was not lost. Later in the day, after we had returned to our cabin for a rest, we returned to the scene of the crime to watch a drumming circle which was enthusiastically attended by local free spirits. I must admit the pulsating rhythm of the drums stirs the savage within all of us.

On Monday we took a tour to a local New Age site called the Crystal Castle. Nestled in the hills above Byron Bay, the Castle is a complex of walking gardens, labyrinths, and of course crystals that were for the most part imported from South America and placed at this lovely spot to channel energy and encourage the spirituality of visitors. I was skeptical of this place, just as I would have been visiting a church, but it completely won me over. Jayne was impressed as well, and we spent three peaceful hours contemplating the universe in absolutely gorgeous surroundings.

It is fitting that we did so. Word came early today that our little companion Willie back home in Bozeman is seriously ill. We have had Willie for 17 years, and he has been a good little dog and a great comfort to us. We would have liked to been there to say good bye to him (if it comes to that) but our friend Max who is dog sitting him also enjoys a bond with Willie and will do the right thing. All things must pass.

Back to the Future

An Australian custom that I did not appreciate on my first visit in 2008 I have come to appreciate in 2018. It only took me five trans-Pacific trips and countless experiences among these delightful people to see their point when, at every public meeting or ceremony, they honor the first Aboriginal people of this land. Usually it is a simple welcome to country in the name of the clan or (in the American parlance, "tribe") who had made this particular locality their home for 50,000 years. I say it took me this long to appreciate the custom because it is so different from our own country, where the original inhabitants were displaced and forgotten, except for those crowded into reservations which we also find so easy to ignore. Here, these native peoples may have, for the most part, vanished as a recognizable subgroup in may cities and communities, but they are not forgotten. Their place names are used, and their original occupancy acknowledged at every public gathering. If I had any criticism of this custom at all it is only to the variation I have occasionally heard. Sometimes when a speaker begins the tradition he or she will refer to a particular group as the original "owners" of the land. In my opinion, there is no need to saddle this ancient culture with such an alien concept as land "ownership" to appreciate the fact they were here first. It is more appropriate to refer to them as the traditional "custodians" of the land, for that more precisely describes their role and reinforces the concept that THEY GOT HERE FIRST!

I thought of this introductory custom while thinking about the author's reading we attended on Friday night. It was delightful, and aside from Thomas Keneally we heard from Brigid Delaney,

Kon Karapanagiotidis, and Sarah Krasnostein. Delaney was particularly enjoyable and her talk had us laughing loudly. Her book is a sort of modern take on the "Road to Wellness," and she described her experiences while she endured a fifteen day fasting clense in hilarious detail.

But you are wondering about the title of this entry, and I will explain. Yesterday we boarded the Nimbin "Grasshopper" tour bus that journeys to the little interior countercultural town famous for its annual "Mardi Grass" festival. Nimbin used to be a lot more freewheeling and lively, but increased police activity and the burning of their beloved museum a few years back has reduced the place to a shadow of its former glory. No matter. We were simply along for the ride, and our driver was none other than Ivan, the same chap who took me to Nimbin in 2012. (He explained he never really wanted a "real" job.) We journeyed down delightful twisting country roads, stopped for

a great little sausage sizzle a the lake, and then made one more stop at Minyon Falls before returning home. Minyon Falls is a magnificent drop down a rocky escarpment, but has been reduced to a trickle due to the drought. While staring down into the deep forest below, I could not help to think of the original custodians of this land, and feel grateful that we are welcomed here after we have honored them.

A Whale of a Good Time

Byron Bay is perhaps the coolest place I have ever been, and bear in mind I have been to Black Rock City. OK, Black Rock City IS cooler, but it only exists for a few days a year while Byron is a permanent encampment of liberal minded folks who have decided to work very hard to keep their funk going. Nothing illustrates that better than the speaker we saw this morning at one of the first events of the writer's festival. David Ritter, CEO of Greenpeace Australia, gave a stirring talk at the Beach Hotel this morning to inspire people and, of course, to promote his new book, The Coal Truth.

Ritter described his own personal epiphany of the growing threat of global warming, and he encouraged people to not lose hope even though some environmental damage is irreversible. What made this totally cool was the audience of Byron Bayers, an obviously liberal crowd of both young and old. Of course a community like this attracts a rougher element of dreadlocked homeless, but you can see among the other residents a real kinship to the spirit of the sixties (as I remember it, anyway).

After the talk we got a few supplies (wine and Cooper's Ale) and returned to our cottage, and then called for a taxi to go up to the Cape Byron lighthouse. I have hiked up to the place before, but Jayne had never seen the stunning vistas from the summit so we decided to ride up, and then walk down. While at the lighthouse we looked out at the Pacific and were treated first to the sight of dolphin pods swimming happily below and then, breathtakingly, we saw the whales. Dozens of these magnificent creatures were swimming out in distances from one to two miles. Fortunately, we had purchased a pair of binoculars yesterday and could see them slapping their tails and blowing their spouts quite clearly. It was an incredible experience, I can assure you. We then walked down from the lighthouse to visit the easternmost point of the Australian continent and follow the trail down to the beach that would lead us home. What a beautiful experience.

We bought tickets to see Thomas Keneally tomorrow night at the Byron Theatre, and while he and some other writers present their talks rock musician Tim Rogers will provide music.

Rogers was one of the chaps who headlined the Beatles White Album concert we saw in Sydney last week, so you see we have come full circle. A literary festival, a whale encounter, and an Aussie rock musician; how can you top that?

From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

We have left our comfortable Gold Coast apartment to travel south to one of the greatest addresses on the planet: Byron Bay. It would be difficult to convey just how wonderful this place is, but perhaps if I just say that you can enjoy this community just as much by being a landlubber as being a surfer. This is what some people would call a "hippie" town, with a countercultural vibe in the air you can almost taste. There is also something more going on here.

One of the saddest sights I gazed on in Broadbeach was an abandoned bookstore in a shopping mall full of Vodaphone vendors and McDonalds franchises. It was a metaphor for the depressing conference I attended there; a gathering of professionals hell bent on destroying the very objects they were trained to care for. This place is quite the contrast. Just walking around Byron Bay today I saw three bookstores that were doing a decent trade, and this weekend is their annual writer's festival. In this "hippie" community reading and books are honored as they should be, and among the speakers scheduled over the three day writer's festival none other than Thomas Keneally, the author of Schindler's List and many other works.

I had the opportunity of seeing him at the Mosman Library a few years back and I look forward to seeing him again. What a delight to have the opportunity to meet authors, publishers, and readers all celebrating print! Isn't that what a "library conference" is supposed to be?

Our headquarters here is a caravan park that offers cabins and campsites. We have availed ourselves of the former, a one room bungalow with a kitchenette, bathroom, television, and even a cute little front porch with chairs. We explored the town this afternoon before returning to the cabin with groceries, and we cooked our dinner ourselves. This is the life!

Scan, Toss, Repeat

Once again I am attending a library conference that has little or nothing to do with books. This has been the case with annoying regularity in recent years; speakers that wax eloquent about "user experience" and "resource sharing" all while holding on to their precious smart phones. In fact, that is exactly what their audience is doing. I have attended two sessions this morning and inside the darkened lecture hall one can see the majority of the audience faces illuminated by the glow of their little toys while the speaker attempts to gain their limited attention.

This is particularly sad in the case of Lucy Bloom's presentation. Bloom is a former advertising agency owner who started a worldwide women's health charity, and her talk was filled with amusing anecdotes and insightful commentary. Pity most of the people around me felt the need to "tweet" her former sentences to somebody somewhere else instead of listening to what she had to say at that particular moment. No wonder our students can no longer read or compose coherent English essays; the example set by these "information professionals" is appalling. How can young people cherish the experience of deep reading when "librarians" embrace the idea that digital information makes print expendable?

The conference is here in Broadbeach, a collection of high rise hotels and apartment buildings on the Queensland coast south of Brisbane. Our apartment is absolutely luxurious because the company I had contracted with gave us a complimentary upgrade. The result is we are on the fifth floor of an apartment building enjoying a place which is larger than our house in Bozeman! A full kitchen, a laundry room, and a great dining area gives us more elbow room than we have experienced in a week.

Our next stop after the conference is Byron Bay, where I am sure the cabin I have rented would probably fit in the living room of this place. All the same, the town is charming and I look forward to it. In the meantime it is back to the library conference that has no books.

All Things Must Pass

What could be better than a Saturday night concert at the Sydney Opera House? How about a Saturday night concert at the Sydney Opera House performed by some of the top rock musicians of Australia as they ran their way through the Beatles White Album? Once again we found ourselves in a crowd of geriatric rock fans listening to electric music from decades ago, and we loved every minute of it. Our friends Ronald and Jane joined us for a night out, and we made our way to the Opera House early enough to enjoy a drink before the big show. The band was fantastic,

and their rendition of such tunes as "Oh-Blah-Dee" and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" was flawless. The audience would not let them go when they finished, so they came back for an encore which included George Harrison's song which I used as the title for today's posting. I never realized how moving that song could be, and I was so grateful to share it with my wife and our friends. (In case you are wondering, I did not take the photograph; our seats were considerably farther back, I can assure you.)

Tomorrow we leave Sydney for the Gold Coast and the library conference in Broadbeach. It will a part of the country Jayne has never seen before, and one that I have only passed through.

Another Visit to the Lucky Land

Why are the Australians so lucky? Is it the beautiful beaches? The sensible gun laws? The growing environmental awareness that is encouraging the banning of plastic bags, straws and other crap so prevalent in the United States?

No, they are probably lucky because they do not have an orange skinned idiot as their president. We in the states can only dream of a society that has universal mandatory voting and other reforms that might prevent a fascist takeover in the future. But this is a travel blog and not a political argument, so on to business.

We arrived in Sydney on Wednesday morning and immediately used a combination of public transport options to get to our rental house. Our friends, Ronald and Jane met up with us on the first night and we had dinner at the Colloroy Beach Club; a delicious crab and prawn pasta dish for me and tumeric coconut prawns for Jayne.

A wedding party was right behind our table and we gave brief thought to stealing some of their wedding cake, but Jayne resisted temptation and ordered from the menu.

On Thursday we went for a five mile hike around Narrabeen Lake. It is a beautiful walking path that crosses two lagoons by means of brand new pedestrian bridges. It was a great experience, even though it probably contributed to the blisters I have today. We were joined by two librarians from Mosman, one of whom (another Jane) thanked me for my regular contributions to their website, Mosman Readers! Friday we went to the Vaucluse House, a historic property on the South Head of Port Jackson. Home of the man who first blazed the trail over the Blue Mountains, the place is decorated with period furniture and the grounds are beautiful.

The kitchen garden was particularly beautiful with lots of veggies growing happily in the Australian mid-winter. It does not get cold here, really. After the house tour we went to the Gap to look out on the harbor and the Pacific, and then took lunch at the fishmongers at Watson's Bay.

The State Library of New South Wales has a small collection of Sydney-published Wyatt Earp comic books that I must examine, but that will have to wait until after we go to the library conference in Queensland next Monday. As for today (Saturday) we are off to the Opera House to hear a concert of Beatles music from the White Album. I think hearing "Rocky Racoon" sung by an Aussie ought to be interesting!

WWWD? (What Would Wyatt Do?)

I have been on the trail of a gunfighter. Wyatt Earp, arguably the most famous frontier character who ever appeared on both large and small screens, has been the focus of my research, and during the past few months I have uncovered some interesting items in my travels. I wish I could show them to you, but that will be explained in a moment.

In November of 2017, I went to Los Angeles, California where I visited with Ms. Kate Edelman, the daughter of Louis Edelman who produced the television series “The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp. Kate was very gracious and invited me to her home after she learned I had been exchanging emails with Hugh O’Brian, the star of the show, shortly before his death in 2016. We had a very pleasant hour together in her comfortable home where I scribbled furiously as she answered my questions.

My next stop was the Huntington Library in Pasadena, California, where I reviewed the papers of Stuart N. Lake, the author of Wyatt’s 1931 biography and a consultant for the television show. Here is where I first realized that the stereotypes of archivists portrayed as fussy obstacles to researchers are sometimes true. The staff insisted that I could not take pictures of any documents lest I silenced the very quiet shutter noise the electronic camera makes when making an exposure. When I could not do it, the attendant took the camera and fiddled with it mightily, changing all kinds of settings and still failing to silence the click. I finally took it back, went into the lobby, and carefully reviewed the options until I found a way to quiet it. (Why this should even matter in their cavernous reading room is anyone’s guess.) I was also cautioned with what seemed to be severe legal repercussions should I dare to display any document images on the internet, which is why you only see my picture of the impressive grounds of the institution.

Once I gained admission to Huntington sanctum, I was informed that material would only be paged on the hour, that I had missed the first hour, and that only a few boxes would be paged at a time and only one serviced at a time. In essence, these restrictions guaranteed that one could only review a fraction of a collection on any given day. I was also “busted” for chewing gum, which made me feel as if I was still in the third grade. (I would not have been surprised if the clerk had held out her hand and demanded I spit out the offending item just as Mrs. Kubista did back at the Steven T. Mason Elementary School in 1963). An overall unpleasant research experience, but I have only myself to blame. You would think by this time I would be adept at conforming to whatever rules a particular institution insists on, and I failed to do my homework at the Huntington.

My next research trip was to New York City in December where the Billy Rose Theater Archives had for inspection an original screenplay of the television show written by Frederick Hazlitt Brennan. Since I knew the title ahead of time, I was able to watch that particular episode and compare it to the document. The archivists at this lonesome place were more personable, but a byzantine system of requesting an item at one desk, being referred to a second desk to submit it in written form, and then waiting in the reading area until my name should appear on a display monitor seemed overly complicated. My name never did appear on the monitor, but after waiting fifteen minutes and inquiring at the reading room desk I was handed the folder.

My last journey took me to the Arizona Historical Society where I was allowed to review the accession file of the Frank Waters “Tombstone Travesty” manuscript. Here the system was much more informal, and the reference archivist swiftly and efficiently produced the material with a minimum of fuss. Perhaps this is because I have been good friends with the former archivist there and had emailed in advance my precise request to which they answered in the affirmative. An added treat was visiting the museum afterwards and seeing an actual handgun owned by Wyatt Earp on display.