Caravanning with Wep – Jindabyne 1938; A Far Cry From Home, Minus Handkerchief

A Far Cry From Home, Minus Handkerchief

By L. W. LOWER

JINDABYNE, Wednesday.

Damn all Test matches. I strolled down to the Jindabyne pub last night to listen to the test match.

All was bright and gay within. Without, bleakness had set in in large frozen chunks.

The time came when I had to return to the caravan.

Bright, brittle moonlight was pasted all over the road, and the road went for miles and miles in the wrong direction.

After some hours of steady trudging I had an idea that I should be somewhere about the Gulf of Carpentaria.

I yelled “Coo-ee” in a forlorn, hope-less way, and the echo from the hills nearby made me burst into tears.

I had no matches, no money, no tobacco, and no handkerchief.

I said to myself, “Lower, this is no time for panic. Keep a grip on yourself. Don’t get hysterical.

So I kept on walking, and hours and hours later I found myself outside the same pub.

Trekked Again!

I have in there, and rapped feebly on the door.

They let me in and gave me a bed with two hundred blankets on it.

In the morning I went and had a look at the bathroom, smiled politely at it, and came away again.

I then sought out Straw Weston, the publican.

“I have no money to pay for my room,” I said, getting ready to run like mad.

“That’s all right.” He replied. “you can fix it up later.”

I then proceeded to get lost all over again. Early in the afternoon I found the caravan.

The inmates sneered at me, but I was too weak to object. Next time I go out, I’m going to be hung all over with hurricane lamps and fog horns.

Wep On The Rocks

WEP_Artworks_1651_copy
"Storm over Crackenback"

This is no place for a man who has been delicately brought up in Darlinghurst.

Wep, my artist friend, is away in the hills painting rocks.

Some people have quaint hobbies.

All I’ve got to do now is to find the post office all over again.

If ever I get back to Sydney, the first person who says to me, “Did you enjoy the trip?” gets a smack in the teeth.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Caravanning with Wep – 1938 Jindabyne; Grimm Tale of Man IN Snowy River

Grimm Tale of Man IN Snowy River

By L. W. LOWER

JINDABYNE, Monday.

I, myself, personally, alone, and unaided, have crossed the Snowy River on foot in my downy underpants.

This, so far as I know, has never been done before.

As for me, it will not be done again within living memory.

Asked by an interested bystander why I did this, I told him in my simple, forthright way that I wanted to see what was on the other side.

This seemed pretty weird to him.

Halfway across I became bunkered in the rapids, but the indomitable Lower spirit triumphed, and nature took a dirty slap to the face.

Innumerable turkeys roam around our caravan.

I missed eight with various-sized rocks, and had just drawn a fine sight on the ninth, with every chance of bringing him down, when a man in dirty khaki trousers came and said: “Waddger thinkyer trianterdo?”

It seems that they were his turkeys.

“I was just teaching your turkeys how to duck,” I replied.

I thought that was rather bright, considering. He didn’t.

Un-palette-able!

My artist companion, Wep, is becoming more tiring every hour.

Today he was squinting at a little church built on the top of a bare rock-strewn hill.

He walked me up and down for miles saying, “It looks better from here, don’t you think. Do you think I’d get the light better from over there?”

I said that it would probably look swell from the verandah of Straw Weston’s pub.

He became temperamental about it, and said I had no eye for beauty, no sense of balance and proportion, and no soul.

I got into my huff and walked off.

I beat him to the hotel by only four minutes.