FUN IN THE SUN

This is more like the Australia we are after!
Chillin in the sun!!  Hanging out with the fam! Spearing Fish and Eating them!
Love US

THOUGHT ALL I NEEDED WAS MY BIRTHDAY SUIT!‏

    Hello, my name is Mr. Mantis. 

Today we are going to learn about [‘chhuupp’ (the wall sized world map is pulled down from the ceiling) ‘thwap…thwapp… thwappp (after letting a third of the map back into the case he’s got it to stay down) (Reaching for his pointer stick) ‘Donk’ (the end of the pointer misses it target by about 3000miles,) ‘shhhuuuckk’ (Mr Mantis draws his pointer west across the Indian Ocean)] AUSTRALIA!

            Are you aware that Australia, as it is in the Southern hemisphere, has the opposite seasons to us here in the northern hemisphere?  So when it is winter here, it’s summer over there.  Raise your hand if you think that means that in February Australia should be at the peak of their hot season, as in shorts during the day and sleeping in the nude at night.  [Everyone raises their hands], I thought the same thing, and it seems like that is the way it should be, but…sit back and relax, let me tell you a story…

            Riding into the, ‘blink and you’ll miss it’, town of Bonang we are rubber legged and ready to quit.  We’ve already ridden 95km, all of which have been uphill and it’s approaching 5pm.  Ultimately we’d wanted to get a bit further as we’ve only got another 150km before reaching our final destination of Pambula and we figure if we could do 120km today we’d get there tomorrow otherwise it will probably take us two days to get home.  ‘Umming’ and ‘Awwing’ for a few minutes we decide to call it quits, we are both pooped plus I’m on my 8^th advil for the day and it is starting to wear off. 

            Cresting the towns only hill we are instantly drop jawed and bug eyed, not at the stunning lush iridescent green farmland but by the enormous plums of black smoke billowing endlessly into the heavens.  “H-F-S” I say out loud. 

           

Mantis: “Good heavens, what have we here; be that Satins lair on yonder hill side?”

Rachael:              “I think that is a bush fire Mantis!”

Mantis:              “Should we G-T-F out of here!”

(Medieval travellers as we are, we’ve got no cell phone and Bonang’s got no pay phone plus there are no houses around except the single one across the street and we just watched the whole family jump into their car and speed off.)

Mantis: “Think they were evacuating?”

Rachael:            “Umm.”

Mantis: “Don’t you think they’d have bothered to at least screamed out the window, ‘peddle for you lives stinky hippies’ on their way by if it really was a bush fire?” 

Aside from the billowing black plums we’re also freaked out a bit as just the day before we’d peddled through 30km of bush that had been torched just weeks prior, where fire fighters were still quelling hot spot smouldering stumps and flair ups.  And we’d been told that all burned without warning in a matter of hours.  (Sheizer! Get me a Redbull and Nintendo, this real life shit is dangerous, Where’s my Wee-Fit bicycle.)

The only way to figure this out is to flag down the next car and ask. 

Standing by the road for ten minutes, watching the forest burn, no one drives by.  Then there are three cars in a row.  To the last car, which happens to be a Forest Service vehicle, I practice my best Crossing Guard, holding my arm out straight, hand perpendicular, ‘You! Stop! Now!’ Looking at me like I’m special they both wave back, then picking up what I’m laying down, the driver slams on the brakes. 

Smiling and in matching one piece orange fire retardant jump suits, they salute, “G-day, what’s up?”

Turns out it is a ‘Fuel Reduction Burn’, they assure us it is totally under control and will be completely out in a few hours. 

Thanks orange rangers!

On with the business at hand.

Scouting for a good flat chunk of grass to call home for the night our eyes fall upon the town meeting hall.  And for obvious reason they land there as when I said, ‘blink and you’d miss it’, I really meant it, Bonang’s only got this one building; no other shops, go gas station, no nothing, just one building with a couple bathrooms off the side.  The grass is flat, there’s a water tap, and we could camp behind the building where we aren’t visible from the road and conviently the place is locked up and empty.  Looks perfect, so we pull around back, drop our bikes and within seconds it looks like there’s been a bi-cycle (get it) pile up. The lawn is strewn about with helmets, gloves, shorts, shirts, sleeping bags, food bags, a tent, 6 brightly colored cycle bags, another 6 water bottles, therma rests, a stove, flip flops, a coffee peculator, maps, books, towels plus two semi conscious bodies napping in the sun.

Just as we begin to dose off, ‘cruuunnch’, a car pulls into the gravel parking lot out front.  Though we are completely hidden we figure we should walk around and exchange pleasantries before they stumble on what probably looks like a cross between the end of a cheap strip show and pirate thieves diving up their latest booty. 

“O, Hello”, jumps the startled lady as we come around the corner.  Explaining ourselves, she happens to be the one in charge of the building and assures us it is fine to sleep out back and if we want we are welcome to set up our tent inside and use the kitchen. 

            We decline, but stand around and chat a while as she’s extremely friendly, reminding us a lot of a good friend back home, Gail, which in itself isn’t odd but just a few hours earlier we’d passed a cyclist who looked exactly like Gail’s husband Brackley, humm, maybe everyone does have a double out there somewhere.  (What’s my double up to?)  From Gail we learn a lot including the towns history; prosperous farming community until the past droughts which put many farmers out of business, forced to sell cheap the land was snatched up by greedy Corporate Pine Plantations.  This has brought the towns population way down, in fact Bonang has just joined schools with the neighbouring town to form a school k-7 with a total of 16 students; not many friends to choose from.  Gail is one of two teachers and also the town bus driver.  How interesting, thanks Gail. Nice to meet you!

           

After a water bottle wash up, some pesto and fresh noodles for dinner and a walk down the road to check on the blaze it’s off to bed. 

            Wearing all my cloths including wool socks, inside a sleeping bag with the drawstring around my face, so only my nose is sticking out, and another drawstring around my neck I’m still freezing all night long.  Hello, I’m supposed to be sleeping in my birthday suit not a down mummy sleeping bag. 

            Zzzzzttt, Zzzzttt; 6:30am the alarm buzzes, relieved the miserable night is over I slap the silence button and we both clamber out of our sacks emerging from our tent into a world of icy white; not snow but not far from it, we are in a cloud so thick our movements are restricted almost as if we are under water.  Not only that but it is even colder outside then it was in; we pull on our rain gear, biking gloves and I even put on my helmet over my plastic hood for extra warmth.  Collapsing the aluminium tent polls with sopping wet hands feels like I’m putting my hands into a bucket of dry ice. 

            Anxious to get some blood flowing and hopefully bring our temps up we divy up the pirate booty, chomp down a PBnJ and jump on our steeds.  Faster then you can say “why the F is it so damn cold, I thought Australia was warm in the summer” we start to warm up, that is except for our feet which are almost numb and our hands, ‘hands’ I couldn’t have even told you I had any.  On the verge of tears, my fingers turning white, we pull over.  Wishing we just had gloves I figure there must be something in our booty that will suffice.  Hum…White bread? Probably warm if I jabbed one hand in the bag but then my other would still be freezing, we wouldn’t have any lunch and I’ll probably crash.  Bike tube? No.  Patch kit? Nope.  Apple? Nah.  Sleeping bag?  Warm but probably more dangerous then white bread.  Ah-Ha I’ve got it; my two pairs of dirty underpants.  Tightly wrapping them around my hands I look like Edward Under-hands.  Rachael having already solved her cold digit delema with an extra pair of socks, we jump back on our bikes.  Not bad actually, 7 day old sweaty ball underpants work ok for keeping your hands from falling off, shit maybe I could patent this.

We pass a possie of high school kids waiting for their hour and a half bus ride to school.

Mantis: “Is this abnormally cold for February?”

Kids:                “Nap.”

Rachael:            “I’ve got socks on my hands its so cold.”

Mantis: “And I’ve got dirty underpants.”

Kids:                Bewildered, crack up laughing.

            Still in the icy cloud, drafting Rachael along a flat gravel road it quickly becomes apparent why no one else has previously patented Edward Under-hands.  Coming into a corner Rachael slows down; in my numb state I had failed to notice that basically thumbless with Under-hands I can’t operate my breaks, ‘F’. I’m slightly to her left and with only a few inches between our wheels I’m kind of trapped.  I can ride off the road, down an embankment and into a cluster of trees below, most likely breaking my neck, I can stay on course and crash into Rachael, probably taking us both out or I can veer right hoping my front tire doesn’t collide with her back one.  Ehh…Our tires rub hard and I start to loose my balance, as I throw my small mass ass left Rachael happens to take a hard pedal and pulls away from me, wildly swerving out into the road I manage to stay afloat, ‘S’.  Down with Edward Under-Hands!  I’d rather be cold and in pain. 

            Pretty quickly the sun revels itself, burns off the cloud and we are in the midst of the most gorgeous day of our trip.  It’s hot, hot, hot, there are no clouds and we’re peddling through splendid forest and field.  Only taking quick food stops and a few moments to gauck at my first wild Emu’s we pedal, pedal, pedal and by 5:00pm, after an incredible day of riding and 150km we’re pulling onto Rachael’s families road. 

            Arriving a day early we’re expecting to surprise but alas as we’ve pulled this stunt on so many occasions they are actually expecting us.  The table is already set for 5 and there’s even a welcome home cake in the oven. 

Home at last!! 

            So…there you have it.  February or not, unless you were born with a seriously thick woolly birthday suit, remember to bring some warm gear Down-Under. 

Love US

ALERT, NOT JUNK, MORE TERRIBLE TAILS FROM THE SOUTH SIDE

Good-En-Tag!

First up, thank you to everyone who writes back, it really make it feel like our suffering days are for the collective good; if there was no one laughing at my pain what would be the point of me suffering, I might as well be at home watching TV or playing Nintendo, it would certainly be a lot safer and easier.  Also it is nice to know you enjoy reading nonsense. 

[o yes, on a side not, may claimed they did not receive my first story, check you junk mail, I’ll include it at the bottom of this one if you are interested]

On with it Mantis!

The deserted 25km of switchback infested downhill was rewarding payback for the mornings climb through thick forest.  Cruising into town and in need of a water bottle top off we swing into Whitfield’s only general store.  One of those that have enough space for an indoor roller-rink yet only has one fridge, one shelf of non-perishable goods and a few coffee tables.  Despite the obvious struggle to survive the proprietor is cheerful and chatty.  In between rinsing the dried up juice mould out of our crusty water bottles for us, she questions, “heard the forecast?”  “No,” we reply. “Ohh, 2 inches of rain predicted for tonight, likely flash floods and dangerously high winds.”  “Thanks for the heads up, doesn’t sound like optimal camping conditions does it.”  “Certainly doesn’t, make sure not to camp near a low lying stream or trees that might blow down.” “Thanks!”

            Downing my 8^th Advil for the day; it is our first day back on the bikes since having to give up a few days previous.  I still really shouldn’t be peddling, and I’ve still no clue as to what’s happened to my achillis or why the shooting pain but it doesn’t seem to be anything handfuls for pain killer can’t get me through so we’re peddling on.  We’ve already done 70km and I feel about ready to quite but seeing as there’s all this rain on its way we figure we really need to get this upcoming dirt road over with before it bogs out and becomes unrideable tomorrow.  That means another 50km, shit.  It’s a good thing I’m an idiot or I’d probably get on a bus. 

            At first inspection the dirt road appears good, maybe even first class dirt, how lucky we are.  But then, of course, a km in it changes to poor and the rather rapidly to piss poor.  It’s absurdly steep uphill and we are no longer really riding on what could be classified as dirt, it is more 10 million years of sedimentary rock layers have been rotated from horizontal to vertical and then a grader has attempted to scrape them over into something resembling smooth; didn’t work so hot.  But then as we are the luckiest people I know I assume it’s not gunna stay like this for ever and so after breathing in our fair share of vehicular dust bombs (the kind where you hold your breath as long as you can but then are eventually force to draw in a lungful; holding on hand over your face, as if this really accomplishes a thing, you think ‘nose or mouth? which is going to do my lungs the worst harm’ testing our your noses cilia you take a deep, though even after only breathing in through you nose your mouth teeth and tong are caked in crunch grit) the hill crests, the vertical sedimentary rock gives way to an acceptably decent gravel surface and we’ve got 7 or 8 km of coasty downhill, parallel a rushing river, past gorgeous lush green farms of every variety from grazing cows, sheep, llamas, emus and camels to walnut, chestnut and hops farms to vineyards and apple orchards, (anyone want to go in a be an Australian farmer with us?)

            Finally at 5:30pm after 116km and 7 hours in the saddle the gravel turns to pavements and we snag the first available semi flat patch of earth to set up camp. 

            “Don’t you think this end of the tent looks like it’s gunna be in the huge puddle if we get those two inches of rain?”  Rachael questions.  “Nope, not really, looks like the water will flow right past to me.”  Mantis replies.

            And rain it did, falling all night so intensely it was difficult to get any sleep.  Waking for the 10^th time, as the rain droplets got so huge they were forcing themselves though our fly, to the feeling of miniscule water droplets moistening my face, I notice something odd.  (Sleeping on a therma-rest for anyone over 6 feet is a trade off, do you want your head or feet off the end?  I personally always go feet but as I only sleep on my back sometimes my heels get sore when we are camped on gravel.)  Falling asleep my heals were going numb but now they feels as though they’re on a gorgeous bed of grass.  Wiggle, wiggle, wait a minute, feels more like a…unnnnzippp, click goes the headlamp, that’s not grass it’s 3 inches of water.  [One point for Rachael.]  Amazingly the bottom of the tent is so waterproof it spends the whole night acting like a life raft and keeps us totally dry. 

            Packing up in the rain and riding in it for 5 hours has a few trying moments, but mostly it’s downright stupidly fun.  We’re having more fun then anyone else we see all day, including other travellers dry in their monster 4x4 pop up campers.  They tell us how the rain sucks and there is nothing to do when it is raining.  We just step back out into the deluge, hope on our bikes spraying and endless stream of rear wheel rooster tails and laughing. 

Love Rachael and Mantis

-

-

-

The Last Story if you didn’t get it first time:

Lying here on bed rest, under a nurses watchful eye I now have a far greater appreciation for the often-quoted phrase, ‘careful what you wish for!’

As a warm up to our Indian tour we’ve first dropped anchor here in Australia where we’re spinning our legs from Melbourne, a 1000km or so over the Great Dividing Range to Rachael’s home town of Pambula.

Since draining the pipes, turning the thermostat down to 48 degrees F and bidding NH’s winter good-bye I’ve been keen to inform of our progress but every night I go to lift my pen it just feels to heavy. This I’m attributing to the fact that the trip is progressing to smoothly, I’ve nothing worthy to scribble.

Sadly the flight over was simple, one may have even called it relaxing.  Lucking out with exit row seats and evading the expected $400 excess bike charge plus popping two sleeping pills and an equivalent number of G-N-T’s I awoke refreshed in a foreign land.

Frustrating it was that the Melbourne logistics meshed like well oiled gears.  We avoided customs inspection with a few strategically timed smiles.  On top of that Ben and Janel, Rachael’s cousin and his wife were waiting at the airport with two vehicles to whisk us and our 200lbs or so of gear away to their apartment where we were able to relax among friends for a day and a half; virtually eliminating jet lag. 

Worst of all, our first three days of riding and camping went off with out a hitch and were actually rather enjoyable.

Day one: Rode on a converted train rail trail through gorgeous farm land with out passing a single car all day.

Day two:  Rode through a specular National Park over a 1000m spur.   The riding was tough but there were 6-foot diameter trees everywhere you looked to take our minds off the climb.  We had the road virtually to ourselves save the few hundred motorcyclists who used the twisty switchbacks for racing practice and the poor bloke who came into a corner too fast, sliding off the road down a drop and into a stump, that will him to slow down.

Day three:  Peddled through flat luscious green farmland, found another rail trail, ate ripe apples off branches overhanging the road and had the sun and wind at our backs all day. 

Day 4 and 5:  Relaxed with Beck and Grant, Rachael’s sister and her boyfriend at his parents home atop a knoll surrounded by specular farms, pristine water ways, king parrots, happy cows and an infinity pool. 

Inconveniently I have no motivation to write when travels are going so smooth.  

"I WISH I HAD SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT!"

Day 6:  We’re ready to cast off from our luxury post and get back on the road.  But the pain in my achillies that’s been nagging for the past few days all of a sudden rapidly escalates and by km 7 I can go no further.  If not for the fact that Beck was riding with us for the day I’d surely have thrown a tantrum but in trying to project and air of self control I simply declared, ‘I'm f-ed and can go no further,’ hobbling off the road I gently place my wheels in the grass and await rescue.  

Shit, now i have something to write about!

Gazing out to the distant luscious green farm covered hills I’m back at the pool in my banana lounge icing my achellies under the watchful eye of nurse Rachael.  Longing again to be 18 and invincible I reach for my now not so cumbersome pen. 

Love Rachael and Mantis

HELLO WORLD!!!!!! NOT JUNK MAIL!!!! DIS BE FROM YOUR FRIENDS MICAH AND RACHAEL!!! PLEASE DO NOT DELETE!!!!!

Lying here on bed rest, under a nurses watchful eye I now have a far greater appreciation for the often-quoted phrase, ‘careful what you wish for!’

As a warm up to our Indian tour we’ve first dropped anchor here in Australia where we’re spinning our legs from Melbourne, a 1000km or so over the Great Dividing Range to Rachael’s home town of Pambula.

Since draining the pipes, turning the thermostat down to 48 degrees F and bidding NH’s winter good-bye I’ve been keen to inform of our progress but every night I go to lift my pen it just feels to heavy. This I’m attributing to the fact that the trip is progressing to smoothly, I’ve nothing worthy to scribble.

Sadly the flight over was simple, one may have even called it relaxing.  Lucking out with exit row seats and evading the expected $400 excess bike charge plus popping two sleeping pills and an equivalent number of G-N-T’s I awoke refreshed in a foreign land.

Frustrating it was that the Melbourne logistics meshed like well oiled gears.  We avoided customs inspection with a few strategically timed smiles.  On top of that Ben and Janel, Rachael’s cousin and his wife were waiting at the airport with two vehicles to whisk us and our 200lbs or so of gear away to their apartment where we were able to relax among friends for a day and a half; virtually eliminating jet lag. 

Worst of all, our first three days of riding and camping went off with out a hitch and were actually rather enjoyable.

Day one: Rode on a converted train rail trail through gorgeous farm land with out passing a single car all day.

Day two:  Rode through a specular National Park over a 1000m spur.   The riding was tough but there were 6-foot diameter trees everywhere you looked to take our minds off the climb.  We had the road virtually to ourselves save the few hundred motorcyclists who used the twisty switchbacks for racing practice and the poor bloke who came into a corner too fast, sliding off the road down a drop and into a stump, that will him to slow down.

Day three:  Peddled through flat luscious green farmland, found another rail trail, ate ripe apples off branches overhanging the road and had the sun and wind at our backs all day. 

Day 4 and 5:  Relaxed with Beck and Grant, Rachael’s sister and her boyfriend at his parents home atop a knoll surrounded by specular farms, pristine water ways, king parrots, happy cows and an infinity pool. 

Inconveniently I have no motivation to write when travels are going so smooth.  

"I WISH I HAD SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT!"

Day 6:  We’re ready to cast off from our luxury post and get back on the road.  But the pain in my achillies that’s been nagging for the past few days all of a sudden rapidly escalates and by km 7 I can go no further.  If not for the fact that Beck was riding with us for the day I’d surely have thrown a tantrum but in trying to project and air of self control I simply declared, ‘I'm f-ed and can go no further,’ hobbling off the road I gently place my wheels in the grass and await rescue.  

Shit, now i have something to write about!

Gazing out to the distant luscious green farm covered hills I’m back at the pool in my banana lounge icing my achellies under the watchful eye of nurse Rachael.  Longing again to be 18 and invincible I reach for my now not so cumbersome pen. 

Love Rachael and Mantis

Possibly interesting side note:

Life long I’ve been waiting for someone to bestow upon me a nickname, but aside from Hannah’s attempted ‘Mc-Shit’ none has come.

That was until, dut dut dut…yesterday.  Munching my double-coated chocolate caramel ice-cream it dawned on me.  I’m long, skinny wearing green shorts and shirt.  I look remarkably similar that that ... Praying Mantis we were just admiring.

Mantis it shall be.

Mantis

Big Abs and Clawless Crays‏

Hii Yeee,

I know I just sent a story yesterday, but I’ve got to get these few off before we leave for our next adventure…see if you can guess what it is?  I’ll tell you in a few days if you can’t.

After surfing at Trial Harbor it is becoming quickly apparent that west coast Tazzie locals are absurdly friendly and generous.  Not just in that everyone says G-day but in that out surfing, its just me and a local guy and he says, “surf like a pig man, take every wave you can, I’ve already surfed this morning, I’ll just pick off the ones you don’t go for.”  Now who on earth has ever heard a surfer say that, wouzers, like another planet. 

Our visit to Granville harbor proved no exception.  Upon acquainting ourselves with the town and surrounding area and being sufficiently sure there weren’t any good waves we were missing out on we decided to go for a bit of a snorkel, see if we could find any abalone in the bay.  (For anyone who’s never heard of abalone, it is a shellfish that the Japanese market pays 100 dollars a kilo for, tasty stuff.)  It’s the middle of the day and the heats got us pretty lethargic, so much so that all our snorkeling gear is strewn about and we’re just loungin in the van, out of the sun, trying to motivate to pull our wetsuits on.  Just happens we’re parked close to the local boat ramp and over walk a curious looking fellow, obviously he’s a fisherman or at least part fisherman as he’s just hopped out of his boat but he doesn’t look like the stereotypical Aussie fisherman, around 100kg he’s wearing rubber booties, real short shorts torn up to the waist on one side, a black skull covered biker t-shirt that reads, ‘let those who ride decide’ and a black felt cowboy had, and by the way he walks he looks more like he’s just stepped out of a rodeo than a boat, “surfed any waves around Granville yet?” is the first thing out of his mouth, mind you it is snorkeling gear all over the ground not surf gear.  Maybe he’s a mind reading, motorcycle, rodeo, fisher man with really short shorts, I think.

“Na,” we answered, “couldn’t really figure out where the breaks were.” 

“Ah we got heaps a waves round here, right there” pointing to the middle of the bay “ gets really good, holds up to 30 feet, nice spot to practice on big waves cuz you can sit wide and just pick off the ones you want, but a couse the swell is to small right now.” 

Looked like our renaissance man was a big wave surfer too.

“Going out diving?”  “Yah we’re gunna look for some abs”  “right over there in the middle of the bay you’ll find plenty a dinner plate sized uns,” he says forming his hands into a large circle.

Mind you we’ve hardly ever seen abs half that size.

“Lots of crayfish too, just got to know how to look for em, dig around in the seaweed you know.”

That was enough to get us fired up to pull our wetsuits on and plop into the water, free dinner. 

Then…something that stifeled our enthusiasm a bit, we asked him what he’d been fishing for off the boat?  “O mostly crayfish and we set nets for small fish too, but we got a great white shark tangled up in the net two days ago, 13 feet long, probably just a juvenal, it was already dead when we tried to pull it in, had to drag it to shore and have a backhoe lift it out of the water it was so heavy.  Its jaw was so big I fit my entire head and shoulders inside. 

13 feet long, that’s like stacking my twin on my head and getting him to raise his arms!!!! Holy *$&%*$(#*#&#*@)@)*&%&$   #&*#(%$)$%)$*#&#^@^@%#$&, maybe we didn’t want to go snorkeling after all.

“Ooo… so it was far off shore I hope,” gasped Rachael.

“O no, not at all, just right over there” he pointed.  “Any who I’m off.”

We sat there a while thinking about the shark and trying to decide how badly we really need a free dinner, we did have plenty of rice and baked beans.  Then he appeared again, “ahh you guys will probably never find any crayfish, its impossible unless you know what your doing, here you can have this one my uncle and I just pulled in.” he said, plunking a big live cray into our wetsuit box.  “If your sticking around this afternoon I can take you up the coast for a surf if you like.”  “Sure” we replied.

Staying in only knee-deep water and only a few seconds flipper from the shore we successfully retrieved some abs. 

Hoping into Andrews truck it was a wild track out to the surf break, 4 wheel low, churning sand, over dunes, through mud pits and over huge jagged rocks.  While in the truck we learned Andrew was 27, left school at age 11, worked on ab boats, fishing boats, driven tour boats, was a plastered and currently worked in a nickel mine, he owned 2 houses, his own truck, boat, Harley, was a competitive bull rider (which explained the hat, but still not the short shorts) and was getting married in two months.  Probably the most friendly person we’ve ever met traveling, who just gives strangers an 80 dollar crayfish and takes them surfing.

Arriving at the surf spot, while pulling our wetsuits on Andrew asked, “you guys got a mobile (ie. cell phone).”  “Na, we didn’t bring ours cuz its Optus which doesn’t work anywhere in Tazzie.” 

“Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t have bars, you can use any phone to call the shark attack emergency line, you’ve heard of that?”

“Your joking right?” says Rachael.

“O no, not at all, its 112 or 122 I can never remember, call it from anywhere and they’ll send a helicopter, ahh doesn’t matter,” he said as he jogged off towards the beach.

What the hell??  We seriously contemplated not going out but what we’re we gunna do sit around twiddling our thumbs and watch him catch waves all alone.  I think not!! Against our better judgment we went out anyways.

Waves were pretty good and no one was nipped, successful on all accounts.

The Abs and cray were delicious!

Love from the UnderSide,

MUD

Howdy Dudy,

Did yall git the story about the fish(shark)? A few people have told me they didn’t, if not lit me know and I’ll send it on.

Here’s another story about Tazzie, hope you likes it…..minorly crass language wanrning, rated pg13...

Since our last fishing adventure the wiffie and I have been doing some more thorough exploration of Tazzie, what a crazy place.  Literally just today got up; 2 jackets, long underwear, wool shirt, hat, 2 hoods, then one hour later I was wearing shorts and no shirt. 

Never mind, that’s boring stuff, this isn’t a story about the weather it’s a story about mud!!!  Tazzie mud!!

Mainly, as there’s been absolutely zero surf and its been so damn cold we’ve been doing lots of bush walking (ie hiking). 

Now the first thing that comes to peoples minds when you talk about bush walking in Tazzie is mud, not just kids mud that makes your shoes dirty but real mud, the kind you can disappear into.  We kept hearing stories about multi day walks where you spent a good part of your day literally covered head to toe in mud and we’d seen brochures with big warnings about the treterous mud.  ‘A muddy puddle’ you might interject, ‘why not just walk around it?’  Because the reply would come, ‘that’s just not what you do!’  Just like you don’t cut off switch backs out west and you keep off the fragile moss in the white mountains, in Tazzie you straight through the puddle to cut back on trail impact and reduce erosion.  A lot easier said then done I might add.  Imagine this, your feet are nice and warm and your socks are dry, your walking along enjoying a beautifully sunny day when all of a sudden you come across a bogie patch in the trail.  What do you do?  You could be a good bush walker and tromp right on through, guaranteeing your feet will be saturated for the next 6 to 8 hours of walking your gunna do, or…you could just take one step to the side, stand on that nice dry green bush and your feet would still be dry. But; what if everyone did that?  Pretty soon that nice green bush would die and the mud pit would become twice as wide, do that a few more hundred times and the mud pit, and the trail for that matter would be as wide as a school bus.  That’s exactly what started to happen to a lot of Tazzie’s most famous walks, life filled wetlands were quickly turning into ugly lifeless mud pits, walkers were trekking 100’s of meters out of their way just to get around them and inturn making the mud pit even bigger, ok enough of that onto our mud experience.

So Rachael and I were on a four-day bush walk with Rachael’s sister Rebekah and her boyfriend Grant, both of whom are bushwalking guides in Tazzie.  As such Rachael and I were determined to be on our best behaviour, ie not walking around mud pits, even knowing all this its nearly impossible to deliberately let your feet get wet, it’s kind of like getting yourself to use a water sprayer to clean your bum instead of toilet paper, it just seems wrong.  If there’s a choice you’d just grab the TP and never try the bum sprayer, until one day you’re your travelling around Laos on motorcycles and you get food poisoning, then your bum is so sore from all the explosive die-o-ria that you just go ahead and try the damn bum sprayer…and to your amazement, its not half bad, in fact it is kind of nice, come to think of it, it’s down right amazing, you’d probably never use TP again if you had the choice, maybe install one in your own home. 

Kind of like walking all day with wet feet, sounds absolutely awful until you go ahead and try it, and once you have you realize its not half bad walking with wet feet, in fact it’s kind of pleasurable being able to just trounce straight through the mud bogs and river crossings.  But then you wouldn’t know unless you’d tried, and Rachael and I still hadn’t, we kept finding ourselves hop scotching around the mud when Grant and Beck weren’t looking…then came the moment of truth.  We were lagging a bit when we looked up and they were standing atop a little knoll waiting.  Weather deliberately as a test or just coincidently there happened to be a particularly wet section between them and us. What were we going to do?  Be mice or men?  Our feet were still dry and we hadn’t yet learned that having wet feet wasn’t the end of the world, ‘at the time it did kind of seem that way’, like being permanently defeated by letting our feet get wet. 

Dumb struck like deer in the headlights we just stood there……..  Then…Rachael went first…….. what was she going to do?……..  I didn’t even know…...  It was something in between full blown blatant bush killing and deliberately sinking calf deep.  She didn’t get a triumphant cheer of success from the peanut gallery but she didn’t get scoffed at either, it was good enough.  Then……… it was my turn….. I couldn’t decide……….. I had three choices, around, through or something in between and none of them sounded attractive………. I really bloody didn’t want we feet!………. And then like a moment of clarity it came to me, take your shoes of!!  Holly shit!! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of that before.  “Watch this” I shouted, a raised shoe in each hand, as I stepped right into the center of the muddiest bit.  And watch they all did, watched as I virtually disappeared, instantly sinking waist deep, “holly f*&^ng shit” I yelled as the icy cold mud took my breath away.  Immediately realizing not only was I saturated but the camera was in my pocket a foot deep.  “F&#^$” I shouted again for the second time in less then one second, snatching it out of my pocket and pitching it at Rachael like a base ball, nearly taking her out.

Somehow the camera had survived, but me, I was still stuck in the pit and the three of them were all just standing there looking at me, as if trying to decide if they should be laughing or if they should run over to my rescue. 

I was the first one to laugh.

That was it, I’d learned my lesson, it wasn’t worth trying to keep your shoes dry, just go through the mud, having wet feet actually feels pretty nice. 

Now my problem was that I’d only brought that one pair of pants and no shorts; walked the rest of the day in my underpants. 

Hope everyone is Stupendous!!!!!!!

Love US!!!!!!