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Thank You for Great Weekend
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Hi Guys,
Just a quick note to say thank you for having Shree and I tag-along this weekend. We had a great time with some laughs and some memorable moments. Particularly with regards to our "Fully Loaded Man" CC, well done son.
Happy trails.
Paul and Shree
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1985 110 Isuzu
1967 2A Ex Army Ambulance
etc
CC
We three oldies also had a great weekend, enjoyed the drive, the scenery, the company, the accommodation, the food (morning tea on day three was a blast). Only took a few photos and most were very similar to the ones already posted so I won't double up.
Changed our midday diets on this trip, we usually have sandwiches but this time we had dustwiches. Almost as good but just a little grittier.
Thankyou organisers, thank you ball boys.
Regards
Glen
mrs ho har, you do need a clean up, that newspaper clipping was pretty old,
looks like you lot had a good trip, well done, and nice pictures
[we didn't take too many on our trip, as we were puckering too hard to reach the cameras]
There was a little bit of puckering on our trip also Harry, so there was no pictures of that section so apparently it didn't happen!Quote:
Originally Posted by harry
Thanks CC. for organising a top weekend, we all enjoyed ourselves immensly.
Cheers, Mick.
THE MAN FROM LOWER BLACKBUTT apologies to A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the line maintenance track had turned away,
From the ridges to the gully- down steep and rutted ground,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted leafers from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the Radnor overnight,
For the leafers love hard riding where the wild bush tracks are,
And the leaf sprung owners snuff the battle with delight.
There was Scallops, who made his pile when Matilda acted up,
The brakes locked up, the car refused to go
And Kat had to ride beside him and his blood was fairly up -
He vowed to go wherever Puma and man could go.
And Big Dog with his Disco 3 came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while electronic traction control would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling in a loud and rattling beast,
It was something like a Mack truck undersized,
With a touch of mini minor- a Series stage 1, 3 parts ugly beast -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that wasn't faint -
There was courage in his slightly widened tyres;
And he bore the badge of combat in its badly weathered paint,
And the proud and lofty heritage of its' sires.
But still so slight and weedy, one would expect low range to play,
And the old man said, "That truck will never do
For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Big Dog stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
"He hails from up round Blackbutt, at Nanango’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where steeltreks strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Lower Blackbutt drivers on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many cowboys since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such an example have I seen."
So he went - they found the hillside by the big mimosa clump -
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at it from the jump,
No use to try for fancy driving now.
And, Big Dog, you must try it, see if the tracks all right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the track in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Big Dog drove to test it - he was racing on the wing
With his wides and electric bling in place,
And he raced his D3 past them, and he made the ranges ring
With his ABS in action, he rattled down that face.
The rest halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved target full in view,
And the track continued down the hill with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub it flew.
Then whilst others pondered, of how the ruts and pot-holed track
Responded to the traction of their tread,
And discussions woke the echoes, and they politely answered back
About tyres and angles and other things they dread
And onward, ever onward, common sense held the way,
About turning back and finding another side:
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the track good day,
No Series would hold traction down that slide."
When he reached the bottom, even Big Dog took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The slippery gravel ruts and, and loose rocks and sand was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Lower Blackbutt let his pony have its head,
And he put it in high first, and gave a cheer,
And then he raced off down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, miraculously staying on its feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Lower Blackbutt bounced verily in his seat -
It was grand to see those leaf springs take the ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
His brake lights never flickered till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was still in high range, the tyres hardly touched the hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw his knuckles shine white like torches, he was right among them still,
As he raced down hill, his CB strangely mute.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the brake lights still shining yet,
With the man from Lower Blackbutt miraculously on his wheels
And he bounced around that cabin luckily lined with plastic.
Like a ping pong ball falling down a set of stairs,
Till they halted battered and shaken, wondering had it been that drastic,
And untangled them selves from food and broken chairs
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He had sprung from rock to rock, his bouncing caused a stir;
But his undies, they had suffered and his pride was fairly shot,
But never yet was leaf sprung car a cur.
And down by sunny Blackbutt, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the dust is mixed with oil, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Radnor pub, the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Lower Blackbutt is a household word today,
And the leafers tell the story of his ride.
My apologies to Banjo.
The one thing that struck me whilst playing with this epic poem written by our mate “Banjo” was that perhaps, quite ‘tongue in cheek’ Banjo was trying to tell us that “Mountain ponies” had faulty transfer cases too!!!!
Regards
Glen
wendy and i had a great time......well for the short time we were tagging along........it looks like the sun and mon all went to plan
will post some pics tonight
Looking forward to hearing the rest of the report :angel:
Looks like a brilliant trip as was expected but i do have to say... WTF is Dan wearing??? Need a better pic for later blackmailing please ;)
That was Dan's Lord Kitchener outfit, I think he was trying to outdo the Colonels Pith Helmet.Quote:
Originally Posted by Outlaw
Cheers, Mick.
You should have seen my dinner clobber! :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Outlaw
Did you have more outfits for the remaining days? ie, did they get worse/better depending how you look at it.Quote:
Originally Posted by Scallops