Fairbairn Dam

Fifteen years have passed since I last stood on the banks of this enormous dam.  Back then, the weather was far less pleasant.  At this same time of the day, I had sat huddled in front of a tent blown flat by a roaring gale, and watched lightning fizz as it struck the surface of the storm-coloured water.  Deafened and percussed by thunderous booms from above, I was drowned in torrential rain.

But not tonight.  A good 30 minutes have passed since the sun stole below the line of trees near the horizon, and there is only a zephyr of breeze.  The mozzies have begun to swarm but they are not an unbearable nuisance yet.  In the distance, I can see the last of the kites finally abandoning the day’s hunting and head for home.  It is tranquil.

Stars, only one or two at first, begin to assert themselves as blue bleeds to black.  Even when the temperature starts to drop more quickly, I reluctantly dawdle back to camp.  I don’t get to spend enough time out under this curtain anymore, and am determined to bask in their twinkling as long as I can.

At the Races

The day is drawing to a close, but these punters are no less enthusiastic.  Dishevelled from too much booze, and their voices hoarse from shouting encouragement, they are hoping for one last win.

Between the five of them, there is no memory of who has won or lost.  It is the friendship and silliness they have shared that will live on.

Good luck, boys.  Let's see those shadows jump high in triumph.

Birthday Candles

“I can’t believe you left one of them standing.  You’re not so old that you can’t manage it.  I didn’t even put the tricks ones on your cake.” She glowers at me, almost menacingly.  Lucky I’m immune to her glares.  “Have another crack.” She obliges as the rest of us sing.

She picks up the knife.  “Don’t touch the bottom or you’ll have to kiss the nearest boy,” calls out one of her friends.  There is movement as all her admirers shuffle closer.
“What are you doing over there?” she asks me as I slide a little further back.
“She said ‘boy’, and clearly I’m a ‘man’.”
“You won’t be so sure of that when I’m finished with you,” she teases, waving the knife suggestively in my direction.  I let out a big, belly laugh.

Pushing the knife firmly into the bowels of the dessert, she deliberately taps the blade firmly against the glass plate beneath it.  Then she confidently saunters in my direction and whilst brandishing the sharpened steel, leans forward for a kiss.

There is a mixture of derision and giggles as the pantomime plays out.

Happy birthday, baby!

The Painted Desert

Climbing into the car after spending the night in the underground hotels of Coober Pedy, you drive north along perfectly sealed roads.  Taking what appears to be a random right turn not long before the Cadney Homestead roadhouse, you immediately trade asphalt for the slippery dust of the surrounding landscape.

About 15 minutes after the first cattle grid, you pass a house on the right before the road begins to wind itself around low hillocks and exposed boulders.  While not as evil as the Birdsville Track, you travel slowly, negotiating your way carefully around the rocks littered on the weathered thoroughfare.  Perhaps you’ve been lucky, and the dirt has not yet concealed the small red flags positioned just before the potholes which will swallow your four wheel drive, whole.  At first they look shallow enough not to warrant concern, but that complacency vanishes when you see the billowing clouds of dust deceptively swirl within them.

Finally, you reach flat terrain.  You stop and “beachcomb” through the scattered rock, stumbling across the occasional piece of fossilised wood.  An eternity has passed since the last tree grew here.

After this leg stretch in the baking sun, you proceed to a small rise, pulling up in an area poorly marked as a lookout.  Leaving the car running, and the doors open, you scramble up the last of the hill, not expecting much at all.

Instead, you see hundreds of square kilometres of open plain.  Conspicuously, somewhere in the middle, is a mountain of coloured rock that has not yet been razed from the earth by the abrasive sand of desert winds.  You have reached the Painted Desert.

This photo is a small section of a much larger image I have taken.  It is one of the most impressive landscapes I have ever seen in Australia.

Pocket watch

Although its face is cracked and its surface scratched, this artefact still bears authority.  Despite the fact it no longer marks the passing of time with the same accuracy, it faithfully continues to honour its manufacture.  In its prime, it patrolled the wooden boards of the Toowoomba railway platforms and determined when its trains should embark upon their purpose.

It is my maternal, great-grandfather’s timepiece, and was bequeathed to me by my grandfather shortly before his death.  With it, came his last important lesson for me.

More than money and fame, time is power.  Those that control time, influence how people’s lives play out.  Regardless of whether that occurs in professional or recreational spaces, those who regulate “when”, control the fortunes of those around them.  The weight of this metal clock constantly reminds me of the burden that comes with this responsibility.

In a world hastened by the advent of new technologies, it is difficult for most of us to “keep up” with the passage of time.  But we cannot afford to miss the opportunities that appear when we experience time under our own head of steam.  I cannot imagine how different my life would be if I had not invested time in that first, lingering kiss with my fiancé on the foreshore.  It continues to reward me in my every day.