Home Again, Home Again

I had a great week in Phoenix, despite the heart-breaking departure of Court and Aaron's beloved lab, Clancy. I more or less set myself back to the right time and date, and spent lots of time with my sisters, brother-in-law, and silly little niece. Court even tracked down a session for me on Sunday night, which was good fun.

I got back to Montana on the afternoon of the 9th. Never have I been more glad to see Helena and to see and smell Montana springtime. And here I am again, back where I started, just four months later.

Mostly out of habit from writing so many lab reports, I can't let this go without some sort of conclusion. So what have I gotten out of this little adventure, other than fierce and justified hatreds for carnies and snow peas?

A summary:

• Australia is hot, can be both very dry and very wet, and is massive
• Australian ranches are unfathomably large, Brahman cattle are ornery, and cheap wire stretchers aren't to be trusted or used hastily
• Australia has lots and lots of dangerous critters
• The reputation carnies have is completely true and deserved
• Oz really does have nice beaches
• There's got to be a better way to plant strawberries
• Melbourne is one of my favorite cities anywhere
• Aussies use terrible grammar
• The English are excellent fun

In all seriousness, I'm not yet certain just what I've learned from this trip. It wasn't the easiest four months of my life, and was honestly quite stressful. My impression of the place is a bit mixed: it is unbelievably expensive, yet it is possible to make money there, with the right frame of mind and enough time. There's lots to see there, lots. Too much maybe. And there's a lot of country to see it in. I certainly felt overwhelmed by it.

Perhaps the most intriguing theory I developed about the place is that it may be what America once was to the rest of the world. Many of the travelers I met there, whether they were Asian or European, were there because Australia offered them a better chance than their home countries did, even if it wasn't a permanent move. When asked about America, they often said they wanted to go or had tried, but couldn't get visas. To some, Oz was indeed the Land of Opportunity. To me, it wasn't. I am happy to return to America, God bless it.

I might go back, and I stress the 'might'. There's a lot there I didn't see, but there always is; you can't ever see it all. I know I won't go on another trip like this one. Seeing new places is fun and all, but this wide-open, ridiculous four months of homelessness and dodgy employment was enough. I've no idea where I'll go next, but I most likely won't be traveling much for awhile.

I may have griped a lot about the scoundrels Larry and I tangled with in Australia, but I never could have given enough thanks to the truly great people we had the luck of meeting and getting to know. These included, and hopefully I don't forget any, Jeff and Leanne Ihle and their kids Ryan, Austin, and Morgan; Sue Muir, her kids, and her brother Bob; Elise Pike (our landlord in Wamuran) and her neighborly parents Greg and Cathy; Rosie Timmins, her parents Michael and Heather, and her brothers Sam and Josh; and Phil McCarroll, Sheridan Overton, and her daughter Matilda. This trip was made easier in untold amounts by their generosity and friendship. Hopefully, someday, I will be able to return their kindnesses.

It also meant a great deal to me to have so many people back home that supported me, offered advice, or just wondered where the hell I was. You all meant more to me, especially in the tough moments, than I can put into writing, and I sincerely thank you.

Lastly, but probably most important, I need to thank Mr Larry Lee, my open-minded and ever-optimistic comrade through the last four months. They say you only get to know somebody after you've lived with them, but backpacking with someone goes to a whole new level. I met Larry about ten years ago, and we lived together in two houses over three stretches of time, adding up to two-and-a-half years, so we knew each other quite well before we left. You certainly learn new things about people when traveling together, no matter how well you know them. Nonetheless, considering everything Larry put up with on this trip, from me and from the scoundrels, I can't think of a better person with which to go to the far end of the world. Thanks for everything buddy.

Getting To Arizona, Slowly

After more travelling than any sane person should want, I have made it to Phoenix. I spent Monday, my last full day in Sydney, moving furniture in the rain. I flew to Brisbane on Tuesday and made my way back to the Ihles' to gather the few things I had left there. Wednesday was my long-awaited departure date. I got to Brisbane International Airport via train, and left Australia that evening, bound for New Zealand.

My wonderful travel planning and decision-making skills already well-documented in other posts, I won't dwell on the less than ideal nature of this point in the trip. I got into Auckland at 11:30pm, and decided to stay at the airport. I settled onto a bench on the observation deck for the evening, though I only got about two hours of sleep. I spent the next day reading, watching movies and people watching. After the long wait, I was quite happy to finally get on the 747 that took me to San Francisco.

The flight across the Pacific took 11.5 hours, during which I slept a grand total of 2.5 hours and watched two more movies. My brief stop in San Francisco wasn't especially notable. I got from there to Phoenix by mid-afternoon Thursday, technically before I had left Auckland. My brother-in-law Aaron picked me up and took me back to his and my sister's house. Seeing some familiar faces was welcome, and setting down my fiddle and gear felt glorious after traveling for so long.

One of the best ways to start getting over jet lag I've learned is to not go to sleep right away, but to stay awake and go to bed at the normal local time. I crashed hard at about 9pm, but before then, I reckoned I had been awake, except for those two naps, for about 55 hours. I'm obviously still recovering, and I'm pretty out of it in general, not knowing what time, day, or even what season it is.

Looking Forward To...

With my return to the States in just a few days, I often think about home and what I've missed most about it:

• Mexican food. It's one of my favorites, but it's not very popular down here and is thus hard to find. I'm especially excited about getting the more authentic stuff in Arizona. Actually, I'll be pretty happy with most American foods, especially spicy stuff. Several times I was looked at like I had three heads because I ate something painfully spicy to Aussies and didn't bat an eye.
• Working for people who don't treat me like I'm 7. Several of my employers in the last four months talked to their workers like they were children, which I absolutely hated. This was partly because a large portion of the workers spoke only shaky English, but I never found this to be much of an excuse to be so condescending. Not that I don't do dumb things when working at home, but at least I get the benefit of the doubt about my abilities to comprehend simple instructions.
• Driving. I can't even imagine right now just how easy it will be to just get into a vehicle and go wherever I want, whenever I want. Though mass transit can get you around, it gets to be terribly inconvenient to rely on it and have to plan your life around timetables. Adjusting to driving on the right again might be interesting...
• Cheap beer. I'm 23, so opportunities to have a brew or two are naturally hardly ever passed up. Australians have the same range of qualities of beer, but all of them are preposterously expensive. A case of the worst-tasting, Milwaukee Ice-caliber beers still gouge a guy out of at least $40. Back in Wamuran during my strawberry-planting days, I bought my landlord's dad a case of Coronas to thank him for sharing his with Larry and me, and I just about had to take out a loan to afford $55 for 24 beers. I considered buying a six-pack for him instead, but even they were $23. Ridiculous. I'm gonna be pumped to pay $8 for a six of tasty, Montana micro-brew or all of $16 for a cube of always-delightful Pabst.
• Sessions. Getting back to Riley's, the 317, and the Bacchus will be high on my to-do list once I get home. I have to say I've been disappointed about how little music I've found here. Melbourne was very active and welcoming, but Brisbane I'm told has only one session a week lately, and Sydney somehow has none at all at the moment. I admit the fault was mine for not getting out to the pubs as much as I could have, but this wasn't always under my control.
• Not being homeless. Living out of a bag really is a huge pain, and constantly thinking about having too much stuff to haul around on your back is nothing but a hassle. Though I am uncertain what I will be doing nor where I will be doing it after the next few months, I will be thrilled to unpack all of my stuff and live in my old bunkhouse for awhile. Even having a room to myself will be a novelty.
• Family and Friends. It goes without saying that I'm more excited about seeing friends and family than anything else.

Larry and I are still in Sydney at the McCarrolls'. Larry's plans have changed quite a lot recently, and those interested should maybe get the story from him instead of me, if you haven't already. Our work around their place has included clearing rocks, sticks, and weeds out of five small horse pastures; pressure-washing a tennis court; splitting and stacking about a half-cord of wood; and digging a fifteen-foot by three-foot trench for some wiring to go in. I would have been on my way back to Brisbane today, but they need some help moving some furniture tomorrow, so I will fly north on Tuesday.

I'll start my long journey homeward on Wednesday afternoon. I fly from Brisbane to Auckland, where I have my excessively long layover. I won't complain too much about that yet; I'll just make sure I have plenty of entertainment options. From there I fly to San Francisco, and then to Phoenix to see my sisters, then back to MT after a week. It feels like I've got a million miles to cover, but it'll be over and done within a few days any way around it.

Will Work for Food

With nowhere in particular to be after I found out I had no reason to head north just yet, with the complication of not having the strongest funds, Phil and Sheridan suggested I stay with them and help them out with a few things they need done on their five-acre property. This sounded thoroughly compelling, as working for room and board would be the best situation I would have any hope of finding anywhere, and Phil and Sheridan's place is very comfortable. I was also thrilled with the return of Larry, who called his career as a sailor on account of dirtbag hippie boat captains with moldy hats, extremely slow progress due to unfavorable winds, exhaustion, and seasickness. He gave it more than a fair go, and no one can say he didn't try.

Phil and Sheridan have five horse pastures that needed some rocks picked and sticks picked up, and I have to admit I'm as accomplished at such work as anybody. Larry and I tag-teamed it for four days, and everyone is very impressed with our paddock clearing abilities. We're in the middle of pressure-washing their tennis court, which somehow feels weirder to say and see written than to actually do.

Though the week was spent almost entirely at work, Sheridan lined up an outing for us this weekend. She and her late husband had been very accomplished mountaineers and climbers. A friend of hers, whom she had taught to climb, is my age and climbs regularly in the Sydney area and in the Blue Mountains out from the city. He and some buddies of his went climbing this weekend, and Larry and I got to tag along.

We went to the Hawkesbury Lake area north of Sydney on Saturday afternoon. Luke had been there before, but missed the trail on the way in. His buddies were already at the climbing area, so we "bush-bashed" for two hours to find them. Scrambling back out again only took ten minutes. The scenery was great, but the climbing was beyond my humble abilities. Everybody else could climb most of the routes, but were annoyed by disproportionately tough spots.

We crashed at the house of 'Big Bird', a long-time spearfisherman. We had some of his own Wahoo catch waiting in the fridge, and it was some of the finest fish I've ever had; money couldn't have bought better fish. It was a fine evening, spent bantering and playing poker.

We headed for Joll's Bridge Sunday morning. Getting to this climbing area required walking along a busy hill road, climbing under a motorway bridge and up to the road, walking along the motorway, scrambling down a ways, then rappelling down. I climbed a little bit here, rather pathetically, but I enjoyed it and in my defense I haven't climbed in about two years. Again, the banter ran rampant, and I couldn't help but smile and shake my head during the day's several shady moments. This was a fun bunch. On a side note, it was also pointed out to me by a friend that these activities, except for maybe the rappelling, make me sound like a hobo. This makes sense, because that's pretty much what I am.

It's looking likely that I'll spend my last full week in Australia right where I am. I don't really have enough cash to go do anything too outrageous, but I'm certainly comfortable and feeling fairly productive. I'll be on my way back to Brissy next weekend or thereabouts, right before I'm set to jet again.

Sydney

I decided last Tuesday that I probably better be on my way north again, swinging through Sydney for a couple days before getting as much time in at the strawberry farms as I could. After saying goodbye to the Timmins family again, I took the train from Melbourne to Sydney, which took about twelve hours. My sister Courtney and her husband Aaron had met Phil McCarroll and his son Simon in 2005 on their trip to the Tour de France. Court had gotten me in contact with them before I left in February, and both the McCarrolls offered to show me around Syd whenever I got here. Simon is in Italy at the moment, but Phil and his partner Sheridan have been extremely gracious to me by letting me stay at their absolutely amazing place for the few days I'm in town, and for pointing me in the right directions on my tours of this iconic city.

Phil met me at Central Station in Syd when I arrived. He immediately took me towards the Rocks area, where I saw the Opera House and Sydney Harbo(u)r Bridge for the first time. I've been in Oz or more than three months, but hadn't felt it as much as I did when I first saw the Opera house. It was especially spectacular at night.

I got a message from Larry the next day saying he hadn't left port north of Sydney yet, so we met up again and toured. I took a ferry from Manly to Circular Quay (just google Sydney to see a map) and met Larry there. We walked around the Opera House, Royal Botanic Gardens, Government House, and Paddy's Markets. Larry sailed the next day, and I'll continue on that below. I hit the National Maritime Museum and the Powerhouse Museum Thursday. On Friday, I saw the famous Bondi Beach, took a ferry back to the city from Watson's Bay, and spent a confused hour in the Museum of Contemporary Art.

Sydney is certainly a must-see for anyone travelling to Australia. The Opera House and the Bridge are two sights that make this city recognizable to almost anyone in the world. There is a lot of history here, not just from the city but from the entire country. The city itself is impressive to see. I didn't enjoy the atmosphere as much as Melbourne's though; my best description is that it feels very business-like and touristy at the same time. I asked around about music, and the session scene is sadly quiet at the moment.

Larry's sailing trip is turning into another adventure. The boat owner is allegedly a bit of a dirtbag hippie; it's only the two of them onboard; facilities are rather rough; equipment may be a little lacking. However, if anybody could come out of yet another questionable situation just laughing and shaking his head, it'd be Larry.

I'm a bit unsure what I will be doing these last couple weeks in Aussieland. I found out yesterday that there is nothing for me to do at the strawberry farms if I got back up there, so there's not much point in going. I'm looking around for anything that would let me work for room and board at this point, and have a couple options, but nothing is very solid at the moment. Seemingly concrete developments appear and fade away again just as quickly. For the moment though, I am quite happy to have had Court's connection to some truly great people.

Snow Peas and the Drunken Poet

I guess I can chalk up one more misadventure to my already long list. Last week Larry and I decided to take jobs picking snow peas near a town called Maffra a couple hours east of Melbourne. I'm getting sick of saying this, but the situation looked shaky from the start. Larry and I would have been living in a very dirty and smelly apartment with the guy who hired us, but Dan, an English guy about our age, had also shown up when we did, and it was thought best to keep us together. We were instead put in a medium sized house with seven Taiwanese and a French guy. This place had a smallish kitchen, one bathroom, and hadn't been cleaned in a long time due to being inhabited solely by migrant workers, yet was more livable than the apartment.

We were supposed to work the day after we got there, but according to the subcontractor who hired us, the van broke down. We found this to be an utter lie the next day, when we were picked up and the other workers said it hadn't been broken down. This was just one example of the subcontractor lying through his teeth to us.

Larry and I had thought we had hit the bottom of the barrel with the strawberries, but we learned that picking snow peas is definitely worse. Not only are you stooped over from about 7am until late afternoon, you're also on your knees the entire time. Worst of all is the pay, which is by weight of produce picked. Larry, Dan, and I each picked about 60kg in a solid day of picking with only a 20-minute lunch and bathroom break. This worked out to be about $48 a piece for a hard day's work. Having to work three times harder to make this ridiculous job pay enough to get by in this country did not seem worth it or even possible. The owner of Maffra's hostel heartily agreed with us that picking veggies was about the worst job out there. It was also noted that we were the only white people in the field, the rest being Asian. One girl even asked us quite frankly, "Why are you here?"

At the end of the day, Larry got a text from a contact from some time ago asking him to be a deckhand on a sailing trip from Sydney to Hobart, Tasmania. Sadly, only one spot was open. He needed to get back to Melbourne immediately to get to Sydney in time to sail. I had no desire to stick around, and came back with him. We got to Melbourne mid-day Friday, and his train left that evening. Dan stuck around, but texted me three hours into the day that he was making about $4 an hour, and was also calling it quits. Dan was a good bloke, and I hope I can catch up to him again at some point, either in Oz or in the States, where he spends half the year as a snowboard instructor.

I am currently at the Timmins' again. I am looking at my options for the next couple weeks, but will most likely make my way north again. About a dozen of the planters are still in Caboolture trimming leaves and putting in a few plants here and there. Picking won't start for another few weeks. The strawberry pimp said I would have a place to stay and stuff to do if I got back up there. I have to head back to Bris eventually anyway, so it may be the best option.

The one bright spot, and a very bright one at that, was the session I played in Friday night. We had to be in the city til evening and I had my fiddle anyway, so I figured it would be worth the effort. The pub was called the Drunken Poet and is owned by a women from County Kilkenny. There were three other fiddles, a guitar, a bodhran, a concertina, and two flutes, all crammed into a corner at the front of the place. They started before I got my fiddle out, but I knew a couple of the tunes in their first set and stepped right in. Because it was so cramped, I wound up sitting on a keg at the edge of the circle. I had learned from the owner that it was indeed an open session, but the sessioneers didn't seem very engaging at first. I didn't know many of their tunes, but I started a few sets, and was nodded at with approval. At the end of the evening, everyone was glad to have had me. They all knew the tunes I played but hadn't heard them in years and were happy to break up their usual sets with refreshing, forgotten tunes. Phones were pulled out, they told me where and when to find Melb's numerous other sessions, and they said they'd keep me in the loop about ceilidhs and house sessions. It was a wonderful feeling to finally get to a session, and a good one at that. Before I left Montana, I had been playing a LOT of music, at least a session a week, with one instance of four sessions in five days, and I hadn't realized how much I missed them. It really makes me wish I could find a way to stay in Melbourne to get to know the session community.

I would like to congratulate all the graduates this spring, especially my classmates and fellow engineers at Montana State. I also need to wish Happy Mothers' Day to all the mothers in my life. My mom, my grandma, my aunt Chris, my aunt Janet, my sister Lic even though she's not a mother, and my sister Court all provide love and support that I couldn't live without. I love you all, and will see you again soon.

Melbourne

Larry and I caught a ride with Rosie Timmins on the 20th from the Gold Coast to Melbourne, where she is from. Google Maps says the trip was about 1700 some kilometers or a little over 1050 miles. With three drivers we did the 22-hour drive as smoothly and easily as could be done. Rosie's parents also very graciously opened their house up to us for as long as we might need, and it has been invaluable to have yet another base from which to determine our next moves.

Our next moves, however, are still unknown, even after being in Victoria for more than a week. Most of Australia writes off the Thursday through Monday of the Easter weekend. Tuesday was also taken off this year because Easter Monday fell on Anzac Day, the Australian Memorial Day. Thus, businesses have generally been closed until a couple days ago. We've looked into more farm labor jobs such as fruit and vegetable picking or packing along with warehouse and factory labor. The biggest problem is that most require a car to get to them, which we still don't have. We have a lot of emails and resumes floating around out there at the moment though, so hopefully something will surface.

The Timmins brought us along on a day trip to an old mining town called Walhalla on Monday with several other families. The hilly area and the town itself reminded me a lot of Virginia City. We had a barbeque to finish out the day. I enjoyed seeing parts of Victoria that I probably wouldn't have seen otherwise.

The Timmins live in the suburb of Croydon, northwest of central Melbourne. Larry and I have made the 45-minute train ride a few times to explore and get a feel for the city. Our immediate impressions brought our thoughts back to Seattle and San Francisco, and later of New York. Melbourne is a very hip, multicultural city, yet to me feels more welcoming than Brisbane. It has a tram system that runs throughout the central business district. Most of the main streets have sights typical to any large city, but narrow lanes and alleys are everywhere and are much more interesting. The whole city has a lot of character, and a large part of this charm seems to be in these tiny lanes.

Enough Strawberries

Things had been a little slow among the migrant-strawberry-planter community. The Sunday before last was our last full day, and since then we've only worked three mornings. When we left, by my reckoning the crew had planted about 810,000 runners. It's apparently been raining near Melbourne where the runner plants come from, so they haven't been able to get them out of the ground and up to the farms in the north. The farmers say it'll be full on whenever the plants get to them, but they had kinda said that the entire time. Life can get a little boring without any work to do and without a car to go anywhere, but we find ways to get by, such as watching lots of movies, playing cards, reading, or in my case, writing these silly blog posts.

I'd been apprehensive about it at first, but working bare-footed had been one of my favorite parts of this job. Normally, I am outside without shoes maybe five times a year, certainly no more than ten, and thus my feet have always been a bit on the tender side, never needing to be very tough because I wear boots a lot. They're quite tough now, at least by my standards, and I've developed an appreciation for going unshod. I even found my very light New Balance shoes to be a bit cumbersome after not wearing them for a few days.

With so much free time, Larry and I have gotten to know several of the other planters pretty well, and a few of them are characters. The French take a lot of ribbing, but are good natured about it. The one Italian, Antonio, could easily pass for a mafia man, but is actually an olive and citrus farmer, and just wants to drink wine and talk to girls. The Brits are an especially fun crowd. Whether in the field or around a card table, we amiably call each other 'Allies'.

The house we lived in didn't have any internet, but our landlord's parents, Greg and Cathy, did, and they lived just up the road. Larry and I would sit on their veranda and look out over their paddock where they kept four horses and a couple bulls. They both were extremely welcoming and hospitable to us. Greg often offered us cold Coronas, and the limes he put in were from his own trees.

The woman that hired us owns a strawberry farm, but it's so small that hiring a full crew to plant it wouldn't really make sense. This is the case with a handful of farms around Caboolture, so these farmers have one person hire a team, and the planters do their thing on all the farms as each get their shipments of runners. The woman that runs the show also arranges accommodation for the planters. Because she is in charge of just about every aspect of planting, Larry and I have taken to calling her the Strawberry Pimp.

In retrospect, my previous post may seem a little severe. The trip may take a few more hours than I would've liked, but there are worse places to be than Auckland. I've made more ridiculous air travel decisions before, so I already know I can endure. I've also hammered down the details for getting all the way to Montana, which is a relief.

Larry and I are currently back at the Ihles' in Brisbane. We would have finished out the planting season in another week or so, but we jumped on the opportunity to road trip to Melbourne with Rosie Timmons. The drive should take about twenty hours. We don't have anything lined up for when we get there, as per usual, but we have a place to stay for a couple days. Hopefully we can find work that doesn't strain our backs so much. I wouldn't mind finally finding some sessions either.

World's Worst Traveler

As is currently my top priority, I have kept myself occupied lately primarily with stress, mostly from over-thinking many things, under-thinking a few very important things, and planting strawberries.

I had started thinking about when I would be coming home more or less right after my ordeal with the carnival. I knew I would need to be around at least awhile longer to see some stuff and make a little money, but felt I needed to look into tickets well ahead of time to not have to pay $13,785 (plus extra for baggage) to get across the Pacific. I held off looking seriously until a few days into planting, and wound up buying one from Brisbane to San Francisco with Air New Zealand, with whom I had found a seemingly reasonable fare. Departure was for June 1st because I would like to attend Lauren Vogl and Eugene Burke's wedding on the 10th. About two days later, in the height of the day's back pain in the strawberry fields, I realized that maybe having to find yet another job, with no guarantee that it'd be any better than planting or carnying, wasn't exactly what I wanted. Maybe it wasn't worth it to wait around until June, and I should just finish up on the Sunny Coast, see whatever I could for a few weeks, then leave in early May.

I looked into changing or canceling the ticket however, and found this to not really be an option because of a steep cancellation surcharge and the very expected automated telephone maze that Air New Zealand makes customers go through if they haven't upgraded to their Super Flexi Gold First-Class Maxi Favorite-Customer-Ever status, which I had not, cause I'm 23 and a homeless bum. Several other discoveries made the ticket purchase into more and more of a mistake: I found a fare to Phoenix in early May for the same price as the one I had already bought, and then received an email from Qantas about even cheaper tickets. The very bitter cherry on top came when I looked at my itinerary and realized I had unwittingly bought a ticket with yet another long layover in Auckland, this time overnight. I don't really have words for how astonishingly, frighteningly angry I am with my travel agent. And somebody says I'm smart enough to be a mechanical engineer?

My only explanation for these shenanigans is that at some point in the past I had found a cheap ticket for some destination, waited on it, and missed out. Since then, I have apparently become the world's most compulsive airline customer, barely bothering to think through the situation lest I miss out on something or have to pay $45 extra to not sleep in an airport lobby. The last couple months are seeming to be defined more by my blunders than anything else.

Sore Backs and Tidbits

First off, an update on the strawberries. We've put in several “days” so far, but this does not exactly mean full eight-hour days. Planting usually starts at 6 or 6:30 am, and will go anywhere from mid-morning til late afternoon depending on how many plants are available. Each farm has a pile of “runner” plants, as the seed stock are called, when the crews of between twenty-five and thirty-five people show up; these piles are usually from 20,000 to 50,000 plants, but can be up to 80,000. The whole crew of close to forty is due to put in 120,000 tomorrow. Pay is per thousand runners planted by each group, and three people can typically plant between one and two thousand an hour, give or take. One morning about 35 people put in 23,000 in an hour.

The fields have rows covered in plastic and holes are punched in the plastic where the plants go. Groups of three or four take turns dropping plants along their row and planting. Planting requires a lot of time spent bent over, which gets old quickly. It gets warm, but nowhere near as oppressively hot as our days in Emerald. Even the fastest groups don't make a lot of money, but at least it pays the bills.

This really has turned out to be rather tough work, especially for the low pay. It isn't difficult to get it right, but bending over all day and rushing to keep up can be strenuous. Some of these kids work like they're training for the Strawberry Planting event in the Olympics.

As this sort of work is very seasonal, doesn't require much skill, and is hardly something Australians would suffer themselves to be caught doing, all the planters are backpackers. I noticed just how diverse the crews were when I listened to chatter in Japanese, French, German, I think Mandarin, Danish, Italian, and English with Irish, Northern Irish, American, Aussie (the bosses), and British accents. Quite multinational. Most everybody has at least a little bit of a sense of humor and is pretty friendly, and there's a bit of camaraderie among backpackers, something we haven't gotten to experience at our other jobs. They say that not many Americans plant strawberries, and Larry and I are the only ones in this bunch. I get a kick out of the fact that we wear our big cowboy hats to the strawberry fields, especially since we're in our shorts and bare feet. One of the bosses calls Larry “Tex”. All that should paint quite a mental picture, eh? Editor's Note: Though I forgot about it while writing this post, also add Larry and I singing 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot' to the mental imagery painted above. We felt it was a fitting song for hot afternoons spent doing menial, low-pay field work.

At this point in the trip, I thought it'd be appropriate to throw in a few scattered tidbits:

Australia is very expensive. Minimum wage may seem high, but the cost of living is roughly double what we would pay in Montana. Prices drop a bit as you get away from the big cities and anywhere near a coal mine, where money is a'plentiful. A pint could be had in Brisbane for $10. A beer out in the hinterlands is worth maybe $6, depending on happy hours. Oh how I long for thee, Molly Brown.

I've seen a few kangaroos, lots of kookaburras, bugs, and spiders, one deadly snake, a couple harmless snakes, geckos, and little lizards. I'm still looking for platypi, koalas, and echidnas. I hear there are penguins down near Melbourne in the winter, and I would like to see a Tasmanian Tiger.

Australian rules football is really just loosely contained mayhem. Cricket is without a doubt the most boring and confusing sport ever. I mean really, are the mattresses they strap to their legs necessary? Does a match need to last up to five days?

In general, grammar is terrible in Australia, and some might say that bad grammar is a pet peeve of mine. For example, nouns are often used as adjectives, and the term “drink-driving” is used instead of “drunk-driving”. That just doesn't sound right.

I've gotten back into drinking way too much tea. I'm probably up to three or four cups a day at least.

Apart from the Ihles, I met a girl from Tennessee in Newcastle and we overheard a girl in Tamworth who might have been American. Other than that, we've seen no Americans since we got here.

Despite this, neither Larry nor I have even a hint of an accent. I might use a local phrase once in a great while, but I can't even attempt an accent without sounding ridiculous.

Strawberries

As it turns out, Larry and I are most definitely not meant to be carnies. Both of us arrived in Tamworth on Monday the 21^st, Larry at 3am via bus from Brisbane and myself at about 10:30 via train. Poor Larry had to hang out at a McDonalds and wander around town all night. We met up in the park where the carnival was to be, and the crews were already setting up. Right away we began helping them assemble one of their rides, and right away our apprehension for the situation began to rise. The rest of the carnies were, to say the least, pretty rough, which shouldn't be a surprise. But the whole mess was pretty disorganized, with only a few people knowing what to do. These few people would demand various tasks to be done, but not really give any instruction. When workers got confused, they were regularly shouted at for not knowing what they were doing. This was infuriating. The crew also worked until it was so dark that we couldn't see what to do and something broke. Larry and I had agreed before we started that we would not be OK with working around anyone on hard drugs; more than a few on the crew had obviously seen some of the harder stuff.

We were told to put our stuff in a camper truck that was in the park. This truck was driven to a caravan park at the end of the day. This park had showers and other amenities, but the camper itself was the worst living situation I had ever slept in. Take all the worst parts from the anti-meth commercials from a couple years ago, and you have a pretty good idea of what the inside of that truck was like. It had been on the road for 40-some years, and many terrible things can be done by carnies in a camper in that kind of time. As if we needed to be told that they were dodgy, the other carnie staying in the truck advised us to get some sheets whenever we could, because the mattresses were, uh, a little used. I'd have slept elsewhere if I hadn't had my sleeping bag. Both of us had nightmares involving hypodermic needles that night. This harrowing experience was the solid deal-breaker for our carnival experience. We told the boss the next morning that we'd be moving on, were paid for helping out the previous day, and found our way to a YHA hostel a few blocks away.

The following couple of days caused me a significant amount of stress. Though we were sleeping in a safer place that was, as far as we knew, free from hepatitis and methamphetamine, Larry and I still had to figure out what we were going to do for jobs. I wasn't broke or anything, and Larry was doing better than I was, but I still tend to wring my hands and think way too hard in such times. One or two options arose and fell away again. We talked to five job agencies and there was a possibility of getting work at a lamb factory or chicken farm, but these places wanted longer-term commitments and generally required the workers to have a vehicle, which we don't have yet, if we ever get one at this point. After spending a day searching online classifieds for casual job openings, generally in harvesting of some kind, we narrowed it down to either apple harvesting in southeast Queensland or strawberry planting on the Sunshine Coast north of Brisbane. Apple harvesting would have meant living in tents in a campground, then catching rides to and from work with other pickers. The strawberry planting had more formal living arrangements, but workers are charged rent. After spending way too much time thinking and debating with ourselves and each other, we went with the strawberries. There's no way we could know which one was the right or wrong choice, so we just chose one.

At 1:45am on the morning of the 25^th, we got on a bus headed for Brisbane. We got into Brisbane at about 10, and had to drop off some stuff at the Ihles' before heading up the coast. We rode the city train an hour north and were met by the woman we would be working for. We are living in a house with an Northern Irish couple and the young woman who owns the house.

Strawberry planting does not require a great amount of skill. Teams of three or four are given a bag of four hundred seed plants and planting knives, and set to putting the plants in the ground. The bosses get a bit fussy about getting depth right and having the plants standing. The fields are either muddy or have standing water in the rows, so workers are usually in their bare feet. We were warned that this was extremely difficult physical labor, and a lot of time is spent stooped over, but we felt fine after our first afternoon, which was supposed to be the worst. Many workers wore gloves and still got blisters, but our hands weren't even sore at the end of the day, so my hands and Larry's hands are apparently harder than the average backpacker's.

I believe it has to do with scheduling more than anything else, but planters are often only needed for half-days, so there's a lot of down time. Larry and I would both rather be set to it and kept busy than having so much free time, especially since the pay is by how many plants you put in the ground, but this was one of the few options for work during late-March and April, so at least we have jobs.

Some might wonder why we are bothering with menial work like fruit planting and harvesting. As it turns out, looking for more serious work, such as engineering for me and fire fighting for Larry, may not be in the cards. A few days after Bechtel turned me down, I found out the most likely reason they wouldn't take me on: I would need to be sponsored to do that sort of work, but sponsorship costs the employer $22,000. If even an American company that desperately needs fresh engineers isn't willing to sponsor me, then it is highly doubtful that any other companies here will. As for fire-fighting, those sorts of jobs are highly competitive and require a great deal of certification, which Larry could probably get if he went after it, but the rigamarole may not be worth it, especially since it would take a long time and he is only planning on spending a year in Australia. Thus, we are sticking to casual work for the moment.

Armidale

I arrived in Armidale, New South Wales on the evening of the 16th and was picked up by Sue Muir, a friend of Doug Holly and Jane Horton of Helena. She gave me a place to stay for as long as I wished to stay in town.

Armidale, NSW is in a region called New England. It is so called because it experiences four distinct seasons during the year, and the hilliness of the region imparts scenery similar to the British countryside. Some of these hills really are like small mountains. I don't think I have ever been more pleased to see little mountains and dry grass, as they both reminded me of Montana.

The first full day I was in Armidale was St Paddy's day. I asked the tourist info office and a music shop if they knew where I could find some music. Both places weren't very sure, but suspected that a couple of the town's pubs might have something. It was only about 10am, so none of the pubs were open yet. Sadly, I didn't go looking for music anyway. Sue would have given me a ride into town at the beginning of the night, I would have had to walk an hour in the rain to get back afterwards. This didn't seem like a worthwhile bet since I had no certainty of a session anyway. I'm a pansy, I know.

I spent Friday wandering around town, seeing its small heritage museum. Saturday was their Fall Festival and parade. I went on a heritage tour before the festival and learned more history of the area than I will ever possibly remember. On Sunday, Sue, her three kids, and I drove to her brother's place, two hours away near a town called Bingara. Their parents had run Herefords on the 4500 acre property, but now Sue's brother runs Wagyu cattle. It was interesting to see how a smaller outfit is run in Australia, or even to see a smaller operation at all.

I am especially grateful to Sue for opening up her house to me, and to Doug and Jane for sharing their connection. This is a very small world.

I've finally gotten around to putting up pictures. Anyone who is on Facebook can find me and see them on my page, or you can go to natecoxmt.shutterfly.com, which was the same site I posted my Ireland pics on.

I will meet Larry in a town called Tamworth tomorrow. He and I had considered getting on with a cotton harvesting crew, but neither of us cared to work twelve-hour days for two months without a day off, so we considered our other options. I would be stunned if anyone guessed it, but Larry and I are set to be...carnies. We had met a girl on a train on the way to Emerald who had mentioned a friend who worked for a carnival. This person had gotten to see a lot of Australia this way, so we were intrigued. We were told we will have accommodation of some kind. We can go to the next town after Tamworth if we want, or we can go our own way if it doesn't work out. I feel a few good stories coming on...

Newcastle

Before I left Brisbane, I got my half-broken tooth looked at by a dentist. It apparently wasn't in danger of decay so it didn't need to be rebuilt or pulled, so the broken part was ground smooth and I was sent on my way.

I flew to Newcastle on Saturday the 12th. It was an easy, seventy minute flight, but I soon found that buses don't run on the weekends from the airport into the city, which was twenty miles away. After a $54 taxi ride, I got to the Cambridge Hostel, where I had booked two nights. It was above a bar with a band playing, so it was quite loud and rowdy. I didn't find many people upstairs when I dropped off my stuff, so I wandered around for about an hour, listened to the so-so punk band, and called it a night. I thought I would have one other person in my room for the night, but was awoken at 4am by three drunk guys and a girl who said the room had been overbooked and that I had to get out. I told them I had as much right to the room as they did, but arguing with them was useless. I grudgingly gathered my stuff and moved to the lounge.

The receptionist was around at 7:30 and asked if I was checking out. I told her the situation, and another hostel employee, the receptionist, and I woke up the Aussies in my room. The girl was with one of the guys and the fourth bed hadn't even been touched. When asked why I had been kicked out, they of course had no good answer. They paid me for the room after some arguing, and went on their way. Unfortunately I had booked two nights at this loud, not very clean establishment, so I had to stay Sunday night as well.

I spent Sunday by having a look around the town. I rode the bus to the less sketchy part of town, got some coffee, people-watched, and admired the Tasman Sea at the beach. I also found a YHA hostel one block from the beach, and booked a room for Monday night. The help there agreed that the Cambridge was generally to be avoided.

I had read online that Newcastle has a weekly session on Sunday nights at one of its pubs. I made a trip to this pub, but found that either they weren't having the session anymore or weren't that week because of St Paddy's. Either way, I wound up watching movies at the Cambridge on my favorite couch all evening. There were a handful of English and Irish there, whose company I rather enjoyed. I even got to sleep the entire night in a bed I had paid for.

I didn't wait very long in the morning to get out of the Cambridge and over to the YHA, which was much more welcoming. The place was cleaner and had a more legitimate feel to it. Most of the people there though, weren't terribly friendly. The Japanese guy and the creepy Swedish guy in my room were willing to chat a little, but almost everyone else, save for one girl from Tennessee, would hardly say 'hello' if you greeted them, much less carry on a conversation. I found this true of many people in Newcastle, whether they were travelers or locals, and didn't particularly care for it.

I spent most of Monday on the beach, even attempting body surfing. It was a very pleasant, warm day with a touch of a breeze. The air in Newcastle was a bit drier than up north, a much needed change from the humidity of Queensland. The weather turned gray later in the day, so I wandered down Darby Street to see the shops and cafes. The evening was once again spent watching movies.

On the train ride from Ferny Grove to the airport in Brisbane, I got a call from Sue Muir, a friend of Doug Holly and Jane Horton. Sue lives in Armidale, in between Brisbane and Newcastle. She had offered me a place to stay if I were so inclined, and after my first rough night, I called her back Sunday to ask if Tuesday would work. I had planned on taking the train to Armidale that day, but the train had been replaced with a bus service, which was full on Tuesday morning when I attempted to buy a ticket. This meant another lovely day in Newcastle. I had already walked about two miles that morning to get some pictures of the beach, and now had to walk another mile and a half or so to get to the nearest hostel, carrying all sixty pounds of my stuff. Thankfully and luckily, they had plenty of beds left. The place was a little on the rustic side, but was nowhere near as dodgy as the Cambridge. I was in a rather foul mood because of how dumb I felt for not looking into tickets to Armidale sooner, but at least I wasn't going to be homeless for a night. I looked around that side of town a bit more, but mostly watched TV and read all day and evening. I had coffee with a girl from Taiwan in the morning, then got a ride to the station and was on my way north.

I seem to be failing at learning many basic travel lessons, such as carrying too much stuff in a not very comfortable bag, and not planning things well. I can't ever seem to relax and just go with the flow either, and I'm always worrying. I am only reaffirming my statement from some time ago that I am the absolute worst traveler ever. Maybe this backpacking thing isn't my deal.

My logistical incompetencies aside, I did have some splendid beach time. I sat in the sand for quite awhile Monday, watching the foam and water, and the people happily being smashed by the waves. I realized that that was the farthest from home I had ever been, was there for no reason at all, and I was completely by myself. And it was pretty great, except for the sand in my shorts.

"No Thank You" again

I returned to Brisbane on March 6 to look into an interview with Bechtel. This trip was a bit of an adventure. Mick, the son of the people I worked for, and actually the person I had spoken to over the phone about going to the station in the first place, needed to be in Rockhampton that morning, so we left at 5. To get out of the place, four creeks had to be crossed. The recent rains had brought all of them up, and the highest one came up to the headlights of the Toyota Land Cruiser. That one was also the fastest, and I rode in the box of the truck for it, in case we got swept away. A true Australian experience, indeed. This was the exact reason many Aussie 4x4s have snorkels, and I was glad for it. What made this even more interesting is that another guy tried to get out thirty minutes later with another Land Cruiser, and turned around because the creeks had risen even more. If we hadn't left at 5am, we'd have been flooded in.

The extremely well-traveled Aussie and I chatted at length about a number of things on the four-hour drive to Rocky, such as Texans, hay, New Yorkers, cattle, the Tea Party, and Sarah Palin. I booked a flight online from Rocky to Brisbane, then wandered around the roughly Missoula-sized town for a couple hours, casually in search of a decent stockwhip, which I found at a saddlery pointed out by Mick. The flight was quick and easy, and I must say I was impressed by my first Qantas flight.

Once back in Brisbane, I found my way back to the Ihles', by train and on foot. The mile from the Ferny Grove train station to their house was a long one with my 55 lbs of stuff. My push on Bechtel for an interview began the next day, with a number of emails to various people. I made a trip to the office Wednesday afternoon, but found it mostly empty: the HR department was out all day for training. By then, they had received my resume from a variety of sources, so another visit on Thursday didn't seem like a worthwhile effort. I called Friday morning, attempting to reach at least one HR person, but could not. Shortly thereafter, I received an email from them, declining any offers for my services with their company. That beats sitting on my hands waiting for news I suppose. I think it's also fair to say my failure to gain employment with them wasn't from lack of trying. This was at least the third, possibly the fourth "No Thank You" letter from Bechtel in about two years, so I am now convinced I may just not be meant to be there.

So what now? Number One on my list is to get my tooth fixed. I have an appointment for Saturday the 12th, and hopefully it'll get handled without unnecessarily bother. Number Two on my list is to get out from underfoot of the Ihles. Even with a room and board arrangement agreed upon, I feel it'd be best to let them have their routines and family time without an extra guy hanging around.

Without anywhere else to be, I will be heading to the town of Newcastle in New South Wales for a few days, entirely for the sake of exploring. I would like to venture out of Queensland, yet don't want to tackle Sydney or Melbourne by myself. Newcastle has about 150,000 people, so it's not too big, and supposedly has an Irish session at one of its pubs. I'm also eager to meet a few people, since I haven't done much socializing even after being here for a month. Larry and I have a good chance of having a place to be in a week or so, but I won't write about that until it becomes a little more set in stone.

Climate

I'm just gonna get this out of the way: Australia is rather warm, anyway around it. Sunny, humid Brisbane rudely awakened Larry and I to this fact the instant we arrived. The hottest we've seen so far was 37C (just under 100F) with about 60% humidity about a week after we got here. That was supposedly one of the warmest days of the year for the area. It should also be remembered that we saw -20F wind chill right before we left Montana.

Since the metric system is used in Oz like everywhere else except America, we've gotten used to using the Celsius scale for temperatures instead of Fahrenheit. We've adjusted to the SI system by taking note of what various temperatures feel like. For example:

25C = Better put on some sunscreen

30C = So this is why Aussies are willing to pay $10 for a cold beer

32C = You remember what -20 wind chill was like? I don't. It must have been great

35C = Oh dear God

37C = My brain is cooking from the inside out

Emerald was a different experience. Because it was a couple hundred miles inland, it could go from dry to humid fairly quickly and often depending on the weather. When it was dry, temps could be considerably higher, yet not feel as if you are draped in hot, wet towels. If a storm rolled in, it got quite muggy. We spent an afternoon cutting some trees to use for brace posts, and due to the cloudy skies and stillness, it was downright steamy.

I have never sweated more in my life than I did out at the stations. I believe temps were into the upper thirties Celsius (close to 100F), and you exert yourself a bit pounding steel posts, tamping wood posts, or holding legs in front of a branding fire, all in full sun. I may as well have been totally submerged. I had never before soaked through a set of Carhartts and a pair of boots. Startling AND disgusting, I know.

Having been through this hellfire, just about anything below 100F at least sounds comfortable. I can't speak for Larry at the moment, but I only sweat most of the time now instead of all the time.

All this sun exposure no doubt raises the question about sun protection. Queensland allegedly has a less-healthy ozone layer than most other parts of the world, so the harsh sunshine is particularly damaging. One of the first items we bought upon arrival was sunscreen, which we have used liberally and dutifully. Even with sunscreen, we always wore long-sleeved shirts and long pants while working, along with wide-brimmed hats. And of course, we wouldn't forget our imfamous Solar Shields.

Cattle

Working cattle here has been a learning experience, to say the least. This part of Queensland used to be Hereford country, but they've gone to Brahmas and a breed called Droughtmasters, which look to me pretty much like red Brahmas. Charlais and Angus crosses can also be found here. The average herd is around 1000-2000 head, but far larger herds are common. Like anywhere else, the number of acres needed to support each animal varies, but twenty acres per head is a good estimate around here.

The order of magnitude difference between herd sizes and acreages in Australia and in Montana may make ranching in Australia seem unmanageable, but the lack of having to put up hay should be considered. The cattleman here are no doubt busy and are very hardworking, but hay is a very expensive and time consuming necessity in raising cattle, and not having to deal with it is a big time saver. The efficiency of Australian cattleman, at least the ones I've met, is commendable. Don't think I'm ready to give up on Montana yet though.

The cattlemen and women I've worked with are all first class horse hands. Spending 150 or more days a year in the saddle is not uncommon. Many riders carry stock whips. One character I met was a horse breaker and trainer. I guessed he was my age or less but was actually close to thirty, and was already well-known and well-regarded among stockmen. I didn't find out until after the ruddy-complexioned, very red-haired Aussie clearly of Irish descent had finished up and gone south for other contracts that he was one of the best saddle bronc riders in Australia.

Handling entire herds here at once would be madness. Instead, branding and shots are administered to one manageable bunch at a time, usually less than a hundred. This is made possible because each station (ranch) is divided into several paddocks (fields/ranges/etc.). All branding is done on tables. Ropers are not common, cattle yards are not set up for roping, and crews of only three or four are usually available.

The first full day on the place, Larry and I helped sort about seventy pair. These were dipped, which meant sending them down an alleyway filled with solution and making them swim about twenty feet, something for which Montana cattle would be unlikely to volunteer themselves. This submerged them in pesticide, which was the only way to get rid of ticks. I'd like to note that Brahma bulls can make a big splash.

The calves were all branded the next day. This bunch was all stud or registered breeding stock, so they received the brand of the owner, an “11” for the year, and a three digit ID brand. They were also tagged and dehorned as needed, which was almost always. The bunch was then turned out.

The two days of branding I was sent to the place near Alpha for were a bit more work. About eighty were done the first day, and about seventy the second. These calves weighed at least 200 lbs and several were over 350 lbs. I pushed calves up the alleyway, but also had to hold back legs if they were wild, or if a bull needed to be cut. You would be mostly right if you thought I am not quite tough enough to handle calves that big, as many of them definitely worked me over. I caught on to the tricks the Aussies use, though, and had a much easier time after that. Grabbing the leg before the calf starts fighting makes a big difference.

The second day was the bloodiest ordeal I've ever seen. All those calves were Brahman, so they were light gray. Every one of the seventy calves were soaked red after they had been dehorned and the bulls cut. One bull had also slammed himself into a steel panel for all he was worth, then went stiff and his eyes rolled back in his head, something I had never seen before. Once he came round, he was on the fight, albeit slowly, and further beat himself closer to death in the alleyway. It smelled like a butcher shop.

Most of the cattle here are flighty. Contrary to my experience, in which you slow down to keep them calm, this meant you've got to be more aggressive with them, or they'll just stir up more. Keeping them calm was very difficult because almost any movement, especially climbing over fences, walking, breathing, or sweating in their general direction sent them to the far corner of the corral. Only a very small minority of the cows are mean, and they're just over-protective. One cow at Alpha did seem to be out for blood, and wouldn't let anybody within thirty feet off the fence.

Helicopter mustering (herding) is common here, but I haven't gotten to see any. Some cattle can only be handled by chopper because they travel so much, the paddocks are so big, or both.

I haven't done any riding. I didn't bring my boots with me, and even if I did, I'm pretty certain I look like I have no experience whatsoever with livestock because they do things so differently. It's just as well I suppose, because getting lost or bucked off in the middle of a paddock somewhere is about the last thing I need at the moment.

Ranching

I don't really intend my online ramblings to be of any consequence to anyone, so I've decided to not fully name the cattle company I have been working for for the last few days, just in case.

I have checked email at the office whenever possible, but have otherwise been mostly out of touch. I'm hoping I still have a few readers.

Larry and I took the train from Brisbane to Emerald, Queensland on Tuesday the 23^rd and arrived the next morning. Linda, the wife of the owner, picked us up and took us out to the closest property, about twenty miles out of town. This property was about 42,000 acres and had about 6000 head on it.

We were set to fixing one of their flood-washed fences and helping them sort about seventy pair the first day. The fence stretchers they use are pretty different from the American variety, and I consider them to be fairly clever. My attempts to describe them, however, would probably confuse just about everybody. After a few hours of getting used to the equipment, I got a bit too hasty and the steel pipe handle of the stretcher slipped loose from under tension and hit me in the jaw. Trust me, it wasn't any gentle love tap either. I was pretty stunned and immediately found myself to be bleeding. After a few concerned moments, I determined that my jaw was not broken and my tongue was still intact, but I did spit out a few bits of broken tooth. This was a less than ideal way to start off a stint in this part of the world, or any part of the world for that matter. It also got me to wondering really hard about how much dangerous work I care to do this far from home. The dentists in Emerald are apparently booked solid, and are difficult to get into. I have yet to get the tooth fixed and I'm a bit worried about how that will work out. Thankfully it doesn't hurt and my jaw didn't bother me much.

I've kept a running list of the more questionable aspects of the station. Larry and I are bunking in a small manufactured house set inside a shed. The tap water in our shack isn't drinkable, but the water from the rain barrel apparently is, which troubles us because the Ihles had advised us not to drink their rainwater. In any case, the rainwater has a distinct, worrying yellow tinge. Neither of us has any idea how we haven't get sick from it. The shack has its own collection of resident bugs and spiders, along with a number of frogs and toads that come and go as they please. We threw out the first few of these we found, but then remembered that frogs eat bugs, so we decided to let them stay. The first one we kept we named Sasquatch. We tried to take pictures of him but they, naturally, all came out blurry. A washing machine that belonged to another employee is outside the shack, but was found to be full of frog crap and was thus unusable, even after several hot rinses with industrial cleaning solution. Most irksome was when we discovered a baby brown snake (one of the more poisonous yet timid types) in the kitchen. We both supposed that he had gotten in by sliding along the extension cord from the washer into the kitchen. After this, our screens and doors remained firmly shut, and luckily, we could use one of the other washers on the place. Working with cattle was another story, and will be accounted for in another post.

We started 2 kilometers of new fence on Monday the 28^th. This involved putting in “strainer” brace posts every 200 meters, wooden posts every thirty meters, and steel posts every ten meters. Holes for wooden posts were dug with an auger on a skid steer, but steel posts were pounded in with the back side of an ax, or a 387 lb sledge with a steel handle if we were so inclined. The ends of the fence are fabricated steel corners, which are cemented in. The project was expected to take about two weeks. As could be guessed by my impression of the place, I had little desire to stick around longer than necessary and planned to stay only long enough to finish the fence.

I had to go to another station to help brand calves Tuesday afternoon. This 52,000 acre station was near Alpha, 100 miles to the west, then another 40 miles down a half-paved, one-lane road. The details of this will also be covered in another post, but to summarize, I got my ass thoroughly kicked and I have never been more drenched in sweat.

On the drive back Friday afternoon I got a message that Bechtel was wondering when I would be back in Brisbane. I can only guess this is for an interview. My plan to stay until the fence was finished now seems a little dangerous because of the threat of rain and the possibility of getting flooded in. It also doesn't seem very courteous to make an opportunity wait like that.

There have been a few upsides, or at least interesting bits, to being this far out from everything. We spend virtually nothing because housing and meals are provided. Both Linda and Mel, the wife of the manager of the station near Alpha, are wonderful cooks, and insist we pack it on. We also don't have a vehicle of our own to go to town in, but they do loan us trucks to go to Emerald to get anything we need on the weekend. Larry and I have both adjusted quite well to driving on the left, I might add.

The owner of the whole outfit insists on calling me “Nat” and, at least for a while, (hilariously) called Larry “Lloyd”. I prefer “Nate”, but “Nat” actually works fine here because “Nate” can get confused with things like “mate” and “hey” too easily. The Irish also tended to do this quite a lot, as “Nate” to them sounded like “net”, hardly a proper handle for anyone. Colin, the top man, usually goes by just “Col”, but I'm unsure whether everyone is saying it like “call”, or “Cole”. I call him “Cole”, and I honestly hope that that's wrong, because it'd only be fair if both of us constantly got the other's name wrong.

Larry is doing fine. He has remained unscathed and doesn't seem to mind some troubles as much as I do; he puts up with an awful lot from me. He will likely stick around longer than I plan to, but will hopefully meet up with me later, depending on how other prospects look in the coming weeks. He has been an ideal travel companion, and I've been very glad to have him with me.

I realize my tone has been a bit on the down side in many of my writings, and I apologize for being a little pessimistic when I am stressed. In my own defense, it really is quite stressful to fly thousands and thousands of miles into a totally new country/hemisphere, begin to worry a bit about what I'm doing, head 700 miles into an even more remote area, very nearly shatter my jaw and encounter many other very real dangers and nuisances, all while living in questionable conditions. Please, bear with me.

Hired

Larry and I got a solid job offer Wednesday last week. We will be working for a cattle company about 550 miles north of Brisbane, near a town called Emerald. They need some help gathering, branding, and fencing for a few weeks. After that, they might find other stuff for us to do, ask around the neighborhood if anybody needs any help, or we can head back south. Should it turn out to not be a good deal, we aren't obligated to them for too long, and either way, we should collect a couple stories up there.

We've done some painting and mechanicing for the Ihles during the week. The five doors finished up nicely, even with my poor painting skills, especially when compared to Larry's, who was a house painter for four years. Jeff, Larry, and I replaced the timing belt in Jeff's Hilux on Sunday. It was an all-day job, but we managed it without any flying hammers, tantrums, or broken knuckles.

My friend Mike Natoli studied at Bond University on the Gold Coast in the middle of 2009. When he found out I was headed to Oz, he eagerly volunteered his advice, his old phone and converter plug, and some contacts he still has down here. Larry and I headed that way on Friday the 18th. Mike's friend Rosie met us at the train station and very graciously showed us around and gave us a place to stay for the night. We got our feet wet for the first time in the South Pacific at Broadbeach. The surf was really very intense, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have had the heart to try surfing on that particular day. The beach, sand, and sun were great though. Later we went to Surfers' Paradise, more to people watch than anything else, as neither Larry nor I are hip enough for the club scene.

Saturday morning Rosie took us to the Burleigh Heads, where Tallabudgera Creek comes into the ocean. This spot couldn't have been more amazing. The rather large creek flowed blue green, with sand and rocks along it, a rock spit extended out about a quarter mile. There was a beach at the mouth of the creek. The Surfers' skyline could be seen from the end of the spit, around the end of the very jungle-like hill. From a pile of rocks underneath a tree, we watched the surfers enjoying the sun and waves, kayakers riding the waves back up the river as they came in, and families soaking up the fierce sun all around. There was even a pleasant breeze.

Austin Ihle, the middle Ihle kid, had a baseball game nearby on Saturday afternoon, so Rosie kindly dropped us off there so we could watch. Jeff coaches the team, and after the game, he lined up a ride for us with one of the player's parents to save us a train ride. We rode back with another Jeff, who happens to work for Bechtel. We chatted at length about the possibilities for a new-grad engineer there. Apparently, they can't get enough engineers, and Jeff sent my resume into a recruiter. Coincidentally, I emailed another Bechtel engineer whose info I had gotten through a friend of my dad, and he responded yesterday. As could be expected, a Working Holiday visa befuddles them a bit, so I have yet to find out what their HR department would want to do.

Sunday, the day we spent in the Ihle garage, was one of the hottest days of the year at just under 100. After the job was done, Jeff suggested we find somewhere to cool off after the heat of the day. We drove about twelve miles west of Ferny Grove, their suburb, to Cedar Creek, and swam in a water hole. The creek was extremely cool and welcoming. It was even deep enough to jump off of the rocks along it, which were eight to twelve feet high. And there was a rope swing, which was like the cherry on top. My getting nipped twice by an eel notwithstanding, there could have been no finer end to the day.

Larry and I are truly thankful to Jeff, Leanne, Ryan, Austin, and Morgan Ihle for letting us stay at their place. Having had their house to use as our base for the while it took to get situated was invaluable, and we are in their debt. I really wonder how we would have done anything if we had started out in hostels.

Uncertainty

As can be expected, Larry and I have been stumbling around, constantly asking and worrying what we're going to be doing now that we're here. We are at the moment still staying at the Ihles', and have struck up a deal to help them out with a few things while we are here. Their house is a work in progress, though very comfortable. We put the first coat of paint of two on five doors this morning, and will help Jeff pull the radiator out of his Toyota Hilux later today, so it will be ready to put in after we replace the timing chain on Sunday. These few things and the bags of sunflower seeds and Hershey Kisses we brought for them are not even wildly close to repayment for letting us be bums at their house while we sort ourselves out, but we will certainly help them out with other work on the house as it arises.

There have been a few prerequisite things to deal with upon arrival. We got cell phones to make ourselves easier to reach by potential employers and those we meet. We went with prepaid phones as opposed to plans due to flexibility and the fact we won't be here forever. Tax file numbers, which are exactly what they sound like, are a boring but important detail to have a handle on when talking to both banks and employers. We applied for them early in the week, but oddly even in this day and age they are still received by the lucky tax-payer via snail mail.

Transportation is also a big question. Getting around the city is possible with public transportation, but is much simpler if a car is available. Getting around outside the cities is just short of impossible without a vehicle. We are considering getting something, preferably a Toyota Hilux "ute", which is essentially a Tacoma. Here, much like everywhere but America, they are diesel as often as not. There are many obvious question marks with this issue, and whether we pursue it or not will depend on what we settle on for employment.

We've job searched quite hard the last couple days. The fact that we are here temporarily and are looking mainly for casual employment is reason enough for many types of employers to wish us good day. I applied for a place at a hydraulic cylinder manufacturer in Brisbane and was promptly told they needed someone permanent. I have yet to hear from Bechtel, which has an office in Brisbane, but I am pretty sure they will tell me something similar. Casual employers are fairly common though. We got an offer to live on an island north of here a ways, cleaning or fixing stuff a couple hours a day in exchange for a couple weeks in a cottage with access to kayaks and fishing gear. We won't make any money but it still sounds like a slick deal. Ag jobs of various kinds are also proving to be a very real option, though this will no doubt dismay my mom a bit.

We did some exploring around the city on Monday. It is a big, crazy, impressive, and really very clean tropical city. It was a hot, sweaty day, pretty much like every other day. We wandered around various areas, and made our way to the river and botanical gardens. From either the lazily winding river or questionable city planning, the roads and streets in and around Brisbane can be considered bewildering at best, and preposterous at worst. I was blown away by the twists and turns we took just getting from the airport to the Ihles' house on Saturday. Google Maps shows the layout of the city well, but the hilliness of the greater Brisbane area obviously cannot be seen from above, and only complicates things. I've found my way around Manhattan by myself, painfully sleep-deprived with less hassle than Larry and I had just figuring out where we were. I'm sure Brisbane is a wild place to live, but it's probably too much city for this kid, and we agreed not long after we got there that staying in the very heart of the city would be less than ideal.

Pictures will come eventually. I've taken a few here and there, but I will have to wait until later to upload them.

Many, Many Miles

Larry and I flew out of Bozeman mid-day Thursday the 10th and arrived in San Francisco without incident. We had a 6-hour layover there so we went downtown, as I had never been to San Fran before, nor even California for that matter, and neither of us wanted to sit in the airport for that long. We had some Mexican food on Powell St because we likely wouldn't have any for awhile, and just wandered around. As it turned out, Larry and I were behind a girl from Gardiner, Montana in the security line. She was also flying to Auckland, then had a connecting flight to somewhere else in New Zealand. We chatted and had a beer with her before the flight. This situation was oddly familiar (see post "Finding My Way To School" from Sept 2008).

The flight across the Pacific was exactly as expected. We left San Francisco at 7:45 pm, 2/10 and arrived at 5:10 am 2/12. It took 13 hours. I'm still troubled by the idea of an entire day just not happening, for me anyway. I watched three movies in this time, and slept roughly 2.5 hours, mostly tossing and turning. We arrived in Auckland and promptly went through immigration and customs because we again had a long layover. We spent the morning downtown, which we found to be asleep. A guy in his mid-20s from Cali wandered around with us, with a chief goal of finding a decent breakfast. By mid-morning we had done plenty of walking and decided to rest in a park by the University of Auckland. I passed out on a bench for about half an hour.

Please forgive me, any Kiwis that happen to read this. Auckland was a lovely, clean city. However, when I am traveling, time doesn't really exist after awhile, and everything is sort of hazy, like I'm in limbo. Also, some of its features struck me as a bit odd, such as the fact that NOTHING is going on before 11:30am. Thus, I will likely have a skewed opinion of the city. For now anyway.

We got back to the airport and flew to Brisbane on a seemingly instant four-hour flight. Again in typical Nate fashion, besides scheduling a trip with weird long layovers, leaving all the airports for wandering also meant that we had to go through security three times and immigration twice. Jeff Ihle, the brother of my family friend Beth Ihle of Townsend, had arranged to meet us at the airport, and got there with his son Austin about 15 minutes after we landed. So far, we've just been relaxing and getting adjusted to Oz at his house, which has a great view of some wooded hills. We were woken up Sunday morning by screeching Kookaburras.

I'll also note that the previous post "Delirium" was written in the Auckland airport after many, many hours and many, many miles. I wrote it after lying down on a bench underneath a large tree with constantly changing colors and projected images of birds and fish. It also apparently played the soundtrack from Jurassic Park, or at least the sound effects. When I finally went to bed Saturday night, I had been up for 46 hours save for the lousy sleep on the plane and the park bench nap.

Delirium

Wait, what time is it? 1:50? pm? What day then? The 12th? But I left on the 10th? So I've been awake for how long? Not two days? It feels like I've been awake for a long time. That sunshine is bright. It must be 80 out. What month is it? What season is it then? Late summer. But I felt -20F wind chill a couple days ago. And Larry's sunburnt. We're gonna get Solar Shield tans.

Australia

For the few of you who have not heard from me or on the wind, I am more or less moving to Australia on February 10. The vast majority of the people whom I have talked to about it were not very surprised that I would once again be leaving Montana; my feet are itching and I have grown stir-crazy over the past year or so.

The idea for this little adventure started forming in the spring of 2010. Larry Lee, a very good friend, roommate of some years, and himself a seasoned traveler, was graduating from MSU and would be gainfully employed by the Forest Service, but only until the fall. I was on track to graduate in December, and have since finished school. I had had a rather discouraging year searching for internships for the summer, and only half-heartedly began the search again for a full-time entry-level engineering gig. Despite having connections within several engineering firms around the country, I still came out empty-handed, feeling I had accomplished little after frittering away countless hours emailing resumes and filling out online applications.

This was the motivation that caused the travel plans to sprout legs. After Larry got back to Bozeman in October, we settled on Australia because of the many, many great things we had heard from several sources, and because of the potential for work. South America had been considered, but after spending so many years as a virtually broke student, I was, and am, ready to be more productive than the typical backpacker.

We bought our tickets in mid-November. I had hinted to my dad that my leaving again was a possibility, but due to my mom's penchant for gossip and her tendency to skew stories between tellings, she was left in the dark about all plans until after the tickets were bought, much to her dismay. She soon realized though that I wasn't rushing into this without any thought.

On to some frequently asked questions:

1. How long will I be there?

I don't really know yet. My visa is good for a year, but I am supposed to stand with a good college friend who is marrying another good college friend in Seattle in July, and I told them that I WILL be there. Plans to come home around then, and whether I will return to Australia after the wedding, have yet to be made.

2. Where will I be living?

Larry and I fly into Brisbane. Through a stroke of luck and an excellent example of knowing the right people, we will be staying temporarily with Jeff Ihle, whose sister Beth I know quite well. After scoping out work possibilities (outlined below), and developing a game plan, we will likely find something more permanent, such as a van on a beach. Yes I know that Brisbane was flooded recently, and yes I know that Cyclone Yasi aimed itself at the state of Queensland only a few days ago, which leads me to...

3. What will I be doing?

There is a strong possibility that we will look into recovery work from the flooding and recent cyclone devastation. Besides this, job prospects are apparently quite good in Oz in just about every field, should Larry or I be so inclined.

And a couple other things that need clearing up:

1. I said it before I went to Ireland, and I'll say it again: chances are quite slim that I will develop an accent. Anybody ever thought that I might like the western US accent, (yes we have one) or at least have some disdain for fake accents?

2. If an opportunity strikes for me to bring home an Aussie bombshell, I'm probably gonna jump on it.

This adventure really is all about opportunity, and not just with women. I wasn't liking the opportunities I was looking at in the US, so I am going to Australia to find other ones. It seems sillier to me to blindly move to Seattle, Phoenix, Houston, or any other large city and dig hard for scarce, less than ideal employment when I can instead blindly move to the other end of the world, have better prospects, and quite likely develop one hell of a story.

I have no job, no wife or even a girlfriend, no kids, and no house to my name. All I've really got is a fiddle and a computer. For the moment, I'm not tied down to anyone or anything. The most reassuring thing about this whole scheme has not been what Australia has to offer, nor the good things I keep hearing about that place. It has been the countless friends and neighbors of mine who wholeheartedly understand and encourage my desire to fall off the map, explore, and gain some more perspective. Just about all of them wish they had done exactly what I'm doing.

I will try to be as regular about posting updates on my whereabouts and whatabouts as I was in Northern Ireland, but I can't make promises just yet. Stay tuned anyway!