Stories from OZ

[tcamiga]

Many, many moons ago I stopped for a couple of days helping out with some mustering in the Hughenden area of Queensland (OZ). Hughenden is inland, very hot, very dry and has an airport a couple of miles outside of town with a sealed runway. I was flying a Hiller12E which had a stainless steel muffler fitted to the Lyc VO540.

Before I headed off for the 2,500 mile trip to Port Hedland in Western Australia to do some Uranium exploration, our company sent up an engineer and apprentice to do a scheduled 300 Hourly inspection on my machine. We were just buttoning up the machine when a military 0H58 landed outside the terminal looking for the refueller to come out from town to supply Jet A1.

When I saw the four sprogs (they must have been on a NAV) standing outside their machine in 50 oC heat coming off the tarmac, I figured that anyone who didn't know to go sit in the shade in that climate was some one we could have a bit of fun with.

So.... the engineer and I poured near enough to 10 litres of the old engine oil (W100) into the Hiller's big muffler and then emptied the Aeroshell 14 in the grease gun into the muffler as well to make a thick hydrocarbon soup. We double checked all was OK with the Hiller and then sent the apprentice over to say hullo to the sprogs.

The conversation went something like this: "Gidday mate what's happening with the Hiller?"

" Oh - nothing much. Tc said it was burning a bit of oil so we had a dekko at it and fixed it up before he heads off to WA."

Seeing the apprentice then giving me the secret sign - I cranked up the Hiller, engaged the clutch and warmed it up at the lowest revs I could. The engineer gave me the all clear that there were no oil leaks and I then gunned off the Hiller into the setting sun at Max allowable power and at about 100 Ft AGL. You can imagine the smoke screen pouring out the muffler pipe - they said it looked like a WWII destroyer trying to hide a whole battle group of ships.

The sprogs' jaws dropped at the sight and then they just about had a heart attack when the apprentice calmly said: "Yep - it looks like its going a whole lot better now!!!"

True story

[rotaryman]

Pissed Myself Laughing at That Story..:} :ok:

[Stringfellow Dork]

I hope I'll have a few to tell like that in a few years.

Thanks for sharing...

[22clipper]

Ah ha, there is another penman amongst us? I love a good stroy.

[tcamiga]

I'll float a few up here over the next couple of weeks as I get time. Enjoy

The wet season (monsoon) in '89 up in the Northern Territory was really steamy. Those who have been there know that 45 oC and 90% humidity with tropical thunderstorms are an every day show of beautiful mother nature during January.

Working out of a floodwater isolated station called Opium Creek (that’s another story) on the Mary river flood plains, I had won a contract and was aerial spraying Mimosa Pigra for the NT Govt. Some days were simply too hot or stormy even for the system I had developed for spraying above 25 oC.

Because of the problem with the big lizards (saltwater man eating crocodiles) on the flood plains, I always had a stainless steel Ruger .38 pistol and a Sako .243 rifle in the machine in case I survived the crash if something went wrong. I still get little flashback thoughts of what if it really happened and I was sitting hunched up on the rotor head of the helicopter sticking only a foot or so out of the water with one cartridge left and a couple of big hungry crocs eyeing me up – maybe general Custer felt the same.

For two days the heat was stifling – too hot to spray because of the overcast almost 100% humidity, so Joe, the station manager, asked me if we could do a bit of wild pig culling instead. Not needing extra encouragement - away we went blazing at every pig we could see – not a hard thing to do from the air as they were slowed down when running thru the flood plain shallows.

Some of the oinkers looked to be in prime condition and we salivated as we thought of them being a better feed than the tins of food we had been heating up for the last week or so.

I put the skids about 6 inches in the water and told Joe to get out and tie a couple of dead pigs onto the cargo hook so we could take them home.
The problem started when we got home – everyone knows that wild pig has to be cooked hot and right through to get rid of any parasites which could decommission your stomach and a few other things. However you can’t cook a pig in an LPG stove which has run out of gas just at the wrong time.

Two of the Station ringers were cane farmers from Queensland up in the Territory to earn a bit of extra cash and see what all the excitement was about. These boys were Oz ingenuity at its best.

“You mob go and have a few coldies – we’ll sort this out” was their catch cry whenever their services were needed. On this particular day they did well.

After we had a bit of a wash and clean standing outside in a tropical downpour, Joe and I retreated into the Homestead for a beer with his family and a yakkity yak.

It was getting on dark when I woke up on the couch and I could smell the tantalizing aroma of pig cooking over an open fire. Joe was outside supervising the cane farmers' contraption and what a sight it was. They had raided the station dump and made a spit.

The container for the wood was a 44 Gallon AVGAS drum gas-axed vertically and then butt welded end to end. Over this they has welded up a sort of A frame at each end and, utilising an old washing machine electric motor, pulleys from something else, a spare generator plant belt, the tail shaft out of an old car and the gearbox out of a wrecked Suzuki 4WD, the pig was turning and roasting over the hot coals.

“Boys” I said – “Boys you have done well”

“Tc” – they said (like the Ads on TV) – “there’s more - tell us what you think about this special not found in the shops feature?”

With that they proceeded to the contraption and demonstrated that the influence of a few warm beers did nothing to their prospective formula 1 racing driver skills by swiftly changing gear with the gearbox shifter and making verbal V8 engine sounds and screeching tire effects while making that big fat pig whiz around faster or slower.

It even had reverse gear for a pit stop.

Never have I tasted a better pig – I hope they patented that spit and made a fortune. True story.

[Sir HC]

I remember probably just as many moons ago, a fellow by the name of Tony Carmody told a very similar story which originated in New Zealand. But hey, lets not let the truth get in the way of a good story! Carry on lads.

[22clipper]

Tony had a collection of tales didn't he? I remember him telling me once about a donkey eradication job he flew. As well as piloting the chopper with his right hand he had to reload magazines for the shooter with his left!

[TheMonk]

22Clipper wrote:
"As well as piloting the chopper with his right hand he had to reload magazines for the shooter with his left!"

Don't we all fly with our right hand to begin with?

Da Monk:\

[22clipper]

Not long after getting my licence I got involved with a bunch of other PPLs with the common purpose of getting together for chopper trips, one of 'em was George....


MY MATE GEORGE

I was surprised, on swinging the Robbie into Lightning Ridge, to find the R44s still there. We'd been on the 200 nm run up from Mudgee for the last two & half hours and their extra 30 knots of ground speed should have had them refuelled & gone by now. As I settled by the bowser it was clear things had gone pear shaped. For one thing the bowser itself was sitting in the back of a truck, instead of bolted to the tarmac where I would have preferred to see it. For another, a small crowd had gathered around George's R22.

George is Polish & lost an eye in a child hood accident. To have earned a helicopter pilot's licence with the twin handicaps of English-as-a-second-language & restricted vision was testimony to his great talent as a human being, resourcefulness. He is also outgoing & gregarious but the crowd surrounding him seemed more entranced with something at the back of his chopper than George himself. I soon learned that the bowser was, in the words of the truck driver who'd come to collect it, "Rooted mate" & that George's tail rotor drive shaft bearing was haemorrhaging grease. The general consensus amongst the throng of pilots was that the grease had fled the bearing to escape the heat!

This was just the first day of our trip and already we had more drama than most excursions manage in a fortnight. I started to feel sorry for George. I shouldn't have. By sundown he had organised a fixed wing to fly a LAME & replacement bearing up from Sydney first thing in the morning. By bedtime he had convinced the rest of us to siphon enough avgas from our machines into his tanks for him to make the 200nm leg to Charleville direct after the bearing swap.

After the plank got in & we checked it was carrying both LAME & bearing the rest of us departed for various other off track destinations to get fuel. Chief topic of conversation on these wayward excursions was wagers on the likelyhood of George making it into Charleville sometime that day to join us for the rest of the trip. I headed north east towards the picturesque little Queensland town of St. George fuelled up there & then tracked into Charleville around lunchtime after the diversion. And there, sipping a Cola, looking relaxed & refreshed, asking "what took you so long" was my mate George!