One mouse down

I check the mouse traps in the morning. They haven't been touched.

I check the mouse traps in the afternoon. They haven't been touched.

I go out at night to feed the horses, walkie talkie on my chest. Carefully I look behind the feed bin at the traps. One of them is gone! My heart pounds. Where is it? I find it behind the oaten chaff bin. Mouse caught. Such a pity it's not the rat.

So now I need to get rid of the mouse. Carefully, with appropriate long range utensil, I open the trap. The mouse gently tumbles onto the floor, still soft in its movement. It's definitely dead, but as I put it onto the dust pan I half expect it to twitch or speak up. It does! "Are you right out there?", says Pete over the walkie talkie. I get such a fright I almost bounce the mouse straight into my face.

Rat!

We have a rat in the big shed. No doubt about it. We've always had mice, and I don't like them, but they don't cause much harm, and they do clean up the odd flake of oaten chaff. But a rat. He stinks. Big time. And he causes harm. He's already chewed through three plastic containers with fish fertilizer. And now he's chewed through my plastic container with barley. Enough is enough.

I set mouse traps. We've got a rat trap somewhere, but we can't find it right now. So mouse traps will have to do for now. Even if he just gets his paw stuck in it. How's he going to squeeze through his little escape hole with this trap dangling off his paw?

The packaging for the traps prides itself in high quality. One of the traps breaks as I'm setting it. I position it together with the other traps. Just in case. Fingers crossed.

Holiday Diary: The Prawn Fishers

As an extended family, we've been to Merimbula before. And every single time we've been here at new moon time, when the prawns swim out to sea as the tide turns. An ideal time for prawin fishing.

The fist time, we talked about prawning. The second time we got 37 prawns. By the third time we were up to 44 prawns.

Being of a kayaking family, we catch the prawns with a net, from a kayak. This year, for the first time, we're using two kayaks, one net each.

The high tide peaks at 11:30pm. It's a late start for a family with young kids. Deep down, we all think we're mad, but no one says anything. The price of determination.

We're at the bridge a smidgin before the set time. The tide is still flowing in, but I manage to get a large prawn from the bank regardless.

Pete taps me on the shoulder. We put it. In the darkness, by torchlight, the paddles quietly lap the water. It's unusually romantic.

The first half hour is filled with using far too much torchlight to see the odd prawn, only to find that they quickly float to the bottom.

I look around. Where is my husband? I can hear his paddle. He banks 5 or 6 prawns with R and H on the bank. Damn. I haven't even got one. On the other hand, I feel really lucky that I haven't yet lost my net, or my paddle, or fallen in the water. Actually, amazing.

Then R points to a clump of seaweed and foam floating not too far from the bank. "What's that?" he calls. I paddle over. Gold. I return with three prawns. I return to the pointed spot many times. Sometimes, H and R on the bank cannot keep up with emptying the nets.

At about 1:30am I start feeling the cold night creeping in. And the romantic feeling returns. But I keep catching prawns. In fact, I get so cheeky, that as I see them approaching I choose the ones I will get. "I'll have the one on the left, and these two big ones on the right". The odd one gets away.

At 1:55anm my chin is starting to wag, and we cast our final net. Back at the house, R is busily cleaning and counting the catch. "Somewhere between 115 and 120. I lost count", he says.

Holiday Diary: The Cuisine

I offer to make dinner, which lands me in the shops. Not that I mind. I've got all day.

I return just in time for lunch. After lunch is "story time" for the kids, who sit around me with wide eyes shoving their favourite books under my nose. (Not the little tacker, he's asleep).

Then the entire contingent departs for the beach, and I am left to my cooking. "Chicken Cacciatore" is on the menu and I get onto the slicing and dicing. The oven heats up, and the sun warms up the kitchen.

Everything is just about ready, when the beach contingent bursts noisily through the door. They set the table, make the salad, and we serve up. It's hard not to smile at the "ums" and "ahs". Even the kids seem to appreciate the special love put into the meal.

Afterwards they run back and forth along the deck, laughing. Then off to bed, while the adults plot plans for prawning.

Holiday Diary: The Beach

The children don't let us sleep in too long. They bounce out of bed infused with holiday energy. They don't even care where they are. They just have a ball being together.

After breakfast, fathers take their children to the beach, and the women go shopping.
Lunchtime is an adhoc affair, with a few tears. Then the obligatory afternoon siesta. For young and old.

In the afternoon Pete, Sabina and I wander down a bush path to the local playground. Sabina only has eyes for the sand, and as soon as she's allowed she becomes a yellow haired, bronzed body in a pink swimsuit, dancing and running along the sand. Running, running, running. Her hair swept back by the wind. Running along the long bar of sand thanks to the low tide.

Pete and I run after her, yelling that the icecreamery is the opposite way. She stops lightly, gazes at us, a huge smile breaking across her face. Then she giggles and runs off again along the bar of sand.

The running is followed by a similarly communicative episode of swimming.

Eventually we manage to get her changed, and walking in hand. She loves the rainbow ice cream.

Holiday Diary: The Drive

Doing a 6 hour drive with three kids under six is never an easy ask. Thank goodness we have them split across two cars, with Oma and Opa having the pleasure of travelling without the little treasures.

Having left the big smoke at about 9, we rock into Barinsdale just in time for lunch. The kids finally meet up in the Fish and Chips shop as we order lunch. They cause a tornado. The fish is cooked, and we break open the paper packaging in a park. Devoured in minutes.

The park is famous amongst travellers boasting a huge slide, swings, play equipment, and the best flying fox I have ever seen. Kid heaven. Even the little guy, just turned two, is running from one bit to the other with glee.

When the kids aren't watching, Oma and Opa take their leave. Some excuse about "get there early and set things up". Maybe just as well. The kids have just discovered the flying fox and wild screams of semi joy, semi fear pierce the air, as the little tuckers ride on a toy designed for teenagers. Yes, the little guy too. Even the parents have a go, with likewise similar screams.

When the heavens open up, we make the excuse that it's time to go. Sabina has actually already exhausted her lunch energy and sits in the back munching on grapes. "Mama, I'm finished", she pushes the grape container under my elbow. Five minutes later she's asleep. Bliss.

Now we drive through beautiful forested countryside, chatting and reminscing about the days before children and marriage when we used to travel with much more gear than just two kayaks. "Smoke over road". We pass the sign unfussed. Not so the oodles of campervans.

Finally we apprach a big yellow mushroom cloud. We get the works as we pass through the back burning area. I nearly hit the roof when I see flames in a tree, and shout with joy pointing to the smoking bushes. We wave to the CFA attending the area. After a month of fire activity, and being on alert, and cleaning up, and, and, and ... we get to see a fire! Well, remnants of it. Yay!

We arrive in Merimbula and pick up a stiff drink in the pub. Then to the holiday house, where Oma and Opa have things in control. Until the kids start running around that is. The stiff drinks come in handy. The house is a screaming mess as underexercised but overtired kids race around incoming baggage.

We all sigh relief when they are finally in bed. The pizza goes down a treat. The view is great. The holiday begins.

Three cheers!

This morning the raido is unphased, the world normal. I gaze at the photos on our neighbours web page. I see blue sky with a few fluffy clouds. No sign of smoke. No sign of fire. No sign of burnt grass.

Three cheers for the CFA. Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray, hooray, hooray!

If it wasn't for their back burning over the last 3 weeks, it may well have been a different story.

Three cheers for the Outpost Restaurant in Noojee. For feeding over 400 CFA fireys every night.

Three cheers!

Two winds

The winds are late, but they come. First the north westerly. Blowing the hot dry air. Then the south westerly. Bending the trees, rattling the roof tiles, fanning, fanning the fire. With anxiety we keep turning the radio on. "The Bunyip ridge fire has spotted out of control lines, but the CFA believe they can control the flare ups, and no communities will be impacted." Radio off. Breathe. An hour later, Radio on. Same message. Radio off. And so on throughout the evening. On the one hand nervous, on the other hand brave and defiant. Believing. Believing in control lines. Believing in the CFA.

Too much fire coverage

How do you know when you've been exposed to too much fire coverage in the press?

When you're looking at a document, and the minute you scan the word "engine" your brain immediately interprets it as "fire engine". Alarm bells! Enough said.

More Dragon

I come back into the house after my morning horse ride, only to be met by a very white faced husband. "Have you heard the forecast? They're expecting gale force winds, that will fan the fire in our direction!"

"Right. When?", I ask.
"Monday night, Tuesday, persisting into Wednesday".
"What more can we do to protect the house?", I query.
"I'll mow the grass. You and Sabina gather up all the leaves. Throw them in the dam paddock."

I get to work. Sabina is reluctant at first, but she gets into it quickly enough, and soon the backyard is squeaky. I grab some serious tools and start raking under the trees. The tractor roars past. I rake, I trim the lower branches, I make a few trips with the wheelbarrow, and create a nice pile in the dam paddock. I haven't had this much fun for ages.

One hour late, I run into the house panting, ready to make lunch. I glance out the front, and tsk tsk at the little bush growing under the eves. It's my height. Fire hazard.

After lunch I re-inspect said bush. It's half my height. Phew!

For the second time in two weeks, we evacuate. We don't take the sentimental items. We just take the very useful, really expensive items. And Sabina's books.

Admissions of fear

We put our daughter to bed, and eat our dinner. A heaviness hangs in the air. Since Saturday, we've been the tough guys. Prepared for anything, unphased by everything. Whatever emotions we have felt, they have been our own.

I gaze up at my husband, across the table, across the now empty plates. "I was pretty scared on Saturday", I attempt to slice through the air. He looks up, "me too". We get up and embrace. The stress lifts. "Actually, make that, I was very scared", I dig deeper. "I was so scared, I cowered behind the water tank", he opens up. We dig deeper still. We joke. We laugh. We cry.

Adrenaline Junkie

The fear of Saturday's fire has worn off. The low and the tiredness has passed. The adrenaline junkie in me awakes. I have a burning urge to become a CFA volunteer.

I want to go back into the smoke, I want to feel the fear, I want my mind to walk the tightrope. I want to hear the fire.

I know it's only the adrenaline junkie talking. I resist.

Out of the Ashes

I get up and check on Sabina. She's still happily asleep, the wind-up wonder torch still shining in her room.

Outside everything is covered with ash. It sticks to your shoes as you walk, to your hands as you open gates, your clothes as you brush past fallen branches.

On the ground I spot a piece of burnt bark as big as my fore arm.

Several branches are lying on the ground. Some of them have flown at least 20 metres before hitting the ground. They are just light enough for me to drag. Fodder for our SES friend and her chainsaw.

I check on the horses. They gaze at me with big eyes, and wander if there is any food coming. I look back at the buckets in the garage, all full of water. That's their feed buckets. No breakfast guys, sorry.

The water in Sabina's shell, which was left outside, is black with ash. Pete's silver car is peppered.

I wander back inside. There is a weird sense of suspension. On the one hand, the fire is still raging nearby and the radio actually lists us on alert. On the other hand, the wind is barely lifting the wind sock, and the likelyhood of the fire arriving at our doorstep is fairly small. There is no reason to not live normally, and start cleaning up.

Sabina wakes up and notices the power is back on. "Yay! Mama, we saved the house from the fire, and elctricity is back, and we're ok! Yay!", she cheers.

After breakfast, John Fayne comes on the radio. We cheer. I take the radio with me outside and commence cleaning. First the shutters get a complete sweep down. Once they are semi clean, we lift them. The house brightens up. I clean the windows. The radio keeps blaring alerts for Neerim East, and messages from friends come pouring in. My mum rings "Are you ok?". "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Settle down. Nothing's happening."

In the evening, Pete decides to stay and keep cleaning up. I drive back. As we pack the car, emotional sparks fly. The smoke may have come and gone, but the emotional air is yet to clear.
At Kevin's milking sheds I realise that our whole road had been totally blocked off by broken pine branches. The neighbours had already been out clearing.

At the end of our road I meet some of our neighbours. The Westerley brought them live embers and they didn't sleep all night. They've been driving around the area, checking out the smoke, and listening in to CFA communications on their CB. They reported a fire starting in the state forest to our East.

In the middle of Neerim East, a huge tree had come down across the road and the power lines. A new sort of shock and numbness set in. The full realisation that during a fire the world around you often isn't what you're used to, and escape may not be possible, crashes upon me like an uprooted tree.

At Rokeby, I screech to a halt in front of a "Road Closed" sign. I back up and take the road to Warragul. The Police hold a tight roadblock at Brandy Creek. They wave me through, but entry to the area is restricted.

Eventually I'm on the freeway. The Warragul detour has added at leat 10 minutes to my trip. My eyes gaze keenly in the dark, as I try to find the spot where the fire crossed the freeway. Eventually, I think I see some ashed grass. Not 100% sure though. Then the burnt smell knocks me out.

When I get back into town, I am greeted by my family like a "survivor".

Enter the Dragon

The awakening

"That's the best you've ridden so far", says my coach as we finish off a horse riding lesson. I smile. I pack up the car, put the horse on the float, turn the radio on, and commence the 50 minute drive home. Mainly up hill.

"The Bunyip Ridge fire is likely to impact on communities in Labertouche and Jindivick. Residents in those areas need to be on alert for flying embers. If you're going to leave, leave early ..." the radio blares. Jindivick! Far out, that's just next door to our farm! I choke on my sandwich. "... Conditions are expected to be worse than Ash Wednesday, and possibly worse than Black Friday ..." Black Friday?! Our whole region went up in smoke on Black Friday, the entire Olsen family perished.

The phone rings. "You may want to get some more dragon tea on your way home," says my husband. We're going to need more than dragon tea today, I think to myself as I glance at the mere whisp of smoke that is the Bunyip Ridge fire. The phone rings. It's my girlfriend Christine who agists her horse at the farm. She wants to know if we're ok with the fire. "Well, not exactly. Can someone put it out please?"

The car loses power up a hill. Strange. I glance at the console. Oh my! The temperature is right up. Almost on the red. I check outside temperature. 41C. Ouch! It's only 11am! I turn the air conditioning off and we limp home. The radio blasts me "leave early". I can't move my horses. I can't tow one, and I need to move six! I can't leave until my horses are at least in the "safest" paddock. And which one is that? Why isn't someone offering a horse truck? Why isn't someone offering a refuge for horses?

I unpack the car, and glance west. The whisp of smoke has been replaced by a massive, pulsating, mushroom cloud. I take my most expensive saddles and bridles and put them in the house, the car in the garage. Inside, the house is nice and cool, the air conditioning blasting, Sabina playing with her trains, Pete studying maps.

"I don't think it will cross the Princess freeway", Pete looks up, his finger firmly on the map. "Then the wind will change, and the fire will go here." His finger glides over Jindivick, Neerim South, Neerim Junction, but misses Neerim East. "We will be fine", he concludes. I glance at the ferocity of the north westerly and wonder how much of a "PeBo Epic" we're in for this time.

We eat lunch in some sort of a blur, while listening to the radio.

"The fire has just jumped the Princess Freeway and is heading towards Drouin." the radio interrupts "Residents are advised to implement their fire plan." Pete and I glance at each other, then at the map. Pete redraws the fire path with his finger. It stops on Neerim East. We dart outside.

Fire plan

Implement fire plan. Right. Now what was it? Where is the piece of paper that tells us exactly what to do? There isn't one.

Fill buckets with water. But our tank is low. If we don't get to use the water, what a waste! Indecision. Too late to get the horses out. Too late to leave. Fill buckets with water. Fill the bath with water. Fill Sabina's wading shell with water. Get all the horse towels, and all the woollen horse blankets. We gaze at the shed, full of this year's hay. "Do you agree that the shed is on its own?" Pete asks. I nod.

Where to put the horses. What's good? Small paddock, or big paddock? We look at the lenght of grass in the paddocks, and move them into the small dam paddock. We turn the electric fence off.

One car is in the garage. Where to put the other? On the driveway, out of the way, away from the house. Done.

Shutters. Up or down? Once we lose power, we won't be able to change our minds. We choose four doors as fire escapes. Every other window is under full shutdown. The house goes dark.

Waiting for the Dragon

The huge plume of smoke in the west builds and builds. Our stomachs churn. The adrenaline pumps. Sabina wants us to play a game with her. She becomes the only normality in the midst of internal chaos and the impeding danger.

John Fayne comes on the radio. Our regular weekday presenter for whom we have so much respect. We cheer. All normal programs have stopped, and the radio continually repeats fire updates, one region after another. Victoria burns.

We sift through our box of fire fighting clothes. It's a nice try, but it's not as complete as it should be. I run to the little shed to get gloves. On the way I do something distinctively stupid. It doesn't matter what it is. But I realise that my mind is starting to walk a very fine line between sanity and insanity. My heart beats fast, my stomach churns.

Pete walks past the little shed with Sabina. "Come on", he says "lets have a final look at the smoke". I follow. The air has turned a light orange colour now, and burnt leaves are flying in on the north-westerly. We are standing on the edge of the bonfire paddock, in our shorts and t-shirts, taking photos. Somewhere behind the ridge on the western horizon, rages a dragon.

Back at the house we change into our fire fighting overalls. We exchange sms's with friends. Sabina plays, Pete goes to the toilet, I sit on the bed and meditate. I feel the intense power of the fire, it's destructive uncontrolled energy, it's rage. Then a calmness - my mother praying for us. I refocus on the situation, and on the job ahead. "Mama, come and play with me." I open my eyes, and follow Sabina into the play room. Sabina sees what is happening, yet somehow, she seems oblivious to the danger. Playing with her brings me peace.

Should I make dinner? Is there a point? Will we have time to eat it? I put some pasta and beans on the boil.

The Westerly

The Westerly comes and the sky goes blood red. A heart wrenching wail pierces the air as 12 black cockatoos suddenly emerge from a nearby tree. Most of them cannot hold their own against the strenght of this wind, and are swept away towards the state forest. One cockatoo just manages to hover for a few seconds, then he too, is gone.

"Listeners are advised that our transmitter on Mt Tassie may be affected by the fire. Please switch to 828 AM", John Fayne advises on the radio.

Outside it goes black. Darker than on a full moon night. A friend calls offering help. Then, bang, the power goes. Blackness. Silence. Sabina grips my leg in panic. "Mama, can you put the light on?". I turn my torch on. Pete runs into another room. "I think the power surge blew the backup radio", he comes back busily winding up the other backup radio. Within seconds we're listening to John Fayne on 828 AM.

I give Sabina her torch, yet another wind-up wonder. I curse it under my breath. A couple of dolphin torches would be really good right now.

Pete goes out on ember patrol. No words can describe the ferocity of the wind.

"Mama, please put the light on". Sabina refuses to let go of my leg. I explain to her about electricity and power, and power lines. "Mama, make the elctricity come back on RIGHT NOW!", insist Sabina. I call the power company. After 30 seconds on hold I hang up. I text my sister in-law with the numbers, asking her to let the power compnay know we've lost power. "But when will the elcricity come back Mama?", Sabina feels somewhat better. "It might come back on in the morning".

Sabina's anger and frustration reminds me that she needs to eat dinner. I sit her bowl of pasta and bolognese sauce in the saucepan with pasta. The hot plate is off, but the water is still hot. The food heats up. I present a spoon to Sabina. "Mama, I don't want to eat". Tears well in her eyes. Most likely from hunger. "Sabina. I've managed to get your food warm. We don't have power. If it goes cold I have no way of heating it up again. There is a lot of danger right now, and it's very important that you eat your food while it's warm. Please eat sweetness. I need you to eat, and I need you to eat right now", I insist. She opens her mouth and accepts the spoon. Another conversation about electricity and power follows. But she eats.

It gets a little bit lighter outside. Just enough to show us just how much the wind rages. We hear its full force as Pete returns from his patrol. I serve luke warm pasta and beans, with cold meat for dinner. We consume in silence. Then Pete is off again.

Sabina and I sit by gas lamp and candlelight, cuting out shapes from an activity book. "Our transmitter on Mt Tassie has been destroyed by fire", John Fayne announces on the radio. "Oh, my ... Kinglake. Kinglake is burning. Get out! Kinglake is going up in smoke! Kinglake! Kinglake! Kinglake!" It rings mercilessly in my ears.

Pete returns from patrol. Still no live embers. He goes out again.

I bath Sabina in cold water. More explanations about power. She lies in bed and I read her a story. "Mama, put that light on." "I can't, there is no power." "But, when will the power come back?", she quizzes. "Hopefully, in the morning". "In the morning. The power will come back, and we'll be alright", she says cheerfully. "Maybe it will be back, but maybe not", I realign her expectations. She lies quietly in bed by torchlight, and falls asleep.

The cool change

The cool change comes through. The wind dies down. The smoke lifts.

I look at Pete. His face is covered with ash, except where his goggles were. Thank God for the goggles.

We wander outside and see the fire burning on the hills just beyond Main Neerim Rd. John Fayne signs off, and another announcer takes over. We see an emergency vehicle drive along Neerim East Rd. It stops, and the lights keep blinking in the same spot for about half an hour. Then it leaves. Another half an hour later a cavalcade of 2 or 3 police cars, and at least 5 fire engines drive North towards Noojee. Then many cars drive along Neerim East Rd, heading South. We deduce that Main Neerim Rd is closed. And possibly people are evacuating from Nayook, Neerim Junction and Noojee.

The night

The power comes back on. We shower and go to bed.

Two or three hours later, I wake Pete up and he goes on patrol. While on patrol he listens to the radio for updates. "I think I heard wrong", he says when he returns. "What I think I heard, was that only one house is left standing in Marysville", his voice falters. "But, I think I heard wrong".

At 6am I wake up and do my patrol. I turn the radio on. "We have an unconfirmed report", the radio blares "that only one house is left standing in Marysville. But this report is not confirmed, we are waiting to confirm ...". I slump into a chair outside, and weep ...

Huge

We've just packed the car, and we're driving back to town to face the working week. It's after 9pm, the sun has just ebbed over the horizon, and the sunset colours are still playing with the landscape. Last glimpses of the farm make us feel mellow. Sabina is chirpy in the back seat, chatting more than a football comentator during a goal. I glance across our beloved hills. A white cloud besets the east horizon. A bright yellow moon rises from behind the cloud. "Look at the huge moon", I gape. Sabina turns to look. "The moon is HUGE", she cooes. Huge. New word. "Look at the huge moon", repeats Sabina. "Ribbit (frog), look at the moon, it's huge". Everytime she says it, huge is accented in every way to make it sound 'huge'. "Because it's huge, isn't it?", she continues. "Papa, the moon is huge, isn't it". "And look at the sky, it's huge". For the next half an hour all we hear, is various uses of 'huge'.

(When I first spot the moon, Papa turns to look as well. "It's a full moon", he says. "Yes, it's full, it needs to do a 'kupa'", says Sabina (kupa - think toilet, think number two). "In the toilet?" asks Papa. "No, in the pants!", replies Sabina.)

But Why?

Sabina is currently going through a "why?" phase. She asks about everything. Why this, why that.

I remember once seing a child like that on the tram (years ago, I wasn't even married). His mum was nice, but she wasn't answering all the questions. I promised myself then, that when my child is that age, I will revel in it and answer the questions thoroughly.

Now in many ways, I have kept my promise, but sometimes Sabina just doesn't know when to stop asking. Are all kids like that?

Well, no. This morning on the train to work, a lovely lady with a young boy get on. They sit right behind me. "We're at the front of the train, aren't we?", says the boy. "Yes", answers his lady carer. "But we can't see the driver", comments the boy, "why can't we see the driver?" "Yes!" I scream inside. "The driver is at the very front of the train in a separate cabin," answers the lady. I wait. The boy happily looks out the window. The topic is closed.

"What?!!!", I scream inside, "no more questions?". "Oh c'mon!", I think, "there must be another 'why'. Surely?". But no, there isn't.

See, because if that was Sabina, there would be another why. "Why is the train driver in a separate cabin?" "So that he isn't disturbed by passengers." "Why?" "Why what?" "Why he is not distubbed by passgers?" "Because if he was disturbed by passengers he might crash the train" "But why?" "Because when people are distracted they make mistakes." "Why?" "Because that's how our brain works." "But why?"

The Church

(On Christmas Eve we just managed to pop Sabina in a dress and we went to Church. On Boxing Day (26 Dec) we brought the harvest in, and on the following Monday (29th Dec) we decided to celebrate. We got Sabina all cleaned up, dressed, and we went to the Pub for dinner. The Pub and the Church are a mere 4 houses away from each other. Incidentally, the Church is downhill from the Pub.)

Sabina starts plauging me that she wants to go to Church. "Unusual", I think, but promise her a trip to the Church.

We park a little downhill of the Church and Sabina asks "why are we parking here?". She's always full of "why this? why that?" these days. So I explain, while we walk up to the Church. The service seems to have already started, but a few people are still wandering in. Sabina looks at the building and lets out the biggest shriek I have ever heard "not that Church!!!", as huge tears roll down her face. "Not that Church, Mama!" she screams, "the Eating Church!" I gaze wistfully uphill towards the Pub, and shake my head.

I manage to explain to Sabina that the Eating Church isn't open yet, so how about we go to this Church first. Then afterwards, we can go to the Eating Church. She nods in agreement, we wipe the tears and attend mass. As we're walking out of the Church, she gets so fascinated with making the sign of the cross with holy water, that she forgets all about the Eating Church, and we return home in peace. (Albeit, I am very careful, not to drive past the Pub on the way home).

My Eagles

A pair of wedge tailed eagles live in the state forest. They are within easy flying vicinity of our farm. During the summer we see them quite often, usually at around 2pm, circling above our farm house. They are huge, they are magnificent, they are captivating. I love staring up at the sky, just watching them as they catch thermals and glide forever higher without a single wing flap. Just the other day, I was sitting on the swing in the back yard, and there they were in our own paddock, barely a metre off the ground. I could see them through the trees. It was amazing.

Today a few visitors have come to the farm for a bike ride and a BBQ. The bike ride is all finished, and the BBQ is going strong. I am inside adding some final touches to a couple of salads. The door to the patio opens and a shrill cry follows "Ania, your eagles are here!".

We all run outside, noses pointed to the sky.

The Harvest

We don't produce anything much on our farm as yet (stray bunnies, blue tongues and ducks excepted). But we do get a good crop of hay. Good hay.

Normally, the harvest is in by mid December, but this year, due to glorious rain, the raking and baling is being done as we speak. The truck arrives with a loading arm, and a helping hand called Mitch. I jump behind the wheel and stare back at the loading arm. We've never had anything this civilised. "Just drive slowly forwards so that the loader can pick up the bales", Mitch gives me a friendly wave, then he jumps onto the moving truck. The loading arm is fantastic. It scoots alongside of the truck, and scoops up bale after bale. Mitch and Pete stack the bales on the truck. Boof boof. Oops, I think I just drove over one. Oh well.

When the truck is full, the loading arm gets detached and we drive the truck to the shed. Unloading time. I get into the fun, games, dust and sinking between hay bales of stacking the hay in the shed. Not to mention the tired hands, heavy lifting and severely scratched legs. Sneezing abounds. Mitch looks like he may have done this before. I swear that next year I will wear jeans.

With 100 bales per truck, our share in done in three truck fulls. We load up the forth truck, and Mitch drives it down to Bob's. I go in the house and start preparing dinner. I see the truck arrive, and the collection goes on. I feel somewhat excluded. What was that about the "farmer's wife"? Or was it "women on farms"? Whatever, I wave my hand.

The last truck load is comleted in late dusk. 652 blales. 648 put away, 1 driven over, 2 burst while loading, and 1 too crooked to load. A harvest this easy I have never done.

(2007, 580 bales. Pete and I collected the lot. Just Pete, just the truck, just me. Took us 8 hours, we finished at 3am. The next day we ate all the eggs and meat in the fridge, in an attempt to recover).

(2006, 248 bales. Pete and I collected the lot. Just Pete, just the truck, just me. Took 5 hours, finished at 2am. We recovered two days later).

Gone Paddling

The day dawns with a totally different feel to yesterday. The rain pitter patters on the roof, and passing showers drum out the hum of the generator. As we get dressed, as we eat breakfast, as we pack the cars and wash the dishes there is an unmistakable undercurrent in conversations. In every sentence, every word, there is a whisper of anticipation. Did the rain cause the river to rise? By how much? Will the gorge be "rocking"? Will the intricate patterns of the dislocation and graveyard rapids turn into wild flushing playgrounds?

On the way to the put in, Sabina sizes up Russell's van. "Mama, Russell doesn't have a house", she says. "He's got a car house".

The boys prepare to put in at the Bundarra river bridge. The water is certainly moving right along. I find a stick and throw it in, trying to show Sabina where Papa will paddle, and how fast he will be out of sight. The stick is too small and we lose sight of it in the first wave. I throw a bigger stick. Sabina watches it float down in silence.

We turn back to watch the paddling preparations and I explain the equipment to Sabina. "Cag to keep dry, deck to keep water out of the boat, vest to float, helmet". She's fascinated by the vest. So many buckles and fasteners, so many trinkets to play with. The boys show her that there's even a whistle.

Papa puts in, and Sabina insists on sitting in the boat with him. She has visions of sitting between his legs, while he paddles into the middle of the river. Pete and I look at each other, and Sabina quickly ends up back on the bank despite the protests. Papa paddles out, and surfs the nearby wave. The wave washes over the front of his boat. Over his deck. Sabina is speechless.
The boys look at us, wave, and float gracefully down the river. Within seconds they are out of sight.

The next group of paddlers arrive. Peak hour traffic! We look at them playing in the wave. "When I am like Papa, I will have a purple boat", anounces Sabina, "And I'll have a blue boat". "Why do you need two boats?" I ask. "For when one gets dirty". Of course. We watch the paddlers float down the river. Suddenly a wave of longing grips me and I jump up and down on the spot "I want to go paddling, I want to go paddling". Sabina holds my hand like a loving parent. The rain starts in earnest. "But where's Papa?" quizzes Sabina. I open my mouth to reply, change my mind, and just smile.

We jump in the car. We wave a farewell at the Blue Duck as we drive by, then we're back on the winding road to Omeo. Memories of Winter Classics return to me once more. The Mr Men team - we won our division that day. But out of a team of eight only two turned up to the presentation. They got up on the podium and hung a sign "Gone paddling".

On the last downhill before Omeo I stop by the side of the road and point out the skewbald horse in the paddock. "There Sabina. Isn't that Rain?". She looks on carefully. "Yes Mama, that's Rain. Hello Rain! Hello Rain!", she waves madly through the window. Rain looks at us, then returns to her mid-morning snooze.

We hang out together in Omeo for a while. Cappucino for me, babycino for Sabina. Rain stops and sun shines brightly. Art gallery, a visit to the playground, a walk in the park, where Sabina skips and runs carefree along the path singing praises. Then we drive back to Hinnomunjie bridge to pick up the boys.

I stiffen when I see that they are already there and out of the water. Late again. But they greet us with joy and laughter, and dive into the esky for a can of Bourbon and cola. "We've been here for an hour" they chid. I stutter. They look at me half with pity, half with the zest of life. "It rocked", I hear.

While I make tuna dip, the kaleidoscope of colour that is paddling equipment, is packed away. The only colours that remain are Russell in his cycling gear, and the green green grass on the banks of the Mitta. We give Russell a warm farewell, and he cycles off to pick up his van. We glance back at the take out one more time, and we too are on our way.

The Blue Duck

Papa has gone to Omeo to paddle the Mitta Mitta gorge. We depart the farm, with the aim of joining him for dinner. It's a beautiful, sunny day, and we enjoy the drive through the Latrobe valley. I point out the old locomotive in Trafalgar and the tall smoking chimneys of Morwell. Sabina marvels at the train line, which runs alongside the freeway for most of the way.

At Sale we do a stop to watch the TTT Showjumping. Sabina has to pat every horse, and every dog, and she has to drink the obligatory iced chocolate. Then we're off to Bairnsdale. Sale, Bairnsdale, only half an hour between them, right? Only if you're travelling at a 130km/h. Sheesh! I look at the clock. We're running late.

At precisely 4:18pm we leave the Bairnsdale Shell and head for Omeo. Surely, it's just an hour to Omeo, right? Wrong! I pass the "OM 110" sign, and shift in my seat. "Sh ... sh ... sugar", I breathe, "we no longer have to make it to the 5pm pick up at Hinnomunjie, but at this rate, we won't even be at the Bluck Duck at 6!" I step on it, and overtake the truck. Sabina is asking a 1000 questions; I watch for forgotten turn off signs.

The road dips, I indicate and accelerate. "Mama, not so fast! I don't want to go fast! Mama!". I choose deafness and overtake four cars in one shot. Bruthen lies peacefully ahead. Sabina calms down and returns to the 1000 questions. "Sabina, Mama can't answer your questions right now. I'm looking for a turn off". Sabina's questions become louder in protest. The quiet town is littered with too many tourist friendly signs. Buchan caves this way, snow fields that way, caves this way, snow fields ... I take the turn off. Within metres we're in the quiet of the Australian bush at sunset.

I overtake the pancake house car with trailer, and keep eating the kilometres. It's been a while since I've driven a winding road at speed and the first few corners catch me out. "Wheee!" I say to Sabina. "Wheee!". I re-group on the straight, and take the next turn with a bit more professionalism. Our car is automatic, but I use the gears regardless. Third, second, third, drive. "Oh look Sabina, Mulocky Creek". Third, drive, third. "And here, Bulocky Creek", I point out every sign, every feature, everything except the speed. Drive, third, second, third, second, third, drive.

We hit the Tambo, and the road straightens. I pass the white Subaru. "Zilber car, Mama. Zilber", Sabina corrects me. Then we slow down for Ensay. The sun is edging lower and in addition to changing gears, I keep changing the position of my sun visor. Down, up, down. Use the hand to block out the sun. Then third, second, third, drive. We drive. Oh, boy, do we drive. I pass another car and think "you're being passed by another Mr Men support vehicle". But that was another time. Another life. Deep down, I laugh a mad man's laugh.

"Mama I'm tired". We pass through Swifts Creek. "I know, but Omeo is just over the top of that hill." It's true. Not far now. I stay focused, and at precisely 5:36pm we roll over the hill into Omeo. I stop at the T-intersection. "Look, Sabina, that's Spirit isn't it?" I point out the buckskin right in front of us. "Yes, Mama, it's Spirit". That's the only break we get.

I turn right and soon we're out of Omeo. At the Hinnomunjie bridge turn off I hesitate. I look at the clock, shake my head, the boys are probably enjoying happy our by now. We drive up the hill. "Look Sabina, there's Rain." (Rain is a horse from the Spirit movie). "Where Mama?" "I'll show you tomorrow." "Aha. Mama it's a long way." "Yes", I answer and re-focus on the corner. The road is narrower here, the edge perilous. "Mama I'm tired". "I know sweetie." "Mama, it's a long way". Well I guess it's better than a constant "are we there yet". "How about I put on the fixing song?". "Yeah!", the little voice cheers up for a second. Midnight Oil sings out. I take another corner. The music is lost on me. "Mama, it's a long way".

On another turn I glimpse the river, the rapids. Memories rush back. Time shifts. Henry is sitting next to me, and we're on our way to yet another Winter Classic change over. We pass the sweeping turn of the Black Duck. The road keeps winding. I remember passing another support crew. "You're being passed by another Mr Men support vehicle", I laughed then. I laugh now. That mad man's laugh. On the CD, Peter Garrett laugh's the same laugh. I shudder and return to the present.

The little settlement that is the Blue Duck Hotel comes into view. "Look Sabina, we're here. We're at the Blue Duck". "Is that the Blue Duck, Mama?". "Yes!". "Yay! We're here! We made it! We made it!", celebrates Sabina. I stop the car, and turn around "Did you think we were going to just keep driving forever?". "Yes, Mama".

We park in front of the log cabin. There is no sight of Russell's van. I grab some grapes, and a little hand, and head down to the pub. When I open the door the warm atmosphere hits me so hard I need to steady myself. I feel like a long lost daughter coming home. The white (or maybe silver) haired man smiles as he gives me the key to the cabin. "Are you with the paddling boys?", he asks. "Yes".

Sabina insists that we sit down at a table to eat the grapes. She sits, while I stand over her in anticipation. "You sit here", she points to a chair. Gladly. I take up her offer, just before my knees buckle underneath me. When the grapes are almost finished, we head back up to the cabin. The van rolls in. So does the lightening. Soon Sabina is being hoisted up by three happy paddlers.

Later on, we head back to the pub for dinner. A steak like that I haven't seen for a very long time. We drink beer and reminisce. The lightening gets closer and eventually the rain thunders on the tin roof.