Australian Adventure: Log 13

As we fight our way west, headwinds are getting stronger and stronger, challenging our forward momentum. We arrive in the town of Longreach, it’s a small town of maybe 2000 people however, we’re taken back as the tail-wing of a 747 looms over the hangars at the airport just out of town. Glenn gets a shot of adrenaline shoot through him as he flies over what is listed as a rural airport, the sight of a 747 on the tarmac making him search around for equally frightening air traffic. However, not to worry, it’s only part of the Qantas Museum; placed here because this was the town the company began its operations.

It was a quick launch this morning, well before the sun even came close to breaking the horizon, and my stomach is arguing with me over the lack of breakfast. As we pass by the massive 747, we find a Road House to get fuel, and I take the opportunity to grab something to eat, the only thing available is a nasty little sausage roll that looks as though it’s been sitting under the heat lamp for days. Back on the road, I’m not quite sure if what I’m eating is actual meat in the centre of the sausage roll, as we race to catch up to the lone remaining pilot. Mark is sitting in the back of the truck, not making much sound as the reality hits that his dream of a world record has come to an end. He’s doing his best to now concentrate on the charity side of the expedition, however the pain is obvious.

Soon, we’re passing through the town of Ilfracombe. It’s a quaint little village that has a display of farm machinery running the entire length of town on the left side of the highway. It looks like a great place to stop, a couple nice little café’s look quite inviting, however, Glenn is nowhere in sight and we need to catch up. To our surprise, we find him just on the outskirts of town, sitting by the road side, the mid-day heat and thermals forcing him to call an end to the morning flight sooner than expected. However, this does mean that we get to make use of the café.

We truck Glenn back to town, straight to the café, where he wastes no time ordering up a proper eggs, bacon and sausage breakfast. Having already chosen my breakfast purchase, I had to make do with a Flat White as Glenn works a proper meal. We’re in town for several hours before the winds calm for an evening flight. I do a couple laps of the town getting pictures of the machinery and giving myself yet another sunburn before it’s time to leave.

Glenn is back in the air and heading for Barcladine. We’ve already planned to make an early landing here as there is a storm front moving in all around us, and we’ll have to make a decision in the morning whether to fight on east towards Emerald, or cut south to bypass a certain halt to wait out the storms. He makes to the outskirts of town just as the sun slips beneath the horizon, a perfect landing only minutes from a Caravan Park.

Setting up camp with the luxury of electricity, water, toilets and showers, we set about filling our stores and getting a much needed shower in before treating ourselves to a pub dinner. No cooking or dishes tonight.

The Caravan Park manager suggests a good bar to try, the Shakespeare Hotel and to not miss getting a photo of the “Tree of Knowledge.” Not quite sure what he meant, however, we packed along the cameras anyway. A walk into the centre of town soon displayed a rather modern piece of art centered in what is really a classic old Outback town, the contrasts where huge as a large green lit structure enveloped a dead tree. Inside, spires of wood streak down from the top creating a magnificent display of light and art, the dead roots in the ground on display through a glass floor. It’s something we really were not expecting. According to a plaque near the site, the tree was an icon that proclaimed the start of the Labour Party in Australian politics. The Aussies sure take their politics seriously to keep the tree on display with such extravagance. After some meandering around the area, our stomach’s beckoned us on to the Shakespeare Hotel, where I made the mistake of ordering the seafood platter, receiving a massive plate of deep-fried objects of varying shapes and sizes, all tasting the same, of grease. I knew I shouldn’t have ordered it and the after affects wood sit in my stomach well into the morning.

Despite the shower before bed, the nights heat brought gave me little chance of sleep, and the scream Gallah’s made their annoying return at four in the morning. Despite the luxury of a Caravan Park, the night would bring little rest as finding sleep is still a challenge.

Australian Adventure: Log 12

The team has taken a massive hit. After Mark has broken one of his propellers on the first leg of the journey, we’re down to no spares; one prop for each pilot is now all we have.

The boys have just completed their longest flight of the trip, a 160 km early morning run that started well before the sun broke the horizon. We’re so far out in the Outback now that landing on the highway is ideal, there are no cars seen for hours and it provides a great runway for both landings and take offs. We’ve been under the pilots all morning and the conditions are good when they land. Glenn asks for a refill, they want to get a second morning run in before the heat of the day makes the thermals too strong. Craig and I top up both tanks and lay Marks wing out across the road for takeoff. However, there is a bit of a crosswind in the air and a set of power lines off to his left. With a heave and handful of throttle, he brings the wing up into the air above him and begins to scamper off down the road. But the crosswind catches him and angles the wing off to the right; he counters which is sending him towards the power lines. He lifts up off the ground and steers once again to avoid the lines, however, the steering input kills some of his speed and as he has just taken off, the wing loses lift an crashes back down to Earth.

Painfully I watch as Mark crashes into the abrasive road surface, the sickening sound of metal striking the rock surface and breaking. It’s all a blur and it looks like there was debris flying from the Paramotor. I run down the road after him, he’s already up by the time I get there, shouting out in a panic, “Is the prop ok, is the prop ok!” Glenn and Craig are charging up behind shouting the same question. I inspect the rear of his Paramotor to find what I had suspected, the carbon fibre blades are shattered at the tips, the metal structure around the fuel tank has buckled and broken free to stick out into the path of the propellers.

Heartbroken, I tell Mark, “It’s done,” then turn and slash my throat with my hand signalling to the others the day is done, and likely the trip for Mark. Glenn comes to a stop; his face falls as all hope dies, turns and walks with heavy steps back towards the camper. Mark is still asking in a panic whether the prop is ok or not, he either didn’t hear my first answer or most likely could not let himself believe the answer. I give him the bad news clear and to his face and the disappointment in his face is enough to nearly bring a tear to my eye. He drops the damaged Paramotor and walks back to the camper as slowly and painfully as Glenn.

Craig and I pick up the pieces from the shattered machinery and drag it back to the camper. Glenn is in deep thought, wondering around, while Mark is sitting silently on the other side of the road, gazing off into the prairie. We inspect the damaged Paramotor further to find the damage was even greater than we first thought, some expert welding and fitment will be needed to get the Paramotor running again, however, nothing goes up without a prop. Mark grabs a breath, picks himself up off the side of the road and comes over. “I’m out, Glenn get up in the air and carry on.” Both Glenn and I protest the snap decision as this was Marks dream to complete a flight around Australia, breaking a record in the process. Mark doesn’t want to hear anymore, the painful situation too much, and wants Glenn to get going, but we insist on a team meeting to further discuss the situation and where we go from here.

With some quick words, the decision is made that Glenn will push on to the next town, Mark will make some calls and try to get a new prop in, and will come back to cover Glenn’s tracks once a new prop has come. Glenn flies to the next town while Mark sits in the back of the truck, working the phones trying to source a new prop. Ben from Kangook, someone we met while down in Brisbane supplies several Paramotor parts and Mark has him courier in a new prop.

We hold up at a caravan park, happy to finally have a shower and fresh water at hand, the new prop will take a couple days to come in. The wait also gives us time to make repairs to the camper which is beginning to fall apart, weld up Marks frame and get some necessities. I’m holding fort at the camp as the others are in town, the Caravan Park manager shows up telling me there is a package in. Glenn shows us just after and picks it up. He hurries back and rips the package open, but something doesn’t seem right. Pulling the prop out, it is a two blade propeller made of wood, not a carbon three blade.

Mark returns, excited that he found some essential tools, the smile on his face sinks as he catches sight of the prop over in the corner of camp, stopping mid-sentence. “Oh no,” he mutters, the twin blade prop will not work on the Parajet motor. The heartbreak from a couple of days ago was replaced by hope, destroyed in a split second by heartbreak once again. “The Prop won’t work,” claims the Parajet rep over the phone to Mark. “The fastest we could get you one is in two weeks’ time,” The Parajet factory is based in England, and we are in the middle of the Outback.

Two weeks would kill any chance of making the world record as Glenn is scheduled to leave at the end of April. Another team meeting is called and we have the painful choice to make, do we wait and give up on the record, or do we push on, now only Glenn will be capable of the record? The hard decision is made, Glenn will push on alone. Mark will join him once the new props are shipped to join him in the rest of the journey. It’s a heartbreaking decision, as this was Marks dream, and all the hard work and finances to put this all together came from him and Jackie. For the next couple weeks, Craig and I will have Mark riding along on the ground, and not flying overhead.

Australian Adventure: Log 11

We’ve been fighting the wind along the entire second leg of the trip. The pilots putting in long hard days and risking dangerous takeoffs to keep pushing towards Toowoomba, to keep the kilometres piling up. The Outback is as flat as I’ve seen any part of the Earth’s surface, creating magnificent sun rises and sets, however the daily grind down the straight flat highway is becoming tedious. However, at least it’s much easier to find the Paragliders in the sky, no hills or tree’s obstructing our view.

The pilots are in view as they set down 60 km from the town of Winton. Known for the cache of dinosaur bones as well as petrified tracks of a pre-historic dino-stampede left in the red bed rock of the Outback. I finally get my first proper Aussie meat pie at the local bakery in town, and a rare chance to check internet, something that is even rarer than water out here. After a quick beer in the Tatts hotel, we head back out to the Paramotors and put Glenn back up into the sky. Pushing forward back to town, we fill the tanks and top up on groceries then wait for him on the outskirts of the town. After a good half hour, still no sign of the floating jellyfish in the sky. We push down the road even further, calling them on the radio as we go. Still no sign or call, we figure he must have bypassed the town and we missed him while in shopping.

We rocket out of the back side of town hoping our decision is the right one. I begin to do the math in my head, the average speed that has been traveled in headwinds that is usually around 35 to 45 kmh over the two hours that we’ve left him, he must have already passed, and made a large cut bypassing the town and getting a run on Longreach. We make the call to pursue down range; however, both Craig and I have an uneasy feeling. That is what most likely happened, however, if we are wrong and he had engine trouble, then we are driving away from him, rather than catching up. With the sun sinking, the seriousness of the situation increases. Before we go, we give one last hale on the radio that goes unanswered. The radio has a 25 km range, so he most certainly has bypassed the town, and we missed him.

We first check the airport 3 km out of town, just in case. No Glenn. We then shoot down the A2, Craig and I fixated on the horizon, looking for any sign of the Paraglider. Over the first crest, no wings, over the next crest, no Glenn, past the forest, no Glenn We don’t worry too much, as conditions have calmed down significantly, and he would be able to get 70 kmh out of the wing, and knowing the charge he's been on, he's likely trying to make the most of a rare spot of luck. However, soon the crests become farther and farther apart and our anxiety of seeing the wings over each increases with each failure. We are now 50 km out of town and the sun is now down. I’m still trying desperately to raise Glenn on the radio to no avail. Now it’s getting serious, we’re in the middle of the Outback, the sun has gone down, and we’re missing a man. We result to trying to hail down oncoming vehicles to ask if they’ve seen the floating Paramotors fly by. However, there are no cars on the road, only three Road Trains, all three refusing to stop in our aid, despite being pulled over, with hazard lights blinking, flashing our high beams and I out in the middle of the road waving my arms, pleading for the big trucks to stop; all three rush by.

At 60 km out of town, I do some more math, and he shouldn’t be this far out. He must have had issues at the beginning of the flight, several hours ago. Hopefully he's caught a ride back into town, and is sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and chuckling with the bar tender and patrons about how his ground crew left him for dead. We turn around and race back towards town, still trying to raise him on the radio. About ten kilometres from town, I give one last call out into the radio waves, and still get no return. If Glenn is in town, he would have heard this call, and our hearts start to sink, as morbid possibilities run through our heads. Hopefully his radio just ran out of juice, as this has been an issue.

As we enter town, I’ve been gazing the side of the road the entire trip, hoping that Glen was just slow and set down at the road side. To my relief, I see the distinctive silhouette of the Paramotor and wing all folded up beside the highway. I call to Craig, “I see him, stop.” Just then, a whistle comes from a nearby house, where a local has been keeping an alive Glenn company for the last couple hours. 

The story goes; Glenn was working the hardest winds that he had seen yet on this trip, only managing to eke out a measly 22 kmh, half of what we figured he were capable of. When we worked our way 10 km out of town and made the call on the radio, he was still fighting the winds, just over 25 km away, and would set down due to the turbulence not too far from where we stopped. After a long wait while we were racing in the opposite direction, Glenn, waiting by the roadside starting to realize no one was coming. So back up into the air he went, fought his way to Winton, buzzed the town and landed near a park, just on the far side of town where we would find him several hours and a tank of fuel later.

Predictably, the usual flow of profanity spewed from Glenn’s mouth; however it was a cockup of unreliable radios, no phone, no phone numbers and the ground crew loosing rearward sight of the pilot that all lead to what could have been a fatal situation.

Australian Adventure: Log 10

“That’s not a knife, this is a knife,” are the words going through my mind at I look upon a large fighting knife hanging on the wall behind the bar at the Walkabout Creek Hotel in McKinlay. Sheathed with a belt that has the name “Crocodile Dundee,” written into the belt, I’m sitting at the famous bar that was the location for shooting, “27-years ago today,” barks out the bar tender. This is the site of our mid-day stop after an impressive morning flight from Cloncurry to start leg two.

McKinlay is an impressive landing point as Mother Nature is going to grind us through the ringer for the next week. The slight headwinds that we were battling on our way from Townsville to Cloncurry have changed direction 180-degrees and strengthened. The challenges of leg one will turn into battles for leg two. Taking shelter from the stifling mid-day heat at the Walkabout Creek Hotel, a beer at the bar that Dundee used to call his office was not only refreshing, but completely called for. The bar is wonderfully decorated with pictures from filming, complete with a massive crocodile having beers on the porch next to crew members, and lots of paraphernalia not only from filming, but militaria (caps, badges, insignia, uniforms) boomerangs, traps, and newspaper clippings from mammoth floods and weather. On the side is the pool room, complete with the “Never Never Safari Tours” sign board. What a cool place to spend the mid-day halt, as Glenn and Mark chat up the owner about the movie, the local economy and employment. Most ranches and stations are losing all their young workers to the money and easy careers of the cities, while mining is taking over as the primary resource over farming.

The visit is too short, and we’re back out in the heat, and the pilots back into the air, pushing on towards Kynuna. Craig and I motor over the barren landscape, the road long and flat, we chug along just behind the “jellyfish” so as not to lose them. Not that we could, the land is so flat that you can see the curvature of the earth, and even after a 15-minute rest stop, the paramotor wings are still quite visible just above the horizon. The heat of the day is ruining the refreshing shower I finally got back in Cloncurry, the first since Townsville.

The pilots battle on in the headwinds, and the sun is starting the shoot for the horizon as we pass a sign saying we’re ten kilometres from the village of Kynuna. The sun is down, and darkness is setting in as we enter the tiny village with a strange name. However, we notice that Glenn is losing altitude just as we are approaching the local bar, the Blue Heeler, with a bright neon sign blazing on the roof. Every time we come to a town this size, the bar is almost always entirely empty, except for the odd rugged sun baked local needing his after work beer. However, the Blue Heeler has four people sitting on the porch sipping at their cold beers as Glenn comes swooping into the parking lot just in front, shouting out, “Do you have a beer ready for me” just before his feet hit the ground. The patrons are beside themselves as Glenn comes to stop. We arrive just as he and Mark are getting bombarded with questions, “Where the hell did you come from mate?” and “Know I’ve seen everything,” uttered from the porch. The bars owner has a beer in Glenn’s hands even before I get to the scene, and is asking me what I want as I step up onto the porch. A XXXX bitter is in my hands in seconds, as Glenns spectacular landing sparks off great conversation and stories, ten strangers coming together and sharing a great night of fun and beers.

The owner even offers us a plot at the caravan park in the back to stay the night, and some wild pig meat for our freezer. Needing to be up early, we take the camper to the park in the back, and thankfully, showers are also on the premises. However, the insects here are insane, a bright light on the restrooms pull the majority away from us, but we are still swarmed with hundreds of thousands of flying beetles, mosquitoes, and all manner of other creature. We’re eaten alive as we eat our dinner, the clear night sky is offering up a spectacular star gazing experience, but the mass of bugs forces us to the sanctuary of bed. I notice that the sink just beneath the light is filing with the dead insects as they fight for the light, a good ten centimetres thick at the bottom of the sink and climbing. A fresh shower before I turn in, I try to kill as many Mossies that make it into the trailer on my return; however, there’s literally thousands of other insects flying around, camouflaging the blood suckers. My fight futile, I jump into bed, my skin crawling with a mass of little legs, I pull a sheet over my head to keep them from going in my eyes, nose and mouth.

The night is a disturbing one, with very little sleep, my arms and ankles raw from hundreds of bits from the Mossies and No-see’ems. It was a great day, but

Australian Adventure: Log 9

In the middle of the night, half awake, I feel something moist and cold pressing against my cheek. My mine explodes into action at the possibility of what animal is touching me, fears of deadly snakes fresh in my mind. I dart back and look up to see a big wet nose pressed up against the screen where my head was laying a split second earlier. Thankfully a herd of cows came grazing into camp, one big one giving me sniff as I sleep, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Back to sleep, need to be up early tomorrow.

The airstrip is an interesting place, cut from the forest, it is an extremely long runway built on compressed red clay. The recent rain storms creating drainage veins that deposit red sand off to the sides. It’s perfect for take-offs, and after several hours of tuning last night, Craig and Glenn now have both Paramotors running at optimal efficiency, now getting up to four hours of flight time out of the 12.5 litre fuel tanks, rather than the original two.

Both pilots lift into the air with little drama while Craig and I break camp. Stopped by a train as we got back to the highway, Craig wisely decides not to push his luck, however as we turn left onto the highway and start to catch up to the train, we’re motoring down the highway at about 90-kmh when a large dark mass leaps from the roadside weeds. With my heart skipping a beat I move away from the door, expecting a massive impact, but all I hear is a squeal and the sound of hooves locking up on the tarmac as the huge wild Boar spins 180 and darts back into the bush. Scared out of the weed by the passing of the train, my senses are heightened from yet another lesson learned.

We’re now leaving the foot hills and stretching out into the Outback plains, the land becomes flat and the horizon straightens out. For a Canadian that has yet to fully experience the prairies, these “Downs” as the Aussies call it are really quite spectacular. What’s also impressive is the bloody heat. We may have left the misery of the humid coast, but now the temperatures are shooting towards 40-plus degrees during the late afternoon. The skies are clear and the searing Aussie sun beats down on us.

The pilots bypass Hughenden and make a run for Richmond in the decent weather. After a quick refueling, they’re back in the air heading for Richmond. While the Jellyfish are bypassing towns in an effort to get leg one finished as soon as possible, Craig and I are able to enjoy the attractions of these slightly larger towns, both Hughenden and Richmond being well known for dinosaur fossil finds as the entire area used to be a massive inland sea. No wonder it’s so bloody flat, the land here used to be a sea floor. Hughenden has a couple life size dinosaurs on display as well as the massive wind machines called Comets, which use the power of the wind to pull water up from an underground lake, from one to two kilometres beneath the surface.

Richmond is known for the Koronosaurous, a gigantic Crocodile that used to prey on the dinosaurs, and also have a life size example sitting out in front of a learning centre, however, we don’t have time to doddle around a museum as the pilots are still pushing on for Cloncurry.

After a couple days travel, we make it to Julie Creek for a mid-day stop, and boy is it getting hot. Glenn thankfully found an airport to land at, which had an air conditioned old ticket counter shack for the now defunct Trans-Australian Airlines. With the heat beating down from the sun high overhead, we’re also bombarded from the reflected heat rising from the black tarmac. Some time in town at a local air conditioned pub for lunch was called for, but the cheapest meal on the menu was Fish & Chips for a whopping $18.00, in a pub! A quick beer not to be impolite and we find a grocer to make our own lunch out at the airport, then its back in the air for a final push to the end of leg one in Cloncurry.

The winds have been somewhat kind these last couple days as the pilots have been able to put is some decent distances, and our arrival into Cloncurry comes with a well-deserved night at a caravan park, a much needed shower and even a dip in the pool to cool off from the heat on a day off.

Leg one is finished, however, leg two is looking daunting. The internet is telling us that after battling light headwinds all the way to Cloncurry, the wind has changed just at the wrong moment, giving the pilots strong head and cross winds across to Emerald. On top of that, the trip will be even more desolate than the trip from Townsville, so we make sure the food, water and fuel are all topped up for the trip across the Outback.

Australian Adventure: Log 8

The cold dew, Road Trains and Rail Trains kept me up for most the night, but I roll out of bed as soon as I hear Glen moping around in a morning crank. After a series of takeoff miseries with Mark yesterday, we hope that we can get him up in the sky early today. By 6 am, he’s harnessed up and ready to go, but like yesterday, the winds are dead, and moving all over the place. Morale is low, for the whole team and Mark needs a good takeoff to give not only him, but the whole team a lift in spirits.

With the Parajet spinning, Mark gets off to a slow run and struggles down the field, his sail is pushing him from left to right to left again. He’s two thirds the way across and still stumbling. Finally with a great blast of throttle, his feet come up, the Paramotor sinks and just kisses the ground, the three of us hold our breath as he skims out of the freshly cut Cricket pitch and into the long grass beyond. He lifts out of the long grass, but directly ahead, a stand of trees look him straight in the eye. With throttle maxed, he splits between two trees, just grazing the right tree with the tip of his wing, and lifts into the safety of open air. A huge sigh of relief and pleasure comes over the three of us left on the ground, nervous chuckles of what could have been. Had Mark caught one of his guide wires on the branch he hit, it would have been disastrous, ripping him around and dragging him out of the sky.

Glen rushes back to his Paramotor, with a nervous grin, barking away, “Jeez, that guy is going to give me a god damn heart attack,” followed by the usual swearing and cursing that regularly spews from his mouth. He throws his Paramotor onto his back, powers up, and shoots into the sky with a fair bit of difficulty himself, taking an uncharacteristically long run to get up, the dead air playing havoc with everyone. However, now it was time for the drama’s to hit Glen. His motor bouncing the throttle, something didn’t seem right, then the issue went away and the two floated off into the distance. However, as Craig and I broke camp, we start to hear the familiar drone of the Paramotors coming back. Glen does a quick fly by, yelling at us that he’s lost his flight computer, a little handheld screen that displays GPS, Compass, Direction, Altitude and such, a rather important and expensive bit of kit. Craig and I scour the takeoff path as Glen comes in for a landing, cursing and yelling his frustrations. Glen and Craig continue to run back and forth on the field in search for the little black computer, while I scan the video footage for a clue, not are found. On my way back out to show Glen the footage, maybe he can see something I can’t I stumble upon it just around the starting area, sitting neatly in the grass.

Carrying his Paramotor back to the takeoff point, Glen try’s to start his motor to get back in the air with Mark who is circling above. Whah, whah wah. The battery is dead, and another stream of profanities spews from Glen’s mouth as he dismounts once again. Craig and I rush to the camper and break open the spares box. Thankfully a spare battery is sitting there and we rush it over to Glen’s machine hoping that it came with a good charge. After a couple failed attempts to start and frustration rising, Glen finally sparks life into the Parajet, and rockets in to the air with the upmost of anger. We cheer as he gains altitude and swings by, his attitude turned 180-degrees kicking his feet in the air with joy and cheering us on. We’re back on the road, back on task.

After a refill at an airfield in Pentland and more takeoff dramas for Glenn as the wind just will not keep in the same direction, they finish off a good mornings flight in the equally small village of Torrens Creek. We make our way back into the village centre, a bar and gas station, and find parking in a field next to the bar with power, and we head in, Mark is buying a round for thanks, as are patience with his liftoffs kept a pressure free environment. The inside of the bar is unique to say the least, the bartender is working on a Harley in a garage off to the side and meets us inside the bar, which is covered in felt pen autographs and graffiti, flags, photos and mementoes of passers buy. The bearded bar keep at first seems annoyed that we interrupted his Harley time, but after we buy a round, he’s deep in conversation with Glen, who has a knack for getting to know everyone he meets. Many subjects are covered, why we’re here, what the weather is like, how far down the road the next towns are, but what peaked my attention most was his talk of killing three large snakes in the last couple days in and around the building. “Yup, big Blacks they were. Gotta watch out for them, this is real snake country, and they’ll kill yah quick. And they’re vicious too, they’ll attack you!” My phobia, while being controlled at the moment just took a real hit. It didn’t help that when we left the bar, I was buzzed by a hornet about 3-inches big and found a beetle up against the wall the size of my hand. Everything in this country seems to want to kill me; everything is bigger, meaner and poisonous. And everywhere I look, nature is fighting itself. Bird in particular are constantly screaming, fighting and keeping me up all night. Even as I write this, some big white Parrot is screaming out its death throes as it is slowly devoured by something evil behind the leaves of the tree on the other side of the road. Australia is such a beautiful place, yet so raw and viscous at the same time. I love and despise it at the same time.

We move the launch area out to an old abandoned World War II airstrip just on the other side of town. More dramas plague Marks engine and we’re spending another night on the ground.

Australian Adventure: Log 7

The adventure is underway, the heaps of rain that fell last night has soaked the airstrip, but that didn’t stop Mark and Glenn from lifting up into the air after yet another few early morning anecdotes from eccentric Roy, the airfield custodian. Mark takes a few try before he’s able to get up into the air, then Glenn lifts off in follow. Craig and I break camp and after another chat with Roy, a couple shots of the local Kangaroo, we’re off down the A6 in chase of the “Jellyfish in the sky,” as Glen and Mark quickly become known as. We are relieved that we are finally doing what we were supposed to be, and that we could now concentrate on the task at hand and not all the little worries about what could go wrong.

We’re headed for the prescribed landing point just past Challengers Towers, a gold mining city about 90 km down the road. Along the way we keep gazing in to the sky looking for the colourful wings and into farmers paddocks just in case. We see nothing for 70 km, then as we round a bend, there is Glen, circling above the road only a couple hundred meters in front of us. A quick look into the paddock to the left I catch Mark on the ground. We pull over, not knowing if there was a physical or mechanical problem that forced the two onto the ground well before the goal. Craig runs into the tall grass beside the road, jumps a fence and checks on Mark. I go to follow, but pull up short of the grass, in the back of my mind; I know that this is snake country, and that that tall grass is snake territory. I yell to Craig to ensure Mark is unhurt, he yells back, Yeah, he’s fine, just misread his fuel level,” and I get away with not having to venturing out into the unknown. There isn’t a whole lot I’m scared of, but one of my biggest frights is snakes, and Australia is home to eight of the ten most deadliest. We pack up the wings, lay the paramotors by the fence and shove off to Challenger Towers to get some food and internet.

Challengers Towers is an interesting mining town built during the gold rush, with classic Outback architecture. The people are extremely friendly and we are approached everywhere we go, asking what we were doing. “Whats a Paramotor?” After a long break at a caravan parking lot, Glenn and Mark came to the conclusion that the conditions were not clearing up enough for an evening run, and so we packed up and headed out of town, stopping at a tourist stop near a display mine shaft and wooden elevator tower to see if overnighting was allowed.

The mosquitoes were out, and as the sun dipped down to the horizon, a massive bat came flying over. Soon another one flew over, then a couple more. Glenn has seen this phenomena several times, and comments, “here they come, we’re going to see millions of the little bastards.” Sure enough, the sky was being blacked out with the dark wings of hundreds of thousands of bats. They were coming from the south west, and three main arms stretched over us, as the herds moved off to the East. What a phenomenal sight, it was rare that I ever get to see a single bat in Canada, and now the Moon was being blackened out by the sheer mass of Bats from horizon to horizon. After a good half hour of watching the spectacular sight, our stomachs started talking louder than the squeal of the Bats overhead and we pushed out to “6 Mile Bridge” where a camping friendly rest stop was found just on the other side overlooking the long bridge. As we pulled into the lot just up from the water, a warning sign read, “WARNING – This area is inhabited by Crocodiles!” However, the others did not fear these words, and to be honest, it didn’t bother me much either, my fear was of the serpents in the tall grass. A quick dinner is made, and we’re off to bed, Glenn and Mark not fazed by the proximity to the river and its rather large deadly inhabitants, and string up the hammock and tent once again.

The Next day, we’re up with the suns pre-dawn light, and get out to the motors just after the sun breaks. I know that I now will have to venture into the deep grass over to the paddock to help Mark and Glenn get up into the air. The other three trump confidently through to the fence not fearing the ground they walk, while I stumble along at a snail’s pace, carrying as much equipment as I can, so that I only need to make the unnerving walk once. I prod the grass with a long stick, but the ground is covered with old cuttings, disguising the bottom few inches. As I make my way to the fence line, the other three chuckle at my fear, however in the freshly munched grass of the cows paddock, I’m much more confident. Mark has a couple failed attempts to get into the sky, narrowly missing the barbed wire fence, then the wind changes and we need to relocate the runway up over the hill. With another attempt, Mark runs down through the paddock, ironically over the bleached bones of a dead cow, then loses his feet and comes crashing down to the ground. His Paramotor smashes into the ground, the rear frame bends and catches the carbon fibre prop. RACK… the black propeller explodes into tiny shards, pieces hitting me several meters away as I try to film the event. Mark has broken a prop, and the only spare we have left is 10 klicks down the road at the rest area, where we left the trailer.