The Wilderness Society — Bullying tactics used in push to industrialise the Kimberley.

The Wilderness Society — Bullying tactics used in push to industrialise the Kimberley.

Monaro Torque

Monaro Torque

Monaro Opened Up.

Monaro Unwound.

Monaro Roaming.

Putting the Peddle, to the Monaro.

Monaro Flat Chat.

Monaro Full Tilt.

Monaro Fully Aspirated.

The Monaro; Meaner, Sleeker.

Monaro Burnout.

Monaro Guzzler.

Monaro Blackouts.

Monaro, Big 350.

Monaro 3 Generations.

Monaro Front Guards.

Monaro Eyes.

Monaro Rear Pillars;

Beefier Monaro.

Monaro Engine Room.

Monaro Hardware.

Monaro Cooling Slots.

Monaro Houndstooth;

Beechey's Monaro.

Monaro Checkcloth Inserts.

Monaro Leaf Springs.

Monaro Long Distance Touring.

Monaro, GTS, 350.

Monaro Line-up.

Monaro Sixes.

Monaro Limited Edition.

Monaro Built-in Toughness.

Daddy Cool's Eagle Rock, Monaro.

Monaro Heritage.

Monaro Coupes.

Monaro Nameplate.

Monaro, 5.0 litre, V8;

'Infra Red', 'Ultra Violet', 'Lettuce Alone' green, Monaro.

Monaro New Entry.

Monaro True Blue.

Monaro Top-shelf.

Monaro Tamed.

Monaro Stormbringer.....

Monaro Heros.

HK Monaro

HT Monaro

HG Monaro

HQ Monaro

HJ Monaro

HX Monaro

HZ Monaro

V2 Monaro

C V8-R Monaro

VZ Monaro

The name 'Monaro' is of aboriginal origin, meaning a high plateau or high plain. There is something distinctive about this place and the landscape and the people. The Holden 'Monaro', first developed in 1968 as a distinctive Australian 'muscle car', was named after the Monaro Region and an image of the Monaro landscape which fitted the car. Monaro torque talks the language of the car. This language talks the life and landscape of the Monaro region. So readers that's Monaro torque. I'm sure in it's day, the Holden Monaro was at home on the streets and gravel roads of the Monaro landscape. It must have been a pretty impressive sight travelling the high plateau and high plains but to be honest I'm sort of glad the Holden Monaro has moved on. I think I prefer a different type of horsepower and torque these days.....I think I prefer Monaro horse torque, a Monaro torque that has been cutting a pretty impressive sight across the Monaro high plains and plateau for 3 generations or more. It looks like horse power, horse torque will continue for a few more generations yet. Can't be a bad thing.

Li Po would have had something to say about this for sure, and Henry and Banjo, for that matter too. Cheers.

Are We on the Monaro Alone in This?

Today I am wondering if it is as windy everywhere else....or is it only here on the high plains of the monaro that the heated, gale force winds, dry as chips, rough as rasps, blow without relent. Monotonous, hard driven, skin shredding wind, without a hint of moksa.
Every living thing has vanished. The streets are deserted, even the flies have gone. The wind stings in its cutting monotone, a tiresome concert with the sun. Everything takes cover but there's nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Even inside, the heated wind penetrates. Are we on the monaro alone in this?.
What will bring relief to this cycle of existences? What will bring us sweetly home? What will make the birds sing and the sheep fat? What will make the grass grow and swell that smile? What will allow us to ease the tenuous grip to this hardened existence so familiar?. What will ease the built up tensions and resentments? What will ease this? What?, will ease, This?

Rain.

Overcast skies pouring with rain.

Rain.

The smell of rain on the dry dusty ground.

Rain.

Rain on dry grass.

Rain.

The sound of rain on tin roof.

Rain.

The sight of rain falling from the skies.

Rain.

The sight of rain overflowing water tanks, the sight of rain gathering, flowing down gutters.

Rain.

Rain will ease this. Rain will bring my father home. Rain will soften this hardened shell. Rain will release this cycle of existences. Rain will revive the spirit of this land and its people, afreshed. Rain will reveal the other side; lighter, brighter, relaxed, laughter: no more torment by the wind tearing at the sinews of hope.

Rain.

Wind driven smoke makes it arrival and in the town it settles as the torrid wind sweeps through and is gone. From the cloud of smoke it comes.

Rain.

The wind sings in its cutting monotone in concert with the sun. Everything takes cover but there's nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Are we on the monaro alone in this?

During this day parts of the monaro erupted in fire. Around Michelago, on the monaro, a catastrophic fire burnt through 11000 hectares of bushland and grazing country, taking some houses, livestock and other animals.

South of Bombala, fires blazed in the Cann River area and over the Snowy Mountains to the west, fires burnt through farmland and bushland along areas of the upper Murray River around Tooma and Walwa. It was a fierce day, the wind awesome. Late in the afternoon the relentless wind shifted direction to the southeast. Still relentless, with gale force, choking smoke filled Bombala and then, in the night, the wind and smoke was gone and rain fell upon the tin.

It is taking some time to acclimatize to the monaro but it has me captivated, it has me intrigued. Never before have I ever experienced anything like this. Driving out of Bombala, several days after this torrid wind event, towards the Snowy Mountains, I covered the ground of the monaro farmlands; the bare hills and gentle valleys, the steep, short sided ravines, the rocky outcrops and the rangelands, the rivers now reduced to waterholes, the solitary gums and distant eucalypt woodlands and as I drove I had the feeling that I was in a desert.


There was not a soul. Everywhere was now brown, dried up, shrivelled. Dirt, rock and scabby plants. Intense blue sky, whispy clouds. The air and the landscape was trying to suck whatever moisture could be found out of any living thing, including me. Sheep crowded lonely trees seeking out shade, panting. At water troughs they clambered over each other to drink.
Birds in seedheads beside the road laboured into flight. There were more than the usual number of dead birds on the road. Rabbits and hare scooted across bare earth raising dust. Desolation came to mind. A desolate scene; an unihabited, barren and wretched landscape.
But is it?

When I first arrived here on the monaro in mid Oct 2009, farmers where feeling elated at the late winter, early spring rains that had fallen over the area. Lingering, late winter, intense weather systems had thankfully carried some of their moisture over the snowy mountains and leaked their last drops across the monaro. A green veneer grew over the landscape. The farmers were happy with this new colour, green, and the feed it provided but the soil beneath was still desperately dry and had no moisture to leak. Dams were empty or near empty and the rivers and streams had given up running long ago. They called it a "green drought" and prayed for more rain.

It seems that this may be the way it is on the Monaro and the way it has always been for the white settlers who came to farm sheep on the monaro. Deperately dry, hot summers and a landscape devoid of feed. But I think that now, 150 or so years on, it is even more desperately dry and devoid of feed and decent soil. In the past, stockmen on horseback walked their herds overland via the dry monaro plains and hills to the alpine areas of the now Kosciuzko National Park where they stayed until late Autumn. Here their animals grazed on large areas of rich native grasses and generally had abundant water. This is no longer permitted and so the monaro is now grazed all year round.

As I drive the early summer landscape of the monaro, wind of several days previous now died, I ponder this landscape: desolate or not?, future farmland or not? I am captivated by it and am taken on a journey to within its realm. I will seek out its nooks and crannies, peaks and troughs and try to understand this land.

If Li Po were here today I wonder what he may have had to say.

Heading North - Home Sweet Home

home sweet home: this is my "Bibler" Gortex tent called the Bombshelter. It is a 3 @ a squeeze 4 person tent. I love it all to my self but at times I am prepared to share with close friends & family. It's always fun and even in blizzard cards are fun: it feels safe, cosy and a little bit yellow (photo speak for warm). ... Cost, about $1200.00, about the cost to build a house with Habitat in Nepal. As I do my 18 month horse ride north from the mouth of the Murray to Cape York I will enjoy my home. I invite my friends to follow. Preparations for the trip have started. Brumbys arrive soon. Keep posted at my website which I will post soon. All the best, Andrew.

Rejoice in the diversity of this planet in all its variety

Rejoice in the diversity of this planet in all its variety

This photo is of a Nepalese woman and her child. I came across them early one morning whilst I was walking a dusty path through the pine covered hills of Narkanda in the Indian state of Himarchal Pradesh. We were all surprised to see each other; it was early, it was off the main route, it was nearly winter, it was quiet, still, it was just plain unusual to see anyone, but there we were, strangers, meeting on a dusty path high in the hills. I was taken back to her home: a simple collection of sticks, stones, mud and tin, where inside, her husband tended the fire. I drank chai with them. The early morning sun shone through the trees; an orange light filling the hut with a warming glow. It was the best chai ever and it sustained me for months. Outside the day grew lighter, butterflies wandered through the trees catching the sunlight, birds scooted from limb to limb chasing insects, an assemblage of wildflowers bloomed in the shade. I followed the dusty path, winding down through the forest, past open field and apple orchard tended by man bearing compost; sheep grazing beneath trees loaded with red delicious bounty. I followed the dusty path winding down the hillside moving amongst a procession of bell tolling sheep and a family of shepards, past handbuilt houses of stone and mud, past cows, goats and children playing, past streams with verdant growth and sparkling water. Fodder was being rolled by hand and foot and being stored away inside. Potatoes were dug and brought to the house. Corn had been dried and the husks removed. Beans and peels from fruits and vegetables lay on terraces drying. Chickens scattered.

I followed the dusty path back up through the forest past the Nepalese families abode, now empty, on the edge of the forest. I continued on my way to the high altitude montane plateau of the Indian ChangThang and on to Tso Moriri Lake passing field and river, pass and mountain, yaks, herdsmen and small isolated hamlets and saw endangered Kiang, wild ass running free.

Rejoice in the diversity of this planet in all its variety

Priviledged: A short trip to Aboriginal lands, top end South Australia, July, 2009.

Left Ernabella midmorning after finalising a few things at clothing store. The boys came by and got some clothes and sporting goods. A lady came by and grabbed a few items. It seems they don't have much money or any money, really. Sad and strange. Saw Prudence and her man this morning. He is a really strong, fit guy. Tall and very straight. I talk with Jack Crombie, a bronco rider from the 40's/50's. Done everything. Travelled the world, competed in the Calgary stampede. A good man, now 75, born in a humpy out the back of Kenwall Park. Walked naked, caught their food. Brought cattle down from Queensland, Northern Territory, down the Birdsville Track. Had a packhorse, bedroll. Worked night and day. Tinned food.

But the man I want to speak to we have still not seen.

We leave Ernabella and head out to Peters place, north and west of Ernabella. Peter Nyaningu's place. 57km of red dirt road through a desert landscape of the Mugrave Ranges. Red rock ranges. Out of the red landscape we meet Peter driving down the road in his old landcruiser. We stop, chat, tell him we are heading out to his place. He seems genuinely pleased. He grips my hand softly and looks into my eyes. He holds my hand for a good while, while he takes in Alans conversation. We go our separate ways along the red earth road, crest a rise and look out across a vast basin in the landscape ringed by ranges, a "cauldren", flat, expansive, the heat of summer I imagine. There would be no crossing this land in summer.

Our destination, Peter's place is beyond the ranges on the distant horizon, across the cauldron. We head across, an easy crossing in the Toyota Landcruiser and stop midway. Peter a full-blood aboriginal elder is the traditional owner of this land.

Rugged up for winter; coat, shirt, shirt, shirt and beanie. Long white beard. Eyes are small in his face but seemingly well seeing. Nearly 80, some teeth missing. Done a bit of travelling. His father came from over the border in Western Australia. Peter born, exact date a question mark, 1930 ?. Used to walk to Ernabella in a day, 57km. What did he carry with him?
At age of 6 he went with his father to Uluru. Walking. 300km or more return.
"What did you carry"?
"spear and womera. no clothes. Have to be fit, strong, - young man".
"Where did you camp"?
"many people from your clan/tribe. no blanket, no clothes, just sleep by the fire".
"What did you eat"?
"night comes quickly - no lights, the fire-side, sometimes dinner or none."
"How did you know where you were going?"
"fires from others indicated their presence, their occupation of the land, we see and go"
"Why Uluru?"

We sit under the verandha of the visitors digs talking to Peter, ancient history and modern day dilemmas. The sun sets under and warms us as we chat. We chat until the sun dips below the horizon. We talk some more. It is a beautiful, quiet, spare landscape. Sacred. We breath it in. I feel priviledged.

todays view from the monaro - 7am from the edge of the Meringo Nature Reserve

Grey, overcast, cooler; a light wind, a current has come in from the SW-SE, filling the air with cooler, moist air. A hanging dew fills the sky and the folds of the land. Everything is softened. Shadows are filled. The sharpness and harshness of yesterday, gone. The cracks, earth and trees are moisturized after the drying, hot, unrelenting nor-westerly of yesterday. The air smells fresh, wetted. Earth and air, plant and animal hang in the ether on the slow moving currents. A hint of smoke, dampened, lingers. So quiet I can hear the air breathing, gently, slowly. I can hear the pad of kangaroos, unseen, the bleat of sheep, distant, frogs from creek down below. I can hear the trees growing, a snake moving amongst grass and leaves, the call of galah, magpie and crow. I dare not move in fear of breaking the silence. I squat and wait, too much to see. Only with my eyes closed can I know what's there. Todays view from the Monaro fills the air. Today, I smell - unwashed, unshaven, the Meringo Nature Reserve and it smells very nice.