The idea came from something I saw on television when one of those off-road travellers ambled around Australia with his blue cattle dog instead of his wife who hated camping—and everything else judging by the sour look on her face. What could be greater adventure for an Aussie bloke and his dog than to be fancy free, stopping where you want, camping where you choose and moving on if and when you feel like it? A total freedom very few experience.
As for the Eddie, I reckon a dog’s greatest joy is in sniffing out new horizons. They don’t care where they are as long as it is different territory with new smells. It all comes from marking their territory, an ancient instinct thing that one might have expected to diminish because dogs have become so inbred and domesticated over thousands of years.
The Toyota Townace seemed the perfect vehicle to sample the camping life before spending a lot of money to find out like so many do, that roughing it in all weathers is not your cup of tea. The van was my workhorse and for a few dollars, a sleeping platform of plywood and a few cardboard boxes for pots and pans and an esky, plus one of those butane stoves was all one really needed. Travel far and light, so they say.
Friday lunchtime and all was in place. Food, grog, a map and an eager Eddie already sitting in his co-pilot seat in anticipation of a new adventure—we were ready. A cursory glance at the map meant teatime would place us a bit north of Cooma in the NSW snowfields. It was very early spring, so snow should not be a worry, although cold it would be.
And no, there are no bears in Australia. except for Koala Bears who aren't actually bears
Eddie and me, tootling down the Monaro Highway, wind in the hair stuff with no obligation to be anywhere at any set time for about seven days.
I began to understand the magnetic lure of the open road and the great outback, even though a plethora of roadside billboards trumpeted the joys of deep snow and blazing log fires in cash-hungry towns only a few kilometres apart and 60K speed limit signs, not to mention heavy traffic, and lots of coppers.
It was coming on dusk when I realised that although Australia is a big, under populated, sprawling country, there seemed no opportunity to pull over and set up camp for the night. Everywhere is fenced off—the whole damned country is privately owned. I wondered who invented the star-picket; those steel posts you see holding the barbed wire fencing every few metres—on nearly every road—everywhere in Australia. If that person made only one lousy cent per picket it would make them a dead-set billionaire many times over. Fair-dinkum!
A layover was five kilometres ahead, “Potter’s Rest.” It was just on dark when we pulled in. It was one of those places with a roof over a few concrete tables and bugger all to stop the cold wind whistling through its unprotected sides. That’s probably why there was no one else around. But never mind, Eddie and I were on an outback adventure—in a dark and freezing truck layover on the Monaro Highway. Nothing at all like the Leyland Brothers showed on TV. Acrobatic cockies, leaping lizards and convenient marsupials were absent—maybe in the morning.
Who cares, Eddie and I were at one, man and his dog enjoying everything that camping made so…well, so sort of Aussie blokey. No question. There in that deserted rest area was an opportunity to embrace what Banjo Patterson experienced, you know, “rivers murmuring on the bars.” There was a river just out of sight, beyond a barbed wire fence, I couldn’t hear it “murmuring” or even babbling but figured it must be there in the dark, so with beer in hand Eddie and I went to investigate.
Invisible in the dark was that bloody barbed wire fence that tore a patch from my new Jarvis Walker camping jacket, the model with 300 pockets. I could barely see an info sign saying that an early traveller, Norman Potter, had frozen to death 80 years ago when he fell into that yonder river while trying to save his dog from a hungry goanna. “Come back here” I yelled at Eddie.
Time to unpack my batterie de cuisine. A small propane stove, a new, non-stick frying pan and sufficient plonk to numb the strengthening wind. I warmed to the thought of a huge T-bone steak that was defrosting, but not much with a temperature of one lousy degree. Eddie was shivering and pawing the van door to escape the cold. I wondered if dogs were affected by wind chill factor?
I never was much of a singer, although in the shower…well? Anyway, I found myself compelled to sing bawdy sea shanties— most of the words I invented. Eddie had come to see what the noise was, probably because there was no indication that I was about to feed him. There was no other living soul in that huge area. Peeling potatoes, scraping pumpkin and opening of a can of peas gave Eddie hope that sustenance for another day might come his way. If he was a good boy!
He decided to wait in—in the van. A dumb animal was he?
After a while, a very long while, the steak began to stew, so in went the potatoes, pumpkin and more wine for the cook, and then in went the can of peas. I can’t remember if it was the wind or the plonk but I found things were becoming a bit unsteady so I decided on a stroll to the river to see if it was frozen. Damn it, now my sleeve got ripped on that bloody barbed wire fence! I imagined it was that blasted fence that probably killed Mr Potter, not the frozen river.
Anyway, hunger pressed. I staggered back to find no steam rising from the old tyre, as it was when I left—the stove was out of gas. There was no fireplace at Potter’s Rest and nothing to burn if there was, except my empty wine carton. Even if I had any matches, which I didn’t, it wouldn’t have cooked a steak and veggies. Perhaps there was more to this camping business.
I tried to eat that mess in the pan but everything was raw and losing what little heat it had by the second. It was time to forget the whole thing and go to bed but Eddie needed to be fed and told me so. He did enjoy that T-bone but ignored the vegetables while I organised the sleeping arrangements. The veggies would serve as “bubble and squeak” when I could find somewhere to buy a gas canister—tomorrow. For now, that bag of peanuts in the glove box sounded wonderful.
On the plywood platform was a blow-up mattress (yet to be inflated) a double sleeping bag and an extra blanket, which, I never imagined would be necessary. With the large tailgate of the Toyota wide open everything was easy to arrange, except locating the 12-volt mattress inflator that was nowhere to be found. And the cold wind howled and so did Eddie—I think.
Don’t miss Part 8.
More next week....
Chaucer
Missed the earlier episodes? Catch up here
Part Five - https://joomla.vps101246.mylogin.co/index.php/2989-eddie-and-me-part-5-love-is-unconditional-or-is-it
Part Six - https://joomla.vps101246.mylogin.co/index.php/3002-eddie-and-me-part-6-like-father-like-son'
