Life Happens

Leaving Our Legacy

blue_skies — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 16:33:00 GMT

Having come through sub-tropical rainforests, learned to drive on the other side of the road, squished squeaky sand between our toes at beach towns, slept in the chilly high-altitude tablelands, fossicked for treasure in opal mining towns, driven through the great outback, and hiked through yet more national parks, before seeing the ocean again along the great ocean road, we feel we’ve managed to see a small but pretty diverse chunk of this wonderful country of Australia.

And having seen the critters at night, gone into the opal mines, caught some yummy fish for dinner, listened to the mining bells chiming through Broken Hill, toured the inside of a Royal Flying Doctors emergency plane, and enjoyed the hospitality of oh so many people we have come across, we also feel we’ve managed to meet a few of the characters that live here and get a feeling for the pulse of the place.

So when set with the task of leaving something with the van; something that characterizes our trip and says something about us, we were torn.

Do we leave a chunk of opal we fossicked for? Nah. It’s mostly potch, and if you don’t look closely you’d think it’s just a rock with some shiny blue stuff.

Do we leave some fish? Nope. Caught it and ate it already.

Do we leave sand from our squeaky beach? Rather not. Gets between your toes something fierce.

How about a kangaroo, since we got close enough to pet one? No can do. I doubt that future ambassadors would appreciate this furry friend as a travel companion in the van, despite its cuteness.

If we had to choose a place or activity that was a true highlight for us in our six-week adventure, that place would be Lightning Ridge. With its quirky characters and artistic-yet-gruff feel, we were delighted every minute of every day of our visit. Among other things what made Lightning Ridge special for us were the amazing people we met at the Rotary meeting and the subsequent whirlwind of new friends and great times that ensued. We would have stayed a week if we didn’t have about 3,000 more kilometers of ground to cover in a limited time.

The culmination of our Lightning Ridge adventure took place while immersed in the Black Queen experience. Not only do we now count Gale and Roger as friends of ours, but their home and the brilliant show they put on struck a chord in us. We don’t know how or when it will come to pass, but we don’t feel we are finished with Lightning Ridge just yet.

And so the legacy we leave with the van, the little bit of character that future World Nomads Ambassadors can enjoy as they create their own adventure, is a memento from the Black Queen: a handy magnet, featuring none other than the Black Queen herself. This design is also apt I might add, since many a dark evening was passed playing cards in the van by candlelight.

The Black Queen stayed with us in our hearts long after our departure, and now it can stay in the van too!

We would like to thank all our sponsors for giving us such a unique opportunity to see a slab of Australia for free, and we look forward to our remaining 10 months in this amazing country. We won’t be as easy to spot without our trusty colourful van, but we’ll be around.

As the Australians say: No worries.

Gallery: great ocean road

blue_skies — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 16:28:00 GMT

Lonely Planet Great Guidebook Moment: Great Ocean Road

blue_skies — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 16:20:00 GMT

As the road south from the climbing and trekking Mecca of Grampians National Park spilled out onto the ocean a few hours later, we knew our World Nomads Ambassador adventure was coming to an end. But it wasn’t a sad moment, because we plan to go out with a bang!

Australia’s Great Ocean road meanders from Warnambool on the western end to Melbourne in the east. In the next few days we would see an array of spectacular vistas covering the gambit from raging ocean on eroded limestone cliffs, to serene fishing villages, to surfing towns with the merchandise and awesome off-shore breaks to prove it. Although you can technically drive Great Ocean Road in a day, you’d miss almost all of it to stay on the winding road that some locals have dubbed the Great Bitumen Sea Snake for all its twists and turns.

We were sure we saw other couples in passing cars doing exactly what we were doing: gaping from the awesome scenery to the local guidebook (Lonely Planet of course) and maps, then frantically pointing at the nearest turn-off to snap a few hundred more picture-perfect moments.

Interestingly though, there weren’t too many other couples in other cars to identify with. Why, you ask? Well, characteristic of the drum we march to that nobody else can figure out, we’re here in the off-season. Yes, in the south of Australia, the winter weather does not make for plentiful tourists.

But we also like it that way thank you very much. Rolling into towns such as Apollo Bay is a treat when you can:

A) find parking

B) nab an ideal place to sit at the local waterfront café

C) take a picture of the scenery without a dozen wandering people unwittingly getting in the shot.

Sure, we had to wear a few extra layers, and swimming was on the very outer edge of possibility without hyperthermia kicking in after about a minute. (We chose not to test that theory). But at least we had lots of sunshine and none of the rain that is characteristic of the region at this time of year.

And sure, the towns didn’t quite have the life and energy you’d feel if it was peak-season, but we actually got a chance to chat with the locals more so than we might have otherwise.

While chatting with one such local shopkeeper in Apollo Bay, we asked him about what it is like to run a business in such a seasonal town.

“It’s getting to be a year-round thing, slowly. We’re seeing more and more tourists in the off-season, and the actual off-season is getting shorter every year,” he said. “But for avoiding crowds, you’ve come at the right time. We have a permanent population of 1,200 that swells up to 10,000 in the summer.”

Great for business, bad for nature photography and hermits.

Another up-side to being here in the off-season is the price. Accommodation can double with the peak-season, along with (we suspect) the prices at restaurants, cafes, and pretty much any establishment that relies on tourism. This is the first area we have visited in our trip that has an obvious dichotomy between off and peak-season rates, with no qualms about it.

Then again, now that we are firmly planted on the very southern coast of Australia, the difference between summer and winter weather is more prevalent. I can only imagine how glorious the Great Ocean Road would be at the height of summer in comparison to its temperate-but-blustery opposite.

Be that as it may, any visitor to the south of Australia should not miss the Great Ocean Road, no matter what time of year it is. Lonely Planet was right when they tell you to wind down the windows while driving this stretch of road to enjoy the “unique perfume of bush and beach, gums and saltwater.” In many ways, our journey along the Great Ocean Road is a combination and culmination of many of the adventures of our last six weeks in the World Nomads Ambassador van.

Lonely Planet Great Guidebook Moment: Brambuk Cultural Centre

blue_skies — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 15:55:00 GMT

Being from Canada, we feel right at home in Oz. We’ve said it before, and we’ll say it again.

Everywhere we turn, we see more and more similarities between Australia and Canada, and are amazed that two countries so far apart geographically can share so many commonalities.

One such common bond, and one neither country is particularly proud of, is the struggle with our respective countries’ aboriginal people, history, and culture. In settling both countries, our aboriginal people were ill-treated, not respected, and their history was largely erased instead of preserved.

The tragedy persists as now aboriginal people are left fighting for land, rights, and respect. Relations are strained at best, and although apologies have been issued by governments for historical blunders, there is a lot of ground to cover before everything is really okay again. Who knows – maybe things will never be okay again.

Before our journey into the outback, we were warned by some people of towns along the way that they considered unsafe to even stop at, much less chat with the locals (who were predominantly aboriginal). We were told not to make eye contact. We were warned of road-side ambushes, and told our fair share of horror stories – some possibly true, and others obviously not.

But knowing our own aboriginal issues back in Canada, we’ve always maintained that there are two sides to a story. So in many of the towns we have passed through, we’ve made a point of visiting the local aboriginal cultural centre in search of that balance. Some centres were informative, and others were not.

Which is why we were absolutely elated when we rolled into the Brambuk Cultural Centre in the heart of Grampians National Park. Free to all, and run in conjunction with Parks Victoria, this museum-cum-souvenir shop-cum-café is a place you could easily wile away a good chunk of the day.

So naturally, visiting Brambuk on the day of our departure from the Grampian mountains and spending the whole rainy morning there was heaven.

While walking through well put-together displays with nature’s sounds and landscape as the greatest backdrop of all, we took in a wealth of information about the history of the local aboriginal culture, tribes, hierarchy, and ways of living. And you know what? They knew what they were doing! They were well-organized, civilized, extremely knowledgeable of their land and animals, and very clean. In fact, we could stand to learn more than a few things from their historical ways!

We meandered through the displays, admired the local crafts and art for sale, pawed the books, and smelled the fragrant natural soaps. We chatted with the aboriginal employees at the centre, sipped some of the best hot chocolate we had ever tasted, and resisted the café’s menu of delightful bush-treats like natural herbal teas, crocodile, bush-tuk chutneys, and of course, kangaroo.

We were intrigued with Australia’s aboriginal culture prior to visiting the Brambuk Cultural Centre. But now our interests are only further piqued, as we search for a truth to the aboriginal history and people that lies somewhere between road ambushes and the nomadic tribal life of days gone by.

More Brilliant Caravan Parks

blue_skies — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 15:15:00 GMT

Pursuant to my earlier post on caravan parks, we have become quite acquainted with the likes of these travel stops as the weeks have progressed on our World Nomads Whirlwind Trip. And no two parks are the same, which is part of the charm of such travel.

When you check in at a big name chain hotel or motel, you know exactly what you’re going to get, right down to the brand of mints on the pillow. But even among franchised caravan parks (which are a rarity), you will get some terrific variety. Everything from the amenities, to the scenery, to the surroundings; it’s a crap shoot.

And unlike the variety of accommodations we saw in the guesthouses of Bangkok, the variations are all relatively appealing; it just depends on what you are looking for.

Like Forrest Gump said, “Caravan Parks are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Wait a minute. He didn’t say that. Ah well – something like that, I’m sure.

Since we are constantly on the move while in the World Nomads van, and since we enjoy the great outdoors, we tend to gravitate towards parks that are a little secluded and scenic. Not to say that our times smack dab in the middle of some of the towns we visited were bad – but it’s just not our idea of camping. For the permanent or long term residents of those parks though (and there are those in almost every caravan park), I’m sure being close to town is heaven on earth.

So when we rolled into the town of Mildura, we got a list of caravan parks, almost all of them directly across from the mall. Wireless internet access was a need since we hadn’t been online for a few days. So that alone became a deciding factor and brought forth a range of candidates. And the cost of the wireless internet ranged from $6/hour to over $20/hour.

While getting overwhelmed weighing options, nightly costs, and internet fees, we decided to fill up on petrol (that's "gas" for non-Aussie readers). While crossing the bridge over the pretty river, we saw a small sign for another caravan park, right on the river. We looked at each other.

“There’s no way they’ll have internet access,” I said. “But since we’re here, we may as well check it out.” It screamed of a more appealing atmosphere than the cramped city parks we had resigned ourselves to staying at.

As soon as we walked into the office of Buronga Riverside Caravan Park, we hit paydirt (and not the Opal kind). The atmosphere was great, the scenery spectacular, and the wireless internet: free. Praise be to the wireless internet gods; we found the one and only place in Australia to offer free wireless internet.

Needless to say, we stayed there. In fact, we were so impressed with the facilities and staff, we changed our plans of passing through to stay two nights there.

Our next stop was the Grampians: a national park close enough to both Adelaide and Melbourne to be a weekender’s Mecca. Nestled in the mountains with hundreds of walking trails and a charming little village atmosphere, we could see how it is counted among Australia’s little jewels.

And there too in the Grampians, the variety of accommodation for our little van was varied. We stayed in campsites with nothing more than a pit toilet and a fireplace. We also stayed at Parkgate Resort Holiday Park, a glorious top-notch facility with all the amenities you could want and more. And with a range of accommodations within the park ranging from tent sites to full cabins, amenities like the pool, dvd rentals, tennis courts, jumping pillow, and cafe are well utilized and appreciated.

We certainly appreciated such amenities; after camping for a few nights and smelling like campfire everywhere we went, a chance to wash up and enjoy some luxuries like a camp kitchen and dvds was a welcome treat.

As we press on and wrap up our trip, we continue to enjoy the mixed bag that caravan parks can be. No Trailer Park Boys episodes here…this is caravanning!

Gallery: Grampians National Park

blue_skies — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 15:08:00 GMT

The Mining Horns of Broken Hill

blue_skies — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 14:03:00 GMT

A long blare of a not-too-distant horn echoed throughout Broken Hill around 6:30pm, while we were preparing dinner. Shortly thereafter, a short blare of the horn followed.

Being of a volume and pitch similar to what we heard in Hawaii when the tsunami warning system was tested each month, we wondered what these horns meant. We were pretty sure that a tsunami wasn’t an immediate risk in Broken Hill.

Broken Hill, otherwise known as the “accessible outback”, is a destination, but not. Some of the key draws of Broken Hill aren’t the city itself; rather the surrounding areas. Between the beautiful outback surrounding Broken Hill, sculptures in the Living Desert, the national park to the north full of aboriginal sites, the quirky ghost town of Silverton (home to many movie sets including Mad Max), the mining town of White Cliffs where people live underground to escape the summer heat, and the expansive cattle stations, Broken Hill’s appeal largely lies in the area 100kms around the city.

The town of Broken Hill itself is a heavy mining community with over 100 years of history. With lodes of iron, zinc, silver, and other metals, the landscape of Broken Hill somewhat resembles an open pore on the face of the Australian outback landscape that has been squeezed for its underground riches. This is not a particularly savoury analogy I know, but then again mining – as necessary as it is – isn’t a particularly savoury industry.

That is not to say that the city of Broken Hill should be avoided, by any means. There are numerous wonderful art galleries to enjoy – almost too many proportionate to the town’s size, but you won’t hear me complaining.

One such art gallery, and one not to be missed, is the Silver City Mint and Art Centre, where you can not only purchase beautiful hand-crafted jewellery and art made by a variety of local talent, but you can also view the Big Picture. Which is just as it sounds - a beautiful big picture; in fact it is the world largest canvas painting at 100metres in length.

Broken Hill is also home to some of the most friendly people, and conversations with passing strangers sometimes last 10 minutes, or even through tea. In our time at Broken Hill we have been invited into people’s homes and hearts, cattle stations, and places of business with warm welcomes and generosity that appears to be characteristic of the Australian Outback and even of Australia itself.

But back to the ominous blares that startled us at 6:30pm while preparing dinner. Being a mining town, and one born due to mining discoveries so long ago, men over the last century have ventured into the mines each day to earn a hard honest living. Many men lost their lives in various accidents, especially before we had the technology we do today to detect and prevent problems.

Many a day, wives and children at home would sit on pins and needles, wondering if their husbands and fathers would make it home at the end of the day. And so was developed the shift change alerts. I don’t know what exactly they are called, or how long the tradition has been in place, but the alerts are still used today for the families of the miners. The first long tone indicates the shift change, and more traditionally lets the wives know that their husbands will be home soon and that they can start dinner. The second shorter tone is to let the community know that everybody is out of the mine safely.

We were lucky not to hear any variations on these tones while in Broken Hill; no catastrophes happened, and everybody always made it home safe and sound. (Or at least out of the mine safe and sound – whether or not they made it home from the pub or social club is another matter)!

We would like to extend a big thank you to the kind folks of Broken Hill, who made our stay in the accessible outback so special. We’ve been told that once you visit Broken Hill, you always go back. When we do go back (a trip that is not planned, but who are we to nay-say such a proverb), we know we’ll have many friends to share good times and warm meals with.

Royal Flying Doctors to the Rescue!

blue_skies — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 20:02:00 GMT

No, for once, this isn’t a story about Kelly needing medical assistance (as he did in Thailand and Hawaii)!

No, instead, this is about an incredible tour we did of the Royal Flying Doctor Base in Broken Hill.

Australia is big. Really big. And although Broken Hill is known as the “accessible outback”, most of the outback isn’t so easy to get to and through. So when a medical emergency strikes, there aren’t many options. Until John Flynn entered the scene in the early 1900s, the options were either to survive or die. No outside help would be forthcoming.

But John Flynn, a visionary who was distraught that the outback’s 2 million square kilometers was serviced by just two doctors, saw possibilities. Against odds and criticism, he set up a program with radio alerts, a little canvas plane, and medical supply boxes that changed the face of medicine in rural Australia.

The programmed blossomed from its start in 1928 to now: with 22 bases across the country, medical help is never more than 2 hours away, no matter how remote you are. These 22 bases serve a chunk of land larger than Western Europe.

The program has two components: medical clinics (with a focus on prevention), and emergency service. So not only can the RFDS help travelers and residents in the outback who are in need of emergency assistance, but the communities throughout the country are empowered with their own medical kits and regular clinics to prevent people from becoming ill or injured in the first place.

We had a chance to chat with some of the employees at the base, and we even were so lucky as to get a peek inside the emergency services plane and speak with two emergency nurses. Stories of adventure and courage were plentiful, and we could tell that there is a strong bond among employees at the base peppered with lots of humor and fun.

“I couldn’t imagine going back to working for a living,” said Brendan, of his career as an emergency nurse. “Sure, you’re alone in the back of a metal tube at 20,000 feet providing medical care. It can be tough at times. But the view is incredible,” he said.

When asked about interesting experiences, Brendan cited one particular time when he was called out to a patient in need who was at least 150kms from the nearest…anything. But when he arrived, there were lots of people milling about, lights set up, and blankets being brought out for the patient.

When he asked where all these people came from, he received a variety of responses along the lines of having heard the call for help over the radio waves and hopping in the car to drive 100kms to see what they could do.

He realized then and there that even though the outback is remote and distances are far, people are willing to help, and the distance in a sense creates closeness.

To be a nurse or doctor for the RFDS is quite an accolade for the resume. A laundry list of qualifications and working history is required in order to be accepted into the program, since once you are out there in the middle of nowhere, it’s just you and the patient. You have to know how to help, regardless of the problem.

There are two things that really blew us away about the program:

1) All services provided by the Flying Doctor are free.

2) RFDS relies on the government and public donations to remain viable. Government funding takes care of the medicine, wages and administrative costs. The rest (which is donated and fundraised) pays for the planes, mechanical service, and pretty much everything else. And planes ain’t cheap to keep in the air.

This program and invaluable service really struck a chord with us, and we hope it does with you too. If you want more information on the program, or wish to make a donation, please visit www.flyingdoctors.org.au.

Outback Adventures

blue_skies — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 19:47:00 GMT

When people told us about the colours of the outback – the stark contrast between the red of the dirt with the blue of the sky, and the silvery green of the eucalypt trees that dot the landscape – we were somewhat blasé about it. We knew it would be beautiful, but really.

And when people told us of the vast nothingness that we’d encounter – some people speaking of the isolation with fondness, and others with uncomfortable dislike – we also were a little blasé about it. We knew it would be isolated, but really.

Being from Canada, everywhere we turn, we se many similarities between Australia and our home country. From both being Commonwealth countries, to vast amounts of land and small populations, to large chunks of essentially uninhabitable land, to politics, to aboriginal issues – you name it. There are many similarities, which is why we are generally so comfortable and happy here in Oz. It feels like home.

And even venturing into the Outback, we knew we’d feel a sense of home – large flat chunks of land that go on forever. It screams of Canada’s prairies to us, except we trade unending fields of wheat for unending pastures of scrubby brush dotted with the odd goat or sheep.

But to really see it, to see the dirt go from white to yellow to brown to rust, and eventually to deep burnt sienna red, is quite incredible.

To see the landscape change from hilly and full of trees, to so flat that you can see the trunks of trees miles off on the shining horizon. To eventually almost no trees, save for the odd river gum or eucalypt, and a loose dusting of scrubby brush. Wow.

No wonder so many world-renowned artists derive their inspiration from and continue to live in the Australian Outback.

Interestingly, some people we talked to really dislike the Outback. They wondered why we would want to drive all the way out to Broken Hill, when we could enjoy the east coast and its action all the way from Brisbane to Melbourne. Yet other people emphatically told us to give the east coast a miss for the Outback. And from both those who love and those who don’t love it, we received words of caution, and were asked if we had ever traveled remotely and knew how to prepare for it.

Admittedly, it is a little unnerving when petrol stations are hundreds of kilometers apart, and nothing – not a drop of water, not a store, nothing – is the void that separates the tiny towns or service areas. But was it scary? No. We found it liberating more than scary.

But to say that the Outback is a whole lot of nothing is a fallacy. As we were driving through these remote areas, I was looking for the “vast nothingness” that I was promised. But I never found it.

Instead, I found the odd windmill. Or radio tower. Or flock of sheep, or even a small herd of cows. Which told me that this chunk of land, however big it was, was a home to somebody. The occasional gate with a small dirt drive winding away into the horizon was proof of life out here in the vast Outback.

No matter how big and remote and vast this country is, it is still accessible and home to somebody.

We later learned that the largest piece of land owned (or rather leased from the Crown) by anybody is a cattle station that is 330,000 square kilometers. This is an amount of space I can’t even begin to conceive. How the heck do you round up cattle scattered over 330,000 square kilometers?!?!

And of course, this isn’t the only chunk of vast “nothingness” that is a living and home to somebody. In fact, learning of these huge chunks of outback, and seeing by the map that we are only skirting the edge of it by going to Broken Hill (known as the “easily accessible Outback”), makes me want to go even further into the Outback! I want to see more of the remote beauty of Australia that gives it character and colour.

But alas, both time and the lack of a four-wheel drive brigade (and money for petrol, which is over $1.70/liter in some places!) has limited our Outback adventure to a mere brush with this beauty.

To us, the Outback is captivating, alluring, a little foreboding, and truly mesmerizing. It is yet another aspect of this vast and gorgeous country with its diversity. We can’t wait to see what’s around the next corner.

Yup, Mum: We drove behind (and passed) a road train full of explosives. Not a truck - a ROAD TRAIN. These vehicles dwarf the transport trucks of North America, and can be up to 50 meters long! But don't worry: we lived to tell the tale!

Lightning Ridge: Catching Opal Fever

blue_skies — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 19:03:00 GMT

“When I close my eyes, I see opals,” said Kelly, shaking his head.

It seems he has a touch of opal fever.

Lightning Ridge and the surrounding areas are famous for its abundance of opals, and in particular the black opal, which can basically only be found here. For decades, people have visited, and never left. They were entranced by this fiery precious gem; one that constantly changes and flickers in the light.

While I appreciate the area and the gem (and in fact acquired a few for my own personal enjoyment whilst here), I didn’t quite understand the fever itself, until I saw Kelly come down with it.

Lucky, this is one fever that didn’t require a hospital, as it did in Hawaii and Thailand.

There are a few ways you can mine for opal:

Own a claim. A few thousand dollars, a few safety and environmental courses, and some heavy machinery later, and you have yourself a mineral claim, and the ability to go underground for opal. More on the opal mining process in a minute.
Go fossicking or “noodling”. You accomplish this silly sounding task by going to the rubbish dumps, where miners have dumped truck after truck load of sandstone from their mines. Although miners have a pretty keen eye for opal, it is very easy to miss a chunk while chipping away at the sandstone underground. This is where the fossickers and noodlers can make a living if they work hard enough. A full-time fossicker in a heavily mined area about 60kms from Lightning Ridge can make an average income of $20,000. Some may say that’s pretty meager, while they will say that they’re outside, with nary a care in the world, and enjoying every day. Fossicking is also the most common way for a short-term visitor or tourist to try to get their hands on some opal.
Actually, the most COMMON way for the average tourist to mine for opal, is in the jewelry stores. In Lightning Ridge, you can mine through store after store and dealer after dealer looking for that perfect piece of opal to take home with you.

There are also a number of different types of opals, and ways of fashioning them into gems too. The two main types of opal are:

Black Opal. Since the back of the stone is black (or almost black, for the “semi-black” or “grey” opals), the colours of the opal shine magnificently. This is the rarest kind of opal, and the Lightning Ridge area is one of the few places in the world to find it.
White Opal. This is a more common form of opal, with an array of glittering colours shining through a milky white stone. White opals can also be found at Lightning Ridge, as well as the well known mining town of Coober Pedy and other places.

As for finding the opal that will suit your pocketbook and still be “the real deal”, here are a few pointers on the different types you’ll find:

Solid Opal. Being the most precious type of opal, your wallet will feel the effects of buying a solid stone the most. It is just as it sounds: solid.
Doublet. A doublet is a thin slice of solid opal, glued on to a black backing of potch (which is technically opal, but is colourless and therefore worthless). Doublets can be quite magnificent since the colours of the stone shine against the dark backing.
Triplet. This is the lowest grade of opal, but also the least expensive. Similar to a doublet, a triplet is a thin sliver of opal glued onto a dark backing, and then covered on top with a layer of silicone or crystal. This protects the stone, makes it look bigger than it is, and helps the colours of your tiny slice of gem to shine radiantly.

And of course, ask anybody in town what they prefer, and they wouldn’t be seen with anything other than a solid opal. Then again, they find the bloody things laying on the ground half the time around here.

They say that you know it when you find the perfect piece of opal for you. No two gems are the same, and each has its own shape, colour, and reflective characteristics. On our first full day in town, we finished an afternoon of looking in the jewelry stores and finding nothing but a feeling of being overwhelmed. But we discovered the following day returning to the jewelers, that we somehow missed the opals that were to become ours; it was an instantaneous harmony between beauty and pocketbook.

But opal fever – the real opal fever – takes you beyond the jewelry stores. There is a certain thrill of discovering opal on your own and in its raw form.

“Keep your eyes down when walking around here,” said a fellow we were chatting with one day. “You never know what you’ll find.”

The fact that you can literally find opal on the ground while walking around town is amazing. Talk to anybody who has lived here for a while and they’ve probably found at least a small chunk at some time. This instant possibility of finding a precious gem laying on the ground is one of the contributing factors to getting opal fever.

And when you find one…something catches the corner of your eye, in a white sandy fossick pile. You pick it up, wet it down to clear off the sand, and see a colourful streak of colour in your rock…the feeling of being lucky, rich, and the immediate possibility of more being just around the corner….all are symptoms of opal fever. All you have to do next is sell the farm and move to Lightning Ridge to “strike it rich” mining opal and the deal is done.

But as much as we love “The Ridge”, we aren’t moving there. (Yet). That being said, Kelly still got a chance to stoke the opal fever by “going underground” and visiting the mine of a friend of ours.

We met George and his wife Rosemary while making dinner one night at Warrumbungle National Park. They knew we were headed towards Lightning Ridge, and invited us out to the Grawin just out of town where a lot of the active opal mining is currently happening. We were promised that we’d see the “real deal” out there.

After parking the van at the Club In The Scrub – a scruffy looking pub that’s also the town library, general store, restaurant, and community centre – we hopped in George’s truck and drove along the dizzying maze of gravel roads to his mining claim.

After donning hard hats and checking our vertigo and claustrophobia at the door, we were climbing down a ladder 12 metres underground into George’s mine. I was immediately surprised at how spacious the mine was once we were underground; the ceiling was about eight feet high, and the various tunnels and passages connected with other miner’s claims and stretched for kilometers in some places.

We were taught the basics of how to find opal; looking for fault lines, steel bands, and blowdown. Kelly even got a chance to play with power tools and mine a few seams of opal himself. Although this did nothing to cure his opal fever, we were elated to be in somebody’s mine, mining for opal, and seeing something that the average bear doesn’t get to see.

George really gave us the royal tour, taking us through the three mining communities that make up the area, and showing us the good places to go fossicking. He then left us to our own devices, and we wiled away the rest of the day fossicking, and telling tall tales with the locals at the busy pub that Friday night.

The following morning, if we had a spare minute, I always knew were I’d find Kelly: admiring his newly acquired collection of opals in a puddle of sunshine. None of them were particularly valuable, but they were absolutely beautiful chunks of rock with rich blue and black bases, accented by the occasional fleck of precious fire.

Although neither of us was really ready to leave the area, we knew we had to, in order to make the long trip to Broken Hill and the Australian Outback for the next stage of our World Nomads adventure. Opal fever still plagues us, and I still catch Kelly looking for some of the precious gems on the ground even after having left the area entirely. I guess once you have Opal Fever, you have it for good.

Gallery: Driving Thru the Outback

blue_skies — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 17:55:00 GMT

Gallery: Silverton

blue_skies — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 17:45:00 GMT

just outside of Broken Hill, this is a ghost town that is used in lots of movie sets, including Mad Max.

Gallery: Broken Hill

blue_skies — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 17:28:00 GMT

Lightning Ridge: The Black Queen Experience

blue_skies — Wed, 9 Jul 2008 12:11:00 GMT

"Outback theatre with a twist," says the flyer for Black Queen, with a picture of an oil lamp and a woman with a mysterious look. I didn’t really anticipate that this mining town would exactly have a bustling theatre community, but there it is.

And being an actor/singer/dancer, of course my interests are piqued.

We drive along one of the five guided tours through Lightning Ridge, through old mining settlements. The white sandstone gravel roads weave in and out of this small off-grid community, and without the red car door signs leading the way, we would most certainly be lost by now.

After driving by rusted out trailers and toilets and cars and whatnot, my hopes for a genuine theatrical experience wane. I must admit there’s a sort of artistic beauty to an old car with about 12 cats milling on and around it, surrounded by flat white ground with sandstone piles everywhere. But I’m busy dashing my hopes of seeing a real show so I try not to be too taken with this unique scenery.

Pulling up to Black Queen, though, re-engages my imagination right away. The property, located on the very edge of Lightning Ridge, is charming and unique. The walls of the three cottages that make up this home are made of bottles, stones, and hand-mixed cement, and the surrounding property is filled with old signs about the Black Queen, monuments, and various little surprises for anybody looking hard enough.

We are immediately met by Gail, who is our fearless leader in this piece of outback theatre with a twist. I look over at the other four people joining us for the show, and think "Eek! Awkward. Doing a show for only six people? And I can only imagine how strange it would be if we were just two."

But as we settle into the first cottage, and the first act, I realize that she can’t fit in many more people than what we have. We are almost a full house. And I also realize that we are actually sitting in the set. This theatre does have a twist indeed.

The show is comfortable and conversational, funny and interactive. I can tell that I was not the only person apprehensive of the intimacy of the show, and we all sigh with relief when we realize our concerns are unwarranted. We have just been invited into Gail’s home, and the show is priceless.

Gail and her husband Roger have taken over the Black Queen (property and legacy) from Joan and John. Joan is the heroine in this story, a strong-willed character who beat the odds in life. She had the vision for the Black Queen and built the entire place out of bottles and hand-mixed cement, with her own hands. When the sun gets low at the end of the day, the bottles reflect light everywhere and I am immediately transported to a dream world.

Gail beautifully tells Joan’s story in the setting where it all happened, and artfully weaves in her own life story; how she came to own this eclectic property and carry on the Black Queen legacy, so far away from her original home town in Wisconsin.

In the third act, Gail finishes Joan’s story and moves into her own piece of the Black Queen legacy: an oil lamp collection that belongs in a museum.

Now I must say that I didn’t ever give oil lamps much consideration in life. Never wanted to own one, and rarely thought of their history. But after seeing and touching and smelling lamps (some of them hundreds of years old), each with a story their own, then sitting in this dark room with about a third of the dozens of oils lamps burning, I can see the appeal. It is magically mesmerizing.

The show in its entirety subtly challenges us to pursue our dreams, inspires us, and moves each of us for our own personal reasons. A part of this show speaks to everybody here, from the elderly lady who was born and raised in Lightning Ridge, to the German tourist, to the couple in their 50s on vacation, to us.

I suddenly realize that Gail has stopped talking. The show is over. But we are all so mesmerized with the lights and are digesting all the stories swimming around in our heads, that we all simply continue to sit there. Gail pulls up a chair and sits with us, reflecting on and appreciating our unique surroundings and the last few hours of immersion in them.

Gail and Roger are true characters in this real-life play; having immersed themselves in this life that came suddenly and became their nirvana. They are living examples of the modern-day frontier; leaving everything behind for a dream. Except their dream wasn’t to strike it rich mining opal; rather to strike a chord in their own lives that could touch other people in the process.

It worked, and the Black Queen legacy lives on.

Lonely Planet Great Guidebook Moment: Lightning Ridge - The People, and The Appeal

blue_skies — Wed, 9 Jul 2008 11:54:00 GMT

When we rolled into Lightning Ridge, after a series of unfortunate and displeasing coincidences, we were ready to roll right back out the following day.

I was crushed.

Ever since reading about it in the Lonely Planet, I wanted to go, and was prepared to travel out of our way to get there.

Lonely Planet says:

"Near the Queensland borer, this fiercely independent and strikingly imaginative mining community (one of the world’s few sources of black opals) has real frontier spirit. Battlers still dream of striking it rich underground here, and now and again some of them even do. Consequently, the streets are trodden by eccentric artisans, true-blue bushies and the general unconventional collective. And that’s all ridgy-didge in the Ridge."

So luckily, while attending a local Rotary meeting, and consequently spending the following few days enjoying the hospitality of many of the locals, we too had a chance to fall in love with Lightning Ridge.

The Rotary meeting was, of course, wonderful. As Rotarians, wherever we are in the world, attending Rotary meetings gives us a chance to trade stories with other people, all sharing the common goal of providing Service Above Self. We always have a good time.

Chris (short for Christine) was the first woman to open her heart and home to us. She had an additional flat on her property that was empty, so it was "no big deal" to her for us to stay there. Neither were the bacon and eggs in the morning, the wonderful dinner, contacts in Broken Hill and Melbourne, parting gifts, or unmitigated access to her laundry and small fruit orchard. She shrugged off all our accolades of appreciation, and said that it was just as nice to share company with somebody from abroad. We have opened up our (so far nonexistent) home in Canada to her; as soon as we get one, we hope she’ll visit!

I asked her why she and her husband (who was out of town) like to live here, since they are some of the few residents who aren’t here for the opal mining. And it seems that what makes Lightning Ridge attractive is also what makes it hard to take: isolation. At first, she and her family loved small town life, and lived in many of the smaller towns in the area. There is a rampant sense of community, and a real beauty to this chunk of land on the edge of the Australian outback. But now for Chris, with grown up children living in Perth and New Zealand, one with two kids of their own, the negative side of the isolation can be tough.

"It’s hard for somebody to visit us," Chris said one day. "You have to fly into somewhere like Brisbane, and then it still a full day of driving to and from Lightning Ridge. Not a lot of people have that kind of time these days."

This is true. You can’t just happen to pass through Lightning Ridge; you have to want to come here. With only one road in and out of town, no railway, and an insignificant airport, it’s not a thoroughfare by any means. We had basically planned our own road trip around Lightning Ridge being one of the determining factors of our route.

Looking around at the other tourists, we see a lot of "Grey Nomads", who are by and large people in their early retirements, living the dream of a nomadic life with their caravans and few cares in the world. This is currently the main demographic of people who come to Lightning Ridge; they have the time and freedom to explore more remote areas of Australia by virtue of having their homes in tow.

Kind of like us.

But we are not grey nomads; rather we are Professional Hobos. And it takes all kinds to come to Lightning Ridge. Here are a few examples of the characters we met:

Carol, a flamboyant character who mines, makes jewelry, drives a school bus, and bakes bread among many other talents. Peter, who came to Lightning Ridge 15 years ago to mine, never found any big opal, and opened up a successful opal jewelry shop instead. Rob, who got tired of mining and instead chose to mine his claim by carving art into the underground walls. George, who mines for opal in a nearby town as a retired hobby of sorts. Gail and Roger, who came to Lightning Ridge five years ago, and a week later had purchased the Black Queen - a unique property that is also a show and legacy that they carry on. A Swiss couple who comes to Lightning Ridge every year for about six months to fossick (which is sifting through sandstone piles from the mines that miners have signed off as worthless) for opal. Although the miners may have snatched the big payloads, there is still lots to be found by going through these piles, as this couple seems to make enough money fossicking to come back every year and do it some more.

We were given the best welcome we have received yet in a small town. I was asked to write an article for the local paper, and we saw the same people each day at the Hot Artesian Bore Baths. (This, if I may pause in the story, was a real treat: a free hot spring pool that took the edge off the chilly air beautifully. Both stargazing at night and starting off the morning were wonderful times to soak in the warm healing waters).

Even people who didn’t see us pull up in the colourful van recognized us as "The Canadians" when we met; news travels quickly through this small community.

We felt that we fit in wherever we went, and were invited by a number of people to come live in the Ridge! And we don’t take such invitations lightly either; Lightning Ridge is a treasure that many residents like to keep to themselves. They enjoy the tourist activity, but also are happy to keep Lightning Ridge’s permanent community small and intimate when all is said and done.

If there is a general theme or two that tends to bring people together at Lightning Ridge, it is Opal, and isolation. You could sum up the appeal of Lightning Ridge as being just that, but then you’d be shortchanging this eclectic town of so many other subtle treasures. Treasures that can’t exactly be explained, but instead must be experienced.

Lightning Ridge: Past & Present, Outback & Inland

blue_skies — Wed, 9 Jul 2008 11:41:00 GMT

Upon first blush in Lightning Ridge, you may find an opal-mining town with very little to keep you here for more than a day or so. It reeks of an environment trying a touch too hard to be attractive to tourists. The one and only road to leading into and out of town is lined on each side with billboard after billboard featuring opal-related attractions and opal stores. You see a lot of the same adverts over and over again too - on not only billboards, but lining fences, and even painted and plastered into the general surroundings. It’s a little over the top.

But somehow it also adds to the character of Lightning Ridge, which is quirky and whimsical. There is so very much more than meets the eye if you want to discover its colourful underbelly. Allow yourself to stay a while. Head to the bowling club or one of the handful of cafés to meet some locals, and stay long enough to get to know them. If you do, you’ll see a whole different side to Lightning Ridge that is fascinating.

Never have we met such a concentrated group of incredibly generous people, who are so proud of their home town. They were willing to give of themselves to help us, and expressed as much interest in our story as we had in theirs.

Everybody has a different and unique story of how they came to Lightning Ridge. Only a few people we spoke to were born and raised here; almost everybody comes from somewhere else.

"In the old days of mining here, people came here to disappear. You rarely knew anybody’s name, and those names you knew were probably fake nicknames in any case. You didn’t ask much about somebody, and they didn’t tell too much either," said one person about the opal rush that started in the early 1900s and converted Lightning Ridge from a deserted piece of land to a bustling mining town.

People came from all over the world and bought (or squatted on) "claims": access to small pieces of land with permission to dig shafts to mine for opal. Anybody could and still can do it; for a few thousand dollars you could set yourself up with a claim, a trailer to live in, and much of the equipment you need to operate your small and practically instantaneous mining business.

And although there are still a number of mines and miners in Lightning Ridge, many of the big miners and prospectors are starting to do their active work further a field. It was when this started happening that the town collectively and individually had a choice to make: pack up and move shop, capitalize on the already steady stream of visitors to town wanting to see what "opal fever" is all about. And so it was that tourism became the main draw (and a large income source) for Lightning Ridge.

What you actually see when you get to Lightning Ridge is a place where history meets the present, and outback meets inland beautifully. The landscape when you drive through old claims sites to a lookout at the site of one of the original opal mine shafts (one of four guided drives for tourists marked by old car doors I might add) is both crowded and expansive. In the foreground you see white piles a few feet high of sandstone (pay dirt) everywhere. Rusted out equipment, trailers, rubbish, and even abandoned furniture dot this surreal landscape of rock piles. Dali would have a field day out here.

Some of the worse-for-wear trailers are still home to prospectors; many are simply abandoned, as the occupants moved to other claim sites after exhausting the possibilities there.

Stunted trees accent the foreground too, and as you look out towards the horizon, the little groupings of greenery start to meld together over an extremely flat expanse of land. It is here in our journey into the outback that we are starting to gain a sense of how vast the outback will be.

The attractions also do great justice to the past and present. Black Queen, for example, is a brilliant piece of "outback theatre with a twist" set in a cottage built by hand by an elderly woman who consistently beat the odds in life. Woven into her story is the story of Gail, the woman who currently owns Black Queen and gives the performances. Stay posted for a future article elaborating on this amazing show.

Another attraction beautifully melding past and present is the Chambers Of The Black Hand (notice a "black" - as in black opal - theme?); it is an old mine which didn’t return a huge amount of opal for the miner over the years. So when he tired of picking away in the ground for opal, he combined his love of working with the soft stone and his love of art and sculpture, and created an exhibit of carvings in the mine more than 11 meters underground that is entirely unique to the world. He refreshed and made new this old mine by creating an underground world that continues to evolve even now, as evidenced by the many work-in-progress carvings.

So it is here, in this setting combing the old with the new, the artistic flare with the gruff mining, and the outback with inland, that Lightning Ridge captivated us for days and wouldn’t let us go. Following are some posts that characterize this place and illustrate our passion for all that is Lightning Ridge.

Gallery: Lightning Ridge

blue_skies — Tue, 8 Jul 2008 10:58:00 GMT

Lonely Planet Great Guidebook Moment: Warrumbungle National Park

blue_skies — Fri, 4 Jul 2008 16:16:00 GMT

or: How Close to a Kangaroo do You Think You Can Get?

“I’m sure I’ll eventually get tired of seeing all these kangaroos, but for now I just can’t get enough of them,” I said, as I apologetically snapped off a few more pictures at one of my many kangaroo photo sessions. It seems that we’ve happened upon a mecca for wildlife here in Warrumbungle National Park.

In Northwest New South Wales, Lonely Planet describes Warrumbungle National Park as being one of the two tourist attractions (Lightning Ridge being the other) along this stretch of highway usually reserved for trips straight to and from Queensland. But for a tourist attraction, Warrumbungle appears to be the best kept secret from tourists.

“Usually in the summertime it’s too hot so people go to the coast,” said the park ranger who was processing our camping fees. “And in the wintertime like now, it’s too cold for many,” she said, when we asked if we would have trouble finding a camping spot for the weekend. “You’ll pretty much have the place to yourselves.”

And we did.

It did however get bloody cold at night – no big surprise for us by now. Armed with blankets and many layers of clothing, the cold at night was bearable. And the beauty and warmth of the days made the nights all the more tempered for us. We were constantly amazed that we had so much of this unbelievably beautiful national park substantially to ourselves.

Immediately we saw kangaroos everywhere. We passed no less than a dozen of them grazing by the side of the road between the visitor centre and our campsite a short distance away. And every time I saw one I clapped my hands in glee.

We set up camp and enjoyed watching the kangaroos graze not twenty meters away from us. Photo sessions began, and there was much clapping of hands in glee. At sunset, we heard what was now becoming the commonplace symphony of birdsong (including the ape-like cackle of the kookaburra and the deafening prehistoric sounding scream of the cockatoo), and at night, we could hear the low belch-like grunts of emus grazing all around us.

Arising (and defrosting) the following morning, we saw yet more kangaroos hopping around our van, and there was more gleeful clapping of hands and photo sessions.

Our treks through the park over the following two days were incredible. Warrumbungle is the remnants of a volcanic explosion that took place almost 17 million years ago, leaving 1,000 meter high granite spires and domes poking out amongst an otherwise flat landscape all around. The life that pulses through the lush green valleys in between is evident everywhere. Birds of all kinds (gosh, we love the colourful Aussie birds), goats (gosh, we miss the goats in Hawaii), emus, koalas (although we didn’t see any), and of course – kangaroos.

We trekked over peaks and through valleys, journeying about 30kms over the two days. We regularly caught ourselves forgetting that we weren’t in Canada since much of the scenery was similar, and only upon seeing an intrinsically Australian animal would we be reminded of where we are. And how lucky we are to be here.

Finishing off our second day’s hike, feeling tired and sore but elated, we were deep in conversation when I stopped cold, Kelly crashing into me. This time it wasn’t a snake; it was a kangaroo. Standing upright in the middle of the path, less than three meters away from us, it was eyeing us up and down. We stood there in a stand-off of sorts, for about a minute. Then, seeing as the kangaroo was directly in our way and still sniffing at us in a non-threatening manner, we inched forward, expecting it to hop away so we could continue along the path.

Instead, as we inched forward, the kangaroo became even less concerned about our presence, shook its head and flopped its ears, and knelt down to graze at the grass right on the path.

And so we stood for what seemed like ages, trying to discern what proper “kangaroo etiquette” should dictate we do. Do we give it a wide berth and walk around? That was tricky to do given the trail we were on. Do we make a loud noise to startle it so it would hop away? We didn’t want to scare it into attacking us though (because you know how ferocious kangaroos can get. Right). Or do we just charge ahead and expect the kangaroo to move out of the way?

This indecision requires an explanation: See, in Canada, there aren’t many wild creatures that are content to coexist with humans at such close proximity. Deer are probably the most docile (similar to kangaroos), but you should consider yourself lucky to get 20 meters from a deer before it darts off into the bush. Bears aren’t animals you particularly want to get close to (for obvious reasons). And moose simply don’t exist.

So to be this close to a wild animal was perplexing for us. I even hesitated from launching into my routine gleeful clapping of hands for my confusion.

Luckily, the kangaroo did eventually choose to take action and interrupted our indecision by nonchalantly hopping away so we could continue on our way back to the van.

Once in the van and enroute to camp, we were deep in reflection of our last two days of hikes when the unbelievable happened; we stopped the van cold.

In front of us, a mother and daughter were standing next to a kangaroo, who was casually looking off into the distance while the daughter was stroking its back. Of course, the camera came out again, pictures were snapped, and hands were being euphorically clapped and accompanied by stifled giggles of joy.

The mother then encouraged us to come out and join them, as she assured us that the kangaroo wouldn’t go anywhere. Sure enough, as we slowly approached it, the kangaroo gently hopped to us to investigate, then presented its head and back for scratching. Amazing.

We decided that this wild kangaroo must have been an orphan that was raised by humans until it was old enough to be released, where it joined other wild kangaroos, but occasionally craved some familiar human affection. Sue, one of the park rangers who we befriended over our stay, rescues kangaroos (among the array of other wild animals that tend to be dropped off on her doorstep for saving). She showed us the joey she brings into work with her in a little custom pouch. This joey, being so familiar with human contact, would be released once it was a little over a year old, after being in her care for over seven months. So it stands to reason that the occasional kangaroo in the park might be tamer than the rest.

Having gotten as close as you possibly can to a kangaroo, our trip through Warrumbungle National Park was climactically complete. We spent the evening with our new friends Wendy and Vern (and their daughter Clarissa, who was the lucky kangaroo-attracter-and-petter), who we will see more of when we get down to the Melbourne area where they live.

Next stop: Lightning Ridge!

Bloody Cold: It Really Is That C-c-cold

blue_skies — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 12:19:00 GMT

Uralla - a very small town in the New England Tablelands (read: high altitude lands) was a painful shot to our tropical arms. If we thought we were cold in Springbrook, we didn’t know what cold meant.

We knew we were in trouble when we started seeing our breath before the sun was even down. By 8:00pm we had endured enough of the torture of sitting in the cold without a fire, and went to bed.

So began the rummage: going through every item in the van, evaluating it for its insulating capabilities. If jackets could be worn, they were. Hats, gloves, scarves, and multiple layers of clothing were donned. Heck – if I could have figured out a way to wear the coffee maker, I would have.

Anything that could be used as a blanket was. All the towels, extra clothing, and even our emergency space blanket were neatly laid over us so as to reduce the level of agony our poor tropical asses were suffering through.

They say you sleep well when it’s cold. They’re lying.

Finally (and gratefully) waking up to the following day was a testament to surviving the night. This time when we looked at our thermometer, it wasn’t 18 degrees, it was minus 1 degree. And we later learned that Uralla made it down to minus 4 that night. The van was covered in ice, and the surrounding grass had that “lovely” frosty look to it.

Take a look at a map, and you’ll also see that Uralla is still considerably farther north than our final destination of Melbourne. There has been talk of aborting the drive south altogether, going north to wile away the time, and then driving like madmen over the last two days of our trip to finish off in Melbourne.

But in the end, we decided to stick with our plan. We are after all, Canadian; we should be able to take an Australian winter in stride...shouldn’t we??? (ha)

So to all the people who told us prior that “Australia isn’t that cold” in the winter (and there are lots of you): try camping in it!!! We have almost a full month more to go; we basically live outdoors. Good thing that over time we are acclimitizing (slowly), and we've got lots of layers to make things bearable!

Fishing (and Whale Watching) at Ballina and Beyond

blue_skies — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 11:38:00 GMT

Byron Bay is lovely. It is a surf town full of surf shops, surf food places, surf cafes, and more surf-y stuff. Everything is horribly over-priced, but that’s what you get in a touristy town with tons of character.

It was the small towns and people we met outside of Byron Bay that make this area of the coast a place to remember though.

Ballina is a medium-sized town about half an hour south of Byron Bay. It has a modest tourist draw (being on the ocean and all), but pales in comparison to Byron Bay’s size and magnetism. This is a good thing for Ballina, if you want to get away from the surf shops and start to talk to some locals.

Dugald was the first local to make Ballina and the surrounding area very special for us. He runs a fishing charter enterprise called Ballina and Beyond, and lays proud claim to being one of the only fishing charters from north of Byron to south of Grafton – a large stretch of real estate by anybody’s map.

So he’s a busy guy.

But Dugald wasn’t too busy to take us out on his beautiful boat for a morning of deep sea fishing – a first for me.

“I got everything you need; just bring your netski,” said Dugald the day prior.

“My what?” I asked over the crackling cell phone.

“Netski. You know. To take your catch home in.”

After clarifying a few more times and facing increasing frustration on both our parts, I chucked it up to being yet another Australian term I don’t quite understand. A little investigative work over the afternoon would reveal that it wasn’t a “netski” he was asking for; rather an “esky” – or “cooler” for simple people like me. Kelly on the other hand, knew what an “esky” was. A sure sign that he’ll be a better fisher than I for sure.

Waking up in time to be at the boat ramp for 6am was painful. And because the days are so short at this time of year, the sun wasn’t even thinking about getting up for a while yet itself. Nevertheless, it was nice to get up and at ‘em nice and early to make the day a spectacular one. And spectacular it was.

Now I must pause in the story to share some small fears and phobias of mine: those fears being centered around The Ocean. I have documented my attempt to conquer my fear of swimming in the ocean, but something you may not know is that almost every time I get on a boat, my lunch gets off. I am a stout victim of seasickness, even on the calmest of days.

So with white knuckles and a ton of anti-nausea medication in my system, I braced myself for the next six hours on a boat in the middle of the ocean. Going over the break didn’t instill confidence.

“Going over the break” isn’t a euphemism for anything. It entails doing just that – going over the breaking waves as you travel from an ocean inlet past the surf and into the great blue beyond. The waves that faced us did not look friendly in the gray sky either.

I must say that Dugald took them like he was on a Sunday drive, and later he admitted that these waves were nothing. All I saw was a huge wave about twice as tall as the boat was long that was about to break right on top of us. We motored over the top before it broke, then charged down the other side, all of us being picked up off our feet and floating weightless for a second.

Cue in nervous laughter from Nora.

Beyond the break, we were cruising for about 20 minutes to an indistinguishable place in the middle of the water that only GPS revealed was the place to go for fishing.

“Really calm day today,” Dugald said as he scanned the horizon. “Calmest I’ve seen in months,” he said, as we pitched and rolled over the waves. About 10 seconds later I was thrown out of my seat going over a calm wave, a mere ripple by seamen’s standards. The vast sea of knobs and valleys of water, waves coming from any direction with no distinguishable pattern was making me nauseous with nothing more than a mere glance. Good thing I was pumped full of anti-nausea meds. I prayed for them to work.

Shortly after we stopped, I was tossed a rod that Kelly & I were to share, and three lines went in the water. Less than two minutes later, two fish were caught – a large red snapper, and a smaller pearl perch. I was not one of the lucky people to reel in the catch. But at what was promising to be a frenzied pace of fish jumping into the boat judging by the first two minutes, I braced myself for my imminent bite.

And waited.

And braced some more.

A fish or two here and there continued to be reeled in over the morning, as we dropped lines, waited, reeled them in and drifted to another fishing spot. I was dropping a lot of lines, and getting not much more than nibbles. I surmised that the fish can smell my fear of the ocean and are probably laughing at me and my silly attempt to be a seafarer.

Alas, this was no bother to us. We were out on the water, enjoying the nice weather, beautiful sunrise, and good company. We got a chance to get to know Dugald and his business a little better. Ballina and Beyond Fishing Charters has been around for about four years, and was built upon a lifetime of fishing passions and stories. When asked what he likes to do on his days off, fishing is his first response.

And it shows; he had a permanent smile on his face from the moment he turned the ignition on and put his hands on the throttle until we pulled the boat out of the water at the end.

Between conversation, dropping lines and reeling them in (all 80 meters of line I might add), I managed to reel in a red snapper, and some strange-looking bottom feeder that was donated to Dugald for bait. It was too bloody ugly to eat.

On the way back in we transformed from a fishing charter into a whale watching enterprise with front row seats. Between May and September, whales migrate up the coast, and whale and dolphin spotting is not uncommon. I’ve not had much luck with whale watching from boats (another experience in seasickness), and have seen them from shore in Hawaii from a distance.

But to be literally 10 metres from a fully breaching whale was an unbelievable experience. We saw pods upon pods of whales, swimming, playing, fishing, and breaching. Our boat easily maneuvered through the whales, and we got to play with them for about half an hour.

But all things must come to an end, as our sun-kissed faces and cooler (sorry – esky) full of fish were evidence to. Dugald promised us that going back in over the break was going to be much rougher than our trip out, and I was ready for the worst. I hadn’t been sick or had any phobia-induced panic attacks yet, but there was still time.

Dugald took the break like a champion. We rode in on the back of another wave, carefully missed the rocks on the side, and were on our merry way in minutes. Wow.

Once on shore, we surveyed our catches. Dugald was embarrassed at how little fish there was to be had today, but between three fishers, we caught 10 fish. Pretty good haul if you ask me.

We cleaned and filleted them (a task at which Dugald was predictably a master), and were on our way with four meals of red snapper and perch ready to go.

So now I can add this deep-sea fishing and whale watching experience to the list of ocean-faring adventures that didn’t result in puking or panicking. Thank you to Dugald and Ballina and Beyond for making this happen for us!