Today I rode the steam train. The Capella is a 4-6-4, the last of its kind in the world and that makes it kind of special. Just think about that word for a moment: the last.
My father and brother volunteer on the line - keeping the boiler stoked, laying track, putting out the odd fire and re-building the odd bridge that burns down because of aforementioned odd fire. That's a funny thing about steam engines. They throw soot and sparks into the undergrowth and their potential for a carnage-strewn wake is impressive. But fear not! They have a Section Car (or Putt-Putt, to use the steam-enginey vernacular) that follows like a trusty Spaniel and squirts the smokey bits before they wipe out the neighbour's milk shed. Dad used to design railway bridges so this is like turning the once-daily grind into a fun hobby. Big boys need their toys. Or so my boys keep telling me.
We arrive two hours early - I assume because said boys want to bask in the splendour of Capella's mighty majectic-ness before all the tourists arrive. Cute, until the rain starts.
But, Dear Reader, this is Ravenshoe (the highest town in Queensland) and what tourists call 'a moderate downpour' the locals call 'heavy mist'. It's all a matter of perspective. Having lived in Ravenshoe I subscribe to the 'heavy mist' school of thought. And it was misting by inches, let me tell you.
The train was all a steam engine should be: noisy, hot, rumbly fun with heaps of whistle toots and bridges so narrow you feel like Harry Potter puffing his way to Hogwarts. The kids are in heaven. We choose a seat in the open carriage and are promised sightings of rare beasts such as drop bears and cobras and bunyips and not-so-rare beasts such as Paris Hilton in the nuddy. I request staff give adequate warning before Paris rounds the bend on grounds I'm fond of my retinas. I win smiles from approving parents.
The kids see farms and dams filled with happy ducks, inventive bush dunnys and cows aplenty. They see iron roofs twisted and torn like paper from Cyclone Larry and piles of rubble that will never be re-built. A group of kangaroos are spooked and hop off into the bush.
'Can we follow them?' asks Master Three. 'No, they've gone bush,' I say. 'Why?' he asks. 'Because that's where they feel safe.' 'Why?' 'Because they're kangaroos,' I say. 'Can we follow them?' 'No.' 'Why?' 'Because those are carnivorous kangaroos,' I sing-song-say. 'They eat small children.' Once-approving parents glare. 'Too much?' I ask.
We arrive at Tumoulin and disembark for scones and jam. Miss Eight asks for orange fizzy and I comply. It's Christmas, afterall. This of course means Master Three has to have some. Within minutes Master Three starts doing laps around the grounds hooting like a train and patting strange dogs with his face. 'Sorry, sorry,' I say. 'Is he scaring him?' 'No,' says the nice Asian lady. 'His eyeballs have been removed.'
I get nose to nose with the poodle. By God, she's right! And yet I feel it looking right through me ...
'Who wants to blast the whistle?' says train guy. Kids swarm like killer bees. Train guy feels the pain. We all feel the pain. Kids hang off that whistle like it runs their life support.
'We like our ears,' I say to Master Three. 'You're not going to do that, are you.' Master Three looks at me like I'm gum on his shoe.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRP!
While he's BARP!ing I'm tipping the orange muck into a potplant.
On the way back to Ravenshoe we sit inside. The seats are huge and red with pull-out armrests and massive windows that roll down manually like a motor car from the 70s. On the wall there are B&W pics of the Capella at Tumoulin station in 1913. For such a young country that's pretty impressive. Mum and I pretend we're on the Orient Express and mutually enable eachother's pining need for a G&T.
'What are you looking at?' I ask Mum. All I can see is her rump out the window so it must be good. Could it be Istanbul?? I lurch for the window and bang my eye on the glass. 'It's not that clean,' says Mum, pre-empting my thought of suing the line for excessive cleanliness. I nurse my eye and stagger down the aisle in search of Miss Eight. The ticket lady at the counter looks suspicious. 'S'okay,' I say and bump into the wall with my shoulder. 'I've been drinking.'
I find Miss Eight communing with some special needs gentlemen and their carers. One of them has my camera. I swapped it for a microwave in '07 but it's all I've got. 'Take picture?' he says. 'Absolutlely,' I say.
Back at Ravenshoe the sun is shining and the kids are beaming. Around fifty people disembark, all smiles. Mum and Dad are proud as punch as my little brother steps out of the Capella's engine covered in grease and soot and gives a wave.
Some gin and an icepack, and the day goes down as awesome.
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