Bridle Waltz

A Good Judge Of Horse Fresh

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

There I was, on my way home after work when suddenly my photography antenna responded to an unusual sight. About fifty metres in front of me and one lane away was a van carrying some beautiful terracotta pottery for a garden specialist. Yeah, you're thinking, so what? But on the left of the load I could see not one but two horse heads (no, I wasn't getting flashbacks to that famous scene from The Godfather).


Regular readers of this blog would know that I always have my camera with me and in this case it was in front, on the passenger seat. The traffic was fairly light, so I was able to change lanes and tuck myself in behind the van. But just when you want a red light, there never is one, is there?


So I sat patiently behind the van for a couple of kilometres, thinking I might have to follow him all the way to Bairnsdale in country Victoria for the shot. (Yep, I would have done that, too!) Then came not one but two intersections where the lights turned red, allowing me to take three or four quick shots. Like all good horse races, this was really a photo finish!

B Is For Bairnsdale

The Day I Got An Icy Reception

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

I’m still in synch with the very readable blogger Mrs Nesbitt. She wrote a post on the letter A last week and I followed her cue with A Isn’t Always For Apple. This week, she’s on the letter B and I’ve followed her example with a story about the little town of Bairnsdale, in country Victoria.

Let me wind the clock back a bit. I was probably eight or nine years old and a ridiculously avid reader when I first learnt that ice on a plane’s wings are often fatal, because of loss of control. I was reading a true, first-person story. It was called `The Night My Number Came Up’ and it was chillingly told by Air Marshal Sir Victor Goddard, who was to board a military Dakota on a regulation flight.

Just before the plane took off, someone appeared and asked the crew if he could jump aboard. Yes, said the pilot.

One extra passenger wouldn’t make a difference.

But the Dakota suddenly ran into unforeseen weather. He sat helplessly as the experienced fliers tried everything, even dropping altitude drastically in search of warmer air to melt the ice. Nothing worked and the plane crashed – but quite miraculously, no one was killed.

I never had occasion to think about the story again, until 1992. I had to make a two-day travel-writing trip to a beautiful property called Fraser Island, across the lakes from Metung, here in Victoria. There were a lot of journalists on the trip, but on the first afternoon, the pilot of a private plane got caught by wind shear while trying to land on the grass strip of the island. He ended up crashing the plane into the water, but walked away without a scratch – and cheerily joined us for dinner.

The aircraft, meanwhile, was still in the water, with structural damage and bent props. It was more beached craft than Beechcraft.

Next morning, I was in a hurry to get back to Melbourne, and I was offered a flight home. It would get me back several hours ahead of the others, who still had a full day’s activities scheduled. I jumped at the chance.

Then a good friend of mine, a photographer named Mario, asked if there was room for him on the plane. The co-ordinator of the trip made a phone call and said yes.

One extra passenger wouldn’t make a difference.

Shortly after breakfast, we drove to nearby Bairnsdale and were greeted on the tarmac by the two pilots who would fly us home, a trip of almost 300 kilometres.

It was early August, still winter in Australia. We took off smoothly and the weather began to deteriorate. There was nothing dramatic, mind you. No storms. No dark clouds. No stabbing lightning flashes. Mario and I sat in the pencil-slim cabin. We were both very seasoned fliers, but the conversation dried up after about ten minutes as the turbulence started.

I sat over the left, or port, wing and Mario over the right, or starboard wing. It began to get noticeably colder in the cabin. I kept gazing out of the porthole and soon after I was a bit disconcerted to see a build-up of ice on the silver surface of the wing. The little plane was starting to take a bit of a shaking. But the pilots had everything under control. I figured they would activate the de-icing gear and would also descend slightly. Soon after, I noticed the thin coating of ice beginning to disappear as the warmer air washed over the aerodynamic surface of the wing.

We landed normally at Essendon Airport and I waited until we were at the cab rank before I asked Mario if he, like me, had been a bit queasy. He grinned. ``Yes, mate,’’ he volunteered, ``and I’m not the sort of bloke to get airsick.’’

Then, as casually as I could, I asked him if he had noticed the wings icing up. No, he said. He had been studiously avoiding looking out at the wing because of the turbulence. ``But I'm glad you didn't tell me about the ice,'' he said.

I never did tell him about the story I had read as a kid – and the theory that just one passenger wouldn’t make a difference. Maybe I should email him this post.

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

For He's A Brolly Good Fellow

Maybe He's Been Flooded With Stock

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

This city shop has the perfect window display, especially at a time when most umbrellas have been destroyed after being blown inside out. We’e gone from drought to severe flooding in less than 48 hours, with the Victorian region of Gippsland hit by the worst floods in almost forty years. The entire town of Newry has been evacuated and across the state, more than 700 volunteers are working round the clock in flood zones.

Melbourne’s water catchments, at their lowest level in recent memory, received 19 billion (yes, billion) litres in a day. But here in the city, unlike the bush, we have been spared the capricious savagery of Mother Nature. There is still no indication of when the water will peak in Gippsland, with flood levels in some areas already surpassing the levels of 1998.

A few hours ago, I watched TV footage of a house being swept down the Mitchell River near Bairnsdale. But this is Australia, and we’re a hardy mob. When television crews found the home’s owner, he was laconic. A home could be rebuilt, he said. And with a touch of the wry humour that characterises the bush, he said his house had been turned into a houseboat.

The segment ended with a reporter asking the homeowner where he thought the floating home would end up. ``Tasmania, maybe,’’ he quipped.