Monday, March 28, 2011
Poonda to Karijini National Park
We are stopped on the long empty road to take a photo when R notices one of our tyres is going down, down, down. Not surprising, really, the pursuit of art took us over some punishing ground. But it is clearly time to christen the portable compressor. It does its job and we stand watching it, eyes narrowed, stooping every few minutes to test the pressure. We decide that it is good enough for now as, fortuitously, we are just a couple of kms from a roadhouse.
We pull in; massive road trains roll ponderously in and out, utes with huge spotlights and a full load of black kids stop to fill up with fuel. There’s a brisk trade in hamburgers, pies, Cokes from grimy men in workboots and yellow safety clothing. They stand at the counter, almost inarticulate, then walk stolidly outside and climb into the cab of some enormous vehicle.
There is a tyre repair workshop, but the doors are closed. “They’re all up the back working,” says the woman behind the counter dismissively, but we don’t give up. A customer comes and stands considering the tyre, then says, I’d go lookin’ for them.” Good idea. They are up the back, digging holes and filling them with concrete, maybe to make more of the dongas, the container-style accommodation units scattered around. “Come with me, but don’t say much,” says R. I agree; we are wanting a favour and this is men’s business.
“You want Sandy,” says a wiry man with a shovel. “I don’t want to send youse all over the place, but,” he pushes his head back and gives us a steady look, “Youse look pretty fit. Over there.”
Sandy is driving a backhoe and does seem busy, but he comes over. He hasn’t had a change of work clothes this year, and he is wearing two gold earrings in one ear and a small beard under his bottom lip. He stoops beside the tyre. He is a man of few words, but “I can hear it “, he says confidently, and marks the spot with chalk.
It’s a bit Abbott and Costello: Sandy can’t stop his concreting so, with some ongoing instruction, he puts a novice on the job. After a long time it is done, but it is leaking and has to be done all over again. What’s that old saying: “Here lies the fool that tried to hurry the East”. Not just in China, China.
But it eventually works and we are on our way, safe but quite a bit lighter in the wallet. $45 for the tyre repair . “I was going to give him some extra for opening up for us, but he’s had his extra already”, says R.
We are close to our quarry for the day: Karijini National Park. Warwick has told us that it is not to be missed, and he knows his stuff, so we are spearing towards it. What is so special about this area is that, apart from being one big iron mine, courtesy of Lang Hancock who, flying over the area one day noticed that the rocks were red and the rest is history. Of course, lots of people would have noticed that the rocks are red, it’s pretty hard to miss, with them taking your breath away at every turn, but he saw the potential and started the mining. Pity he couldn’t organise his inheritance better than his mining trucks; it all ended in tears between his housekeeper turned wife and his daughter, providing years of entertainment and fodder for the newspapers.
Where was I? Oh yes, apart from being one big iron mine, it is also full of gorges, cut narrow and deep into the ground by millions of years of water. These slashes in the red rocks, with water deep below are utterly spectacular. At first glance, there is nothing, just a bit of a break in the ground surface, but when you get right up to the edge, oh my goodness, down they go, hundreds of metres of rough almost sheer rock with a jumble of red slabs at the bottom. Their stripes of red, brown and black are fantastic, the squareness is almost unbelievable. “You could eat one of those, couldn’t you,” says R, miming picking up one huge slab that looks like a massive Kit Kat.
We climb down to the bottom of Dales Gorge. There is a waterfall and a cold pool at the bottom. There is no nanny state here, just little disks hammered into the rocks to indicate the direction, and a bit of railing where there is a lookout. About the only recommendation is to get out fast if it starts to rain, in case of flash floods coming down the canyon.
The tracks are, however, labelled for difficulty. Level 1 is for people who want to drive to the lookout, peek over and take a photo. The sort of person tackling Level 5 is likely to have a goanna slung around their neck and think Bear Grylls will be ok when he’s had some more practice.
We swim, then follow the floor of the gorge (Level 4) until we reach Circular Pool at the far end, swim again, then climb up, way up, to the top. A narrow band of sunlight beams down from overhead, lighting the trees and rocks in patches. There are a few people here, and it is obviously a popular place to visit, but the prevailing sound is silence with a thread of running water.
We decide to change campsite next night to go deeper into the park and stay at an Eco Resort there. What that means exactly we don’t know, but it’s probably not swimming pools and massages. We are right, it is a 5 star tented camp with some nicely separated campsites scattered around. Maybe 4 star, it’s relaxed and friendly, but very simple. But we have a stroke of luck for the evening.
We have gone down to the bar to have a drink and put our photos on the computer, since we have not even had phone for several days, and there is a lot of laughing and joking going on. The bar is full of several eccentric characters; nothing unusual about that in this part of the world, but it turns out that they are a group of master landscape photographers who have been here for four days with some top level students and it is showtime.
The photographers don’t look anything special, rather tending to the paunch and grey ponytail, but when the screen lights up we sit at the back, wide-eyed. Firstly one of the masters shows his photos of Antarctica; these are no happy snaps. Then each of the fifteen people has chosen their four best shots from the stay at Karijini. Each photograph is brilliant, there is a huge variety. Some of the styles are familiar from postcards, calendars; these are well-known professionals. And they all know each other well so the banter is very funny.
The leader of the group, Christian Fletcher, has put together a slide show of candid shots of the people, with captions. It tends to the schoolboy humour (gee that’s a little one, Tony), but everyone is having a great time. We have undoubtedly seen something really remarkable tonight, and it has been very entertaining. We leave as they start to award prizes, but back in the Rocket we hear clapping and bursts of laughter continuing into the night.
There is another great-sounding gorge just here, Joffre, so next morning we set off. It is very narrow, very deep, and, gulp, Level 5. There’s no handrail anywhere and it looks like abseiling might really be the way to get down. But we go a step at a time. Halfway down R goes ahead and pops his head up. “I don’t think this is for you.” I agree wholeheartedly; I can’t even go near the edge to have a look. R disappears, then from far below I see him waving, then swimming, a tiny pale fish. Just how far is that! Very far! Then he’s up, his head appears over the ledge of rock near me, looking very self-satisfied.
We head up, clambering over the rocks. It is very scary for me, and I hear myself making alarmed noises as I try for a foothold. Two people come down. “I’m just going down very slowly and carefully, “ says the woman. Her husband agrees: “Better little small steps than one great big one.”
We are now sitting in the Bar/Restaurant for the Eco Resort. Fiona, the Manager, has told us she came just to help out the owner who is a friend of hers, but somehow this is now her fourth season. “It sort of gets to you, you become attached to it”, she says, and we can see why. Big sky, big scenery, big silence.
We pull in; massive road trains roll ponderously in and out, utes with huge spotlights and a full load of black kids stop to fill up with fuel. There’s a brisk trade in hamburgers, pies, Cokes from grimy men in workboots and yellow safety clothing. They stand at the counter, almost inarticulate, then walk stolidly outside and climb into the cab of some enormous vehicle.
There is a tyre repair workshop, but the doors are closed. “They’re all up the back working,” says the woman behind the counter dismissively, but we don’t give up. A customer comes and stands considering the tyre, then says, I’d go lookin’ for them.” Good idea. They are up the back, digging holes and filling them with concrete, maybe to make more of the dongas, the container-style accommodation units scattered around. “Come with me, but don’t say much,” says R. I agree; we are wanting a favour and this is men’s business.
“You want Sandy,” says a wiry man with a shovel. “I don’t want to send youse all over the place, but,” he pushes his head back and gives us a steady look, “Youse look pretty fit. Over there.”
Sandy is driving a backhoe and does seem busy, but he comes over. He hasn’t had a change of work clothes this year, and he is wearing two gold earrings in one ear and a small beard under his bottom lip. He stoops beside the tyre. He is a man of few words, but “I can hear it “, he says confidently, and marks the spot with chalk.
It’s a bit Abbott and Costello: Sandy can’t stop his concreting so, with some ongoing instruction, he puts a novice on the job. After a long time it is done, but it is leaking and has to be done all over again. What’s that old saying: “Here lies the fool that tried to hurry the East”. Not just in China, China.
But it eventually works and we are on our way, safe but quite a bit lighter in the wallet. $45 for the tyre repair . “I was going to give him some extra for opening up for us, but he’s had his extra already”, says R.
We are close to our quarry for the day: Karijini National Park. Warwick has told us that it is not to be missed, and he knows his stuff, so we are spearing towards it. What is so special about this area is that, apart from being one big iron mine, courtesy of Lang Hancock who, flying over the area one day noticed that the rocks were red and the rest is history. Of course, lots of people would have noticed that the rocks are red, it’s pretty hard to miss, with them taking your breath away at every turn, but he saw the potential and started the mining. Pity he couldn’t organise his inheritance better than his mining trucks; it all ended in tears between his housekeeper turned wife and his daughter, providing years of entertainment and fodder for the newspapers.
Where was I? Oh yes, apart from being one big iron mine, it is also full of gorges, cut narrow and deep into the ground by millions of years of water. These slashes in the red rocks, with water deep below are utterly spectacular. At first glance, there is nothing, just a bit of a break in the ground surface, but when you get right up to the edge, oh my goodness, down they go, hundreds of metres of rough almost sheer rock with a jumble of red slabs at the bottom. Their stripes of red, brown and black are fantastic, the squareness is almost unbelievable. “You could eat one of those, couldn’t you,” says R, miming picking up one huge slab that looks like a massive Kit Kat.
We climb down to the bottom of Dales Gorge. There is a waterfall and a cold pool at the bottom. There is no nanny state here, just little disks hammered into the rocks to indicate the direction, and a bit of railing where there is a lookout. About the only recommendation is to get out fast if it starts to rain, in case of flash floods coming down the canyon.
The tracks are, however, labelled for difficulty. Level 1 is for people who want to drive to the lookout, peek over and take a photo. The sort of person tackling Level 5 is likely to have a goanna slung around their neck and think Bear Grylls will be ok when he’s had some more practice.
We swim, then follow the floor of the gorge (Level 4) until we reach Circular Pool at the far end, swim again, then climb up, way up, to the top. A narrow band of sunlight beams down from overhead, lighting the trees and rocks in patches. There are a few people here, and it is obviously a popular place to visit, but the prevailing sound is silence with a thread of running water.
We decide to change campsite next night to go deeper into the park and stay at an Eco Resort there. What that means exactly we don’t know, but it’s probably not swimming pools and massages. We are right, it is a 5 star tented camp with some nicely separated campsites scattered around. Maybe 4 star, it’s relaxed and friendly, but very simple. But we have a stroke of luck for the evening.
We have gone down to the bar to have a drink and put our photos on the computer, since we have not even had phone for several days, and there is a lot of laughing and joking going on. The bar is full of several eccentric characters; nothing unusual about that in this part of the world, but it turns out that they are a group of master landscape photographers who have been here for four days with some top level students and it is showtime.
The photographers don’t look anything special, rather tending to the paunch and grey ponytail, but when the screen lights up we sit at the back, wide-eyed. Firstly one of the masters shows his photos of Antarctica; these are no happy snaps. Then each of the fifteen people has chosen their four best shots from the stay at Karijini. Each photograph is brilliant, there is a huge variety. Some of the styles are familiar from postcards, calendars; these are well-known professionals. And they all know each other well so the banter is very funny.
The leader of the group, Christian Fletcher, has put together a slide show of candid shots of the people, with captions. It tends to the schoolboy humour (gee that’s a little one, Tony), but everyone is having a great time. We have undoubtedly seen something really remarkable tonight, and it has been very entertaining. We leave as they start to award prizes, but back in the Rocket we hear clapping and bursts of laughter continuing into the night.
There is another great-sounding gorge just here, Joffre, so next morning we set off. It is very narrow, very deep, and, gulp, Level 5. There’s no handrail anywhere and it looks like abseiling might really be the way to get down. But we go a step at a time. Halfway down R goes ahead and pops his head up. “I don’t think this is for you.” I agree wholeheartedly; I can’t even go near the edge to have a look. R disappears, then from far below I see him waving, then swimming, a tiny pale fish. Just how far is that! Very far! Then he’s up, his head appears over the ledge of rock near me, looking very self-satisfied.
We head up, clambering over the rocks. It is very scary for me, and I hear myself making alarmed noises as I try for a foothold. Two people come down. “I’m just going down very slowly and carefully, “ says the woman. Her husband agrees: “Better little small steps than one great big one.”
We are now sitting in the Bar/Restaurant for the Eco Resort. Fiona, the Manager, has told us she came just to help out the owner who is a friend of hers, but somehow this is now her fourth season. “It sort of gets to you, you become attached to it”, she says, and we can see why. Big sky, big scenery, big silence.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Wiluna to Poonda Rock Art
If you have to be stranded, Gunbarrel Laager is a great spot for it. Compared to Wiluna, for example, which is a dreary little town. Despite most of the houses being new-looking, all the same and all made of Hardiplank and Colourbond, and with a playground, a building labelled Parenting Centre and some bougainvillea down the middle of the street, the only signs of life are a few people hanging around the general store and a group sitting on the ground outside the pub; “Welcome to paradise”, says a big sign on the wall, just next to the heavily barred windows and peeling paint, but Paradise it definitely is not.
The Gunbarrel Laager, on the other hand, has the daggy charm of a school camp, especially the communal building with faux wood panelling and a motley collection of old Formica dining tables. There is a massive stove, some ancient looking jars of flour and sugar, and a huge tea trolley with a slightly rusty and dented urn.
We settle in to wait for our spare part, startled to discover that not only will the parcel not arrive next day, or even the day after, it will be lucky to arrive before the weekend. We stand in line behind two people at the Post Office. Everything is very leisurely, and we have plenty of time to look around. “Abuse of staff will not be tolerated” says a big sign, listing all the forms of abuse that you could heap on Post Office staff. Behind the counter Tina, sporting several studs scattered around her face, looks as if she could take care of herself, but maybe she put the sign up there. It seems to have a turn of phrase which might suit her style.
When our turn eventually rolls around and we explain our predicament to Tina she couldn’t be more helpful. When our packet arrives, it comes to her house anyway, and she will call us and open up for us if it is out of hours.
So there is nothing to do but wait. I potter around having a farm experience, looking at machinery, talking to Alby the horse and making cups of tea. R on the other hand is a whirlwind of activity. He looks at all the bits of equipment we haven’t tried out, reads all the manuals for everything, but mostly contacts everyone he can think of about the dratted mis-fuel device. He discovers Land Rover forums, 4 wheel drive chat rooms, and discovers that our situation is not uncommon. No-one, however, has actually used the tool so when the replacement comes there’s more than an even chance it will break, too. It is just not up to the job.
Finally, after a couple of days, someone rings. “I’ve had a thought. Have you considered the possibility of fashioning one from a kitchen fork?” R sits for a long moment, then dashes to the drawer, grabs a fork, bends two of the times, clips off the two others, and Bingo! It works! We are on our way, with our fork.
“Corker of a day,” says R, and it is a beautiful morning. The sky is a massive blue bowl without a speck of cloud in it, a little breeze blows the flies away, and flocks of cockatoos screech from the trees.
We want to take the back road, but there is a Road Closed sign on it. “Probably just there for the Canning Stock Route, it goes off a few km along the way,” we agree, and we sail blithely past the road sign and head north.
The gravel road is completely deserted. After about 100 km it is indeed cut in a couple of places, but R stomps through the water in his gumboots to test it and there’s no problem, although as he drives through there is a very satisfying flare of muddy water thrown up to window height.
We hear the cb radio start up. Usually it’s just “Blah blah, she’ll be right, blah blah, 2.5 metres, blah blah, goin’ tomorrah” but this time it’s clear. We must be close. Then we see a grader working, stop and have a chat to Wayne. He tells us his mate Ollie on the truck a bit further on has a Land Rover too. We have a chat to Ollie. “Not many Land Rovers around here,” says R, “Mostly people drive Toyotas.” Wayne’s laconic drawl comes over the cb. “That’s because we wanna git where we wanna go.”
There’s no sign of life for hundreds of km, except for a couple of goannas, perfectly camouflaged on the road surface, who spring to life and dart wildly for the edge, and a solitary dingo standing staring at us.
We are heading for a fantastic sounding place to camp for the night and a few km north of Newman we find the turnoff. There is no sign and a load of earth has been dumped across the track but we nose through it. The track is rough, and with a few surprises. Up one very steep sandy pinch and just over the crest with no warning the track abruptly turns right. R slams on the brakes, we are pointed nose down over the edge looking down into a creek. But we are able to pull back. “Thought we were going to have to reverse winch,” says r, then after a moment, “I wonder how you’d do that.” Fortunately we haven’t yet needed to find out how.
After 25 km along the rough winding track ends in a sensational site. Huge red cliffs, lit by the afternoon sun enclose a deep pool of water. We park under some snow white snappy gums and look around in awe. It is stunning. There are two blokes there who have set up camp nearby. “So peaceful.” We say. They laugh. “It won’t be for long. There are seven females on their way out here right now. Our wives and kids. So make the most of the quiet.” They drive off, and we hear their chainsaw going as they collect firewood. We set up camp and have a swim.
Sure enough, two cars arrive and son the air is filled with laughing and squealing as the kids all race into the water. The sounds around their campfire go on for a while after dark, then a deep silence settles over the area. It has been a long day. We cook some pesto fettuccine and fall into a deep sleep.
We’re awake just before dawn as the birds start to sing. The view out is breathtaking as the sun catches the cliffs, turning them a flaming red.
We think we will continue on, the track is marked on the map, but just around the first corner it’s Whoopsy! A very deep very large pool of water has cut the track. We can take a hint, and we turn and go back, retracing the 25 km back.
But we like back roads, and it looks as if we can stay on one that runs north-west beside the railway line. It’s there for the mines and by the perfect condition is maintained by them too.
100km in there’s a sign for Poonda Rock Art Site and we spear off. This is just a track through a sandy landscape with bushes growing down the middle and crowding in to brush the sides of the car. The vegetation is very pretty, light green, bushy and full of wildflowers.
R was reluctant, being male he hates detours, and the track goes on and on, getting rougher all the time. Finally there is a faded little sign that the rock art is 770metres on and we decide to walk it. The track is really getting way too rough. The Spinifex is prickly, and who knows what wildlife might be around, so we put on boots and gaiters and I zip the legs onto my shorts.
It is very hot, very dry, and it feels a long way away from anywhere. We come out into an open space and look up. There is a tumble of red rocks up the side of a hill; that must be the spot. As we come closer we start to see that on every flat surface there are paintings and carvings. We take a deep breath. R is silent for a long moment, then says in a quiet voice, “I’m going to be here for a while.”
We climb from rock to rock. I’m scared stiff of snakes; this would be the perfect place for them – deserted, hot, dry – but as I climb I stop looking in every clump of grass for a flicker of movement as the fear of falling off one of these rock takes over. Then I shake myself and call up my long-term mantra: if you’re going to die, you might as well enjoy your last few minutes.
These rock carvings are absolutely riveting. There are people, fish, turtles, other unidentifiable four-legged animals and lots and lots of snakes. Later, looking at a guidebook I can see that they represent venomous snakes. Is it a totem, or are there just lots around here? Oh dammit, you’ve got to die of something. Who sees this? No-one. Us, and it feels great. We will never forget this magic place. As we drive away R says thoughtfully, “There was an energy there, wasn’t there, a gravity.”
The Gunbarrel Laager, on the other hand, has the daggy charm of a school camp, especially the communal building with faux wood panelling and a motley collection of old Formica dining tables. There is a massive stove, some ancient looking jars of flour and sugar, and a huge tea trolley with a slightly rusty and dented urn.
We settle in to wait for our spare part, startled to discover that not only will the parcel not arrive next day, or even the day after, it will be lucky to arrive before the weekend. We stand in line behind two people at the Post Office. Everything is very leisurely, and we have plenty of time to look around. “Abuse of staff will not be tolerated” says a big sign, listing all the forms of abuse that you could heap on Post Office staff. Behind the counter Tina, sporting several studs scattered around her face, looks as if she could take care of herself, but maybe she put the sign up there. It seems to have a turn of phrase which might suit her style.
When our turn eventually rolls around and we explain our predicament to Tina she couldn’t be more helpful. When our packet arrives, it comes to her house anyway, and she will call us and open up for us if it is out of hours.
So there is nothing to do but wait. I potter around having a farm experience, looking at machinery, talking to Alby the horse and making cups of tea. R on the other hand is a whirlwind of activity. He looks at all the bits of equipment we haven’t tried out, reads all the manuals for everything, but mostly contacts everyone he can think of about the dratted mis-fuel device. He discovers Land Rover forums, 4 wheel drive chat rooms, and discovers that our situation is not uncommon. No-one, however, has actually used the tool so when the replacement comes there’s more than an even chance it will break, too. It is just not up to the job.
Finally, after a couple of days, someone rings. “I’ve had a thought. Have you considered the possibility of fashioning one from a kitchen fork?” R sits for a long moment, then dashes to the drawer, grabs a fork, bends two of the times, clips off the two others, and Bingo! It works! We are on our way, with our fork.
“Corker of a day,” says R, and it is a beautiful morning. The sky is a massive blue bowl without a speck of cloud in it, a little breeze blows the flies away, and flocks of cockatoos screech from the trees.
We want to take the back road, but there is a Road Closed sign on it. “Probably just there for the Canning Stock Route, it goes off a few km along the way,” we agree, and we sail blithely past the road sign and head north.
The gravel road is completely deserted. After about 100 km it is indeed cut in a couple of places, but R stomps through the water in his gumboots to test it and there’s no problem, although as he drives through there is a very satisfying flare of muddy water thrown up to window height.
We hear the cb radio start up. Usually it’s just “Blah blah, she’ll be right, blah blah, 2.5 metres, blah blah, goin’ tomorrah” but this time it’s clear. We must be close. Then we see a grader working, stop and have a chat to Wayne. He tells us his mate Ollie on the truck a bit further on has a Land Rover too. We have a chat to Ollie. “Not many Land Rovers around here,” says R, “Mostly people drive Toyotas.” Wayne’s laconic drawl comes over the cb. “That’s because we wanna git where we wanna go.”
There’s no sign of life for hundreds of km, except for a couple of goannas, perfectly camouflaged on the road surface, who spring to life and dart wildly for the edge, and a solitary dingo standing staring at us.
We are heading for a fantastic sounding place to camp for the night and a few km north of Newman we find the turnoff. There is no sign and a load of earth has been dumped across the track but we nose through it. The track is rough, and with a few surprises. Up one very steep sandy pinch and just over the crest with no warning the track abruptly turns right. R slams on the brakes, we are pointed nose down over the edge looking down into a creek. But we are able to pull back. “Thought we were going to have to reverse winch,” says r, then after a moment, “I wonder how you’d do that.” Fortunately we haven’t yet needed to find out how.
After 25 km along the rough winding track ends in a sensational site. Huge red cliffs, lit by the afternoon sun enclose a deep pool of water. We park under some snow white snappy gums and look around in awe. It is stunning. There are two blokes there who have set up camp nearby. “So peaceful.” We say. They laugh. “It won’t be for long. There are seven females on their way out here right now. Our wives and kids. So make the most of the quiet.” They drive off, and we hear their chainsaw going as they collect firewood. We set up camp and have a swim.
Sure enough, two cars arrive and son the air is filled with laughing and squealing as the kids all race into the water. The sounds around their campfire go on for a while after dark, then a deep silence settles over the area. It has been a long day. We cook some pesto fettuccine and fall into a deep sleep.
We’re awake just before dawn as the birds start to sing. The view out is breathtaking as the sun catches the cliffs, turning them a flaming red.
We think we will continue on, the track is marked on the map, but just around the first corner it’s Whoopsy! A very deep very large pool of water has cut the track. We can take a hint, and we turn and go back, retracing the 25 km back.
But we like back roads, and it looks as if we can stay on one that runs north-west beside the railway line. It’s there for the mines and by the perfect condition is maintained by them too.
100km in there’s a sign for Poonda Rock Art Site and we spear off. This is just a track through a sandy landscape with bushes growing down the middle and crowding in to brush the sides of the car. The vegetation is very pretty, light green, bushy and full of wildflowers.
R was reluctant, being male he hates detours, and the track goes on and on, getting rougher all the time. Finally there is a faded little sign that the rock art is 770metres on and we decide to walk it. The track is really getting way too rough. The Spinifex is prickly, and who knows what wildlife might be around, so we put on boots and gaiters and I zip the legs onto my shorts.
It is very hot, very dry, and it feels a long way away from anywhere. We come out into an open space and look up. There is a tumble of red rocks up the side of a hill; that must be the spot. As we come closer we start to see that on every flat surface there are paintings and carvings. We take a deep breath. R is silent for a long moment, then says in a quiet voice, “I’m going to be here for a while.”
We climb from rock to rock. I’m scared stiff of snakes; this would be the perfect place for them – deserted, hot, dry – but as I climb I stop looking in every clump of grass for a flicker of movement as the fear of falling off one of these rock takes over. Then I shake myself and call up my long-term mantra: if you’re going to die, you might as well enjoy your last few minutes.
These rock carvings are absolutely riveting. There are people, fish, turtles, other unidentifiable four-legged animals and lots and lots of snakes. Later, looking at a guidebook I can see that they represent venomous snakes. Is it a totem, or are there just lots around here? Oh dammit, you’ve got to die of something. Who sees this? No-one. Us, and it feels great. We will never forget this magic place. As we drive away R says thoughtfully, “There was an energy there, wasn’t there, a gravity.”
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Ceduna to Norseman
 |
| Typical road sign |
 |
| Big sky country |
 |
| M at Head of the Bight |
 |
| Morning tea |
 |
| The Nullarbor |
 |
| The longest stretch of straight road as shown on the gps |
 |
| Heading into a rain storm |
 |
| Garden at Fraser Range Station |
 |
| View from the Rocket at Fraser Range Station |
 |
| Campsite at Fraser Range Station |
Coober Pedy to Wiluna
Coober Pedy to Ceduna
“If there’s anything you want,” bellows Gillian, “Just come to the house, but you’ll have to bang on the door really loud because I’m deaf.” With a cheery wave over her shoulder she stomps off, splashing through the puddles in her gumboots and waving her torch around.
She has deposited us on a grassy lawn in the middle of a circle of demountable huts in the middle of a property in the middle of nowhere. Gunbarrel Laager, 12 km along the Gunbarrel Highway, to be precise, although highway is not exactly precise being equal parts pothole and gravel .
The only other guest is Bevan, an Aboriginal trainer, but apparently there is a steady clientele all year round of northern European tourists happy to rough it in mining camp conditions, along with a big influx of Grey Nomads in the winter months.
We were recommended to it by a young Scandinavian couple who are tenting around Australia. But not everyone is doing it on the cheap – there is also a helicopter pad. What the well-heeled tourist might think of it is food for thought- it is definitely not the delightfully painted homestead with a shady verandah and a brave garden wrested from the harsh landscape that figures on all the tourist literature. It is more your haphazard working property with old utes and big machinery standing around, and an enormous shed with piles of tyres stacked outside.
But you can’t fault Gill’s good humour. Late arriving? No problem. Anything you need? Just knock (loudly). And Bevan, friendly and chatty, weather-beaten and shabby; he looks about 45. R and he have been having bloke talk around the Land Rover, and he comes inside.
“How old do you reckon Bevan is? “
“About 45.”
“He’s 63, with 9 grandchildren and a great-grandchild. And he’s a glass artist and potter who has had exhibitions opened by Janet Holmes a’Court, with a Master of Arts degree, although it is his Cert IV as a heavy machinery trainer that brings him in the bucks.
I look at Bevan again with interest when he next comes over for a chat. Which he does a bit, every Aboriginal’s story, to begin with, for a light-haired black child anyway, hiding in the sandhills to not be taken away and sent to a home. No schooling to speak of, later foster homes. But his ending is different: http://www.daao.org.au/main/read/7690
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Cast your mind back to the weather warnings in Coober Pedy. We are not going north across remote desert tracks this trip, and we turn south heading for the Nullarbor to go away from the rain. It’s goodbye to Coober Pedy, but with a feeling of resignation that as we will criss-cross that area many times in the future we will be there again.
I look around as we leave. It’s Mad Max country, in fact it was filmed at a desolate location nearby called The Breakaways. I bet most of the extras came from the moon-faced and rat-faced locals right in town. They are a striking lot; what do you need to wash for, you only get dirty again, why do you need teeth, you only drink anyway. Where we were camped a fellow tourist told us he had built the pre-fab courthouse years before. The specs called for a fibro skirt around the piers. “Oh no,” said the Police Sergeant, “That’s no good. That fibro will need to go right down to the ground. Or within a week someone will roll a stick of gelignite under it.”
So destination Ceduna, right in the middle of the Nullarbor. The road stretches out ahead. We miss a big opportunity to take our pictures beside the Big Galah at a fuel stop, but we pass up on it and press on. The last time we crossed the Nullarbor was in 1971, and then most of it was gravel, but now it is a smooth, sleek, but still quite empty road, pointing in a long straight line from Port Augusta to Perth. So straight, in fact, that 146 km of it is totally ruler-straight, the longest straight stretch in a country of roads that point like an arrow to the distant horizon.
We arrive in Ceduna, past a daggy caravan park near the little airport and down through the town to the water. But the two places that look quite nice are full and we head in desperation to our last chance – the airport place. If I say the office smells and the pool has a greenish tinge does it give the idea? I think most of these people live here. We lock everything and settle in. The reason why everything is so full? A combination of the crazy Queensland weather over the last couple of months changing people’s holiday plans and the current rain stopping travel through the centre to the North means that everyone has had to head south. Who would have dreamed that Ceduna would be full?
As well as travellers, Ceduna is also full of trolls. Every strange-looking person in Australia must have headed here, settled down and reproduced, refining the oddness over several generations. They are all strangely thin and grinning, or lumpy, puffy and tufty. With squinty eyes and crooked teeth.
Next morning, naturally, we are off as early as we can. We stop at the Head of the Bight, a few km off the road; it is where the whales, heading north from Antarctica, congregate in big numbers later in the year to have their young. The mothers can rest safely in the shallow water until the babies are old enough to go on. Even now, with no whales, this place is a big surprise: massive sheer cliffs dropping down into water with many shades of blue. It is very lovely, but there is a cold wind whipping around us and we retreat.
We fly along that straight road with its fantastic scenery. We remembered it much more brown, actually, then it dawns on us; in this memorably wet year we are seeing the arid land in a very different style. Still stark and harsh, but not just red desert. It is very varied, too, the height and style of the vegetation changes constantly. We love it.
Except for one thing. For several days now we have been repeatedly caught unawares by the fruit and vegetable quarantine checkpoints, usually just after we have shopped. It’s not the money, it doesn’t amount to much, but we would like to know, so we get a little booklet about what we can take where. Today’s problem is that we had planned to go across the desert in a completely different area (remember the Anne Beadell Highway?) and because of the risks of delay and disaster on that route we had laid in supplies for 10 days.
So we still end up having to hand over bags of stuff. I did find a young tourist with a broken-down car and gave him some, but most had already gone into the inspector’s fridge, I mean bin.
Anyway, here we are in Western Australia and suddenly gain two and a half hours, so we adjust our brains to put in a long day, 1100 km. It’s a big sky, so big that we can see individual storms dotted around, neat slabs of rain. From time to time we pass through one and out the other side. We are heading towards Norseman, near Kalgoorlie; we think we will camp in a little National Park nearby. But we can’t find the track to get into it, which should have been opposite our fuel stop at Balladonia. Maybe we were distracted by the signs every km on the approach to the servo: Cappuccino! Children’s Playground! Skylab Museum! Skylab Museum? Oh yes, this is where at least one NASA spaceship landed.
Then we see a sign for Fraser Range Farm Camping. Brake! Swerve! Let’s have a look, check it out. The entrance is a bit daunting, an old falling down shed, but as we go further it is just delightful. The falling down shed is original and about to be restored, and the campground has little stone buildings, accommodation in the old shearers' quarters, pretty gardens and farm views all around.
This was the first station settled along the Nullarbor, in 1872. It is hard to fathom how remote it must have felt then. The station covers 437,000 acres and the distance between the southern and northern boundaries is 160 km. Big numbers.
We contemplate staying two days just to kick back and enjoy the ambience. We sit outside looking at the enormous moon, closest to earth that it will be in our lifetime. From when we first heard about it, we had planned to watch it, thinking that it would look amazing from the outback, but drats, the peak night, yesterday, was completely overcast. We hadn’t considered that it would still be on display the next night, but of course there it is, still stunning. We sit and gaze.
But next morning is cold, with a biting wind flapping the canvas, so we move on. Although it is the main road across the south, there is really very little traffic. We are miles from anywhere when we pass a man walking in the other direction, and then two people on pushbikes. Awesome!
Ahead to the West lies Perth, but we turn north. After a detour of about 1500 km we are pointed to Broome again.
We pass by Norseman on the way to Kalgoorlie, which turns out to be a bigger town than at first glance. Lots of very ugly shopfronts, but more graceful old Victorian buildings speaking of a prosperous history. The area all around the town is a moonscape with massive slagheaps. There are signs pointing to a major attraction: the Superpit. We manage to contain our excitement and keep going.
This is the first place we have seen road warnings for eagles. A menacing silhouette on a yellow road sign, and sure enough they are there, massive Wedge-tailed eagles gorging on road kill, slowly and reluctantly heaving into the air at the last minute.
We’re heading for the road which would have been the end of our desert track, near Laverton; we look wistfully at it as we speed past. But we’ll be back, and when you look at the map (we bought a couple more in a servo at Norseman, both standing drooling over the detail, we couldn’t resist them, plus a book, “Great Desert Tracks”) there are just so many great places to go and things to see.
There has been no phone, no internet, not even water for the last couple of days, except for occasional towns like Norseman, and we stop for lunch in a true red dirt landscape. It is truly awe-inspiring; the colour of the soil, the thought that just perhaps no human foot has ever trodden on this piece of dirt in the history of the world. It’s a nice thought anyway, as we sit on the tailgate and scoff our sandwiches.
Further along the road it becomes greener and greener. Don’t get carried away, no-one’s going to play bowls on it, but great swathes of land on both sides are carpeted with low grass and a big variety of groundcover; tufty, lumpy, greenish, brownish, all making the most of the season, and in low lying places there are patches of water, trying hard to be little lakes. It says floodway here and there, nothing covers the road, but there’s a sort of suggestion that at any minute a flush of water could come through. And there are wildflowers lining the edge of the road, little low Australian-style wildflowers, small, pale and spiky, but there nevertheless, making a brave show.
Here’s a question: we have a CB radio and we have used it a bit. It’s loads of fun, “Thanks buddy.” “No worries.” But mostly what we hear is the crackle of static and a dialect which is almost incomprehensible. Is it the accent? The vocabulary? Will we pick it up so that we understand what people are saying to each other? It’s like being in a foreign country.
It’s getting dark, and the sky is getting darker still because it has been raining steadily at our destination all day. We stop at a tiny town called Leonora, with a median strip full of flowers, and spot an information centre in a pretty little original bank building. It’s rather striking that outside there are Aborigines slouching aimlessly along the street and inside the spic’n’span building there are two nicely dressed white women manning the desk. They are very helpful, anyway, ring ahead to our destination to let them know we are coming and give us good directions.
Which is lucky, as we need to turn east at Wiluna, which is a tiny speck of a town and in the dark and wet we would have been very uncertain. But we arrive, find Gill in the office and make camp. It has stopped raining, be thankful for small mercies.
During the night we wake up. Water is spraying on the canvas. “That’s really weird rain, “says R. But I have been listening for a few minutes and recognise the sound from our farming days. The irrigation system has switched on and we are in the path of the sprinklers watering the lawn. It is 2 am. After a bit R gets up and goes outside. The water stops but there is still a strange gurgling noise. “What did you do,” I ask. “I put a bucket over the sprayer,” he says, and we fall asleep still laughing.
Today dawns hot and dry, a big blue sky without a cloud. We decide to do a short day and re-organise our storage systems. As we are not going to do anything daredevil, we won’t need the amount of diesel we had on hand, so to reduce the weight, we decide to empty a jerry can into the fuel tank. Alas, this triggers the failsafe system that Land Rover has installed to stop people who are so stupid that they would accidentally put petrol into a diesel vehicle. If it detects a narrow spout a little cap springs across the pipe into the fuel tank. When this happens there is a special tool to re-set it. But oops, a little piece breaks off it as r tries to use it as per the instructions in the manual, and Houston we have a problem.
After having a quiet moment we decide to test out the Land Rover roadside assistance. Anywhere? Yes, anywhere! Ok, buddy, let’s see. We call, and the wheels are set in motion. A new tool is being overnighted from Perth, and when it arrives the closest operator will come and fix us up from Meekatharra, 200 km away. So we settle in for a holiday day, put the spare room on the rig to relax perfect comfort, get out the footballers girlfriends chairs and potter around. R washes everything in sight, and tries out every piece of equipment we haven’t yet used, just for fun. I do the blog, read the last of Vasari on Michelangelo. We have lunch, I have a siesta. Where is the music for “Beautiful Day?” It should be playing in the background. We’re here till the part and the mechanic arrive.
“If there’s anything you want,” bellows Gillian, “Just come to the house, but you’ll have to bang on the door really loud because I’m deaf.” With a cheery wave over her shoulder she stomps off, splashing through the puddles in her gumboots and waving her torch around.
She has deposited us on a grassy lawn in the middle of a circle of demountable huts in the middle of a property in the middle of nowhere. Gunbarrel Laager, 12 km along the Gunbarrel Highway, to be precise, although highway is not exactly precise being equal parts pothole and gravel .
The only other guest is Bevan, an Aboriginal trainer, but apparently there is a steady clientele all year round of northern European tourists happy to rough it in mining camp conditions, along with a big influx of Grey Nomads in the winter months.
We were recommended to it by a young Scandinavian couple who are tenting around Australia. But not everyone is doing it on the cheap – there is also a helicopter pad. What the well-heeled tourist might think of it is food for thought- it is definitely not the delightfully painted homestead with a shady verandah and a brave garden wrested from the harsh landscape that figures on all the tourist literature. It is more your haphazard working property with old utes and big machinery standing around, and an enormous shed with piles of tyres stacked outside.
But you can’t fault Gill’s good humour. Late arriving? No problem. Anything you need? Just knock (loudly). And Bevan, friendly and chatty, weather-beaten and shabby; he looks about 45. R and he have been having bloke talk around the Land Rover, and he comes inside.
“How old do you reckon Bevan is? “
“About 45.”
“He’s 63, with 9 grandchildren and a great-grandchild. And he’s a glass artist and potter who has had exhibitions opened by Janet Holmes a’Court, with a Master of Arts degree, although it is his Cert IV as a heavy machinery trainer that brings him in the bucks.
I look at Bevan again with interest when he next comes over for a chat. Which he does a bit, every Aboriginal’s story, to begin with, for a light-haired black child anyway, hiding in the sandhills to not be taken away and sent to a home. No schooling to speak of, later foster homes. But his ending is different: http://www.daao.org.au/main/read/7690
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Cast your mind back to the weather warnings in Coober Pedy. We are not going north across remote desert tracks this trip, and we turn south heading for the Nullarbor to go away from the rain. It’s goodbye to Coober Pedy, but with a feeling of resignation that as we will criss-cross that area many times in the future we will be there again.
I look around as we leave. It’s Mad Max country, in fact it was filmed at a desolate location nearby called The Breakaways. I bet most of the extras came from the moon-faced and rat-faced locals right in town. They are a striking lot; what do you need to wash for, you only get dirty again, why do you need teeth, you only drink anyway. Where we were camped a fellow tourist told us he had built the pre-fab courthouse years before. The specs called for a fibro skirt around the piers. “Oh no,” said the Police Sergeant, “That’s no good. That fibro will need to go right down to the ground. Or within a week someone will roll a stick of gelignite under it.”
So destination Ceduna, right in the middle of the Nullarbor. The road stretches out ahead. We miss a big opportunity to take our pictures beside the Big Galah at a fuel stop, but we pass up on it and press on. The last time we crossed the Nullarbor was in 1971, and then most of it was gravel, but now it is a smooth, sleek, but still quite empty road, pointing in a long straight line from Port Augusta to Perth. So straight, in fact, that 146 km of it is totally ruler-straight, the longest straight stretch in a country of roads that point like an arrow to the distant horizon.
We arrive in Ceduna, past a daggy caravan park near the little airport and down through the town to the water. But the two places that look quite nice are full and we head in desperation to our last chance – the airport place. If I say the office smells and the pool has a greenish tinge does it give the idea? I think most of these people live here. We lock everything and settle in. The reason why everything is so full? A combination of the crazy Queensland weather over the last couple of months changing people’s holiday plans and the current rain stopping travel through the centre to the North means that everyone has had to head south. Who would have dreamed that Ceduna would be full?
As well as travellers, Ceduna is also full of trolls. Every strange-looking person in Australia must have headed here, settled down and reproduced, refining the oddness over several generations. They are all strangely thin and grinning, or lumpy, puffy and tufty. With squinty eyes and crooked teeth.
Next morning, naturally, we are off as early as we can. We stop at the Head of the Bight, a few km off the road; it is where the whales, heading north from Antarctica, congregate in big numbers later in the year to have their young. The mothers can rest safely in the shallow water until the babies are old enough to go on. Even now, with no whales, this place is a big surprise: massive sheer cliffs dropping down into water with many shades of blue. It is very lovely, but there is a cold wind whipping around us and we retreat.
We fly along that straight road with its fantastic scenery. We remembered it much more brown, actually, then it dawns on us; in this memorably wet year we are seeing the arid land in a very different style. Still stark and harsh, but not just red desert. It is very varied, too, the height and style of the vegetation changes constantly. We love it.
Except for one thing. For several days now we have been repeatedly caught unawares by the fruit and vegetable quarantine checkpoints, usually just after we have shopped. It’s not the money, it doesn’t amount to much, but we would like to know, so we get a little booklet about what we can take where. Today’s problem is that we had planned to go across the desert in a completely different area (remember the Anne Beadell Highway?) and because of the risks of delay and disaster on that route we had laid in supplies for 10 days.
So we still end up having to hand over bags of stuff. I did find a young tourist with a broken-down car and gave him some, but most had already gone into the inspector’s fridge, I mean bin.
Anyway, here we are in Western Australia and suddenly gain two and a half hours, so we adjust our brains to put in a long day, 1100 km. It’s a big sky, so big that we can see individual storms dotted around, neat slabs of rain. From time to time we pass through one and out the other side. We are heading towards Norseman, near Kalgoorlie; we think we will camp in a little National Park nearby. But we can’t find the track to get into it, which should have been opposite our fuel stop at Balladonia. Maybe we were distracted by the signs every km on the approach to the servo: Cappuccino! Children’s Playground! Skylab Museum! Skylab Museum? Oh yes, this is where at least one NASA spaceship landed.
Then we see a sign for Fraser Range Farm Camping. Brake! Swerve! Let’s have a look, check it out. The entrance is a bit daunting, an old falling down shed, but as we go further it is just delightful. The falling down shed is original and about to be restored, and the campground has little stone buildings, accommodation in the old shearers' quarters, pretty gardens and farm views all around.
This was the first station settled along the Nullarbor, in 1872. It is hard to fathom how remote it must have felt then. The station covers 437,000 acres and the distance between the southern and northern boundaries is 160 km. Big numbers.
We contemplate staying two days just to kick back and enjoy the ambience. We sit outside looking at the enormous moon, closest to earth that it will be in our lifetime. From when we first heard about it, we had planned to watch it, thinking that it would look amazing from the outback, but drats, the peak night, yesterday, was completely overcast. We hadn’t considered that it would still be on display the next night, but of course there it is, still stunning. We sit and gaze.
But next morning is cold, with a biting wind flapping the canvas, so we move on. Although it is the main road across the south, there is really very little traffic. We are miles from anywhere when we pass a man walking in the other direction, and then two people on pushbikes. Awesome!
Ahead to the West lies Perth, but we turn north. After a detour of about 1500 km we are pointed to Broome again.
We pass by Norseman on the way to Kalgoorlie, which turns out to be a bigger town than at first glance. Lots of very ugly shopfronts, but more graceful old Victorian buildings speaking of a prosperous history. The area all around the town is a moonscape with massive slagheaps. There are signs pointing to a major attraction: the Superpit. We manage to contain our excitement and keep going.
This is the first place we have seen road warnings for eagles. A menacing silhouette on a yellow road sign, and sure enough they are there, massive Wedge-tailed eagles gorging on road kill, slowly and reluctantly heaving into the air at the last minute.
We’re heading for the road which would have been the end of our desert track, near Laverton; we look wistfully at it as we speed past. But we’ll be back, and when you look at the map (we bought a couple more in a servo at Norseman, both standing drooling over the detail, we couldn’t resist them, plus a book, “Great Desert Tracks”) there are just so many great places to go and things to see.
There has been no phone, no internet, not even water for the last couple of days, except for occasional towns like Norseman, and we stop for lunch in a true red dirt landscape. It is truly awe-inspiring; the colour of the soil, the thought that just perhaps no human foot has ever trodden on this piece of dirt in the history of the world. It’s a nice thought anyway, as we sit on the tailgate and scoff our sandwiches.
Further along the road it becomes greener and greener. Don’t get carried away, no-one’s going to play bowls on it, but great swathes of land on both sides are carpeted with low grass and a big variety of groundcover; tufty, lumpy, greenish, brownish, all making the most of the season, and in low lying places there are patches of water, trying hard to be little lakes. It says floodway here and there, nothing covers the road, but there’s a sort of suggestion that at any minute a flush of water could come through. And there are wildflowers lining the edge of the road, little low Australian-style wildflowers, small, pale and spiky, but there nevertheless, making a brave show.
Here’s a question: we have a CB radio and we have used it a bit. It’s loads of fun, “Thanks buddy.” “No worries.” But mostly what we hear is the crackle of static and a dialect which is almost incomprehensible. Is it the accent? The vocabulary? Will we pick it up so that we understand what people are saying to each other? It’s like being in a foreign country.
It’s getting dark, and the sky is getting darker still because it has been raining steadily at our destination all day. We stop at a tiny town called Leonora, with a median strip full of flowers, and spot an information centre in a pretty little original bank building. It’s rather striking that outside there are Aborigines slouching aimlessly along the street and inside the spic’n’span building there are two nicely dressed white women manning the desk. They are very helpful, anyway, ring ahead to our destination to let them know we are coming and give us good directions.
Which is lucky, as we need to turn east at Wiluna, which is a tiny speck of a town and in the dark and wet we would have been very uncertain. But we arrive, find Gill in the office and make camp. It has stopped raining, be thankful for small mercies.
During the night we wake up. Water is spraying on the canvas. “That’s really weird rain, “says R. But I have been listening for a few minutes and recognise the sound from our farming days. The irrigation system has switched on and we are in the path of the sprinklers watering the lawn. It is 2 am. After a bit R gets up and goes outside. The water stops but there is still a strange gurgling noise. “What did you do,” I ask. “I put a bucket over the sprayer,” he says, and we fall asleep still laughing.
Today dawns hot and dry, a big blue sky without a cloud. We decide to do a short day and re-organise our storage systems. As we are not going to do anything daredevil, we won’t need the amount of diesel we had on hand, so to reduce the weight, we decide to empty a jerry can into the fuel tank. Alas, this triggers the failsafe system that Land Rover has installed to stop people who are so stupid that they would accidentally put petrol into a diesel vehicle. If it detects a narrow spout a little cap springs across the pipe into the fuel tank. When this happens there is a special tool to re-set it. But oops, a little piece breaks off it as r tries to use it as per the instructions in the manual, and Houston we have a problem.
After having a quiet moment we decide to test out the Land Rover roadside assistance. Anywhere? Yes, anywhere! Ok, buddy, let’s see. We call, and the wheels are set in motion. A new tool is being overnighted from Perth, and when it arrives the closest operator will come and fix us up from Meekatharra, 200 km away. So we settle in for a holiday day, put the spare room on the rig to relax perfect comfort, get out the footballers girlfriends chairs and potter around. R washes everything in sight, and tries out every piece of equipment we haven’t yet used, just for fun. I do the blog, read the last of Vasari on Michelangelo. We have lunch, I have a siesta. Where is the music for “Beautiful Day?” It should be playing in the background. We’re here till the part and the mechanic arrive.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Coober Pedy
Q: What noise does a cow make? A: Thwump – if you hit it at 110km an hour. Which several people have done along this road. First you see the car – ouch, then the cow – oof. It does answer one question that has been nagging at me though; there are signs to homesteads all along the road, this HS 34 km one way, that HS 65 km the other. In all these vast distances and arid landscapes, what are they there for? Beef cattle, I guess, what’s left of them.
What the dickens (do you like my rural-speak?) is going on with the weather? Get Noah on the phone, as if we should be worried. We’re not sure if we actually should be, about tackling that track, with news just in of wild storms and flash flooding today, not on that track, but just up the road. Outback style, that is about 400 km, towards Alice Springs.
It starts to spit as we get up but it doesn’t really hit its stride until we’re a couple of hundred km along towards Coober Pedy when it comes down in sheets just as we pull in at a rest area for a break. There is another caravan owner standing damp and shivering and we all look at the rain and laugh at the absurdity of it. He has been running in front of it all the way from Coober Pedy but it has caught him. I’ll bet n o-one in living memory has seen it greener, though, there’s actual sort of tough grassy stuff.
The little lakes along here, part of the Lake Eyre, Lake Torrens complex are all glistening. With the long sweeps of silver water to the low flat mesa-top hills in the distance it is quite stunning.
R is fiddling with the radio, looking for a local station when suddenly on comes Emma Ayres and the ABC Classic FM program. Amazing! Out here! If this can happen they can probably get Home and Away in Turkestan. Or maybe Boganistan. Haha.
The news comes on, talking about a no-fly zone in Libya. “We need one of those here,” says R.
We try to find another route. The Savannah Way is still blocked at the Fitzroy Crossing and there is a whole printed page of other currently closed and cut roads and tracks. Probably it would be best to head back south and go across the Nullarbor, but we hate to turn around.
We get to know the girls in the Info Centre pretty well during the day, but no-one has actually driven the Anne Beadell highway. I wouldn’t either if I lived here, I would get in the fastest car i could find and hightail it to Adelaide. Or anywhere. Coober Pedy is a weird, ugly dump. It’s all hillocks of earth with people living inside them to keep cool and scratching at the earth hoping to find their fortune in opals.
Like all of these unusual places it attracts some, um, colourful characters, along with lots of sad looking Aborigines, speaking their own language and slouching around. Apart from its uniqueness there is absolutely nothing to recommend it. I would rather hang by my thumbs than spend a holiday here fossicking for opals, which seems to be the main thing the town tries to tempt tourists with.
By the time we get here today, gather all of the information we can, which is still really not enough to make an informed decision, we decide it is too late to hit the road and check in to a local caravan park. We will do some washing and housekeeping and check the weather and conditions in the morning.
What the dickens (do you like my rural-speak?) is going on with the weather? Get Noah on the phone, as if we should be worried. We’re not sure if we actually should be, about tackling that track, with news just in of wild storms and flash flooding today, not on that track, but just up the road. Outback style, that is about 400 km, towards Alice Springs.
It starts to spit as we get up but it doesn’t really hit its stride until we’re a couple of hundred km along towards Coober Pedy when it comes down in sheets just as we pull in at a rest area for a break. There is another caravan owner standing damp and shivering and we all look at the rain and laugh at the absurdity of it. He has been running in front of it all the way from Coober Pedy but it has caught him. I’ll bet n o-one in living memory has seen it greener, though, there’s actual sort of tough grassy stuff.
The little lakes along here, part of the Lake Eyre, Lake Torrens complex are all glistening. With the long sweeps of silver water to the low flat mesa-top hills in the distance it is quite stunning.
R is fiddling with the radio, looking for a local station when suddenly on comes Emma Ayres and the ABC Classic FM program. Amazing! Out here! If this can happen they can probably get Home and Away in Turkestan. Or maybe Boganistan. Haha.
The news comes on, talking about a no-fly zone in Libya. “We need one of those here,” says R.
We try to find another route. The Savannah Way is still blocked at the Fitzroy Crossing and there is a whole printed page of other currently closed and cut roads and tracks. Probably it would be best to head back south and go across the Nullarbor, but we hate to turn around.
We get to know the girls in the Info Centre pretty well during the day, but no-one has actually driven the Anne Beadell highway. I wouldn’t either if I lived here, I would get in the fastest car i could find and hightail it to Adelaide. Or anywhere. Coober Pedy is a weird, ugly dump. It’s all hillocks of earth with people living inside them to keep cool and scratching at the earth hoping to find their fortune in opals.
Like all of these unusual places it attracts some, um, colourful characters, along with lots of sad looking Aborigines, speaking their own language and slouching around. Apart from its uniqueness there is absolutely nothing to recommend it. I would rather hang by my thumbs than spend a holiday here fossicking for opals, which seems to be the main thing the town tries to tempt tourists with.
By the time we get here today, gather all of the information we can, which is still really not enough to make an informed decision, we decide it is too late to hit the road and check in to a local caravan park. We will do some washing and housekeeping and check the weather and conditions in the morning.
Day 4 Renmark to (almost) Cooper Pedy
We wake up at dawn, just a faint suggestion of light on the horizon. What time is it? The watch says 7.00. Huh? Oh yes, we’re not only in a different country, we’re in a different time zone. South Australia time. But we are wide awake so we start the day. There is a faint sound of a riverboat making its way upstream; an hour later, just as we are about to leave, it comes back again.
By then we have had the full sunrise over the water and birdsong performance as perfected by outback Australia. Breaking camp has been rather delayed by the need to continually gasp and reach for the camera.
But then we are off and straight into a massive valley of vineyards, citrus orchards and olive groves. It feels as if we are back in Italy, and in a way we are. The South Australian Germans are closer in to Adelaide, and here it is little Italy. Nice statues on the gate posts! Nice palm trees!
We are getting steadily further towards the outback , not exactly wild, but more unpopulated and the little towns getting more and more drab. Everything is the colour of clay, even the sheep, they look as if they have been modelled from the dirt they are sitting on.
We cross the Murray River, wide and flowing well, on a ferry with a ferryman who looks straight out of central casting. He has a long beard he has been cultivating for a long time, and a weatherbeaten face. He waves a leathery arm with a grunt to greet us. We also have been practising our dialect –“Yerp”.
We have bought fruit and veges in Balranald, but this turns out to be a mistake. First we see the no fruit sign,oh dear, it’s fruit fly country, so the bag of apples goes into the bin beside the painting of an enormous angry insect. A bit further on, just under the huge arch representing a Goodyear tyre, there is an inspection station, and out goes the rest. Apparently almost everything is suspect. I personally suspect that this stuff goes straight into the pantry of the large lady who confiscates it, she looks as if she enjoys her tucker and needs a lot.
But the scenery is lovely. There are hills in the distance, round, greyish, with a light sprinkling of trees. It must be the start of the Flinders Ranges.
It is getting hotter and hotter and the earth is getting redder and redder. This is what we came for, and we are filled with glee at the sight. We know we need to check conditions, so we start a prolonged attempt to find out whether the road we intend to travel has been cut. We phone one government department and shire council after another.
Everyone is lovely, charming, willing to help, but no-one can tell us what we need to know. We want to follow the Anne Beadell Highway from Coober Pedy to Laverton near Kalgoorlie in Western Australia. It’s not a highway at all, it is in fact a remote and rough desert track, made in the 1950s to service Woomera, and since then barely maintained. But it sounds like fun to us, if it is passable after this wet summer.
Finally we find someone who says there was two inches of rain yesterday, and someone else who says it will be challenging, not to be taken lightly and to take 10 days of food if we decide to go just in case. No phone coverage at all, and no-one travels it except for occasional people like us out for a bit of fun.
We decide to go and have a look, we can always go back if it looks very problematic. We hope this theory holds true. We have plenty of food, water, diesel, coffee and Scotch, so we won’t die out there, but if we haven’t reached Laverton by March 29, it just might be an idea for someone to call the police station there.
So we head north from Port Augusta. The landscape gets more and more authentic, saltbush, red earth, occasional mounds of hills in the distance. Time to stop, I find a little track on the map to a site by a salt lake, and we go to the end, but it is a mine and we are fenced out, so we backtrack a few kilometres and pull off. We cause a lot of excitement to all the flies in the area, and we spend the next half hour doing our chores sporting very fetching fly veils. We give the winch a rewind, to make sure it is ready in case it suddenly is needed, then dive into the trailer for the evening.
By then we have had the full sunrise over the water and birdsong performance as perfected by outback Australia. Breaking camp has been rather delayed by the need to continually gasp and reach for the camera.
But then we are off and straight into a massive valley of vineyards, citrus orchards and olive groves. It feels as if we are back in Italy, and in a way we are. The South Australian Germans are closer in to Adelaide, and here it is little Italy. Nice statues on the gate posts! Nice palm trees!
We are getting steadily further towards the outback , not exactly wild, but more unpopulated and the little towns getting more and more drab. Everything is the colour of clay, even the sheep, they look as if they have been modelled from the dirt they are sitting on.
We cross the Murray River, wide and flowing well, on a ferry with a ferryman who looks straight out of central casting. He has a long beard he has been cultivating for a long time, and a weatherbeaten face. He waves a leathery arm with a grunt to greet us. We also have been practising our dialect –“Yerp”.
We have bought fruit and veges in Balranald, but this turns out to be a mistake. First we see the no fruit sign,oh dear, it’s fruit fly country, so the bag of apples goes into the bin beside the painting of an enormous angry insect. A bit further on, just under the huge arch representing a Goodyear tyre, there is an inspection station, and out goes the rest. Apparently almost everything is suspect. I personally suspect that this stuff goes straight into the pantry of the large lady who confiscates it, she looks as if she enjoys her tucker and needs a lot.
But the scenery is lovely. There are hills in the distance, round, greyish, with a light sprinkling of trees. It must be the start of the Flinders Ranges.
It is getting hotter and hotter and the earth is getting redder and redder. This is what we came for, and we are filled with glee at the sight. We know we need to check conditions, so we start a prolonged attempt to find out whether the road we intend to travel has been cut. We phone one government department and shire council after another.
Everyone is lovely, charming, willing to help, but no-one can tell us what we need to know. We want to follow the Anne Beadell Highway from Coober Pedy to Laverton near Kalgoorlie in Western Australia. It’s not a highway at all, it is in fact a remote and rough desert track, made in the 1950s to service Woomera, and since then barely maintained. But it sounds like fun to us, if it is passable after this wet summer.
Finally we find someone who says there was two inches of rain yesterday, and someone else who says it will be challenging, not to be taken lightly and to take 10 days of food if we decide to go just in case. No phone coverage at all, and no-one travels it except for occasional people like us out for a bit of fun.
We decide to go and have a look, we can always go back if it looks very problematic. We hope this theory holds true. We have plenty of food, water, diesel, coffee and Scotch, so we won’t die out there, but if we haven’t reached Laverton by March 29, it just might be an idea for someone to call the police station there.
So we head north from Port Augusta. The landscape gets more and more authentic, saltbush, red earth, occasional mounds of hills in the distance. Time to stop, I find a little track on the map to a site by a salt lake, and we go to the end, but it is a mine and we are fenced out, so we backtrack a few kilometres and pull off. We cause a lot of excitement to all the flies in the area, and we spend the next half hour doing our chores sporting very fetching fly veils. We give the winch a rewind, to make sure it is ready in case it suddenly is needed, then dive into the trailer for the evening.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Day 3 Moruya to Renmark
So it’s like this. I’m sitting on my folding squatters chair right beside the Murray River at a little bush campsite near Renmark. We are in the middle of a national park and camped at the waters edge. The trees are reflected in the water, and there are little ripples where insects, or is it fish, break the surface. The sun is about to slide below the horizon. There are a dozens birds calling, of course the loudest being a crow, the sound of the outback.
Not a human sound, except for a couple of tinnies that have puttered past, and a ute with some young blokes out hunting. A small plane flies overhead and fades away into the distance. A fish plops up out of the water and back again. The sunset is laying down pools of pink and gold.
We are two days into our journey and we are already far away, into South Australia, into the bush, and far, far away from Sydney. This is another country. The towns are quiet, spacious, flat, with wide streets and no traffic. The people are large and slow talking, slow walking. The names speak of the days when Australia rose to prosperity on the sheep’s back, and wheat and cotton; Narrandera, Hay, Balranald. And the earliest winemaking areas; Mildura, Renmark.
The Murray River looks full and sleek here, thanks to the massive rains of the last couple of months; there is water everywhere.
Two days ago we set out from Moruya and decide to go west. The extreme wet this year has hanged our plans. Warwick knows his stuff and if he says, “Those roads are impassable,” we listen. So we are heading for Port Augusta in South Australia where we will get another update.
But the car and trailer are way too clean, so we take a narrow dirt track over the mountains from the coast to Araluen and Braidwood. This seems to do the trick – the rain helped too – and by the time we reach the other side there is a satisfying coating of clay and we look as if we mean business.
It’s a lovely drive, too, a very steep road winding up and up through spectacular coastal forest, the trees changing around almost every bend. There is dappled light lying across the road, a mist on the hilltops.
The slope falls away beside the road down a thousand metres, then lifts on the other side of the valley in layers of rounded velvety hills in shades of blue layered into the distance.
We’re trying out the 2-way radio, a new toy (sorry, rescue and recovery aid). R calls several times, then someone suddenly answers. Is it a truck on the road? No just some bloke in Moruya. Still, we know it works.
Now all this exquisite beauty is in contrast to the place names. How would you like togrong live in Togganoggera? Or Wantabadgery? Beggan Beggan? Brawlin? Jinglemoney, or maybe Grong Grong? That’s Australia for you, I love a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains, of very lovely places and very funny names.
Over the hill the countryside opens out to the plains around Canberra. Lake George is nearby, and Queanbeyan. But we are headin’ West.
Of course we must stop at the Dog on the Tuckerbox, 5 miles from Gundagai, it would be un-Australian to drive past. It is truly ugly and ridiculous, commemorating a legend about a dog sitting on a bloke’s lunchbox when he goes to get something to eat after a cow of a day. Stone the crows it was the last flamin’ straw. Or so the story goes. There are several nasty little buildings around an amateurish statue of the dog. Whatever would the tourists make of it? Busloads of people, dozens of school students, and, really, nothing to see for all the fuss. But we do our civic duty, take the photo and head for Junee.
This town is a surprise, you only ever hear about the prison (sorry, Correctional Centre) but the town is very pretty, with the historic buildings preserved and painted, so that it could almost be a Ye Olde Towne except that it is, well, real. And as a result charming and very attractive, with an outstanding original railway station, very large and elaborate, because this was the railhead for the district. And there are still huge silos and sheds everywhere around.
It’s getting flatter and sparser all the time and the properties are getting larger. We are looking for somewhere camp beside the Murrumbidgee River. We get close, but can’t find a spot, so we go onto a farm to ask. No-one there, this is vast, but as we turn and leave we meet a woman coming in who tells us we can camp here.
It’s beautiful a tiny bridge, a path of grass. I put on my gumboots in case of snakes, then we put up the tent and settle in. A massive flock of white cockatoos comes screeching in for the night, and in the morning we wake to the sound of kookaburras.
Day 2: Moruya
In my family history there is an honourable talent for breaking droughts, usually sometime in January on family holidays. This resulted in us having no skill in fishing, but being great at Scrabble and Monopoly . We broke from this drought-breaking tradition spectacularly once when I was five when we were on the first of many memorable holidays to Sussex Inlet. We got bogged the middle of a forest with a bushfire roaring towards us. Later fun holiday moments included the day Dad sat on the anchor ; at the time he was trying frantically to start the inboard motor as we drifted towards the mouth of the inlet, with the sandbar just ahead and the surf on the other side.
But most of the stories involved being rained in or rained out. So it is a lovely thing to continue these time-honoured traditions. Las t night there was a torrential downpour and wild winds; today it has been drizzly, a poor effort really, and nature missed a great opportunity, since we were being given the run-down on our new camper and then actually putting it up and padding back and forth packing our things into it. We could have got a lot wetter really, but it was something.
But now it’s dark and calm and we are sitting in the trailer having cooked dinner and washed up. Actually we are also on the phone to Warwick who is ringing from Fitzroy Crossing warning us about the roads along our intended route; cut, swamped, washed out, impassable. People being helicoptered out from Aboriginal settlements as their houses are washed from their foundations. Why am I not surprised that in the driest continent on earth we are faced with massive rain and flooded rivers across the Northern Territory at the very moment we set out?
So it’s out with the maps. Where to go? One thing is certain - we will end up in Broome, but it might be via the Nullarbor and Kalgoorlie instead of the Gibb River Road. Plans to go along the Savannah Way went out the window a long time ago, but the route is marching steadily southwards. Lucky it’s a big country.
We did however have a lovely day today. All the people at Ultimate have names ending in tt, I don't think they can get a job there unless they are called Brett or Scott. Our Brett spent all morning with us teaching us the finer points of our new toy, after which, just as we were beginning to glaze over, they brought out a large platter of sandwiches and a box of wedges. Then we had playtime putting it up and down under the watchful eye of Brett, had a tour of the factory, took it out for a spin to check the brakes and the electrics, were presented with a bottle wine, had the official photo taken and were sent on our way.
It’s a cute little family company, with Dad upstairs, looking down benignly on the scene below (as well he might as three camper trailers roll out the door each week, ca-ching), daughter Emily behind the reception desk and Mum in all the brochures. Something nice about it, shaking the hand of the owner and exchanging small talk, and nice to know we have played our small part in helping him to buy his new Land Rover HSE at around $250,000. There’s money in those Gray Nomads, even if they do all look so daggy.
But we are ridiculously excited to be in our new little home, tucked up for the night and contemplating heading off tomorrow for the outback. Watch this space, sometime soon we’ll know where we are heading.
But most of the stories involved being rained in or rained out. So it is a lovely thing to continue these time-honoured traditions. Las t night there was a torrential downpour and wild winds; today it has been drizzly, a poor effort really, and nature missed a great opportunity, since we were being given the run-down on our new camper and then actually putting it up and padding back and forth packing our things into it. We could have got a lot wetter really, but it was something.
But now it’s dark and calm and we are sitting in the trailer having cooked dinner and washed up. Actually we are also on the phone to Warwick who is ringing from Fitzroy Crossing warning us about the roads along our intended route; cut, swamped, washed out, impassable. People being helicoptered out from Aboriginal settlements as their houses are washed from their foundations. Why am I not surprised that in the driest continent on earth we are faced with massive rain and flooded rivers across the Northern Territory at the very moment we set out?
So it’s out with the maps. Where to go? One thing is certain - we will end up in Broome, but it might be via the Nullarbor and Kalgoorlie instead of the Gibb River Road. Plans to go along the Savannah Way went out the window a long time ago, but the route is marching steadily southwards. Lucky it’s a big country.
We did however have a lovely day today. All the people at Ultimate have names ending in tt, I don't think they can get a job there unless they are called Brett or Scott. Our Brett spent all morning with us teaching us the finer points of our new toy, after which, just as we were beginning to glaze over, they brought out a large platter of sandwiches and a box of wedges. Then we had playtime putting it up and down under the watchful eye of Brett, had a tour of the factory, took it out for a spin to check the brakes and the electrics, were presented with a bottle wine, had the official photo taken and were sent on our way.
It’s a cute little family company, with Dad upstairs, looking down benignly on the scene below (as well he might as three camper trailers roll out the door each week, ca-ching), daughter Emily behind the reception desk and Mum in all the brochures. Something nice about it, shaking the hand of the owner and exchanging small talk, and nice to know we have played our small part in helping him to buy his new Land Rover HSE at around $250,000. There’s money in those Gray Nomads, even if they do all look so daggy.
But we are ridiculously excited to be in our new little home, tucked up for the night and contemplating heading off tomorrow for the outback. Watch this space, sometime soon we’ll know where we are heading.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Broome and back 2011
Moruya
No red dust, no brown snakes, no crocodiles. This is way too civilised. We are sitting in our dinky little cabin on the banks of the tranquil Araluen River at Moruya. In front of us are two families with little kids fishing and the Dads being knowledgeable about bait and casting. They’d better be happy with hamburgers for dinner, though, because there aren’t any fish being caught.
But it’s a lovely scene, big old palm trees on the river bank, and now, after an hour or so of wind and thunder, the patter of rain.
We filled the D4 (that’s Land Rover talk for Discovery 4) up to the gills with boxes of stuff, laughing about the fact that the last trip we had we went across three countries with one tiny backpack each. But for that trip we didn’t need a frying pan, a winch, a personal locator beacon. Although, come to think of it, there were a couple of times when they would have come in handy. A winch up the Grand St Bernard Pass would have been just dandy, and as for when we got lost in the forest...
The drive down the South Coast is very beautiful in a green hills, brown cows and blue ocean sort of way. And the forests lining stretches of the road are really lovely, tall slender stands of eucalypts. Kangaroo Valley, Kiama, Mollymook, the names just speak holidays and relaxation.
But here we are, fired up and ready to go, tomorrow we pick up our camper trailer (waiting list 6 months) and learn how to use it. Then the next day, head off to the North West. We did spear off into the forest for lunch, just to get into the spirit of it, and tonight we are cooking our food out of the supplies crate, to ease ourselves into the really simple life.
Just one little thing is exercising our mind: this rain now falling has also been falling in big lumps all over the area we are planning to cross, out in the backblocks of Queensland. That lovely wild back country, all dry and arid is now full of wildflowers and it just keeps raining. There are roads cut everywhere. Tomorrow we will consult the Bureau of Meteorology and see where we can go. I’ll keep you posted, as they say. If you hear a gurgling noise, send out a rescue team.
No red dust, no brown snakes, no crocodiles. This is way too civilised. We are sitting in our dinky little cabin on the banks of the tranquil Araluen River at Moruya. In front of us are two families with little kids fishing and the Dads being knowledgeable about bait and casting. They’d better be happy with hamburgers for dinner, though, because there aren’t any fish being caught.
But it’s a lovely scene, big old palm trees on the river bank, and now, after an hour or so of wind and thunder, the patter of rain.
We filled the D4 (that’s Land Rover talk for Discovery 4) up to the gills with boxes of stuff, laughing about the fact that the last trip we had we went across three countries with one tiny backpack each. But for that trip we didn’t need a frying pan, a winch, a personal locator beacon. Although, come to think of it, there were a couple of times when they would have come in handy. A winch up the Grand St Bernard Pass would have been just dandy, and as for when we got lost in the forest...
The drive down the South Coast is very beautiful in a green hills, brown cows and blue ocean sort of way. And the forests lining stretches of the road are really lovely, tall slender stands of eucalypts. Kangaroo Valley, Kiama, Mollymook, the names just speak holidays and relaxation.
But here we are, fired up and ready to go, tomorrow we pick up our camper trailer (waiting list 6 months) and learn how to use it. Then the next day, head off to the North West. We did spear off into the forest for lunch, just to get into the spirit of it, and tonight we are cooking our food out of the supplies crate, to ease ourselves into the really simple life.
Just one little thing is exercising our mind: this rain now falling has also been falling in big lumps all over the area we are planning to cross, out in the backblocks of Queensland. That lovely wild back country, all dry and arid is now full of wildflowers and it just keeps raining. There are roads cut everywhere. Tomorrow we will consult the Bureau of Meteorology and see where we can go. I’ll keep you posted, as they say. If you hear a gurgling noise, send out a rescue team.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
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