Wrestle With This Concept

Relax, They'll Do You No Arm



My American buddy Bart recently did an interview where one of the questions was: ``Do you think you could defeat David McMahon in a spirited game of thumb wars?''

Funny thing is, that question took me right back to The Yukon, on a travel-writing trip I made in 1999. There I was in the Gateway Lounge at Haines Junction on the Alaska Highway, when I was introduced to a unique type of wrestling ....

A bloke called Rich walked over to where we sat. He's about the size of a barn door. And I'm talking B I G barn. He admires my MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground) cap, asking me to toss it across the table to him. You don't mess with a bloke that size, so I just pass it over. He holds it admiringly, touching the gold letters on it and tracing the embroidered outline of the famous sporting venue.

"I collect caps," he announces. Somehow I find the courage to tell him that he'll have to wait until I get home and mail him one. He thinks about this for a moment, then decides he can trust me. He passes it back and says enthusiastically, "You do that and I'll send you a really good Yukon cap." To set the seal on our undying friendship, he offers to introduce me to squaw wrestling.

Excuse me? Squaw wrestling? I have this mental picture of being forced to fight him for a woman and I look for a dark corner of the Lounge. But Rich pulls one of his mates into the spotlight.

"Here, we'll show you what squaw wrestling is all about." He and his mate lie flat on their backs, their heads pointing in opposite directions. On the count of three, they both raise their right legs as each contestant tries to pin the other down. No contest. Rich has his mate pinned in a couple of seconds. His mate is a woman called Deb. We get the distinct impression she is very disappointed with her form.

It is my turn. The hopes and fears of our great nation rest on my shoulders. We line up and I formulate the perfect plan I'll go for his hamstring. One, two, three. I swing up and even before I can swivel, Rich has me pinned. Time elapsed: about half a second. Deb looks a bit happier now.

Determined to advance Australia's reputation, I offer to take on Rich at arm wrestling. We sit down opposite each other and I put my right arm on the table." Ah, my right hand is a bit busted. We'll do it left-handed if that's OK with you," he says.

It's OK with me. This is a far better contest and at one stage it looks as though Australia is about to make a big comeback before Canada makes it 2-0. Much later in the day, I surmise that I have probably been had. The next time I see Rich, I'll ask him if he's left-handed.

Freeze A Crowd

Wanna Play Ice Spy?

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

The best thing about an icy morning here in Melbourne is the sunny, cloudless day. This shot was taken about half an hour ago, just before 9am Sunday morning (yes, it's Sunday here) when most of the ice had melted off the top of my car. But I raced out with my camera because the sun was glinting on the thin remnants of the ice, making it glint like tiny diamonds.

On a working day, the trick is to make sure you never suffer from FHS, or frozen hose syndrome. Back in the winter of '95, I was confronted with a car so comprehensively frozen over, even the door handles were iced shut. What? Me worry? Never. I just walked over purposefully to where I had cannily uncoiled the garden hose the previous night, in preparation for what I knew would be a grim cold snap. Only problem was, the hose was frozen stiff. It was like someone had put a metal rod into the hose.

The other danger, for Melburnians, is in disconnected hoses. See ice on the car. Connect hose. Turn tap on. Hose connection splits under pressure. You're drenched and ready to do a Jack Frost impression.

But you have to feel sorry for the Russian bloke who copped his own version of FHS, about four years ago. There he was, at a deserted bus stop on a sub-zero night. And the pressure on his bladder was beginning to mount. So he did the decent thing and looked all around, to make sure he wouldn't offend anyone by seeking relief.

He nestled into the corner of the bus shelter but he got too close. In that instant, flesh and metal fused together in the cold. Rescue workers eventually got him free, but when warm water failed to do the trick, they had to resort to pouring hot water instead. When the mortified bloke got to hospital, they had to figure out whether to treat him for frostbite or burns.

And spare a thought for the hardy residents of the Yukon (yep, Sergeant Preston's territory) in northern Canada, where the mercury often drops to minus 30C, even before the wind chill is taken into account. One evening I came out of the Gateway Lounge, a pub in Haines Junction on the Alaska Highway. And squinted at the electrical leads attached to every parking spot. Huh? That's where hardy winter drinkers plug in under-bonnet connections so their engine blocks don't freeze.