Nick and the V Tones, On Tour

Still Sorting

2007-05-22T07:09:00.000+09:30

I'm still sorting through the numerous shots from my recent workshop weekend. This is one of my favorites thus far.

Sad Day

2007-05-14T06:29:00.000+09:30

Today is a sad day. The end of the seminar. 5 days of laughs, amazing scenery, stunning photography, incredible tutelage.

I may indeed edit a few more of the photos from the weekend, but this is the last of my images that I submitted for critiques. The last is a self portrait.

Saturday Morning Critique Shots

2007-05-13T03:49:00.000+09:30

I have to say I am humbled by many of the photographs the other workshop participants (you can't spell "participants" without "i c parti pants") are submitting. I even feel a bit intimidated at times. Its also pretty amazing that with 14 people shooting on the same 1/2 mile stretch of beach there are so many different concepts and images. Wish I could share some of them with you, but you will have to suffer through some more of mine...

Online Critique

2007-05-12T06:31:00.000+09:30

Turns out the image the image selected for the critique was not the one I thought. I thought it was going to be this one....

Now you can enjoy it too...

Diminishing Returns

2007-05-12T05:34:00.000+09:30

Yesterday, for the afternoon critique, I supplied 3 images, this morning was 2, and this afternoon, just one. Its hard to find time to edit all the photos. Its not for lack of material; I probably have 200 photos from this morning (all of them equally National Geographic-esque, as far as you know), its just hard to find time to prepare them. We only have 3 two-hour breaks each day, during which we need to find time to eat, download and edit. So I'm telling myself that I was focusing on quality, not quantity. Right.

The critique of my shot should be up soon. Maybe based on the comments I'll try a few of the suggested edits and post the result, just as soon as I borrow a super-charged DeLorean with power windows and a flux capacitor.

Here's a shot from this morning...

Day Two

2007-05-12T02:48:00.000+09:30

Photography is a lot the right place at the right time. It just so happens I was at just such a junction today. The Radiant Vista website was looking for a few submissions for its online daily critique (they are the ones sponsoring this workshop). Today is "Workshop Friday", or so I was told. I offered one of my images shot last night. It will be the subject of today's online critique. I get to walk naked in front of the whole world.

So I'm not going to post that image here just yet. You can check it out @ http://www.radiantvista.com/dailyCritique/

This is the other image from last night.

Naked Dream

2007-05-11T10:48:00.000+09:30

You know that dream where you are walking through high school, or wherever, and everyone is looking at you funny, but you just keep strutting around. Before too long you look down, and you aren't wearing any pants. Awkward & embarrassing. That's kind of what it feels like to submit yourself to 5 day photography seminar focusing around the critiquing of your photos, except with pants on.

The title of the workshop escapes me right now, but the focus is on landscape photography at Jekyll Island, GA, an amazing little barrier island (resident population of ~500). Lots of beaches, lots of sky, and a perceived pressure to take some "great shots". Its lead by Craig Tanner, who does some amazing work. See for yourself... http://www.craigtannercreative.com/

Early mornings (5:30 am) & long days don't leave much time to posting, but I will try to add the photos that I am submitting for the daily critiques.

Today winners:

Return to Normal?

2005-12-03T16:48:00.000+09:30

One phrase I've heard, both before and after this epic adventure, is "Once in a lifetime", as in this trip was a once in a lifetime event. I mean no offense to any who have uttered this, but I wholeheartedly disagree. There is little doubt that this awesome trip has granted memories to last a lifetime (or at least until senility sets), but if I only embark on one such journey in my entire life, it would be a sad existence for me. I have indeed been bit by the travel bug (symptoms include an itchy red welt, and an intense desire to wander the world, much like Caine in "Kung Fu"), and I have no plans to stop, though a short break for the holidays is quite necessary.

And so, 8 weeks, 2 countries, 1 band-aid, 1 bicycle, 10 souvenir kangaroo leather scrotum pouches, 1349 pictures, 10,479 memories later I am in my native land. Jobless and jet-lagged, my first days have been relaxed; I have rarely seen the sun before noon (with no plans to change until after the holidays). Friends have aided in my re-acclimatization, bringing me up to date on gossip (of which there was very little in terms of debauchery, unless you count Jason's "Dirty Thirty" birthday party, or Kristen's drag queen bachelorette escapade), going to the latest movies, hitting the trails mountain biking, and dragging me back into the ultimate frisbee scene. I feel like a needy animal in rehab, nearly set to be released back into the wild. If I can hunt down and gather a few gifts for Christmas we will know I'm ready to be unleashed on the general population (however, more than likely I'll just buy everything online from the safety of home).

If you've managed to make it this far in blog then thanks for sticking with me. Its been incredible, and though I've probably not done justice to the complete wonders of Australia and New Zealand, I hope you can begin to appreciate the splendors of travels Down Under. And if you've already been, maybe this has enlivened some forgotten memories. Either way, get out there, not only Australia or New Zealand, but anywhere, chart a new course, find some adventure, and as they say Down Under, travel safe.

P.S.- Beware, the travel bug is highly contagious.

Peeks and Velleys, A retroactive post.

2005-11-21T18:49:00.000+09:30

From dusk till dawn, coast to coast, holiday parks to primitive bush camps, I'm a marvel of touring fanaticism. The past weeks are an amazing blur, much like the pavment beneath my wheels. Details of specific days have blended together into a spectacular mosaic panorama of the country.

The cities I've visited (a city here is any crossroad with a population greater than 1000) are as varied in style and character as the landscape itself (I've visited most of the cities on the south island, with Queenstown and Ivercargill being the major exceptions, though the latter Mick Jagger once called the asshole of the world). My least favorites, ironically, have been those striving to capture my tourist dollar the hardest. Kaikoura is a good example of tourism run rampant in my opinion: skydive with dolphins, ride a whale, club a seal if you've got the money. They don't well reflect the honest geniune attitude of New Zealand culture.

It would seem that New Zealand may have the highest number of hikes per capita in the world, though I can't back that up with proof (impressive considering the whole of the south island has only a population of 1 million). Every stop, city or town, big or small, has an overwhelming number of walks ranging from 20 minute overlooks to 5 day tramps.

I have yet to turn down an enticing tramp, or a good walk. So far, ten walks and one kayaking trip in 9 days, though none longer than a few hours; its a bit like trying to make a meal of hors deurves. I wish I had enough time to venture on one of the great walks.

Of course that's not to say the day hikes haven't been incredible, if anything, they have only whet my appetite for their longer counterparts. The first hike summited Mt. Stokes with its 1200 m peak in the cloud cover. At the summit it was a bit like trying to watch scrambled ummm.... pay channels, trying to get a glimspe of something good. Every now and then the clouds would momentarily part allowing a quick tantalizing peep of Marlborough Sound below.

All of the rainforest walks in Karamea were fantastic, especially those at the end of the McCallums Mill Rd. The road itself was a challenge, 16 km of loose gravel, steep climbs and descents, blind corners, all of which the BMW handled with refined German efficiency (think David Hasselholf from Knight Rider).

Speaking of Germans, the night before my walks I had made friends with a relaxed German. He had spent an extra day in Karamea due to a suggestion from another traveller. Without transportation, he was stuck in the small lifeless town, unknowing and unable to access the incredible walks in the vicinity. Unlucky, as the Aussies say, though he was about to head up the coastal Heaphy Track for 5 days so he was not that unlucky.

Driving Skippers road, a dead end 22 km gravel road heading deep into canyon country, was the highlight of the motorcycle touring. While not the most technical road, it is the most precipitous road I've ever driven: a cure for anyone bored with life, or for a LOTR fans salivating for grand cinematic scenery. The road was also notable for the first lying Kiwi I met. There was a rough 4WD track at the end of Skippers, and I was curious where it lead and so I asked one of the guides from the scenic tours. His response, "Nowhere, the road ends here. There's nothing down there." A few minutes later he weaseled himself back into his van full of tourists and lies and then proceeded to drive down the nothing nowhere track. Thanks buddy.

In the previous few days I had consumed something unclean, be it the lamb cutlets a la E coli in Arthur's Pass (celebrating the successful completion of Avalanche Peak track, on which I only lost my hat once), or the roasted chicken fettucini con giardia in Wanaka. Since noodles and boiled water have been my only culinary concoction, nothing was at fault on my end, unlike shortly thereafter, where something was terribly faulty with my end.

Mercifully the full brunt of the ailment didn't manifest until well after Skippers Road (on which there are precious few safe stopping points). On my way north towards Christchurch, there was a churning and gurgling insisting I break early for the night. The forced destination was a holiday park in Lake Tekapo, or as I call it now, Lake Take-a-poo.

Back in Black

2005-11-18T10:42:00.000+09:30

Yet again I have taken to road by cycle, a black BMW 650 GS adventure touring motorcycle. It makes a mockery of my former futile touring efforts, easily cranking out 300 kms in a day. Certainly quite a bit of the astounding scenery, though no time just yet to give it a sufficient blogging. One week left to cover 3/4 of the south island (its taken 5 just to do 1/4).

One quick note, the "city" of Westport (pop 4000) is worth the trip for the public restrooms alone. Push-button convenience and space age technology combine in a delightful marraige of happy toiletting: push a button to magnetically seal the door (red flashing L.E.D.s warn would be interrupters of work in progress), push a button to dispense a perfectly metered amount toilet paper. Motion sensors dispense hand soap, run the water, and blow dry your hands. Once you start washing your hands, the toilet flushes (linked to the motion sensors). However, it should warn that a thorough washing of the hands will also result in a thorough flushing of the toilet. Its a wonder its not on the postcards.

Brave Sir Robin

2005-11-14T15:53:00.000+09:30

In my most recent encounter with the wind, I am remind of Monty Python's Holy Grail:

Brave Sir Robin ran away
Bravely ran away, away
When danger reared its ugly head
He bravely turned his tail and fled
Yes, brave Sir Robin turned about
And gallantly he chickened out
Bravely taking to his feet
He beat a very brave retreat
Bravest of the brave, Sir Robin

Certainly retreat had never once entered my mind planning the whole event, and after laying out a fat wad of cash I tired my best to buck up and carry on in quiet desperation. Of course the wind had other intentions, cruel, wicked intentions.

I thrashed my way up Porter's Pass (995 m), depleting all reserves on the 20 km climb to the peak (the last 4 km at a disheartening 10% grade). I was looking forward to the duly deserved 9 km downhill coast and my leaden legs needed a break before the next 60 km of ups and downs. At that point, the wind litteraly blasted me to a dead stop. Wind: 1, Nick & Gravity: 0

Its takes a big man to admit when he's wrong, and a much smaller man to sneak quietly back to Christchurch with his new found friend, the tailwind. Forget the bicycle, I'm taking cycle guru Pete's advice, I'm trading up.

A special note to Natane and Lee, who had asked why Aliminum for Americans? I had never thought it odd, but as Lee pointed out, Aluminum is in stark contrast to the trend of Cadmium, Potassium, and Paladium (to name a few). As Bill Bryson explains, the credit (blame) goes to Noah Webster, who favored shortening of numerous words, which he published in his dictionary. Not many of the odd spelling stuck, but Aluminum (shortened from Aluminium, because the extra "i" is so tiresome) did.

Sorry, no time for corrections.

Upwind

2005-11-12T15:10:00.000+09:30

Day 4

Ashley Gorge to Sheffield

Great country, great roads, great wind. I have a new found dislike and distrust for the subversive mocking winds. And I'm a headwind magnet. Only a 40 km ride, which ought to have been a 2 hour trip over flat terrain. I should have taken closer note of the "Pray the north westerly wind is not blowing". I should have gone to church in the last decade.

On the level sheltered sections, of which there was one, I was cruising along at a comfortable 35-40 kph. The wind was far from cooperative, slowing my progress to a scant 10 kph. People do this for fun? So much for my romantic visions of cruising the pastoral countryside in carefree ease.

A breathing rhythm is supposed to aid in endurance activities so I developed my own: Breath in, curse out, breath in, curse out. If nothing else I realized that I know far more curse words than I do colors.

Tapped of energy and swears I rolled into the campground after 3 hours of wind-whipped torment. I rather be a pinata at a MLB players fiesta than ride through wind like that again.

Back in the Saddle

2005-11-10T14:00:00.000+09:30

New Zealand!

Day 1-3

Christchurch to Ashley Gorge

I think I'm in a rushed romance (the kind that moves too fast, reaches the pinnacle far too soon, and ends in heartbreak and lonely TV dinners for one). Obviously we're talking New Zealand here. She the kind of girl everyone falls in love with, though a bit on the girthy side with huge mountains to match. Clearly too much for just one man.

You know you are in the right place for bicycle touring when the airport has a designated bicycle assembly zone. Ignoring everyone's suggest to catch the shuttle bus into town, I picked my way through a 35 minute tour of small street and attractive European style of cottages on my recently assembled cycle. I didn't see the inside of a hostel (Stonehurst Hostel - its worth checking out, Chris and Carrie take note) until 2, or the inside of my eyelids until 3, but my internal clock was still saying 11.

Tuesday was a shopping day, and I hate shopping, much like my father. And like him I question the value and necessity to spend any sort of money (though I don't have my vacation all plotted in a spreadsheet). The biggest inescapable purchase was a trailer for my cycle. Attaching to the rear axel, it holds all my gear in a waterproof duffel, though for the price I paid I would have expected a very dedicated Sherpa.

Purchases in tow, I rolled back to the hostel and spent the next 6 hours, packing, unpacking, repacking and re-unpacking. Saddling up in the morning (after repacking one more time for fun), I realized that I was missing one more vital necessity, a map case to keep track of my daily charted course.

They say necessity is the mother of invention, and if its true, then we must have done the horizontal tango the night before because I just birthed one great idea. Take an old receipt, write the daily "cue" (line by line directions with distances and turns) on the reverse. Form a paper tube around the handlebars and tape the ends together. Now you are ready to roll, and so was I, for 64 km, from Christchurch to Ashely Gorge. Only took 3.5 hours, I may not be Lance Armstong, but I'd like to see him haul a 45 lbs trailer faster than that (preferably, my trailer).

Onwards towards Arthur's Pass, Greymouth and the Southern Alps!

Hinchinbrook Island

2005-11-07T13:18:00.000+09:30

Last Week in Oz!

Hinchinbrook Island

For me the ocean has always possessed a hypnotic captivation. While not entirely dissimilar to the hypnosis of a crackling fire (though prohibited in most national parks in Australia), the ocean is less demanding of attention and entices me with a subtler, more patient charm.

What better way, then, to spend my last full week in Australia than hiking the remote Thornsborne trail on Hinchinbrook Island National Park, the largest island national park in the country. The 32 km trail runs north-south (hikable in either direction), never straying far from its charming coast. In fact, all but three (of the 11) campsites on the island are concealed in the edges of its stunning beaches.

I had been looking forward to hiking this trail solo: few distractions and plenty of time for reflection on the five incredible weeks in Australia. Arriving at the north ferry, I found I would not be so solo. A quiet German girl had just learned her hiking partner was laid up with an injured leg, and she was not eager to traverse the track alone (crocs, snakes, bats, who can blame her). Being the gallant gentleman that my parents had raised, I suggested she join me for the trek, and who could resist that offer?

On this trek my packing seems to have taken after my mother’s; without proper time to sort out all the superfluous gear from Adelaide and the Atherton adventure my pack was disastrously heavy (though I thought I may just be out of shape). The attendant responsible for transferring our packs onto the ferry confirmed my suspicion when he asked if I was smuggling lead bricks onto the island. I estimate the weight was near a spine-compressing 55 lbs, once again making me eligible for all the rides in kiddie land.

Unwittingly, I had picked the best time of year to visit the island. November’s threats of heat and rain cause most of the tourism on the island to instantly drop off from the maximum capacity of forty people a day (in early spring and winter), to only nine all week in our case.

Even with an overloaded pack, the trail never proved too challenging. The schedule of a five days and 32 km was enough for a relaxed lazy pace. Though as usual, I had a tendency to power through the hikes at a supercharged pace, but that just gave me more time to frolic along the vast beaches, lounge in the fresh water swimming holes and savour incredible views of the mountains (the island is home to the 7th highest peak in Queensland).

With ample free time, I fancied myself a regular Don Quixote, though my palm trees were his windmills. Tantalized and tormented by the ubiquitous coconut palms I’ve tried nearly every conceivable method to dislodge a nut, even jousting armed with a bamboo lance, though much like the true Don Quixote my failure was perpetual.

My hatred of mosquitos now burns with the fire of 1000 suns (much like the nearly global hatred of the Yankees). Mozzies (mosquitos) are even more ubiquitous on the island than palms. Stand still for more than a few seconds and you will find yourself in a buzzing biting cloud of mozzies dive bombing and strafing away while you lumber about like a giant primate (unfortunately, without a hairy coat for protection). It didn’t take but a few minutes until I completely sympathized with poor King Kong, though the elation when sending a squadron of mozzies to their doom was superbly satisfying. Death to all mozzies! (Note to Chris and Carrie: maybe bring some mosquito coils for around the campsite at night?)

The German was a nice enough hiking partner, though not quite as relaxed as one should be while trekking in paradise (even less relaxed than me). Rather than relax and bask in the idyllic scenery while waiting for tidal creeks to subside, she would rather slog on through, even at high tide. A slight sense of humanitarian responsibility had me following along. Subsequently, I was exhibiting the bowl-legged swagger, borne not of manly bravado, but the dreaded saltwater chafe (you may know it as the “hockey walk”). The only respite was the freshwater pool below the falls at the end of the day’s hike.

I regret that I wasn’t able to attack the two mountain trails off of the track, one summitting Mt. Bowen, and the other Mt. Straloch. The later of which is the site of a WWII bomber crashed during an electrical storm. Much of the wreckage is undisturbed from its original state and I would have loved the chance to investigate. Hiking the trails is strictly forbidden among solo hikers, and even groups need permits for these side trips. Had I known the German would be my partner I would have certainly given them a shot.

Even still, the trek was spectacular. The hike is not overwhelming, and there was never a shortage of clean fresh water from the cool mountain streams (never needed to purify the water either). Supposedly one of the best hikes in Australia (I have little to compare it to), I would recommend it for anyone in Queensland. Though you may want to hike it soon, I hear a rumour an infamous developer is trying hard to get his hands on part of the island.

Pics will have to wait until a more cooperative connection.

Nota Bene

2005-11-06T12:28:00.000+09:30

If you haven't yet noticed, the blog is a ways behind my acutal travels. That should serve as a fair indicator of how behind I am. You may also have noticed that I have been very slack in email responses. Thanks for sending messages, I have read them and enjoyed them (for the most part, some spam still sneaks through), I just haven't had a chance to reply. I'll try and catch up when permitting, though if that fails, I'll be sure to give them proper consideration when I get home (in about 3 weeks).

I've finally updated a few pics in the Mixed Nationals post.

On the Road Again

2005-11-05T20:12:00.000+09:30

Week ?

Cairns, Atherton Tablelands, Cooktown, etc.

Australia, much like America, is undeterred by rising fuel prices, and Aussies are enjoying an automotive shopping spree with fuel economy taking a back seat to thrills and power. Never one to miss out on a fad (except the Flowbee), Chris, Carrie and I sought out our very own thrill machine, even if only a temporary hire. No fuel efficient bubble on wheels would satisfy. Enter the Whomping Wombat: a seven seater 4 x 4 Nissan Patrol equipped with two fuel tanks, a V6 turbo charged diesel engine and serious off-road toad-crushing tyres. If the thoughts overkill or excessive come to mind, you are no doubt correct, but at $80 a day it was an offer not to be refused.

Armed with our own Neverlost system (a.k.a Chris with a map), we plotted our first course out of Cairns to the Atherton tablelands, a dry transitional zone between the lush coast and the arid outback. Or at least that was my initial assumption before Lake Eacham, Ellinjaa falls, Zillie falls, Millaa Millaa falls, Little Millstream falls, and Millstream falls all made a liar out of me.

Ellinjaa falls

Millaa Millaa falls certainly was not the most impressive (that honor, in my opinion, goes to Little Millstream Falls, though Zillie is a close second and all the falls are worth a trip), but it did offer a picturesque refreshing pool and the chance to swim under the falls. I was on my way out of the water after quick dip and swimming the gauntlet of the thundering falls when I was victimized by the infamous Aussie fauna. I was savagely attacked about the foot before I screamed and did my best Jesus impersonation running out of/on top of the water. You could almost see the red marks scaring my heel where I was bit. Chris was just as lucky, escaping mostly unscathed (thought emotional wounds surely will run deep) after the vicious falls monster engulfed with big toe, then promptly regurgitate the tainted appendage (his feet are just as nasty as mine). Carrie was the least fortunate of the group, probably a result of cleaner feet, and the fiend drew blood along the ridge of her foot before she could escape. What was this unruly beast? 'Twas no croc nor snake nor eel. A temperamental catfish with an insatiable foot fetish was the culprit. If you ever do visit, stick to the right side of the falls pool, the left is clearly his.

Beating a hasty retreat towards Chillagoe, the Whomping Wombat proved deserving of its name, Whomping 4wd tracks into submission, fjording rivers, crushing toads (a civic duty down under). Again we opted for some free "stealth" camping, this time right outside of our destination- Chillagoe-Mungana Caves National Park.

With the blistering heat and the novelty of Australian caves, heading under the Down Under seemed a proper course. There are three self guided tours in the national park, though I wish everyone better luck in extracting the info from the belligerent attendant at the information kiosk. Armed with her warnings the self guided caves were "nasty" and "not nice" we cautiously descended into the pits of despair. There was little need for despair or reservations about these caves; a fantastic network of twist, turns and chambers in one cave, and a giant rainbow coloured chamber in the other (if these are the "nasty" caves, are the others paved with gold?). Chris and Carrie each took turns performing a little subterranean a cappella, though Chris' shouldn't be repeated in polite company.

Carrie was jonesing for her internet and the quickest fix was Cooktown, a mere 4.5 hours away. We made it in 7 hours flat- owing partly to my unquenchable desire for off-the-beaten-track and a communal hankering for an olde time gold mine. The one we did manage to descend ("Keep Out" be damned) was more septic tank than mine now, and we spent 5 silent minutes scraping and scuffing the "refuse" from the soles of our shoes.

Bush fires near Cooktown

Some many hours and 'Are we lost yet's later we rolled into Cooktown (our Neverlost never failed). Too late and grumbly for anything but sleep we crashed in a slightly seedy, somewhat historic hotel. In the morning light I came to the decision Cooktown was worth skipping over if we didn't need the internet or sundries (try the Lion's Den just south instead). I may be a bit overly harsh on the town, not really giving it a proper exploration. Had I bothered to visit the Captain Cook Museum I may have learned the Dutch discovered Australia a full 164 years before Cook and that Cook is credited with only charting the east coast (instead I learned this history lesson from Lee).

We were heading south, meandering our way back in the direction of Cairns, and Cooktown was finally in its proper place, the rear view mirror. Cooktown to Cape Tribulation is dominated by Daintree National Park with the only access along the ocean being the Coast Road, suitable for 4WD and kamikaze sedans: the Whomping Wombat never says no. Sadly, the road proved far more tame than the map had led us to believe, though a secret (a short walk from an unassuming turnout) pristine mangrove beach along the way redeemed the mundaneness.

Once again rolling into a town late, Mossman this time, we spent the night in a trailer/RV park, with the luxurious tenting accommodations located on the small square of grass with the propane tank. Eager not to test the flame retardant properties of the tent, we broke camp at first light, also insuring we would be one of the first hikers to the Mossman Gorge section of Daintree National Park. When I think of "gorge" I instantly picture a Grand Canyon-like crack in the Earth. Instead, Mossman Gorge was more reminiscent of boulder strewn sections of the Occoee river, though scenic despite the false advertising.

Back in Cairns, after a sad fairwell to the Whomping Wombat, Chris, Carrie and I caught a bus, though they were heading back to University, and I was on to my next adventure.

Chris has noted that I failed to properly credit him for a few pictures in my blog. That one picture of myself, shockingly, was not taken by me. Chris does deserve full credit for that one.

P.S.- Chris is afraid of bats.

The frightening bats of Chillagoe.

The Whomping Wombat at sunset.

Frog from a night hike, as yet unidentified.

Mixed Nationals

2005-10-26T09:23:00.000+09:30

Week 4:

Adelaide.

Since the last entry, I've been caught up in a whirlwind of activity with too little time to worry about emails much less blogging. I'm back now, or at least in an expensive "Internet Cafe" that caters to the gamers. I may be the only individual in here to have seen the sun in the past month; pasty complexions, bleary eyes, and whirring fingers are in bountiful supply, though women, coincidentally, are not. Still, I'm grateful for the high speed state-of-the-art computer station: God bless the nerds (and their plethora of pirated MP3s, Movies, TV shows, and software on their local server).

Mixed nationals-

Since my arrival Down Under, I had been looking forward to mixed Aussie nationals (men and women, together!) in Adelaide. Perhaps a bit more eager than the rest of the team, I left Townsville a day early, heading up to Cairns (yet again on a bus*) to catch a flight out the next day. I had every intent to explore Cairns, though I succeeded in seeing little more than the gaudy tourist shops choking the city streets. Originally, Cairns was much like Townsville, though with the addition of an international airport a few years ahead of Townsville, it became much more dependent on the tourism industry. Now I have a stunning variety of low rate souvenir shops to chose from.

I have had bad luck with arriving at airports early, the counters have yet to be open, and so I'm stuck not only guarding my luggage, but other passengers routinely ask me to watch theirs while they head to the washroom. Maybe next time I'll sneak some Milk-Bones into their luggage for my entertainment (and of course that of the drug-sniffing dogs).

I was mercifully granted a reprieve from my airport boredom; Team Juggernaut (our mixed Nationals team name) was slowly snowballing. A few members met me at the Cairns airport for the flight out, a few more joined us when we arrived in the Adelaide airport, until finally all had arrived by the time we were settling in at the hotel. With 17 players we had one of the largest squads at the tournament, though a large untested squad, never having played together (with the full team), is not necessarily a bonus.

Adelaide is a unique city, it is entirely surrounded by parklands. The parks I had a chance to visit were all clean and well planned, with green space for equestrian, archery, football, rugby, a botanic garden, and even a zoo. Somewhere in the northeast quadrant of the parklands, Mixed Australian Nationals staked its claim for three days of tough competition.

Despite its proximity to the city, there was little in the way of spectators. No cheering sections, journalists or local news anchors covering the action. Aside from the players themselves, the only adulations we elicited were the roars from the lions and hoots from the monkeys echoing from the nearby zoo. When the winds shifted, we were treated to more than just their cheers and jeers with a full aromatic compliment. Some things are better left unsmelled.

Given our untested status, it was for the best our stands were vacant. In particular, our 3rd game against a well practiced, 3rd seeded Bootius Maximus proved embarrassing to say the least. Rather than relive the disappointment and report to you the score, I'll just say it guaranteed room for improvement.

And we did just that. Progressively, we played better as we grew more familiar with each other (imagine what full team practices would have done), though it wasn't exactly a Hollywood rags-to-riches epic. Winning only 2 out of 5 pool play games and loosing our crossover, we were out of the running for grand Champions. However we were in strong contention for the Chumpionship title.

Breezy and overcast with occasional showers for the first two days was downright blissful when compared to the final day's whipping gale and sporadic downpours. Stuck on a field with a strong headwind (as opposed to a a crosswind field) for the first two games, it assured horrible stats for anyone who took the field (its incredibly difficult to throw upwind in such conditions, let alone catch an erratically flying disc).

Our team actually had improved; the defensive team managed to score upwind in both games, a considerable feat that assured victory in those two games. Those two wins pit us in a rematch (we lost the first time) for the coveted Chumpionship title. Even with a nearly full squad, 3 days of ultimate had taken its toll, apparent by the pace of the last game. Both teams battled, with the score remaining within 1 point for most of the first half. But in the second half, the experience and depth of the enemy was just enough to pull away.

10th place, the slightly less coveted Chumpion runner-up, was Townsville's rank. And while the final rank was less than awe inspiring, it was an improvement over our rank entering the tournament. That, of course, means that we broke seed (or did better than expected). Not bad for the first Ultimate team Townsville has ever fielded, and hopefully, a good start for a bright future.

But what is an Ultimate tournament without a party? A pajama party no less. Robes are back in fashion it would seem, with myself and several others from the team sporting a range from dragon embroidered silk wish-it-less-revealing robe (mine, of course), to full length terry cloth and everything in between. With the theory that less is more, Matt opted for an "unfurnished basement" (if you catch my drift, or draft in his case) . Imagine his surprise (pleasure?) when several local ladies dared to inspect, lifting the tail end of his robe while he was crossing a street. And that was just on the way to the party. Additionally, we were ogled, interrogated, cheered, leered, and applauded (finally).

Monday morning was the scheduled departure for most of the team, though there were a handful of afternoon departees, with just one other spending an additional night (like myself). With a lot of ground to cover and ambitious plans, it was clear no bus would suffice. Budget Rent-A-Car is severely lacking in the "Detroit Steel" department. No Hemi's or Super-Duty to be found, a mid-size Mitsubishi was my consolation.

The the few remaining male teammates (the last Sheila was taking a nap), we struck out for the
Haigh Chocolate Factory. The self guided tour was more of a walk down a glass hallway; no oompallopas, no glass elevators, no fun. Lest there be any doubt, chocolate is meant to be eaten. What their tour lacked in entertainment, their chocolate made up for in taste. And before you ask, the chocolate will melt before I could bring it back for you.

Not content to just smell and hear the zoo beasts, a quick trip before the afternoon departure was coordinated. Wallabees, kangaroos, croc-a-roos, koalabees, wallaroos, kangabees (or something like that) and a variety of other typical zoo fanfare were lounging about their pens. One deceptive tiger had me convinced of her lethargy, though as I turned my back it bolted from the tall grass with its eyes hungrily fixed on me. Nice try, but I doubt even a tiger, even a Tigger for that matter could clear the 25 ft wall- Nick 1, Tiger 0.

After exchanging departees for Heather (the other, now rested teammate), we headed off for Handorf, the oldest German settlement in Australia (1839). Garbed in my German camouflage (socks and sandals), I was ready to explore the quaint town. Unfortunately with the late start, most of the shops were close, with only the Gem shop still open. You can hardly walk into a gem shop in Australia without tripping over opals, and this was no different. Hundreds of thousand of dollars worth of opals, cut and uncut were scattered over all corners of the shop. I could even buy a jar of uncut opals for 4k and possibly turning a 50k profit. I do need a job...

In a round about way (I'm still not sure how it happened), we spent the night at the tournament director's girlfriend's family's house. Though it was only one night, the comfort and welcome was a panacea for a weekend's worth of ultimate pains and aches.

My earliest morning yet: 4:40 AM. Heather needed to be dropped off for an early flight. For the first time, I was alone behind the wheel. Without passengers' gasps and screams, there was nothing to keep me in check. Fancying myself a Mad Max, I covered some 350 km of scenic drives, vistas, and dirt roads around the famed Barossa wine valley (though much to my dismay, I didn't have time to hit two spots on the map that I was looking forward to- "Worlds End" & "Cold and Wet"). In all that time, I was only driving on the wrong side of the road twice.

Now that brings you mostly up present. And there's a networked Quake 3 deathmatch game about to start, and I'm going to bring the pain. You wouldn't understand, its a nerd thing.

Pics to follow. And forgive any erros, I don't have time to proof.

*This time I had a new book with me, Bill Bryson's "Mother Tongue". Ever wonder about the evolution of the English language, or the etiology of your words and phrases? Bill Bryson explains it all with the unique humor and thoroughness one would expect from him. My favorite thus far: "myoclonic jerk". Despite its resemblence to a scathing insult, it actually describes the twitch one experiences just as you are falling asleep when you have that vivid falling sensation. I still might use it as an insult.

The Atlanta contingent at Mixed Aussie Nationals

Our team captain, Matt. See Matt run.

Team pajama pre-party. Due to various states of undress, a post pic was not taken. Mind you I was in bed resting up by the time debauchery had taken root. Honest.

A wine vine from the famed Barossa valley.

View from a scenic route in the Adelaide Hills.

Up on Crystal Creek

2005-10-17T11:40:00.000+09:30

Week 3!:

Paluma

I've noticed that it is much harder to "Blog it up" when traveling with friends. Its not that I don't do as many blog-worthy activities, but that more of my time is spent in conversation and I have less chance to meander through my thoughts (though some may debate the merits of my "thoughts"). Of course thats not to say I wish I was flying solo. Far from it, just that a personal day here and there helps me to speed up on the blogging. Something has to amuse my regrettably employed friends in Atlanta, even if it is an "Adventure in Complaining" (Yes Aj, I did see that).

Saturday's inauspicious start had me a bit apprehensive about the rest of the day. With a long drive ahead and a late departure at high noon, I had my doubts on the worth of this trip. Thankfully all my misgivings were unfounded; the small Little Crystal Creek NP was well worth the time.

Set back ~20 km from the main highway by twisty hairpins and avalanche warnings, the road wound up into the tropical mountain rainforest. At the NP we were greeted not only by a nearly full car park, but a convoy of military "Utes" on vehicle training exercises. Being the observant fellow that I am, it didn't take long to notice that nearly all the trainees were of the female persuasion (no, not by their driving habits). Having driven a commercial landscaping rig (a good old Detroit steel behemoth with a 20 ft trailer) around the tame roads of Central Mass., I can appreciate the nerves it would take to jockey the Utes with trailers on such a precipitous road.

Little Crystal Creek should be high on the list of any suicidal daredevil. With a single deceptively deep-water hole for diving, and "platforms" from 2 ft - 32 ft, it reminded me of the Looney Toons diving into a glass of water. Our late start found us as one of the few groups staying on into the afternoon, and as such, I was free to stand on the various rock ledges unpressured while contemplating a variety of painful landings. I opted for one of the slightly lower platforms, content to survive (albeit as a chicken) for a few more days.

Sunday was a lazy day, as every proper Sunday should be. Even my first practice with the team that is heading to coed Australian Nationals was lazy, which was just about the only thing I accomplished all day.

Monday, though, was a different story. Shortly after waking, Chris and I took a bus into the city. Noticing a "Salvo" (thrift store), we hopped off the bus a few stops early for a little bargain sleuthing. This wasn't just a flight of fancy, I was on a hunt for an over-the-top get-up for the themed Pajama party at Nationals. I don't know who bought some of this stuff to begin with, or the others who thought donating a used pair of underwear was a humanitarian act, but on this rare occasion, I was actually glad to be perusing the skivvies in the Nightwear aisle. Words can not do justice to the outfit I found. You'll have to wait and see.

A quick lunch (a turkey, cheese, avocado, cranberry, tomato sandwich sounds good, but may well be an acquired taste) and we were off to the Tropical Museum of Queensland. Chris was lucky enough to participate in the cannon demonstration as part of the gun crew; he even scored a certificate for his training. It was part of the larger Pandora/ Bounty (as in the Mutiny on the Bounty) exhibit- a tale of British Navy's harrowing attempt to bring the mutineers to justice. Then there was an exhibit of WWII Japanese attacks on Australia. Did anyone else know this happened? Sydney was torpedoed twice, and Darwin bombed 43 times! Either the Japanese were fervent creationists, or just hell bent on claiming worlds most diverse marsupial populations for themselves.

After exploring the rest of the museums offerings, we caught a ride back towards campus with the Ultimate team captain. It was the big night for the team, it was the first time the we had a chance to scrimmage anyone, though our competitors were not at Nationals levels. For the first part of the game, its seems that we were not at the Nationals level either. Plagued with turnovers and miscues, the other team lead us for most of the game. Nearing the end we managed to overcome a 4 point deficit and squeak out a win. Rest assured, unless we come together, Nationals is going to be a lesson in futility and pain. I'm looking forward to it though, I think we can step it up.

Chris on the high jump. Its a long way down.

Carrie considers the jump.

ps- I've added a picture of the Captain in the "Magnetic Island" entry.

Magnetic Island

2005-10-14T22:37:00.000+09:30

Week 3:

Townsville

James Cook University, yet another monument to the ubiquitous James Cook. I can't seem to escape his presence, and neither can anyone else. Captaining several different vessels over the course of 29 years, he sailed to all 7 continents and discovered New Zealand, Hawaii and Australia, among others. In fact, the native Hawaiians were so grateful for their "discovery" they bludgeoned him to death.

It is at James Cooks University that I am currently "squatting" (though I'm not sure how many more years gives me squatters rights). I've got a cheery 3 x 6 ft screened in porch off of Carrie's dorm room to call my own. I was going to spruce the place up a bit, a little shag carpeting here and a lava lamp there can really do a lot for the feng shui, but I haven't had the chance to settle. Despite the lack of homemakings, its a great place to sleep, open air, and quiet.

Not long after we arrived, though thankfully enough time for a shower, I re-sorted my pack and Chris and I jumped a ferry (no, not a fairy*) heading for Magnetic Island. Every transport, be it bus, ferry, or plane, that I've taken spits you out into a visually assaulting terminal, and this was no different. Brightly colored flyers, pamphlets, posters, of every scuba trip on the East coast, discounts at hostels, bus schedules, tours, lost dogs, whatever, its there. Chris, more accustomed to the marketing madness, struck out straight for the hostel bus.

Enter Captain Daniel. With a face like a dehydrated grapefruit and shredded jean shorts stolen from Daisy Duke, the first intelligible mutterance was "Getonthefuckingbus". From there he went into a 5 minute mumbling tirade punctuated with moments of silence where I thought he was going to envelope his whole face with his lower lip. Remember the commercials with the puckered bitter beer face guy? He's got nothing on the Captain.

Base Backpacker is a hostel perhaps better suited to some of my socially outgoing friends. Its atmosphere more befitting that of a singles cruise, with nightly social events escalating in debauchery through the week, and this week, culminating in an all night Full Moon Raver Party (should I tell them its not actually scheduled on a full moon?). The term "backpacker" here takes on a different meaning than what I had envisioned. Instead of the traditional trekking gear, most of these faux-packers carry hairdryers, irons, several sets of club worthy clothes, skimpy swimsuits, and the intense desire to party hard. That's not to say you can't find a few true trekkers in the crowd, or at least ushered into one socially awkward corner. Though everyone was open and pleasant to talk to, the scene was not my cup of tea and I was glad we were only staying one night.

From Wednesday's reconnoitering high atop an abandoned WWII lookout post, we planned the next few day's destinations. While we hit the water for some fantastic snorkeling, the highlight of Arthur Bay was the amazing rock formations; they looked like sculptures from a modern art museum exhibit.

Carrie took the ferry out to join us on the island. Initially, the idea of spending the night on the uppermost platform of the lookout post seemed like a lofty idea. With views of the incredible bays, a gentle breeze to sooth the day's sunburn, and the promise of an unimpeded views of sunrise, we couldn't resist. Later that night, the temperature dropped, the wind failed to slow, and before long we all headed for shelter below. Seizing the opportunity of the abandoned upper platform, a possum reminded us this was his territory, and marked the perimeter with astonishing amount of pee.

I was content to cure my restless night's sleep with morning, midday and afternoon naps in shady seclusion at various spots around Florence Bay. Chris and Carrie claimed I was missing the best snorkeling on the island but I have no regrets, especially now, back at James Cook University, they're both asleep and I can use the computer for my nefarious blogging.

My First Koala. Yes, I found it. No, you can't have it. The Forts trail is a great place to find them.

I have no idea what this was doing on the trail.

Chris, standing tall.

Sunrise over Bowling Green Bay.

Guess which one can nearly eclipse his whole face with his lower lip.

*Sadly, in the land of croc-wrestling, kangaroo-eating cowboys, the insinuation of homophobia holds a similar taboo as in the States; Fairydown, a New Zealand company legendary for its outdoor gear, will be changing its name. Market research has shown rough and rugged Aussie men find the brand name Fairydown lacking in the testosterone department. Sir Edmund Hillary didn't seem concerned with the image of his masculinity when he summited Everest swathed in Fairydown gear. Yet despite Hillary's seal of approval for Fairydown, you will soon be able to find the great gear under its much more virile name, Zone.

This way to the beach

2005-10-11T09:55:00.000+09:30

Week 2:

Ailrie Beach to Townsville

Sunday, when I was jealously waiting for Chris and Carrie (out sailing and diving, if you remember), I opted to strike out on my own. With a National Park at the city's border, I assumed hiking would be bountiful. You know what they say about assumptions... Not a single person I had asked knew anything about hikes in the area, or really anything that didn't involve a package tour and a commission.

A vague idea of direction and a pocket full of change, I struck out for bus heading to Conway NP. If you want to know the lowdown on any area, just hop on the local bus and talk to the driver assuming he's not offended by Seppos. Seppos, for the record, is a term for us Americans, though its a bit abstract- Americans are commonly called Yankees (which we all know is a gross generalization, though most of the best Americans do come from New England- Johnny Appleseed, JFK, Whitey Bulger), Yankees is shortened to Yanks, Yanks rhymes with tanks, as in septic tanks, then shortened to Seppos. I don't think I need to inform anyone on contents of a septic tank, which is what they think we are full of. If I was more creative I'd attempt to return the favor, anyone have any good suggestions?

Fast forward a few hours, and I was meandering a quiet beach after a 6 km overlook hike. One of the few signs of life was a green tree frog; a pint sized-Superman, reputably able to leap from second story buildings to the ground in a single bound. On the beach I bumped into a few young French ladies who were debating a quick dip in the picturesque sheltered bay. I too had considered it, but with Box jelly fish season fast approaching and graphic beach signs depicting the whip-like burns on a corpse, I chose life.

You may think I'm exaggerating like a typical Seppo, but an excerpt here ought to clue you in.

http://animaldiversity.ummz.umich.edu/site/accounts/information/Chiropsalmus_quadrigatus.html

A considerable number of people are killed each year by these transparent, grapefruit-sized predators. Laboratory experiments have shown that the sea wasp's venom is 700 times more powerful than that of the better known Portuguese Man-of-War. Victims usually experience shock, muscular cramps, numbness, nausea, vomiting, severe backache, frothing at the mouth, constriction of the throat, loss of speech, difficulty in breathing, paralysis, delirium, convulsion, and ultimately, death. Once the venom from the sea wasp enters the human bloodstream, it can paralyze the heart in 30 seconds. The pain caused by the venom has been described as the most excruciating in the world.

With the astounding cornucopia of pain, I'm willing to bet the "loss of speech" is mostly a side effect of the incessant screaming. And yet Aussies discuss the imminent doom with the same even keel as they would the weather. And so sunshine, maiming, death, and hiking were the topics of choice in my short conversation with a local Aussie couple recently arrived to the beach.

Just as the conversation with them was waning, an older (65?) gentleman slowly walked up, shoes resembling Swiss cheese and a rucksack with patches and mends spanning decades of use. He was more soft spoken than the typical Aussie, and I had to take a step closer just to hear him at all. For 26 years he's been sailing the East Coast of Australia, only mooring up in the summers. Having spent years exploring coastline from both the ocean and the shore, he had quite a bit of knowledge to share. So we traded stories of brown bears and bandicoots, and he and I started walking and talking back toward the trailhead, though not without a twinge of regret on my part. Do you have any idea of how hard it is to leave a secluded beach with three young French ladies renowned for scantly (read topless) clad sunbathing?

With a short trip back to the main drag, I bumped into Chris and Carrie on their way for a dip in the lagoon, and of course I joined them. I was lucky enough to catch the last of the sunbathers, a few foreigners in thongs. Surely a few hairy gut busting men is a great way to enjoy the sunset at the lagoon.

Anyway, a few promised pics here. I'll try and catch up a bit more later.

A quick pic from the epic bus ride from Brisbane.

Note the bus station sign. My roommate, wanting to give his Australian Shepard puppy an authentic name, went with Matilda. And as you can see, he has named his dog after a gas station.

Chris and Carrie taking the "Spin and Hurl" for twirl.

On the Road

2005-10-09T09:40:00.000+09:30

Week 2:

Airlie Beach

Late Friday night I finally managed to solidify my plans with Chris and Carrie, two friends from Atlanta. Let me just make a suggestion to anyone travelling abroad, use calling cards (note the plural). International calling cards are great; a meager 1.7 cents per mintue to call the States, though that's where the value ends. Try calling long distance in Queensland and suddenly you are paying through the nose for the mere privelage of picking up the phone. Out of 14 attempted calls, only two connected and I was about ready to try a telegraph office. Do youself a favor and get a domestic long distance card as well.

With a new destination on the horizon it was time to break camp. Packing up and leaving the comfort and familiarity of my home away from home created a bit of apprehension yesterday. There is the slight fear that where you are headed isn't quite as nice as where you are now. Certainly would have been easier to make tracks if Tane and Lee hadn't been so magnanimous; home cooked meals, tours of the city, an explanation of the game of cricket (no small feat there). The trivial tasks of laundry and packing helped to keep me occupied for the day.

With all my gear loaded in the car Saturday morning (minus the cycle, just not enough time to warrant lugging it around), Tane, Lee and I headed out for a last "Hoora" in the city. In this case the hoora was a metro market. Its been a long time since I've been to a city market, and recollecting the incredible Saturday markets in Hawaii (tropical fruits, fresh fish, ornate jewelry) I was eager to stock up for my trip. You never know when you need a dazzling necklace and a pound of avacados.

-A little seguay here- there is a raging debate going on in the shop where I am typing this. It reminds me of the Clinton scandal and the great "definition" debate. Except here, its a debate of the definition of "private". Someone booked a trip on a boat with "private" accommodations (not to be confused with accommodating privates like out former president), but the boat has a shared bathroom, which they find unacceptable (can't say I blame them for $1800). The situation certainly didn't get any better when the insults started to fly. Its like watching Judge Judy. Wish I had some popcorn.-

What a market it was. I don't even know what to compare it to. I'd say its a bit like the St. Dennis church bazaar back home, but that would be insulting to the St. Dennis bazaar. Imagine a small wharehouse with three aisles filled with the hokiest, cheapest, worthless knick-knacks. It was a graveyard for Walmart, K-Mart, and gas station chinz. Except of course for the swords. I don't know if they were smuggled off the set of Lord of the Rings or forged by the master smithys of Brisbane. I'd have got some for the guys back in Atlanta, but they would've probably poked holes in my pack, and then the small matter of security- they are nearly as dangerous as nail clippers. Sorry guys.

After a leisurely lunch at a great bakery in the West End, Tane and Lee (swordlessly too) escorted me to the bus station. I think it was as much an act of goodwill as it was to make sure that I was actually leaving town.

Why take a bus? I'm actually asking myself the same question now. Why did I actually opt for a 1500km, 17 hour ride? At the time of booking I thought it would give me an opportunity to at least catch a glimpse of some places I wouldn't be able to visit. Just stepping on board and catching a whiff of that faintly fruity, faintly chemical, all nauseating bus smell was enough to wash away my romantic illusions. It certainly did give me an appreciation of the great expanse of openess of the country here, and for fresh air.

It also gave me an appreciation for my own motor vehicle. What I would've given to have either my truck or motorcycle over here, this is the terrain both were designed for. It would have made stopping at some of the inviting small towns much easier. And I can't forget to mention Mini-Europe. Probably along the calibre of "The World's Largest Ball of Twine" and other such highway distractions, but I would have loved the chance to eclipse the Eiffle Tower, leap the Arc de Triomphe or right the leaning tower, instead it was just a mommentary reprieve from the constant blur along the way.

When on the bus you have plenty of time of time for senseless activities. Unlike one of my bus-mates who passed the time with bi-minutely trips to the bathroom (can you say "junkie"?), I had some time to count my change. Low and Behold! just a handfull of change here is $10! Closer inspection revealed $2 and $1 coins. They are decpetively small, at least for a trained American; I don't bother with anything that isn't silver right off the bat, and then dimes and nickles are tossed into a change bin. A costly mistake here. The also have the familiar range of coins; 5, 10, 20, 50 cent pieces, though the 1 cent is thankfully absent. Intersting little currency tid-bit here: Australia was the first country to move away from paper notes to a plastic polymer. With clear plastic windows in the corners of the notes, it is some of the most complicated to counterfit. The USA has failed to follow suit despite widespread counterfitting for one great reason- Tradition!

And the penchant for round things doesn't end with the coins. How Aussies love their roundabouts! They are nearly as commonplace as traffic lights, and used anywhere one can be squeezed in. I've even seen one on a main road that runs straight through with only a vacant deadend side street joining the rotary. I'll bet if I were to confess my town is so small it doesn't even have a roundabout, it would illicit gasps of disbelief and pity.

So for 17 hours, that's about all that ran through my head. Well, in addition to a thought near the end of the trip that I actually prefer the fruit stank to the unbathed backpacker stank.

And now I still have a few hours to explore Airlie Beach before I meet up with my friends who are out on a boat. Sorry, pics may have to wait until I find a suitable computer.

A special note the ones who worry, I'm camping at Koala's Resort.

Game On!

2005-10-06T21:24:00.000+09:30

Week 1, sort of:

Brisbane

This should be the one week marker for my trip to Australia. Should be, but its not. Somewhere along the way, a day went missing, probably sitting in the same place as all those missing socks from the dryer. I left on a Wednesday, traveled for 17 or so hours, and then arrived on Friday. One week ago today, I didn't exist.

Of course, had I actually arrived on that missing Thursday, then today would be Wednesday and I still haven't been here a week... bugger.

Either way, today was my first Thursday in two weeks, so I was glad to live it up. I celebrated the most fantastic way I knew how- I didn't get lost once today. Not when taking the bus to the city, nor when finding my way to the shops in Fortitude Valley, which were awesome by the way. I visited 5 or 6 outdoor stores today in a 3 block radius. You'd be lucky to find 5 in all of Atlanta, and 3 would be REI.

I'd swear one of the salesmen used to work at a car dealership. I had inquired about sleeping bags for my New Zealand leg of the trip, and he knew the perfect bag. In fact, it was the bestest bag in the whole wide world. He pointed out some "grand" flaw with any other bag I tried to look at. Oh no, I would not want that one, it was red and teal, and, as we all know, the combination of red and teal attracts sharks. That one over there had horizontal stripes, which made me look fat. The patronizing belligerence was thankfully absent from all the other stores; I even managed to learn quite a bit sleeping bags and tents, though I didn't buy anything yet. With the heat of Queensland I will need little more than sheet and some mosquito netting. Besides, most of the sleeping bag manufacturers are Kiwi companies, so I'm hoping they will be a bit cheaper over there.

Today turned out to be a fine example of a skin searing day with temps in the 90's (F). Despite this morning's warning to the general populous of the extreme danger of bush fires, several broke out around the city (most were the result of negligence or arson). Lee and I ventured up the hill to a fantastic vista looking out over the city, though foolishly I left the camera behind. You could see one fire glowing along the ridge a ways west of the city, with the smoke beginning to fog the city lights. Why didn't I bring my camera?

I didn't even have to time run back for it, as it would have made me late for Ultimate. As much fun as it is to bike 20 miles for empty fields, I emailed ahead this time. Sure enough I arrived to lit fields and discs flying through the air; its always a welcome site. One team, who was down a few players, was unlucky enough to be stuck with me. Ironically, the team was comprised of UQ (University of Queensland) players, the place where I was I was snubbed just two nights before. Perhaps it was a little cocky for me to start the game with a layout score, but you take what you can get. Add in a few (unintentional) "Ole" catches (the defender dives for the defensive block but you catch the disc with a flourish just enough in front of him to give enough false hope to try several more times), and a good time was had by all. Coincidentally, when I head down to Australian Nationals with a team from Townsville, we will be sharing accommodations with the folks I played with tonight.

I'm glad I didn't miss this Thursday.

And of course, a picture. This one is a few days old and I've been saving it to spice up a lack-luster post. I took this one at the Multicultural festival in Roma Parklands last weekend. Cute girl, cute dog, nice picture, right? ILLEGAL! Its a illegal to take pictures of other peoples children, even if you give them candy first. So enjoy, this picture may very well get me deported, or a severe caning.

Aghast! A ghost!

2005-10-04T23:59:00.000+09:30

Day 5? (I can't keep doing this, I'm loosing track):

Brisbane (at least I know where I am)

An excerpt from http://www.ourbrisbane.com/visitors/placestogo/greatsoutheast/scary.htm

A little known fact about Brisbane, it's one of the most haunted cities in the world, according to the International Haunted Places Directory. The Directory contends there are ghosts residing in the hallways of many Brisbane institutions such as Old Government House, Parliament House, the Brisbane Arcade and Brisbane City Hall. Supposedly, it's not uncommon to see a ghostly figure of an elderly lady from yesteryear wandering the staircases of City Hall, or the now-retired maintenance man who rides in the elevator. Who would have thought! The question is, do you believe?

In my now 5 days since I arrived in the city, I have yet to see a single ghost. The closest I had come was the old man conducting the elevator in City Hall. Sure, he looked authentically alive, but you never can be too careful. That said, I'm not about to go poking and prodding an old man in an elevator just to be sure, and I can live without validating his corporeal nature. I'd have to find my ghosts elsewhere.

Not wanting to miss all the paranormal hoopla I resolved to snoop around the one place where surely ghosts would reside, Toowong Cemetery. And what better way to get there than yesterday's newly discovered bicycle paths. Unfortunately, I am quite incapable of figuring out directions, forks in the road, and one-way paths (evident from the frustrated headshaking of oncoming riders).

I added a good 10 miles onto that leg of the trip, ensuring I would arrive at the cemetery right at twilight. And though the dim lighting was not conducive to reading headstones, or taking pictures, it did seem the perfect circumstance for some spookiness. Add in the wind whipping the dead leaves into miniature cyclones, and I was ready for the dead to rise from the grave. Sadly, without a sacrificial virgin, goats blood, or even a Ouji board, I was again denied my communion with the dearly departed.

Not wanting to miss my opportunity to play some Ultimate Frisbee at University of Queensland, I put a hold on the ghost hunt. Yet once more on the way to the "Uni" I managed to lose the bike path that I had been on only an hour earlier. Overwhelmed by the desire to run, throw and jump, I pounded out the remaining miles once I was back on track, making up for lost time. Arriving earlier than anticipated, I even had time to determine that the location of Field 7 is so secret that even the Uni students themselves are not told of its location. I half expected, when I found the field, for it to rise from the mist like some sort of Shangri La, with beautifully lined fields of perfect dimensions, and players skying and hucking and 'breaking the mark' with skills surpassing even the highest club teams.

I tried so hard to imagine these things sitting in the dark corner of a desolate Field 7. Drinking a Red Bull and eating a Snickers, I thought, "Its Ok, I'm early, there's still time". And surely there was time; I've rarely seen ultimate players arrive on time to their own weddings, let alone pick-up games. And so the self delusions continued to run through my head long after I should have started on my way home, or at least getting lost along the way. Alas no last minute arrival , no lights, no signs of life, or even death.

Dejected and beat, I pumped the pedals once more towards the infamous bike path. However there was a reward, this time, at the end of the rainbow. Well, actually, the reward was a rainbow itself, at 8 PM. Sitting along the banks of the Brisbane river, the view of the urban rainbow went a long way towards recharging my less than affable attitude.

A few pictures, and too many miles later (another 32 mi. today) I was chugging Gatorade and snacking on yogurt dipped granola bars in the comfort of my home away from home, far too tired for anything requiring more effort than ripping packaging and instant consumption. I have too little energy left to stay conscious any longer.

Tomorrow I'm taking the bus.

Nick's Big Day Out

2005-10-03T19:46:00.000+09:30

Day 4:

Brisbane

Today was my first day that I truly fended for myself. With Tane and Lee off slaving for the man, I had plans to strike out for the big city. With no alarm clock other the incessant screeching of birds, I managed to sleep in today, till 8. A quick breakfast of snack bars, and I was on the road to the city.

With my now functional bike, I managed to pick my way along the numerous bike paths into the CBD (central business district). Its not exactly the shrine to capitalism that one would expect from a city of 1 million. It has a small town feel that everyone seems to notice. The city itself seems modest, with its subtle underspoken monuments dotting the cityscape. There would be a large monument with a man playing with his children as his wife looks on joyfully. "John Smith, a convict from exiled from Yorkshire, enjoyed his spare time playing with his children and walking the dog." And then in small print "Ps- He single handedly killed 3 battalions of Nazi's in WWII and invented underwear that never needs washing." It gives me hope that someday Brisbane will erect a monument for me...

Nick Vitone, depicted here eating a bowl of ice cream, also enjoyed creme brulee.

Ps- On October 3, 2005, he cycled 32.9 miles into the city and was the hero of the day when he rescued a school chaperone's seemingly lost sandal from a stairwell. And after dinner he washed the dishes.

Sunday in the Parks

2005-10-02T19:58:00.000+09:30

Day 3:

Brisbane

Yet another early day, 5:45 AM. Though while my day was just starting, the neighbors' night was just ending. The college coed neighbors, who were just gearing up for a night out when I was on my way to bed, were just pulling in at around the crack of dawn. So while they were sleeping it off, Tane Lee and I were on the way to the Daisy Hill Park koala sanctuary. With an estimated 135 koalas in the various eucalyptus trees around the sanctuary, it promised to be koala filled walk. To spot one during the day just look up in the branches for a lifeless fuzzy blob shape. Just out of the car, still in the parking lot even, Tane spotted the first koala, which is about the size of medium size teddy bear wedged in the "Y" of a tree, and just as active as the stuffed bears. With only 5 active hours a night and the rest of the time snoozing in the crooks of trees, they remind me a bit of the neighbors. While there were plenty of shapeless lumps high in the trees, none turned out to be koalas. Fraiser Island promises to have a cornucopia of koalas, so I may have to hold out until then.

After a leisurely and snacky lunch, we headed into downtown Brisbane via the fantastic bus system. Perhaps its still new, but the busses were quite clean, punctual and eco-friendly, which seemed to be a reflection of the city itself (though I'll reserve final judgment until I see more). Today's second adventure was to Roma Parkland for the mutlicultural fest. There were several stages on which local ethnic troops were demonstrating their native dances and plenty of booths touting their cuisine. There were even competing ethnic tents, such as the Queensland Vietnamese Association and the Australian Senior Vietnamese Club. Regrettably there was no fantastical martial arts clash between them.

Lee was also kind enough to point out the benefits of socialized

health care today. Not only does the government insure your well being, but that of your children as well. The city has invested millions in these Robo-Nannies. When you can't be bothered to look after your own child, Robo-Nanny will be the mother you never were- strolls through the park, feedings, changing the diapers, you name it. Batteries not included, patent pending.

Drummer from the Toowoomba English Forest Dancing Troop. Notice the 48 pieces of flare on his vest, and of course, the flowery antlers. They were, in my opinion, the most entertaining of the acts I saw today.

True Southern Hospitality

2005-10-01T19:49:00.000+09:30

I'm not talking about your sweetened iced tea and fried okra hospitality. No, I'm mean the Australian variety. Now that I'm a bit less knackered, and a bit more rested, its high time to thank my hosts. Tane and Lee have graciously allowed me into their home despite my travel stench. Of course a generous bribe of Reese's Pieces & maple syrup may have help persuade them. Either way, I can not stress how superb it is, after 30 hours, long customs lines, layovers, and screaming infants, to be welcomed with open arms and an spare bed for as long as I want.

Day 2:

Brisbane

Last night's sleep was regrettably fitful- punctuated by vivid nightmares and several loud intrusions of possums on the roof above my room and Milo (the dog) chasing the ones foolish enough to wander through the back yard. Somehow I still managed to be out of bed by 6 AM, a feat I haven't accomplished back home for the past year.

The excitement for today began with a short hike to White Rock conservation area (pictures to follow, techno volente). It was a day of many firsts for me: my first Aussie hike, my first guanna lizard, my first wallaby, and my first box of Tim Tams (as a self reward for a job well done)- the chocolate covered, chocolate-creme filled, chocolate wafer. I highly recommend everyone try them, but don't bother to share evenly, they only come in boxes of 11.

I still had trouble getting the bike all prim and proper, so I decided to take a short ride to the local bike shop to see if they could sort out the problem that I couldn't solve after 3 hours of tinkering. I certainly took the opportunity to make a grand entrance into the bike shop. Have you ever pushed on a door that you expect to have a bit more resistance than it actually does? As soon as you push on it you know. All you can do is watch it, and hope that somewhere there's a doorstop. Bike in one hand, helmet in the other, I watched the door swing into the baskets of knick-knacks along the glass wall. Not really the best approach for someone wanting free service. And closing the door slowly and cautiously in no way lessens the social fau pax, but I did it anyway. To top it off, once on the stand there was absolutely nothing wrong with my bike, and the mechanic talked to me in the patronizing tone usual reserved for backwoods gas station attendants. I felt I should at least buy some new tubes, which I did, but they seem to be the wrong size. Anyone want some bike tubes?

Far, far away

2005-09-30T14:30:00.000+09:30

Of course, the obligatory "why start a blog".

Contrary to unpopular belief, its not a great way to meet "chicks". It is, instead, a fantastic way for me to spend the my first day in Australia, sitting indoors, at a computer, bone-tired, and hacking away at a keyboard. A lot of things seem like a good idea 40 hours, and 15000 km from home. Sleep is one of them, though at 2:30 in the afternoon on an incredible sunny warm day it just seems like a waste. Surely a blog is a better waste of my time, and yours now too having read at least this far.

The plan is to keep folks updated on a fairly regular basis without having to send out mass emails, which eventually only a few read and to which even fewer respond. Hopefully I'll be able to toss up a few pictures along the way as well.

Oh, and everyone else had one too.

Trip Update:

Brisbane Day 0.5

After having been here for 4 weary hours, I have one important fact to report. The stereotype of New Zealanders is completely true. On my last connection from Auckland to Brisbane, I was sharing the exit row (I needed the leg room) with a couple from the North Island. I was only conscious and talkative for the last 40 minutes of the flight, but that was plenty of time for what I would have considered "pleasantries". The Slaters were on holiday to the Sunshine coast, and planned on visiting with their son. Their daughter just won a DJ contest and is soon to be on her way to Seattle to learn from the pros. They have a enviable retirement plan to taking small groups of tourists hiking all over the hidden spots of New Zealand. We talked a little bit about my holiday plans- though truth be told, the only part of the plan was really getting to Australia, and then eventually to New Zealand. By the time we were deboarding, they had given me not only their number for when I was Auckland, but their son's home and cell number just in case. Kiwi's really are the most friendly people.

And now I will go attempt to piece together the rest of my bicycle. So far I have only succeeded in gouging a new triangle shape into my thumb, but that's ok, because chicks do dig scars.