A Buick called Bismarck
So Des and I decided we would buy a car to travel to the Carnarvon Gorge. Des didn't want to drive his recent model Holden and we thought my rather more elderly Simca Aronde would be too small. We went for a drive along Ipswich Road where all the cheapie car yards were. After looking through four yards and finding nothing much, I spotted a Holden utility, a pick-up for the American readers,a bakkie if you're South African. What the English call them I do not know. It was about ten years old and looked clean and tidy. From a distance.

I stepped up and opened the passenger door. Bright green carpet on the floor. No, that was grass. There was a rust hole a foot square in the floor. Sales bloke reckoned it would be alright, but I suggested that since we intended travel over some dirt roads, the interior would become rather dusty. Not too pleasant. Frankly, I wan't keen about a possible Fred Flintstone impression.

So it looked as if our search was fruitless. Yet over to the side I spotted a vast black bulk.

"What's that?"

"Oh, that's an old Buick. It's just come in. The motor's good."

It was a genuine bulgemobile. A Buick Special, built in 1947. Straight eight engine, whale's teeth grille, seventeen feet and six inches long and taller than I am. Body by Holden (not Fisher). The front mudguards extended in a generous curve half way across the front doors. There was a rust hole beneath the left tail lamp right through to the boot, the front floor was two inches deep in muddy carpet and tattered rubber. The upholstery had seen better days. It had that indefinable "old car" smell. A huge dent marred the right front mudguard and the black paint was spotty. It was love at first sight.

The engine was silky smooth, all but silent at idle, the transmission, steering and brakes were good. All the windows wound up and down, the doors closed with a snick and the electric clock was the only part of the electrics that didn't work. One tyre was bald.

"A hundred and seven dollars" said the sales bloke. We bought it. Des said it was a Yankee battlewagon and christened it "Bismarck".

I drove it home and parked it in my parent's driveway. They were a little surprised at the vast vehicle their son had brought home. Over the following days I scraped the front floor clear of decades of dirt, drained the cooling system and filled it with clean water. Took out and checked all eight spark plugs, they were good. The carburettor was from a Ford V8 and it has a "sports" air cleaner. When you put your foot down you could hear the engine slurping fuel. It did 15 miles to the gallon. On a good day.

Saturday morning Des phoned to say he'd got a replacement tyre. For five dollars. I should have asked him to get something else, but the Buick's sixteen inch wheels were big buggers then and suitable tyres were rare. So we toddled off to have the tyre fitted and along the way bought a big jar of engine oil. That afternoon we parked in a patch of vacant land, dug a little hole and drained the engine oil into it, then topped up with new. Who said you needed a garage?

Came the big day and we were off. Drove it most of the way up the Tollbar to Toowoomba in top gear, but when we got to the top it was boiling like a kettle. After twenty minutes it had cooled down and we filled the radiator again.

Across the plains of the Darling Downs it would still do an indicated 80 miles per hour. But it was a little shaky at 80. It is still the most comfortable car I have ever driven long distance and I have one of Stuttgart's finest now.

We rolled through Oakey, Chinchilla, took a side trip to see someone drilling for oil near Moonie and got a look at the oil geologist's laboratory. Near St George I started to worry about the fact that the fuel gauge was bumping the bottom. So we stopped and took out the jerry can and funnel. Emptied the can into the tank, drove over the rise and there was St. George. Oh well.

Imagine Sydney Harbour emptied of water and filled with a clear cool stream, towering eucalypts, aboriginal rock art in the sandstone overhangs, wallabies, possums, fern trees, side canyons and little waterfalls. Sunbaking goannas, screeching cockatoos, strolling emus, fish jumping in the big pool near the camp ground. That was Carnarvon Gorge.

We had the place to ourselves apart from the ranger, his pet wallaby and two Swedish blokes who had been working on a Bass Strait oil rig. We had to lock the food in the car to keep the possums away from it. We climbed cliffs, got lost, swam in the pool below the falls in Angiopteris Ravine. By night we went to the hotel just outside the national park, drank retsina and played canasta with a man and his 19 year old daughter. They were the only guests.

By day at the hotel Hector the emu would sneak up behind you and put his head in your pocket looking for slices of fruit. If you have never seen the neck of a giant bird disappearing into your trouser pocket, you haven't lived.

But it all ended. We headed north from the gorge and after an hour or so we got a flat tyre. No problem, on went the spare. We passed through Springsure, population maybe 1000, keeping our eyes peeled for a garage open. No luck, it was Sunday afternoon. But it was only 45 minutes to Emerald. We'd stay overnight and get the tyre fixed in the morning. No worries.

I was driving. Near Minerva there was a loud bang. I thought it was a rifle, but there was nobody in sight. Then the Buick started to lurch. Des said,

"Don't brake. Don't brake."

So we rolled to a halt. It was Des's $5 tyre, now rubber confetti. Through a process I shall not elaborate, we managed to get a new tyre. Just one, it was the only one in Emerald that size, and was 12-ply and meant for a truck. We changed it after dark by the light of a hurricane lantern using one tyre lever, a large screwdriver and a ball peen hammer. We could not get the other flat tyre fixed, there was no tube in town big enough.

Spareless we continued on our merry way. Just a mile or so from Banana on a detour a stake went through the side wall of our nice new tyre. Des hoofed it to Banana and phoned his uncle, who was expecting us and lived another 80 miles on. We spent the night on the side of the road. In the morning his uncle arrived with assistance, somehow we got the tyre fixed. (I drove the same road 15 years later and ruined another tyre.)

On that trip home we had two blowouts and three flats, most of the time without a workable spare tyre. It taught me something. Never buy cheap tyres.

We eventually sold the Buick for $55. Three years later the old car craze hit and I saw a mere Chevrolet in far worse condition sell for $500 at auction. Bugger!
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 15:11, 1 reply)

The Merkins..
call it a truck, the Brits call it a pick-up.
So there.

And I love old Merkin cars, especially the Tri Chevys (55-57), it's just summat about them....
( His Popiness the Hole Invaded Poland on, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:39, closed)