Generally I am a good driver. Sure sometimes I text while speeding while hungover. Or take selfies while I am doing the New England Highway. Or do a uey over double lines.
But the only crash I have had (until this weekend) was when I got rear ended in the 'Sham when I was only there to return the keys, having moved back in to Baxter. Not my fault.
This weekend I was heading to The Coast. To Forster. Not to Laurieton, which is only 1 hour down the road and FREE... (and also on a road that I know very very well, and have never crashed on before... sorry, I digress)But to a lake house that Jase had organised. And I was so very excited.
Sure I had to wait until I had coached the U13 Soccer Dynamos. And they always play at midday, which sucks arse. And then there was a supermarket trip, and getting petrol. It was about 1.30 before I left.
And I also didn't really know where I was going.
But I was heading in the right direction on the Forest Way Road. It was just stunning. Apart from the parts where the Forestry department has left huge jagged scars in the landscape. The colour was so vivid and green, there were gorgeous bright rosellas, majestic black cockatoos and gently bounding (not near the road) kangaroos.
Not long after the logging road turned to grazing pastures, there was newly graded road. Looser gravel.
I was cruising along, possibly 60, 70ks an hour. Henry's wheels slipped off the tire tracks, onto the Even Looser gravel. And fishtailed.
He fishtailed again, and I felt my heart push against my chest, as if trying to evacuate the car, but first just had to get through the chest cavity. I felt the heat prickle in my fingertips as the adreneline reached the end of the line.
He fishtailed again.
The voice in my head, the voice of reason, the one that usually knows what it is talking about. It was speaking. Not yelling, but in a calm clear voice, much like a driving instructor.
This is what you are meant to do. You're just meant to keep fishtailing til your wheels hit solid ground again. Just keep swimming.
DO NOT touch those brakes. Keep your feet OFF the brakes. DO NOT TOUCH THE BRAKES
But my feet wanted the car to stop.
Honestly, I just whispered my toes against the brakes. No slamming. But it was the signal for Henry to veer directly for the right hand side of the road.
Hitting the dirt gutter.
Gliding over the ditch. There was a hardy looking bush just one foot to my right, and a dead woody looking thing two feet to my left.
Coming to an abrupt halt. Apparently in a reedy swamp. I've never been a huge fan of swamps in the past. They seemed to me to be the lowest in the heirachy of bodies of water. Lower than a creek. Less status than even a puddle.
Swamps have soared in my esteem. Keep your oceans, rivers, lakes. Give me a swamp down from Rubys Nob Road. That swamp? Saved my life.
The giant dead tree was close enough to the driver side door for it to touch the door frame when I opened it. The wire fence, with its vicious looking star pickets was just beyond the dead tree. And the burly black cows, casually chewing cud, looking at me like she was saying "What the fuck did you do that for? You dickhead"
For some reason, I thought I might be able to just drive on out.
There was a little too much water for that. Also not enough traction for reversing the way I came.
I thought about how Nana, at 65, got her giant Merc out of half a metre of mud on the way to Kioma. By herself. I couldn't think of how to do it. Obviously Poppa wasn't talking me through it like he talked her through it. Possibly because he had been doing the precision driving to get me into the swamp, rather than the tree. Or the cow.
So I thought breifly about pushing. And gave up pretty quick smart on that.
I was just at the point of considering what I had seen behind me by way of driveways and farm houses. Do I turn left? Or right?
And then I heard the motor. It has to be the most beautiful sound in the universe, an approaching car on a dirt road. When I hadn't seen ANYONE for about an hour and a half.
Charlie, the leathery angel in the greasy hi-vis jumper, slowed his 4WD ute to a stop.
"Ah. Looks like you've had a bit of trouble here?"
Yes, Charlie. Trouble. And I am a useless weak woman and I need your help. I didn't say those words, but I meant them. Without a hint of sarcasm.
Charlie told me to stop the engine, and get in to the ute. He had friends up the road. They should have some chains. He hoped they were home.
Most of the Ham family were not home, they were out with the steers. But Janette stayed home to do gardening, as it was such a lovely day. She called Arnold, but he didn't Answer. Then Aaron answered. He would leave the breakers (he is breaking horses in) and bring the chains down now.
20 minutes later, and I was thinking about how low Henry might be sinking. Then Aaron showed up, and he brought his truck. And Charlie and I went back in his ute.
The blokes hooked Henry up easy, and while Charlie towed, Aaron steered, and I stood around like a useless git. Which is not a poetic turn of phrase at all, I was totally useless.
We popped open his boot (with a little bit of difficulty), and there was nothing really cracked or busted open or shifted too much. But the radiator was leaking a bit. Charlie the Angel had some water, so we filled him up, enough to get us back to the Ham's place.
Aaron called Mitchy. Mitchy was on call for the NRMA, in Walcha. We were about 65 ks from Walcha.
Janette made me a cup of tea, and I sat at their kitchen table, feeling like a victim of my own stupidity. But an increasing sense of joy at my lucky escape. I decided that I probably wouldn't get down to Forster, but would be happy to turn back to Tamworth - the long way around - and cook the roast lamb for myself.
Mitchy showed up with the tilt tray truck. And Mitch, the Ham's nephew. They hauled Henry up, squinted in the twilight under the bonnet, and proclaimed the need for a new radiator.
"Won't be here til Mundy"
A sigh of relief, as the boys all lit up a quick smoke. Arnold Ham offered to drive me back to West Bubblefuck. But I felt like I couldn't possibly accept any more old school rural hospitality from the Hams. I have never liked ham as much as I like those Hams.
So I got into the cab with Mitch and Mitchy. Mitchy cranked up the country music (the first song was about getting stuck in mud) and we hooned along the dirt road toward Walcha. Mitch got a phone call from the fire brigade. Another accident was up ahead on Topdale road.
By the time Mitchy's tilt arrived at the scene, the commercial towey was there already ("That Stewart cunt always undercuts me!!!"). And the ambos. And the cops. Mitch went down to see what the story was.
Mitchy told me (as he snuck another quick smoke) that if the cops came up and asked, I was to tell them I overheated. They did ask Mitch. He told them it was a breakdown.
The last bit to Walcha was jubilant to the point of silliness. The fellas were young - 21 - with sailor mouths and rural attitudes. The kind of guys that if they were shown on a film would be deemed as caracitures or cliches. They kept joking about not having a license. About Henry falling off the back. About it all being a bit too Wolf Creek.
They took me to their local pub, where they were on first names with the bar staff (the bar matron kept them in line. I could take classroom management lessons from her). I got a room in the motel, and returned to buy my knights in greasy armour a round of beers.
And more beers.
And a few more beers.
And I met some more locals, and I ate some dodgy chinese, and I laughed at the two Mitches, who were more like a married couple than mates.
And so I am still here. And so I am still alive. And my car (at this stage) is not written off. I think it would be acceptable for him to have a bit more damage than just a radiator.
And sure, I didn't get a fix of 500, red wine and coast time. But my big night out in Walcha was actually quite fun.
And I just might be the luckiest human I know.
You're lucky lucky, you're so lucky!
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