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.)