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.
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