Hot Air Rising

By Matthew Taylor

Gap years are supposed to be fun! Yet when three friends, who have a knack of ending up in sticky situations, travel from a 1,000,000 acre sheep station in Outback Australia to The Surf Coast on the Great Ocean Road, to Prague and Việt Nam---they need all their unconventional skills to find a way out.

Ever had someone stand up

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639887170

Book preview

Chapter 57 ⁰

4 Squared

I awoke to the sound of gentle rustling and the lapping of water. Well, there were different types of lapping. Lying in my swag, I could distinguish the sound of little waves caressing the edge of the billabong and another lapping sound. The other sound wasn’t from Dusty. I slowly positioned myself in the swag for a better view. ‘Whoa!’ I thought. Not more than one metre away from me was a two-metre tall Red Kangaroo enjoying a quiet pre-dawn drink. I watched the beautiful scene with total awe until it was shattered – Dusty came hurtling back from wherever he had been roaming.

Oh, Dusty, I said. What did you do that for? as the big Red bounded off through the scrub. Dusty didn’t care, he was very pleased with himself as he nuzzled into the swag to encourage me to crawl out and join him.

This was the best place in the world. I have been camping here since I was twelve, and at the age of 4 squared, I still love it. Dusty was just a puppy then, and, even at that age, he knew something exciting was going to happen when I packed the swag, rifle, water bottles and a little food. We would then hike for three hours, fifteen kilometres, on a bearing of two seven nine degrees from the homestead to Paradise, my name for the billabong. The billabong used to be a bend in the nearby river, but after some flooding (which was the only time the river had water in it), the river straightened and left behind a semi-annulus shaped billabong that had an inside radius of about five hundred metres, an outside radius of about five hundred and fifty metres, and was on average two metres deep. There is about a one hundred metre wide ring of scrub that surrounds the billabong. It is an oasis in the desert and a registered wildlife sanctuary, which means – no grazing, hunting and no removing the water. The billabong is always filled by a spring from deep in the ground.

Okay, okay, Dusty, I am getting out, I said to Dusty as I listened to the sound of the birds singing their early morning songs.

It is a favourite watering hole for myriads of birds, native and migrating, and animals, native and non-native. The non-native animals are shot, and if it happens to be a rabbit, then that is supper. My shooting is very accurate; the animals do not suffer – death comes quickly. The non-native animals decimate the native animals and their food source, which upsets the native animals’ food chain, and many native species are becoming extinct. Culling non-native animals is me doing my bit for the environment.

At dusk, the billabong is full of noise as numerous birds such as blue bonnets, mulga parrots, white browed babblers, honey eaters, red-capped and hooded robins, rufous whistler, budgies and grass wrens come to drink before settling down for the night. Migratory birds also use the billabong as their summer vacation spot when it is winter in the Northern Hemisphere. My favourite is the Pacific Golden Plover, Pluvialis fulva. This bird is capable of flying from the Northernmost parts of Russia and Alaska to Australia, a distance of 13,000 km, with only one stop! They refuel in Saemangeum, South Korea, or the Yangtze River estuary in China. Around fifty million birds migrate from their breeding grounds in the Arctic to Australia to avoid the harsh winter, and head back again when it is spring in the Northern Hemisphere, navigating by the moon, sun and stars – incredible!

I am in awe of them, and I was inspired to also fly, and, on my 4 squared birthday, I gained my wings. I now have a restricted pilot’s licence. Next year I will gain my private pilot’s licence, which will allow me to fly anywhere in the world in a Cessna 172. I look forward to that.

The sun was rising as I started to crawl out of my swag, knowing full well what I was in for. Dusty was crouching and quivering with excitement, ready to pounce on me and deliver a slobbery kiss.

The sun’s rays started to fill the landscape with rich, vivid colours that would leave Van Gough in awe, starting on the horizon flowing effortlessly across the undulating landscape towards the billabong. Sunrise is my favourite part of the day as it fills me with renewed vigour, a sense of calm and knowing that life is good. At boarding school in the drab grey buildings, a sunrise always lifted my spirits, even if the sun was blocked by the grey clouds of Victoria. Here in the middle of one million acres of Australian Outback in South Australia, which my family has called home for three generations, there are beautiful blue skies for most of the year – today was no exception. A light, refreshing breeze orchestrated the dried leaves into a beautiful sunlit dance as the warm light reached my camp and continued on, filling the surrounding shrubs and rocky outcrops with the most beautiful hues.

Where have you been, old boy? I ask as I rough him up a bit and try to avoid his long slobbery tongue. In answer, Dusty just sat down, looked up at me with his soft eyes, tongue lolling to one side and tail creating a minor dust storm. If a butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon could set off a chain reaction that creates a destructive storm, then what must Dusty’s tail create? I muse as I stir the campfire back to life.

Right, Dusty, it is time for breakfast. There is leftover rabbit for you, and for me, I feel like some fish. The native Australians, Australian Aboriginals, taught me how to fish with a sharpened stick. I waded into waist-deep water, with my stick poised, ready to throw it at a passing fish. I waited very still and quiet. Dusty was giving a little whimper from the shore as he was not allowed in while I was fishing. When fishing with a spear, the tricky part is to get the angle right due to the fish not being where you expect it to be. The light entering the water changes direction, and therefore objects under the surface are not where you would expect.

I knew how to allow for this refraction, and the crystal clear water made it very easy for me – the Freshwater Catfish did not have a chance, yet it still struggled trying to escape from the end of the stick as I carried it from the water. A quick sharp blow stopped the misery. With the whole, gutted, and descaled fish cooking in the hot coals, I packed up camp, then Dusty chased the stones I skipped on the top of the water. As he chased them, he let out yelps of excitement. In the shallow water, Dusty retrieved the stones by dunking his whole head under the water, pulling them out, vigorously shaking off the water and dropping the stone at my feet, ready for another round. I didn’t teach him this; he figured it out all by himself!

Fresh fish cooked in hot coals is just so tasty. The fish melted in my mouth, and with my eyes closed, I became aware of the beautiful aromas of the cooked fish, its taste, the feel of the fish, the noise of my chewing. Such a nice way to appreciate nature’s gifts.

Okay, Dusty, time to head home, and with that he was off. From now until home, I was only going to grab a glimpse of Dusty as he weaves here and there, following any scents that intrigued him. Well, actually, all scents intrigue him. He is basically a nose on four legs. Trained to follow scents but do no harm. Feral cats were fair game, though. As we walk off, I glance back and notice the natural order of the billabong return – a copperhead snake slithers towards the water and numerous small animals that were hiding from Dusty return for a drink. It is as if the animals sense a huge bubble around us, therefore, keeping their distance and as we walk off, our presence dissipates, allowing nature to be in balance again – so long as nothing is left behind.

As we went over the brow of a hill, I again looked back at the billabong and noted a willy willy forming where we were camping, erasing all footprints from our stay. Willy willies are fun and harmless dust vortexes caused by hot air rising from the ground. They can be as small as two metres in height to a thousand metres in height. The willy willy rising from the ground is completely different from tornadoes that descend from the clouds.

Five kilometres from the homestead, Dusty and I sprint home. I am only sixteen, but I do enjoy exercising – and running in the Outback is one of them. The boarding school I attend has a huge sports programme, and I participate in as many activities as I can. My favourites are Rowing, Geocaching/Cross Country, Martial Arts, Kitesurfing and Field Hockey.

Despite carrying my camping gear, we covered the five kilometres in twenty minutes, an average speed I am quite happy with. Arriving hot, sweaty, panting and covered in red dust, Dad spots me.

Ah son, you are back, excellent, can you go to the north eastern paddock? There is a hole in the fence near the watering hole, which I would like you to repair.

That’s Dad, always straight to the point. The homestead is from his side of the family. He was born and bred here and has always worked the land. His education was initially via School of the Air. School of The Air delivered primary and early secondary lessons to children that lived in remote areas of Australia via radio. He was able to talk to the teacher and other students, and once a year he and the other students would travel to Alice Springs to meet their teacher and classmates. School of The Air and these gatherings were quite often the only way children in remote areas would be able to socialise.

I am well, thanks, Dad. How are you?

Yeah, I know you are well, you are always well… I am good, thanks, son. So can you get to the north east paddock and fix that fence?

I wanted to test the dune buggy before I go back to school.

Do you have faith in your dune buggy?

Yes.

Well, take it and test it along the way. We need to move the sheep back into that paddock tonight. You will need about fifty metres of wire, the wire strainers, a couple of main posts, ten star posts, and the sledge hammer.

Okay, I’ll go and get the gear. Come on, Dusty, let’s go.

Walking to the machinery shed, Mum spots me from the stables, Hello Q.

Yep, that’s my name. Why on earth they called me Q, I have no idea. Is it because they had to queue to be seen at the doctors when Mum was pregnant with me? Or was it because I was born right on cue? Or did it have something to do with a Star Trek series with Captain Janeway and this alien called Q? Never had a straight answer from either of my parents.

How was your camp Q?

Beautiful as ever, thanks, Mum. Did you miss me?

Of course we did. We always miss you.

Yeah, right, pipes up a voice from the back of the stables.

Hello, Sis, why don’t you ever come out with me?

And come back looking like that. I don’t think so, she says, laughing.

Looking up and down at the state I was in, I could see her point. She loved to study and was back from Uni for the holidays. Farming wasn’t her thing, although she does miss the homestead when she is not here. Torn between the two at the moment, I would say.

Well then, Elizabeth, why not come with me to the NE paddock and help me with the fence.

Mum wants me to finish tending to the horses.

I am taking the dune buggy, and you can have a drive.

"That’s okay, you can go, Elizabeth. I will ask one of the Jillaroos to do it," says Mum knowing Elizabeth loves to ride around the property.

Yippee, says Elizabeth. Thanks, Mum.

Yep torn between the two, I muse. Elizabeth, I will meet you at the house shed in fifteen minutes.

As I was walking off, Mum shouts, I made a dozen meat pies last night. Grab your sister and yourself some before you go.

The machinery shed and the tool shed are my favourite places around the homestead. The Machinery shed houses our tractors, four-wheel-drives, trail bikes, quads, pumps and the Cessna 172. My favourite mode of transport out of all of this is… well, it is currently the dune buggy.

This year I was in grade ten, and for the International Baccalaureate, Middle School Program, you have to do a Personal Project. Well, I love to work with metal, and Dad being a qualified welder, taught me how to cut and join metal. So for my project, I built a dune buggy, and today is its inaugural run.

I threw my gear into the tray of the buggy and jumped into the driver’s seat, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation. Fortunately, you are allowed to drive on your own land without a licence, which I have been doing since I was eleven. The earliest I can obtain a licence is eighteen, which was two years away. The engine turned over very easily and I allowed it to warm up for a minute or so, then I was off. Fifty metres later I was at the tool shed.

The tool shed has everything that a small metal workshop has. A lathe, welders, work benches, pulleys, a pit for working on the machinery, vices, tools for working with metal and timber, gardening utensils, equipment and spare parts for the bores, and of course the fencing material amongst other hardware such as nails, bolts, screws, irrigation pipes, which you just might need in the middle of nowhere. Oil, petrol, diesel and aviation fuel were kept in another shed a long way from all of this.

With the fencing and fencing gear, I headed to the house, which was another hundred metres. I went to the fridge to grab the pies. The fridge is also one of my favourite places. It is a walk-in fridge, like restaurants have, with a freezer at the back of it. Oh, I love it. Those big American Fridges have nothing on this. At the front, there is a normal fridge door so that you could access your day-to-day goods. To the side there was another door that led into the walk-in fridge where our cured meats and groceries are kept, and at the back of that is a door to the freezer.

I placed the pies and water in the esky, then loaded them into the dune buggy. Now all I needed was my sister and Dusty. Dusty seemed to have wandered off, probably to cool off in the garden dam. I gave a whistle and both turned up. Mmm, that worked well I thought with a smile on my face.

Ready? I asked.

Yep, answered Elizabeth.

‘Why a dune buggy?’ people always ask, especially my teachers. ‘How will you do it?’

‘Well,’ I always replied, ‘that is the idea of the project – to research how to do it and write a process journal about it. The end product is not as important as the process.’ However, I was determined to have an end product. I did not manage to have it in running condition for my report; however, over this summer break I finished the buggy.

The dune buggy started as a 1982 four-wheel-drive Westfalia VW Campervan. A Grey Nomad couple were passing through our property two years ago, on their way to the red centre. Before leaving the homestead, we asked them to contact us when they reached the next town. We expected them to contact us within a couple of days, this did not happen. We contacted their destination, no one there had seen a campervan come through. The outback is a harsh place, and sometimes it is hard to tell where the roads are – we were concerned for their safety. Mum, Dad and I (oh, and of course, Dusty) went out on the motorbikes searching the possible routes they could have taken. Unfortunately, the Cessna was at Port Augusta, having its one hundred hour engine strip down and rebuild.

Dad eventually spotted the roof of the camper in a creek bed. They were about forty-two kilometres from the homestead, in a part of the property which is quite serene and relaxing. Although the creek is dry and has been for over four years, the eucalypts on the banks are stunted yet still quite healthy. This section of creek has two-metre-high banks and a flat bottom, which is roughly ten metres wide and reasonably well compact. To cross the creek, there is a narrow track on one side, and one hundred and ten metres further upstream, there was another narrow track on the opposite bank.

Over our radios, Dad told us where to meet him. Together we arrived at the camper to the sight of the Grey Nomads sitting by their camper sipping cups of tea, quite relaxed and unfussed. I could see why they were so relaxed – it was a beautiful day with a light breeze, insects humming in the nearby trees, birds flitting here and there, shade and a general harmony to the whole scene.

What are you doing here? Dad says in a slightly agitated voice. You should be at your next destination by now.

As yes, said the lady. We would have been if the old girl had not broken down.

Dad inspected the camper, and sure enough, it wasn’t going anywhere with its broken axle. When the axle broke, it changed the dynamics of the camper causing it to swerve into an embankment, damaging one side of the body, and then bounced back into the middle