Waiting for a connecting flight to Mt. Isa.


I'll try and keep you guys posted on the camel hunting shenanigans but first we have a rodeo to attend...

Did you bring a rifle? if so which one

Where's the report from the field?

I think the pommy boys are still licking their wounds.....

blacks

quote:

Originally posted by blacks:
I think the pommy boys are still licking their wounds.....

blacks

Do tell us more ?

.

quote:

Originally posted by 505G:

quote:

Originally posted by blacks:
I think the pommy boys are still licking their wounds.....

blacks

Do tell us more ?

.

I shall let them tell the story, but I will say that Amir made it home with nothing but a pack of smokes and a severe case of man-flu....

Rest assured a great time was had by all though!

blacks

quote:

Originally posted by TOP_PREDATOR:
Did you bring a rifle? if so which one

Was stymied at the last moment James, meant to bring a 9.3/.338 Lapua wildcat but after reliable advice decided to borrow at the last minute.

Did my shooting with a variety of rifles from applying rule .303 with a .416 Rigby to "driven" boar shooting with a Remington .300 SAUM.

The .35 and above bores seemed to be in a class above the 7mm/30 cals in terms of terminal effect on the camels.

I shot my first bleedin pig, ended up sticking my first too.! !!!

quote:

Originally posted by John Rigby & Co.:
Where's the report from the field?

The report, entitled "Sinking the ships of the desert" is due forthwith.

I just need some time to collate the photographs and refine the lies.

If I mange to catch you this weekend I shall bring the video camera, you will pleased to know we somewhow managed to end up at a rodeo to cap it all off.

It was like being in Mother Texas for a moment there!

quote:

Originally posted by blacks:

quote:

Originally posted by 505G:

quote:

Originally posted by blacks:
I think the pommy boys are still licking their wounds.....

blacks

Do tell us more ?

.

I shall let them tell the story, but I will say that Amir made it home with nothing but a pack of smokes and a severe case of man-flu....

Rest assured a great time was had by all though!

blacks

A better bunch of bastards could not have found themselves on a better hunt.

From changing money in DPM and a shamag in a bank with three bales of straw to sit in a corner, fat man commando rolls and the most skilled PH's in the world, your fair nation has left quite an impression on me...

I have vented at the baggage handling staff twice now and have been assured my bag will be returned today.

The will get me my Foxwell back or they will feel the rough edge of my tongue...

Friends, beer and sunset.

Boy did the beer go down well on that hill. I am getting a few pics uploading mate PB is not cooperating - I'll keep trying!

Cheers

blacks

Sinking a cold one on that hill, watching the sun go down on thousands of acres of Aussie bush.....really made the 100km drive for that extra slab of 'quadruple X' very worthwhile!

Dajarra 'The place I would rather be'.

Awesome, well done. Looks like you all had fun !


Nice to see someone else uses a shemagh out bush.
Can be quite a useful bit of kit with the number of uses it can be put to.

.

Sounds like fun trip,look forward to photos

JESUS what a motley looking crew I think the camels look a lot better

Someone should at least having given them a decent can of brew to drink ! LOL

Introductions of sorts.

13 hours in the air, six more at Changi international, rounded off with another 9 hour flight, a further 3 hour short hop and a drive of about 800 yards to the touchingly named, "Inland Oasis motel".

With its proper beds and hot showers, by god it was an oasis for the monumentally rooted travellers that arrived at their doors two weeks ago.

"Good evening gentlemen" intoned the random f#cking Canadian behind the counter.

Barely able to conceal our disappointment at the lack of feisty Aussie Sheila’s that we had led to believe would be bounding from under every rock and bush we quickly offended her and checked in so we could get to the rodeo in time.

I've spent a fair amount of time in Texas and Gabriel grew up in a household with television so we were fairly sure of what to expect.

The place was full of bloody Americans, and Aboriginal cowboys, doing normal rodeo stuff. I took a wander and ended up chatting to the barmaid at the Bundy (Bundaberg rum, AKA Queensland diesel...) museum tent. She informed me that whilst she couldn't sell me a drink (Without a token from the cashiers/inebriation testing stand) she was nevertheless happy to take me on a ethanolic tour of the history of the distillery. Literally fifteen minutes and fifteen shots of various flavours of fire-water later I was handed two opened cans of pre-mix and sent staggering back off to Boggy. Said buddy and hunting partner was understandably slightly miffed at my sudden disappearance and reappearance, now three sheets to wind, clutching two cans of booze, bloodshot eyes fixed and pleading "For heaven's sake drink these bastards".

"You were only gone fifteen minutes" Gabriel said, at last.

The Aboriginal guy behind us in a ten gallon Akubra and belt buckle that were it not spotted in Australia might have been mistaken for an Olympic medal, kept disappearing every five minutes and reappearing with a takeaway container of beef in black bean sauce for a different family member each time, was making us hungry. As the final event came to a close (Barrel racing won by the wonderfully named, Ms. Montana O'Toole) we decided to head off into "The Isa" to see if we could find a nice steak.

We had a quick wash and brush up and headed out to the promisingly named "Buffalo club".

"You gentlemen realise this is a buffalo club don't you?" Politely inquired the miserable, leathery old hag at the reception desk, eyeing us in a manner I personally only reserve for raw sewage or traffic wardens.

"No we indeed didn't madam, we are travellers here and were hoping for a bite to sup and perhaps a flagon or two of pale ale to slake our parched throats"

"It's members only usually" Rejoined the shrivelled little harpy "but I can sign you in as guests just for tonight"

"We are honoured beyond the dreams of avarice fair maiden, what's that you say? You’ll sight of passports from both of us...."

We eventually got in and wandering to the bar met our first hot Aussie Shelia of the trip.

I exaggerate not gentlemen when I say she retains the trip record for most miserable, face-like-a-slapped-arse, moody bint we had encountered so far, which if Satan's pet vulture at reception is taken into account, was quite a f#cking achievement indeed.

"Two pints of quadruple X please young lady" I asked, at this point still fairly polite.

"We do schooners and it's called four X"

"Two schooners of four X it is then oh sweet desert zephyr of heaven-sent delight" Thinking "fancy having the painter's in on a full moon, just our f#cking luck"

With the schooners came a scratch card, a scan of which is reproduced here: It summed up the experience quite well I thought…

We took our beer outside onto a fenced off, raised patio area to have quiet moment to mull things over. A quick glance at the restaurant on our way through had given the impression of a cross between McDonalds and greasy spoon run by a bloke with a filthy apron called "Big Keith".

We grab the nearest fairly normal looking person, the rest of the be-mulleted, handlebar moustachioed denizens of the bar looking like extras from a UFO sighting, abduction and gang probe, to ask where a good place to get a steak in "The Isa" was.

We were treated to some world-class rambling from what had become apparent was the wrong choice of patron of whom to enquire about fine dining.

Blah, blah, blah, blah, you'll get a good feed at the Isa hotel....blah,blah, blah"

Off we trundle to the most expensive self-service steak restaurant I've ever been to, I accept the need for rugged self-reliance but this was ridiculous. We ordered at the kitchen and fetched our own beers from the bar like a pair of Diner’s Club members and sat waiting for the multi-coloured beeping thing we had been given in lieu of food to let us know it was time to get our steak. The bar began to fill with drunken excitable types and as if in direct proportion large, Maori security-types.

“Excuse me mate, I enquired from a particularly bright looking (In that he was at least as tall as he was wide and had more tattoos than scars) “What exactly is a buffalo club?”

“Dunno mate” cheerfully intoned the guy and we left him to malevolently glaring at potential troublemakers.

Passable steak though.

We trek back to the hotel in search of amber nectar, "Bar closes at 8 boys" squeaked the hairy bint from Kanukistan.

f#cking champion...


Rolling, rolling, rolling. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdR6MN2jKYs#ws

A shopping and poncing about day in The Isa passed pleasantly enough, we could barely repress the urge to be hunting however and I think Boggy will agree with me that we were relieved to finally be on the road with some sense purpose the next day.

A brief word about our wheels on that trip is due at this point. We had been faced with a near two and a half grand bill for hiring a suitably beefy 4x4 for off-roading on the property itself, needing basically a mine-prepped Landcruiser with f#ck-off great tires, snorkel; the works in other words. We had decided in a fit of uncharacteristic financial prudence that since we were probably not going off the graded tracks by any serious amount we didn't need this level of car and with a perfectly acceptable "ordinary" 4x4 coming in at around 550 bucks all in, it seemed like an unfortunate no-brainer to get the boring truck.

"I'm sorry sir but we don't have the Triton, or whatever it was, your requested" Smiled the rather over made-up but otherwise rather pleasing Bush Shiela ( I'll go into my classification system for the Shelia’s we encountered a little later in this narrative ) behind the car-hire desk " We do have a mine-prepped Landcruiser however we can let you have for the same money instead, will that be all right?"

(Does the polar bear root seals on the pack ice?)

"Yes ma’am that will be quite all right. Thank you."

We snatched the keys before she had a chance to change her mind and made a sharp exit out of the tiny airport into the bright Australian sunshine.

Four and a half litres of V8 Diesel grunt, great ground clearance and tough as old boots. She would crawl up a 10% gradient in 4 high in second at a 500 rpm tick-over, respect.



The drive from Mt. Isa to the last town before the Station was a few hundred kilometres, so only a few hours or so at sensible speeds on the single track highways that connect the small towns in Northern Queensland. We had plenty of time in the morning and had a leisurely breakfast of what we came to discover were properly called bumnuts and mystery bags. I say bumnuts with some confidence after the first day after incident that happened as I stepped out for a ciggie with my coffee after breakfast.

I noticed an old boy struggling a wee bit with a couple of suitcases and stepped over to give him a hand. Turns out that Bob (for that was his name) "Da Playa" (for that was his game) when not being something in publishing, was driving one of his female authors around Queensland promoting her book of Sketches and reminisces of being a German governess in rural Australia.

Mainly something about sore thighs, if I recall correctly.

Anyway Bob "Da Playa" was so grateful for the help that he gave us a small book of Aussie idiom which served us well for the rest of the trip. With it's assistance I was able to smile charmingly at the Delectable (in the sense of dog food to a starving man at very best, but it would be a long week in the bush) Canadian receptionist and request "Bum nuts and mystery bags for breakfast please, don't worry love, they'll know".

Breakfast done, bags packed and randoms talked to we hit the road a few hours early for our 2 pm rendezvous but figured that having done Isa to death, the last town before the property had to be more interesting.

And how wrong we were…

The phrase "one-horse town" is an over-used phrase, it turns out. Even the cemetery was deserted….



I am truly sorry for all the places I have hitherto sneered at, from Qom, Iran to Fredericksburg, Texas, as that last stop in the desert has recalibrated my very concept of the idea. Even the freaking horse had gone walkabout from this place leaving us with very little to do for the three hours we had to wait before the rest of the lads were due to turn up. It occurred to us as we tanked up that if say, a group of Aussie bastards were to say, want to play a very elaborate prank on a pair of unsuspectingly credulous Pommy tits, a reasonable way would be to have given incredibly complicated instructions to a point precisely 612 km from Bubblef#ck Nowhere and arrange for a small Aboriginal boy with a note in a cleft stick to meet them bearing the message "Here's looking at you. Lots of love, the boys".

They wouldn't do that to us, would they?

After apparently offending the girl in the post office by asking if she could change money:

"Hi do you change money?" (Smiling like a pack of ravening Salesmen)
"Yes we do" (Quoth the rather pleasing cafe-au-lait girl behind the counter)
"Ok I've got some Sterling here" (Pulling cash and my passport out of my pocket)
"Oh foreign money? No, we don't change foreign money!" (Seemingly offended now, she signals that the interview is over by frowning rather cutely, dropping her eyes and furiously organising some paperclips.)

We stumbled out roundly baffled, a little turned on and wholly dejected.

A similar though slightly more polite experience awaited me at the credit union branch in the town hall ( It sounds like a location in a bleeding Dungeon and Dragons game as I write it down now...) .

"I'm sorry we don't change money love, you do realise this is a credit union don't you?"

"Is that like a buffalo club?"

"What?"

"Well thank you for all your help madam, we'll change up some cash next time we're back in The Isa..."

We headed back to the throbbing metropolitan hub of the “town”, the petrol station, where I spent half an hour agonising over the inevitably piss-poor decision to get a frankfurter-on-a-stick-covered-in-batter (There no doubt exits some snappy Australian name for it, if there doesn't my suggestion would be "Donkey bollocks gob poison") . I go back outside to discover that to Boggy's infinite pleasure (Call it a validation of his decision to buy an Akubra) that some passing Fire and Rescue workers had mistaken him for a migrant worker at one of the local cattle stations turned up for a training session. I arrived in a middle of a very interesting conversation about flooding and the differences in how the locals and "Grey Nomads" were prepared for it.

The whole drive up we had noticed that every Ute was equipped with a snorkel and that there were signs cautioning of flooding in the most dried-up and unlikely places. The Rescue guys answered our questions with a great deal of patience

“So, does it flood badly around here?" (Snort of laughter)

"Shit yeah! 11 metres mate!"

"f#ck..."

The explained that locals would lay in supplies, bring livestock close to the house and generally be prepared for the up to 3 months or more cut off from the rest of the world that flooding in the wet season could bring to that part of Australia. The so called "Grey Nomads", or retired couples touring the furthest and most remote reaches of Australia in their camper vans and caravans, were a source of comic relief for these guys with stories of little flocks of them getting caught on high ground and needing airlifting out like clockwork every rainy season. We met and chatted with a few over the course of our time there and to a man, they were friendly, chatty and politely baffled as to what the ruddy hell we were doing there. I think they shared the impression of the lovely lady that took us aside at immigration and with the demeanour of a mothering saint explained that they "lost people in the Bush and were we absolutely sure we knew what were letting ourselves in for?”; i.e. that we just a touch simple. We assured these kindly folk that we were going to be with experienced Aussie Bushmen the whole time and would be as safe as could be...

As I mentioned we were in the rather unequal position vis-à-vis our hosts in that we were looking for a couple of Aussies in a Ute loaded with outdoors kit whereas they were looking for the only two foreign looking types within 500 kms in a hire car with a couple of fashionable suitcases in the back.

Finally a couple of Ute’s with a few likely looking lads pulled up and the cheery shout of "f#ck it's the Afghans who brought the camels here in the first place!" came from a tall chap with a military moustache who marched up to us and pumped our hands up and down.

We had just met Greg!

The other two gents turned out to be Tim and Foxy, all three poor chaps slightly frazzled after a series of fantastically long, for these two Pommy city boys, drives up from basically the other end of the country. We tanked up, had a fantastic ham sandwich at a little place they knew just up the road and after changing only the second flat we had on this trip we set off mid afternoon for the Station.



It was about 20 km or so to the station boundary and about the same distance to the main group of farm buildings.


It was here that we met a few of the more memorable characters, regrettably all too briefly, in the shape of Jay, Jake and the Murderous Ol' Bitch of a Ballistics Expert.

First was Jay, a rather endearing Jackaroo with an authentically battered Akubra, blue jeans, deep tan and slightly vacant expression that at the moment was lit up (In as much as possible, he appeared to glow like a slightly re-touched suntan lotion advert when excited, or baffled...) who stopped working on a station dirt bike for a moment to consider the five random blokes who had turned up out of nowhere.

"Y'alright? How's it going" he amiably rambled at us, rolling a ciggie almost simultaneously, relishing talking to someone new for the first time in 18 months.

Tim and Foxy wisely did the talking and explained who we were and what we were out there to do. Jay was quite the sportsman himself, telling us about spotlighting and sticking pigs all over the farm when mood took him and the other station hands. It boded well as I have, or rather had, a slight issue with pigs. The issue was simply that no matter how much money I spent, or places I went, I simply could not shoot a pig for love nor money. Germany, Russia, South Africa, everywhere I went the local species of Porky Pig eluded me with a cruelty and monotony that I swear would have broken lesser men years ago. To hear that there were pigs quickened my pulse and I foolishly let on this little thing that I am, was, afflicted by to my heart-of-gold companions.

It was then that Jake rocked up. His Akubra was even smaller, even more battered and therefore even more impressive than Jay's. He was even more tanned, had an even more vacant expression in his eyes and posses even few buttons. His opening line of "So you boys are here to kill shit?" was a suitably impressive hint to the rough and adrenaline filled world of station life in the deep bush that they went on to describe. Tales of boredom-inspired derring-do and alcohol-fuelled insanity so tall that "Fair dinkum?" doesn't even begin to cover it.

I am perhaps being unkind in describing the lady we met next as the "Murderous Ol' Ballistics Expert Bitch" now that the blood has cooled somewhat, but at the time she ravaged through our hopes, desires and egos like Ghengis Khan's horde might have if they'd had access to PCP and chainsaws.

Tim was the first to be comprehensively done.

"Hi There" He opens with, beaming with that boyish charm those us fortunate enough to have been drinking with him will know all to well. "How's it going?" He rounds off this devastating one-two with.

"Hi deary, I've just been shooting camels and pigs (!) with my husband, we got 21 camels and so many pigs I can't remember (!!), what are you boys doing out here?"

(Slightly shaken Tim)

"Aw yeah, we're going to be shooting some camel's too this week um, and...and...Amir's never shot a pig!"

(MOBEB beams at me in a kindly manner)

"There aren't many left near the homestead but there should be some further up north (!!!), We had a couple of good ones, I've got the photos on my camera here..."

(To Tim)

"What calibre's are you shooting deary?" (As she walks off toward her camper to get her camera)

"Aw you know, .30 cals, .35 cals"

This visibly raises the hackles of the dear old battle-axe who fixing a now decidedly nervous Tim with a steady gaze which he later confessed to being uncomfortably like looking the wrong way down the barrel of a Luger.

"No, I asked you which calibres you shot" She said, glaring at him from the otherside of a flatbed.

".350 Remington Magnum, .35 Sambar, .300 SAUM..." Tim blurted out.

"Oh that's nice" she smiled at him, "I shoot a .458 Lott".

A quivering Tim spun round, tremulous finger jabbing in Greg's direction and squawked "He shoots a.416 Rigby!!".

"That's nice dear" said MOBEB wheeling about on a well-satisfied heel as she wandered back to the camper to get her camera and rip into me about the pigs she'd casually slain with her .458...

Jake and Jay tactfully said nothing.

It was getting late and although we had agreed that we would camp down somewhere not too far that first night and look for the base camp donga the next day, we still had to get a wriggle on if we were going to make camp before night fall.

We had spent a while comparing maps with the Jackaroos and in theory at least, had a fairly good idea of where we wanted to go.

Boggy and I were by now fairly excited, this was beginning to feel real at last and as a not insignificant gesture of intent he had now donned his Akubra and I the generously wide-brimmed hat of an appropriately muted green…

Where are the Russian whores ?

quote:

Originally posted by londonhunter:
Where are the Russian whores ?

Dude....Bro code, what happens on deployment, stays on deployment!!

Didn't know you served in the "special forces" in the past

Yes sir ....

Very good report mate. But in Australia "Keith" is spelt (and pronounced) with two F's

quote:

Originally posted by londonhunter:
Where are the Russian whores ?

Far as we could tell they were still in Russia but as for...................well as Ghubert said, what happens..............

Good report so far, looking forward to the rest...

Awesome word pictures enhance the associated visuals, Amir
MOBEB & "satan's vulture in reception"( SVIR) ..........being future classics , I'm sure.

Looking forward to the next installment.

It certainly was a pleasure to host our mates from pommie land.

AR members in the first group photo were: Ghubert (entertainment and bar officer), John Foxwell (knife maker to the gods), Blacks (Amateur PH who guided Gubert to his first boar), Myself (organiser), Rule 303 (OIC search and rescue) and Boghossian (legals).

I won't steal any more from the report however it had to be the most memorable group hunt I have been on. Everyone got on, everybody helped in camp, EVERYONE COULD SHOOT STRAIGHT (what a pleasant change that was), and all were serious hunters and/or bushmen.

There was a buzz in camp that just never stopped.

Sundowners in the outback with new and old mates after busting some 750kg bull camels. It does not get any better .....

Ghubert

That story is one of the funniest things I have ever read - you should take up writing professionally.

Excellent read! Looking forward to the rest of the story

quote:

Originally posted by Ghubert:


Dude....Bro code, what happens on deployment, stays on deployment!!

Stil waiting for the full and uncensored report Ghubert