Kayak adventure gone wrong

I had not intended to tell this story but my hubby asked if I was going to do a blog about it.

I sort of squinted at him, furrowed my brow and raised an eyebrow, “Really you want me to write about your harebrained mis- adventure?” 

Him:  “It wasn’t harebrained  or a mis- adventure, we had a great time”.  We being hubby and son. 

Well that is where men and women have differing opinions of what a fun adventure consists of, and I guess it depends whose side of the story is being told.

This is my side, his side differs greatly.    

The weekend before the ‘mis- adventure’ hubby had studied the maps and decided to kayak down a small part of the Mongarlowe River.  Apart from a few narrow spots with overhanging vegetation it was an easy paddle. 

The Mongarlowe River

One river conquered, the big one waiting.  Again the maps were consulted. If it took one hour to go from A to B on the Mongarlowe River then it looked twice the distance for the Shoalhaven River on the map. 

Against my better judgment I dropped major man and minor man off at the water hole at Bombay Bridge.  It was just before 5pm, dusk was around 8pm, plenty of time declared major man, armed with a snap lock bag of sultanas and snacks plus mobile phone and nothing else; no shoes, no torch, no jumpers.  I was to collect them at the Warri Bridge two hours later.

 At Bombay Bridge.  It looked like a pleasant start.

Warri Bridge over the Shoalhaven River

Tia Maria and I waited at the bridge. Tia Maria being my dog not the alcohol, although if I had known how the evening was to turn out I may have started drinking about now.  

The problem with the Warri bridge area was I had very little mobile service.  It was getting on for the estimated time of arrival but no sign of them floating down the river. Tia and I had been sitting on the beach, me reading, her swimming.  I went for a walk along the sand to see if I could detect them around the bend.  Nothing. 

Back at the car I had mobile reception. There was a message from major man “We are fine but it is taking longer than we anticipated.” 

Okay.  Waited another half hour.  Back down to the beach, nope no sign of them, back to the car, beach, car, beach, car to get mobile reception to try him on his phone for the 6^th time.  Why is his mobile turned off?   Dusk was approaching and my anxiety building. 

I was in and out of the car like a jack in the box.  The Warri rest area on the Shoalhaven River is a popular spot for free camping.  Some young guys were watching what must have appeared my rather odd behaviour, agitatedly walking up and down, in and out of the car, with the mobile clamped to my ear. Eventually they came over to say Hi.  I am sure they either thought I was a drug dealer or was waiting for my dealer!!

It was now dark, I didn’t have a torch, neither Tia nor I had eaten, major man’s phone was off or had no reception, they were nowhere in sight. I decided to get the number for Braidwood police but held off calling just in case my boys turned up over the next 10 minutes.

One last time down to the beach to see if I could see them coming. Then I would call the police.  

At the end of the beach on the bend Derek was camping for the weekend.  He had also observed my treks up and down the sand. He was in a happy mood having had quite a bit to drink. He asked me if all was OK. 

I explained what was going on.  His slurred, extremely ozzie statement to the situation was “Dickheads!  Here have a beer”.  

I declined the beer.  I thought I would try yelling down the river to see if I got a reply. I have a good five acre voice.  (Ask my neighbours!) No reply.  Okay, that’s it, I will call the police.  I was headed back to the car when Derek called after me “Hey is your name Kerrie? I can hear someone calling from the other side of the river.”  Pure relief flooded over me.  

The yelling to and fro was frustrating. Major man and minor man could hear me but the wind was carrying their voices away.   Eventually Derek and I worked out they had abandoned their kayak and surf ski over a kilometre further up the river and were on foot, they were safe but stranded somewhere on the other side of the river.  Major man’s phone had gone for a swim and no form of resuscitation was bringing it back to life.  

“Just swim over to us” was my exasperated yell to them. Derek in his drunken helpful way was waving an emergency fluorescent tube in the air with an almost mesmerising chant of “Follow the light, come to the light”, like they were a pair of moths.   No, the blackberry vegetation along the steep bank of the river was too dense and they couldn’t find their way through it in the dark to the river edge, even with Derek’s glowing stick and chanting! 

The next plan was to drive the car to the river under the bridge and use the driving lights to help them find their way to me through the bush.  I kept calling to them until I was almost hoarse but wasn’t hearing an answer.  So I waited 20 minutes there, lights illuminating the river and bush in an amazing display of blinding halogen.  Even Derek up the other end of the river commented on how “bloody amazing” the lights were. 

Eventually I gave up and went back to my now good mate Derek.  My greeting from him was “Nah, they are still stuck over there....... Dickheads.”

Major man could see a farm house lit up in the distance behind him.  They were going to try to make their way to the house. I was to meet them there or try to drive from the house down to the river.

By this time it was getting close to 9.30 pm. It was a very dark night. 

View from the Warri Bridge

I arrived at the house, now in tears. Can you imagine opening your front door at night to a distressed woman in tears, with a very strange story about her husband and son stranded at the river and asking them for help to find them?

Fortunately they believed me and were willing to help. But it turned out these people were only leasing the house, not the land, and had only lived there a week with no idea how to get down to the river!!

After opening and closing numerous gates my farm house saviours, Mark and Linda, found a track down towards the river where we called and called for major and minor with no luck.  I was now becoming really panicked. 

Mark wanted to call the SES. (State Emergency Services) to rescue my major and minor men. We decided we would go back over the river where we last heard from them and give it a final try to locate the boys before involving a heap of people.  

Back down the 2 kilometre driveway, over the bridge and back down to Derek, who at least could substantiate my story.  “They’re still there” said Derek with a shake of his head and a swig of beer followed by his usual refrain, “.....Dickheads”  

Mark had an idea where they were and called over to them to find the fence line, follow it towards the house lights, he would do the same from the other end until we met up.  

Bye Derek. Back over the bridge, along the two kilometre driveway and off into the most treacherous paddock I have ever seen.  The thistles were as high as the bonnet of the 4 wheel drive car and thick as a forest. Deep wombat holes were liberally dotted through the thistles and to the left was an erosion cliff.  

I have to say Mark had no idea what he may find over the next hillock in that dark paddock but not once did he baulk at continuing.

Hubby had already attempted to transverse the paddock but on a moonless night, without a torch, after stumbling into a concealed wombat hole and struggling their way bare foot through blackberry and thistle bushes he deemed it too dangerous to keep going with our son. Following the fence line still meant fighting through the thistles.

Then in the headlights we could see them coming up the paddock through the thistles.  I hugged minor man to within an inch of his life.  Major man got a push and sound telling off with a few choice swear words flying around, he was in deeeep cow poo and I told him, umm, yelled at him, “he was never taking minor man on another of his harebrained adventures”, but my son had the biggest grin on his face and said it was the best time he had ever had. He simply did not appreciate the danger they had been in on the river. 

We finally arrived back at our farm at midnight. Major and minor were none the worse for their adventure down the Shoalhaven River except hungry, damp and cold with a few thistle spikes in their feet and blackberry scratches over their arms and legs.

My husband’s side of the saga is this - 

He stresses at no point were they lost, he knew exactly where they were. They just couldn’t get through the blackberry and dense bush to the edge of the river or head through the paddock safely without a torch. Mark’s car headlights gave them a point of direction and helped light the way.

The reason the foray took them so long was because there were numerous cascades along the river, ranging in size from small to slightly steep, where they had to get out and carry their kayak and surf ski on land down and past the cascades.  The river was running fast and quite swollen from recent heavy rain which had also swept logs and tree branches as well as swallowing up vegetation which had been growing on small isles within the river. As darkness approached it was too dangerous to continue to navigate past these obstacles.

I think the real wake-up call was when husband was snagged under a partly submerged tree and the kayak took on water.  He could have been drowned.   He decided it was safer to abandon the vessels and walk the rest of the way to the bridge but the dense vegetation prevented them from following the edge of the river causing them to walk inland until they were near-ish to Werri.

I will not say if they had left hours earlier there would have been no drama. This part of the Shoalhaven River is not easily navigable.....(and husband had wondered why he had not seen kayakers on it! That is telling within itself!)   

Moral of story ask local knowledge first and listen to wife when she says it is too late in the afternoon to start an adventure.    

The next day we went back to Mark and Linda bearing thank you gifts. Derek had pulled up camp.  We then went off through the paddocks to collect the kayak and surf ski.  Husband drove pretty much straight to them.  As he said he knew exactly where he and minor were all the time. 

When we looked in the kayak the snap lock bag with husband’s drowned mobile phone nestled amongst sultanas was not where he left it when they set off on foot.  We figured the sultanas attracted an animal but thought we would find the phone discarded nearby.   A search of the general vicinity did not uncover it.  

I have this funny image in my mind of a possum munching on sultanas with the latest accessory in her pouch.  Ring, ring.  “Hello Pos here, nope don’t know who Major is.”  

Original photo & alteration with permission from xesce / possum tv
http://blog.possum.tv

My sexy little old man.

We had owned our patch for quite a number of years before I discovered the wonder of the ride on mower. 

When I was a young teenager I must have lost my mind temporarily. I asked my father if I could mow our backyard lawn, it looked like fun......

Our backyard was huuuge, it was summer, stinking hot and it was ridiculously hard work to have to do again only a week later, such madness.....never again! 


That was until I saw husband on an old ride on mower he had bought for the farm. 

Oooooh that looks like fun.... 

I mowed the yard around the house, both sides of the long driveway, along the road verge, another 300 metre driveway and then started on the paddock around the house. All with a 42 inch cut.  I was obsessed.   Hubby kept flagging me down so he could refuel the mower, then he told me I had to come in from playing as it was getting dark; such a fun crusher.  

Then I discovered the tractor with slasher attachment.

Why has my husband selfishly kept this secret to himself and not enlightened me much earlier about the miracle of our little old tractor and slasher?   The ride on mower paled into insignificance when compared to the tractor that does it bigger and better!

I finally convinced my husband to teach me to drive the tractor.  Easy peasy, but I wasn't allowed to take it out of first gear! The man watched for awhile to make sure I was not going to kill myself. I guess he has a point; tractors are the number one cause of injury and death on farms, and I already had a track record of throwing myself into a deep ditch while on the quad. (See my blog post Death by quad does not become me! )

Once he was happy I wasn't going to turn the thing over on the flat area I was slashing he then disappeared to do his jobs.  Woohoo second gear here I come!  Oh I'm such a speed demon! 

Soon I will be singing Kenny Chesney's song that my son plays and it cracks me up, 'She thinks my tractor’s sexy' (but he instead of course.)  Actually that would be a laugh if I started to sing country songs as I am not in the least partial to country music and my son tortures me with the wailing, woeful, nasal genre. Anyway, it would take a long stretch of the imagination for anyone to think our little ancient tractor 'David' is sexy. I'm told if David was the red version he would be a collector’s item.

Now my sexy little ol’ man is so old he does not conform to any type of OH and S. My whole welfare depends upon me being totally aware to not do anything stupid on him. 

While I am very happy to have David, I really, really covert a tractor with a climate controlled enclosed cabin, complete with GPS, a radio and extra attachments, like fork lift tines, post hole digger, aerator, grader, plough, and that is just to name a few....I have a long wish list... a woman can dream! 

For my birthday I didn’t get high heels or handbags, my husband bought me radio ear muffs with an ipod/iphone socket for use with the tractor and ride on mower. 

Who would have known such a gift would make me so blissfully happy.  Off I go on the tractor, plugged into my music, singing at the top of my voice, while I attack the woody weed that has taken over our property. 

My singing worries my husband. It seems when I hit a high note it sounds to him like I am screaming, as if I may have had an accident on the tractor, causing him to come running! Ah well, I never said I was a good singer, just a joyful slasher.  
  

I have to say slashing, especially slashing that rotten pasture invading Kunzea, is as satisfying as waxing legs!!!!!  

I have mastered the tractor and slasher the chainsaw may be next. 

Graffiti Rock

Our country town has a Well Wish Boulder as opposed to a city overhead bridge where signs are hung from, wishing Jane bon voyage or Wade happy 21^st birthday.  The signs draw your eye and out of human curiosity you wonder as you nearly drive up the bum of the car in front “Will Emma marry Nathan?  How does Emma know it is her Nathan asking this monumental question?   I hope he follows through by proposing in a more intimate manner. I sure as hell wouldn't be impressed with a proposal like that.”  

I was not aware the rock had an official name so I asked when I was in the produce store in town. The answer, 'Don't know, don't think it has a name....Birthday Rock?".
I figured it was a Well Wish Rock as it used for more than just birthday messages but as I wrote this the local newspaper also did a short story on it calling it the Birthday Rock, so Birthday Rock it is. 

It sits ten kilometres from town on the north approach and has a perfect flat side facing the highway for the messages to be artfully displayed.

During the 10 years we have been passing the boulder the well wishes regularly change.  This got me thinking about the etiquette of using said rock for scrawling graffiti wishes on.  Is there a secret book to enter your reservation for the upcoming event you want to announce to all passing motorists?  

How annoyed would you be if you spent a fortune on spray paint plus the time and effort to decorate it with all the lovely colours relaying how important it is that Jim is turning 50, only to have someone spray it over the following day to welcome Sarah home? 

The Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary defines graffiti as “an inscription or drawing made on some public surface…a message or slogan…”  

I rather like our Birthday Rock, even though the messages are considered graffiti, it has a good community feel about it, the ever changing messages are confined to the rock and private property is not being defaced.  If it were used for senseless tagging I may feel differently. 

Normally I get pretty upset with graffiti having owned a building constantly vandalised by witless adolescents scrawling their moronic tags on the walls, thinking we should be so pleased with their non artistic efforts that turn a pleasant neighbourhood into a slum and costing us a fortune to eliminate the truly ugly unwanted  sight. 

If we wanted to display tags all over the walls we would use our own gorgeous signatures instead of some random's monkier.  

I appreciate the art of calligraphy; this tag is lovely and well executed but on paper please, not defacing someone's wall!

I found out there is a code and hierarchy among graffiti artists as well as a whole graffiti language, this doesn't surprise me.   Tag is the writer’s signature.  Master taggers are called kings, novices are toys.  The ultimate offence is painting, ‘going over’, someone else’s work.  Throw-ups are usually very basic bubble letters. Bombing is hitting an area hard with graffiti.

A vomit, oh sorry, I mean a 'throw up' surrounded by tags.

I have never seen what I consider as mindless graffiti tagging on the rock; although recently someone only known by their name initials was declaring their love for another individual with no identifying name but initials. In my mind this is nearly as bad as tagging. Looking at it each time I drove past for the last month reminded me of being a silly pubescent teenager or reading the back of public toilet doors.  I was quite glad when the newest birthday wish replaced it.  

I imagine the lack of tagging may have something to do with the turn around of messages. Any attention craving tagger wanting to throw-up over the boulder would be well aware their art would be momentary as the next message is added to the rock by the toys of our town.  (I do mean toys in the nicest way).

Unlike the initialed loved up couple Bella only got a week of birthday advertising before the message was changed to 'Happy 18th Toby'. 

Do the good towns people realise they are graffitists who don’t follow any of the rules?  They are guilty of going over each other’s messages, they know their artistic abilities will be bombed at a close point in the future to give way for the next well wish and they are perfectly OK with that.  

A born and bred Braidwoodian told me the rock has been employed as a sign carrier for over 20  years!!!!!!! Can you imagine how many layers of paint it is dressed in if a sentiment changes on an average of every 3 weeks?  Like a Sara Lee pastry, layer upon layer upon layer. 

I am waiting for our Birthday Boulder to shimmy out of its paint layers like a snake sheds its skin. 

Meanwhile, for anyone interested my birthday is September............

Braidwood Rodeo - Ride 'em Cowboy!

On the weekend I attended the annual Braidwood Rodeo.  In my walk between two lives, city and country, I have had to adjust many of my city perceptions about certain aspects of country life. 

I understand so many people believe rodeos to be a cruel form of sport and entertainment; whereas country people look at the rodeo as a way to express and hone their stockmanship with horses and cattle; after careful consideration and attending a number of rodeos this is also the view I have adopted.  

The rodeo is a demonstration of all necessary skills used on stations, although I am certain there is not a situation where a station hand would need to ride a bull! The rodeo bulls toss those cowboys around like rag dolls, I figure it’s the bull’s due revenge for unnecessary human machoism.

Hello, just passing!

Most sports hold a degree of personal danger; being a participant in a rodeo would have to be the ultimate in physical danger that I can think of, why would anyone put themselves on the back of a 900 kg bull hell bent on grinding you into the dust! When those boys get bucked off they can’t choose how they’re going to land, mostly meeting the ground head-first or shoulder-first and trying to avoid stamping hooves.

Be gone flea on my back!

For those handsome young cowboy dudes punishing their bodies beyond normal endurance. I wonder if they think about how crippled their bods will be by the time they reach 40 years old. The song line comes to mind ‘Mama don’t let your sons grow up to be cowboys.’

Very nice stock indeed!

There's something quite manly about a guy in a cowboy shirt, jeans with a big belt buckle, and the cowboy hat...mmm, very easy on the eyes.

There are actually rodeo events for juniors aged under 8 to 15 years old!  Why would a mother allow her child under 8 years old to ride a bucking calf?  Is she totally mad, devoid of common sense?   

I present it to you this way, the answer to that is the same as why I allowed my son to have a peewee motorbike at 4 years of age or another mother allowing her young son to play rugby league; it is a lifestyle the parents are accustomed to.

Any child under 8 is held on by an adult and lifted off before they fall, so it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I watched one little boy cry with disappointment because he didn’t get a long enough ride.

As a mother my heart was in my mouth for this little cowboy in the making. He was competing in the under 11 steer riding. I think he wrapped the rope around his hand and couldn't loosen it. Happy to report he was fine thanks to to bullfighers.

The Professional Australian Rodeo Association state amazingly low animal injury statistics, by law they have to record the slightest injury.  It is the competitors who are overwhelmingly the ones hurt. 

I overheard two bulls talking, they are thinking of forming a committee called Animals against cruelty to humans with little regard for their own safety or aacth for short.....

On the day there were five injuries in the arena, all of these had two legs, fortunately four of these were not seriously hurt.  This bronco rider ended his day with two compressed vertebrae in his back, he reckons 'after a bit of a rest he will be back bustin' broncs'. Not one four legger was hurt.

Rodeo livestock are respected as athletes just the same as the riders. A good rodeo horse is worth $10,000. Many of today’s rodeo stock providers have developed sophisticated breeding programs to allow them to breed horses and bulls specifically to buck. Many horses are utilised that already have an inclination to be incorrigible buckers therefore not able to be used in other situations and would have been sent for slaughter. 

Rick Wilson of Tumut Rodeo Contractors told me his horses do up to fifteen rodeos a year, and buck out for eight seconds at a time, no more than three times during the day; putting this into perspective that is less than 6 minutes a year. The bulls have a similar schedule. 

These animals are considered elite athletes, they’re very well looked after being fed the very best food everyday to keep them in peak physical condition, eventually retiring as pasture or stud animals.

The horse whisperer wranglers.

Barrel racing is a timed event. The goal is to circle three barrels in a cloverleaf pattern

without knocking over a barrel, then sprinting back to the start as fast as possible. The sport requires supreme agility of both horse and rider. 

These guys are the bullfighters. They are either paid handsomely to expose themselves to great danger or they are completely crazy. I'm opting for crazy! Their job is to distract the cranky bull from the human he just chucked unceremoniously into the sand by giving him an alternate target. They do a great job of keeping the competitors safe. 

Just sitting up here, safe and sound while the bullfighters distract the bull.

Team steer roping.

Bronco Riders.

Strapping up old injuries before participating in his event. 

Un-decorating the steer of its pretty pink ribbon. Wow, these girls have amazing riding skills!

Steer wrestling.

Such magnificent creatures, and yes, for once I do mean the horses!

Flower essence therapy for animals – bunk or real?

Summer brought scorching skies, long periods of no rain, crunchy brown grass and very nearly bitter disappointment in the wildflower department to Somerset farm until I came across this stunning Fringed Violet in our heath land. 

Fringed Violet (Thysanotus tuberosus)

Sadly the flower only lasts one day; it won’t open when it is overcast or on wet days so I feel incredibly lucky to have found a few flowers.

While trying to find out what this flower was I discovered a lot of the Australian bush flowers I found blooming over spring and summer on our property are used in Essence Alchemy.  

I was so interested in using a resource freely available on our farm I researched this natural therapy.  

Each flower has an essence, a vibrational imprint or energy, so when we use a flower essence, we begin to resonate in harmony with the qualities of the flower. The essences have the power to heal emotions; like humans animals experience a range of emotions and the essences are safe to be given to our pets. Ok I’m on board so far. I love flowers; just having them around me lifts my mood so maybe there is something in this.

It seems quite easy to become a do-it-yourself maker of flower essences.  It is a simple matter of using pure spring water in a clear glass bowl, then to snip off enough flower heads to float over the entire surface of the water. 

Leave the bowl in direct sunlight for three hours. Ta-dah, the energy of the flower has now been transferred to the water. This water, minus blooms, is poured into a dark coloured glass bottle to the half way mark.  Now we use our best quality brandy to fill the remaining half of the bottle. The brandy is a preservative and an anchor to hold the essence vibrations in the water. This is called the Mother Essence, the concentrate.  The mother essence needs to be further diluted by putting 7 drops of it into a 30ml dark eyedropper bottle filled with 1/3 brandy (apple cider vinegar can replace the brandy, but hell, give me brandy! Its medicinal,.... isn't it?!) and 2/3 spring water. This is the strength you dose with.

Now I am really unsure what to make of this flower essence therapy. The essence water is so broken down with brandy and water I find it hard to imagine there is anything left of the flower vibration and whatever else the flower imparts to the water to be of benefit. For it to work those flowers must have an enormous vibrational energy or else it’s the brandy giving that amiable feeling!

Perhaps the power of belief comes into play, which no doubt goes a long way with a placebo effect but what I find interesting are the positive outcomes pet owners and even some vets and animal behaviour experts report after giving their animals flower essences.

Unlike humans, animals aren’t subject to the placebo effect, they would not have a clue the 7 drops of bottlebrush essence you slipped into their water while they weren’t looking will address their compulsive personality.  

So could it be a placebo effect on the owner really believing they are addressing an emotional or mental need of their fur babies and as animals pick up so much on the energy vibration of the humans around them, this ultimately brings about a change in the animal?

I am not ready to completely throw away the idea of flower essence therapy. It might really work and there is certainly no harm in a placebo effect if it brings about the desired outcome.

My chiropractor is also a herbalist, she stresses study is required to fully understand what each flower or combination of flower essences can achieve and how important it is to not treat as a blanket case but to work out why the dog, for example, is aggressive, is it fear, dominance or some other cause, then to treat with the appropriate essence, otherwise the outcome may fail expectations.

Marie Matthews in her book 'Animal healing with Australian bush essences' gives insights for various states of emotion and animal behaviour. From her suggestions my mind is running with what flower essence would suit or benefit each goat personality.

Slender Rice Flower for dominate bully girl Doe #104

Fringed Violet will help clear the trauma of doe #91 having her shoulder dislocated by doe #104

Isopogon  for my brown headed blonde Rosie to improve her focus and memory. Rosie may then remember if she sticks her head through the fence wire beside the star picket she will get stuck...again!

Native Iris for doeling #136 who had a massive cyst near her udder to boost her immune system with the healing process.

Damperia for the majority of the herd – they will co-operate at husbandry time!

She Oak energetically supports the ovaries helping fertility, definitely for the does before their date with the buck

I think I will give it a try. The flowers are free; the brandy is not; worst case I will drink the left over brandy! Its medicinal, remember.