coop

Last Friday afternoon, with the weather looking good for the weekend, a
phone consultation took place between Dorothy's Pilot and Navigator:

"Let's go to Quorn this weekend."
"Where's that?"
"Up north- east of Port Augusta, you know- Pichi-Richi rail line, old
train museum, rugged mountain ranges, that sort of thing, and my niece
lives there."
"You mean old overgrown snake-infested shunting yards, lumps of rusty
old machinery, tiger country, flies, and a squadron of wild kids...."
"I'm sure they aren't that bad- and there might be some antique shops
and art galleries, some we've never been to before...."
"OK, when do we leave?"

We agree to depart Saturday arvo after doing the domestics. The Quorn
caravan park is booked and arrangements are made to collect us after we
orbit the town upon arrival. Later that day I learn that a couple of
mates are taking a trailer sailer to Port Augusta in order to explore
the very upper reaches of the gulf using Matthew Flinders' old charts.
We decide to drop in on them- if we can find them. I doubt there will be
many yachts north of the bridges at Port Augusta.

Saturday morning is cool and overcast but this has become broken and
much higher by the afternoon. The forecast wind is 10 knots on the tail,
and the flight plan suggests about 2 hours for the trip. We decide to
refuel at Augusta which suits our plans to dive-bo... ahem...examine
from a safe altitude the boys in the boat.

At the hangar, I detect slithering noises from within the hangar door as
I get out of the car, so I open the doors very carefully to avoid
excessively agitating the resident blue-tongue lizard hiding in the
bottom rail. (He keeps the ear-wig population to manageable levels.)

Dorothy fires up without much fuss. We take off into the south-easterly
breeze, wheel around and head north for Angaston, climbing to 2,500 and
keeping a wary eye open for traffic going into and out of Parafield.
Past Angaston we bear left and climb to 3,500, leaving Kapunda behind as
we head for the Clare valley. The air is quite rough, and a fair amount
of stick-waving and rudder pushing is required to keep the sky and
ground in the correct orientation. We scan the sky for gliders- they
should be enjoying themselves out here on a day like today, but there's
only the odd wedge-tail eagle taking advantage of the lift.

Dorothy pops up and down like a cork on the ocean, and I recall the
discussion on the newsgroup about maintaining a precise altitude (was it
plus or minus 50' they were saying?) during the cruise. Fat chance of
that today. Now that we are out of the main traffic areas, we allow
Dorothy to wander up and down a few hundred feet. There's little point
in trying to fight the thermals by stuffing the nose down and backing
off the power, only to have the sinking air that inevitably follows
result in a full-power climb at 60 knots just to hold altitude. It makes
no sense to punish the engine and the airframe and degrade cross-country
speed in this manner, especially when some of the sinking air can almost
exceed Dorothy's ability to out-climb it. Better to accept the increased
altitude when it comes, and use it to increase speed when dropping
through the sinking air that almost always comes next. Gliders do this
all the time. If you have 300hp and 140 knots available to you at the
tweak of a throttle lever, then constant altitude cruising is feasible
in these conditions. But in our little puddle-jumper (and many others)
on a day like today, it's not a practicable proposition. So we keep our
eyes open and treat hemispherical altitudes as optional.

The Clare valley is as pretty as a picture and the whizz-wheel says we
made over 100 knots average on this leg. The GPS is on, and confirms the
groundspeed calculation. We aren't using its navigation functions
today because the weather is fine, and its more fun doing it the old way.

We slide past the broadcast station near Crystal Brook, and run up the
side of the gulf between the hills and the sea. The sea breeze is
already moving in, and the air smoothes out. The white caps on the
surface of the Gulf, however, suggest that we have about 20-25 knots of
sea breeze which will make the landing at Port Augusta interesting. We
overfly the old gliding strip at Stirling North and call inbound. The
local flying doctor LAME's are taxiing for a maintenance test flight,
and we negotiate with them regarding who is going to use the runway
first. They promise to expedite matters, so we stand off a bit to let
them have priority.

Given the wind, I decide to wheel it on and aim well down the runway.
With my left arm working like a one-armed paper-hanger we arrive near
the surface of the runway in an approximately horizontal attitude. After
I figure the arm-waving has gone on long enough, I jig the stick
forwards, and the wheels squeak onto the tarmac without the solid thud I
was expecting. Almost as if I had intended it should happen that way.
(The Navigator is impressed. If only she knew.... unfortunately, she has
declared an intention to upgrade to co-pilot status in the near future,
so it won't be long before my many faults will be fully revealed...sigh)

At the bowser we are met by one of the locals who tells us that Ivor and
his mates have been through earlier in the 4-seater Yak on their way to
Arkaroola. We try out our new three-card avgas account (Yes!! Shell,
Mobil, and BP, all in one convenient folder tied to one credit account-
no, I don't get commission, and it's about bloody time someone arranged
it) and it all works according to plan. Dorothy gobbles a litre of oil,
we both dump some water ballast at the loos, and then we are off again
to seek out the intrepid Matthew Flinders emulators.

The flying doctor is inbound as we are outbound, so we arrange not to
run into each other by talking and looking. We cross to the basin near
the Port Augusta road bridges at 500 feet, and turn north up the gulf,
which rapidly begins to look like a creek, and a shallow one at that. I
was right about one thing- there are not many yachts north of the
bridge. In fact, there aren't any. And judging by the depth of the
water, anyone up there now would be walking home. The tide is out, and
our mates have either been and returned, or they are still parked at the
moorings. We orbit the basin upon our return, and one or two of the
yachts look like "probables", but no-one waves, so we give up and head
for Quorn. (We later learned they had been up and back in the morning,
took the boat out of the water, and drove to Quorn where they failed to
find us for reasons that will become obvious next episode....)

Coop

dave ello

Wow Coop,

Thanks for the effort put into bringing some of the magic you experience up
there to us. Stories like this are precisely the reason I'm learning to fly
and hopefully it won't be long and I'll have tales to tell as well.

My wife and I truly love the SA region and only a few years ago drove from
home (Sydney) to Adelaide and then on to the Flinders (Wilpena Pound). As a
kid I passed through Port Augusta many times with the family on our Ghan
trips, at the time living in central NT. It has always been a dream to be
able to do all of this from our own plane and should good fortune prevail,
hopefully we'll own something like a 182 next year sometime (crossing
fingers...) and be able to do these things (possibly before we have
kids...).

Anyway, I'm staying tuned for the next episode and am appreciative of your
willingness to share your good times!

Cheers,
Dave (Sydney)

coop

<story snipped>


You mean you haven't got some already? Don't worry, it won't be long....

Seeing it all from both the ground and the air gives a whole new
appreciation of the area.


Cheers,

Coop

martin taylor

Coop said....


Hmm, I'd rather use his newer ones. More up-to-date.....

Anyway, wouldn't his old ones be rather tatty by now?

--
Everyone has a photographic memory. Some just don't have film.

coop

Fair comment. I suspect they used copies. The SA Museum might get upset if

they used the originals.


Mate stated later that when he anchored (using GPS) at the spots where

Flinders said he had anchored, the descriptions of the locations fitted precisely.

This included openings to creeks running off the main channel, where the "correct"

location wasn't open to interpretation. He said he is now even more in
awe of that bloke's mapping ability.

Coop

rt

Huh! Flinders had it easy! He was working on the horizontal.

Bought 60 acres (24 ha) of severe tiger country including a ridge rising 600
ft above the lower parts of the boundary. No fences. Last surveyed in
1923. Got it surveyed to prevent me putting a house on someone else's dirt
(and got the corners pinned). Surveyor reckoned one peg was out by about
200 mm, but the burnt out remains of the others were spot on. I knew where
one peg was/is, so grabbed a theodolite, staff and unwilling chainie and
started up the hill to locate the next peg. Took an hour because of
steepness and scrub. Couldn't find the peg. Went back and started
again. Ended up in the same spot an hour+ later. No peg.
Tried from the other direction - ended up in the same spot - no peg!

Pertuiii!

Used a stream of bad language and walked 2 paces around a little grass tree
to empty the bladder - on turning 180 to return, there was the peg under the
fronds of the grass tree.

I have the deepest respect for surveyors!

coop

Leaving Port Augusta behind us, Dorothy climbs steadily in the cool air
and soon we are gazing down on the ridges of the southern Flinders
Ranges. One valley in particular looks a bit rounded and the lump about
half way down it is clearly a terminal moraine from an ancient glacier.
Looking at the landscape now, it is hard to imagine it covered in big
sheets of ice, but that's what the geology tells us.
The air over the ridges is rough, but smooths again as we approach
Quorn. We locate the silos in the centre of the township and execute a
couple of orbits as per the arrangements before tracking east again in
the general direction of the airfield.

I had been lead to believe that the airfield was alongside the
Quorn-Hawker road, so I position Dorothy so that I can easily scan this
area on my side. Just as I think I have located the strip, the Navigator
nudges me and points ahead out to starboard, where a well-made strip
with a windsock is clearly visible. It has the correct orientation, and
fits the description in the AOPA book. I glance again at the white tires
on my side and decide that this is either a horse training area, or an
older strip which has now been abandoned.

The wind is still quite strong and across the strip. I line up with the
starboard wing held down and plenty of rudder to counteract the yaw, and
another bout of arm-waving ensues. This time I'm not so lucky. Dorothy
is picked up by a gust just as I am about to set her down, I'm too slow
with the throttle, and we fall on from about 3 feet up. The bungeys
protest a little as they soak up the punishment, and we only skip once.
Or maybe twice. Anyway, who's counting.....

We find a place to park where we won't interfere with the Flying Doctor
if they need the strip, and hurry to get the gear unloaded and Dorothy
tied down before the caravan park owner arrives. Hordes of small flies,
delighted at the prospect of such a ready supply of moisture, descend
upon us. We soon learn to keep out mouths closed, even when talking.

With Dorothy pegged nose to wind, controls locked and sunscreens in
place, there is still no sign of our transport, so we load up our packs
and begin walking. It didn't look that far from the air.... although I
can't see the tops of the silos....

Two hours and eight kilometers later, we make it to the main street of
Quorn. The walk was into a stiff head wind, which at least kept the
flies away. (En route we pass the abandoned airstrip I had noticed
earlier, and I have a good idea why our ride never arrived.) We only had
about 300ml of water between us, and the Navigator is a bit the worse
for wear- she has a headache and I suspect she is dehydrated. My new
sneakers are too soft-soled for this country and I can feel blisters
forming. We stagger into the best looking pub and are eyed off
suspiciously by the local barmaid who directs us to the lounge where the
meals are served. Large drinks are quickly gulped down and we feel well
enough to tackle the menu. I order soup, roo steak, and quongdong pie,
the Navigator orders rack of lamb.

The Austral pub in Quorn won't be getting our AAAA seal of approval. The
soup arrives in a cracked bowl so deep the spoon barely reaches the
bottom, and is excessively salty. The main course arrives shortly
afterwards, before I am half way through the soup. The roo steak is over
cooked and dry and is accompanied by some limp salad and sullen chips
made soggy by a presumed salad garnish, and the rack of lamb is so rare
as to be almost quivering on the inside although the "glaze" is charred
on the outside. The quongdong pie probably accompanied the Anzacs to
Gallipoli and resembles a biscuit with leather filling. To complete the
scenario, we order coffees, and are told we have to go to the bar to get
them. As we contemplate whether or not to do this, another waitress
delivers coffees to the couple at an adjacent table..... We collar her
and try again and this time there is no fuss. At least the coffees come
with little chocolates but this is not enough to mollify us.

During dinner I slip out and call the caravan park. He answers with
"Where were you? I drove out there twice and couldn't find you." Turns
out he is not a local (only been there four years) and wasn't aware of
the second strip five kilometers further on. He is most apologetic and
offers to collect us after dinner, which he does.

The cabin we have booked is a little gem and the owners can't do enough
for us. Having settled in we venture across the railway tracks to the
pub where we think my niece's partner works (should have gone there
earlier). I've not met him before, but we soon track him down and he
leads us to their place a couple of streets away. I sneak in first, and
when the kids spot me I put my finger to my lips and wink- they get the
message and with a gleeful look on their faces follow me to where my
niece is engrossed on her computer. She hears my voice, spins around,
and the surprise is complete.....

The next day we view some of the scenery from ground level, courtesy of
my niece and her 4WD. Warren gorge is spectacular, with red vertical
strata 200' high pierced by a narrow gap of about 25 meters through
which the creek passes. Yellow-footed rock wallabies apparently populate
the area, but since it is around mid-afternoon they remain hidden from
view. We also visit Mount Brown National Park via a jolting, bruising
track which is strictly 4WD only.

After lunch the Navigator and I wander the streets of Quorn while my
niece puts the kids down for a nap. We discover that Quorn, for the most
part, closes on weekends, and much of what we would like to see is
unavailable. This includes collections of rusty old machinery as well as
the various art/craft/antique shops preferred by the Navigator. We do
find one place open (although about to close as we arrive) with a fine
collection of paintings, some executed by the proprietor. She informs us
that the local council are not very entrepreneur-friendly, charging
significant fees for placing small A-frame signs on the roadside and
dramatically increasing rates to pay for a sewerage system that people
did not see as high priority. There are many empty shops, and the whole
town has a slightly run-down look about it.

Back at my niece's place I download the area forecast. The wind is
almost right on the nose, so the return trip is going to be slow. We
plan a direct route down the back of the hills via Clare and Angaston.

At the field I dip the tanks and oil and load up. As I remove the pegs
I notice moist soil clinging to them about 100mm below the surface. Must
have been a good year- no wonder the crops all look so even and
full-headed. Dorothy is primed, I bid goodbye to my niece, and the
engine fires on the first swing of the prop. We take off into the stiff
southerly and Dorothy's wheels leave the ground before I have the
throttle fully advanced. We overfly the town and rock the wings before
climbing to 3,500 for the run home. I make to overfly Mount Brown, but
the Navigator motions towards the flatter land to the east and suggests
we avoid the tiger country. She hasn't even started her training yet and
she's already thinking like a pilot....

The air is cool and a little lumpy, and we check off the small towns
which appear every 10 miles or so. We overfly Mintaro on the way from
Clare to Angaston and spot Martindale Hall, a mansion used as one of the
sets in the filming of Picnic at Hanging Rock. It's still impressive
even from this altitude. Around Kapunda the air becomes hazy, less
turbulent, and distinctly cooler as we enter the realm of the sea breeze.

Just south of Angaston I keep a watchful eye to my left for traffic
inbound to Parafield from the Riverland, or training on the Stonefield
NDB. They will be looking into the sun, whereas I can look towards them
with the benefit of the sun behind me. During one of these scans, the
Nav elbows me in the ribs and draws my attention to the Jabiru at our
level on a reciprocal heading. We watch as he slides past about 100
metres away to our right and perhaps 150' above out level. I rock my
wings as he approaches, but there is no response.

The wind on the surface of the dams shows a steady southerly, so we land
off a straight-in approach at our field, keeping our eyes peeled in case
Tim has the Tiger out, or Graham shows up in his Lancair (he usually
orbits the strip twice to slow down!). But the field is deserted and all
the hangar doors are shut. Dorothy touches her tail-wheel first onto the
downhill side of the little hump at the beginning of the strip and we
trundle in to the hangar.

The blue-tongue lizard has vacated the door rail but I hear suspicious
slithering noises from behind the tool cupboard, where there is an
abundance of earwigs and slater beetles. Maybe I'll bring him a couple
of snails from the garden next week.....

Coop