Well, it was the ‘blog before Christmas’ until a noisy thunderstorm rolled over Canberra and knocked out my internet connection for nearly a week. So it’s now the post Christmas blog, though unchanged from its pre-Christmas version; I hope you like it.
The blog is primarily about my book, but as I didn’t travel over Christmas, I’m wondering what to write. I’m hoping the blog will eventually morph into a discussion on national parks, which gives me a few festive season ideas. However, as the story unfolds, you’ll see, that at least for me, this one wasn’t so ‘festive’.
It’s December 1972; the nation is rejoicing at the election of Gough Whitlam – our first Labor Prime Minister since Ben Chifley’s defeat in 1949 – so I am going segue into an anecdote from my book about the great Gough, concerning a visit he made to Kakadu National Park.
‘I reached the Bark Hut Inn, a popular roadhouse halfway to Jabiru. Almost 20 years ago to the day, I had stopped here with former Prime Minister Gough Whitlam and his late wife Margaret, who were touring Kakadu for a few days. I remembered the day well: two tourist buses had arrived just before us, and about 100 older Australians were milling about, stretching and chatting.
Gough is a big man and Margaret was not much smaller. I’m above average in height, yet walking between them I felt like a hooker between two props. They were not a couple to be missed and, as we strode towards the Bark Hut, they weren’t. The talking suddenly ceased and 200 eyes bore in on us. Then a miracle happened – the bus group parted, just as the Red Sea did for Moses, allowing us to pass among them. Then clapping started, rising to a tumult that was graciously acknowledged by those walking beside me.’
Wonderful people; I was glad to have spent a few days with them.
Now where were we? December 1972. I was soon to transfer to Sturt National Park, after 3 fun years at Kosciuszko National Park. My last job at Kosci was to attend a fire suppression course. The problem was we couldn’t get our practice area to burn because … it was snowing!
So, two weeks after lighting fires in snowstorms, I was in Sturt National Park, 1500 km northwest of Kosciuszko, standing on top of a rocky, tree-less mesa, looking across a vast expanse of harsh red country on the edge of the Strzelecki Desert; the shade temperature was 45°C.
The 320,000 ha (790,000 acres) park occupies the northwest corner of New South Wales (NSW), and includes Cameron Corner where the states of NSW, Queensland and South Australia meet. The nearest town is Tibooburra, population, when I was there, about 120. The average rainfall is about 220 mm (9″). Rainfall is erratic, falling as intermittent thunderstorms, mainly in summer. I lived in Mount Wood homestead, parts of which dated back to the 1880s. It was a mysterious, rambling house, with wide-screened verandahs under a rusty, corrugated iron roof.
In the late afternoon of a stinking hot day, I loved watching the banks of angry black clouds roiling towards the homestead, waiting with increasing anticipation for the first huge drops of rain to sizzle on the white-hot roof. Then the main storm would hit, crashing onto the steaming iron, the din so fierce speech was futile, while my dog (Blotches) shivered in fright behind the lounge (spoilt pooch!).
However, there was no storm on December 25, 1972. I had arrived only 2 weeks previously, so knew no one in nearby Tibooburra, and my staff were on holidays. I was 25, and it was my first Christmas away from home – just me and Blotches! I awoke to my first Christmas dawn, sang a few verses of ‘Six White Boomers’, wished man’s best friend Merry Christmas, and opened the presents my mum had thoughtfully packed before I left Sydney. Thinking about mum and dad, my 4 siblings, in-laws, and nieces and nephews having a great time in Sydney made me feel very miserable!
There had been little rain for the previous 2 years. The two adjacent earth dams that provided water for the homestead were all but empty. The situation was desperate, both for me, and the 3000 corellas and 500 galahs that lived in the red gums lining the dams. If it didn’t rain in the next 6 to 8 weeks, the dams would have only puddles of foul, polluted water, and I’d be forced to leave. So under a cloudless blue sky and blazing sun, I spent my first lonely Christmas pumping water from one dam to the other, to reduce the loss of water to evaporation, and so eke out a few more weeks at the homestead before I had to leave.
I didn’t need to – it rained 2 weeks later!
Merry Christmas and safe travelling.