Previously: 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.
How long do you reckon it would take to inflate a double mattress by mouth?
Determined not to sleep on the hard plywood I searched for the spout but being already jinxed by Mr Potter, the bloke that drowned in the frozen river, there was no spout to be found—it did not exist! The mattress makers in China decided that nobody would be fool enough to blow the damned thing up by lung-power, rather than use the “provided” 12 volt pump and thus there was a bloody hole in one corner that the pump connection pressed into—clever, but not practical.
Anyway, I can tell you it takes more than an hour. And, I can also tell you that “inflator” suffers many bouts of severe hyperventilation in the process. Furthermore, the combination of hunger, hypothermia, plonk and anger produces what I suspect might equal an overdose of cheap heroin to a junky. Of course, Potter’s bloody Rest had zero mobile reception to call an ambulance when I found myself laying on the ground wondering how I got there and why Eddie was licking my face.
Was this some sort of test that every novice camper faces? The best thing to do now, before anything else could go wrong was to spread the double sleeping bag on the inflated mattress, double up the blanket and go to bed. Things had to be better in the light of day.
Something that did work well except for a minor miscalculation was the small alarm clock I glued to the van roof right above where my head would be. I didn’t calculate for the mattress and pillow height that placed my eyes too close to focus on the damned thing. It was 3.17am when I broke the silicone bonding and focused on the time. Severe stomach rumbling had stirred me to consciousness—peanuts and plonk, no doubt. Eddie was like small heater snuggled firmly against my right thigh, happy to be warm again.
The tummy rumbling worsened with all the discordant squeaks and gurgles one might expect expected from a reform school orchestra—for the tone-deaf. There was no lighting at Potter’s Rest and the night was black, and I knew not if or where there was a toilet. While the freezing wind rocked the van I was warm. Could I hold out until daybreak became the question?
It soon became a 50/50 call—toss a coin—was it only wind or…Oh dear! Nature overruled and decided a try for wind and so it was—like no other. Under pressure like an old copper boiler finally blowing the report was indeed thunderous. So frightening as it was sudden, Eddie, still sleeping by my waist, head pointing to the sleeping bag entrance, awoke in shock and bolted forthwith.
Much noise and confusion ensued in that lonely carpark. Eddie’s sudden bolt was, he thought, to save his life, and thus his claws on all fours punctured the sleeping bag and dug deeply into the air mattress. The sound of hissing of air could be heard over his frantic barking and the mattress quickly settled on the hard plywood platform, driving with it the unpleasantness of my handiwork.
All I could do was laugh while Eddie went to the cold front seat until dawn.
The morning light revealed a loo some distance along the river. Adorning the dunny door was a brass plaque which read, “Potter’s porcelain please pause to ponder.” This expensive plaque was provided by the “Potter’s Rest Preservation Society.” The operative word being “preservation.” It was locked and should therefore last forever.
That day was spent reviewing my cavalier approach to camping while tracking down a better camp stove, a new mattress and a large box of matches for lighting campfires. While looking at the expensive matches guaranteed to light even if wet, and in a hurricane, I mused about returning to Potter’s Rest and burning to the ground his bloody dunny and write rude words on the plaque and wondered how I could blame Potter for the 12 volt mattress inflator, the ordinary matches and the damned toilet paper that were still in my garage at home.
The truth be known, I was not a happy camper and as the days wore on I became less so and wondered what Banjo Patterson prattled on about.
Poetry seemed to be his forte to magic imagery.
You know the stuff, thundering wild horses leaping cavernous gaps; boiling the billy and the heady aromas from a camp oven sending hearty lads insane with hunger, and let’s not forget dozing under a celestial canopy, a twinkling firmament “that the townsfolk never know.”
Like deadly snakes and spiders, ants and flies that crawl inside your mouth and nose, and sunstroke, dehydration and bloody sandflies that suck your veins dry might well be classified, camping Aussie style.
The new stove must have been defective right out of the box. While boiling water in my new billy, the same type Patterson used according to the salesman, the stove took a fit spouting flames three metres into the air making it impossible to approach and stop the gas. When all was done, so was the stove in which the charred billy had become a welded component to the stove.
The following days found Eddie and I eating cold, tinned food and an overuse of toilet paper. The kilometres, however, rolled by in large numbers, several hundred each day, because any place other than a truck stop like “Potter’s jinxed Rest” had large, “No Camping.” signs with threats of dreadful fines if one dared. I soon learned why those places were strewn with toilet paper, so did Eddie who seemed intrigued—I was not.
There is always a last straw to these things and it came at teatime camped beside a river on the edge of town. The weather was wonderful and I had a nice little fire making embers and a steak waiting for me to finish a few beers and maybe a wine or two. Maybe camping wasn’t so bad after all. Sitting in the camp-chair feeling no pain, fire at the ready and Eddie exploring was a moment to remember. And so it was!
The steak was cooked to perfection and the potato crisps seemed better than greasy, half-cooked potatoes. A tin of gourmet chicken with vegetables and rice for Eddie, and tea was served. While admiring my feast, from nowhere came a fierce wind burst accompanied by a deluge of rain while the sun still shone. Clutching my plate I ran for the van with dog and me piling into the driver’s seat. The steak wallowed in the rainwater and the chips had blown away but I was determined to have that bloody steak.
And there came that last straw. The steak was of course cold, but it was also like leather. Jammed in behind the steering wheel with plate in lap I sawed away with the steak knife that suddenly went through steak, the soggy paper plate, through my new Jarvis Walker trousers and into my leg—the plate went red and the toilet paper made a good field dressing. Eddie sensed danger and leaped into the back. In the mirror I could see the tailgate was open with my sleeping bag left out to air was now drenched.
We drove ten hours that night arriving home on Sunday morning. With still a week to go I was more than happy to get back to work. Eddie seemed unusually pleased to see my customers and while I recounted our camping disaster Eddie made his customary smelling rounds.
Eddie took longer than usual that day so I went around whistling and calling—something felt wrong. His details were on his collar tag so I called home to see if someone thought he was lost and left a message—there was indeed a message.
It was from a Vet saying Eddie had been brought in by a lady—Eddie was dead—killed instantly. I cried like a heartbroken child for Eddie and me.
Every time I read or hear Banjo Patterson's poem " Clancy of the Overflow " I think of Eddie. Sitting beside me on that camping trip when we gazed up in wonder at the beauty of the starlight nights. I think of him as I type these words and remember the dog that was my best friend.
" And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond’rous glory of the everlasting stars."
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond’rous glory of the everlasting stars."
You can read the full series here.
https://joomla.vps101246.mylogin.co/index.php/australiana/3023-eddie-and-me-the-full-collection
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