Lyndon 201: Finding your Inner Pioneer

I have never been particularly afraid of flying. Don’t get me wrong, I dislike turbulence as much as the next person, but for the most part I can kick back and pretend that I am not in a flimsy metal tube rocketing along a bajillion miles above the terra firma that I love so much. Combine this with my new ‘yes-man’ attitude to things at Lyndon (because who knows when I’ll have the opportunity to do some of these things again), and when Sean asked me if I wanted to go for a ride in his plane, of course I said yes. And then, in a fit of weakness of which I am not particularly proud, I gave Naomi the contact info of my loved ones and told her that if I died, she had to let them know; I was mostly kidding, I think. This was in no way due to a lack of confidence in Sean - he is a responsible, skilled man, and I trust him as much as, if not significantly more than, anyone to take me up in a little puddle-jumper of a plane. It comes down to the fact that I apparently read too much, and the only stories I can think of that involve small planes involve those small planes crashing in horrible fireballs of destruction. 

The plan was to fly a couple hundred kilometers to a ‘nearby’ station and deliver the plane, as the manager of that station had just bought it; Sean had acquired a different plane recently, the exact same year but with fewer flight hours on it. Two of the kids were coming with us, Leslie and Molly, who seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they are living out some kind of fairy story of childhood, where Dad takes them for joyrides, not in a car, but in a plane. I know nothing about planes, and was too distracted thinking about the mechanics of flight to ask any useful questions, so I can’t tell you what kind of plane it was - it had a propeller, and two seats in front with a bench seat behind. There you go, all you need to know. Sean pushed it out of the hangar, because this is the kind of plane you can push, and fueled up - I learned that the wings actually hold the fuel in these smaller aircraft, to keep the plane balanced. I decided, judiciously, to not contemplate the idea of an unbalanced plane. Sean then introduced me to Rule Number 1 of propeller planes - don’t go near that propeller. You never know when it might suddenly spring to life and smack you with some astronomical amount of force, like taking a crowbar swung by Arnold Schwarzenegger (in his prime, of course) to the head, except a million times worse. We got the kids settled in the back, and I clambered into the passenger seat with my trusty plastic bag, in the event that I decided that flying did not agree with my delicate, lady-like stomach. And then, take-off! Except that the propeller wouldn’t start spinning ‘round, which apparently is pretty essential to take-off. Sean explained that he would have to ‘prop-start’ the plane, and would I please step on the brakes, and pull back the throttle once it started. Oh God, I thought, this is how it starts. While I more-or-less stood on the brakes and started sweating profusely into my tank-top, Sean hopped out and spun the propeller - this, however, is not like spinning any propeller I’ve ever seen (albeit I’ve only seen propellers about 2 inches long and made of plastic), but requires a full body shove followed by a hasty step back to get out of the way. After a few tries the propeller started, and I managed to not inadvertently allow the plane to saunter off down the runway, which is what I had envisioned, the kids screaming, Sean running after us through the dust, and my face pressed to the window in a silent ‘O’ of horror. 

Then, we actually took off, and it was magical. This is the apotheosis of flight - you can almost feel the wind rushing beneath you, the engine is whispering (ok, roaring) secrets to you, and the propeller is a blur in front of your eyes. Flocks of birds wheeled beneath us, which was just absurdly pleasing to me, to be flying close enough to almost feel like part of their aerial ballet. The landscape revolved into rocky hills and crooked streams, the latter marked by the increased greenery on their edges, which lasted long after the surface water had disappeared. Herds of cattle dotted the landscape, and mobs of kangaroos (yes, that is the technical term, which always puts me in mind of Marlon Brando as a ‘roo, with stubby little T-rex arms and jowls full of cotton balls, sitting back ponderously on his tail) watched our approach and then took off into the bush. There were even wild donkeys, which I didn’t realize existed, and which look significantly larger than the domesticated variety, and much less friendly. Perhaps my favorite part, however, was watching our little shadow zoom  over the landscape - it reminded me of Indiana Jones, with the little plane and its dotted line traversing the distances between points on a map. It was as if somehow my brain couldn’t process that fact that I was really and truly flying, and seeing that shadow was irrefutable proof that we were far enough above the ground to cast it. I also absolutely loved landing, not because I wanted to be back on the earth, but because coming into the runway made me feel like I was in North by Northwest, and all that was missing was a Cary Grant to chase down. 

Seriously, where is Cary Grant? Also, that slash across the sky is the propeller.

After a pleasant stop at Eudamullah Station, we all piled into a ute and headed back in the direction of Lyndon - Tina was supposed to be meeting us halfway, so that we wouldn’t end up being in possession of a Eudamullah ute (try saying that ten times fast). Unfortunately, after the recent rain, there was a river in our way. A fairly wide river, and a river that in one section was over a meter deep. Lest we be washed away and our mechanical oxen drowned in an Australian version of Oregon Trail, it was decided that we would have to ford the river on foot. First, however, Sean wanted to go up in the plane to see if Tina was close, and to try to signal her to continue to the river crossing if she was still some distance away. It was decided that I should stay by the river in case Tina showed up and tried to cross, which would lead to washing away and drowned utes, etc etc. Molly decided to stay with me, and kept me very well entertained by seemingly attempting to do her damnedest to fall in the river. Every time I turned around she was climbing a tree, or sliding down the muddy bank, or jumping across stones; really, the only way she didn’t attempt to fall in the water was by doing a triple backflip somersault straight in. Tina eventually showed up, and years of vocal training paid off when I managed to project (not yell, thank you very much) across the river that it was too deep to cross. Then, I forded a waist-deep river. With a squirming child on my back, which, let me assure you, does not do much for your balance, especially when the river bed is rocky and treacherous and the current is shockingly significant. I have to confess, I felt a teensy bit bad-ass - rivers can’t stop me from getting the little ladies back home!

Can you see us, can you see us?

To complete this impossibly perfect day, the ladies (the grown ladies that is, not the little ladies) had a camping girl’s night, which is about the only kind of girl’s night you can have in the bush. We built a fire, toasted sandwiches, and climbed up some nearby boulders with bottles of wine to watch the sunset, while the dogs cavorted around us and occasionally tried to hump each other. Upon realizing that the mozzies were going to eat us alive, Naomi and I decided to squeeze into my one-person tent to sleep, that wee little tent that I like to lovingly refer to as ‘coffin-sized.’ I would like to commend the good people at REI for not engaging in false advertising - that is, truly, a one person tent. Fitting the two of us into it required a level of intimacy that I don’t normally engage in on a first date. However, being squashed in together like two football players trying to squeeze into one tutu proved preferable to waking up anemic from blood-sucking flying fiends, so Naomi and I cuddled. I was the big spoon. In the morning, we rewarded ourselves for surviving the night with chocolate fondue that Tina cooked up in the camp oven and billy tea that Patty bravely made the right way, swinging the billy around her head like a madwoman. This is always how I had pictured camping, what I had wanted camping to be like, when I was a child. No caravan parks and campsites, no ugly concrete ablution blocks, no human-imposed order. Just the sky, and a fire, and a sunrise that feels like it is painted just for you, with birds calling out in surprise that another day has arrived. 5-year-old me is so very happy right now. 

Yep, totally fighting robots

I have also worked some this week, just in case you’re starting to think that all I do is run around and smear myself with dirt and pretend I am one with the outback. However, the work is so varied, and so far outside of my last 28 years of life experience, that I sometimes feel I should be thanking someone for letting me do it. For instance, you’re going to let me use a circular saw to cut huge lengths of wire down to size, thus showering me in sparks and letting me pretend I’m in Flashdance? Sure, I guess that’s ok. Just so long as we all wear ear protection so that I can sing “What a feeling…!” without anyone hearing. Or, you’ll let me use a power washer to clean out an old trailer that is destined to become the kid’s playhouse? Yep, I can do that for you, as long as you don’t mind if I pretend I’m a robot-fighting future warrior blasting evil instead of dirt. The power-washer, since I had to use it inside the trailer as well as out, also gave me a free shower, which really helped the red dust adhere to my skin like paint. Even something as mundane as building Ikea furniture (which, I’ve discovered, is a pain in the ass in any country) was enlivened by the appearance of the Balmy Bird. Melody, another WWOOFER, and I had moved an old dressing table out onto the verandah of the guest cottage in order to replace it with a giant Ikea wardrobe. Returning from smoko (morning tea, a delightful tradition that always vaguely puts me in mind of The Hobbit, as I feel like I’m eating something roughly every two hours), we found that the old mirror on the dressing table had made a friend. This little bird was IN LOVE, and yet it could only end in heartbreak, because try as he might, he couldn’t seem to find the other bird. He would sing at the mirror, peck at it, hop up on top and try to peek over the edge and surprise it, pretend to fly away only to dive bomb it from behind. After watching him for 5 minutes or so, we decided it was in his best interest to take the mirror down before he hurt himself. Unfortunately, I think this confused the Balmy Bird, and he started appearing at the windows while we worked, chirping angrily at us. I believe he thought we had killed his friend. I was almost afraid to go outside, as he had a distinctly murderous look in his eyes. 

Yes, I did stop to take a photo. Because, tourist.

On the subject of murder, I met my first red-back spider this week. This was followed promptly by my second red-back spider. In case you’ve forgotten, the red-back is up there on the top ten big bad ugly poisonous creatures list (alright, I’m aware it probably won’t kill me, but I don’t want to be in a situation to find out). I was moving furniture around in the guest cabin in preparation for painting the concrete floor when I noticed a black and evil-looking spider under the kitchen table. Being somewhat masochistic, I leaned in for a closer look, and was rewarded with the sight of the shockingly crimson markings on its back (which, on the plus side, seems much easier to spot than the belly-markings of that sneaky bitch, the black widow). I informed myself that I was fine, but it somehow got lost in the vast distance that had suddenly opened up between my brain and my body. My body decided that the reasonable solution was to abandon all sense of dignity and run out the door and never stop, possibly (probably) while weeping; my brain decided that it was too much work to argue with something as stubborn as my body, and decided to go on a much deserved, and extended, break. To my credit, I walked calmly out the door, and calmly told Naomi that there was a red-back, and then calmly stood there and stared at her as I tried to figure out where my brain had gone, and why my body was shaking. Luckily, Naomi had long since conquered her fear of the hell-spawn, and came inside, knocked the spider on the floor with a stick, and stepped on it. For those of you who feel like spiders shouldn’t be harmed, deal with it. Naomi left, I considered sitting on the floor and rocking back and forth for a few days but decided against it, and then went back to moving furniture. Not 10 minutes later, I found another, hiding behind the fridge. In one lunging moment of brilliance, before my brain and body had time to argue and part ways again, I kicked the wall. Technically, I vertically stomped the spider, but the wall was there to stop me from turning the stomp into the first step of a run and ending up in South Australia. In all likelihood, I made some kind of really tough noise while I was doing this, I imagine something along the lines of ‘GAAAHHHH.’ I believe this scared away all the other red-backs.

We had guests one night this week, the new managing couple at a ‘neighboring’ station, who couldn’t get back because the rain had made the roads impassable (I’ve mentioned the rain a couple of times now, but haven’t had the chance to say how incredible it sounded when it rolled in, pounding down on the metal roof of the donga and streaming beneath the thin floors like your own personal river). Obviously, I know that hospitality in this instance is a necessity, there would be nowhere else to go, but the city girl in me is still so thrilled by the complete openness with which visitors are received. People are always welcomed with warm smiles, a hot meal, and a clean bed. Out here, this is the natural order of things. I don’t want to romanticize a way of life simply because it is different from what I am used to, but it makes me feel warm and fuzzy to know that there is still a place where a stranger can show up and become a friend. When we were out camping, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would like look from 200, 300, 1000 feet up. This little pinprick of firelight in a sea of night. I am not a poet, so bear with me, but that’s how it feels all the time out here, to me - people have formed these beacons of warmth that serve as lighthouses in what would otherwise be impenetrable darkness. It’s so easy to get caught up in the glow.