Nav-Girl fancies the back roads

I love road trips — almost any road trip.  There’s an implied freedom on the road.  Get on it.  Keep going.  Wind in your hair, troubles falling by the wayside.  

on the Bruxner Highway

 

I’m not good with maps, however, and this small deficit can be a problem on a road trip.  So I splurged on a Nav-Man, that little GPS device that tells you how to get where you’re going.  I bought it anticipating a trip to Brisbane, where it is essential to have a navigator with an encyclopedic knowledge of ways to maneuver around the labyrinth of one way streets and bridges over the serpentine Brisbane River.  

 

On this trip, however, I was not on my way to Brisbane.  I was on the road to Tenterfield, near the Queensland border in the northern New England Tablelands.  Think sloping pastoral land, vineyards and orchards.  My car was packed to the gills, and at the last minute, I tossed in my new Nav-Man — one of those angel-on-my-shoulder last-minute whims.  I knew my way, but maybe I’d choose a new way home.

 

Timing on the route from Byron Bay to Tenterfield is measured in towns:  Byron to Bangalow, 20 minutes.  Bangalow to Lismore, 25 minutes.  Lismore to Casino, 20 minutes.  Pause.  Stop at McDonalds in Casino for recycling of the cup of tea I had for breakfast, and recharge the bladder with a fresh cup of coffee.  Turn right onto the Bruxner Highway, for one more leg:  an hour and a half to Tenterfield.  

 

The Bruxner Highway is a major truck route from the Northern Rivers coastal area to Armidale, the commercial hub of the New England.  Tenterfield is the elbow in the dog-leg.

 

Casino is my first major stop, scene of a major triumph in my developing Aussie road-trip skills.  Coffee ordering.  Not just any coffee, but coffee like I like it.  You might sense trouble right here, but I’m not talking about double tall, skinny machiatto with a dollop of caramel or anything fancier.  Just plain black coffee.  However, this McDonalds now has a McCafé, so if you order anything but drip coffee (no ice), you have to go to McCafé.  What I ordered was coffee with some room left in it for ice — just a little to cool it down.  That proved to be too much for the kid behind the counter at McDonalds who searched in vain for a cash register button that said “coffee with ice,” and referred me over the invisible line to McCafé.  

 

I moved over to a new queue and a new baristo, (male of the genus barista).  Again, I asked for coffee with a little bit of ice in it.  There must have been a button for such on the McCafé cash register, as this new kid put his head down and went to work.  There was to be quite a bit of activity to create coffee with a little bit of ice, some of it behind the scenes, but still, it was a bit of a surprise that what I got must have been a  McFrappé  — something coffee-ish with more than one dollop of sweet syrup added, milk, and lots of ice put into a blender and delivered with a flourish.  I sampled it, hid my grimace, and surreptitiously put it in the rubbish bin out of sight of the counter.  Consider it a cheap lesson learned.

 

I noodled on this problem for a long time.  Road trips give you lots of time to mentally noodle.  Coffee, not hot.  Translation from American to Australian can be a mine field, in my experience, and I gave this problem a great deal of thought.  

 

I settled on this solution:  I ask for a “long black” and a separate cup of ice at McDonalds — basically a shot of espresso with hot water to fill a coffee cup.  While they may not make an espresso, you do get a cup of plain black coffee.  I deliberately do not queue up at McCafé.  There are too many options at McCafé for straying from the path of your basic cuppa.  Besides (this is a little-known secret), the coffee from both McDonalds and McCafé tastes the exactly the same — espresso machine and instant packages or just plain drip coffee. None elicits anything remotely like, “Oh that was a great cup of coffee!”

 

The counter help seemed OK with my order on this trip.  Once I had my coffee in hand, I stepped outside to my car, poured some of the coffee out of its container, and poured some of the ice in. Contentment settled in.  Now I could enjoy a drinkable cup of coffee without a half-hour wait until it cooled enough to sip without burning my tongue.  One nice mellow cuppa that would take me over the hills and winding roads for an hour and a half into Tenterfield.  

 

 

Northern New England

I pulled out of Casino on that last long leg into Tenterfield with a fresh cup of coffee, just like I like it, adjusted my IPod to the mix I dig, and reveled in the beautiful day and the beautiful view.  Gum groves sped past with golden hills beyond, shadows dappled the road, and the drive seemed oddly easier than it had been last trip.  I relaxed. I was on right on time.  Allison Krause was singing the haunting “Maybe.”  All was right in my world.  I could have purred.

 

Several songs down the track, keeping time to Union Gap’s amazing riffs, I noticed a sign that read “Grafton, 10 km.”  Wait.  Grafton?  Grafton was south.  Way south.  About 45 minutes south.  I needed west.  I pulled off the road and shut off my IPod.  Damn it!  Dispirited, I shuffled around for maps and found one with chocolate stains on it, misfolded, and torn.  

 

As I said, I’m not good with maps, reading them or folding them.  I usually just hand them over to my husband who is thrilled not to have to watch the wrestling match I inevitably have with maps.  Sacred men’s business, map folding is, and my efforts are an obvious tramping into foreign territory.  He folds neatly.  I give up and wad.  He reads maps with the precision of an architect, which he is.  I get distracted by the colors and spaces like an artist, which I am.

 

I dug in my bag for my new Nav-Man to see what my options were.  Nav-Man is actually Nav-Girl, it turns out — with a dulcet Aussie accent.  The first time I encountered Nav-Girl in Australia, she had an American accent, but that’s what a year in-country will do for you — your accent adapts. As I think about it, it is an interesting choice to have a woman’s voice as the guru of navigation.  Who makes that choice, I wonder?  Anyhow, I appreciate it that Nav-Girl has much more success with maps than I do.  I’m all for girl-power and I pay tribute to those whose skills are superior to mine.

 

I turned on the device and it recalculated, even as I did, still fumbling with the map.  I could turn around and drive 45 minutes back to Casino and make the proper westerly turn for Tenterfield, or I could try to pick up the Bruxner Highway closer to Tenterfield via a more direct path.  On my old crumbling map, the more direct path indicates gravel roads and suspect avenues.  The New South Wales government has done quite a bit of road improvement in the last few years, however, and I hoped that Nav-Girl had the latest info on good roads.  

 

Nav-Girl didn’t even consider retracing my steps.  I asked for Tenterfield and Nav-Girl forged ahead.  I prepared to follow directions — always a tough sell in my neighborhood.  Ask anybody.

 

The first part of the diversion was beautiful and uneventful and I zipped along Clarence Way hoping to make up time.  I hadn’t planned for this kind of touring, but I decided to lean into the moment and enjoy the glorious landscape.

 

Then Nav-Girl got adventurous.  She directed me onto the Coaldale Road, which soon turned to gravel.  My pace slowed and my stomach sank.  I dipped into a concrete lined stream bed, climbed out, rounded the hill, turned left onto a gravel road, right onto the next gravel road, and then right again, following Nav-Girl’s instructions.  I passed no one.  

 

On the upside, Coaldale Valley is beautiful — narrow, verdant in the fall sun, a long trough reminiscent of ancient glacial scoops and swaths.  Some paddocks are fenced and some left to join the National Park up the hill.  I drove on, torn between admiration of the lush beauty and the increasing anxiety of driving among huge properties with mailboxes on the road but houses out of sight.  

 

I started doing what I always do in emergencies — make deals with the powers that be, those that are out-there-somewhere.  I hope I won’t have a flat tire out in who-knows-where.  That my mobile phone can get a signal if I need help.  That the skies remain clear as it is apparent that when the streams are running, properties out in the hinterland of the Clarence River Valley are cut off — and so would I be cut off from escape.  

 

I became very aware of being alone in my little car.  Very alone.  Very small and alone.  Older than when I started out.  Worries and fears crowded closer, even the ones I’m usually successful in keeping at bay.

 

Did I have sustenance in the car?  Any survival gear?  The pickings were slim.  I have a small bag of crisps (stale) from an outpost on the Bruxner Highway.  Half a cup of cold coffee — the sad remains of my triumph at McDonalds, lipstick stained, cup now soaked through and leaking.  

 

I have lots of clothes and some books and a kid’s bike, complete with flat tire.  On the positve side, I have a bike pump to deal with the flat tire.  One for the plus column.  I pair that plus with the anxiety that the last time I was on a bike, I took a header over the handlebars.  Call it even.  That’s how it is with anxieties — they have a long memory and they like to bind old fears  and previous disasters to new situations.

 

The Coaldale Road was joined by Stockyard Creek Road and veered northwest.  This is good.  Small note of relief.  At least we are headed in the right direction.  You go, Nav-Girl!  I considered turning on my IPod and revisiting my favorite songs, but I was leary of the distraction that sing-along requires.  I clutched the steering wheel, shifted in my seat, and drive on.  

 

“Turn right in 500 meters.”  Right?  I’m going north now, toward the highway.  Why would I turn right?  Am I circling the hinterland to head toward my starting-point?  I debated.  Nav-Girl or my own instincts?  My reputation as a poor navigator is well-earned.  I’m usually admiring the landscape, shapes, forms, colors, and shadows rather than following the route, so the “my-own-instincts” option seems the lesser of the two.  If I had to pinpoint my location on my own shredded map, I wouldn’t have had a clue.  So, Nav-Girl it was, even though my trust in Nav-Girl was pock-marked by gravel pellets by this time.  

 

Nav-Girl directed me to rejoin Clarence Way.  What a relief!  I could drive the speed limit and press along — the road was paved, although by this time, it had become a typical country road and the width varied from two-lane to one plus the verge.  Road repairs had been a sometime-thing.  That Saturday morning, I had the road, whatever its condition, to myself.  

 

Nav-Girl directed me through the dank dispair of Malabugilmah before she decided on a more direct route again.  Interpid, is Nav-Girl.  I think I will have more detailed maps with me, next time Nav-Girl and I attempt something as adventurous as Grafton to Tenterfield via the back roads.  

 

“In 500 meters, turn left onto Plain Station Road.”  I’m pretty sure Nav-Girl is playing with me now.  More gravel, more precipitous dips into concrete creek-beds with names no one remembers, more climbing into secluded hills away from the Clarence River Valley.  

 

On one hand, it is reassuring that this much of Australia has been mapped in such detail.  On the other hand, what am I doing out here beyond the beyond?  I know this is a pretty well populated for a hinterland area, but still, help, should I need it, would be hours away. 

 

I wanted a satellite picture to pinpoint my progress — and of course, that is exactly what Nav-Girl is.  But I wanted bigger.  More context.  I wanted Google Maps.  I was putting my trust into a computerized voice and a digital read-out 4” x 3.”  

 

I began to match my digital life-line to my atavistic fears and plan my next steps:  votive candles? little wooden statues fed at regular intervals?  rituals and fire and dancing?  Maybe something on my IPod would be just the thing for getting down, ritualistically?  I am at one with the need to understand the inexplicable and connect with forces beyond my ken.

 

A half-hour passed as my little red car made dogged but slow gravel-spitting progress.  I was glad I hadn’t had to rent a car and sign that clause that says you agree to drive only on paved roads.  Whew!  Saved from a half-truth at the car-return!    

 

By then, the road had climbed into eucalyptus scrub and pine forest where granite boulders edged

Granite outcropping -- northern New England

out of the soil.  Eventually, the gravel road became macadam.  More roads joined the Plain Station Road.  Signs appeared more frequently.  Other cars passed.  The road widened for trucks (trucks!) to make the wide turn onto the Plain Station Road from the Bruxner Highway.  I’d made it back to terra cognita, the delicious familiar.  

 

I stopped at the Bruxner Highway and took a deep breath of relief.  And then another.  I clenched and unclenched my hands, and took a sip of cold coffee, wrapped by this time in stained napkins to sop up the leaks.  Note to self:  Mickey D’s coffee cups seem to have a window with an expiration date on it, a time limit for coffee drinking.  I’d investigate next trip.  

 

The highway sign showed me that Nav-Girl had delivered me to the Bruxner Highway as promised — Tabulum to the right, Tenterfield to the left. I was much farther down the Bruxner Highway then I’d anticipated, and had been much longer on the gravel roads than I’d wanted to be.  Still, my breathing slowed and my stomach relaxed.  I was safe for the moment.   I had another hour and a half of hard mountain driving to go, but at least I was back on a road I recognized.  I pulled out my mobile phone and texted my waiting family:  Made wrong turn.  Got lost. OK now.  C u in 1.5 hrs.  xoxo.

 

Upon reflection, I realized I had learned several important lessons from my adventure with Nav-Girl:    

 

*When driving from Byron to Tenterfield, turn right at Casino onto the Bruxner Highway.  Do not head straight south to Grafton.  

 

*Do not concentrate on belting out songs when you’re in foreign territory.  Enjoy the trip at least as much but pay attention more.  

 

*And, I learned to be careful what you ask for.  Nav-Girl fancies the back roads.

back roads