H Is For Highway

Gee, Dad Found His Own Way In The Outback

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

See, it’s perfectly logical. I used to get lost. Not because I am a bad driver, but simply because my aptitude for navigation does not always, ahem, match my driving skills.

So when Mrs Authorblog presented me with a GPS last year, the gods in every religious pantheon breathed a sigh of relief and said: "Right, we don’t need to worry about him getting lost – ever again. "

The GPS was great fun. I hooked it up even if we were driving to the shops, just for the novelty of hearing a disembodied voice actually telling me when to turn, which direction to turn, and how long it would be before my next cross-street. I reckoned I had found Nirvana.

When we flew interstate in January this year, it was the first thing I packed. As soon as we stepped off the plane in Perth, capital of Western Australia, I proudly marched up to the rental car desk, claimed my big Camry, opened the driver’s door in the sweltering heat and even before I turned the aircon on, I connected the GPS and put in the co-ordinates for the Sheraton.

Piece of cake. Never been to Perth before, but I drove with as much confidence as locals who had spent all their lives there.

But a couple of weeks later, I blotted my copybook. Just when the family figured I would never get lost again, I did. Yes, the GPS was operating and I turned left when it told me to turn right. You could just about hear the GPS clicking its imaginary tongue and intoning gravely: "This bloke’s a moron. "

But I recently drove a 1200-kilometre round trip up the bush, into neighbouring New South Wales, to the beautiful little Riverina town of Temora. I was on my own, without the family for the first time in clan history, because it was just a quick in-and-out trip for research purposes. But I reckon Mrs Authorblog and the Authorbloglets were placing wagers on how soon it would take me to get lost.

I left on schedule, arrived at my destination on schedule, drove around the town without any dramas and then drove back to Melbourne on schedule. No big deal?

Mate, I did it all without the GPS. Yes, I had it with me in the car, but I never once turned it on.

Just one word of warning. Next time you see me, don’t tell me "Get lost" – because I probably will, literally and metaphorically.


For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

Human Error

What An Expensive Typo

A Swedish couple in search of the isle of Capri instead drove 650 kilometres (400 miles) to Carpi, an industrial town in northern Italy, because they misspelt the name in their car's GPS. Italian officials say the couple asked at Carpi's tourist office where they could find Capri's famous Blue Grotto.

FOOTNOTE: Isle try again.

Huffin' And Puffin

The Mystery Of The Disappearing Birds

Puffins are to be fitted with satellite transmitters for the first time in an effort to understand a worrying decline in their numbers in the last five years. British scientists are to fit tiny GPS devices to the sea birds' legs to work out what is going wrong.

FOOTNOTE: Calvin decline.

Open-Door Policy

We'll Drink To That

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

These might look like the bat-wing doors from some Wild West saloon, but this is actually the entrance of the Ettamogah Pub in New South Wales, just across the border from neighbouring Victoria.

Every time we drive down the Hume Highway, we make it a point to stop off here - which in turn means that regular readers of this blog would recall at least three or four pictorial posts on the unique pub that is a real-life depiction of Ken Maynard's cartoons in The Australasian Post.

A couple of weeks ago, I was on a two-day trip into the Outback, up the beautiful Riverina region of New South Wales. Yes, I had the GPS in the car with me, but I didn't plug it in, preferring to operate on the "turn left at the dead gum tree" school of navigation. (And no, I didn't get lost. Not once. Fair dinkum.)

I knew I had to turn onto the Olympic Highway just after the Ettamogah Pub, but it was one of those trips where photography held sway, not the clock. So of course I pulled off the Hume Highway to spend twenty minutes in a familiar part of the country. And yes, each time I photograph this amazing landmark, the light is different.

I had a yarn to Chrissy the barmaid while I was there, but there was one key question I forgot to ask her, regarding the front door. Next time we drop in, I'll ask her this: is it famous for being the easiest door to get in through but the most difficult to get out of?

I’d welcome any thoughts you might have …


For earlier posts in this series, check out The Doors Archive.