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.”