On September 12th 2023 the author of the poems and prose in this blog left us.
This post is dedicated to comments and contributions from people who knew and loved him.
The title Love, Mountains, Words derives from aspects of his life which he declared were most important to him.
Bill, former student, friend and more
Thanks for being a friend, a mentor, a teacher.
A lifetime of study filled with feeling and philosophy, words and poetry, climbing and jostling, joshing and loving.
A witness to the majesty of mountains, the cadence of nature, the flight of eagles, the hope and dreams of thousands, but none more than me.
When I sat and talked about unions over 50 years ago and the things to be done in the world, it was reinforcing, guiding and exciting. This is the stuff of inspiration.
I look back with no tears, no sadness nor regrets, but a sense of joy that you brought to my life, and that of Michael and Anna... The chats at Three Peaks, Wright Street, Huntingtower Road, ACTU Congresses, will be forever cherished.
But the lasting memory will always be Ross, the scariest of Tigers to Hunter, who was looking out just for you.
Thanks, with love.
Pat, a recent friend and lunch companion
Ross enjoyed life. He observed and appreciated so many small details so often overlooked and ignored. His sense of humour was enhanced by a mischievous sense of fun and his generosity of spirit brought warmth and pleasure to those around him.
Thank you, Ross.
Harley, former brother-in-law
I first met Ross when he and Lois began going out together. They had begun their romance before Lois left for a trip to England in 1950. Ross always the researcher, found tramping and rock climbing a welcome distraction from assiduous MA study at Victoria University. He had a particular love for a rock slab at Titahi Bay where he persuaded Lois and me to try some hair raising scrambles.
Despite his slim build he was able to carry a massive pack on many tramping adventures. On one occasion he led a group of us to Mt Ruapehu, a 2,700m high active volcano. Its crater lake is surrounded by a summitry of rocky, snowy mini peaks. There were 5 of us, Ross, Lois, Ian, Merimee and me. Under Ross’s guidance we enthusiastically dug snow caves for our night’s shelter. We were not tempted to swim in the emerald waters of the crater lake, though others tried. The water is less hot at the lake’s edge but unpredictable waves of boiling water would race across the surface making swimming hazardous.
Ross was always the scholar, well-rounded, determined and individualistic with many talents and interests. My abiding memory is a concentrated Ross hunched over a book taking notes, wholly absorbed.
Helen, Ross's sister
My half-brother. There are many sadnesses – that it took so long for my sister Sandra and me to meet our half-brother Ross, that we saw him little, that he is now gone - but there was happiness and joy too. Ross had a long life. I got to meet him in London and at Three Peaks, and we had much to talk about. I always enjoyed his sharp brain and his sense of humour and treasured our correspondence – he put Sandra and me on his TPR list, I made attempts to solve his riddles and loved reading his Cattleman stories. I’ll miss him very much.
Rita, neighbour
I miss Ross chatting to my garden animal sculptures, which he named and calling out "Hello Rita!" as he passed by each day on his way to visit Lena. He was very special, a lovely gentleman.
Alex, grandson
Reminiscence of Ross
I seem to remember Ross at his typewriter, but perhaps that is a false memory. I certainly recall his laptop days, as well as a large desktop computer that lived in his Melbourne study. He had two studies, one in the city and one at the farm, so that he could work in both places. The Melbourne one was crowded with filing cabinets and stacks of papers—it was a somewhat daunting place to enter. Ross was a great user of index cards, and kept pens and cards in his car and in his shirt pocket in case inspiration struck. In his study at the farm, besides walls of books a pinboard with pictures of friends and family also displayed quotations that were meaningful to him typed up on little sheets of paper (among them, “I want to see mountains again, Gandalf,” from his beloved Lord of the Rings).
His regular reports from the farm entertained my sister and me and kept us in touch with his doings. They numbered, finally, and including those written after Ross could no longer visit his beloved refuge, 1,211 in all. The reports, first typewritten, later printed, and finally sent as email attachments, featured playful conceits, such as recurring topical headings, nicknames and epithets for frequent protagonists, and the fiction of a large staff (“heads will roll” was the cry when any prior editorial offenses were acknowledged). If the window on his life was narrow, and revealed the writer’s interiority only indirectly, it opened frequently on a good and peaceful life: marvels of nature observed, meals prepared and enjoyed, millimeters of rain measured. The activities were recorded, too, always with good humor and a sense of wonder. (Even so, certain topics were cause for lamentation, in particular the rain that never came in the summer, and never in sufficient quantity, as well as the deeds of the roguish wombat or wombats that dug up fields and weakened trees.)
My mother once told me that Ross was the finest writer in the family, a compliment among people who valued words as we did. When much later, in my university years, I began to write regularly in English myself, he kindly commented on drafts of my papers before I submitted them. His suggested edits appeared not in the document itself but in a separate list, each line introduced by the location of the edit (4 lines from the bottom, etc.). I remember a slightly sharp remark once that I was unselfconscious about sharing work-in-progress, meaning that what I sent to him was not particularly polished—undoubtedly an accurate assessment. As a graduate student and after, I shared my work in progress less frequently, though occasionally he still commented on specially important documents. I have found one email in which he joked that he had found in an article draft “only one nitpick (am I losing my touch!?).” I remember being proud of his response to an early scholarly article of mine, footnoted in double columns, which he termed “deeply learned.” At age eighty-five he commented on my book proposal. When my first book appeared, he was eighty-nine. He soldiered through the whole thing. Writing to congratulate me about it, he reported, with perhaps a shade of disappointment, that he had not been able to find any typos.
Fabio, son-in-law
Dear Ross
We have known each other for more than forty years. I vividly remember our first meeting, when Leitha and I came to visit you in Switzerland, where you were doing mountain climbing. I was impressed to have such a youngish father-in- law.
Despite the distance we have been in touch rather closely. You visited us, Lanzo and Le Ripe apart from Milan and Southern Italy, and once we traveled all together to Scotland. At Le Ripe you left an incredible and still very useful series of blazes on our way uphill.
We visited Australia very many times. with or without the children. We traveled together to Uluru and Port Douglas, beautiful memories. Three Peaks has been a memorable place, improved constantly and patiently.
Places, trees and path denominations made it sort of magic. Being a farmer suited you and was also a good excuse to buy bigger and bigger SUVs. GTs were great exercise and the views from the peaks were stunning.
It is nice to remember also your expertise and dedication to cook for us very special cheese and tomato toasts. I appreciated you always gave me a double portion.
I always admired your generosity and strength of character, and the determination to write more than 1200 3P weekly reports, till the very end. Also the decision to stop smoking, before I met you, and to stop drinking in more recent years, are admirable.
Gradually over time I realised how difficult your youth had been and how successful your achievements, researches and academic career. You became an international authority on the history of trade unions.
We shared a left-wing leaning but we did not talk much about that. Actually ecological worries were not a topic that could be discussed. Our antipodean origins, cultures, characters, languages, food tastes and so on make one wonder what we had in common. But the answer is very easy: Leitha, your wonderful daughter who has made me happy and inspired all these years. My gratitude is immense.
Aziza, friend and carer
Ross Martin was a great man. Kind-hearted, thoughtful, and caring. I got to know Ross when I was appointed the carer of his lovely wife Lena Martin. Which would not have happened if it wasn't for Maureen and Itiel for giving me the opportunity to get to know Ross and his beautiful wife.
Ross loved Lena very much. Whenever I saw him the first thing he would ask me is “How is Lena?” I still remember him saying to Lena “Aziza loves you, here to the moon. And I love you from the moon and back.”
Ross was a poet, and had a way with words. Up until his passing, he was still writing poetry. It wasn’t until I became his carer a few years later that we got closer. And since then I was lucky to be able to spend time with him.
Ross had a routine about him. He would wake up and have a late breakfast while he read the newspaper. Take a nap, then have lunch which most days was steak. I would prepare my mashed potatoes for him, which he enjoyed very much. He would then call Leitha, which made him very happy. He lit up whenever he spoke with Leitha. He would then stay up late writing poetry.
He also helped me to better express myself by teaching me new words in English, breaking down what was going on in politics, and would do all this with a smile on his face. He cared for people, and would take time out of his day to help others.
Ross loved having flowers in his room, he would tell me it brought his spirits up. I’m going to miss bringing in fresh flowers for him every week and watching the joy it brought him.
My last fond memory with him was the day before he passed away, when Bill Kelty came in to read Ross’s book. I was sitting on the right of him holding his hand while Bill sat on the left and read to him. Ross was so happy that day, nothing but smiles. I remember they even shared a few laughs talking about the past.
He was a special soul, whom I’m grateful to have had in my life. In Australia I have very few people that I can call family, and Ross was one of them. As well as his wife Lena. Every time I see Lena, I'm reminded of him. Ross always treated me like family, which made my daily interactions with him precious. I’m going to miss him dearly, and cherish all the memories I had with him.
Leitha, daughter
When I was a child my father was often at home but usually hard at work in his study. I would wait for what seemed hours until he finished drafting a paragraph. But he took pleasure in reading to me when I was a young child, and with me as I grew older. From The Lord of the Rings to Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel, nothing was too ambitious even for a pre-teen.
When he was no longer living with us, he took pains to spend time with me and wrote weekly letters in which he recounted the adventures of a Woozle from Scandinavia who made toothpicks and got into all sorts of scrapes. When in 1973 he left for the UK on sabbatical leave, I left with him. Although I was never to return permanently to Australia, we saw each other often over the decades, in Europe and Melbourne.
It was only as an adult that I came to learn more about his early years, the anger tempered with pride he felt towards his father, his deep admiration and love for his mother who supported her two children on her own, the mix of awe and zeal he experienced living through the Second World War. Then his love of words and writing, borne of good teachers, his passion for mountains and climbing and how much he must have missed the latter during the years of forced inactivity.
In recent times and when his travelling was done, he made efforts in his own way to keep in touch with us all, notably through over two decades of weekly Reports from his farm. He was extremely proud of his family, particularly his grandchildren, and would express this frequently. It came easily to him to express his love for us all.
Ross was affectionate, demonstrative, sentimental, loud, enthusiastic, methodical to the point of obsession in his work, while at times impetuous and quick to anger in his personal relations – but quick to regret it too. He never forgave his father for abandoning the family and at the end never forgave his sister for - in his eyes - abandoning their mother in her dying days. He idolized his mother for the way she provided for and encouraged her two children and for her independent spirit. Since the 90s he became more and more disillusioned with left-wing politics in Australia, to the point of voting Liberal and upholding views expressed in the right-wing press. Politics and certain social issues became topics to avoid with close family and old friends and were the source of occasional discord.
Yet love for his wife and family overrode all issues. By the end of his life he chose to concentrate his dwindling but still substantial energies on his wife and his writing. He had always preferred solitude (making exceptions for family and a few friends). Socializing was painful for him. For many years his daily routine became a virtual, immutable ritual. At any time of day we all knew what he was up to.
If I had to pinpoint one quality in my father it would be bravery. Bravery facing life, love and death.
In the end, perhaps his writings best express the man. This blog is dedicated to them.
Katy, granddaughter
Dear Ross,
I’m thinking of you with love. My first thought of you is always your unrelenting enthusiasm – whether we were on board or not. You were always gutsy. I supposed that this was a choice you made someday about life, and perhaps it was just who you were.
I have so many images of your earlier life – the work at the docks that inspired your interest in trade unions, your young years in Wellington – little Ross in the photo with tight fists and a big smile of excitement looks just like photos of little Leitha in a similar mood, and perhaps even little enthusiastic Katy. The story of you walking to school barefoot to save shoe leather sparked my imagination and informed my sense of where I’d come from, on both sides of the family. Once you shared with me the journal of the most beautiful adventure with your two friends, you were all eighteen: you took a canoe and traveled down the Wanganui river, characteristically recording everything for posterity. I remember reading that account like an adventure story as my bedtime reading in Milano. I was probably just a little younger than you were then, rapt, lapping up the sense of freedom in those pages. Then the silent beauty of the mountains you climbed – those photos and stories became part of my admiration for you, my sense of beauty and possibility.
And of course, I have many memories of my Ross, Grandpa Ross, the Cattleman. Getting the show on the road, picking up the precious sleepy cargo from the airport, and showing us the glimmering sunrise on our way to Three Peaks. Delighting in simple moments; savoring Yiddish words (naches, chutzpah), a Leonard Cohen song, or the glory of a baked potato. I can’t start to talk about all my memories there or we will be chatting until tomorrow. You imagined a world for the people you loved, with a personal geography of names. There were adventures, itineraries, historical landmarks… This felt very special as a child. We were important in this world you imagined for us. The first time I visited on my own, at fifteen, also stands out for the talks we had, the music you shared, and the things we did – you also taught me how to throw a ball “not like a girl”, and saw me off on my first little solo trip backpacking up the coast.
I knew you were proud of us. And happy for us. I loved that we could share about academic work, right until the end, that you still had advice about me getting through my chapters. It felt that we shared this – this knowing about writing and caring about it. That it mattered. I valued sharing that with you. I suppose it began with our first contributions to the TPRs, which you actively solicited and meticulously edited, likely a more formative experience than I’ve even taken the time to reflect on before. My research and writing were also often more relatable for you than some other things that I was doing, which became harder to explain, although I’m glad we still talked about a lot. And that you were open-minded about my perhaps unconventional life, which you celebrated.
I know you don’t want us to be schmaltzy now that you’re gone – but much like a birthday when you didn’t want any fuss, you did then really enjoy the cake and candles I remember, and I like to think that you would enjoy that I am saying this: I do see how you alchemized everything in your life into positivity: that was your huge superpower. I draw inspiration from it. As I do from the mountains I grew up admiring and imagining, and your stories. I’m glad I got to share a little bit of that with you on my recent visit.
Ciao Cattleman. As for the huge oeuvre of Three Peak Reports, which you wrote for us, but also for yourself, I’d like to add to the record:
The Ad Hoc Committee of Ceremonious Endings does declare with utmost solemnity, that after 30 years (starting in September 1993 and ending in September 2023), and 1212 Reports (including a final, but unsent draft, according to the Chief Executive Archivist of the Le Ripe TPR Record-Holding Committee), the glorious and unbroken series of Three Peaks Reports, with due note of its CALF Communiqués, has come to a natural close. On behalf of the entire TPR Editorial Committee and all its subcommittees, the AHCCE wishes to thank the TPR’s faithful readership over the years, and to acknowledge the many contributions and comments by readers and ad hoc authors of the Communiqués. The Committee invites all friends and family of Ross Murdoch Martin (the Cattleman) to ceremoniously pour a glass of juice onto your garden, or just hold it high and then slug it with glee.1
Tears are welcome but so is wholehearted laughter.
1 To recreate a famous anecdote recorded in many a footnote of the Three Peaks Reports to mark this special occasion.
Helene, long-time friend
My best buddy from the start of my adult life – 1970 - and then together in love and life with my other best buddy.
I see him and Lena framed within a frame, on the other side of the foot of my bed. He is beaming, she is shyly content.
I have read the moving tributes many times. I’ve read them to him. He laughed appreciatively. (As you know, he had the best laugh). He particularly enjoyed Katy’s new iteration of the TPR.
I can see the expression on his face. I can hear his voice responding to each loving tribute.
I miss him terribly. I mourn him. I feel diminished by his passing.
He had many fine qualities as a human being, and some greatness too. I am grateful for his loving kindness, his zest for life and learning, the spark of his creativity, his goodness and integrity.
Enough said.
