The previous evening had involved much discussion of our proposed house, "Station Cottage", which we planned to build behind the Gallery. We discovered, with some astonishment, that there had been unspoken misunderstandings about our next home. These had been noted and solved, key features of the house's layout had been decided and we had even considered ways of new income sources. And we had been able to achieve this exercise through unhurried and undisturbed time on our own.
We woke to a much warmer gazebo. The chill had retreated and we rose to a glorious and cloudless Goldfields sky with just enough breeze for our early morning comfort. Michael started Kermit to grind new coffee beans, using our inverter. Talk about slumming it. Our first cups of tea and coffee in our camp chairs were most satisfactory. And the air was moving just enough to keep the flying foes at bay, so sitting outside was still pleasurable.
Little birds flittered and twittered and beeped and sang all around us. We noticed, with much amusement and some apprehension, that Russell Crow and his missus had located our camp. They were watching us from a nearby tree and carrying on an extremely animated conversation. Michael tried his usual pointing a stick and "BANG" expression to no avail. The crows merely gave him a rather pitying look and returned to their discussion. We knew, from past experience, that these clever and cunning birds were Up To No Good. Plotting was clearly afoot. We would have to be very careful not to leave any tempting items about for them to destroy or steal.
In the meantime, we were looking exceedingly worse for wear. After two days without showers, predictable skirmishes with pointy bushes and sharp firewood, Michael was sporting an impressive array of scratches and scrapes on both his arms, whilst my feet appeared to have been stabbed with a very small blade. Repeatedly.
Our washing water container had reduced in volume and needed replenishment. The gas bottle was spluttering and burping. signalling near emptiness. And in that unexpected window of mobile coverage, we had arranged to meet Wayne Glasson, our Man in Kalgoorlie for lunch at Ora Banda. We were pretty sure that the Ora Banda Inn would have showers for filthy fossickers and maybe even gas for our bottle refill.
Michael set off for his morning ablutions. He was quite a while, but there was nothing particularly unusual about that. When he did return, he sheepishly confessed that he had left the toilet seat to engage in some quick investigation. His sense of direction failed him for once and he was most embarrassed. He knew the direction back to camp, but the toilet seat remained elusive for an unsettlingly lengthy period. Eventually, he recovered the errant toilet seat and walked back into camp to Tell All. I'm afraid I did laugh.
The day was taking shape. Michael was eager to clap his eyes on the "Linger and Die" abandoned mine. He just couldn't resist the name. I wanted to visit the Siberia cemetery. Then we would drive the twenty kilometres or so to Ora Banda and meet Wayne for lunch.
Oh, the great plans of mice and men rarely go smoothly. The old mine proved very difficult to find. We tried two different tracks that Michael had researched on Google Earth. We drove through some very inhospitable country and found precisely nothing. Not a skerrick of metal. On our way towards the crossroads, we detoured up a bone-shaking track to a huge open cut operation. Around the mine was devoid of vegetation and the only metal was a lonesome sea container, filled with dirt and rock, its doors seized in an open position. Was this place "Linger and Die"? Is so, it was decidedly depressing and none too welcoming. We left.
Siberia's cemetery was about as thrilling as the mine we'd failed to identify. Next, Michael tried to find Siberia's old boilers to show me. Absolutely no luck. Michael was quite adamant the boilers were where he remembered and the road route must have changed. I considered he might just have an over-inflated ego or have forgotten the location. He was most unimpressed by my opinion.
We decided to cut our losses and head for Ora Banda and hopefully, hot running water. We slowed down for Daddy Emu, out for a morning stroll with his chicks. Further along, we passed a rather menacing snake lying on the edge of the road. Unable to determine the state of its health, we stayed in Kermit. Michael took photos whilst I watched the snake for any movement or surprise attack. We were pretty sure he was very dead.
Ora Banda was closed. Bollocks. We wandered around the Inn for about fifteen minutes, but nobody materialised to welcome us. We were due to meet Wayne there for lunch and we were concerned by the absence of anyone at all. The day was not progressing well.
We had no mobile signal but there was a functioning pay phone on site. We rang Wayne's mobile, which went straight to his messagebank. We were left with few options. We needed water and gas and a shower so we started off in the direction of Kalgoorlie. Our hope was that we would see Wayne heading towards us and be able to flag him down.
Once in range, we reached Wayne on his mobile. He hadn't left Kalgoorlie and kindly offered the use of his home's facilities. Bliss. So, without further ado, we hot-footed ourselves and Kermit towards Civilisation.
Wayne's bathroom was a present from God. Actually, any reasonable bathroom would have done, but the showerhead was wide and generous and warm. Mountains of red were sluiced off our bodies. We washed our hair and brushed our teeth. I even shaved my legs. We washed each other's backs and luxuriated in the heavy stream of droplets. In clean clothes from undies to jeans, we looked decent enough to be seen in public once again.
Wayne declined our invitation for lunch. He was subdued and sore. Whilst driving at the local speedway on the weekend, he'd come to a sticky end and was rather bruised and battered. And he may have been feeling the stresses of modern life more acutely as a result. He had a day off but his wife Sam was at work. He had the TV and the cat as companions. He talked about some concerns in his life and he didn't seem satisfied with his work. Yet, here was a chap on a good salary package with an investment property and disposable income. Maybe time to just sit and be was missing. He and Sam led a fairly frenetic lifestyle and I doubted they would in each other's company and able to relax on a frequent basis.
We filled our water container from Wayne's front hose and took our leave of him. He was rather a sad and forlorn figure and we hoped his mood would lift as his body recovered.
On the way into Hannan Street, we bought a new gas bottle. Then lunch back at the Inner City Cafe. Sandwiches, tea and coffee for under fifteen dollars. An absolute bargain. Whilst we were seated for our meal, we checked the weather, bank accounts, Facebook and Google Earth. Better still, we were able to confirm that I was correct in my assertions of Siberia's actual location. Oh, sweet victory. Knowing my woeful sense of direction, Michael was rendered speechless and had to eat humble pie.
Milk, olive oil for our pasta dishes, beer and vino, snacks and two bags of ice completed necessary purchases. Just after four o'clock, we loaded the shopping, jumped into Kermit and headed away from the bright lights of the Big Smoke. Travelling up the bitumen, we passed the Gidgi Roaster, which was thankfully not operating and mine sites, some abandoned and some active and established. Paddington Mine, with its mullock heaps as far as the eye could see, struck me, again, with its monstrous proportions. And it was only one of many mining operations scattered over the length and breadth of the entire Goldfields.
We arrived back at Siberia with plenty of daylight still remaining. I busied myself with some minor domestic chores whilst Michael lit the fire. The moon didn't rise until after eight o'clock so we enjoyed dinner and vino under a breathtakingly starry sky. And then, being very tired, it was time for me to retire to bed.
The unexpected...
the somewhat scary...
the beautiful...
Making time. It's a gift.
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