Ah, January! It reminded me of the old days of the Ferals, when the only bastards willing to go on a run were the Wolf and Yandoit. And so it was this January with all and sundry choosing to stay home, for various reasons, be they personal, marital, veterinary or pecuniary.Who gives a rat's pudenda! A run is a run, and even if you do it on the pat malone, it's still worth it.
Punters near an far might have noticed that there was a bit of moisture around our area of the Loddon, so, naturally we decided to go for a bit of a hoon down the valley to Logan, just a bit of disaster purving really.
We weren't totally irresponsible, oh no! We'd invited the Coliban Cocky Tim to come along in his Series 1 LandRover, just in case we'd get into strife, and to even that ledger, he'd brought along his two kids, Magnus 12, and Astrid 10. To top it off, Magnus, (obviously a chip off the old block) was suffering from gout, and crippled. Astrid was, at that beautiful age before pouty teenage peer-group pressure ruins them, and at a stage of development similar to a canary, all pluck and song, before you send them into the mine. And so it came to pass, almost.
The Yandoit came on his pat malone, and the Wolf brought along his musician sprog Trismegistus, who, as things developed, tended to panic a tad.
A coupla dogs came as well, as is normal.
Headed off, and viewed Frogmore Swamp filled with water for the first time in yonks. For those with literary/filmic tastes, this was the place where Raimond Gaita lived. The novel "Romulus My Father", later to be turned into a film was based on his life there. (The book was good, the film was crap.)
Off to Baringhup, and found some stranded Carp on the road. They being ferals, and despised, we naturally put them back into the water...solidarity!
On the back road to Eddington we came upon a mile or so of water across the road, but it was not deep, and pretty still, so we continued through it.
From Eddington, the situation became more interesting, as there were patches of swamp along the way in all directions, and we were turned back a coupla times by flood waters. When the road-side posts disappear into the water, you know you have reached your limit.
Logan, for lunch, was looking impossible at this stage, so we headed for Dunolly, but were looking to be delayed for a considerable time while the main Maryborough-Dunolly was being repaired, so we thought we would chance our arm on a "closed road".
Everything was going well, despite some pretty severe road damage, which the large vintage wheels just rolled over, when we came upon some fallen timber across a sodden road. No worries!
The LR pulled the trees back, and we continued.
A couple of miles on we met our match, though not without a sterling effort from Tim The Cocky.
The road ahead was flooded at a creek, but Tim was game to try it. He proceeded at a steady pace across the half mile or so of water, getting deeper and deeper. When he had reached to the top of his wheels, and thus could no longer see the road under the water, what does he do?
Does he turn back? Nup! Does he progress recklessly putting the Series 1 at risk? Nup! He sends his 10 year old daughter, Astrid out to do a recce in front of the car, to check for crevasses!
Questioned later about it, he dismissed the whole thing: "She can swim!" Ferals do not eat their young, but you can see the reason for the high attrition rate.
Having crossed the deepest part, what happens, but a large tree falls across the track! Go figure.
Click on gutsy Astrid's pic on the right to see this and the rest of the YouTube vid of this event.
Having been checked at the Road Closed, we headed back, driven by hunger and thirst.
The observant reader may have noticed a reference to a tree being removed. Well, after we went through, three 4WD's followed us, and, coming to the same conclusion as us, we all sorta arrived at the fallen tree section at the same time.
Only a bare minimum of tree had been dragged aside, leaving a section of dirt alongside the road that had to be trod. And trod it was by all and sundry when the 2 tons of Hudson, with its skinny wheels, happened along.... and sank to the running boards.
What happened next was interesting. Like flies to a carcass, 4WD's gathered, all imparting macho bullshit, and most not having a bloody clue.
The Wolf had previously been hoiked out of the Campaspe by the Mauler in the Dodge, a case of a 2 ton car, embedded in a river, being pulled out by car half the weight and half the power.
How did he do it? See the Vid by clicking HERE.
The trick is that he used a snatch rope, not a tow rope. The go with a snatch rope is for the towing car to let off slack, go as hard as you can, and let momentum be your friend.
The Wolf had a 22 ton snatch strap, but urge as he would, the suburban 4 Wheel Wannabes, would only try to tow, and it took two of them to move the Huddo when a decent hoick by the Crossley would probably have done it.
Unfortunately, Trismegistus, in charge of the camera, was overcome with concern for the aged (and elegedly demented) parent falling over in the car, and in the panic stopped filming! The real disaster of the event.
After that we went to the Dunolly pub and debriefed.
We then buggered off home via Carisbrook, where the real tragedy of the flooding was evident all around as people put their worldly goods on the sidewalk to be picked up by the rubbish collection. Truly tragic.
The Races at Great Western.
A Pissup With The
January must be artillery season on account of the number of gunners about.
The run to Great Western Races, to meet with our mates, the Central Unrestored National Treasure Society, had been on the calendar for yonks, and only a few days before we confidently told The Bull that 6 cars would go, but, one by one, the gunners spiked their guns, and pulled out, so, bugger me, it was The Yandoit and The Wolf again!
Fuck-em! Off we went through some lovely country: Lilliput, Avoca, to Moonambel, where unfortunately the pub was closed.
Contrary to usual practice, we went direct to Landsborough, rather than over the Pyrenees, and met Bull waiting on the side of the road in the Chev Fleetmaster. He could have waited a lot longer if we'd come our usual way.
A bit further on we met with Dodgy Dave in the BeeKeeper Ute, and thus the 4 of us rolled into Great Western.
It was decided, that rather than lob into the course, and ditch our grog, we would lob at Bull's for a pissup after the races, and go there incognito, so to speak.
Now, let it be said, The Wolf has never had much truck with the horsey set, they seem to have inordinate amounts of flatulence at one end, and large teeth at the other. The horses are just as bad.
But off we went, and we were pleasantly surprised.
The fillies were very nice. With skirts just below their freckles it almost brought an old man to his knees.
Not suffering from excessive altitude was our friend, the C.U.N.T.S. Gazza.
Our Gazza, he of the Black Knight Fordson, is a renowned Muff Man, a Pussie Persuer Par Excellance.
Yandoit has a theory that this homonculus is a genetic advance-guard. He possits that, the Gazza has adapted to the environment so perfectly that he has spent his entire life, from cradle to dotage at tit level, and been perfectly happy to be thus! A Mammalian Succuba.
More than this, the women he befriends, in their legions, know that he is the future, and warm to him.
Note in the pic on the right, that not only are the two shielas, tall Donna, and shorter Wendy, totally focussed on him, but the group in the background are also interested... and all at nipple height!
After the races we trucked back to Bulls, where, we must admit, things became a bit blurry.
One of the highlights of the evening was, in response to some young hoons across the street doing an asphalt burn-out, we all trooped out, and cheered as Smack did dirt burn-outs in the J Van!
They may not ever have come upon the word "irony", but they experienced the force of it that night, and we heard not a peep from them thereafter.
I can also vaguely remember the entire mob playing stacks-on-the-mill to some raucous 1970's music.
A very demure pissup it was by feral standards, and as it is often the case, Yorick the Prez (left) chose to give a speech at this precise time, which no one can remember, but the gist of it was that "Beer is Good, or, Beer is God, or, God is Beer, or, Good is Beer."
Whatever it was, he seemed to have drunk a shitload of it by the morning, judging from the bottles, but seemed a heck of a lot better than the rest of us. Spooky!
In the morning, the consensus among the bodies that showed signs of life, was, that we would lunch at Logan.
Yandoit fucked off home, and so it was Bull and Mrs Di Bull in the Chev, Smack in the J Van, and The Wolf and Gazza in the Huddo off to seek succour at the spiritual home of the ferals: to whit The Logan Pub!
Bull got us lost in some really interesting bits of the Pyrenees. The washouts from the recent floods were spectacular, and it was more than entertaining to see the J Van, designed for milk delivery in London, sway its way through the crevasses. We would have picked it up if it had fallen over....honest!
It was apparently no more suited to the open highway, where it wanted to dart over at obscure moments to deliver milk and bread, to either side of the road.
But we made it to Logan, where we were received as long lost friends. It is comforting that just as skirts have not come down in yonks, so, at Logan, necks have not come up. These are certainties that one hangs onto like lifelines in a flood.