02-08-03
by Britney and Chris
Melbourne/Albury

"We stood, shocked, with our mouths wide agape, unable to believe the audacity of this individual."

On Saturday, we as adventure game creators, decided it was time to embark on a real life adventure. We called and booked an 8:45pm bus trip to Canberra/Thredbo, which would take roughly ten hours with stopovers.

Chris' mom drove us to Lillydale where we proceeded to miss our train; the gate at the train crossing dropped and we waved goodbye to our -- train (can't think of a more witty term due to our long climb). We grabbed food and caught the next mode of transport to downtown Melbourne 35 minutes later. Many punks of the teenage variety inhabited the train. Also, Mister Ice, the coolest guy in town, who we were privileged enough to sit behind, rode in our car. We were taking our guesses on a scale of 1-100% as to how cool he was in order to pass time.

In Melbourne, we had to change trains; our transfer was late and we ran around frantically trying to find a new train that was "on time"...and then realized the train announcer had a speech impediment, and it DID actually come in two minutes -- not ten as we had thought he heard previously. We had to hastily run back to make this train.

In the city, we had a 50/50 chance of heading to the bus depot on Franklin Street--left or right; we chose the wrong 50. Some guy asked us in an annoyingly frequent manner, while we continued running about in circles attempting to find our destination, if we knew about the art exhibition on the road. Our answer never changed, no matter how many times he asked.

We made it to the Greyhound bus depot in the knick of time. We got a 25% discount for -- we're not quite sure why, but it was very welcome. The trip cost AU$87 per person each way. Before departure, I needed to use the restroom, and as I approached it, a boy (of what seemed to be the European type) darted in before me. We stood, shocked, with our mouths wide agape, unable to believe the audacity of this individual. We contemplated his thought patterns, searching for some clue as to why he'd enter the restroom of the opposite gender. Perhaps he didn't see the sign on the door? Perhaps he thought the skirt on the picture represented a Scottish kilt, and being a Scotsman, mistakenly entered? Or maybe he was just a big pervert? We proceeded to talk openly and quite loudly (definitely within earshot range of other bathroom patrons) to serve as a warning for what seemed to be minutes -- nay, hours. Eventually he re-emerged, and not only did HE turn out to be a very masculine looking SHE...but her lesbian (presumably) lover (presumably) was one of the patrons within earshot range. Her lover followed me into the toilet and gave me a big smile -- seemingly oblivious (or unaffected) to the previous audacious conversation, or perhaps in the run for a new lover (as she had not joined her significant other in the restroom previously). Either way, they both ended up on our bus and we all had many opportunities for uncomfortable and silent confrontations.

After buying a newspaper, our bus left promptly at 8:45pm, and we proceeded on our adventure. Our bus was a Boeing jet turned road transport, and our driver was a pilot turned bus driver (at least his uniform made him look that way). We were forbidden movies due to some strange law (although our theory is "The Beach" was on TV, and our noble driver didn't want to put us, nor himself, through undue torture).

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02-09-03
by Britney and Chris
Albury/Camberra/Thredbo

"Let's all worship Ronny McDonny! We all worship you Ronny!"

We stopped for food in the middle of the night after a grueling and sleepless ride. The lesbians sat across from us at the café, so we obsessively ate fries to avoid their uncomfortable gaze. The pilot was very friendly, and due to the lonely and quite solitary life of a bus driver, became fast friends and taught me how to make a mean hot chocolate. Neither of us knew whether the brown stuff was really chocolate mix, but agreed with enough sugar, it would work. I must have made a lasting impression on him, as he extended our meal break five minutes "in my honor". It was then that I promptly turned around and left the hot chocolate machine, and his parting words as I made haste to get away were, "my, you've got a steady hand."

After a veggie burger, we made our way out to the bus, where we met another presumable lesbian from another bus on its way back to Melbourne. She continually made attempts to touch me on the arm and uproariously laughed at anything I said -- must have been the sexy American accent, as she didn't acknowledge the very male and Australian Chris at all. We became a bit worried as our pilot came around to the back of the bus, opened the hatch, explored the inner workings of the bus, and commented to his fellow Melbournian bus driver that the gauges were out of alignment (or some other technical mumbo jumbo). After a brief chat, they agreed the trip must go on, regardless of any casualties incurred, and made their way back to their respective buses. Without much choice, we followed our trusty pilot onto the bus to continue our journey to Canberra. Everyone seemed quite sleepy due to the late hour, and the pilot put down a stern foot to anyone who disrupted the peace and quiet on the bus. Needless to say, the remainder of the bumpy ride to Canberra was not the most exciting. We did see a few UFOs though, which turned out to be reflections of lights in the window.

Reaching Canberra, we felt as if we'd entered a post-apocalyptic war zone. Thinking the capitol would be quite an industrialized and classy burg, we were naturally surprised to discover multitudes of people lying motionless in the street, sprawled out over staircases and such, in classic Godfather-style. Whether drunk, tired, or dead, we do not know -- but nevertheless, they were promptly cleaned up before our second passing. Bottles and junk of immense volumes plastered the streets as far as the eye could see, and not a step could be taken without stepping on something -- great care had to be taken to avoid injury. Thoughtful council workers helped somewhat to "clean" the mess up by blowing the junk into the street with heavy-duty leaf blowing machines, in hopes it would get stuck to passing cars and carried to another State...or thrown up in the air and land in another random place.

Being Sunday morning, nothing much was open, save for the Insomniac Bar, which was unleashing its masses into the post-apocalyptic streets after a night of assumed partying; needless to say, we quickly turned directions and became quite engrossed with the underground area where menus for the Hogsbreath Café (a Southwestern restaurant) and the Australian Pizza Kitchen (a cheap rip of CPK) were placed.

Feeling sick from the combination of no sleep, junk food, and Red Bull, we ventured off to McDonalds. On our way, we found a burnt CD on the road which we are hoping contains some top-secret information of the highly cool variety (later investigation revealed that said CD contained a pirated version of Ali G's "Jungle is Massive" song.). We delayed our entry into the Golden Arches due to the presence of annoying little punks at the entrance; but soon, our hunger took over. As we approached the restaurant, we saw a middle-aged woman crossing the road in a long dress and straw hat, pulling a 50ft. length of string behind her, to which was attached a detonated, novelty party popper plastic shell. We stood there, once again, with our mouths wide open, wondering if this was a paranoid schizophrenic suffer...but once again, hunger called, and nothing deterred us from our choice of fine dining.

Two minutes later, we boldly crossed the street, bypassed the punks, and entered the doors of the Golden Arches. After ordering a hot cocoa, hash browns, and the smallest orange juice ever, we sat down. A few minutes passed and the lady in the straw hat stood and headed for the exit. We wrongly assumed she was leaving the premises, when she stopped midway and turned to face the life-sized, plastic model of a waving and smiling Ronald McDonald.

In an ironic and very coincidental turn of events, she then began sarcastically abusing Ronald by saying, "Let's all worship Ronny McDonny. Let's all worship Ronny McDonny! We all worship you Ronny!" in a very disruptive, dramatic, passionate and masculine voice. Bowing gestures of the "We're not worthy" variety were even included. This would not be the first time within 24 hours that we would mistake someone's gender.

Being quite the oblivious entertainer, we chose to observe his unique behaviors for a while longer. He turned back towards the counter, purchased a coffee, returned to his plastic, pseudo, red head deity, got right in his face, and screwing his own face in an angry contortion, with gritted teeth, he mumbled something very private and inaudible under his breath; then, he started to physically slap Ronald around a bit, coaxing him into battle. When the plastic figure stood unaffected by his violent taunts, still sporting a big grin and friendly waving gesture, he seemingly gave up -- but not before ending the conversation with a, "ehhh...f*ck ya." He returned to his seat and we used this opportunity to make a quick departure incase he massacred everyone in the restaurant out of revenge for his deity's stubborn lack of acknowledgement.

We walked to the Parliament House, shaking off the haunting image of the man in the ankle length dress and pet firecracker which still clung to our minds. This was even more disturbing than the reigning champion for strangeness from just the previous day -- the bald headed, hitchhiking, midget dwarf who was wearing an Armani suit (and had presumably escaped the circus). He was quite the sight to see, and entertained us as his little legs ran frantically to catch up to a stopped vehicle, which had probably stopped hundreds of feet ahead for reasons that didn't even concern the dwarf.

After embarking on a long journey to circumnavigate the entire city, we seemed at a dead end. So, we created our own route, undeterred, running across the Canadian High Commission, a busy freeway, scaling the freeway wall, and forging our own path through a well-manicured garden at the back of the Parliament House.

We eventually ran into a sympathetic guard who pointed us in the right direction to the front entrance. We went there and found the Parliament to be closed for another 40 minutes; in the meantime, we observed a suspicious looking Middle Eastern family as they filmed the landmark with their camcorder. This had us slightly worried, as it was a choice day for a terrorist attack due to the Australian Prime Minister's (John Howard) current trip to D.C. to schmooze with Bush over an imminent war in Iraq. We considered calling the terrorist hotline, but then realized the nearby security guard was already on his walky talky...and the "terrorists" did happen to be small children and women (except for the doting father). In retrospect, the guard was probably calling security on us -- after all, we were looking for coins in the Parliamentary fountain.

To pass time, we walked down to a big white house (not THE White House) and quickly turned back when we saw a lone aboriginal man, shouting violently at the top of his lungs, running in circles. When we got back, it was time for the Parliament House to open. We placed our items on a single security tray, where they went through an X-ray machine. Like magic, the items came out the other side nicely sorted into TWO separate trays, minus the recently acquired CD, which came out on the conveyor belt by itself and returned to us after being roughly manhandled by the incompetent guards who obviously didn't understand just how important this CD possibly was.

Our favorite moments at the Parliament House included nearly falling asleep on the comfy padded benches and exploring the less-than-Parliamentary restrooms. After a short browse of the gift shop, we bought some postcards and headed back to the bus depot, passing a crew of Canadian marathon trainers, and a reckless couple of mountain bikers who nearly mowed us down, amongst other things. Unfortunately, we left our cameras in our single use, overpriced, blue locker (#23) in the depot, and were unable to photograph these most exciting events.

Upon returning to the bus depot, we looked in the news agency for a short while and waited around until our 11:30am "bus" ride. We were at first quite pleased to meet up with a rather plump John Candy look-alike with a moustache, who ushered us to the vehicle which would carry our luggage to Thredbo. However, there were no more buses to be seen in the depot, and we wondered where our coach was. It soon became apparent, to our horror, why we got the 25% discount after all -- the luggage transport vehicle actually ended up being our "coach," and it came in the form of an eight seat minivan.

We were crammed into the "bus" with two other equally horrified young, male passengers, and before anyone could summon the courage to complain, loud oldies music, lacking very much in taste, blasted from speakers (at decibels above shouting level) placed strategically about the minivan. Needless to say, nobody sat next to the driver in the front seat -- which he was probably quite pleased about, as it allowed him free reign of the radio controls (where he had a seemingly unlimited selection of tasteless radio stations). Any remotely modern song (1980s onwards) was quickly changed to something that more suited his tastes. We sensed everyone in the minivan felt the same way about the driver's musical preferences, but alas, none of us had a loud enough voice to speak over it and let him know. The front seat, being vacant, also allowed the driver the luxury arm space required to juggle two cell phones at once, toggle the radio knobs, and drive treacherous mountain paths at high speeds in the rain -- seriously, we didn't see this guy put more than one hand on the wheel at any point during the three hour trip. It was highly nerve-wracking to all involved.

We finally arrived at our destination, and after nearly a day and a half of no sleep, we just wanted to get a room -- but the bus driver engaged us in deep conversation. He actually turned out to be quite friendly and helpful in finding places to stay and things to do in Thredbo; he then secured our loyalty to his company, insisting we use his service (Summit Coaches) again on the return trip to Canberra. We decided due to his friendliness to forgive him for his apparent desire to get us all killed in a serious road accident, and allowed him to write down his number for us. Unfortunately, it seems we'd be stuck for several days, as the "bus" service operates sporadically. He waved us goodbye and we were finally on our way to fend for ourselves in unknown territory.

Seeing we were on an adventurer's budget, we realized the only place we could realistically afford to stay was the town's youth hostel (YHA); but this did not stop us from utilizing the expensive, top-of-the-line, Alpine Lodge's toilet facilities. We trekked up an arduous path to the YHA and found it to be apparently abandoned. After searching all possible entrances with no luck, our fatigued minds decided it would be appealing to set up camp in the only unlocked door on the premises -- the laundry room. Luckily, we alerted a sunbather who just happened to be at the back, private area of the hostel (before they found us sleeping on the floor for free), and we were warmly welcomed inside.

Chris, slightly put-off by the idea of sleeping in the same room with two male strangers from Austria with a penchant for walking around topless, pleaded to have a private room, or else sleep outside on the street. So Dean, the hostel manager, apparently quite taken with Chris, offered us a deal we could not refuse -- a private room with a bunk bed at the price of a multiple person dorm with randomly selected roommates. Although I initially had no problem sleeping in the same room as strangers, after bumping into who would have been my roommate in the bathroom (an 80+ year old elderly woman who obviously misinterpreted the word "youth"), I realized we had made the right decision.

Chris, knowing my past traumatic experiences with bunk beds my Freshman year of college, courteously took the top bunk, despite having fallen out of top bunks on previous occasions himself.

We were impressed with the friendliness of our gracious host, Dean, who single handedly raised baby wombats to maturity and offered us low priced rooms out of the kindness of his heart. However, our faith in him started to wane as we began noticing a peculiar and unique pattern in his behavior -- the most striking being the coincidental nature of him emerging from the private staff door at the exact same time we left or entered our room. This resulted in a number of uncomfortable silences, where skills in idle chit-chat were imperative.

We took a leisurely stroll through town and found every worthwhile shop we actually needed goods from to be closed. Confused as to what would technically qualify as an "ascent" to the summit of Mount Kosciuszko, we consulted with a presumed expert -- the woman at the official Thredbo information desk. Although quite helpful, her information was misleading and rather wrong, considering she instructed us to ride the chairlift 3/4th the way up the mountain and walk a measly 4km (2 miles), and a very flat 4km I might add, to Kosciuszko's peak. Luckily, in good conscience, we realized this would be blatant cheating, and we did not come to Thredbo to do a literally half-ass*d job at climbing the first of the Seven Summits. The woman's friendly face clearly turned to a look of shock as we mentioned that we would traverse the mountain from the base of Thredbo at the rising of the next sun. We asked if she'd ever done the hike herself, and were amazed to find that Mount Kosciuszko's official knowledge base and information giver had never technically climbed to Kozzie's peak without using the chairlift. Seeing the whole town had questionable morals where summitization is concerned, we were quite pleased when we returned to our home away from home, YHA, and were informed by a smiling Dean that it indeed would be possible to climb the mountain without cheating, as he had done it himself from the base (or so he said; though living in Thredbo for 12 years, he'd have no excuse not to).

Dean kindly pointed out the trails we'd need to take on a map (Merritt's Nature Track would be our alternative to the chairlift), and we decided to call it a night early so that we'd have plenty of energy for our strenuous adventure ahead; but this was not before securing food for our trip. First we went for a highly health conscious pizza dinner, and then made our way to an equally healthy ice cream dessert. We eyed a lone plate on the counter, filled with a fine selection of jam pastries and croissants. After inquiring of their price, the waiter informed us we were welcome to take one for free. We naturally cleaned him out of his entire inventory in foresight for our big day ahead. We also stocked up on Powerade and water.

As usual, upon reentry to YHA, we checked to be sure the coast was clear. Phew -- no Dean. We quickly made a mad dash for the room; the key jammed in the lock, and we jiggled it furiously while keeping an ever watchful eye on the private staff door at all times, dreading the possibility of its opening. As usual, it did, and Dean walked out, again forcing us to conjure a new topic for idle chit-chat conversation. After he left, we entered the room, and after a shower, doing the laundry, and setting the clock for 5:15am, we dozed off to sleep at 8pm, expecting to have a hard time waking up so early.

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02-10-03
by Britney and Chris
Mount Kosciuszko, Australia

"We noticed a lone, proud figure, hands on hips and standing triumphantly, surveying the colossal mountain range towering above him."

At 12am, we were both wide awake and ready to climb a mountain. After taking into consideration the thunder storm, bush fires, freezing cold temperatures, lack of light and scenery, and our very basic level of mountaineering skills as well as our lack of familiarity with Kozzie, we decided it would be wise to postpone our journey until the sun arose.

Surprisingly, and contrary to either of our beliefs, we did manage to fall asleep again -- and rather quickly. Luckily, this was a good thing, as we realized this extra sleep was vital to our hike. The 48 hours of no sleep had caused a jetlag-like effect which, in turn, had deceived us into thinking we were wide-awake. As our faithful alarm sounded in a timely fashion at 5:15am, we were ironically too tired to get up and fell asleep once again. Luckily, we hadn't attempted to hike the mountain at midnight.

Upon waking up at 8am, we hurriedly got ready, as we realized leaving any later could be detrimental to our summit hike. Eager to explore new horizons, we rushed out the door -- and greeted Dean as he emerged from the private door in predictable Dean-like fashion. This time, a conversation ensued about our planned ascent up Kozzie, and Dean, obviously having much faith in our abilities, informed us he'd notify the search parties if we failed to return. Then, he waved us goodbye as we headed out the door. Once outside, we immediately realized we'd forgotten a most crucial element to our successful climbing of the mountain -- our water, Powerades, and energy giving food. We briefly contemplated soldiering on without them in a desperate attempt to avoid another unnecessary confrontation with Dean. Although, seeing no other alternatives, we realized we'd have to go back in and retrieve these items. Dean was quite surprised to see us return so soon, and we jokingly informed him the ascent was much easier than we had anticipated. He then told us we had set a new record. We grabbed our stuff, and on our return through the foyer, passed a Dean-less desk for the last time that morning.

We were a bit hungry and decided this would offer the perfect opportunity to stall. We went into a café and ordered a breakfast burger (for Chris) and a blueberry muffin (for me), as well as a pot of tea -- we then headed across the wooden bridge towards the information booth where Merritt's Nature Track (the path up Kozzie) begins. After taking a snap shot as evidence that we had not taken the chairlift, we began our ascent up the first stretch of the mountain.

It was very challenging. Our hearts beat as frantically as the pace of cheesy techno music. However, we carried on, taking photos and recuperation breaks every so often as we reached higher ground. Eventually, we came upon an abandoned ski cabin, and the area uncovered a large clearing which overlooked the picturesque Thredbo village far below. We picked up two nearby sticks and designated them our official summit walking sticks -- these would come in very handy.

After walking into this clearing, we noticed a lone, proud figure, hands on hips and standing triumphantly, surveying the colossal mountain range towering above him. As soon as we regained the energy to walk again, we took a few steps towards the impressive figure; bus alas, he was already on his way up the next stretch of mountain and disappeared around the bend before we could utter a word. We noticed he used twin ski poles as walking sticks and could not help but admire his professionalism.

We climbed the winding path onward and upwards to where the eagles fly and the kamikaze grasshoppers jump in an abundance of biblical proportions over cliffs and across the rocky path. Strangely, we did not see the lone mountaineer again, and admired his fitness, as he was always one step ahead of us. Eventually we arrived at a lookout with a picnic table, where Chris smacked himself in the jaw with his trusty walking stick and nearly bit his tongue off -- but the journey had to go on.

We hiked the steep stairs above the lookout and heard faint voices from the upper plateau. Lo and behold, as the plateau slowly came into view, we beheld and awesome sight -- there stood the lone figure, catching his breath, and apparently a few unwanted, middle-aged, female admirers.

As we entered into the presence of the trio, greetings were being exchanged. It was at this time that the lone mountaineer proclaimed his name to be "Bob," and a mighty fine name it was (for simplicity's sake, we will refer to him as such for the remainder of this journal entry). He chatted briefly with the two dames, who were all too willing to provide him with contact information in the form of a cell phone number as well as a scheduled dinner date in Sydney when he'd arrive there in two weeks time. As it turns out, the two women were from Sydney, and Bob himself was from Northern California -- Marin County, in the wine valley above San Francisco.

The two women, who cheated by taking the chairlift up the mountain, attempted to redeem themselves by taking Merritt's Nature Track down. Although any real climber knows too well, that it was the ascent up Merritt's Track that has merit -- not the other way around.

We continued to follow bold Bob up the path for a few minutes, when we discovered he shared our common goal of climbing the Seven Summits -- and found he'd already successfully tackled two (Kilimanjaro in Tanzania and Elbrus in Russia), unsuccessfully one (Aconcagua in Argentina), and was, this day, on his way to accomplishing his third (Kozzie). Before long, we reached the first chairlift terminal; Bob looked fairly fatigued (perhaps from our distracting conversations which were not allowing him to be at one with the mountain). He insisted we continue on without him, but as we told him we were stopping for drinks, he took the opportunity to continue on without us. Again, he steadily climbed, soon turning into a distant, white pinpoint upon the horizon. We took a moment to capture this proud image on film before he once again disappeared around the corner in a now all too familiar turn of events. But we did not give up hope of meeting again with this influential figure, as surely we knew that there was only one main pathway up and down the mountain from this point -- we were bound by the laws of logic to cross paths again (unless he flew back in a Helicopter).

We rested for ten minutes before resuming our hike. We traversed the same path that Bob had already forged before us, and in 15 minutes, had arrived at a quaint café -- the highest on the Australian sub-continent. We glanced up at yon window and saw a visage of Bob, sitting within its shaded walls, sipping a beverage of some kind. Whether he was avoiding us, or really needed a drink, we do not know. We carried on, leaving Bob behind, and wondering if he would ever summit Kozzie. We bypassed the café for now, as we still had an adequate supply of Powerade.

The specific details of what followed for the next few hours are too horrifying to describe (or too boring); it did entail climbing unnecessary rocks; reading signs; sitting on snowmobiles; taking the odd photo; looking out at lookouts; ignoring "Do Not Enter: Fire Zone" signs; discussing Indiana Jones and tumbling boulders; arguing mercilessly as oxygen became scarce and breathing more laborious; using port-a-potties placed near the rooftop of Australia, and following one hell of a long, rust-corroded, steel, mesh path which we likened to the Yellow Brick road of Oz, with Kozzie's summit representing the Emerald City. The port-a-potties (referred to as dunnies in Oz) were actually a crucial milestone to any would be climber to Kozzie. They denoted the final stretch to the summit.

Eventually, we followed a spiraling and fly infested trail to the peak; we were a little disconcerted upon witnessing our first sights at the summit -- an 80-year-old granny with her obese granddaughter sitting on a rock. We felt a little less confident about our abilities and our triumphant goal, but gained some satisfaction from our assumption that they must have cheated by using the chairlift to bypass Merritt's Nature Track. We exultantly approached the summit marker in slow motion, like Simba climbing Pride Rock, and straddled its monument -- for a blink in time, we were the highest people spreading our legs over Australia.

After we realized there was nothing more to do on Australia's highest point, we began our long descent. Just as we started back down the path, none other than Bob appeared, approaching the summit. Our fate had been sealed -- we knew we'd meet him again! After making a few brief jokes, we encouraged him in his final steps to glory and went our separate ways.

After a second long and boring walk (with a $150 penalty for running), we found ourselves once again before the Eagle's Nest Café; dehydrated from our adventure, we decided to go in. Placing our walking sticks (Chris had named his Wilson, and I had yet to decide on an appropriate name) in a safe, undisclosed location, we then made our way inside.

Climbing up the steps, we sighted a dark and ominous figure, reminiscent of the sly and stereotypical villain from Disney's "The Rescuers Down Under", hunched over a computer and blocking the entrance.

Pushing our way past this human obstacle, we took an available seat in the middle of the café, and noticing the astronomically expensive prices, decided to order the minimum amount of food -- a scone, which appeared to only come in plurals, forcing us to order more than one (aka, scones).

The "villainous" shopkeeper rudely interrupted our conversation, making himself quite comfy, sitting upon a table which patrons would regularly eat upon. He then asserted his opinions onto us, telling us how to run our game company; what would sell and what wouldn't; and throwing in lots of sexual innuendo and perverted comments along the way. He made radical claims that he was a descendent of the world-renowned chemist, Linus Pauling, after he learned that I had studied biochemistry in school. He claimed to know obscure facts about capitalistic China, stating it was in no way a communist country to the trained eye, and instead provided a wealth of opportunities for the potential new business owner in that region.

After talking for way too long and wasting way too much of our valuable time in Thredbo, we finally managed to break away; though, we still needed to purchase two Red Bulls to keep us sharp for the daunting descent down Merritt's Nature Track which still awaited us.

Malcolm used this opportunity to nearly sabotage the final stages of our goal by forcing us to drink highly potent, alcoholic substances for his amusement. Luckily our heightened sense of awareness was greater than the intoxicating powers of the Schnapps, and we walked away unscathed, albeit the unsavory aftertaste as well as the warm and fuzzy feelings left deep within our stomachs.

After leaving the café far behind, we had reached the halfway point, and the most challenging at that, of Merrit's Track, when to our dismay, Chris yelled out, "Wilson! I'm sorry Wilson!" and extended an arm and open hand towards the mountain. It was then that we realized we had left our sticks behind in the undisclosed location. Too exhausted to turn back, heartbroken, we continued toward the village.

We reached the familiar point at the crossroads on the mountain -- the same point on our ascent where we had earlier stumbled upon two topless Austrian men, who asked us, "vich vay to ze willage?" This time, however, we took a detour down a more picturesque route alongside a river and bridge (where we attempted rock diving and offered a lone echidna a sip of Red Bull), eventually arriving back in town. Quite beat and prepared to never climb a mountain again, we showered, did laundry, and went to the Bistro for a celebratory dinner. Unfortunately, there was no food, forcing us to dine on a rare delicacy -- Snickers bars from a vending machine.

Despite the lack of food, almost the entire town populous, save for Dean and Malcolm, were present (just like the celebratory ending in a QFG game) and happily engaged in watching "Who Wants to be a Millionaire." The girl from the pizza shop where we had previously dined was seducing some out-of-towner. We never did see her after that night again -- and the pizza shop remained permanently closed forever more.

Needless to say, Snickers and Schnapps in stomach, and completely exhausted, we slept fairly well.

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02-11-03
by Britney and Chris
Mount Kosciuszko, Australia

"Each step we took down literally increased our pain twofold."

Upon awakening, the realization set in -- we were stuck in Thredbo for another 30 hours with nothing to do, and with legs so sore, we resembled cowboys when walking.

We pondered our next course of action and decided the chairlift was the only form of decent entertainment available in town. Upon seeing the price of a ride, we reconsidered due to our limited budget.

We then determined that the rest of the day must be dedicated to a rescue mission to retrieve the sticks we had accidentally left behind at the Eagle's Nest Café the previous day. Since we were only walking half-way up the mountain, and also due to the fact that the sticks were probably restricted from riding the chairlift, we took the budget and less convenient route. We traversed the mountain once more, by foot, up Merritt's Nature Track with the intention of retrieving our sticks and making our way back to the bottom again.

Despite our initially aching legs, we were finding the trail surprisingly less demanding than before and were making better time than ever! Almost effortlessly, we reached the café with a minimum amount of pain and in record timing to boot. To our elation, Wilson and the other yet to be named stick were still concealed where we'd left them previously. With mission complete, we decided it would be a wise opportunity to refill our drink bottles for the hike down, as well as reapply sunscreen in copious amounts to our charred and blistering skin. We entered the washing facility of the café, cautiously avoiding Malcolm.

After we had done these things, we contemplated climbing Kozzie again, since the hardest part was already over and done with, and the rest of the hike, by comparison, would be relatively easy. We then decided for certain we would climb Kozzie once more, as turning back would be like quitting. It only took a sip of water from our Powerade bottles which we'd filled from the toilets (the sink, not the bowl) to realize we needed something a little more appetizing if we were to continue our journey with any chance of success.

We went back into the café. Malcolm greeted us again and with a barrage of new and perverted comments, amongst other things, the middle-aged man sat upon tables once more and enviously dissed the town hero -- Stuart Diver (the lone Thredbo avalanche survivor and lead protagonist of a made-for-TV movie, created in his honor). He then gave us more savvy business advice, instructing us that we must make 3D, virtual reality, dynamic, fire fighting services as it would make us "squillions." After repeatedly trying to unzip articles of my clothing, we tried to make multiple escape attempts -- but Malcolm's smooth tongue and slyly crafted conversation topics ensured we stayed always a while longer.

As we stood at the counter, another patron looked up from beneath the brim of his white cap. He spoke but a single word, but it was a voice all too familiar -- Bob!

It was a short meeting, though Bob had overheard our discussion with Malcolm regarding climbing the mountain a second time in two consecutive days. Bob was clearly surprised we were attempting such a feat, however, we soon parted on our separate ways once more. We managed to escape from the vile clenches of Malcolm as well by commenting on the time. He handed us a CD and business card as we made a hasty departure -- this was fortunately to be our last encounter with the Narcissistic café owner.

Again, attempted to summit Kozzie. Some arrogant first time climbers, who were headed towards the chairlift, sneered at us jokingly as they climbed down and informed us we had an awful three-hour hike ahead of us. Little did they know that we had taken the same route from the base of the mountain two days in a row!

We passed the last bunch of descending indivuals, which happened to be a large group of Japanese tourists. They were very friendly, although giving a personal greeting "hi" to each one got old fast in our weary state of mind.

Since we were the last to hike up, the walk was fairly short (1 hour and 20 minutes) and uneventful. This time, we were the only ones at the summit, so we took a view, ate a Snickers bar, took some photos for a potential Snickers sponsorship campaign, and straddled the monument once more; we then headed down.

We took the road less traveled, going off the beaten path (at the risk of receiving a hefty fine from Law Enforcement officers hiding in the uncharted mountains), and visited a glacier lake in forbidden terrain, all while being followed constantly by an army of annoying flies. It was farther than we had anticipated, and notwithstanding the impressive view of large rocks and interestingly shallow water, it was not all THAT impressive. We walked back up a steep hill covered in prickly, low bushes until we eventually reached the steel mesh path once again. We had another uneventful and lonesome journey through which looked like the Scottish Highlands (not that either of us have been there and would actually know - but we have seen "Braveheart").

We arrived back at the Eagle's Nest Café Mountain Hut. Though we'd made record time, our legs were a little worse for wear. The soles of our feet ached, and so did our knees. This was not good, as we had yet to walk down Merritt's Nature Track, and even if we had wanted to catch the chairlift, we couldn't, as it was no longer running for the night.

Each step we took down literally increased our pain twofold. When we reached a certain point, we decided, "screw the track" and walked the most direct route immediately beneath the chairlift. It was a lot steeper and infested with foliage, but got us back faster.

After such an arduous rescue mission, I decided to call my stick simply "Bob", in memory of our modest mountaineering mentor, Bob. We took the sticks back to the YHA hostel and placed them meticulously in the safe confines of our room. The front desk was closed, and unbeknownst to us, we would never see Dean again.

We headed out to find something for dinner, hoping for a place to still be open at this latish hour; it seemed the Cascade Restaurant was the only available option in town. With a combination of a pricey menu and main dishes of duck as well as other small fowl, we decided to continue touring town for alternate options -- but to our dismay, there were no other alternative choices, and we were forced to patronize the monopolizing restaurant entity. We walked around town for a bit before settling on our only choice, and were overjoyed when we saw a lone Bob wandering about the town streets. We giddy teenage girls rendezvousing with a rock star idol, we badgered bob with questions on restaurant options, career, goals, and the like. He informed us he was a psychologist, working for a prison, spoke a bit of Swahili, had also read "The Seven Summits" by Dick Bass, and was attempting to climb the seven mountains himself as well.

We all walked to the Cascade Restaurant together and settled down to eat our final supper in Thredbo. We told him of our successful second summit attempt, and in our honor of this momentous occasion, he offered us to eat dinner with him and even footed the bill - his shout! We ordered pumpkin soup, fries, and expensive carbonated beverages. We did not skimp on ordering seconds when Bob graciously offered. Hooray for Bob! We engaged in further conversation about psychology and the Seven Summits. Bob saw that it was good. We ruthlessly barraged him with questions relating to the Seven Summits and asked him what kind of mountaineering gear would be required to climb each one. We also discovered that Bob had spent the previous night in a town near Thredbo called Jindabyne, which was apparently an even bigger ghost town!

Bob seemed impressed with our wealth of knowledge on all conversation topics discussed (such as exact mountain elevation measurements in Rainman-like fashion), and invited us back to his hotel room at the ritzy Alpine Lodge to show us photographs that he had taken of his previous successful summit attempts, which have since been made into annual Christmas cards. We used this opportunity to invite ourselves on his ride to the airport early the next morning, so that we would not be required to catch the cramped minibus all the way to Canberra. Bob said this was acceptable and asked us to meet him outside the Alpine Lodge early the next morning. We went back to the YHA hostel, had a shower, looked over the YHA's selection of video cassette covers (which included, but was not limited to Ghost Busters II), and then went to bed and fell instantly asleep.

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02-12-03
by Britney and Chris
Thredbo/Canberra/Melbourne

"Our transport was a twin propeller plane with very narrow aisles and was as noisy as a lawnmower!"

We arose bright and early the next morning, packed our meager belongings together, and made our way down the YHA steps towards the Alpine Lodge. True to form, Bob was already waiting there with his hired out vehicle, ready for departure. We stuffed our luggage into the car and found an equally creative method of cramming our climbing sticks (now fond souvenirs) in too. After taking a few photos of us standing next to the stately Bob, we climbed into the car and started our long journey towards Canberra airport. Along the way, Bob encountered many difficulties adapting to driving (and sticking to) the left-hand side of the road. He even had to ask Chris the road rules on several occasions, especially when confronting round-a-bouts! Along one particular stretch of highway, bushfires still burned as we drove alongside the charred and blackened remains of what was formerly a forest. Dead kangaroos and other assortments of carrion littered the side of the road in great quantities. Morbidly intrigued by this carnage, Bob told us how he had stopped his car on several occasions to take photographs of the foreign and bizarre road kill to show his friends and family back home. (Though, we secretly believe the graphic images are used as a "psychological disciplinary" tool when dealing with unruly prisoners at the prison facility where Bob works.) He insisted if we saw a remarkable kangaroo, with all body parts intact, to notify him -- as he was still looking for that special prize picture to add to his collection of road kill memories.

We discussed many interesting topics, including Bob's Tanzanian expedition of Kilimanjaro and how his porter would have died if it weren't for Bob's quick, heroic, and life-saving actions. Bob also informed us of a chap he met in Tanzania, who, while drinking alcoholic beverages, claimed to know the whereabouts of the real King Solomon's mine; he promised to reveal its location, and fortune, to Bob someday. We discussed Bob's work as psychologist, too, and inquired how he sets boundaries -- misinterpreting our innocent question, he went on to explain in detail how flirtatious female patients get too close for comfort, allowing us to learn a lot more about the trials and tribulations of psychological work than originally intended. We learned that Bob has an aversion to Dr Phil (and TV doctors in general), and that his crusade to "discredit" them has caused the collapse of at least one serious relationship that he was involved in (with a Doctor Phil admirer). We were also invited to journey with Bob to the Great Barrier Reef in Queensland, and go on a scuba adventure with him by boat, but lack of additional clothes and money made this impractical, unfortunately.

After another long drive, we finally arrived at Canberra airport and said our farewells to Bob. We exchanged email addresses with him and vowed the pay for him to climb the costly Mount Everest and Vison Massif (as one does not make a goal to climb merely five of the almighty SEVEN Summits) with us some day. Then, the lone figure disappeared through the boarding line and was gone.

We made the decision NOT to catch the bus back to Melbourne again, as we had but two pairs of clothes that were washed (and worn) interchangeably. Additionally, one of Chris's pairs of pants were severely ripped from walking down the challenging mountain. Besides, we wanted to get back home in speed and style--so purchasing a plane ticket was the only option! We inquired at one of the larger commercial airline counters about the cost of a ticket, and they were asking nearly AU$200 each! At this time, we declined and started walking away, when we noticed another counter-- a smaller airline with the logo "REX" emblazoned above it. It looked like a strange, subliminal rip-off of the Fed-Ex logo. Apparently, REX was a new company which utilizes the now obsolete Ansett Airlines fleet of smaller planes, which happened to be of the Saab variety. The tickets from Canberra to Melbourne with REX would cost us just under AU$100 each, and this was much more acceptable to our wallets. We paid the woman at the counter for two tickets and informed her that she looked just like Sally Field (which was true) before turning to locate our flight. Guards took our sticks and put them into checked baggage for us. However, it wasn't until seeing the actual size of the plane that we understood why the tickets were so inexpensive! Our transport was a twin propeller plane with very narrow aisles and was as noisy as a lawnmower! Only after we were aboard, did we realize the bad karma that could already be taking effect. For example: Tom Hanks works for Fed-Ex in the movie "Castaway", and we know what happens to his plane. We had a stick on board called "Wilson", in honor of the lost volleyball and only friend of Tom Hanks from the movie "Castaway". The name "REX" sounds like "Wrecks" -- as in a severe type of transportation accident, pluralized. The list goes on! However, our desire to get home quickly conquered all of the above superstitions and in a little over an hour, we were approaching Melbourne's Tullamarine airport without incident. Unfortunately, no runways were available for landing immediately upon our arrival, so we flew around for 12 minutes (to Eildon Weir and back) in order to waste some time, while the pilot pointed out landmarks from the window.

When we landed at Melbourne, we went to the carousel and retrieved our bags, but the sticks were nowhere to be seen! After a while, we noticed both of them sitting up against a distant wall, wrapped together with duct tape, seemingly discarded as junk. Nobody even knew the value of these sticks-- nobody thought to inform us that they wouldn't be coming out on the baggage carousel, despite the fact that the sticks were clearly labeled with our passenger names! Of all pieces of luggage that pass through the airport on a daily basis, these STICKS should be respected; they got us up Australia's tallest mountain after all!

We walked out of the airport and purchased tickets for the shuttle bus, which would deliver us from the airport back to the inner city of Melbourne. The girl behind the shuttle bus counter almost kept the better part of a AU$100 note that Chris handed her, as she absent-mindedly went about her mundane task of exchanging money for tickets. When we informed her of the mistake, she had forgotten just how much money we had given her, and she questioned if she really did owe us anything. She ended up having to count through her entire daily takings and check them against her books in order to confirm the error and pay back the money. Once the tickets (and change) were acquired, we approached the shuttle bus, and the bus driver looked bewildered as we handed him two large sticks to store away. After continually being handed bag after bag to stash in the bus's lower compartment, two sticks must have come as a bit of a surprise. After a 15-minute journey, we were back in the city, brandishing large wooden sticks as we walked down the streets of Melbourne, capturing many an odd look from bystanders. We had dinner, then caught the train back home for some R&R. Our first of the Seven Summits is down. Only six left to go!

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