Carnarvon Gorge has long been on my list of must-do walks. We arrive just in time to get a map from information and check into our lodgings – a safari tent. Camping with an en suite. Now that’s what I call camping!

The walk is a there-and-back-again, criss-crossing the Carnarvon Creek on stepping stones over 20 times, with side trips to canyons and aboriginal art galleries. The ranger asks me how long it would take me to walk 14 km and I reckon about 6-8 hours. So he suggests I aim for the Art Gallery and then check out the Amphitheatre, Ward’s Canyon and Moss Garden on my return.

I head off at 0830. It’s crisp and clear – cold really. I soon encounter a tour group of geriatrics. They are so deaf they can’t hear me calling out “coming through”. And soon after, another tour group blocking the path, closely inspecting the trunk of a tree. And then I have the gorge to myself. It’s lovely and quiet. At last. Solitude, stillness, spirituality. The only sound is the soft trilling of treecreepers, the flapping of currawong wings as they abandon the path ahead, and the incessant tinnitus in my head.

I reach the Art Gallery at 0945 so I push on another 4 km to the Cathedral Cave. A seductive sign points to the end of the main gorge track at Big Bend, so I fang it and reward myself with a nice cup of tea. 10 km in two and a quarter hours – not too bad for an older person. Plenty of time to explore everything on the return. Binaroo Gorge is a side trip of about one km, but is absolutely stunning, with steep, narrow, moss-sided walls. Cathedral Cave has wonderful art and etchings. On closer inspection some of the etchings look a bit dodgy. And indeed. They are images of the human vulva. Wow! Thousands of years old. And I thought sex was just a recent invention. I spend a good half hour inspecting the works in detail. Back to the Art Gallery, and oh no, more vulvas. Everywhere, in your face, vulvas. Lunch, taking it all in, then Ward’s Canyon, cool and intimate with king ferns, the Amphitheatre, an awesome chamber, nearly 200 feet deep, entered through ladders and a slit in the rock. A womb, perhaps, to accommodate all those vulvas? And finally, with my boots dragging and scuffing the track, the sublime, dripping, Moss Garden. Back at the start at 1700 – eight and half hours and 25 km. No wonder my legs feel like cramping up.

The walk is definitely in my top five day walks. Number one must remain the yet to be completed Tongariro Crossing, with three failed attempts. Number two must be the walk of a lifetime in the Grampians – the exhilarating Mt Stapleton-Hollow Mountain challenge. Any walk at the Prom ranks highly, and the Murchison River at Kalbarri is good, but I’ll give Carnarvon Gorge number three.

The Missus gives me two Panadol Osteo to ease the aching legs, but it’s hard to sleep. Tossing and turning, dreaming about vulvas.

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 The Missus and I are heading north, like migrating swallows, seeking some respite from the Melbourne winter. Our first stop is Lightning Ridge, outback New South Wales, where Nigel, a childhood friend of The Missus has an opal mine. But it’s still cold – minus two overnight with a heavy white frost.

 We lob into our comfortable lodgings at Chasin’ Opals and then head out to explore the town. It’s mostly a tourist town now, with most of the holes filled in and only about 50 miners left out in the bush. The architecture is fascinating – just grab anything that’s at hand. Bottles, cans, stone, scrap cars, caravans, cobbled together with bits of tin. The hot artesian bore that once soothed miners’ aching muscles has been turned into a swimming pool for tourists. The Missus flops in.

 Next day Nigel takes us on a 150 km tour of the active opal fields. They all have evocative names – Moonshine, Allah’s Strike, Eagles Nest, Dead Man’s Lead, Les’s Rush. It’s a maze of rough bush tracks, camps, humpies, mines, hoists, agitators, bores, tanks and rusted, discarded machinery. The usual deal is to drill a nine inch hole to find the opal dirt and then a three foot shaft if it strikes some colour. The opal dirt goes up in a bucket on a hoist and is then washed in an agitator, a large cement mixer barrel. The Missus confronts all her fears of claustrophobia and descends 60 feet into the mine, clinging hopefully to Nigel. It is an amazing experience. A rabbit warren of tunnels. And a helluva lot of work for little reward. But it’s the lifestyle that seduces them.

 Nigel says that the people out here are all social outcasts, misfits and alcoholics. I think I could fit in here. And they even have a 1200m racetrack. I would call the going, ah, let’s see, puggy.

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This is my last day for the season and it looks like being a bit of a fizzer. The forecast is for rain all day and the track is a deteriorating DEAD 4. I’m just going along for the colour and movement. Besides, it gets me out of the house. A bet seems pretty unlikely. I’ve been scared off from the last three mid-weekers because of the HEAVY 8. So my season is petering out. And as soon as I step onto the course the track is downgraded to SLOW 6. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

 In the first race the two-year-olds run a time of 72.55. The late and great EJ Minnis’s par time for a genuine DEAD track is 72.62, so that’s quite reasonable. And you’d expect that first use of the track is likely to produce a better time before it gets all chopped up.

 In the second race, the good thing Our Baby Bonus, runs 59.88 compared with EJ’s par of 59.83 for a genuine DEAD. Again, not too bad.

 In the third I’m quite taken with the appearance of Stoneblack, but hold back. The horse nearly wins with a terrific run, with a race time of 98.01. EJ’s par times rate that as a GOOD track! I coulda backed that horse! $2.90 the place. Damn!

 I miss the fourth, a 3000 metre race for plodders, and fool around photographing cannon bandages. I still don’t like them and they are still a serious negative. But at least they provide some colour and movement.

 In the fifth, only seven horses. But I’ve now decided that the track is bettable, it hasn’t rained all day, it’s my last day, and I’m going for it.  Tindal looks terrific with his two strappers and I go for him. He hangs on to win in 97.72. The track is still GOOD and I’m up and running with $3.30 for the place.

 In the sixth I can’t split El Mandon and Gran Sasso, so I leave it. The time of 71.75 is a GOOD/DEAD time.

 In the seventh Believe’n Achieve looks the goods and wins like a good thing at $1.80 the place. And the time of 91.45 is better than the par of 91.88 for a GOOD track

 And in the last Elumino is faultless in the yard and showing $2.90 the place on the tote and $1.55 with the books with five minutes to go. I know it will be crunched but I back it on the tote at $1.80 with one minute left. Elumino ducks along the rail for third and I get $1.60. And the time for the last? A SLOW 60.33. It’s all too late now to stop betting!

 Three out of three for the day. It’s nice to go out with a bang.

 I’m off to the spelling paddock now and will return in the spring. Hopefully I’ll find time to send a few postcards from the paddock.

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I’m feeling fairly average. In fact , I’m quite ordinary. Well, really, I’m a bit poorly. My head is full of germs. But there is no point staying at home moaning about it, so I’m off to Caulfield to share the germs around. I’m stuffed full of cold and flu tablets, but they hardly seem to make an impression on an insistent, dull headache. And the congestion in my ears and nose seems to amplify my tinnitus, so that it sounds like the entire Melbourne Symphony Orchestra is tuning up inside my brain. It’s so noisy in there that I can’t even think. It looks like a dangerous day for decision making.

 And it doesn’t start too well. The omen bet Pray for Me is a standout in the second. No faults, perfectly behaved, head in towards the strapper. I have crossed out all the other horses, so I double my bet. The horse has a perfect, faultless run with cover, but just fails to hold on for third. Oh well.

 In the third I don’t like the favourite War Ends, mainly because it was tossing its head around repetitively out the back. I offer to lay it for the place at $1.40 on my betting instrument, but the bet goes unmatched. The favourite weakens to run fourth. Oh well.

 In the fifth race Patrick Payne’s Fieldmaster looks the goods, with a nice positive strapper. The horse has the race shot to bits but is just nosed out on the line. It’s times like these that I’m glad I’m a place punter! Thank goodness. Back to square one.

 One more roll of the dice in the last. Das Machen and Delyara both look good, and I settle on Das Machen. She leads from pillar to post with Delyara running a very good third at $5.90. But I happy with my $2.80 and two out of three for the day. My long term average.

 And I’m still feeling quite average. Home to bed to nurse my poor sore head.

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I’m only here for five races today. As unlikely as it sounds, sometimes other events take precedence in your life over horse racing. Today is such a day. I have to go to a birthday party – and I love parties! Of the five races I only manage to look at the horses in three. I miss one race trying to photograph Golden Tabby’s marvellous stereotypy, smacking his lips. But the movie function on my camera won’t work properly. I later discover that the “M” setting on the camera means manual, not movie! And I miss another race talking to Ken Fythe, the Stony Creek trainer of Rockpecker. Apparently the stewards listen to Radio 927 and quizzed him about an injury to his horse, and then broadcast the details over the course PA. Important information really – now that you can lay horses.

Lloyd Williams’ imported Cup horses are on show in the sprint race. They both look very good in the mounting yard, led by the usual two strappers. Mourayan is the smaller and lighter of the two, and Alandi, the dual Group 1 winner, is stocky and solid with a deep chest – plenty of room for a large heart! They are very similar in appearance. Both of them are dark bay or brown in colour, with Mourayan more bay and Alandi more brown. And both of them have similar white facial markings – a star and strip – despite having different sires. I couldn’t fault their behaviour. They finish down the track, barely beating the ambulance home, as you would expect for 80/1 chances. But watch out for them in the spring!

Yummy birthday cake

In the end, I didn’t even have a bet. But the party was good. Happy Birthday Amy! Now we are one!

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I’m a bit fearful as there has been rain about overnight and I’m not allowed to bet on Slow tracks. And apparently they have been putting water on the track as well. I hate that – why can’t they just leave it be! The track is rated a Dead 4 but the word from the jockeys is that it’s at least a Dead 5. I check my par times for a Slow track at Flemington compiled by the late and great EJ Minnis and find a figure of 85.95 seconds for 1400 metres. In the first race they run a time of 86.26 for 1410 metres. If I allow 0.5 seconds for the extra distance of 10 metres it still looks like a Slow 6 track. CAUTION!! DO NOT BET!!

But in the third race I’m still quite keen to back The Comedian, very relaxed, head in towards the strapper. And the favourite Undeniably looks a risk, a bit sweaty and bulky. There’s a fall in the race. Luckily The Comedian misses the trouble but he gives up in the straight and compounds quickly to finish seventh. What a joke! He couldn’t pick up his feet! Whenever I lose I look for someone or something to blame apart from myself, and in this case it is quite clear that the track is at fault. I had better shut up shop! I probably should have laid the favourite who finished ninth at $1.10 the place. The punter’s lament – should’ve, should’ve.

What to do at the races when your hands are tied? Photograph some horses, of course. And today everywhere I look I see a pony. A plethora of ponies. When I wrote Watching Racehorses it was quite uncommon to see a pony. Of the more than 10,000 horses that I observed only 176 were accompanied by a pony, about one every meeting. It was the most positive of all the variables that I scored. Now that everyone has read the book they all bring a pony to the races, and the advantage, while still positive, has been much reduced.

 Today I saw nine  ponies. Two could not be identified because they were occupying the wrong stall and three were over 14 hands, and didn’t fit in the photo,  and so should really be called horses. Here are the best six.

And the winner is …… Golden Charmer, don’t you think? How could you resist it? I broke all my rules and backed it for a place on the tote at $2.70. I watched the race on the TV and the horse was so far behind the first and second horses that it was out of the picture when they hit the line. But it survived for third. And the final result for the seven horses identified with ponies was two placings and five unplaced runs. Not too bad, but not what it once was.

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My mission today, should I decide to accept it, is to photograph Tesbury Jack’s splint on his nearside foreleg. Splint bones are the remnants of pre-historic toes and run down either side of the cannon in the horse. They can get bumped or knocked and the area can become inflamed and swollen, but will heal with time. Often cannon bandages can conceal them, but Jack’s is on full view. It’s tricky to photograph when he is moving, but here are a couple of attempts. It looks to be a “cold” splint as Tesbury Jack does not appear to be in pain or lame. Wikipedia has a good account of splints if you are interested in more.

The horse is unhappy in the mounting yard and very fractious, with his ears back and grabbed by the clerk. He’s not worth laying at $6.80 for the place and drops out of the race to finish last. On return to scale he’s bleeding from both nostrils. Back in his stall he’s a sorry sight. This is his second conviction for bleeding so he’s now banned from racing in Australia. A sad end for a terrific racehorse.

On a more positive note I was shat on from a great height by a flying swallow. I checked with all and sundry and confirmed that it is a sign of immense good fortune if you are struck by avian excreta whilst at the racetrack. And so it proved.

I successfully layed Johansky for the place as she was not at all happy in her stall and let out an almighty groan. The strapper asked the horse “What’s the matter?” Of course, the horse did not reply, but I always interpret groaning as meaning that the horse would rather be somewhere else. Much like a teenager. So, I decided to oppose it for the place at $1.90. During the run Johanski dropped to the rear, as I expected, but ran on quite well for fourth.

And I backed Broken at $2.20 the place because of the positive strapper – with one hand stroking the horse’s withers all the way round the mounting yard. Broken dived through on the rail for a strong win. Bring on more swallows.

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I’m writing this while I watch the Anzac Day parade on TV.  The ranks are thinning – there’s not many veterans left now.

My grandfather, Nelson Wellington, was a soldier. Well, how could you be anything else with a name like that? He fought in both wars. He was on his way to Gallipoli on 2 September 1915, aboard the Southland with the 21st Battalion, when it was torpedoed by a German submarine. Forty men were lost. Most of the 1400 men on board took to the life boats, but Nelson remained on board with a volunteer crew of stokers and beached the ship at Mudros, a small port on the Greek island of Lemnos. He then served at Gallipoli, both at Lone Pine, and Quinn’s Post, the hairiest place on the peninsula. From Gallipoli he went to the Western Front, where he was wounded at Ypres. He copped a bullet in the lung, which remained there for the rest of his life, because it was too dangerous to remove. He was awarded the Military Cross.

In the second war he was the Commanding Officer of the 2nd/2nd Pioneers, and fought the Vichy French in Syria. Again he was wounded by a piece of shrapnel which shattered his right elbow. The Pioneers took their objective, a small fort at Merdjayoun, and Nelson was awarded the DSO. He was evacuated to the 7th Australian General Hospital where my Father was working. My Mother tells the story in her Memoirs of how bad news arrived by telegram, delivered by the local postmaster. When the postmaster turned up on her doorstep with the dreaded telegram she simply asked: “My husband or my Father?” Nelson had to step down as CO, but fortunately avoided the fate of the Pioneers who were captured by the Japanese in Java and spent the war as POWs, with many ending up on the Burma Railway. 

Nelson Wellington and Douglas Macarthur

After convalescence and return to Australia Nelson was appointed Australian Liaison Officer to General Douglas Macarthur. But his war was still not over. He was sent on a secret mission to investigate the formation of a paratroop unit to be used in the New Guinea campaign. The plane he was in crash landed at Rockhampton airport and burst into flames. The airstrip was next to a convent and some nuns rushed out and dragged him from the burning wreckage. After his recovery he was convinced the nuns had saved his life and he converted to Roman Catholicism. 

Nelson had a stroke and collapsed with a thud on the floor of our bathroom in 1952. He died without regaining consciousness three days later in Dandenong Hospital. He had seen a lot of war. He was just 63. 

It’s hard not to feel emotional on Anzac Day.……….at the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them. 

It’s a corny and hackneyed phrase, but still appropriate. Lest We Forget. 

I’m off to Flemington now.

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I had a panic attack at the Valley a week or two ago – on Easter Monday. My betting instrument froze again. That dreaded white screen appeared and no matter what I did, turning it on and off, it wouldn’t unfreeze. It so unsettled me that I didn’t have another bet all day. I hot-footed it into the Telstra shop at 9 am the very next morning, fearing the worst, a total meltdown. But a very helpful teenager showed me how to unfreeze it. You simply hold down the sleep/wake button and the home button for ten seconds until the Apple logo appears. You then have to enter your SIM password, which is a major barrier to progress, but fortunately I’d written it down on the back of my hand. Bingo. Back in business. And it was only 9.05.

 So out to Caulfield for the Pink Ribbon Cup. The ladies are sporting lots of pink, to remind us all about breast cancer, that bugger of a disease. And even some of the horses are sporting a pink ribbon. I try to get a photo of the ribbon on that unpredictable recalcitrant, Tears I Cry, and at the instant I press the shutter he swishes his tail. True to form!

 In the fourth race I quite fancy Off The Planet, but with two minutes to go the horse is showing $1.04 the place on the tote. The bookies have it at $1.55, so I fire up the betting instrument. On the login I stumble over the spelling of my mother’s maiden name and so delete it and re-enter. The phone freezes. The dreaded white screen. But hey, this is no drama. Hold down both buttons, check the faint inscription on the back of my hand, and I’m back in business. They are offering $1.78. Too good to refuse and 0.03 cents above my threshold! So I back it and it rockets home for third.

 In the last race the favourite Avionics is looking a little agitated. One strapper is walking ahead warning all and sundry to keep clear as “she will kick your head off”. That’s not much of an endorsement for a favourite showing $1.40 for the place on the tote. And the horse is swishing its tail and flattening its ears in a dangerous looking manner and doing little pigroots . I really do like horses to keep four feet on the ground. This horse is sour! A lay, if ever I have seen one! The betting instrument behaves perfectly and I’m set to oppose it at $1.65. Avionics finds all sorts of trouble in the run and finishes last.

 Two workouts for the iPhone, and two other successful place bets (Reverend Lovejoy and Amaethon), for four out of four for the day.

 I leave Caulfield feeling pretty pleased. You might say – in the pink.

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My web site administrator has been exhorting me to provide more information, more lessons on what budding horse watchers should look out for. Less colour and movement. More nitty gritty.

So, here beginneth today’s lesson.

The nasal strip. It’s pretty hard to miss if you simply look at the nose of a horse, but is still quite rare on Melbourne’s race tracks. There was one at Flemington today on Uncle Ivan in the seventh race.

Uncle Ivan

Nasal strips have only been added to the list of nationally approved gear since 1st April last year. They must be of a design and specification approved by the stewards, with only one currently approved brand, the “Flair” nasal strip. Their method of action is much like the strips used by human athletes – to provide increased air flow through the nasal passage. In the horse the strips support the soft tissues over the nasal passage which helps to reduce airway resistance during exercise. The Flair website has a good Youtube video on how to stick them on.

The equine exercise physiologists have had a look at them and a study by SJ Holcombe and colleagues in the American Journal of Veterinary Research concluded that: “The commercially available nasal strip tented the skin over the nasal valve and dilated that section of the nasal passage, resulting in decreased airway resistance during inspiration. The nasal strip probably decreases the amount of work required for respiratory muscles in horses during intense exercise and may reduce the energy required for breathing in these horses.”

Do they work? A quick check of my database for the last few months shows that I have been to 20 race meetings since 1st January and looked at 1675 horses. I noticed six horses using nasal strips on 11 occasions, for one win and five placings, including Uncle Ivan, who finished third. So, more than 50% strike rate for the place! Not bad! Maybe I should put a watch on them. My usual view on gear of any sort is that the horse has a problem which the trainer is trying to correct. So I much prefer cleanskins. But I’ll keep an open mind on nasal strips until I have more data. At the current rate I should have seen enough horses – 100 is a minimum sample size – by 2014.

Here endeth the lesson.

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