On New Years Day we sadly parted ways with Charlie, who had to cut his vacation a bit short for work. After saying our goodbyes at Melbourne International, the three of us headed northeast for a week of adventuring in the Snowy River mountain area of the Victorian Alps (yes, Australia also has Alps!). After watching the epic Australian movie classic The Man from Snowy River for many years, and being seasoned cowgirls, us women folk were quite excited to enter the brumby high country. An accidental cow video: for my Uncle Bob, and anyone else who enjoys accidental cows. Nancy with Wilbur (Chris in Background) We drove northeast from Melbourne for hours and hours, up into green rolling hills and valleys, and finally arrived in the little town of Mitta Mitta. We made base camp at Bharatralia Jungle Camp, an Indian-style bush and wildlife camp run by a lovely Aussie couple, Chris and Nancy Otto. Chris had spent some of his early life in India, so he had modeled this camp to resemble the jungle camps he remembered from his childhood. The ambiance of the whole place certainly felt a bit exotic, particularly with the menagerie of Australian and Indian animals roaming around. Their extended family included herds of blackbuck antelope, spotted deer, cheetle deer, ostriches, emus, a kangaroo, peacocks (all of which were named Raj), an incredibly talkative white cockatoo named Bill, two dogs, and the ever adorable pet wombat, Wilbur. Wilbur ended up being one of the major highlights of the trip and aside from petting him, which was super cool, we mainly enjoyed watching him run – a wombat run/trot is one of the funniest and unexpected sights in the animal world. Here you have it, one whole adorable minute of wombat: Our tent, named Sambar Chris welcomed us upon our arrival and showed us to our accommodation: an enormous safari-style tent, complete with carpeting, double and single beds, end tables, and reading lamps. It felt very Lawrence of Arabia. The tent and our dining space, an open-air, garden patio area, really sealed in the “we're far from home” feeling. Throughout the week, whenever we had down time, the camp worked its magic and lulled us into a deep state of relaxation. Shockingly enough, and much to everyone's delight, it even had an affect on my mother! Often it would take effect as we watched the sun set behind the hills, sipping tea and observing the brightly colored parrots feeding nearby. It was a pretty euphoric experience, and it often felt like time just seemed to pause during those moments. Woman in the bush - climbing the Mt. Welcome track with spider stick in hand. During our active and energized daytime mode, however, our time was mostly spent apart pursuing very different ends. Ben made a serious personal resolution to conquer the trout of the local rivers, while my mom and I explored the walking and hiking tracks in the surrounding area. One such track was up Mt. Welcome, the large hill right behind the camp. The beginning of the trail was clear enough to follow, but as we climbed higher up the ridge, the path began to disappear into the bracken. It quickly became evident that no one had hiked this particular trail in at least a few years, and our casual hike up the mountain soon turned into a serious bushwhack through thick brush, fallen trees, and thousands of spider webs. The ridge also never seemed to end – false top after false top straight up the spine of the ridge, with no summit (or trail signs) in sight. After hours of trudging, wondering whether it would be best to carry on or return the way we came, we found the top, but there was no indication that we had made it other than an old 4WD road. Nonetheless we were overjoyed to have reached a turning point, and we traveled the long way back down the steep and aptly named Mt. Disappointment track until we arrived exhausted and a bit bloodied back at Jungle Camp. Fortunately, the rest of our excursions were much less scratchy. Meanwhile down on the river, Ben was experiencing some serious fishing frustrations. Try as he might, the plentiful trout of the famous Mitta Mitta River wanted nothing to do with him. Apparently they were literally leaping out of the water all around him as he feverishly tried fly after fly and all manner of tricks and techniques. It was easy to see that the fish were getting to Ben; each fishing trip he returned grumpier than before. In the end he did manage to catch a fish – not a trout, but still a fish! We never found out what kind due to his incoherent grumbling. One particularly lovely day, the three of us joined forces to climb Australia's highest peak: Mt. Kosciuszko. As the kookaburra flies, Mt. Kosciuszko was fairly close to Mitta Mitta, but driving there was another matter. A long but beautiful winding drive took us across the New South Wales border and high into the Snowy Mountains. At the base of Kosciuszko was a well-established ski resort, and in the summertime the ski lift was used to shuttle hikers up to the alpine plateau where many of the bushwalking trails begin. We couldn't help but feel like we were cheating, but due to time constraints we hopped on nonetheless and casually ascended the ridge, getting spectacular views of the mountain range and the valley below. Once at the top of the plateau, the summit was only about 3.5 km and the chairlift had gained much of the vertical distance for us. Considering this peak was the highest point on the continent, the hike up was surprisingly mellow and really ended up being more of a pleasant stroll. The alpine landscape surrounding us was uncannily similar to parts of the Colorado Rocky alpine areas, so we felt both nostalgic and immediately at home. It was exceptionally picturesque and we could feel the exhilarating and quite literally breathtaking effects of the high altitude on the inclines. A large snowfield near the mountaintop brought more familiarity, and we stopped for a nice, long and happy frolic in the cold, slushy, summer-in-January snow. Woman from Snowy River. Worth many sheep. We reached the summit fairly quickly and the views were stunning; we truly felt on top of the world. It was already late afternoon, but we took our sweet time, soaking in the mountain glory and fresh air. We eventually started to wander back down the trail, pausing to examine the wildflowers, lichen, and rocks along the way, while the sunlight became increasingly more rich and golden. By this time the casual day visitors had gone, so it felt like we had the mountaintop all to ourselves. We intentionally missed the last chairlift down, wanting to hike the full trail to the base – a steep, steep nature trail – to get in some major distance and a little more mountain time. It was punishment for our knees but worth it for the thrill of the hike. We made it back to the car just before sunset, having hiked a good 16+ km that day. Back at camp, we were exhausted, but completely satisfied. YUM On our final night at Bharatralia Jungle Camp, we opted in for a spectacular three-course Indian dinner, homemade by Nancy and Chris. We did pretty well for ourselves when self-catering most nights, but this meal was truly a treat - samosas, crunchy pekoras, spicy chutney, shrimp curry, all made from scratch! Our taste buds finally accomplished what our eyes had started: we were transported to India for an evening. The morning of our departure, Ben got an early start to take one last crack at the Mitta Mitta River, while my mom and I took a full-on animal tour. When we walked up to their house to begin, Bill and Wilbur waddled around the corner to say hello. After the four of us exchanged pleasantries and a certain wombat nibbled a few feet affectionately, Nancy appeared and took over the walkabout. My mom and I would've been thrilled to just play with Wilbur all day (it was delightfully hilarious to watch him tag along and snuggle with Nancy's feet), so we were even more excited when we were able to feed and pet many of the other beautiful animals. A few of the blackbuck antelope followed us around closely and ate right out of our hands, and my mom had an intimate one-on-one feeding with the old gray kangaroo. The ostriches were another fascination, though we only came close to the female. At 6'5” with velociraptor talons like you wouldn't believe and gleaming red shins for the mating season, the male ostrich was intimidating to say the least, and we gladly steered clear of his reach. Here's a short clip of Bill the cockatoo performing one of his tricks - and screaming in the wraith-like way that the white cockatoos here do: Ben returned from the river fishless, and grumpy as ever, but overall he appreciated the many hours spent fishing in the gorgeous Mitta Mitta River valley. We packed up the car, said our goodbyes to Chris and Nancy (and Wilbur) and began the long drive back to the real world.
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Melbourne made all its public transport free for NYE - Charlie and NC on the Tram Due to a demanding work schedule back in DC, Charlie needed to leave Oz a week earlier than Nancy. Since Charlie's last night also happened to be New Years Eve, we decided the best way to spend it would be in the middle of the madness in Melbourne. After experiencing predominantly blustery, chilly weather both along the Great Ocean Road as well as in Tassie, it came as a big shock when we walked off the airplane onto the tarmac at Melbourne International and slammed into a wall of sweltering 40+ C heat. Summer had officially arrived in Victoria, and it wanted its presence known. We joked that now Charlie and Nancy could actually experience the legendary heat of Oz, instead of the New England style weather that seemed to never want to leave. It was just too bad that Charlie didn't have more time to have a true Aussie beach day. Little Creatures NYE Beach Party! After checking into a local caravan park, we did our best not to pass out from heat exhaustion as we got ready for the evening in the city. Our stifling cabin, sans-air conditioning, was basically an oversized EZ Bake oven with beds. As the sun dropped to the horizon and covered the city in pink and gold, we made our way to the Little Creatures Brewery restaurant, located in the heart of the Fitzroy, a fantastic, semi-grungy artfoodculture district that has become one of our favorite parts of Melbourne. It felt good to be going back to Little Creatures, as it was one of the first places Gareth took us when we arrived in Australia 8 months prior. Taking Nancy and Charlie there made it feel like Mar and I were officially finishing the circle we had drawn around the continent. Pshhh, who can't do that? We soon discovered that Little Creatures had been a particularly sweet choice for New Years. For its NYE festivities, the restaurant was hosting an indoor beach party, complete with beach umbrellas and poolside lounge chairs (and most importantly no cover charge!). The employees were dressed in wonderfully ridiculous costumes, most of which involved either spandex or hideous wigs, including one fabulously gross mullet wig. Between some delicious frites and pints of liquid heaven, we were thinking our choice of NYE venues was pretty great, but our satisfaction soon turned to delight when the entertainment took to the center of the room. Little Creatures had hired two burly circus performers to dazzle the crowd intermittently throughout the night. They did the usual, amazing, two man acrobatic tricks, but what really impressed us was when one of them pulled off an armless headstand, perched atop a wine bottle. I don't care who you are, that shit's awesome. As midnight loomed closer, we left Little Creatures and wandered with the masses down to Federation Square for the fireworks. We soon found ourselves in a sea of people, though it wasn't oppressively dense so we were able to stake a claim on some open street real estate in the center of it all. It was in the middle of this great, multicultural gathering of people in this international city that all of us realized we had never been a part of such grand New Years Eve celebrations before. Those big televised parties that we had always seen on TV had become a reality, only better, because as we were celebrating New Years in the summertime, everyone was comfortably partying in the warm night air (rather than getting frostbite). There was the obligatory drunkard dragged away by police, and the not so expected Indian, bhangra drum dance party that both helped to set the mood for the night. Live music was everywhere and we became hypnotized by all the sights and sounds, until the abrupt start of the midnight countdown took us by surprise. At 12AM, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by a 360-degree fireworks show. All the major buildings, and a station on the river, were shooting off beautiful fireworks for what seemed like half an hour. It was an uplifting experience, an almost cliché New Years event, with all manner of folk wishing each other a Happy New Year, hugging, kissing, and singing and dancing in the street. The evening was a magical end to 2010 and, hopefully, a good omen for 2011. Cradle Mt - Lake St Clair National Park There are some beautiful places in this world that seem so picturesque as to seem surreal, as if you were looking at a postcard or National Geographic magazine. Then there are those beautiful places that immediately feel like home. Tasmania is this latter type of place – a warm blanket of undulating hills, mountains, greenery, poppy fields, rivers, streams, and colorful skies. At 7:30 AM on December 22nd, the four of us hopped the Spirit of Tasmania ferry from Melbourne to Devonport. We’d been told by some local friends that although the ferry would take us nine hours (as opposed to the hour flight direct to Hobart) that it was worth the experience. It certainly was an experience, nine long hours riddled with nausea and a mediocre Sandra Bullock film, but an experience nonetheless – sorry again Charlie (who thought I’d told him it was a six hour boat ride). The northern Tasmanian coastline A wave of relief and excitement swept over us as we arrived in Devonport and shook off our inadequate sea legs. We picked up our little rental car and gave Charlie a few minutes to adjust to driving on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road – “Left to Live, Left to Live!” – and headed south toward our little cabin along the St. Paul River. The drive took us a couple hours, but during that time the scenery could not have been more picturesque. Moon Rise in Avoca, Tasmania If Western Australia has the best sunsets, Tasmania certainly has the best scenery at sunset. Every night since we’ve been in Tassie, save for rainy nights, the sky turns soft, seductive pastel colors of peach and lavender, and the orange light warms the lush greens and golds of the hills and fields. As mushy as it all sounds, I’d be lying if I said it was anything but an eyeful of happiness and a full-body sensation of complete content. As we drove down the final road to our cabin – which, according to the owner, was riddled with giant, four-foot wombats – a full moon rose, bright and monstrous, from behind a hill. We couldn’t have asked for a more brilliant or magical introduction to the island of Tasmania. View from the back porch of our cabin - the St. Paul River The cabin we had rented for the Xmas holiday was located in an open valley right alongside the St. Paul River, a hot spot for local trout fishing much to Ben’s delight. We were fairly isolated, which made for a relaxed, back-to-nature atmosphere, but it also meant some long car rides to other locations. We used the cabin as a base camp for daily national park excursions around the island, and settled in at night with some good ol’ fashioned home cooked meals with local wine and food. Attempting to drink out of Wine Glass Bay - more like a wino trying to suck spilled wine off the floor Our first full day, we ventured out to Freycinet National Park on the island’s east coast. Most people visit this area to see the famous Wine Glass Bay – they hike about 1.2 km up to the lookout, take the classic postcard picture, and head home. As seasoned explorers, we were itching for a bit more than that and decided to make the half-day trek through Wine Glass and around Hazards Bay. Although tourist-riddled, Wine Glass was quite stunning from both up above and from the beach below. While on the beach, Charlie took the opportunity to show off his machismo and take on the near-Antarctic waters of the Tasman Sea. We were all very impressed by his manliness. Back on the sand we became good mates with a little female wallaby who had been hand-fed one too many times. Ben, by far, had the most intimate encounter while crouching low to get a good shot, feeling the brush of wallaby whiskers on his cheek. Bold move wallaby, bold move. Perhaps Ben’s own whiskers had her mesmerized or maybe confused… I should probably be disturbed that his hairiness has begun to enchant the local marsupial population. Continuing our circuit we found ourselves on Hazards Beach, blissfully alone and away from the tourist frenzy. The beach was covered in oyster shells, proof of the natural abundance of this famous Tasmanian delicacy. Being less sheltered than Wine Glass, the surf here was larger, giving the bay a much more rugged feel. We paused here to take what will inevitably be next year’s Xmas card. On Christmas Eve Day we visited the town of Launceston and its biggest attraction, Cataract Gorge – a long gorge cut by a river, bordered with walking paths and spanned by several bridges. It ended up being a lovely little walk along the water, and we enjoyed watching the rock climbers along the cliffs, wishing we had brought our shoes along for the day. Where the gorge is widest, at the old dam, the town established a park and a couple tea gardens, complete with peacocks ready to devour any unattended food. We sat down for a spot of Devonshire Tea, my mom’s new favorite afternoon ritual, and then hiked upstream for quite a ways, spotting lizards (including a large blue tongue) and wildflowers. In addition to hiking/bushwalking, Tasmania is celebrated for its food and wine culture, and its laid-back residents take pride in eating and drinking fresh, gourmet, local products such as oysters, mussels, salmon, mushrooms, cheese, chocolate, beer and wine. We couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate a down under Xmas in a little mountain valley cabin than a Christmas Eve feast prepared with local food. We did a bit of Tamar Valley wine tasting to find a good drink for the evening and then roamed the Launceston seafood and produce shops for dinner ingredients. We ended up with a colorful spread of Tasmania’s offerings: Tasmanian salmon (with orange glaze and grilled by Ben), blue mussels (simmered in a garlic-wine cream sauce), sweet and white potatoes (caramelized with onion and raisins), buttery crescent rolls (homemade by mum), and a Tasmanian Chardonnay (grown and crafted locally by a nice old Aussie dude we met). It’s hard not to start drooling thinking back on this incredible evening. Having a warmish, summertime Christmas was a bit bizarre, but to be honest it was the first Christmas where I actually felt refreshed and unburdened. It was the first time I’ve celebrated any holiday (especially Xmas) where it felt we were celebrating the right things. No tree, no decorations, no presents, no stores or shopping malls; just the four of us in a little cabin in the middle of the wilderness in Tasmania, eating good food with good company, toasting the friends and family members we wished were there to celebrate with us. And that, Charlie Brown, is what the holiday season is all about. On Xmas Day, we continued the celebration in the best way we know how: by climbing a mountain. Cradle Mountain, though not the highest in Tasmania, is the state’s most iconic peak and is situated at the northern end of the Overland Track, a 5-6 day backpacking trek through Cradle Mountain-Lake St. Clair National Park. As soon as we got out on the trail in the chilly, alpine air, we found ourselves in the heart of Tasmania and felt energized, despite the blanket of grey overhead. The trail up to Cradle ambled along through fields of spinifex and wildflowers, pockets of temperate rainforest, and past ancient glacial lakes. Around each bend and over each crest, the scenery just seemed to get more spectacular. When we reached the top of the ridge just before the final climb to the summit, Cradle Mountain in all its craggy glory came into view. As we stood there soaking in what appeared to be a volcano with teeth, we’ll admit that we all had a few pangs of doubt regarding the task before us. Those thoughts quickly vanished however when we noticed the wild-haired dude in flannel, cut-offs, and flip-flops (yes, flip-flops) steadily gaining on us. [His wife informed us that he had also climbed in Patagonia and the Himalaya’s in only flip-flops. Holy. Hell.] As we made for the final ascent, the sun emerged as if to cue Eye of the Tiger, and we began the long, steep boulder climb to the top. After an exhilarating near-vertical scramble, we reached the summit! The view was extraordinary; it almost felt like you could see all of Tasmania in 360 degrees. Flip-flop bushman made it too, though he seemed a bit peeved that every hiker had to make exclamations about his feet. Come on man, you’re wearing plastic flip-flops to climb a freaking mountain – admit that it’s totally awesome, but completely insane. We salute you. Backpacker hut for the Overland Track After what seemed like the longest and most arthritic descent ever past the beautiful Dove Lake, we left the park, but not before having two more Aussie animal firsts: we spotted our first wombats, which were adorably lumbering through the brush in search of their evening breakfast, and our first echidna, who had barely waddled across the road when we zoomed past. Thankful we hadn’t run this spiny little fellow over, we stopped and wandered over for a close encounter. He was a bit skittish, but didn’t seem to mind that we were curiously sneaking closer. The only thing that really startled him was Ben’s camera shutter, which makes a horribly loud “cha-chink” noise, and made the poor guy spasm into a partial ball of fur and spines. Other than that though, he seemed to be having a lovely stroll through the grass, and we were happy to share it with him. South Coast Track, Southwest National Park For the second half of our Tasmania holiday adventure, we moved our base camp to a little town called Geeveston, just southwest of Hobart. From here we ventured into Southwest National Park, which, paired with Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park, comprises the entire southwest quarter of the island. To see much of this wilderness area you often have to be dropped off by plane or helicopter, but lucky for us we were close to the eastern end of a major backpacking route and decided to take a day hike along the South Coast Track. Most of the hike was fairly flat, alternating between large open fields of grasses and tight, Fangorn-esque bits of forest. Overall the hike wasn’t too exciting, that is until the trees parted and we suddenly found ourselves on what seemed like the edge of the world. After several hours of hiking, we had finally arrived at the coastal section of the South Coast Track, which put us out onto volcanic-looking black cliffs and a stone beach with rough surf. The wind was howling, and brought with it the sharp Antarctic air. Realizing that we were merely a puddle-jump away from the coldest place on earth, not to mention the sultry voice of Morgan Freeman, was exhilarating. Tessellated Pavement - the pans and loaves of geology The following day we went exploring on the Tasman Peninsula, Tasmania’s premiere convict tourism region! Most of you are probably aware of Australia’s penal past (ha), and maybe also of Tasmania’s specific use as an island prison colony. What you may not know is that the Tasman Peninsula was the most notorious penal settlement, a severely isolated place of banishment, with Port Arthur as the flagship prison. Today, the Australian tourism industry offers the Tasman Peninsula up as a place for “family friendly” convict tours. As wonderfully depressing as the convict history is, we actually bypassed most of it in order to focus on the much more uplifting natural history of the area. We visited the beautiful Pirate’s Bay, Tessellated Pavement, Devil’s Kitchen, Tasman Arch, and Remarkable Cave, soaking in the amazing limestone cliffs and ocean wildlife that so define Tasmania’s coastline. Tasting some sweet chili Tasmanian mussels Our time in Tasmania just so happened to overlap with the state’s annual Taste of Tasmania, a celebration/exhibition of the local food and wine (and beer) that make Hobart a foodie destination. The event itself was free admission, but for $7 you were given a festival wine glass and unlimited access to the myriad Tasmanian wineries offering tastings. We may have hit the booze a little fast, mainly because it was free and we all were so indecisive about what food to try. But overall the evening was a blast - we sampled some delicious dishes and drank ourselves French on superb wine and beer. Huzzah! For our final full day together in Tassie, we took the ferry to Bruny Island – a skinny 45km strip of land separated by the D’Entrecasteaux Channel and Storm Bay. The island only has about 600 residents, but many people visit daily to camp in the national parks, spot penguins and the illusive albino wallabies, and to sample locally produced food and drink. We did visit the Bruny Island Cheese Co., tasting some wonderfully fresh cheese and brick oven-baked sourdough bread, but most of our time was spent hiking on the Fluted Cape track. The trail took us on a steep, cliffside hike to a magnificent lookout across Adventure Bay. Our wildlife karma continued to rock, as we saw a large tiger snake (the most venomous in Tasmania) and another echidna, with whom we had a long and heartfelt rendezvous. My mom captured a bunch of quality video footage on her iPhone, so we took the liberty of making a tribute montage of our little friend. We can definitively say that we heart monotremes. It’s official: returning to Melbourne on December 14th marked our complete circumnavigation of mainland Australia! By plane, train, and automobile we traveled over 22,000 kilometers and found ourselves back where we had first entered the country, bewildered and bleary-eyed like newborn kittens, on May 21st. It was great to be back, and we were looking forward to spending some quality time exploring Melbourne, Victoria, and Tasmania in our remaining months down under. Roughly eight months had passed since I had seen my mom, so when she arrived at the Melbourne airport on December 16th, it was a warm and fuzzy reunion to say the least. She and Charlie (who arrived a few days later) were finally taking their first real vacation in (some obscene number of) years and, much to the delight of Ben and myself, were spending Christmas and New Years with us down under. We spent our first few days in Melbourne, showing the two of them around and walking a ridiculous number of kilometers during our daily touring. We had beautiful weather for the most part; it was unseasonably cool so the climate change from winter to summer wasn’t too harsh for them. Exploring laneways with mum! We wanted to make sure they really got a good feel for Melbourne and all it had to offer, and even though they only had few days it wasn’t too difficult since we walked in, out, and around the city until our feet turned to nubs. As we may have explained in one of our first Australia posts, what truly sets Melbourne apart from other cities is its laneway café culture. Secret alleyways and corridors are hidden all throughout the city center, each one containing anything from upscale restaurants to specialty shops to cheap cafés, awesome graffiti and public art. Soaking in all the little hidden gems of Melbourne counterculture was a great way to spend a few afternoons. Other highlights of our wanderings included the Queen Victoria Market, the Botanic Gardens, walking along the Yarra River, and (particularly for Ben and myself) the plethora of delicious, real food available to us. After eating nothing but canned food and the occasional reject orange for several weeks, being able to go to a restaurant or café or bakery was magnificent. Melbourne has a fairly large Asian population, so cheap dim sum, pho, and sushi rolls were abundant and made for some fun nights out in Chinatown and Little Vietnam. Thanks again Mom and Charlie for keeping us well fed! While we were wallowing in self-pity and rainwater in Waikerie, we managed to sneak over to the famous Barossa Valley for a day of vineyard hopping and free wine tasting…and not much else! The Barossa Valley is most well known for its reds – it’s the reason why anyone associates Shiraz with Australia. Apparently the hot, dry days and cool nights in this region of South Australia produce some excellent grapes. Needless to say, Mar and I were looking forward to sampling a few glasses from arguably the best wine-producing region of Australia. Unlike our whirlwind tour of randomness in the Margaret River region, we actually had a shortlist of wineries to go by, that way we’d make the most of our time in the valley and avoid any lemons. Our first stop was at Turkey Flat, a long-standing winery that boasted some of the oldest Shiraz vines in the country. I knew we had stopped at a quality winery because joining us at the tasting bar was a highfalutin tour group lead by a guy with an amazing moustache. It was a combination of Friedrich Nietzsche and Otto von Bismarck with a dash of Rollie Fingers. You know it’s a good one when you feel like less of a man just by standing in its presence. But I digress. While Turkey Flat’s rosé was pretty tasty, we were especially impressed with their Shiraz. You could tell this one was their baby, and it hurt to know that we would not be taking a bottle home with us, due to the $50 price tag. Our next stop was Rockford Winery, a classic Barossa establishment that apparently is one of the few wineries left in Australia that produces its wines using traditional, old-timey methods. The winery and cellar door utilize several stone buildings dating back to the original European settlement of the area back in the mid 1800s. These relics of frontier Australia encircled a paved courtyard that really set the mood once you stepped inside the space. The style of carefully laid stone and thick, hewed timber of the structures was a reminder of the German roots of South Australia’s settler history. While tasting the many quality wines at Rockford’s cellar door (awesome sparkling Shiraz!), we were pleasantly surprised to meet two Americans tasting next to us. This was a shock because finding an American in Australia is slightly more common than finding a spotted quoll or an albino wallaby in the wild. We’ve seen more echidnas than we’ve seen Americans. Daryl and Sara Mae were co-owners of an organic winery based in Humboldt County, California called Vinatura. Anticipating our chuckles at the choice of location, Daryl explained that the conditions in Humboldt, which provide for good weed growing, are coincidentally perfect for growing wine grapes as well. I couldn’t help but imagine how much fun their local farmers markets must be. We ended up bumping into these Americans again down the road at Charles Melton Wines, where they invited us to join them in demolishing a hefty cheese platter. While we traded travel stories we were treated to some excellent red wine. Charles Melton is exclusively a red wine producer, and they do not mess around. While everything we tried was delicious, the standouts for us were their “Nine Popes” Grenache, “Father in Law” Shiraz and “Voices of Angels” Shiraz. Hanging out with these winemakers made tasting far more engaging, as they brought about some excellent conversations with the Aussie winemakers about the trade as well as the craft. One question of note that Daryl raised was why Australia did not seem to have much exposure in the American wine scene. With such excellent wine being produced in this country, it was tragic to think that Yellow Tail was pretty much the only Aussie wine widely available in the States. In so many words, the server at Rockford explained that Australian winemakers just aren’t that interested, or it’s simply not affordable to distribute their wine so far away when they have a decent enough local market. Some small scale wineries in Australia do distribute to the States, but usually the small shipments are snatched up by those in the know - international wine clubs and boutique dealers, as well as aficionados. Before we headed back to Waikerie, we stopped in the small town of Tanunda to catch their Christmas parade. The whole scene made me nostalgic of being a little kid in my hometown in Massachusetts, where we would have parades during the summertime. The local Lutheran church had a bake sale and a BBQ sausage stand selling the classic Aussie combo of sausage on white bread with a squirt of tomato sauce (read ketchup). While the local businesses drove their floats down the main street, old Aussies in Santa hats, stubbies and cold beer in coozies looked on as their little grandkids ran around like tiny crazy people, waving around ribbons and glowsticks while shrieking with delight. Mar and I couldn’t help but crack up when Santa showed up in the back of a bright green El Camino-style vehicle. So freakin Australian. Fast forward a week and a half, just as Mar and I were becoming seasoned orange pickers, it was time to head east to Melbourne for Mar’s mom’s arrival. Instead of taking the shortest route straight across, we decided to stop back in Adelaide for one last evening in the city. My parents had bestowed us with some precious Christmas money, so we made sure to hit up an excellent restaurant, per their suggestion. We had some very gourmet fare at a small, swanky place called Decant, including some local scallops, lamb and beef! Yum. We also had to hit up Elephant Walk one last time, the Vienna coffee called to us from afar like a creamy, caffeinated siren song. It may have been a mistake on our part, because I ended up drinking all of mine and half of Marielle’s. At bedtime I was so uber-caffeinated I probably counted about 3 million sheep before I finally crashed. Washing off the carnage post-drive in Melbourne The next day was spent driving the long haul to Melbourne, almost 800 km in one go. The drive would have been a pleasant one had we not been traveling during the Great Locust Migration of 2010. Every few minutes a thick cloud of locusts would fly in the path of our car, resulting in mass bug-splosions. I’m not usually squeamish around this kind of thing, but when your windshield is literally plastered with insect gore and there are horrifically maimed and dismembered locusts dragging their broken body parts along the wiper blades like a tiny reenactment of Saving Private Ryan…well it’s super gross. Not to mention the fact that it’s a bit unnerving to look a flying locust in the eye before it slams into your windshield and pops 6 inches in front of your face at 110 k/hr, over and over again. For eight hours. Not a fun drive. |
Marielle & BenWe're two people in the midst of severe quarter-life crises who decided to leave good jobs in a bad economy to travel to the other side of the world because, well, why not? Archives
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