Christmas and other highs

A lot has happened since we last had a yarn with you. First, here's a little geography lesson: the vast majority of Australia's citizenry is confined to a slim 50 km corridor between the ocean and some formidable high country called The Great Dividing Range. Beyond this riot of rocky precipices, peaks, steep valleys and dense greenery is the dry, hot, and pretty flat Outback which represents almost all of the rest of the continent/country.

Summer here can be a whopper. When we don't have ocean breezes, we seek cooler temperatures in high places. The Blue Mountains west of Sydney are cool in more ways than one. It turns out they're not really mountains at all, but rather a high plateau, thrust up from a seabed millions of years ago and slowly eroded by that ever-patient element water into appallingly deep canyons, gorges, and valleys. Adding ethereal drama to our visit is a drifting mist. Now you see it, now you don't.

The path to Pulpit Rock clings to the edge of the world. Seeping water turns sections into quagmires. We would have to fly to avoid them, so we can only pick our best foot falls. The views, not to mention the climbs, are breathtaking. Some sandstone is eroded into very organic shapes.

By now the holidays are upon us, and it's time to join Jeanette and Barry for a genuine Aussie Christmas. They welcome us as part of the family and put us straight to work. There are endless dishes to wash, a job that suits our skills very well. Relatives and friends seem to number in the thousands, and the variety and quantity of food is mouthwateringly jawdropping (Don't try to say that three times fast).

On Christmas morning our Outback expertise is reflected in our gifts. Jeanette appears to be holding a bit of skimpy lingerie, but noooooo . . . it's a fly net for her head!

Until the first grandchild is born in about six months, Otis (okay, Oscar) the beagle remains a focal point. He even unwraps his own gifts. Smart as Snoopy.

The night after Christmas we four head into the bush for the promised Wombat Hunt. True to their word, we spot not just one, but several! Thank you Barry and Jeanette! They really do look like rolypoly stuffed toys. Watch those long toenails, though.

We ring in the new year in Canberra, the nation's capital. The story goes that to settle the dispute between arch rivals Sydney and Melbourne, a separate Australian Capital Territory (ACT), containing the planned city of Canberra, was created in 1911 in the mountains between them. We are extremely impressed with the layout of the city, the Captain Cook Memorial and spewing column of water on the huge lake, and our drive around the various embassies (including our own which is of handsome colonial architecture). Tours of Parliament House and the vast and riveting War Memorial museum are beyond excellent, as is our visit to the National Museum of Australia. Because of its remote location, many Aussies have not visited their capital and have hinted to us that it's dull, but not so! Go see it, mates, and allow several days.

Our poor Troopy is tiring of climbing steep roads and shows her distaste by overheating increasingly. A visit to an auto doctor results in a new radiator fan. Happy as mountain goats, we head into and around Kosciuszko Nat'l Park in the Snowy Mountains. Here you see The Couple from Snowy River.

Again the weather is a mix of clear skies and moody mist as we hike to the top of the world. Can you find Sally perched on the rock?

Several years ago 160 lightning strikes hit this area in a single storm resulting in a massive wildfire. Eucalyptus (gum) trees, of which there are hundreds of native varieties, are fire-resistant and have a unique method of rejuvenation. Shoots spring forth all over the trunk and branches, covering the trees in what is slangily called “wooly jumpers” (jumper means sweater or vest in the Australian language). As a tree recovers and grows leaves where they typically belong, on the ends of branches, they drop off of the trunk.

As we cross into the state of Victoria we drop down out of the cool mountains and move into hot, dry country again. We're pleased to have a brief chat with these 'roos resting in the shade of a roadside tree.

Enough heat. After a sweaty day we climb back up into more of The Great Dividing Range, this time in Alpine Nat'l Park. We climb steadily on twisting mountain roads, exclaiming over the scenery and how well the Troopy is performing with her new fan. Suddenly ...uh oh... she loses power, sputters, and dies. We are miles from anywhere, with no signal on our cell phone. Well, it's all an adventure, isn't it? Just what ARE the chances that Brett and Paul, a couple of fine fellows we had met, far away, a couple of days before should happen to drive along precisely there and then (along with a couple of extras: Sylvana and her son Max)? This time they're wearing halos. Brett knows a lot about vehicles, but our dilemma turns out to be a real head-scratcher. A couple of hours later, unable to fix it, they drive Art up to the summit of Mt. Hotham where there's a phone signal.

Having contacted a tow truck, they reluctantly leave us as evening is approaching. Eventually Peter arrives with his great big truck. More tinkering and head scratching. He tows us to the top so we can level out, in case that helps. Nope. So we coast down a bit to the seasonally-closed mountaintop ski area at Hotham Heights. Rain spits periodically. Peter thinks maybe we need a new fuel pressure pump. Off he drives. It's Saturday night, what are the chances? He returns with an electrical one which will serve the purpose until we can buy a normal one. Except, no, the engine still keeps dying. Luckily we're so far south and so high up; it's about 9:30 pm, but the sun has not yet quite set.

The diagnosis seems to be worsening, and we see potential dollar signs flying around. In a final, desperate act, Peter has Art blow air really hard with his pressure hose. Meanwhile, he's underneath, hugging the fuel tank. As he feels it beginning to bulge, he hears a bit of a thunk. Ahh, the sweet sound of success. Apparently a chunk of debris lodged in the fuel line. Blown free, the Troopy starts right up without even an apology. Later Paul and Brett call to see if they should return to rescue us. Wow. We're bummed that we didn't photograph them. We spend the night with a glorious mountaintop view. In the morning we drive down to Peter's place where he drains the bottom of the fuel tank and puts in a new fuel filter. See how much fun we can have, all in less than 24 hours?