Thursday  26th April 2007

   6am. Raining. Just like when I woke up yesterday. Not heavy. Not even light. But steady.

   I like to play with the words for a group of 'things'. This is what I did this morning while I had another "lie in" waiting for the weather to make up its mind. I sorted the words for rain in ascending order.

   Mist. Mizzle (one of mine). Drizzle. Light. Medium. Heavy. Torrential. Right now it is "Mizzle". And, of course, the strength of the wind can lift the effect of any of these to a higher level. We automatically assign one of these when we need to be out in it. You could also assign an amount of time you could be out in it, with or without covering, before getting too wet. Stay for a long time in mist with no wind and little covering. Just a mad dash of a second or two in heavy rain, and get your outer clothing wet.

   Crazy to spend time thinking about this? Not really. Nothing else to do anyway.

   And I have a decision to make. I had selected and purchased what I considered to be excellent wet weather walking gear. A long plastic top with a hood, big sealable pockets, and velcro tabs as well as zippered front. My long plastic pants, with elastic at the ankles, cover down to the tops of my boots. Even my backpack comes with a good looking blue cover.

   But none of this is tested. Well, not in the rain. I have taken to wearing the plastic top as protection against the morning cold, specially if there is a wind. It is very effective, but gets too sweaty after an hour or so walking.
   
   Just after 7 it had stopped, or at least dropped to a mist. I waited half an hour without further change and decided to "do it". I crawled out and checked the sky. Ominous. The only word to describe what I saw. Not an angry sky, not thundery, or blustery, or even squishy under foot. But decidedly OMINOUS. As far as the eye could see it was thick overcast. Continuous, horizon to horizon, dark grey and not a hint of where the sun was, although it had risen.

   A large Northern Cyprus 5 metres away was totally dry underneath. I dragged out my pack and belly bag and placed them under the tree and gathered up the "outside" stuff like water bottles and solar panel. My wet weather top and pants are in a side pocket, so I got them out and put them on. I carried all the gear from the tent to the pack and laid it out. I had to put the tent in first as that is the last thing I need during the days walk.

   The orange outer covering of the tent was drenched. I have a separate "stuff sack" for this as it is often wet with dew. Normally, I would hang the outer over a fence or tree limb to "drip dry" for 20 minutes while I packed up but that was not on this morning. I pushed it into its sack, soaking wet, and stowed it at the bottom of the pack. Then in went a 3 litre water bottle. Next I unclipped the tent from the frame noticing that it was completely dry and packed it away. Then the tent framework was "unassembled" and it went into its cover and into the pack. The last of the "camp" was the ground sheet, also very dry, into its cover followed by the radio gear wrapped in the towel, the stuff sack of "general equipment" and finally the food pack.
   
   After I had finished with the inside, I added the two DBA flags (with the cloth flag wrapped on the 2 ft stick) into their position on the outside of the pack and an empty 3 litre water bottle. Then the rolled up ground mat onto the outside at the bottom of the back on special straps which hold it onto the sleeping bag compartment. Oh, and my thongs get these straps threaded through them and hang off the bottom of the ground mat. I stowed my hat inside and pulled up the hood of the plastic top.

   The mist by this time had progressed back to the "mizzle" stage. I put on the belly bag and solar panel then the pack, wiggling and hefting to settle the weight and gracefully pirouetting ("a spin of the body, especially one performed in ballet on tiptoe or on the ball of one foot " Encarta.) as I checked the area under the tree as well as the general camp site for "leftovers".

   Then I took it off again. I forgot the bloody rain cover for the pack.

   Fortunately, I didn't have to unpack to get the cover. It lives in its own compartment in a zippered pocket in the flip top of the pack. This is for small items that you may need at any time. Like a wallet, phone, cigarette lighter, toilet paper, el-cheapo swiss pocket knife or first aid kit. I unzipped and pulled out the cover and unraveled it. It was bright blue, light but strong and had elastic sides to allow it to hug right into the pack after surrounding it.

   But, it didn't. Well, it would've if I didn't have the flag poles, water bottle and the bloody great, rolled up, ground mat with thongs hangin' off the arse! At the end of the day, with the benefit of hindsight, I should have put the flags and bottle inside. I could have made them fit. But I didn't. I fitted the cover as best I could, favouring the top to keep the light rain out and only half covering the ground mat. Actually it looked pretty good. Emphasis on the word "pretty". The bright blue was eye catching.

   More heaving, wiggling and hefting, and graceful pirouetting, and I was on my way. Ready for whatever the day could throw at me. Rain, wind, sleet, snow. Jon Muir would be proud of me.
   
   YUK!! Back to reality. The ground on the camp site and under the tree was not dry but was hard and had a light covering of leaves and twigs.

   But the road was another matter altogether. It was a "gravel" road but that means gravel mixed with clay. Add water and you get what I mean by YUK!

   Within a few steps I had half an inch of clay stuck to the bottom of my boots. There were corrugations in the road and a few of these had a tiny puddle but they were easy to dodge. But the sticky, clayey yuk was all across the road. Its what the road is made of. Where possible, I could walk off the road and that was solid but nowhere near as even as the road surface. I experimented with walking off road and on road and ended up changing between the two depending on the off road terrain.

  This was walking with a difference. On all my days so far, walking was just, well, walking. Except for the necessity to lift each foot in turn and put it down again slightly further forward,
"normal" walking is not a strenuous, mental exercise. You have all the time in the world to contemplate your navel and generally solve the world's most pressing problems.

   But this was different. Each step had to be placed on the driest, hardest, stoniest square foot of road that was within reach. And between each step look ahead and check for which part of the road looked the best in the long term. And don't forget to see what the going is like "off road".

   And the wind was coming up. By no means strong but added to the now drizzle, my hands were getting cold. I was able to hide them behind the solar panel out of the wind and rain but that was not fully effective.

   At 10.30, as I crested a hill, I saw a small notice board slightly off the road to the right. It had several square metres of corrugated iron roof over it and a small tank alongside to catch the runoff. It was open at the front and sides, and the back "wall" had national park notices advising tourists of the necessity of paying visiting and camping fees. It also displayed info about the historic hut 750 metres up a slight hill behind the shelter. It even had a name. "Dead Man's Hut".

   Hmm. I wondered if I should join him. I was drenched from head to toe. The rain was getting in around my waste and what the rain didn't get, my perspiration from within my "plastics" did. It was also running down onto (and into) my boots and even up past the elastic bottoms of the pants and my socks were soaking wet. My boots were full and every step for the last hour was accompanied by a SQUISH. I decided on a "morning tea" break and put my pack onto the only dry bit of ground for miles and stood reading the signs. I couldn't sit (no seat) and the shelter offered by the small roof was "standing still" space only.

   I'm generally pretty good at making decisions. Actually very good. But here I was in a situation without the benefit of decision making skills. I had to go on. I looked at the map and was happy to see that ranger Tom's Gum Creek station was just under 5km ahead. He would have told his parents to expect me, so although I had no immediate acceptable refuge, there was light at the end of my tunnel.

   I packed up and squished on.

   There were cars, well 4WDs, some with caravans, maybe a couple per hour. One or two stopped to see if I had enough water:-) or wanted a lift (thanks, but no thanks). But the majority just sailed on past. Most not slowing or even moving to one side. As soon as I heard them coming I had to waddle under the weight of the pack, taking small, deliberate steps and get several meters off the road into the scrub. As they hurried past, sliding, wipers swishing, spraying mud everywhere I could imagine;

   "What the *&^#$ was that?"  breaking the concentrated silence inside. I still had a some sense of humour left.

   By the time I got to the Gum Creek station turnoff I had figured out my best approach. I would ask if I could shelter for half an hour and, out of their generous, country heart(s), they would offer a dry place to camp or even (gulp) a room. I slipped and slid the 500 meters up their entrance road and headed straight for the double carport with an empty bay next to a 4WD one tonne ute. There was enough dry floor space to swing two cats. Hmm. No dogs barking.

   I unpacked and took off my "wets" and spread them over the ute tray to drip. I scuffed my boots to get rid of the thick layer of clay clinging there but that was a waste of time. I then headed out from under the shelter to find someone and straight into thick clay again. I went to the front (garden) gate of the obvious house and stood at the gate and called "Anyone home?"

  No reply. And I realised that there was no "town" car in the empty bay. Maybe they are out. I went to several other buildings calling out but there was definitely no one home. I went back to the carport and found an upturned milk crate to sit on for a while and wait for their return. It was 1.30 and although Blinman was only 12km away and well within reach today, I didn't feel like getting back into the wet gear and going on. I preferred to dry out here overnight and move out tomorrow, hopefully on a dryer road.

  But, the best laid plans of mice and men.... I was getting fidgety after 20 minutes. What if they didn't come back today? I couldn't camp here without permission. Tom did tell me that I was welcome and he would probably come back this afternoon or tonight. But if no one turned up, I would be forced (by my good conscious) to leave the property and camp outside their gate.

   Ahhh. I put on my wet plastics, belly bag, solar panel and pack, pulled on my hood and squished my way back to the main road. Time to move on.

   At last. I could see a significant settlement ahead. Blinman. Thank God for that. Well, as an atheist I can't say that. But I couldn't think of anyone else to thank. Maybe my one-foot-after-the-other method had something to do with it.

   But then, utter disappointment. A sign told me it was Apana station off to the left. Noooo. I was not taking this well. At least the road became bitumen here and the endless weight of the clay clogged boots was disappearing. I staggered, not necessarily tired but defeated. I had felt so relieved at finally arriving only to find that I hadn't, that I had to dig deep to press on.

   I passed the turnoff to Wirrealpa station to my right, where I would be heading tomorrow. I could see that it was back to dirt, or would it still be clay? The good news was that it was only 34kms and I was welcome there as I had met Warren at the Rawnsley Park opera. From there is was a bit over 100kms to Arkaroola resort (caravan park). These were relatively easy stages if I could dodge the rain.

  I could see more groups of buildings ahead but I did not think they were Blinman as they were small groups and scattered, more like Apana station, but not as big.

   But eventually I passed a sign facing the other way displaying the road conditions to various places and whether the roads were open to traffic. I could see that they had not had time to change the one I had just come up. Or maybe four wheel drives could handle it ok. These signs are placed just out of town so I knew I was just about there.

   The road dipped down to cross a creek (large, but dry) and up the other side to swing round a bit to the right and come into the main street of  Blinman. Well, the only street of Blinman. A general store, post office (sort of), pub, caravan park/camping area (sort of), school, library (sort of) and a couple of private houses. And then the road continued on out of town to the Blinman mine and points beyond. All bitumen.

   It was still raining and I propped on the pub verandah in a metre wide dry space with a bench seat and started to unpack and disrobe. The door of the public bar opened and a head popped around and said

   "Wanna beer mate? You look like you could use one." It was a question, unmistakably from an aussie.

   "Ah. Thanks. I'd love one and I probably need one, but I signed the pledge years ago." But not wanting to lose the moment I hurried on with "But I'd love a hot coffee."

   "Done. And a hamburger, I bet?"

   "Sure. Thanks." I smiled, looking down. I certainly would appreciate the coffee and food but the gesture was overwhelming. He had seen me out through the misty window while he was sitting at the bar. He had no sooner withdrawn and two other guys came out.

   "Saw you on the road," says one. "You collecting for charity or something?"

   I was just getting out of my plastics so I pointed to the DeafBlind logo on my "T" shirt. "Yeah. DeafBlind Association." I said, not finishing before he had a $5 note in his hand. And his mate had a ten.

   "Here. You deserve it."  And they headed towards their cars. There were about 8 cars out front, all 4WDs.

   "Would you like a receipt?" I called out.

   "Nah. You're right mate."

   "I'll put them on a general receipt for Blinman" I said, expecting there would be more.

   Then the 'wanna beer mate?' bloke re-appeared. Ten dollar note in hand.

   "Name's Richard. Coffee's waitin' for yer inside." A lovely man. "You look ratshit." And he got into his vehicle and was gone.

   I know what gobsmacked means, but I have to say this is the first time I felt that it applied to me.

  Inside the greeting got better. The coffee was on the bar. The very aussie bloke behind the bar says

   "Here's your coffee, mate. It's paid for."

   "Tony," he says as he sticks out a great hand. "Tom said you were comin'. He and Lisa were here for dinner last night. But we didn't expect you today. It's miserable out there. I'm Tom's brother-in-law. You better stay in a room." And before I had recovered from the torrent of information he was gone. Round the back, out through a door and I was left standing there. Gobsmacked again! But the coffee was just right.

   He was back again. "Take room one." He says, handing me a key on an oversized tag. "Just across the road. Come back when you're ready. When the cook starts at 6, you've got a hamburger and chips comin'."

   I'm sure I mumbled my thanks. It's what I would do. But I don't remember it. It was like being engulfed in a willy willy. I finished my coffee and obeyed the backhand flick of Tony's fingers indicating that I should hightail it out of there and over to room one and get out of my dripping clothes.

   What a relief. I was inside a room. There was no rain. Or wind. I had pulled everything out of my pack after I set the air conditioner to reverse cycle to heat the room. Stuff was scattered everywhere. It was all wet. The receipt book was wet. The sat phone manual was wet. Every article of clothing I had was wet. The pack was wet, outside and in. I had no dry socks. My lovely shoes were wringing wet. I propped them up on their toes against a wall to let the worst run off. I stripped off and headed for the shower. A hot shower. Luxury.

                    

   I stayed for about 3 months in the shower, letting the day wash away. Eventually I hopped out and dried off with the large, fluffy towel on the end of the bed. A bed! I had a lie down for 10 minutes but had to get up or I wouldn't be able to after a few more minutes.

   I picked through my undies and found the driest pair. Ah well. Sort of like putting on wet bathers. Not quite, but you get the idea that it was not what I would have liked after that shower. My spare shorts, which were tucked away in the pack, were too wet to wear. Remarkably, the shorts I had been wearing were damp around the waste band but otherwise ok. I had draped my Husky walking shirt in front of the airflow from the front of the air conditioner and it was also usable. Then the thongs which were wet but they didn't matter. I carried no jumper or other warm top, so I grabbed my wallet and dashed through the rain across to the pub. I was not the best dressed guy in town but 100% on how I must have looked when I arrived just over an hour ago.

   I went into the office entrance as I could see a public phone in there. I rang Bill and gave him a quick idea of what I had gone through and that I was safe and in excellent company. There would be no radio schedule tonight and I would phone him again in the morning and tell him all the gory details.
   
   I had my hamburger and chips, another hot coffee and I could feel myself slowly returning to human form again. I mingled with the small crowd for an hour or so but my mind was on getting horizontal, so I said early "good nights", and thanks, and headed off to room one.

   But I couldn't get to sleep. My mind and heart wouldn't let me go. It was sure relaxing, lying there relatively dry and warm listening to my radio. I finally drifted off at midnight.

   I am beginning to understand why it is sometimes called "adventure" walking.
   
   
       
   Tomorrow, more rain and a big laundry day