Welcome to Australia, where the map is filled with very odd place names.

Just here in South Australia was have Foul Bay, Younghusband, Mount Misery, Stinky Bay, Bullshit Hill, Cream Puff Corner, Mount Buggery, the Boobs and Break Wind Reserve.

There are probably those who think it would be appropriate for me to live on Bullshit Hill, but almost no one would consider Younghusband to be appropriate.

When I was putting together yesterday’s story about the GeoCache jackpot hidden next to the Barossa Valley’s second biggest tree, I noticed that this photo highlights my absolutely dandy set of fingernails.

There’s a point to be made here and I swear I will get to it. Eventually. But not before we take a brief trip in time.

Many years ago we sold our little California ad agency to a behemoth New York ad agency. We were but a tiny cog in their immense machine.

Oddly enough, our business continued to thrive, but the mother company ran into financial problems and a couple years later sold itself (and us) to an even larger international ad agency.

Our new corporate masters didn’t really understand what they had purchased so they asked our agency’s top management — my partner Dan and me — to schedule a two-day orientation meeting in Manhattan. They arranged for us to meet with each of their department heads so we could figure out how to work together smoothly. We assumed they also wanted those department heads to report back with their assessments of the two new guys from California.

I can still clearly picture the moment Dan walked into my office clutching a single sheet of paper with both hands. It was a memo written to those department heads by the Chairman of the Board of our new corporate overlords. Dan was laughing.

“The people who bought us,” he cackled, ”know absolutely nothing about us.”

He then read from the memo.

“Next week we’re going to host two distinguished visitors from our new acquisition in California. Dan, the president of the agency, is a buttoned-down, street smart New York-style account service guy.” Dan did not dispute that part of the memo.

“But here’s the funny part,” he said as he continued reading. “‘Jim, the agency’s creative director, is a laid back California surfer type.’”

Dan resumed laughing, turned and walked out of my office, and probably continued chuckling all the way back to his office on the other side of the building. Although this happened more than 30 years ago, he can occasionally still be heard breaking out in a chortle and mumbling “Laid back California surfer type. That’s classic.”

The reason this was funny is that nothing in the chairman’s description of me was accurate except the word “Jim.”

First of all, I’ve never been on a surfboard in my life. The New Yorkers had apparently mistaken my slovenly T-shirt and shorts attire for some sort of non-existent athletic ability. But that’s not the mischaracterization that had Dan laughing.

Laid back? Yeah, that’s the one.

No matter how laid back I may have appeared on the outside, he knew I was a complete mess on the inside. He knew that that stress-related migraines kept me locked away in a dark room several days each month. That I had more tics than a Texas hound dog. That I found sleep as elusive as Sasquatch. That I had dozens of nervous mannerisms. That on the day we met my fingernails were bloody stubs that had been chewed and picked down to the quick.

That being said, can somebody please contact the lunatic from the Trinity Broadcast Network because a freakin’ miracle has occurred on this trip.

For the first time in my life, I’ve stopped chewing on my fingernails and stopped picking at my cuticles. For the first time in my life, as you can see in the photo at the top of this story, my phalanges are perfect.

I have no idea why. I haven’t changed my routine. I haven’t changed my diet. I haven’t changed my outlook on life. If anything, the fact that the Australian government has closed its borders and stranded us here should have made me more nervous.

Believe it or not, I can actually remember the moment I began chewing my fingernails. I’d guess I was about five years old. My parents were trying to break me of the habit of sucking my thumb and my dad began yelling when he caught me with my opposable digit in my mouth.

“I wasn’t sucking my thumb,” I told him. “I was chewing my fingernails.”

He actually bought that preposterous story. And I guess he thought it was an acceptable trade-off. So I really had no choice. I had painted myself into the proverbial corner. That was the moment I had to stop sucking my thumb and begin biting my fingernails.

And before you ask, no, I have not reverted to sucking my thumb just to fool you like I fooled my father.

But my nails are pretty damn pretty, aren’t they?

(And a ten point pop culture bonus for any of you who understand the Fingertips, Part II reference in the headline.)

Rumor has it there’s a GeoCache box hidden somewhere near the Second Biggest Tree In the Barossa Valley. So Jamie and I decided to drive out and see if we could find it.

I headed left around the tree and Jamie went right. She took about two steps before hollering, “I found it.” It was hidden right at the base of the tree under a couple large pieces of bark and a big, flat stone.

 

 

Unlike what we had been told, there was no note inside announcing that this was the Barossa Valley’s biggest tree. Maybe someone read about the results of the world famous Barossa’s Biggest Tree competition and removed it.

But there was a wee notebook inside the plastic GeoCache box. Dozens and dozens of people had signed and dated it. Jamie and I didn’t have any secret code names, so we just wrote “Jim & Jamie, 11-5-20 (or 5-11-20 in America), Texas.”

Then we put the notebook back in the plastic container, covered it with the same bark and stone, and went on our merry way.

I guess we’re now GeoCachers.

We’ve been gone for eight months but we’re finally flying home on June 19. I don’t want to say a cancellation is probable, but after the last few weeks I certainly wouldn’t say it’s impossible.

Virgin Australia’s international flights are completely grounded and the airline has gone into receivership. Its billionaire founder Richard Branson may find himself a few billion dollars lighter.

American, with whom we were supposed to fly home on April 28, has suspended all its Australian flights until October. Yes. Freakin’ October.

Qantas began showing flights on its website, but then sent me an email saying that all its international flights are grounded until mid-July.

That leaves United Airlines. It initially grounded all its international flights but resumed some of them on June 6. Then its website began showing a daily non-stop from Sydney to Houston. When we tried to book that flight the phone rep said, “Sorry. All those flights have now been cancelled.”

Luckily, we were finally able to snatch up a Sydney-San Francisco non-stop followed by a cross country flight to Dallas. So far, so good. But they warned us to check in a few days before we’re scheduled to fly because they’re cancelling flights every day.

It could have been worse. A lot worse.

One possible route back home was Adelaide-Sydney-Tokyo-Frankfort-Dallas.

Another option was Adelaide-Sydney-Toronto-Chicago-Dallas.

How about Adelaide-Sydney-Tokyo-Washington DC (Dulles International)- take a taxi across town to Washington DC (Reagan)-Houston-Dallas.

Or try Adelaide-Sydney-San Francisco-Las Vegas-Houston-Dallas.

And yet another was Adelaide-Wellington-Auckland-Tahiti-Los Angeles-Dallas.

Crazy, huh?

Each of those routes would have taken more than 48 hours in the air and in airports. And there was no guarantee that we wouldn’t get grounded and quarantined in one of those far-off foreign ports.

So. June 19. That’s still five and a half weeks away, but we think it’s going to fly by. Non-stop.

Some of the Barossa’s earliest settlers were German immigrants and it’s still very German in a lot of ways.

I saw this handwritten sign in a local butcher shop and it baffled me. I had no idea what it meant so I asked the woman behind the counter if she could explain it to us. It is, of course, German and the literal translation is “laugh ham.”

It’s what Americans would call prosciutto. I’m not sure, but that might even be what it’s called by Australians who aren’t of German extraction.

The relationship between Australia and New Zealand is very much like the relationship between the United States and Canada. Good friends. Best of friends, really. But there’s always just a little resentment from the junior partner.

Americans don’t care if someone thinks they’re Canadian, but Canadians hate it if someone assumes they’re American. Same thing down under. Kiwis are insulted if someone has the temerity to accuse them of being Australian.

And that explains this Australian tourism video created by a Kiwi. No other explanation necessary.

This will be the final story I do about the Barossa’s Biggest Tree competition. I swear.

Have you ever heard of geocaching? I was only vaguely aware of the concept when the owner of the trophy shop asked me where Dr John and Scottie’s big trees were located.

“One’s out on Collingrove Road and the other’s just off Steingarten Road.”

“Oh,” she said, “He’s not the only one who thinks the one on Collingrove Road is the biggest. It’s a geocache location and there’s a note inside the box that says, “I think this is the largest eucalyptus tree in the Barossa Valley. If you know of a bigger one, let us know.”

What box? What note? What is geocaching?

Let’s start off with a definition:

Geocaching is an outdoor recreational activity, in which participants use a GPS receiver or mobile device and other navigational techniques to hide and seek containers, called “geocaches” or “caches”, at specific locations marked by coordinates all over the world.

A typical cache is a small waterproof container containing a logbook and sometimes a pen or pencil. The geocacher signs the log with their established code name and dates it, in order to prove that they found the cache. After signing the log, the cache must be placed back exactly where the person found it. Larger containers such as plastic storage containers (Tupperware or similar) can also contain items for trading, such as toys or trinkets, usually of more sentimental worth than financial.

The photo at the top of this story is a stock shot I plucked off the internet. We didn’t see a plastic box around the Collingrove tree but then we weren’t looking for one. So who knows? One may have been hidden in plain sight somewhere very near the tree.

I suppose we should return to the tree off Steingarten Road, get its GPS coordinates, then return to the tree on Collingrove Road, find the box, write a note that provides those coordinates to geocachers who find this box in the future so that they can go find the Steingarten tree.

But that would be a lot of work for a hobby I’d never heard of until three days ago.

That being said, I may have to take up geocaching just so I can give myself a secret code name. I’m thinking it should be “Big Hunky.” Jamie thinks it should be “Big Dorky.”

Back in the days when I was an ad agency creative director I once interviewed a Madison Avenue copywriter. He showed me a commercial that featured a guy in a stomach costume boxing with a guy dressed as a carton of antacids. It was the worst commercial ever made.

Until now. Because here’s an Aussie commercial that features a talking large intestine named Gutsy and a turd named Nugget.

Seriously. I’m not making this shit up. But someone did.

We bought some very expensive trophies and had them hand-engraved in order to commemorate the recently-contested Biggest Tree in the Barossa competition. Money was no object. If I’m not mistaken, the trophies set us back $8 and $5 (Australian) respectively (engraving included).

The First and Probably Last Meeting of the BVBTESCCC&AC (The Barossa Valley Biggest Tree Executive Sub-Committee, Coffee Club and Awards Committee) was held across the street at John & Margaret’s house. Awards were distributed by the Official Girth Measurement Team (Jamie and me).

Scottie (left) was very proud to take home the award for first place in the Biggest Tree in the Barossa contest.

Dr John (right) was somewhat less proud to take home the “First Place for the Second Biggest Tree in the Barossa” trophy.

The good doctor seemed a bit miffed that his tree didn’t measure up. I don’t think the symbolism was lost on anyone who knows him.

Welcome to the greatest competition the Southern Hemisphere has ever seen.

Neighbor John took us out a few weeks ago to see what he called “South Australia’s biggest eucalyptus tree.” Neighbor Scottie took issue with that assessment and said he knew of an even bigger one.

I was tired of hearing them bicker back and forth, so I proposed that we round up a tape measure, then drive out and measure both trees to settle the argument once and for all.

Neither John nor Scottie trusted each other to conduct the measuring process with an unbiased eye, so I was invited to be the Impartial Arbiter of Eucalyptus Girth. It is an honor and I will do my best to live up to the trust they have placed in me.

Here are the competitors (Scottie on the left, John on the right). Both worthy. Both with outstanding credentials. Both girded for the greatest confrontation since Muhammed Ali met Joe Frazier in the Thrilla in Manila.

First we drove out to Collingrove Road to measure the tree John claimed was the biggest in South Australia. As I’ve told you before, he was the Angaston town doctor for fifty years and visited every part of the Barossa while making his rounds. Hence his confidence.

Then we drove all the way across the valley to Steingarten Road to see and measure the tree Scottie insisted was the biggest in the state. Scottie was the valley’s leading realtor for many years. So he has visited, walked, and sold almost every piece of property as part of his duties. Hence his confidence.

The final measurements?

John’s eucalyptus tree measured a massive 31 feet 9 inches in circumference. Scottie’s measured an even more massive 34 feet 6 inches.

Game. Set. Match. Scottie.

Sadly, John has not taken his humiliating defeat well. He seems to have become a shattered, broken man since the results were announced, a shell of his once confident self. I fear for his mental and physical well-being.

Sad to see such a vibrant young man wither away in such a tragic way.