Stories of the Air: The Rock Without Name

The air freighter cleared Temple Bar within seconds and prepared for landing. The pilots were looking through the window into the black, moonless night. Suddenly, a huge, dark shape burst into view. Frantically, the pilot grabbed the controls and yanked them back as hard as he could, trying to lift the plane in a last ditch effort, but it was too late……

On a crisp desert morning my companion and I decided to challenge ourselves with a hike to the crash site of the Westwind 1124 VH-AJS.  I drive by this site almost every day and look up at the inhospitable cliff face in wonder, tinged with a feeling of morbidity and a kicked-bucket, full of awe.

 

The kangaroos on the edge of the escarpment

There isn’t a track to be found except the ones Kangaroos have ground out. The first 300 metres was steep, with slippery rubble and several loose rocks that tumbled down the slope disturbed by my large, clumsy feet.  Lexi, who was following me at the time, jumped sideways to avoid the avalanche and  decided to run around me and lead me out. Smart dog!

In an exhale of relief and with a fine layer of sweat to offer the cold wind, we reached the flat area up the top.  From below, it doesn’t look like there is any room, but there is a spinifex covered strip of level ground along the range about 200 metres wide in most places. It seems that birds, reptiles and kangaroos have lived here without any disturbance for many a year.

 

Dodging spinifex all the way

 

 

And then the unthinkable happened during a dark night on 27 April 1995.

Rod Cramer heard the explosion of 14,000 litres of A1 jet fuel at the Temple Bar Caravan Park from about 4 km's away and put his SES (State Emergency Service) uniform on and made his way up to this yet to be named rock.

“Initial impact occurred when the right wingtip tank struck a rock on the north-western edge of the escarpment. The first major impact occurred 60 metres further on when the landing gear and the lower fuselage struck large rocks. The fire trail began at this point. The aircraft then progressively broke up as it continued across the top of the escarpment before cart wheeling into a ravine on the southern side. The wings and empennage, along with both engines, were at the base of the ravine. Most components had been severely affected by fire.”

Information taken from the report of the Bureau of Air Safety Investigation

First sighting

My heart sunk and a lump forced itself into my throat when I came across the first piece of debris, a small metal rectangle with two screws neatly punched through the metal.

Feeling uncomfortable about something, I continue on in a diagonal line across the top of the range. I found torn metal, smashed boxes with wires and unrecognisable bits and pieces that once formed a sleek machine that sliced through the sky with ease.

The broken wings flung some way down a narrow ravine - this is a sad place to be.

 

Grass starting to take over

The two pilots and a passenger, the report stated,....died instantly.

 

Rod spent 24 hours on top of the range and found himself in charge of recovering the three bodies. ”It is one of the hardest physical things I have ever done” he said as the loaded stretcher had to be hauled up the steep, rocky slope and carried to the helicopter on top.

He knew a couple of people that worked on the recovery that were affected by what they saw. Rod used the words ‘privilege’ and ‘respect’ to describe his feelings of that night - he appeared to be at ease talking about the whole ordeal.

Photo of an identical Westwind 1124 VH-AJS

 

Cargo was spread around everywhere according to Rod. People's tax returns were found and bizarre specimen jars of human tissue.  A huge amount of US Dollars had scattered itself across the top like a lucrative snowfield.

Rod - third from top left in training at Kings Canyon with his SES mates

 

How can such a thing happen?  What in earth's name causes a well-equipped, modern plane to crash on a mountain?







A piece of hose

 

The crash report of the Westwind is an involved, detailed document. The plane's engines were humming in the background on the cockpit recorder. This means  the crash wasn't caused by any mechanical failure. The investigator concluded in his report that the minima was set too low by the pilots being a recipe for disaster. It was set for 2300 feet rather than the prescribed 2700. A pinch of forgetfulness with a few grams of shortcutting and some inadequate checking of the flight path finding it's way on the menu. It becomes clear in the report that the two pilots didn’t get along, had argued on a previous flight and that any discrepancy in altitude could have been ignored due to their, this time fatal, level of ill-feeling towards each other.




Part of a water bottle

This is a beautiful spot, high above the life and sounds of Ilparpa Road. The views from here are spectacular – The Gap – Airport – Temple Bar – nothing but sky. A white cross is now standing near the broken wings of the Westwing overlooking the world.

 

Lexi looking down at Ilparpa road from the initial point of impact

On the way back, Lexi started chasing kangaroos and I could hear her yapping delightfully in the distance, even though she would never be fast enough to catch any of them. My mind went to the guys that lost their lives up there, wondering what it would be like. Staring imminent death in the face, much alike looking into the barrel of a gun that is about to go off. Never mind who was at fault, who was squabbling with who or who forgot what. The truth is that any man who faces such a final shock like these highly skilled pilots and their passenger did, makes them, in my opinion, heroes in their own right.

Lets not forget that they belong to families that never saw them return. Their spirits forever lingering at the rock without name.

 

The cross on the edge of the ravine

 

 Grey Bits

Let your mind rome to the amazing job the SES are doing. Well done for making our world a better place to live!

If you want to check out the SES and maybe even join this valuable organisation as a volunteer, check out this website www.ses.sa.gov.au

If you like to have a read of the full report of the Westwind crash you can find it on my website
https://www.facebook.com/storiesfrommars

If the range ever were to be named, I suggest we call it the Westwind Range.

 




This willy wagtail appeared surprised with our company

The Chamber of Pillars.

Just 160 kilometres of shake, rattle and dust on a corrugated track separates us from one of the red centres most obscure government run campsites, the Chambers Pillar. We finally ventured out on a weekend when Alice Springs was dancing around a pole in May, in an almost pagan/hippy roman tradition.

Just when you think it is safe enough to crank the car up to a hundred km per hour, a rough dip will play basketball with your off-roader or a bend will slide you through a corner as if Brocky was still alive. After about a hundred kilometres, we stopped to look at the Indigenous art expo at the village of Titjikala, but found that in an act of sheer defiance to the rules of capitalism the exhibition was closed on a public holiday weekend.

Around ten kilometres before arrival, a short but steep drive takes you up a high ridge where the views are 360 degrees and worth stopping for, especially that first glimpse of the Chambers Pillar. Down the hill two gates are to be negotiated by the co-driver. At one of the gates there is a sign advising you to mount your pole with a red flag to the front of your car ‘now’, to warn oncoming traffic that you are rounding the crest.  Yeah!!! Darn!!! Forgot to bring my flagpole. I was tempted to sit on top of the car waving my red undies around, but thought it too dusty up there. Two or three of those apexes were quite hair-raising. For seconds, all you can see is the bonnet creating that out of control feeling. One day someone is going to land their front wheels on someone else's bonnet.

The main event

There is a lot going on at the chamber of pillars.

For sure the highlights are the columns that have stood here as long as anyone can remember. Even though the name Chamber is of a wealthy businessman who sponsored first time explorer John MacDouell Stuart out here; the name itself evokes the feeling of a space with the pillar and surrounding rock features holding up the roof of the world. The colour changes of these rocks at dawn and dusk are truly spectacular, almost emotionally so.

 

This rock formation visible from our campsite - notice nature's window

The Indigenous locals believe that a knob-tailed gecko warrior named Itirkawara rebelled against tribal law by sleeping around with woman forbidden to him. He came to these sand dunes, took a breather, and tragically transformed into a stone pillar. The woman he travelled with turned her head away and became what is now known as Castle Rock. The message is loud and clear for future generations. If you hadn't learned it by now here it is again; don’t mess with the wrong woman.

The knob tailed gecko courtesy of Milan Zygmunt



Castle Rock from this angle looks a lot like a submarine

Some of the oldest graffiti created by the earliest settlers of the red centre is found in relatively sophisticated carvings on the rocks and surrounding the pillar. Willshire and W Bennett (mounted police), Frank Wallis (store keeper of Alice Springs) and William and Mary Hayes who’s family still owns land around here; just to name a few dating back as far as 1884.  Little did our forefathers know that this form of historical acknowledgement of hard sweat and toil, set the precedence for an all-in eyesore of epic proportions. Who would have thought that 'John 1996' thought it necessary to etch his name into history, along with countless others. Never mind that by carving your name into the soft rock, one accelerates the erosion process of this amazing ancient column . The pillar is as the newspaper clipping in the gazebo said  ‘being loved to death’ even at the risk of a $2000 fine.

The John Ross party came through in 1870 whilst scouting the area for the overland telegraph line

There are some great short walks around the rock formations and the climb up the pillar is a must. There is a sunset and sunrise viewing area and wildlife is abundant according to the information on the boards. We spotted a large variety of birds including and a couple of bats. The southern boobook owl, mulga snake and spinifex hopping mouse were a little shy.

The camping is sublime at La Chambre as French friends of ours elegantly called it. Even a long weekend attracted a low number of visitors. The bush campsites were spaced out with fire pits working overtime during the fresh evenings. This is the Northern Territory in full flight - you can pick your favourite star out of a galaxy as clear as picking sultanas out of a cinnamon scroll.




No stars this night but just a spectacular sky

The rocks at the foot of the pillar

Reluctantly, we started our journey home - leaving a beautiful place like this is always hard. We passed through a large barren area where ahead of us a cow tried to outrun our superior human invention. In true bovine fashion it stuck to the road exhausting itself, until she became tired and came to a grinding halt. We parked right next to it and admired the brahman black and white features of the meat production line of Australia, when it unabashedly lifted its tail and just let go of this intense tinkle whilst staring us out.

           

Two minutes down the road Julie spotted a skinny, lone dingo. The Dingo ran away from us but at a distance ran parallel to the slow driving car as Julie hung out, taking photos of the cantering native.  But wouldn’t you know it?  We found the answer to the Australian version of the question concerning bears, woods and stating the obvious. Does a dingo crap in the desert?




 Picture courtesy of Julie from a moving vehicle
 

 Apparently!

Grey Bits

Check out this fabulous photographer at http://www.milanzygmunt.com/reptiles/nephrurus-levis-knob-tailed-gecko-gekon-knoflikovy/

ANZAC Day. Remembrance in the Red Centre

 

 

 

The horse hides were glistening in the last rays of sunshine. Fine dust kicked up by trampling hooves filtered through the air. Here beautiful!! I said softly. The brumby glided effortlessly towards the fence. Beep-Beep went the camera, now there is an unusual sound for a stockman’s horse. With her head turned, ears pricked up and her eye open wide - staring at me ever so alert. As a city slicker, I have never come in contact with horses that were this energetic and alive.



Notice how she is watching me

Two Indigenous, lean young lads strode over, both wearing wide brimmed cowboy hats. An avalanche of Aranda cut through the air as if a machine gun had gone off. Regretfully, the only thing I could make out were names of places.

 

Dwight, one of the young stockmen at Telegraph Station

"You know what the horses are doing here?" I asked in English. The boys explained in a few sentences, that they had rode the horses all the way from Hermannsburg to Telegraph Station and that they had been in the saddle for 5 days to cover the 130 kilometres.  

After a bit of research, I found out that the senior students of the N’taria school (otherwise known as Hermannsburg) had tamed the wild brumbies themselves over the last 12 months as part of agricultural studies. The students had forged great bonds with, and clearly loved working with the animals. They went on to tell me that the horses were brought down to Alice Springs to ride in the ANZAC Parade. 'This might just be an ANZAC day to remember', I thought.

Every clump of grass looked like a Kangaroo in the high beam as we drove towards Alice Springs in the pitch black, earliest of mornings that ANZAC day. ANZAC Hill towers above Alice Springs and would surely be quite a challenge to make the climb for some. By the looks of it plenty made it as it was shoulder to shoulder, standing room only during the ceremony.

 

Shoulder to shoulder at ANZAC Hill

The Catafalque party left a memorable impression. Hissing commands pierced the night sky. Four guards sprung into action. Watching these skilled soldiers, making their deliberate but deadly quiet strides as they were taking  guard around the monument, as a first-timer was an unforgettable spectacle.

 

Taking guard

We all paid our respects to soldiers never to be forgotten as the sun edged between the horizon and the cloud cover. The lights of Alice twinkling all around and below us. Both Australian and New Zeeland National Anthems were sung - speeches were given by well-spoken dignitaries – a group of policemen and women stood to attention towards my left – wreaths were laid – a child was comforted in her father’s arms towards my right – special mention was made of the Japanese attacks on the Northern Territory - the crowd stood silent - that damn bugle player, he had us all in tears as he played a poignant, almost quivering rendition of the Last Post.

 

"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; 
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. 
At the going down of the sun and in the morning 
We will remember them."

Laurance Binyon

And the crowd repeated in solemn unison:, “We will remember them.”


Later that day, a parade commenced from the council building, where I had plenty of time to take walk up and down the line and get something on film before kick-off. A diverse variety of uniforms and agencies were about to march on a gloomy day back to ANZAC Hill.




Our Aussie soldiers marching on

Alice Springs is a small town, the parade understandably not long, but nevertheless welcomed by an enthusiastic large crowd boosted by grey nomads and tourists.

There was a small contingent of American soldiers in the parade paying their respects, representatives of the central MacDonnell's worse kept and often publicized secret base. 

Schools and community groups were well represented in the ranks, I spotted a father and two kids on a truck, very much advertising that they were from New Zealand. 

This young man looking to follow in his father's footsteps

And there, finally, came the highlight of the parade. The Hermannsburg contingent, all wearing fair dinkum uniforms donated by the Australian Light Horse Association. A vision of historical significance and pride, taking us right back to the Fourth Light Horse Brigade storming the Ottoman trenches at Beersheba. 
 



To quote a mate from Western Australia who used to live in the red centre, "ANZAC Hill has to be the best place in Australia to hold an ANZAC dawn service."

 Grey Bits

A special mention goes to all the volunteers that worked very hard to make ANZAC day a memorable occasion. The RSL club did some great work providing a free breakfast, coffee and tea (with a dash of whisky - if that tickled your tipple) for a hungry and thirsty crowd.

If you like to read more about the Indigenous students click on the following link:

http://mobile.abc.net.au/news/2015-04-22/aboriginal-students-130km-horse-ride-anzac-wwi-tribute/6413724

The battle of Beersheba is described in detail on this website.

https://www.awm.gov.au/blog/2007/10/30/the-charge-of-the-4th-light-horse-brigade-at-beersheba/

I took way too many photos of the parade. If you like to have a gander just keep on scrolling down.




The police escort with a sound message. Seatbelt, mate!!



 



The Aussiefixion of Mars 1: A Poppy on a Stick

Like a little seed that slowly sprouted and revealed its first tender strands of pristine white stem only to, unhurriedly, grow the first fresh inevitable tender leaves. The sweet rains empower the growth of the succulent and burly stalk shooting ever so strong roots in attempt to nourish the springing bud that is set to flower…….

Mate! No need to wax lyrical about how you started thinking about Australian citizenship. The idea of becoming naturalized did grow over the years until a poppy on a stick burst the already thinning dam of resistance. This is what I wrote after a memorable afternoon on the Kokoda Track at Brigade Hill. Excuse me for quoting myself.

When it was my turn I walked in deep reflection. The many days on this hike had stripped me bare of all my protective layers - I could almost feel  the forest breathe - my imagination leaped back seventy four years - violent images ran through my mind in this silent jungle. I walked on, out of the jungle and into the sunny,  grass-covered clearing - blue sky overhead. With a sudden jolt, I realized what the neatly placed rows of wooden stakes represented that were stuck into the ground.

The stakes representing the fallen soldiers on top of Brigade Hill

 

 

I briefly managed to hide behind my camera and took many shots using the brown and white (sepia tone) setting - the picture in the view finder aligning itself with my mood. I knelt down to take a close up but that was it. I had no choice other than to let my emotions run free - sadness engulfing me without restraint - this grown man was blubbering his heart out like a baby.

'Torn Apart' written by Marcel Kempe

Call me a softy, but I still feel the affected twinge sometimes, even shed a tear when I read and think about that day in the jungle. With all that raw emotion it simply became clear it was time to attempt to become an Australian citizen. My journey to morph into a fair dinkum Aussie had began.



Walking towards Brigade Hill

What followed was a paperwork battle which took me one year in total. First of all, how do you procure a Dutch birth certificate? ……??? Neither did I. Google rescued my lily-white hiney, not for the first time, and a letter was sent to my place of birth in a small, obscure city in Holland. It was a more than a pleasant surprise when the record of my mother’s sweat and toil arrived after four and a half months – unannounced -  without acknowledgement of any sort  – no check if I was really me. 

I must stress that filling out forms is not my strong suit and by the time I had completed, signed, sent off for verification, sent some more forms for verification as I had missed a couple of pages, paid all hefty but well worth the money associated bills, photocopied through a pack of laser paper and half checked a mistake-riddled, thumbed-through manuscript, I was happy to send this naughty baby back to its parents. The Australian Department of Immigration.

I had resigned myself for another long wait when only two weeks later emails from the Strayan government started tying up the loose ends and inviting me to sit a test. It was at that moment that I realised something I worked hard for, but always felt depressing, paralyzing doubts whether it would ever happen. The release came in the form of excitement, disbelieve and more excitement. In two and a half hours I cannoned through the accompanied information and,  immediately after, took 10 minutes to mock test myself.

Okay. Honesty required here, nineteen out of twenty is not bad, right? The question I got wrong pertained to the Australian Senate and how it works. Yeah, what are they actually doing there?  I asked that same question that evening at a spontaneous coffee catch-up meeting with a cluster of Dinky Dye Aussie’s (Australian Citizens that is) and none of them knew the answer either. In fact, I found out that most would have failed the mock test much to the overall hilarity of the surrounding true blues.

 

Again, in a surprisingly fast time, I was booked in to sit the real, official test. I remember being slightly disappointed that the test venue was in the same building as Medicare and Centrelink. Where did I want it to be? On top of Uluru?
 

Ok, I just wanted to show off this photo

The lady behind the desk revealed that she loved this part of the job as only happy people came through her door on citizenship test day. So was I. Given three quarters and with plenty of cheery adrenaline feeding the brain cells, I scored a bragging-right earning twenty out of twenty after only 10 minutes. The lady was happy enough to announce that I passed.

As I floated through the dole office, leaping cartwheels in my mind, the thought came to me that this was the best place in Australia to sit a citizenship test. Isn’t it in this office that gallant Australians look after their own and take it up for the sick and temporarily unemployed? What’s more, isn’t Alice Springs the red heart of Australia? A wonderful, multicultural melting pot where kangaroo tails are a delicacy, the land is stained with colonial sweat and blood and is of a beauty rich and rare. Please nail me to this cross, anytime!

 

Of beauty rich and rare!

 

Australians believe in peace, respect, freedom and equality. An important part of being Australian is respecting other people’s differences and choices, even if you don’t agree with those choices. It is about treating people fairly and giving all Australians equal opportunities and freedoms, no matter where they come from, what their traditions are, or whether they are male or female.

A quote from "Our Common Bond". Citizenship application booklet 

I hopped in my car and drove through the Gap to my desert home feeling a hundred percent Australian.

Mate!!

To be continued......
 

 Grey Bits

Thanks to Mel for verifying my paperwork.

Thanks to the Australian Government for their fast and efficient work.

Thanks to you all for allowing me to share this wonderful country with you.

Massacre at Tnornala - How a Baby Dropped to the Earth

 

Imagine an object flying through space faster than anything you have ever seen. Imagine it is faster than a formula one racing car and, yes, to use a well used frase in marvel land, faster than a speeding bullet. At 72,000km per hour the icy mass, also known as a comet, travels a cool 20km per second in distance, leaving a bullet to believe it is has turned into a snail. Six hundred square metres of swashbuckeling ice-cone lining up our earth thinking “I just cant miss that fat lot down there”.

 

Now visualize a flat piece of untouched Australian outback such as the area 170km west of Alice Springs. A peaceful place - birds singing – lizards hiding under the spinifex – kangaroos lazing around, resting on their elbows - a soft breeze gently blowing through the occasional Wattle Tree. And......

 

A model of Tnorala (Gosses Bluff) displayed at the Araluen Cultural Centre

The impact must have been stupendous and the sound eardrum-destroying. Nature's alien power squashing the earth beneath, forcing its crust up and out in a jaggered mountainous circle with debris flying in all directions.

 

 Where was Superman?

 

A sample of the cone shaped fragments with horsetail markings that
 were flying through the air at the moment of impact.
Displayed at the Araluen Cultural Centre

  

Ever since that moment 142.5 million years ago Tnorala, as its known by the indigenous locals, became a place of cultural significance. Dreamtime tales of long ago passed down from elder to child for many thousands of years, will tell you a story about Tnorala and how it originated.

Tnorala was formed in the creation time, when a group of women danced across the sky at the Milky Way. During this dance, a mother put her baby aside, resting in its wooden baby-carrier (a turna). The carrier toppled over the edge of the dancing area and crashed to earth where it was transformed into the circular rock walls of Tnorala.

Information from the government website.
 

A baby falling from the sky. Photo courtesy of Pintrest

Again my imagination goes rampant.  I envisage the party that must have lit up the sky like a gigantic Saturday night disco, beaming light into the infinite space like shooting stars bouncing off a mirror ball - woman boogieing the night away, letting their hair down and forgetting the menial tasks of life – the whoopsy moment, where the huge baby drops from the sky unnoticed, gouging a massive hole in the surface of the earth. Maybe there was even a bit of a tiff between these ancient giants as to whose responsibility it was to look after the 600 square metre sized infant. A charming story.

More historical facts about the large dent in the earth becomes evident as you drive into another world through a wall of the rough circular range. The millions of years having done us a favour by carving a creek through the large crater walls. Driving over the red dirt, or is it a creek bed, you suddenly, in a large exhale of breath, find yourself in the centre of impact zone. The road ends at the picnic area where you can read the story told by Mavis Malbunka an aboriginal elder.

Mavis Malbunka at Tnorala. Photo courtesy of the ABC

 

“One day, early in the morning, a man climbed up the rocks, hunting for kangaroo. When he came back he found all his people, men, woman and children dead, killed. He knew that kadeaitcha men had done it”.

“The man went off and told all the rest of the family, who lived all along the nearby ranges. These people followed those Kadaitcha men, who came back from desert country, to the south of here. The kadaitcha didn’t make it back to their community. They were killed by the avenging family”.

Quote from information panel at Tnorala.

When you are sitting having your sandwiches at the declared ‘sorry sight’ let the violent, haunted history permeate through your soul, respect that you are asked to camp outside the crater and enjoy the rugged beauty that is Tnorala.
 

When he came back he found all his people,
men, woman and children dead, killed.

 

 Grey Bits

I googled Mavis Malbunka out of curiosity and found that she features on the honour role of the Australian of the Year Award. There is a great article written in the age about the stolen generation including excerpts of an interview with Mavis.

http://www.theage.com.au/news/national/for-the-old-people-who-still-hurt-133-their-children-never-cameback/2008/02/12/1202760300957.html
 

Gosses Bluff when I first spotted it from the Larapinta trail

For more general information about the area, please head to the  government website

http://www.nt.gov.au/westmacs/places/tnorala



Inside the crater walls