March 19th
I spent the morning putting together a back-up presentation in case the one I had sent for from Seattle was a non-arrival. The highlight of my day was a row out of the G.G.B.C. It felt great to get oars in my hand once again and even better to ply them through the water. I always reckon the first row back is a honeymoon – the boat and the body seem to move surprisingly well. It’s got to be the lack of expectation. Despite being landlocked, Sale has a port. No doubt developed when the roads were not as good, and the most efficient transport of goods from the interior was a barge. It was at first refreshing, then laborious to pull the rowing muscles. The water was clean, but silted brown. Gum trees reached over the river, and it threatened rain, going as far to dust a few refreshing drops on me. Then the sun came out, and my bike-callused hands were hard in all the wrong spots. I was developing blisters despite what I thought was a light grip on the oar. Catch. Drive. Release. Nothing is more physically satisfying and flummoxing as plying yourself through the water.
I stepped it up for the last 500 meters. I figured correctly that Dan would be watching from shore, and I, of course, wanted to give a satisfactory accounting of myself. I did not want to him to think the only boat I could row was an ocean boat.
I was pleased with my performance until I looked around and saw a long branch grab my head and, in slow motion, pull my $200 pair of glasses from my head and drop them into the silty drink. I laughed, but not really with a lot of humor.
I looked at Dan. "That is a loyal piece of equipment. I can’t leave it behind enemy lines." He shrugged and made a dubious comment on just how clean he thought the water was. I would not be dissuaded and docked the boat and climbed into the water. I waded, hoping to keep my head above water. It came up to my neck. I felt, nervously, with my feet. Nothing. "In for a penny in for a pound," I thought as I submerged my head and shut my eyes to the cooties that were no doubt infesting me at this very moment. Nothing. I went back to the feet, not to give up so easily, pulling up stick after muddy stick until ... I did not believe it. Thank God for a slow current. Dan looked at me and my ascending and vocal happiness and shook his head. I took a shower.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Shave and haircut, two bits!
March 18th
I woke around 7:30. James had just come back slightly worse for wear after 5 hours of sleep to make the spin class with the cute girl. We shared a cuppa, and in the emerging heat of day, I rode to Sale. It was flat and uneventful. I was lost in no thoughts in particular and scolded myself for not looking around at the countryside as much. Sale's main street had lovely verandas, trees and the pleasant bustle of a country town midweek.
I got my ears lowered from a pretty girl with a strangely lopsided haircut. I am not sure if this is in fashion or not. Either way, it looked highly impractical and high maintenance in a way that contrasted with the country farm girl she claimed to be. Far be it from me to judge, as I have never worked a farm. She cut my hair slowly and carefully, which gave me the impression she was new to the barber business. But, as they say here, “No dramas.” Ears lowered and no split ends on my lustrous locks made me feel like a new man. (You bet your ass I just wrote that). I moseyed and relaxed around town for a bit before making my way to Frank and Prue Stone’s (Jonno’s parents) house around cocktail hour. I was here in Sale to make good to my promises to speak about the North Atlantic trip at Frank’s end-of-the-year rowing party at Gippsland Grammar School.
Frank and Prue are lucky enough to sit right above the flood plain that surrounds the river that runs through Sale. This means that, in a land of drought, they look over a green and verdant prairie in which cattle graze and moo freely. The gum trees smelled strong of citronella, and I was offered a bottle of beer and a pint of water. We sat on the deck and watched a neon pink sunset. Amelia (“Meals”) Stone is living at home. She is saving some money to go teach English in Vietnam. Dan Moore lives here, too. He is one of Frank’s "rent-a-roomers" that he gets one or two of each year from the old country. Usually they are young and in their gap year (between HS and UNI). Dan is 19 and carries himself much older. Frank is quite a chef, and we eat well – lots of meat. I sleep even better in the Harry Potter bed below the stairs.
I woke around 7:30. James had just come back slightly worse for wear after 5 hours of sleep to make the spin class with the cute girl. We shared a cuppa, and in the emerging heat of day, I rode to Sale. It was flat and uneventful. I was lost in no thoughts in particular and scolded myself for not looking around at the countryside as much. Sale's main street had lovely verandas, trees and the pleasant bustle of a country town midweek.
I got my ears lowered from a pretty girl with a strangely lopsided haircut. I am not sure if this is in fashion or not. Either way, it looked highly impractical and high maintenance in a way that contrasted with the country farm girl she claimed to be. Far be it from me to judge, as I have never worked a farm. She cut my hair slowly and carefully, which gave me the impression she was new to the barber business. But, as they say here, “No dramas.” Ears lowered and no split ends on my lustrous locks made me feel like a new man. (You bet your ass I just wrote that). I moseyed and relaxed around town for a bit before making my way to Frank and Prue Stone’s (Jonno’s parents) house around cocktail hour. I was here in Sale to make good to my promises to speak about the North Atlantic trip at Frank’s end-of-the-year rowing party at Gippsland Grammar School.
Frank and Prue are lucky enough to sit right above the flood plain that surrounds the river that runs through Sale. This means that, in a land of drought, they look over a green and verdant prairie in which cattle graze and moo freely. The gum trees smelled strong of citronella, and I was offered a bottle of beer and a pint of water. We sat on the deck and watched a neon pink sunset. Amelia (“Meals”) Stone is living at home. She is saving some money to go teach English in Vietnam. Dan Moore lives here, too. He is one of Frank’s "rent-a-roomers" that he gets one or two of each year from the old country. Usually they are young and in their gap year (between HS and UNI). Dan is 19 and carries himself much older. Frank is quite a chef, and we eat well – lots of meat. I sleep even better in the Harry Potter bed below the stairs.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Maybe he should have driven the lawyers out - oh, that's right, he did.
March 17th
I head to Traralgon today to meet James Plunkett or “Plunks,” or “Guns,” as we called him back at MUBC (Ahem, that would be my rowing days . . . harrrumph). Guns is funny. He does not look like a rower. He is built like linebacker with broad shoulders and huge arms... Guns. He is now a Lawyer in his home town of Traralgon, where as he says 90% of lawyers give the last 10% a bad name. A desk job has added some padding to his waistline, but he retains the boyish features and massive arms. In fact, if it wasn’t for these attributes, he might seem intimidating. He’s a master of self-deprecating humor and an aficionado of superman – a fact proven as he wore a Superman shirt out to dinner that night.
That night was St. Patty’s day. We hit the local hot spot - Cargo lounge - to find that on this glorious day for drinking dark beer, it was anything but. Our arrival now necessitated that the staff count the number of customers on two hands. Turns out they had their party on Friday night, and Traralgon was now party-pooped. However, the bartender, in heroic attempt to bring back the sprite of that snake-smiting saint (and no doubt to get rid of the cheap and crappy beer scwag that Guinness no doubt peppered the world with), gave us hats that looked like Frankenstein’s monster ... if Frankenstein’s monster had been a shamrock . . . and a pint of Guinness. It was, in a word, low key, and we sipped our beer in the waning heat of a late summer night, chatting of memories past and the past five years while wearing our Franken-shamy-pinty hats.
As I stated before, James is a lawyer, and while I date myself when I say this, he pulled a "Van Wilder" in College. I should explain first that "colleges" in Australia are, in the roughest American translation, a "fratority" (fraternity + sorority). Guns, using a mix of undergrad, grad school, tutoring and internships, managed to spend 4/5ths of a decade in this dream world that was Queens College at Melbourne University. After spending nearly a year at an office in Melbourne, he came to the realization that as "low lawyer on the legal brief" [I’m proud of that one], his career was better served if he traded country for city and went to work for Steve Plunkett - his dad. In their medium-sized country town it made the paper, and on their refrigerator is a clipping with an almost Jimmy-Stewartesque image of a proud father leaning over his sharply-dressed son with many leather-bound volumes of legal nandies and dandies behind them. I’m not sure what nandies and dandies are. It’s late.
I head to Traralgon today to meet James Plunkett or “Plunks,” or “Guns,” as we called him back at MUBC (Ahem, that would be my rowing days . . . harrrumph). Guns is funny. He does not look like a rower. He is built like linebacker with broad shoulders and huge arms... Guns. He is now a Lawyer in his home town of Traralgon, where as he says 90% of lawyers give the last 10% a bad name. A desk job has added some padding to his waistline, but he retains the boyish features and massive arms. In fact, if it wasn’t for these attributes, he might seem intimidating. He’s a master of self-deprecating humor and an aficionado of superman – a fact proven as he wore a Superman shirt out to dinner that night.
That night was St. Patty’s day. We hit the local hot spot - Cargo lounge - to find that on this glorious day for drinking dark beer, it was anything but. Our arrival now necessitated that the staff count the number of customers on two hands. Turns out they had their party on Friday night, and Traralgon was now party-pooped. However, the bartender, in heroic attempt to bring back the sprite of that snake-smiting saint (and no doubt to get rid of the cheap and crappy beer scwag that Guinness no doubt peppered the world with), gave us hats that looked like Frankenstein’s monster ... if Frankenstein’s monster had been a shamrock . . . and a pint of Guinness. It was, in a word, low key, and we sipped our beer in the waning heat of a late summer night, chatting of memories past and the past five years while wearing our Franken-shamy-pinty hats.
As I stated before, James is a lawyer, and while I date myself when I say this, he pulled a "Van Wilder" in College. I should explain first that "colleges" in Australia are, in the roughest American translation, a "fratority" (fraternity + sorority). Guns, using a mix of undergrad, grad school, tutoring and internships, managed to spend 4/5ths of a decade in this dream world that was Queens College at Melbourne University. After spending nearly a year at an office in Melbourne, he came to the realization that as "low lawyer on the legal brief" [I’m proud of that one], his career was better served if he traded country for city and went to work for Steve Plunkett - his dad. In their medium-sized country town it made the paper, and on their refrigerator is a clipping with an almost Jimmy-Stewartesque image of a proud father leaning over his sharply-dressed son with many leather-bound volumes of legal nandies and dandies behind them. I’m not sure what nandies and dandies are. It’s late.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Traralgon
March 17th
My destination today was yet another rowing friend named James Plunkett in the town of Traralgon. The flat country I had used to escape Melbourne was turning quite hilly, and by ten o’clock I was in the middle of spectacular hills that if stone fences were added to them would look like a dry Ireland. It was furiously hot, and I was melting into the pavement. This provided ample excuse to stop at Grand Ridge Brewery along the way. A completely serendipitous stop, but one absolutely necessary in the 37 degree going on 40 degree heat at 10:30 that morning.
Outside the brewery was a huge fake beer, that in the heat, was easy to imagine was a large beer swimming pool that I could dive into to cool off. I settled for a taste test. Hailing from Seattle, it’s hard not to want to try the local brews. Australia, for the most part, has a few big breweries that make, what I would consider, better beer than the Millers and Budweisers of the States. Even so, a mass-produced beer lacks the personality of something built locally out of the local produce. This was in all ways the local drop. Despite the proximity of the big city, this beer had only made a showing at the beer festivals in the city and outside of Victoria. The various shades of golden liquid were well-balanced and refreshing. Fortunately, I had done most of my climbing for the day by the time I got to Grand Ridge and had lovely downhill back roads to coast on while the day continued to heat. I made it to Traralgon around two.
My destination today was yet another rowing friend named James Plunkett in the town of Traralgon. The flat country I had used to escape Melbourne was turning quite hilly, and by ten o’clock I was in the middle of spectacular hills that if stone fences were added to them would look like a dry Ireland. It was furiously hot, and I was melting into the pavement. This provided ample excuse to stop at Grand Ridge Brewery along the way. A completely serendipitous stop, but one absolutely necessary in the 37 degree going on 40 degree heat at 10:30 that morning.
Outside the brewery was a huge fake beer, that in the heat, was easy to imagine was a large beer swimming pool that I could dive into to cool off. I settled for a taste test. Hailing from Seattle, it’s hard not to want to try the local brews. Australia, for the most part, has a few big breweries that make, what I would consider, better beer than the Millers and Budweisers of the States. Even so, a mass-produced beer lacks the personality of something built locally out of the local produce. This was in all ways the local drop. Despite the proximity of the big city, this beer had only made a showing at the beer festivals in the city and outside of Victoria. The various shades of golden liquid were well-balanced and refreshing. Fortunately, I had done most of my climbing for the day by the time I got to Grand Ridge and had lovely downhill back roads to coast on while the day continued to heat. I made it to Traralgon around two.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Adventures with bovines, and the boy who cried "woof."
March 16th and 17th
That night I broke one of my rules. I never jump fences to find a spot to sleep. Only this time the pines looked so safe and inviting that when I walked around them I was crushed to see a fence that was built right up next to them. I was tired, and the thought of going back on the road was not particularly exciting. Just this once I told myself and jumped the fence. The pine had gone well over the fence and provided ample cover. 30 feet towards the paddock was another fence.
"Great" I thought, "a double fence to keep the cattle well away from me." And I proceeded to make my bed and dinner. In the middle of laying out my bed, a hum of a four-wheeler caught my attention. I froze and hid my lights. I was more than willing to admit wrong if found, but if they could not find me, then it probably wasn't worth standing up and confessing. I waited, convinced they had seen me and were about to call me out. I hoped they were unarmed and not that angry. I lucked out. The spotlight missed me, and they drove away.
At this point, I felt it imprudent to make dinner or spend some time reading with a light, and resigned myself to being hungry and bored before I went to sleep. I had just zipped my bivy and closed my eyes, when a soft but large footsteps hit the ground. No lights visible, but a large four legged outline. Shit, a cow. Clearly the double fence was to keep cows in it and not out of it. Hmmm. I rustled and the cow froze, then snorted, walked about 10 feet from me, absorbed the situation and started making baying noises that sounded suggestive and angry at the same time.
At roughly 200 lbs, I’m a large person, but this well-fed beast was at the very least 10 times my size. While I am quite aware that most cattle will run from a human if scared, I also know a motivated cow is quite capable of taking on an unarmed human. Not knowing what to do in this situation and not wanting to yell out “go away cow” or something human sounding of that nature in my precarious position, I decided to cry "woof” – and could have not sounded more human. It worked. My bovine buddy jumped and snorted cautiously off into the night. I slept terribly despite the bed of pine needles. This no doubt had to do with the fact that my bovine girlfriend came back to repeat the same drama twice more that night. This was the worst night’s sleep on the trip. On the bright side, I did not get trampled.
That night I broke one of my rules. I never jump fences to find a spot to sleep. Only this time the pines looked so safe and inviting that when I walked around them I was crushed to see a fence that was built right up next to them. I was tired, and the thought of going back on the road was not particularly exciting. Just this once I told myself and jumped the fence. The pine had gone well over the fence and provided ample cover. 30 feet towards the paddock was another fence.
"Great" I thought, "a double fence to keep the cattle well away from me." And I proceeded to make my bed and dinner. In the middle of laying out my bed, a hum of a four-wheeler caught my attention. I froze and hid my lights. I was more than willing to admit wrong if found, but if they could not find me, then it probably wasn't worth standing up and confessing. I waited, convinced they had seen me and were about to call me out. I hoped they were unarmed and not that angry. I lucked out. The spotlight missed me, and they drove away.
At this point, I felt it imprudent to make dinner or spend some time reading with a light, and resigned myself to being hungry and bored before I went to sleep. I had just zipped my bivy and closed my eyes, when a soft but large footsteps hit the ground. No lights visible, but a large four legged outline. Shit, a cow. Clearly the double fence was to keep cows in it and not out of it. Hmmm. I rustled and the cow froze, then snorted, walked about 10 feet from me, absorbed the situation and started making baying noises that sounded suggestive and angry at the same time.
At roughly 200 lbs, I’m a large person, but this well-fed beast was at the very least 10 times my size. While I am quite aware that most cattle will run from a human if scared, I also know a motivated cow is quite capable of taking on an unarmed human. Not knowing what to do in this situation and not wanting to yell out “go away cow” or something human sounding of that nature in my precarious position, I decided to cry "woof” – and could have not sounded more human. It worked. My bovine buddy jumped and snorted cautiously off into the night. I slept terribly despite the bed of pine needles. This no doubt had to do with the fact that my bovine girlfriend came back to repeat the same drama twice more that night. This was the worst night’s sleep on the trip. On the bright side, I did not get trampled.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
A tough time getting out of the city.
March 15th
Today was my last full day in Melbourne. Jonno and I drove to see the regatta that Lats was coaching for just outside of town. It was a low-key day. Jonno and I have decided that I will surprise Lats at his bucks party on the 28th of March up at Mt. Hotham. It sounds like a good time. Tonight we b-b-q'ed. Jonno and Suze invited more friends over and are already filling into their role as the Lord and Lady mayor of Kensington with the amount of entertaining they have accomplished in 9 days at their house. I fill up on half a farm of meat and am happy to ride the next day as I can feel the weight coming back on, eating as I have from the top paddock in this wonderful city. I will miss this city and my lovely host and hostess.
March 16th
As in most cases I procrastinate when I have to leave a place I like. After all, it doesn't really matter where I end up if I’m sleeping on the road. Thus I coasted through the city to meet Jonno for a breakfast of pancakes. I was excited to dine on pancakes, something I have not had nor found in Australia thus far. They were excellent, but they were not American pancakes. That I think is something I’ll just have to hold out for till I get back to North America. However, I did eat chili, hot chocolate, and my pancake (more of a crepe) was covered in honey and ice cream that was in no way bad at all. Jonno is quite a traveler himself and will be covering his seventh continent in the next year or so (Antarctica). He’s a travelling kindred sprit, and we exchanged stories and new ideas. I find that it is best to throw out as many travel ideas as possible because 99% of them will not work out, but without a steady flow of them you will never hit the right inspiration. We shall see what happens.
I left rather unenthused to bike through the suburbs and out into the country. Burb ridding is not exciting and is very stressful. Once out of the burbs and into the country, I found myself on country roads with city traffic. I was happy when I found my spot for the night
Today was my last full day in Melbourne. Jonno and I drove to see the regatta that Lats was coaching for just outside of town. It was a low-key day. Jonno and I have decided that I will surprise Lats at his bucks party on the 28th of March up at Mt. Hotham. It sounds like a good time. Tonight we b-b-q'ed. Jonno and Suze invited more friends over and are already filling into their role as the Lord and Lady mayor of Kensington with the amount of entertaining they have accomplished in 9 days at their house. I fill up on half a farm of meat and am happy to ride the next day as I can feel the weight coming back on, eating as I have from the top paddock in this wonderful city. I will miss this city and my lovely host and hostess.
March 16th
As in most cases I procrastinate when I have to leave a place I like. After all, it doesn't really matter where I end up if I’m sleeping on the road. Thus I coasted through the city to meet Jonno for a breakfast of pancakes. I was excited to dine on pancakes, something I have not had nor found in Australia thus far. They were excellent, but they were not American pancakes. That I think is something I’ll just have to hold out for till I get back to North America. However, I did eat chili, hot chocolate, and my pancake (more of a crepe) was covered in honey and ice cream that was in no way bad at all. Jonno is quite a traveler himself and will be covering his seventh continent in the next year or so (Antarctica). He’s a travelling kindred sprit, and we exchanged stories and new ideas. I find that it is best to throw out as many travel ideas as possible because 99% of them will not work out, but without a steady flow of them you will never hit the right inspiration. We shall see what happens.
I left rather unenthused to bike through the suburbs and out into the country. Burb ridding is not exciting and is very stressful. Once out of the burbs and into the country, I found myself on country roads with city traffic. I was happy when I found my spot for the night
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Private stock.
March 14th evening
I walk through the streets of Melbourne to the corner of Queen’s Street and Colleens where Jonno will pick me up. On my way, I see faces from porcelain to pecan to ebony. Some speak no English, some with heavy accents, some with that unmistakable Aussie lilt, but something extra. The city buzzes with it. This is no outback.
Jonno and I are headed to a drinks party for Lats and Elka at Lats's parents place. Lats is getting married soon, and this party is for those who could not make it to the wedding. Lats's father is quite a wine connoisseur, and in an endeavor to pass this vinophilic love to his son (something not hard, I think) has asked all the guests to bring a good bottle of wine that the new couple can cellar. I have a case sent to them from Margaret River.
Walking in the door, it is clear they will have a good start to the cellar. As the night wears on, I end up in the cellar of the house. The cellar is roughly 20 years old, but the house was built right around the time Lincoln was inaugurated, and thus the arched brick supports that make the roof of the cellar are in sharp contrast to the poured cement. Huge barrels and hundreds of bottles of wines and ports and Muskats find their home in the cool beneath the house. All of us under 35 look impressed with envy at the lifetime that built this well-stocked establishment. Lats comes down, taking a break from hosting, and we open up a home-brewed 1998 (turn of the century!) stout. It cracks with a satisfying hiss, and the bottle seems to smoke with the change in air pressure. It has less head than a Guinness, but the it’s rich in flavor, almost coffee and chocolate, and it is hard to liken it to any beer I have ever had.
I walk through the streets of Melbourne to the corner of Queen’s Street and Colleens where Jonno will pick me up. On my way, I see faces from porcelain to pecan to ebony. Some speak no English, some with heavy accents, some with that unmistakable Aussie lilt, but something extra. The city buzzes with it. This is no outback.
Jonno and I are headed to a drinks party for Lats and Elka at Lats's parents place. Lats is getting married soon, and this party is for those who could not make it to the wedding. Lats's father is quite a wine connoisseur, and in an endeavor to pass this vinophilic love to his son (something not hard, I think) has asked all the guests to bring a good bottle of wine that the new couple can cellar. I have a case sent to them from Margaret River.
Walking in the door, it is clear they will have a good start to the cellar. As the night wears on, I end up in the cellar of the house. The cellar is roughly 20 years old, but the house was built right around the time Lincoln was inaugurated, and thus the arched brick supports that make the roof of the cellar are in sharp contrast to the poured cement. Huge barrels and hundreds of bottles of wines and ports and Muskats find their home in the cool beneath the house. All of us under 35 look impressed with envy at the lifetime that built this well-stocked establishment. Lats comes down, taking a break from hosting, and we open up a home-brewed 1998 (turn of the century!) stout. It cracks with a satisfying hiss, and the bottle seems to smoke with the change in air pressure. It has less head than a Guinness, but the it’s rich in flavor, almost coffee and chocolate, and it is hard to liken it to any beer I have ever had.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
