The old town of Whroo, once a thriving town of over 10,000 souls was a ghost town now.  A couple were scouting through the trees with a metal detector, but otherwise, the place was a cemetery.

Literally, a cemetery.  The town at its peak was made up of primarily tents and temporary dwellings.  People coming in to try and make their fortune mining, then move on to the next strike.

Like most other towns, it blossomed as the gold was discovered and the Victorian countryside is covered in old goldmining towns that boomed, then dwindled.  Though most still have people, Whroo is dead.

And there is one very good reason for that - there is no water in Whroo.

Where most towns had a river, a creek, or some reliable form of drinking water, Whroo was built on the edge of an ancient Aboriginal dam that supplied its earlier settlers with drinking water…but certainly not big enough for the influx that crowded in during the height of the frenzy.

About five kilometres up the road was the site of another section of Whroo - a few buildings and massive mining pit, now long abandoned.

But with the sun sinking through the ironbark trees, I hoped in the Jeep and headed back on the rock road and made for the closest town that had civilization, Rushworth.

When the road finally turned from the unforgivable rock to bitumen (what we would call “a tar road” back in the US) it was a very welcome sight.  With a little bump…

And the unmistakable…Poop…thump…thump…thump….

My car made the transition from rock road to tar and promptly shoved a sharp rock right through the tire….

Schucks.

For those of you keeping track at home, this was not one of my better days on the road…not one, but two flat tires…and now, not a spare.

OK, truth be told, it was a great day on the road.  Time with friends, great scenery, fantastic landscape, rich history…

It was my tires that were not having a good day.  Not a good day at all…

Getting out of my car, I sighed, resigned to my fate and made the call again to RACV.  Like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police of Canada, they are standing on guard for thee.

 Good planning is usually a good recipe to stay out of trouble.  Normally, especially with my vehicles, while I tend to drive them until I die, I usually try to keep them in top running order, because, truth be told, I like to drive and I like the freedom of going places when I want to go.  Which means the car needs to be always primed and ready.

And with a Jeep, that is just part of the culture.

Why I didn’t get a new set of tires right away, I’ll never know, but it was a quick easy fix to get a good used tire for a spare - it was little fanfare and little work.

Plus the recommendation only months before was that my tires still had plenty of life in them.

With little thought, I headed back into the wilds of Australia.  Back from my Christmas vacation only a few weeks, I drove back up through Northern Victoria, still suffering from jet lag, so up and at it early - even grabbing a good pie for breakfast as I passed through the little resort town of Nagambie again.

Catching up with the same friends again, I was underway in the late afternoon and decided to take the scenic route home down through the old Iron Bark forests around Rushworth and Heathcote.

The dirt roads reminded me of home, with the quiet farmsteads nestled throughout the landscape and farm fields stretching as far as the eye could see.  The occasional slough and creek causing the road to curve and meander through the landscape before straightening out again.  The flat lands slowly curving up and around the edges until they broke into rolling hills with fence lines and pastures continuing up and over and distant ridges rose up on the horizon.

The landscape grew more and more forested as I approached the old Ironbark Forests and old Gold rush ruins.  This was the sight of some of the most frenzied digs in Australia.  Soon, the road became less dirt and gravel and more stone and rock.

There wasn’t a car to be seen and certainly no people, but signposts pointed out the history - where outposts and hotels had been along the route, or some old patch of mines that were still visible, or foundation stones for some small village, all built for the gold rush and miners that poured through the area.

It was over this rock and stone that I felt the uncomfortable bouncing and jarring that was beyond what I would expect.

Darn, what are the chances, but yet another one of my, “tires that will be alright for a while” gave way to the rocks and stones of the cursed back roads of the Ironbark forests.

In the quiet woods on a patch of grass on the side of road, I wrestled with tire and managed to get it changed.  The experience paid off and once more I was down the road again.

Scene of the Northern Victoria Countryside

Irrigation Channel

An old gold mine

 I had problems about six months earlier, and I should have known better.  The tires on the old Jeep were far from new, but they still seemed to have a fair amount of get up and go, but there was that one on the back passenger’s side that just didn’t work right.  But it was also pretty random.  For weeks at a time, I’d go down to the parking garage and hop in with no problems at all…but every once in a while, that one tire would be dead flat.

It was frustrating.

A quick trip to the tire shop found a small hole.  “We patched it, should be as good as new.”  Came the reply from the young guy barely out of his teens behind the counter.  It didn’t sound reassuring.

And sure enough, about three months later, the same problem, the same tire.

But me being the frugal guy that I am, decided that it was best to just wait and see, and for weeks, there were no problems.

Driving back from a friend’s in northern Victoria, about forty kilometres out of Shepparton, or “Shep” as the locals call it, with a bang and lurch, the tire finally gave in as I limped the car to the side of the road.

Shucks.

I managed to jack up the Jeep and get the old tire off…but darned if I could find the tool that all Jeeps are suppose to have to get the spare off - you can’t just have a tire walk off the back of a Jeep so they developed a vehicle specific tool to get the spares off.

And mine was missing.

A quick call to the Royal Automotive Club of Victoria had a service truck out to me in about five minutes.  The free membership with zero service fee (better known as the RACV) was a stroke of good luck.

“Mate, if you don’t have the tool, I really can’t help you.”  Said the greasy old timer.

I panicked a bit.  Imagine my car and me sitting on the side of the road for the foreseeable future.

As he sat in his truck smoking, I did another check of the interior…and nothing…except for that little compartment that I didn’t check earlier.

Aha!

Within five minutes, the tire was off the back and on the car and I was underway again.  A little greasy, dusty, and sweaty, but none the worse for wear, I stopped about an hour later to walk around a bit and grab a bit to eat at the good burger joint on the outskirts of Nagambie.  It wasn’t the first time I’d had a flat, but the first time I’d had one in Australia.  And it wasn’t something that I wanted to repeat.

But heck, since I already had experience at it….

 I want to stress, we were given no promises on how the horse, Besant, would perform on the day.  And though we…ok, I…jokingly referred to the horse as “Pissant,”  we were hopeful.  Sure we had a fair amount of money on the quick little mare, but also it was owned, if only 5%, by a friend.  And you support your friends.

We left our comfortable headquarters, leaving enough baby gear behind to mark our territory, and made our way to the paddock, where the horses stride in all of their glory to entice last minute punters (betters for you uninitiated) into putting their money down.

It was a good cast of characters in the lot.  Pilbara Sand looked like she could run.  Total Attraction seemed to have a fair amount of spirit.  God Help Her…well, God help her, but she held her head high.  We had a moment of anxiety as Besant failed to show.  Tellora, the favorite, seemed to rule the roost…but there, on the second to the last turn around the paddock cantered in the spirited mare named Besant.

By God but she showed spirit.

She rushed into the paddock, but not in some harried fashion, but with an understated grace and dignity that seemed to say, “forget the pomp and circumstance, get me onto the track.”  And old #6 didn’t have to wait, as the mares were lead out onto the course, ready for the battle.

It seemed like it was about this time, in the wee hours of the afternoon, that the sun started to break through.  The sun shone on the track and the threatening rain clouds seemed to find their way over the horizon.

It seemed to be a good omen as Besant readied for her fourth run and the first at the premier race track in Australia.

From the cheap seats in the grass along the rails, the start of the race seemed to start with little fanfare, but we watched Besant struggle out of the gate - though one of the top four horses, she didn’t seem to show it out of the gate as she started in the back of the pack of nine horse.

But something amazing happened in the last half of the race, she made a break for it.  She seemed to lengthen her stride, there seemed to be a bit more spirit in her step.  Quite frankly, she just seemed to come alive.

But in the end, it just wasn’t going to happen. Though she made a valiant attempt, she came in a very respectable 3^rd place. Good enough to get a nice paycheck for her owners, but not good enough for those that put our money on her…but that was just fine with us.  A top 3 finish on the premier track in Australia was a good result.

Our friend the 5% owner made his way over in his suit and tie with a friend visiting from London in tow.  To be quite honest, I imagine we made quite a sight, a big American and a little Australian with a baby dressed in shorts, flip-flops, and linen shirts and the sharp suits of the folks that had seen the luxury of the owners circuit.

But the fun that was had, the conversations that took place.  It is amazing the things, the dreams, the ideas that seem to take place over the grass along the rails.

The beverages helped too.

 It had been a long and tiring couple of weeks, and truth be told, I was exhausted.  With an early January weekend right around the corner, which is usually perfect weather in southern Australia, I was looking forward to a nice quiet weekend at home.  Alone.  Resting.

“Mate, what do you think about Flemington?”  My friend asked.

Besides the fact that it sounded like something hocked up out of the back of someone’s throat?  It was a good place.  A top notch horse racing venue in Australia, and probably the world over, after all, how many places host a race (the Melbourne Cup) that can stop a nation.

But I knew why Sam was asking, and secretly, I too was wondering about Flemington.  Our mutual friend had a horse racing that weekend at that top notch track, and the weather report said that conditions would be excellent.

“Mate, sounds like a bloody good idea.” I said.

Yes, I was tired and exhausted, but who could miss a prime horse race on a nice Saturday afternoon.

“What is the dress code?”  I asked, knowing that shorts and flip flops were the preferred dress code for me….

“Well, we can go back into the club rooms with a full suit and tie…but I’m going to have the kid along…I’m going in shorts and a t-shirt.” Sam said.

Which sounded bloody good to me.

I must admit, waiting at Southern Cross for the Flemington Express made me a bit nervous.  I was surrounded by people decked out in their Sunday best - suits and ties for the men, sun dresses and frilly hats for the ladies.  Here I stood in my cargo shorts, my linen shirt and my flip flops.

But quite frankly, I didn’t care.  Though it was cloudy, it was warm, and it sure sounded good to be standing in the infield grass in my bare feet then in the fancy bars with my suit and tie in the members area. 

The train ride is an experience.  There is something so relaxing about riding a train.  The clickty clack of the steel wheels on the rails, the sight of the town running by past the window, you get to see a side of the city - sometimes the seedy underbelly - that you wouldn’t normally see.  It has the graffiti and the old buildings, as well as the big apartment buildings and the open balconies.

The train deposited me right at the gates of the sprawling Flemington Race Track, and yet another surprise was in store for me - free entrance!

I parted company with the overdressed crowds that made their way to the members lounges scattered throughout the complex and headed right for the belly of the beast, the pit - right in front of the grandstand but behind the rails.  Between the paddock and the sides.  A big grassy area with the prerequisite number of bars to catered to the uncivilized masses.

Sam and his little one joined me there shortly after I arrived and we staked out a good spot within viewing distance of the paddock, close to the rails, and not that far from the central bar, with a little artificial grass covered box surrounded by tons of grass.

It was a darn good headquarters for the day.

 Our friend’s horse was running in the second race.  Though there were no promises, the reports on the horse continued to be good.  It had run very well in the previous two races, placing once and showing another time.  The horse was said to have explosive speed, especially on the straight aways  and aggressive on the finish.

I’m not exactly what all of that means, but it sounded pretty good to me.  Hence, I placed the biggest bet I’ve ever made on a horse race - I put a whopping $50 on the number six horse, Besant. 

Named after the fighter for Irish and Indian home rule, Annie Besant, she had not only a proud namesake, but also a good record in her short racing history.  Not bad for a four year old mare.

And she better have…for $50 on a 9-1 odds horse (the day before she was a whopping 13-1…the book makers saw what those of us emotionally attached…and beer laden…also saw).

 I really shouldn’t have been in the office.  Fresh off a long weekend.  Fresh off a little rest and relaxation.  I shouldn’t have been in the office working through emails, voice mails, and overall issues.

But it is part of the job…implied or not.

But something seemed strange walking away from the desk.  The lights that were normally on during the weekends were off…and others not normally seen were decidedly on.

In the evening twilight, it was a bit surreal.

Writing it off as an issue of the heat outside (the temperatures were in the 90’s F), I made my way to the elevator…which was exceptionally slow…again, the lighting gave a pale luster to the darkened news screens on the wall.

Something just seemed amiss.

Our office building is at the heart of the Southbank area of Melbourne, right along the banks of the mighty Yarra River.  Melbourne is Melbourne due to the waterway.  It was the source of freshwater - an old reef kept saltwater from flowing upstream.  While also a major source of transportation - that same river created a natural turning basin where the sea and the river combined to spin ships around and turn them back out to sea. The eastern side of the Yarra was the traditional sight of the factories that made Melbourne an industrial center for Australia.

Now, with it’s mighty high rises and headquarters, including our neighbor down the street the highest building in the Southern Hemisphere, the Eureka Tower, it is one of the commercial capitals of the world…with bars, offices, and high rise apartments.

And the building that I was in was part of the heart of that complex, part of the mighty Price Waterhouse Cooper Complex.

Which is why the lighting issues seemed so strange.

It made it even more strange as I walked through the open air corridor that lead to the river and the waterfront.  The normally bustling places of business - the Subway, the McDonalds, the fancy restaurants…were all struggling to say the least.

The heart of the modern city…was experiencing a power failure.

Subway and the 7-11 had signs written in big bold letters…”Cash Only.”

McDonalds Closed.

The big steak house was also just flat out closed, but the manager and staff were outside arguing with customers as to why they couldn’t just not serve them, but not even seat them.  They just didn’t know if they would have power.

As I walked through the open air Chinese New Year market only a block away, where you wouldn’t know if you had power or not, it stuck me the ridiculous of it all.

While the mighty buildings would be shuttered and the standard places of business closed, the Mom and Pop shops serving Dim Sim and Spring Rolls to celebrate Chinese New Year would go on, not only unaffected…but oblivious to the problems.

Technology be damned.  We’re celebrating Chinese New Year.

 Happy New Year!  For those that haven’t been paying attention, about 25% of the world’s population has been out celebrating for the last week or so - the Chinese New Year.  And not just any New Year, this is the year of the Dragon. 

The Dragon - in western mythology, the symbol of terror and destruction, in eastern lore - it is the ultimate symbol of good fortune and power.  While last year was the year of the Rabbit (which happens to be my year thank you very much), the Dragon is the fifth in the twelve year Chinese calendar cycle.

So this is certainly not an everyday occurrence.

And Melbourne love’s its Chinese New Year.  Little Bourke Street, the heart of Melbourne’s China town is alive with gusto.  They close off blocks of the city.  And the river walk along Crown Casino becomes a hive of activity.

Why would Melbourne have such a boisterous Chinese New Year celebration?  Well, there is a lot of Chinese immigrants for starters, and that isn’t a new phenomenon.  The Chinese were some of the first immigrants to the new colony of Victoria once gold was discovered.  They were some of the most well organized and hardworking people on the diggings…and some of the most hated.  The reputation for that first wave was they weren’t here to set down roots…just to mine and leave.  Though some, as with most immigrant groups, decided to stay, and they were met a hundred years later by more waves, so Melbourne has a long history as a hub of Chinese settlement.

And it shows during Chinese New Year.

The event is multicultural - the entire river is lined with tents and booths where people can buy their lanterns and Chinese umbrella’s - their incense burners and Buddist alters - their hello kitty back packs and angry birds balloons. 

There were two big stages set up, where martial arts displays, Chinese acrobats, and musicians tried their best to appease the crowd in a multigenerational talent show…and as the very Scottish looking gentlemen in the bowler hat riding unicycle to jazz music showed, multicultural as well.

Oh sure there were the usual logistical issues - things like the Chinese father-daughter dancing act that decided to perform on the sidewalk at the very narrowest part of the proceedings…guaranteeing a very captive audience as the traffic jam of people stopped up for a half block on either side, or the small stage with Chinese musicians that were set up directly downwind from the from the very smoky food stalls.

And oh, the food.

It was a veritable cornucopia of the best of Asian street food.  Dim sims by the dozen. Spring rolls by the score. Chilli prawns by the…well…century!  It was an absolute hodge podge of the best of the Melbourne food scene. 

I think I saw the shingle for Yummy Palace and the Vegie Hut.  There was my old friendTom Phat  and Tao’s Restaurant.  I think Wild Ginger was there by Chillipadi and Golden Orchids.  Right on the end were the Korean Palace and Spiral Potatoes, being watched over by Colonel Tan’s Asian Cuisine.  Cafe Tien Tien was there, right next to Gary’s Dutch Poffertjes…

Hey, I did say it was multicultural….

Happy Year of the Dragon!

 I didn’t understand them at first, little comments on Facebook, some emails, a few text messages, a few dropped hints on phone calls with family and friends….

So yes, I’ve got a confession to make…I’ve fallen behind…a two week vacation has now stretched into over a month of limited posting.

But, like a child, I’ve got some excuses…and some good stories.

Camping near Ninety Mile Beach, watching the mighty Snowy River head out to sea, losing two tires on one trip, going through the ancient Iron Bark forest, a day at the races, a trip to Singapore, Chinese New Year….and a whole host of other stories and observations, as well as stories of growing up on the wind swept plains of North Minnesota…

By the way, did I mention that I was beginning preparations to move back to Minnesota?

Yup, for those who haven’t heard, I’ll be heading back to Minnesota in about four months time…just in time for summer.

So I’ve got a little work to do, hopefully you’ll be coming back to check in now and then.

 Race #4, and I studied the bloody racing guide.  As is the problem, the best horses have the narrowest payout - so you might say that a horse looks good, but you might put $10 down and win $12, and that isn’t a sure thing.

And to make matters worse, there was nary an Irish horse OR an Irish themed horse to bet on.  Looking over the race form, I thought I made an intelligent decision - the long shot, Saint Belle, was a 21-1 long shot in a tight field…and the trainer was a known quantity.  How could I go wrong?  I put my $10 down at the book makers.

The race was hotly contested, with Saint Belle making a go of it out of the gate, but quickly being out paced by the next long shot in the race, Emmalene - a 15-1 long shot.  But I wasn’t worried.  Not at first.  Then it Saint Belle made its way from the front…to the middle…to the back…to the very rear of the pack….and Emmalene made her way from the front half…to the front, and kept off a very hard charging Miss Stellabelle and Anise.  While I was glad that the other horse that I was considering (Zippa the Rippa!) came in a lowly 9^th, there was really only one thing that I could say….

Shucks.

After one close race and one last place showing, I had to retreat to the bar and think about my strategy.  And it took more than one beverage to rethink my strategy.  It was a bit of a long drawn out commiseration with other punters whose fingers were burned early in the betting session.

We were all just a little gun shy.

Finally, it was approaching the big race of the day, the Crown Oaks.  We had to put a bet down.  Everyone was advocating their own favorite.

“Gioe, #6, is the horse for this race and this track.  Bank on it.”

“Vittoria.  A New Zealand horse, a good record.  That is where to put your money.”

“Gliding 10, you can’t bet against a Bart Cummings horse.”

 Luckily, I asked friend Tom what his thoughts were - he was vocally praising Gioe, did he really think that would get the job done?

“Ah mate, #1 is a machine.”  Tom said quietly, “Reckon he can take it all.”  Now Tom will tell you that he isn’t much of a punter on the ponies, but he is a part owner of one, so has more than a passing interest.  How could I pass up that tip (as advice on the races are called).

There is only one thing that I got wrong….#1 was Mosheen…not a machine…but my money was placed.  $10 on a 5-1 odds horse.

We all downed our beverages and headed for the grandstands, to catch a glimpse of history.

Much like the experience at the Melbourne Cup, the announcers came alive…or we just weren’t paying attention during the other races.  Somehow, people seem to pay more attention when $1 million dollars are at risk.

With a flourish, the announcer, called out…”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNDDDD THERE OFF!  Gioe! Gioe on the outside!  Vittoria! Vittoria!  Now The Fallen One!  Watch The Fallen One!  And Gliding!  Gliding on the inside!  Watch Mosheen!  The Mosheen!  And Roma Giaconda on the stretch!  Mosheen!  Gliding!  WAIT!  WAIT!  WAIT! DOWAGER QUEEN!  DOWAGER QUEEN!  AAAAANNNDDDD ROMA GIACONDA!  MOSHEEN!  MOSHEEN!  MOSHEEN WINS THE CROWN OAKS!

Part in shock I looked to the ticket in my hand….I had won a whopping $50!      

View of Melbourne and the Track from the Grandstand

The crowd and the starting gates

The race is on!

 We boarded the flat bottom riverboat right next to the Melbourne Convention and Visitors Center (better known as ‘Jeff’s Shed’ after the premier who built it…it was considered a folly at the time, but rejuvenated the old wharf and warehouse area along the river).  There were about fifty of us getting on board the boat, with beer and wine and a good thirty minute ride down the Yarra River, down into the harbor, then back up the Maribyrnong River, past the old Victoria Harbor, past the big container yards, the industrial sites, and the newly developed parks, walking, and biking trails.

It was a good ride, especially surrounded by good people and with a good beer in hand.  All of us dressed up in our spring finest, making sure that we were our fashionable best for the crowds on Oaks Day…or Ladies Day as we gents liked to remind ourselves…or Blokes Day as the ladies like to roll their eyes and remind us.

Either way, we were headed for the grounds and our tables in our marquee.

The boat landed at a wharf, special for Flemington, and deposited in a massive crowd of people trying to make their way into the grounds.  We threaded our way through the mass of humanity and made our way to the marquee…

What is a marquee you might ask…well, some folks might describe it as a tent, however, that description does not do it justice.  It is a massive venue, with chandeliers, wall sconces, multiple bars, carpeted floors, tables with white tablecloths, napkins, napkin rings…

In short, this wasn’t your ordinary tent.

Did I mention the big screen televisions and the betting booths?

While the venues were placed high on corner hill, next to the grandstand, so the view wasn’t that good, we did have designated grandstand seating, so that we could, if we wanted to leave our lavish venue behind, go up and sit in the grandstand.

With the cool, overcast weather…that wouldn’t be likely…especially with very thorough beverage service.  And I mean thorough.  The gentleman overseeing our table - and they had an army of servers, all wearing their uniform, very dressed up in shirt and tie - never let a beer go completely empty…

It made for a very long day.

Then there was the betting.

A good punter would tell you the signs to look for.  You needed to pay attention to the breeding - who the sire and dam were.  You needed to pay attention to the track conditions - was it wet? Dry?  Hard?  Fast?  You needed to pay attention to the jockey - what was the record?  Could he hold his own?  You had to pay attention to the trainer.  You had to have some idea on when the last race was run.  You had to know what the horses rating was.  You had to know what the horses recent performance had been….

In short, there was a huge complex process that the professional punters used to place the bets and put their money down, as a result, the better the horse, the lower the payout.

Which is why I always resort to my good friend Scotty’s advice:  Bet on the Irish horse.  Even better if it is an Irish name.  If it is a longshot, double your bet.

Sure enough, the first race I bet on was race #3 (the prior race spent betting on the ‘sure thing’…ice cold Boags).

There it was, ‘Celts,’ an Irish born 9-1 long shot.

How could I resist.  It was like being back in Shakopee on a warm summer night with a $1 Leinies in my hand.

I put $10 bucks on Celts to win.

And did you guess that Celts came through in the end?!

If you did, you’d be wrong.  Sadly, sadly, tragically wrong.  I don’t think Celts came last, but it wasn’t even sniffing the tail end of the #3 horse…it was a way back in the field.

“Bloody horse.” I mumbled, but no worries, plenty of more races for the day.

Crowd at the gates

View from the tent

View in the ‘Tent’

One of the places that took my money….