That Was Seven Years

Ago With Dechert's Bitser to Edie Creek

WHILE 1933 was still young we found ourselves obliged to go to Edie Creek. We had - choice of three means of doing so—Wally Gordon’s erratic horses, “Shank’s ponies”, or Dechert’s Bitzer.

We sat on Stewart’s hotel-verandah in Wau and debated. Resplendent in white drill shorts and shirt —fresh from the Chinese tailor that morning—I elected to walk. I was new to the country, enthusiastic about everything, and wished to miss nothing of the romantic atmosphere of my surroundings. “Him self” squashed that idea ‘. immediately with the remark that I had 11- or 12 miles ahead of me, and the grade was 1 in 10.

Horses? Well, yes, “Bones” was reli able for a woman to ride, providing he was available. But one could not be sure of the others, and we were not equestrians.

Remained, Dechert’s Bitser, “What exactly is Dechert’s Bitser?” I asked.

I was enlightened. Dechert’s Bitser was the only motor-truck that had yet traversed the Edie Creek track. When Fred Dechert had suggested that a motor vehicle could make the trip, everyone was sceptical. But Dechert shipped a motor chassis, cut down from standard size to fit the narrowest part of the Kaindi Road, from Sydney to Wau, per sea and air. Then he set to work with sundry lengths of scrap iron, much optimism and determination, and lo! an idea became a fact, and the Bit ser dwelt among us.

The Bitser’s first trip to Edie Creek is Wau history. Bets were freely laid on the chances of the little truck reaching the Edie Creek settlement. Dechert, though determined to get through, yet refused to bet on himself and so lost the chance of cleaning up a tidy sum.

The truck had now been running fairly regularly for two or three months and, so far, had not capsized passengers or cargo over the cliffs.

We left Wau about 4 p.m., and were assured that we would make Edie Creek before dark. I, as the one woman passenger, was allotted the seat beside the driver in frsnt, and the men; dis posed themselves as securely as they might on the tray at the back.

The Bitser lacked all superfluous trim mings and there were no side boards on the tray, no cabin and nothing to grip in the front seat except the top of the wind-screen or the driver. That, how ever, did not worry me until we began to climb, and swing around bends in the road, and then T felt thankful that I could touch the cliff wall with my hand.

In places, my side of the diminutive truck brushed the cliff face whilst the driver, on his side, looked straight down over the edge of the precipice. A fraction out in his judgment meant a plunge over the side. Fortunately, there were not many stretches like that. But there were never more than three feet to spare between the truck and cliff edge, on- the full distance of that “road”.

We passed strings of native carriers,

homing towards Wau, after having car ried up supplies to the miners along the creek and to the settlement itself. I noticed that these “boys” came directly down the mountain side, scorning the road, and using barely-defined tracks cut through the thick undergrowth. “Short cuts,” I was informed; but, to me, the short cuts looked more formidable than the mileage they saved. rO or three miles above Golden Ridges, on turning a sudden bend, we beheld a string of Wally Cor don’s “donks” tearing down the road towards us, and a collision seemed inevitable. They were being driven back to Wau, after carrying cargo up to Kaindi that morning, and many of them had back loading strapped to their sides.

Each mule appeared to me to occupy the whole width of the road, and I won dered how we could possibly manage to pass them. When one or two showed signs of panic, I feared vindictive hoofs; but I reckoned without the resource of their native attendants. They imme diately rounded up the mules and drove them straight up the steep slope of the mountain-side, until we had passed.

“What happens when you meet mules on one of those narrow stretches?” I asked Dechert.

“Oh, they turn back and run, until the mountain slopes enough for the natives to drive them up, or the boys find a place wide enough in the road to herd them to the edge,” he informed me, nonchalantly, but I recognised a very real danger, in those mule trams, to this sturdy pioneer driver and his truck.

I was amused when he informed me that the natives had dubbed him “Mas ter Run-about-nothing.” He also told me that when they first met him on the road in the truck, mules and natives alike bolted into the bush.

THE hairpin bends next contributed their quota of thrills. There were about six of these bends to nego tiate A few months later the cala boose line” (native convicts) was put on to improve the road where most dan gerous. The narrow parts and hairpin bends were widened, making it possible for lorries and cars of standard size to make the journey.

On our trip, the men got off the truck at each of these bends, ostensibly to lighten the load and direct the driver as he backed the two or three times necessary before he could turn the bend.

This duty they performed with alacrity.

With my heart in my mouth I stuck to my seat beside the driver, feeling superior, but inwardly hoping that he would urge me to get off, too. When the last, and, incidentally, the most dangerous bend was reached, it was with relief that I heard him ask me to get down. His request “saved my face , be cause I had decided to alight, in any case.

IWAS informed that we were over the worst of the road. Then the Bitser took a hand. She stopped. I have not the slightest idea what was wrong with the bus. The men tinkered about with screw-drivers and things, and in order not to cramp their style, I walked away out of hearing, and sat down on a log.

My enforced rest enabled me, for the first time, to appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. The road, little more than a ledge cut in the precipitous

mountain-side, zigzagged upward. I gazed over the side of the cliff into the tangled jungle depths below, where strange orchids grew and creepers hung in bright festoons from the majestic trees, some of which also carried mag nificent staghorns, clinging parasitically to their huge limbs. Giant ferns shel tered tiny wood violets and shy birds.

The snorting and spluttering of the engine, and a shout of triumph from the owner, recalled me from this fairyland, and I resumed my place on the truck.

We came to a very steep grade, about 1 in 3. After the Bitser’s recent per formance, Dechert was dubious about her ability to carry the full load to the top, so the men all jumped off again, ready to lend a hand and push if the need arose. It took every ounce of fight . the Bitser had in her, but she finally made the grade, with much chug ging and asthmatic coughing.

A little later we pulled up with a flourish at “Water Kuruka”, a delight ful mountain stream that cut across the road and took its name from the huge old Kuruka trees growing beside it, a little above the road. Here we drank the cool, delicious water and filled the sizzling radiator of the truck.

DARKNESS overtook us before we reached Blue Point, and I was un able to see the magnificent view of the Edie Valley, for which this part of the road is famed.

We covered two miles in great style, and were congratulating ourselves that the journey was ended, when Dechert pulled up with a jerk. Our way was blocked with clay, boulders and logs that had slipped from the side of the mountain.

We were about to abandon the truck, and walk to a miner’s camp, half a mile

back, when eight natives, making a belated return to Wau, put in an appear ance. Dechert immediately pressed them into service, and all gave willing help.

With the Bitser’s head-lamps lighting the scene, the largest boulders were rolled away and the logs dug out and pushed to one side. The clay was roughly raked over the other stones, and a very narrow and insecure passage was at last cleared. The only tools with which the party had to work were two shovels that Dechert always carried in the truck, and saplings and strong sticks which the “boys” cut from the bush.

Now thoroughly worn out, we pre

ferred to risk this pass to walking back to the miner’s camp. The gallant little truck sailed over the danger in fine style.

WE finally halted in front of the new Edie Creek Police Post at 8.30 p.m., mud-bespattered and forlorn, the journey having taken 4g hours. There was no hotel, only the police post, a few miners’ log-shacks, and “Mac’s” store, where one could buy anything from a needle to a bottle of whisky—the latter, naturally, being more in demand than the former.

Incidentally, several months later, I

attended the “opening” of “Mac’s” new store, a large wood and iron structure.

This was an occasion for celebration. We proudly mustered 10 women, and most of the men were able to have at least one dance during the course of the night. We finished up in the “wee sma’ hours” and one male member went to bed in a dust-bin outside “Mac’s” back door, his bootless feet pointing to the sky. It was a grand party spirit—but that was seven years ago.

This is 1940. When a dance is held at Edie Creek now, one may engage a sedan car from the Wau Carrying Co., don evening clothes and wraps, and sit back in the comfortable upholstered interior of the car for 45 minutes, from Wau to Edie Creek. Nothing exciting happens, for one travels over the new Edie Creek road, winding tortuously still, but wide and well-graded.

Motor lorries and cars now make sev eral trips a day, to and from Edie Creek. The mules are a rare sight, and the native carrier, with his 50 lb. pack strapped on his back, is but a memory.

“Mac’s” store is no more. “Mac” was originally an aeroplane pilot and you cannot keep a good airman on the ground. He took up flying again, and found that he couldn’t, at the one time, do justice to a business on the good earth and a 'plane in the air, and he elected to keep on flying.

There are other changes at Edie Creek, since my first trip, seven years ago. Many of the original log shacks of the miners still stand, but there are other new houses, quite modern, inside and outside.

In 1933 we slept on home-made, can vas beds, and bought a few yards of cretonne to dress up packing cases for furniture, and to disguise our rough, wooden-shuttered windows. Now, there are spring mattresses, cane furniture and glass windows, and N.G.G. Ltd. employ ees have electric light, with all its attendant comforts of kettles, toasters and irons. Some lucky ones even have telephones. Last, but not least, at the Company’s centre “on top”, there is a talkie theatre, which obliges on Satur day nights.

Many Wau people go up to Edie Creek dances from time to time, and the hotel has been packed to its full capacity. The entertainments there are undoubtedly a success; but one misses the old familiar faces and, most of all, the easy com radeship of that dance held in “Mac’s” store.—lMEß.