Camping by the Murrumbidgee

Sunrise at Renmark campsite

Gundagai to Renmark

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.

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.