Note: This file now also contains details of my second trip.
'Away from it all'. Heading West on the Donohue Highway between Boulia and Tobermorey.
This is what I'd imagined I would find, emptiness and vast spaces.
Between Boxing Day, 1995 and January 12, 1996 I drove 9,510 kilometres through the
heart of Australia. This is the story of the trip.
After Christmas Day I pack my car, a short wheel base Pajero 4WD, and head West out of
Sydney. I have a handful of goals: to see Coober Pedy, Ayer's Rock and Gosse Bluff; to get
a first-hand appreciation for the vastness of Australia's outback, and to exercise, or
test, my competence and self-sufficiency in the bush. Other than that I have no real plan.
The idea is to take things as they come, follow whatever direction draws me, and to see
what happens.
In the car I have just about two of everything: two tents, two sleeping bags, two radio
transceivers (one mounted in the car, one hand-held), two compasses, two jerry cans for
petrol, and two big containers for water. I take some of my ultra-light weight
mountaineering equipment, a stove that weighs 100 grams, for instance. I have a variety of
clothing to deal with great variation in temperature. I have maps, books to read, tools
for the car, spare fan belt and radiator hoses, gallons of sunblock, a camera, binoculars,
sunglasses and my akubra. Unlike my climbing trips when everything has to be carried on
the back, this trip centres around the vehicle, which is going to be my lifeline if I got
into any kind of trouble. Intending to be near the car at all times means I can afford to
take everything I suspect might come in handy. Despite this I later find there are several
things I need to buy along the way: clothes pegs, a folding chair, a billy can, a
squeegee, an extra jerry can and other things I wished I had, such as an esky, and nail
clippers, but couldn't obtain when I need then.
Heading West
Making a late start at 10 am, I hope to cover 1,000 kilometres in the first day. The
familiar part of the journey, travelling towards, and then through, the Blue Mountains,
passes slowly, as there is plenty of holiday traffic about. Before long, though, I am
driving on open country roads, and having to plan where I am going to refuel. I check my
consumption. I seem to be getting about 7 kilometres to the litre. I also seem to be
fuelling up all the time. Fuel is to become the major preoccupation, not to say expense,
of the trip. And this is just the beginning.
Near Bathurst I see a field full of grass 60 cms high. Eighteen months ago this field
had been bare earth and the starving sheep pathetically followed the farmer's truck as he
drove along tossing hay out for them to eat. It seems the dry times are over for now, and
the sheep are looking healthy again.
The country gets progressively flatter as I leave the Great Dividing Range. After Dubbo
it reaches a state of horizontal flatness, and the road ceases to twist. The first taste
of monotony comes as I drive the 120 kilometres between Narromine and Nyngan. The Mitchell
Highway here is dead flat, dead straight.
Every now and then I see dog-like creatures in the distance, either up ahead on the
road, or far off in the bush to the side of the car. Too lightly built to be dingoes, and
too large to be foxes, I think. A mystery indeed. If anything, they most resemble the
Thylacine, or Tasmanian Tiger, unsighted for many years in Tasmania, and certainly extinct
on the mainland. I hope that subsequent, closer, sightings of dingoes will solve the
mystery identity of these dogs.
Kangaroo Nightmare
As the evening progresses the sun drops in front of me, glaring through the windscreen and
reflecting off the road surface. Sun position is also going to become a big factor in the
trip, though I didn't know this either. As the sun sets I decide to continue driving,
taking advantage of the end of the glare. I have driven as far as Cobar at this point, and
decide to press on to Wilcannia, 260 kilometres further West. As it darkens, the kangaroos
start to appear, first ones and twos, then large groups of adults and juveniles, Eastern
Greys and Reds, side by side, here at the point where their habitats coincide. Galahs,
Ravens and Crested Pigeons also appear in large numbers. Soon the kangaroos become a
problem. Having forgotten to clean the windscreen at Cobar I find it hard to see ahead.
Frequently, at the limit of my headlights I see kangaroos standing in the road, apparently
unconcerned at my approach. They only move when I am about 10 metres from them, having
slowed down to a crawl. Several times kangaroos start to cross the road just as I
approach, making me brake and swerve. It begins to get nerve-wracking as the numbers
increase and full darkness descends. Many sit at the very edge of the road facing in,
looking as if they are about to cross at any minute. Others freeze at the sight of my
headlights, staring forward, not necessarily at me, but apparently utterly confused as to
what to do. Rabbits also abound, often rushing out in front of the car, only to change
direction and rush away again, or to pass unharmed between my wheels. By the time I reach
Wilcannia I am tense from the concentration and very surprised I haven't killed anything
yet.
At one stage in this leg I stop the car, suddenly very thirsty and desperate for a
drink. The evening is warm and dark, but not silent. In the bush insects whirr and
clatter, my car's engine ticks as it cools, and my shoes make a loud noise as I walk
around the car. 60 kilometres from the nearest town, I get my first taste of relative
isolation. I find a pile of bones, probably kangaroo judging by the size of the femurs. It
seems odd that live kangaroos should be sitting nonchalantly beside the remains of others.
Death, particularly at the roadside, is also to become a common theme of the trip.
The ABC and Cricket
As I drive I try to keep in touch with the Test Match being played against Sri Lanka. This
entails retuning the car radio as I pass over hills or out of range. And wherever I stop
people are talking cricket. I begin to get some idea of what actually creates cohesion
among Australians, spread over such a vast area, and separated by such enormous distances.
It is things like David Boon's comeback century, which pleases everyone. When the play
stops for the day I keep the radio on but find it harder and harder to find stations.
Miraculously I can receive signals from places as far away as Adelaide, Brisbane and
Rockhampton. They all seem to be ABC stations too. I am suddenly aware of the importance
of the ABC, just as significant as cricket in creating Australian identity. The means to
know about anything that is going on in the country: the ABC. Jumping between stations
creates a strange kaleidoscopic effect, as they are all playing the same programs but are
out of phase, often by only a few seconds, sometimes by half an hour. This effect reminds
me of both Cubist painting and Dennett's 'multiple draughts' theory of consciousness, but
that's another story.
I camp at Wilcannia, beside the Darling River. I've covered 936 kilometres and all
seems well. During the night I realise I won't be using the sleeping bag much on this
trip. I just get into my bivvy bag and use the sleeping bag as a pillow. The night starts
hot and dry, though waking at about 3 am I throw the sleeping bag over me to lessen the
chill. There is no dew in the morning, there never will be on this trip.
Leaving Civilisation Behind
I continue the journey at about 7 am. The roadside carnage is awful. Fresh kangaroo, pig,
rabbit and bird carcasses literally litter the road. These are the casualties from the
night before. Some of the bodies are whole, others have already been mashed by several
passing vehicles, and spread across the road in obscene patterns of viscera and ordure.
The ravens are feeding on the fresh meat. Coming over a slight rise I see an Wedge-tailed
Eagle on a carcass, eating beside a family of ravens. It is magnificent, with a chest as
powerful as a bulldog's, and a gigantic wingspan. It flies off, almost swerving into my
car as I pass. I develop a dread: that of killing a rare bird of prey. Sadly, this is to
become reality two days later.
Soon I see, up ahead, flashing lights. It turns out to be a shire truck slowly moving
along as a worker drags dead animals off the road and dumps them in the bush. In this way
we make the roads safer, but also hide from ourselves the price we extract from animals
for our privilege of mobility.
The land is getting less verdant, turning to scrub. Having the sun behind me and the
lingering cool of the morning I feel very comfortable travelling at 100-110 kph. I begin
to attune to the subtleties of the landscape and vegetation. After an hour of flatness the
slightest rise becomes a 'hill', a feature of note. As there are no trees, I can indeed
see a long way from such 'hilltops'.
At Broken Hill I decide to get spotlights fitted to the car. Another night of driving
with the weak illumination of my headlights is not a happy prospect. There seem to be auto
parts shops everywhere. What a lucky place to stop! As the lights are being fitted I walk
around this mining town, fascinated by how a huge slag heap looms over it, and amused by
the street names: Silver St, Mica St, Sulphide St. The slag heap reminds me of the Aberfan
disaster, when several children were buried beneath a slag heap that collapsed on top of
their school. I remember coming home that day to find my mother ironing, and full of the
terrible story.
After Broken Hill the land turns to dry scrub. Mirages make distant bushes appear to
float in the air, and give the impression the road is covered in water. The small towns
along this road serve no purpose other than to provide roadstops. They were originally
built to support the railway line in the days of steam, now they support the motor car in
the age of the internal combustion engine. One small town, Topar, is connected to the West
by a single overhead cable suspended from poles which seem impossibly distant. I use my
speedometer to measure the distance and find that they are 400 metres apart. This helps me
judge distances for a while; five poles equals two kilometres.
Of course, I have been in South Australia since soon after leaving Broken Hill. Things
are getting less 'urban'. I see my first goanna, a two-finger thick specimen, watching me
from the other side of the road. Small hillocks, like the buttes of the American South
West appear. Here the dead animals are left where they lie. The rotting stink often hits
me before I see them. People wave at me as their car and mine pass. That definitely
doesn't happen back East! But not everyone waves. I try to find predictors of which
drivers will wave, playing a game of prisoners' dilemma. If we both wave, or both don't
wave I feel good, but if only one party waves I feel bad. It seems truck drivers and
drivers whose hands are already out of sight don't wave. Nor do aborigines (or so I
think).
Seeing the Sea Again
After leaving route 32 near Peterborough the country turns to rolling grass-covered hills
that remind me of areas of California. The hills become more and more pronounced until
finally I crest a pass and see the Spencer Gulf below. The hills I've passed through are
the South Flinders Range, and from here my route turns North. It is not possible to travel
from Sydney to the Red Centre of Australia in anything resembling a direct route because
the Simpson Desert lies in the way. This is the driest area in Australia, which is the
driest continent on earth. Most travellers, like me, skirt its southern fringe but it is
also possible to travel North on good roads into Queensland and thence West through the
Barkly Tablelands to the Northern Territory. Between the two sealed road routes lies over
1,000,000 sq kilometres of desert. This area does contain a number of dirt roads, and even
a route which passes right through the centre of the desert, up and down sand dunes for
hundreds of kilometres, but apart from the tiny local population (probably much less than
50,000) few people enter. My tentative plan actually includes travelling East along the
Plenty Highway. This is a highway in name only, actually 800 kilometres of dirt track, an
old stock route, which defines the northern edge of the Simpson Desert, and which would
provide me with a good return route, saving the backtracking of 3,000 kilometres.
North to the Centre
I find the Stuart Highway (an impressive engineering feat, crossing the entire continent,
and providing the only North-South sealed road surface other than the coastal routes), and
head North. I stop at Pimba to refuel. Although the operator of the petrol station is
sitting outside he doesn't come over, so I assume it is a self-service station. I can't
get the bowser to clear so I go over and ask him if he can do it. Instead he gives me
instructions and I return and pump the petrol. I walk back to pay him but he asks me what
the problem is. When I say I don't know, he tells me I haven't switched the pump off
properly. I go back and move a lever and the pump stops. Then, when he finds I require
change he asks me to go inside and trouble 'the girl' instead. I leave, a disgruntled
customer.
The terrain is a featureless flat plain. The sun is about to set to the West and
creates an effect I've never seen before. To the East the sun rays appear to converge on a
spot exactly 180 degrees removed from the sun's position. In the gloom I see wide water
surfaces to the left and momentarily think I have made a mistake and am heading West with
the sea to my left. But these surfaces are not the sea, they are vast salt lakes, many
equal in size to the Great Salt Lake in Utah. They must have come as a cruel mockery to
the first explorers in this region, so desperate for fresh water supplies.
Dingoes Around the Tent
I decide to drive into the night again. I have my new spotlights to play with, and would
like to reach Coober Pedy tonight. After the sun sets the glow lasts for a long time in
the West, the colours slowly fading and spreading as night sets in. I see perhaps a dozen
kangaroos in total, nothing like the hoards of the previous night. Ahead and to both sides
I can see thunderstorms, and I can hear the lightning crackle through my radio. No rain
falls for me, though I expect it. Hours pass and I get drowsy. I try to press on to Coober
Pedy but eventually decide I cannot. I pull over at the side of the road and pitch my tent
under a shade canopy at a rest stop. I sleep with my big knife beside me, not willing to
assume that dingoes won't attack a human. I hear them cough and snuffle around the tent
during the night, but nothing untoward happens. For about ten minutes intermittent heavy
raindrops fall on the metal canopy overhead. That turns out to be the only precipitation
of the whole trip.
Coober Pedy - White Man in the Ground
With just under 2,000 kilometres travelled it now takes no more than an hour to reach
Coober Pedy in the morning. This morning flies have been a nuisance whenever I've stopped.
The sunrise was colourful, and there are still a few thunderstorms around. I eat breakfast
in the roadhouse and notice a group of four young people at another table. I don't know
it, but I shall cross their path five more times. Today is the first day I start seeing
road trains in any numbers. Many of them are fuel tankers, hauling three tanks along at
100 kph. Signs warn that they are up to fifty metres long. They are awesome things.
I check in to a caravan park, shower, and take the opportunity to get a little
organised. I intend to stay here the whole day and leave tomorrow morning. The test match
is on TV in the bar of the caravan park, and cricket is the conversation topic of the day.
The owner of the campsite takes me out to the mine fields and describes the process to me.
He came here in 1967 and spent many years mining for opals. Originally the work was done
by hand, but now several machines are used to speed things up.
If you want to mine for opals you apply for a permit and a week later you will receive
four small metal plates that you then attach to the four stakes you will use to mark the
corners of your claim. The claim can be 50 by 50 metres or 50 by 100 metres. Obviously
this must not intersect any other claim. Firstly, a prospecting hole is bored down to a
depth of perhaps 50-80 metres. If it reveals signs of an opal seam you will register your
claim. Failure to do so within 14 days of receiving your plates means you forfeit them.
Your stakes will be pulled up if they are out of date. Of course, if you find no signs of
opals you can move the claim elsewhere within the two weeks period.
Providing the claim looks promising and you have registered it, you will then drill a
larger hole (150 cms in diameter) down which to lower a tunnelling machine. The machine is
used to cut horizontally from the shaft, following the horizontal opal seam. The material
cut by this machine is literally sucked out of the mine by a giant fan above ground. This
draws up all the rock and dust and keeps the mine clean and ventilated. Every 30 metres
the tunnelling machine requires a new shaft, so the fan can be repositioned closer to the
machine. After the horizontal tunnels have been dug the miners then dig out the opal seam
by pick. All earnings from the mines are shared equally among the miners, those who supply
the machinery getting an extra 20%. Only about 30% of the mining operations are profitable
in any given year, many miners also receive unemployment benefit.
Coober Pedy is supposed to be the local aborigine term meaning something like 'white
man in the ground'. Many of the miners don't just work underground, they have also used
their tunnelling machines to carve out homes in the hillsides in the town. Many of these
homes are powered, carpeted, furnished and decorated. There are underground shops, hotels,
even churches. It costs a mere $8,000 for a plot of housing land, and the cost of digging
the tunnels is not great. For comparison, a small house costs $28,000 in Broken Hill.
Originally, the main reason for living underground was the steady cool temperature of the
tunnels.
A complete church tunnelled
out of rock. The ceiling shows the circular tunnelling profile of the particular machine
that was used.
Coober Pedy is my idea of a Mexican shanty town. Everything is dirty and dusty, plenty
of mining junk and paraphernalia lies haphazardly around the town. One day it could be
like Phoenix in Arizona, if it continues to develop itself as a tourist attraction. Now
that water is drawn from bores, desalinated and sold for a mere $5.50 per kilolitre, and
power is generated from both diesel turbines and a big windmill, there really is nothing
stopping it. Near the town lies the Dingo Fence. This is a fence designed to keep dingoes
out of the sheep stations to the South and East. It was originally 9,600 kilometres long,
winding its way through Australia, but has recently been shortened to 4,500 kilometres.
This still leaves it three times the length of the Great Wall of China. Also close by is
an area known as The Breakaways, a photogenic area of erosion that has been used in many
films, including Mad Max and Brazil. A Japanese film company recently decided the terrain
was not sufficiently lunar, and graded a large area of the bush. Now the government
insists on charging film companies for what was once free. There are also a number of
fossil areas around the town. In one place I visit every stone is a fossil. The ancient
sea that dried up left great quantities of marine fossils in many places in Australia.
All day numbers of aborigines loll around with little, apparently, to do. Some of the
young aborigine women have very sexy bodies. This comes as a surprise to me for some
reason. There is something very alien about aborigines. We and they seem to live in the
same space without any real point of contact. Neither side seems to even acknowledge the
presence of the other. It is a very strange experience to pass through a group of
aborigines and feel like a ghost. There is not that feeling of apprehension and
unpredictability that comes with being outnumbered by American Negroes, for instance.
There is just a feeling of utter irrelevance. I get the feeling that never have two
cultures so completely rejected the values of each other. It prompts me to question many
of my values, and also fires a curiosity, which I discovered is shared by many travellers
coming here, to find out more about them. It is such a shame that they have already been
so westernised. I am sure a lot has been lost already.
Eager to move on, I am driving up the Stuart Highway a mere fourteen minutes after
waking. The monotonous continuation of yesterday's terrain gets tedious. The great size of
South Australia, and its emptiness, is deeply impressed upon me. At Marla Bore a
grasshopper lands on me and won't let go. I let it stay. I also see the group of four
again and say Hello.
The First, and Worst, Casualty of the Trip
I pass across the South Australia - Northern Territory border and immediately notice a
change in terrain. There are now several rocky outcrops on both sides of the road. As I
look at one group of rocks to the right I notice a movement in the corner of my eye and
turn to see a Brown Falcon fly in from the left, twist in mid-air to evade me, then crash
sickeningly into the front of the car. I stop and walk back to see if it is dead. I am
horrified and ashamed. The falcon lies on the road absolutely motionless except for the
wind lifting one wing and ruffling its feathers. It is quite dead. I lift it up and notice
a small pool of dark blood on the road. The wide eyes are still deep and clear. The
plumage is soft, delicate, no armour against a metal machine. The cliched word 'noble'
keeps coming to mind as I look at the shape of its head. I feel frivolous and unworthy to
have taken another animal's life in the pursuit of mere holidaying. I suddenly realise
that in our relentless intrusion into other species' habitats, I am just as much part of
the problem as anyone. I resolve to try to somehow erase the deficit I have just caused by
making a donation to WIRES or another group concerned with wildlife protection or care. I
doubt I'll be able to erase the feelings I've experienced in killing this falcon, but I
may, through a donation, provide the wherewithal for some other unfortunate bird,
somewhere else, at some other time, to be restored to health when it would otherwise have
died.
Suddenly the whole adventure seems to have come with a rather unpalatable price tag. I
lay the bird down under a bush at the side of the road, knowing that the ants, or dingoes,
or other carnivorous birds will soon be eating it. Getting back into the car I curse
myself for looking at the rocks and not looking ahead. It is not that I know I could have
braked in time, it is just that I cannot be sure I did everything I could do to avoid the
killing. Further up the road I see flocks of white Little Corellas evidently feeding on
apples at the roadside. I keep braking and slowing as they take off at my approach. Some
of them fly very badly because they are trying to fly with the large fruit in their claws.
I stop at the side of the road and identify the food as Colocynth, a small bitter melon
that grows in disturbed soil, like that at roadsides. It looks rather like a kind of
Pomegranate.
The recent rains have caused large areas of new green grass to spring up, and many
shallow marshes lie among the trees. Many of the smaller creeks have water but,
paradoxically, none of the larger ones do. All the greenness makes the Territory much less
desert-like than South Australia had seemed.
The Magic Mountain
I refuel twice more during the day, and I am travelling fast now, 120 kph. This is because
I have a destination in mind: I want to see Ayer's Rock today. Not tomorrow, today. I've
always wanted to see it, ever since I first read of it as a young boy. I think it strikes
everyone as unique, an oddity. For me it was also a symbol of my birthplace, Australia,
which I hardly knew. It was drawing me towards it rather like Devil's Tower did to
characters in the film 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind'. In fact, remembering my own
approach to Devil's Tower in Wyoming I can't help noting the similarities: I start to look
out for the mountain far too early, and yet when I finally do see it, it catches me
somehow by surprise.
The rock is thrilling. The drama is due to the way it rises so suddenly and arrogantly
from the sand-ridge scrub around it. There are no preparatory foothills, no rival peaks,
the sand-ridges are a mere 13 metres high. It is sensuous, reminding me of human bodies.
It is unlike any other geology I have seen, warmly coloured and appearing to be closer
than it really is. Its surface is so smooth and unflawed it seems very un-mountainlike to
me. I can't wait to climb it and really get to know it a bit better. Climbing is
prohibited until 6 pm because of the danger of exertion in the heat (it is around 38
degrees Celsius every day). I therefore decide to set up my tent at the campsite and come
back later.
At 6:24 pm I start the climb with three litres of water, walking boots, akubra hat and
sunblock. I eschew the chain which runs to the top, this climb is so easy that I will only
slow myself if I use it. The heat is oppressive. There is a fairly strong wind higher up,
but it has the property of burning the face and whipping away moisture from the lips and
tongue. I decide that this wind has a 'grill' factor, not a chill factor, as it is rather
like the blast from a hot oven. It is a few days later that I realise I am still on New
South Wales time, having ignored the time changes at both border crossings so far, which
means I started this climb at 4:54 pm, a good hour before I was supposed to. This might
account for the excessive heat I feel. I stop halfway up the slope for a drink and drop my
bottle. Luckily I get a foot to it, preventing its fall all the way to the car park below.
I notice that whereas I was practically alone when I started, the car park is now full.
With one hand holding my hat on against the wind, and the other waving the flies away from
my eyes and mouth, I press on. After 30 minutes I reach the top, rest again, then spend
another 30 minutes traversing the top to the actual summit, which is quite a long way off,
over numerous ridges and gullies.
I keep examining the rock for climbing potential. The surface is not smooth on close
inspection. It is actually quite flaky. The flakes appear to be quite long-lived, even on
the marked route, so I imagine that elsewhere they are quite solid. Most of the holds are
underclings, but sufficient tiny holds exist to make the slab climbs possible. I am
certain there are numerous ways to the top. There are many pools of water on the rock,
even right up to the summit, and several places have grass and bushes sprouting from them.
The rolling top surface would make an excellent arena for mountain bike trials. From the
top I can see Mount Conner in the East, 89 kilometres away, and in the other direction I
can make out the Mann Range at 153 kilometres distant.
At the summit I sign the book for both myself and the grasshopper from Marla, who is
still clinging to my shirt. The wind finally drops and leaves a peaceful feeling in its
wake. Three young Japanese students join me and are fascinated by the book. They are
clearly really enjoying themselves here.
The
summit photograph. My strange gesture is supposed to indicate to the photographer where
the shutter release is. He obviously found it anyway. The thing we are standing around is
a cement cairn which has a brass top showing distances to other mountains in a circle of
160 kilometre radius.
The rock is often said to be the largest monolith in the world, but Mount Augustus in
Western Australia is larger. Of course, it would be more fitting if Ayer's Rock were the
largest, but nature hasn't cooperated. The good news is that, unlike most mountains, this
one is getting larger all the time, as the surrounding sand is being eroded at a faster
rate than the rock. There seems to be a lot of doubt over the origins of the rock. There
is practically no geological information available in the park, though there is
considerable coverage of the aborigine story of its origins. There is no certainty over
just how large the rock is, whether it joins the Olgas at some lower level, and so on.
Though 346 metres protrudes above ground level, the rest of the rock could be considerably
larger. A little mentioned fact is that the sandstone strata of the rock are arranged
almost vertically. Standing near to the rock, and impressed by its bulk, one can't help
being overawed at the power of the forces required to turn such a huge thing through 90
degrees. Though occasional rains fall in this area, most of the erosion of the rock is due
to flaking caused by temperature variation at the surface. The many channels that run
water off the surface of the rock are stained dark grey. This is organic, caused by a form
of algae. Water collects around the base of the rock, and provides very reliable
waterholes. Many of these places have great significance for aborigines, for practical as
well as ontological reasons.
The descent is a straight walk down, toes pointing forward. I overtake dozens of people
who started out but have decided against completing the climb and are gingerly descending,
crab-like and tentative. Despite the aborigines expressed preference that people don't do
the climb, we all seem keen. I am ambivalent about it. I feel slightly guilty that it
upsets them when people climb the rock, but my feelings about freedom to climb are much
stronger. I am, nevertheless, unresolved about the issue.
At the campsite I meet the group of four again. This is the fifth time. On their advice
I try the pool. After clearing about 50 moths from the water, I swim around lazily and
feel content with the day's events. The stiffness of sitting in a driving position for
three of the last four days begins to disappear. I go to sleep with the fly sheet over the
tent for the first time. This is because I intend to stay here a while and don't want
people to be able to see into the tent when I am not there.
The First Lazy Day at Camp
For the first time my alarm, which is set for 5 am, actually wakes me. Ironically, this is
the only day so far when I didn't want to be woken! Today is a lazy day. I shower and make
a nice breakfast. I read, study maps, and watch the birds around my tent. A small green
and brown one lands right at my feet while I drink coffee. It begins to squeeze some
nearby flowers with its beak, without actually eating them. I guess it is getting nectar
from them. A black and white bird investigates the space between my fly and tent, chasing
insects presumably. Two reasons they are called 'fly' sheets? To complete the zoological
report, the grasshopper died in the night, finally content after the achievement of
conquering Ayer's Rock, and the flies are unrelenting. I decide the Northern Territory's
drawbacks are heat, flies and distance. The bird life and insects are so varied and
abundant, it is very pleasing. It is also good to see no sparrows or feral pigeons here. I
get so lost trying to keep track of the birds I've seen that I buy Simpson and Day's field
guide to the birds of Australia. I identify some of the species around me immediately, but
others appear to match nothing in the book. Bird-spotting is evidently a hard-won skill. I
decide to give it my best shot though, as it is so satisfying to know what one is looking
at. Other possibles seen today are the Mistletoe bird, Crested Pigeon, Weebill, Lovely
Fairy Wren, and the White-Winged Fairy Wren.
Doing my laundry I notice what appears to be a giant caterpillar near my foot. It turns
out to be the seed of the Desert Oak. This is an interesting Casuarina because its mature
form is so different from its junior form. I had thought the two forms were different
species of tree, but this was wrong.
Later in the day I visit the Olgas twice. They do not impress me the way Ayer's Rock
does. The rock here however, is extremely climbable too. It is a coarser conglomerate,
full of holes and boles. This would be a climbers' paradise if it were not for the sacred
status of the rocks. The Olgas, particularly, offer climbs at all levels of difficulty. I
find someone taking photographs of a dead dingo pup. It stinks and he has his camera
almost poked into its gaping rib cage, so I take a photograph of him in his act of
necrophilia. It is while I am out here at the Olgas that I discover that my big bag of
clothes is missing. I know immediately what has happened. When unpacking things from the
car I have been putting the bag on the roof to get it out of the way. I told myself
several times not to leave it up there, but that's what I've done. It will have fallen off
at a corner somewhere. I am pretty sure it will be found by now, and I'm pretty sure that,
that being so, it has been given to the police. Nevertheless, I drive the 50 kilometres
back to the camp site on the wrong side of the road, with my spotlights shining into the
verge of the road.
The man from Sydney
who told me he was 'into death and morbidity'. This was a fairly small dingo. We wondered
if it had died in a fight, or because of disease.
Close Encounter with a Dingo
I don't find the bag, but I do find a young dingo bitch standing in the road. She has
something interesting, either a dead marsupial, or lizard, which she wants to eat. My
being so close does not scare her off. After eating her find, she decides to investigate
my car. She lowers her head and comes in cautiously, to within 5 metres. I lower my window
and make sounds designed to arouse her curiosity. She comes around to my side of the car
and I get the impression of a very intelligent dog. It is difficult to define, but a
combination of curiosity, caution, and competence seems evident. We are equally curious
about each other so a strange ballet for dog and car ensues as she tries to circumnavigate
me, and I try to keep her on the right side of the car where I can photograph her.
Eventually we are both satisfied and go our separate ways. She was a nice looking dog,
though quite thin, with an even sandy coat, unmarked by scars. Eventually I do find my
bag, laid at the door of the Police Station, as I suspected it might be.
Nose to the ground, the dingo comes round to my side
of the car to see what is making the silly noises. One can see how thin but beautifully
clean she is.
I spend the remainder of the evening chatting to people at the cook house. There are
several Japanese bikie boys here on their dirt bikes, many English and German travellers
too. I notice how many of the Asians have either a limp or large operation scars on their
bellies. I check my finances and discover I am averaging $100 a day on petrol. In Sydney
it is 69c per litre, here it is 99c. I better think carefully about where I am going to
go, and try to get there by the most economical route. I've had a look at a tourist map of
the Plenty Highway, and definitely feel it is feasible. I shall try to get better maps and
will ask around some more too.
A Gentle Walk Around the Rock
Feeling more drawn to Ayer's Rock than the Olgas I decide to do the base walk in the
morning. I don't rise quite as early as I had hoped, but get to the base at 9 am (7:30 am
local time). It is a great walk, nine kilometres with plenty to keep one's interest. I
spot four Agile Wallabies in the shade of a huge overhang. In a waterhole I find thousands
of Shield Shrimp basking and fighting. They look, at first, like tadpoles, but are
equipped with many legs underneath. Cannibalistic little beasts (like a lot of water
animals) they grow from tiny eggs to mate in the ephemeral pools after rains. When the
pools dry up they die, but their eggs get blown away with the dust of the bush to land
wherever the wind carries them. They have even been found in the pools on top of Ayer's
Rock. Another pool I find is full of real tadpoles, the happiest, chubbiest tadpoles one
could imagine. They look like small marine rays in outline. The bush is mainly spinifex,
cassia and acacia. It is inhabited by many species of bird, but I fail to make any more
really confident identifications, though I get a good look at several birds through my
binoculars. I am fairly sure I have seen a White Winged Triller and a White Plumed
Honeyeater today.
Just one of the
surprising features of the rock, the 'Brain' is perhaps 100 metres high and provides ideal
multi-storey accommodation for the birds of prey that live in this area.
People Who Seem out of Place When They Shouldn't
Back at the campsite I watch German backpackers unconcernedly get undressed in full view
of anyone who cares to walk by, I speak to a couple from England who seem very interested
in all they have seen here, and then I get ready for the New Year's Eve party tonight. As
parties go it is not too bad. Quite a few aborigines turn up and bring children aged one
to seven. The aborigines seem terribly out of place, but don't seem to mind. One is
dressed in football kit, many of them sport tie-dye clothes. The children, most of whom
are blond, seem very cute, and they all seem friendly. They have a distinctive smell,
something like smoky milk. Every time I see them I start wondering what their future is.
They have just had a cultural centre built here (designed by a white man), yet the only
people staffing it are white. Why can't they staff it themselves? The place has a feeling
of cultural vacuity, though one leaves it feeling somehow ruffled, somehow guilty, somehow
intrusive. It is also disappointing that the rock paintings have not been renewed for
forty or fifty years. I am not sure that an unwillingness to let the white man see the
paintings is the whole truth. I have a feeling their culture is moribund. It seems it
could survive if it had never encountered another culture (its long history makes it seem
evolutionarily stable) but this is now irrelevant, and it seems to have sufficient
curiosity value for it to survive as a tourist attraction, but this is insufficient. I
wonder if we could ever withdraw our egregious agricultural activities from the arid and
semi-arid regions and rehabilitate them to the point where traditional aboriginal cultures
re-emerged. I would like to see it.
The Mystery Mountain
On the first day of 1996 I take the road North to King's Canyon. This seems like an
interesting direction as it leads to some dirt road and a number of other geological and
botanical places of interest. Before I head north though, I decide to investigate Mount
Conner.
There is something strange about Mount Conner. It rises above the sand ridges about an
hour before Ayer's Rock does, and at first it looks just like it, flat across the top,
gently curving shoulders, impressive bulk. But as one nears it, and more is revealed, one
sees that it has a flanged skirt of vegetated talus and scree, quite unlike Ayer's Rock.
Mount Conner is an impressive mountain, as symmetrical and improbable as Ayer's Rock, and
is very close to the Lasseter Highway, which guides millions of tourists past it to Ayer's
Rock and the Olgas, yet nobody visits it. Why is this? It looks so much like Conan Doyle's
Lost World that even if there was nothing interesting on top it still would fire the
imagination. I suspect there is something very selective about what is presented to us as
a tourist attraction and what is not. Are Ayer's Rock and the Olgas really the only
impressive mountains in the area? For me Mount Conner presents a challenge. I want to
return here with some friends and climb the sheer wall at the top of the flange and stand
on top of it and see what it is like up there.
I head down the dirt road towards Mulga Park, hoping to get a closer look, but the
mountain is hidden by a ridge which parallels the road on the left. After travelling past
the end of the ridge I try a few tracks leading off to the left but fail to find one that
passes through the bush to the East. I really haven't achieved anything at all on this
diversion. This was however, the first dirt road. The car rattled a bit doing 80 kph on
corrugations, but otherwise everything seems fine. I turn around and head for King's
Canyon instead.
Bush Observations
Passing over several cattle grids I wonder why it makes a kind of 'whump' sound when my
car does it, but other cars sound rather xylophonic. I also notice that, though the
government has erected many signs warning drivers to be on the look-out for wandering
stock in unfenced areas, many of the graziers erect their own signs 'SLOW STOCK X-ING',
hand-painted on the bonnets taken from old cars. The warnings are valid, as cattle are
extremely stupid, liable to run directly in front of your car. There have been several
cases of people being killed or trapped in their cars as a result of a collision with a
cow. The sight of cattle ahead on the road makes me slow down even if they are 300 metres
away, where there is one, there are probably several.
A Wave From a Friendly Lizard
I stop at King's Creek station and have an interesting talk with an architect from Sydney,
then drive on to the canyon itself. There is a surprise in store for many people visiting
King's Canyon. The canyon is known for its impressive 100 metre sheer rock walls, but that
is not what I remember most of the place. The long walk which circles the canyon's rim
actually dips down into the canyon at one point, and this is called the Garden of Eden,
with good cause. If you imagine being lost in the desert, tired, hot and thirsty, and were
to start dreaming of paradise it would look just like this magical little place. Cool rock
pools lie in the shade of palms, bird-song echoes off the rock walls, and dappled light
reflects from the surface of the water up onto the overhanging rock ceilings. In the water
swim fish and tadpoles. The place is as different as can be from the harsh aridity that
surrounds it. Protected by the shade of the canyon walls, and fed by the seepage of water
from the high ground behind it, the water supply here is permanent. The area is inhabited
by a species of lizard that has a curious warning signal. It raises one foreleg in what
looks like a very friendly little wave. I find a couple of these lizards, and get cheerful
waves from both of them. Very confident in the speed of their getaway, these fellows are
almost fearless. One walked nonchalantly between my boots after looking me over and
deciding I was harmless.
One of the
views in the Garden of Eden at King's Canyon. The pool was quite deep enough to dive into.
This place would surely come as a surprise to any desert traveller.
I camp for the night at the nearby campsite and see the group of four once more. This
is the last time though. I spend the evening watching cricket on the TV in the bar. It is
the most exciting match I've ever seen, Australia needing four runs off the last ball to
win, and actually getting them. The whole bar erupts with cheering, city and bush folk all
as one.
Hitting the Dirt for the First Time
The next leg of the journey is the Mereenie Loop Road. This is a dirt road which links the
two major tourist areas West of Alice Springs. I am certain that one day it will be sealed
so the tour buses can come this way, but for now it is approximately 200 kilometres of
well-graded, but corrugated dirt. The sun is in my eyes for much of the trip, which makes
things difficult. Though I have spare fuel in the car (three 20 litre jerry cans, enough
to get me about 250 kilometres) I decide to refuel at Hermannsburg, a small settlement
some way off my route. Next to the petrol station is a supermarket. I go in to buy a few
items and discover that most of the staff there are either English or Scottish! This is
not unusual, I later find. Many of the outback jobs that Australians consider too limiting
are being taken by travellers who enjoy the novelty of the experience and need the money
regardless. While in Hermannsburg I decide on impulse to visit Palm Valley, which is only
about 15 kilometres away, down a rough 4WD track.
Relict Palms in the Oasis
Palm Valley contains permanent water, and has been able to sustain the only known examples
of the palm Livistona Mariae. There are only about 2,000 of the plants, a tiny fragment of
the flora of Australia 50,000 years ago. Places like Palm Valley and King's Canyon
preserve much of the variety of Australian flora. Palm Valley contains 333 species, of
which about 30 are considered rare or restricted. It is another true oasis.
The palms have no natural defense against fire, yet
they have survived in a fire-ravaged region for 50,000 years. The surrounding rock
provides them with protection, and the reliable water supply maintains an environment akin
to that of Australia before the coming of man.
It is here I meet a couple relaxing in folding chairs, shaded by the trees and clearly
at home in the desert. Their vehicle resembles an armoured personnel carrier. I am very
impressed by it and we talk about it for a while. They are extraordinarily well equipped
and seem prepared for anything. I am to meet them later in the trip.
Gosse Bluff - Meteorite Crater
I decide that there is enough of the day still left to visit Gosse Bluff. This is not a
well-known place, though it should be. It is not a bluff at all, but the remnants of a
huge meteorite crater. Approximately 142 million years ago something very big collided
with the earth right here, and threw up a crater 22 kilometres across. Erosion in the
intervening time has removed all traces of the surface of the earth at the level of the
collision, and has taken away all of the original crater rim. All that remains now is the
bottom part of the inverted cone of the crater, a four kilometre wide ring of ridges
surrounding a flat crater floor. This was the deepest part of the original crater, for a
long time buried beneath shattered rock, but now exposed to view.
The approach to the crater is via a side track off a dirt road, which is itself a side
road off the Mereenie Loop Road. Clearly, this is not the tourist route, though the minor
roads and tracks often have better surfaces through not being used quite so much. In much
of Australia the dirt tracks are ephemeral, changing their route whenever conditions such
as flood or erosion demand. It is often easy to get lost in the maze of tyre tracks. I
therefore make good mental notes of landmarks and turnings so I can retrace this route
without getting sidetracked.
The spinifex grass grows lushly here, waist high and waving slowly in the breeze. It
has a relaxing effect and reminds me of Africa. It would be incongruous, but somehow not
surprising, to see a herd of Wilderbeest or Zebra moving across the plain. Not having seen
any photographs of the crater, knowing only that it is severely eroded, I have low
expectations, I am certainly not expecting a Ngorogoro. I notice a large mountain range to
the left, and wonder what it is. It cannot be anything but the crater itself! This is more
than I had hoped for, it is steep sided (40 degrees in some places) and very well defined.
As I get nearer to it I begin to see that this is a very impressive structure indeed. The
road winds through a gap in the crater rim, and terminates inside the crater. From here
the entire 360 degrees of the rim is visible, and appears unbroken.
Gosse Bluff from the North. Four kilometres across,
the crater dominates the plain it lies in.
I am completely alone inside the crater. A gentle wind blows intermittently but the
overall impression is one of peace and solitude. I discover that camping is banned within
the crater, which scotches my plan to spend the night here. I know that no-one would ever
know if I were to set up camp, but I feel a sense of respect or reverence here that
prevents me from doing so. I decide to pack a few essentials and hike across the crater
floor.
Capturing the panorama of the
crater rim was impossible, but I tried to show in this photograph how the broken hills
curve around.
There are tracks of dingoes and kangaroos in the sand, and those of humans too,
inevitably. I see no animals except insects and a few birds. Overhead clouds rush by,
appearing over one edge of the rim and disappearing over the other, their shadows visible
as they hurry across the crater's concavity.
Why does this place not have the aborigine heritage of Ayer's Rock? Or does it, but we
have just not been told? It has a very strong sense of place, stronger than anywhere else
I've visited so far. The internal environment is so well enclosed from the outside of the
crater that I an sure it must have held a special place in aborigine minds.
The protected feel of the inside of the crater is
conveyed somewhat by this photograph. Some parts of the crater are quite idyllic. At the
point where I climbed the rim there was a series of water pools where a creek entered.
As I near the far edge of the rim I notice a place where it is much lower and head in
that direction. I climb up and pass through the notch, only to make the surprising
discovery that a second ring of hills surrounds the first. I decide then to climb the
inner ring to see what I can see from above. The sun is beginning to set now though, so I
have little time. I climb the jumbled blocks of Devonian sandstone, very conscious of
snakes, as to be bitten here would be a serious problem. Even getting to the car would be
difficult. The hills are covered in spinifex which, despite its feathery appearance, is
armed with nasty spiky leaves that pierce denim without any trouble. Many of the rocks are
very tentatively balanced, I am very cautious about this too, as to be trapped under a
rock up here would almost certainly mean death.
When I reach the rim itself I am presented with a vista across the whole crater, and a
good view of the outer ring behind too. I take photographs, knowing that they will be
unable to convey the mood of the place. I badly wish to spend the night here, but won't.
Instead I now become focussed on getting back to the car before dark. I retrace my steps,
feeling elated. I find myself singing 'Walking on the Moon' by The Police,
Walking back from your house,
Walking on the moon.
I am soon driving away from the crater, through the swaying spinifex. This has been the
best part of the trip. I drive into the West Macdonnell range as the sun sets and complete
the journey to Glen Helen in the dark. At Glen Helen I camp and cook dinner, then spend a
fair amount of time getting organised and clean.
Water Gaps and Water Birds
In the morning I take my binoculars and bird book to the local waterhole, intending to do
some bird-watching. I see a Great Egret and a Pacific Black Duck. There are, as usual,
many other birds I can't identify. There is a very prominent rock column rising right out
of the water. I trace a climbing route to the top. This is another one for the climbing
trip I am already planning in my mind. I take a swim in the water, passing between the two
huge rock faces on either side of the gorge. This waterhole is part of the Finke River,
the oldest river in the world. The fact that the river passes through a water gap like
this shows that it predates the formation of the mountains themselves. The Finke
ultimately buries itself in the Simpson desert to the Southeast, branching out into a
multitude of channels which sink into the Great Artesian Basin. Only very rarely does
water actually flow down the watercourse, but many waterholes have never dried up. These
sources of water have been used by migratory birds for thousands of years, as a route to
link the fertile and relatively wet Southeast corner of Australia with the rest of the
world. Swimming is allowed in all the waterholes in this area. I am not sure if it does
any real damage. Certainly it is less damaging than allowing cattle to have access to the
water.
Later in the day I walk through Ormiston Gorge and visit the ochre pits, where
aborigines dug out the red and yellow ochre they used for painting, along with the white
of ash and the black of charcoal. I also stop at Ellery Big Hole, another impressive water
gap and waterhole. Where the rivers have been forced to cut through narrow gorges they
have scoured out the river bed and created these deep holes which provide year-round
water. Here I meet the well-equipped couple again. He tells me the Plenty Highway will be
no problem as long as there has not been too much rain. He has driven it and has driven
many other long routes such as the Sandover Highway and the Birdsville Track.
The Alice
Today is the first of many days when I feel drowsy in the afternoon and have to stop. I
spend an hour asleep at the side of the road before continuing East to Alice Springs. At
Alice Springs the police tell me the Plenty Highway is open, but the Donohue Highway,
which is its continuation on the Queensland side of the border, is closed. This is bad
news, especially as the Sandover Highway is closed too. The rain that has preceded me by a
few days wherever I have been has finally hit back. It has filled the creeks in the area,
raised the water level at crossings, and turned sections of the road into quagmires. I had
sensed this was coming as, as I had approached Alice Springs, I saw more and more water in
the creeks.
As I talk to the woman at the police station an aborigine collapses on the stairs
outside, then staggers in through the door. He is immediately taken to a cell to sleep it
off. In the streets I am greeted a couple of times by aborigines, saying 'hello' in a very
singsong style. At the campsite I see that some people are apparently living here
permanently. They have tarpaulins and furniture beside their clapped out vehicles. It
looks unsavoury, but I guess it is a better option than being entirely homeless. I also
meet the architect from Sydney again.
The town reminds me of Phoenix, though I am not sure why. The country approaching Alice
Springs was beautifully lush. In the evening I watch Ringneck Parrots and Black Footed
Wallabies playing around the rocks. There are no flies and no mosquitoes here, which makes
a welcome change.
A Black Footed
Wallaby near my campsite at Alice Springs. They are tame enough for you to touch them,
having been fed by countless tourists.
I need to decide what to do next. The idea of going to Birdsville, first suggested by
the well-equipped fellow at Ellery Big Hole, interests me. But to get there requires a
long detour to the North, through the Barkly Tablelands, as all the East-West dirt roads
are closed at present. The next day it gets worse. I am told by the Motorists Association
that all roads are likely to stay closed because of Cyclone Barry in the Gulf of
Carpentaria, which is intensifying, and moving towards the coast. I am really at a loose
end now, stymied. I had been all ready to get going. Well, as I can't go East or West, and
don't want to backtrack South, that leaves only North. Maybe I shall just go via Mount Isa
and then down to Boulia, as I am not too keen on Darwin as a destination, for some reason.
At one stage travelling North I got so
bored I drove off the road and drove parallel to it, through the Mulga. I found a number
of curious earth rings, not sure if they are made by ants or birds. They turned out to be
Mulga ant nests, adapted to the frequent sheet floods by having a circular levy of about
10 cms, reinforced with Mulga twigs. The white blur at bottom left is another sign of the
ubiquitous dust. It had infiltrated my lens cover and was stopping it from opening
properly. The blur is a reflection off the edge of the lens cover.
The Big Detour
I drive up the Stuart Highway, but have to stop several times to sleep. Just after leaving
Alice Springs I see a camel-drawn wagon heading north, with a Catweasle-type at the reins.
I pass through the Tropic of Capricorn and eventually stop for the night at Ti Tree. This
is a great little place, very friendly, well watered with fresh lawns, and an animal
refuge to boot. Here injured and orphaned animals are brought for rehabilitation. They
have three Wedge-tailed Eagles, several Kangaroos and Wallabies and a few Emus. I relax in
my new folding chair, purchased earlier in the day at Alice Springs. What a difference a
good chair makes to the comfort of camping! I read another of Len Beadell's stories about
how he and his small team built most of the first roads in this region.
This hungry animal decided to try to eat my wing
mirror when I stopped at a roadhouse North of Ti Tree. I had to slap him on the nose to
make him stop.
Road Fatigue Sets in With a Vengeance
The following day is the worst of all. I stop to look at the Devil's Marbles, a collection
of large rounded boulders, an area that has the distinction of being the oldest exposed
surface in the world. Erosion has hardly touched here. It is a long dull drive to Tennant
Creek, which turns out to be a very uninviting place. I don't even stop for fuel here, but
press on North to the junction of the Stuart Highway and the Barkly Highway. Here I turn
right and East and discover that this region, the Barkly Tablelands, is even less
interesting. It is a godforsaken place, devoid of rivers, ranges, or variation in
vegetation. For hours I drive through Mulga, which is high enough to enclose me, and
prevent long vistas through the bush, but not high enough to be interesting in its own
right. At one point the Mulga suddenly gives way to a flat plain of spinifex. The boundary
between the two patterns of vegetation is very sharp. This can happen when a fire has
thoroughly ravaged an area in the past, as spinifex is much better adapted to regeneration
than Mulga is. The boundary marks the edge of a past bushfire. The tablelands were laid
down as a sedimentary seabed. The uplift which brought them above sea level was not
followed by sufficient rain to start the normal processes of erosion, hence the complete
flatness of the area.
I experiment with different sitting positions, swap my feet on the pedals, open the
window, close it, try the radio, put on cassettes ( the talking version of 'Hitchhiker's
Guide to the Galaxy'). Nothing seems to work, so I finally stop at the side of the road to
boil the billy, just for something different to do. I've noticed that after staring at a
dead straight road for a while I can look away and see a perifoveal area of motion, in
which things appear to be converging, though without occlusion or foreshortening. It is an
interesting effect, and seems to indicate clearly that motion detection is separable from
other visual operations.
Under the Pall of Cyclone Barry
After Camooweal, over the Queensland border, things get better. The road starts to turn
and undulate, and the sun sets behind me, painting the sky the colours of fire, blood and
bruises, and illuminating the heavy clouds that had been in front of me all afternoon. The
news is that Cyclone Barry is getting stronger and much rain is expected in Northern
Queensland, but predominantly East of Mount Isa. Even so, the creeks are definitely
getting fuller as I move East. Today I've seen another Wedge-Tailed Eagle, a couple of
skinks on the road, and a cheeky russet and terra-cotta lizard that inspected me when I
stopped to make some coffee.
I stop at a Mount Isa truck stop and eat a hamburger as big as a football. A truckie
tells me if I am heading West I had better leave immediately before the cyclone gets any
nearer, as the creeks will all be full soon and won't go down for three days. As I am now
heading South, I am probably going to be unaffected by it. I ford a wide river and camp
here for the night. It is so hot I sleep naked on the tent floor. Mount Isa is in the
Guinness Book of Records for being the largest city (in area) in the world. It is the same
size as Switzerland!
The Plenty Highway - At Last!
In the morning I shower and head into town. After refuelling and getting a milkshake (my
staple diet on this trip) I drive to Boulia along a sealed, but single-track road. I curse
at drivers who don't slow down enough when passing, and shower me with stones. One of them
fractures my windscreen. Keeping fingers crossed, I hope I don't lose the windscreen out
here. At Boulia police station I get the disheartening news that the Birdsville road is
closed due to flooding. But, amazingly, the Plenty Highway has been reopened! Now, this is
good news but creates something of a problem in that if I now travel the Plenty Highway I
will be going West, back to Alice Springs, whereas the original plan was to travel East,
using this as a way home. If I go back to Alice Springs I will have no alternative but to
backtrack somewhere. I decide to go anyway, and head immediately for the Plenty Highway
turnoff I just passed on my way into Boulia.
Learning What Four Wheel Driving is Really About
Just outside the town I scatter a herd of cattle and one of them runs right into me. We
both swerve in opposite directions, luckily, and the cow gets a sharp punch on its
backside from my bull-bar, but otherwise there is damage to neither car nor cow. The
stupidity of cattle inspires me to start calling them MSU's (mobile stupidity units). No
wonder 'bovine' has its second meaning! As I inspect the lack of damage to my car another
4WD overtakes me. It is driven by a chap who came into the police station after me and is
also keen on driving the Plenty Highway. He reaches the turnoff before I do and
immediately charges away, throwing roostertails of dirt into the air as he accelerates.
The road turns out to be surprisingly smooth, encouraging me to reach speeds of 100 kph. I
am now really excited. This is where my competence will be tested if anywhere. Almost
immediately I see a washout ahead and start to brake. The car judders and slews but
doesn't slow down enough and I crash over the (thankfully shallow) washout without
control. I try to drive slower but keep getting lulled into higher speeds. It takes a
while before I adjust to realising that very bad hazards are not going to be preceded by
helpful warnings, I am on my own here. It takes a while indeed. At one point I get all
four wheels off the ground. I learn slowly that brakes on dirt are just not the same as
brakes on tarmac. If I am going to make all 800 kilometres of this dirt road I must change
my driving style.
Initially the horizon is dead flat before me, but it gets hillier later on. I ford a
few creeks and cross the Georgina River without trouble, the water is a metre below the
bridge level. Not so long ago it was a metre above. My windscreen is a mess from dirt and
the constant pelting of locusts, whose innards are think and resinous, can't be washed off
by wipers, and dry to a hard and opaque coating. Hundreds of them splatter the car. A
couple manage to get deflected in through the window and hit me. It feels like being hit
by a stone. I dream of reaching the stop at Tobermorey, just across the Northern Territory
border, where I can refuel, get a cold drink, and clean the windscreen. Tobermorey is the
only source of fuel in a stretch of road 500 kilometres long. The next stop is Jervois
station.
Irritations That Could Have Been Problems
As I near Tobermorey my anticipation of all the good things I will do there heightens.
Then I find an unexpected sign. Though the maps all show Tobermorey to be on the Highway
itself, this sign points down a side track and says Tobermorey is 2 kilometres away. I
take the turn and instantly face a wide creek crossing the road. It looks pretty
formidable, so I get out of the car and start to wade it to see how deep it is. About a
metre. This is borderline, and I decide not to cross. If I stalled in the middle of the
creek I could be in trouble. Perhaps help is only a kilometre away, but perhaps it isn't.
I could walk to Tobermorey for a drink but decide to press on and save time instead.
The creek that got in the way. It would not be
unusual for this creek to be empty a day later, or twice as deep and three times a wide.
The natural state of outback rivers is to jump between extremes rapidly and unpredictably.
I go to the back of the car to get some water to clean the locust goo off the
windscreen and see to my horror that my 20 litre water container is empty. The jolting has
knocked off the tap and all the water has drained away. This is the kind of accident that
can contribute to a major problem. I have about 5 litres still in other containers, and
Tobermorey is close (on foot). Shortage of water itself is not the problem on this trip,
water is everywhere. It is an overabundance of water which has caused the immediate
problem of not being able to drive to Tobermorey after all. However, it is a lesson to
learn: never travel with a tap fitted to the water container, replace it with the plug
instead.
The Big Termite Mound
I conserve the water for drinking now, rather than cleaning the windscreen, even though as
the sun sets in front of me it becomes harder and harder to see. I replenish the fuel tank
with one of my jerry cans, and then another not long afterwards. As I continue I kill two
more animals, a skink that I didn't see in time, and a small bird that flew into my
windscreen. I am beginning to get hardened to this though. One map I have shows a termite
mound beside the road. I find this amusing. How could a termite mound be treated as a
landmark? I soon stop smiling when I see it. I drive up to it, park the car in its shadow
and take a photograph. It dwarfs the car completely. It is about 4 or 5 metres high and
has a base the size of a small bedroom. No wonder it is on the map!
This was so close to the road that the grader had
cut into its base. Several other mounds of nearly the same size dotted the landscape
nearby.
I see today three groups of emus, several Brown Falcons, Another Wedge-Tailed Eagle and
many brainless cattle. I stop at Jervois and get drinks, fuel, ice, milk and water from
them, and set up camp just outside the homestead fence. They tell me the other driver
passed through half an hour before me. As I stopped to take several photographs, I don't
think I was too slow. It is a glorious bush evening, moonlit, peaceful, flyless, though
not without its mosquitoes and sandfleas. The car has been performing tremendously, though
it took a beating today. Smooth sections alternate with corrugations that shake one to
pieces, and rough sections which throw one around inside the car like a pinball. The car
might be a bit loose in the steering, but I don't know whether to attribute this to its
age, my inexperience, or the road surface.
The morning is equally wonderful. I make breakfast, shower and say good-bye to the
people at the station. The road is excellent in long sections, smooth and silky, far
quieter than tarmac in fact. I stop at Harts Range Police Station, thinking they would be
interested to know about the deep creek at Tobermorey. They are not, but I did my duty. I
feel a wriggling in my shorts and look down to see a gecko drop on to the ground and
scamper away. He must have crawled in when I put them down on the toilet seat while having
a shower, and had been content to keep still all morning!
Back on the Tarmac for a While
Pressing on, there are more cows than ever before. I call 'hamburgers!', and 'see you at
McDonalds!' to them. Before long I reach Gem Tree and the tarmac. So, the Plenty Highway
has been done in good style, with only one overnight stop and one refuel. I see the
camel-drawn wagon again and call out to the driver 'I saw you leaving Alice three days
ago.' He calls back 'Ah, I've been visiting friends along the way.' He is riding in the
back of the wagon, listening to music and just letting the camels find their own way along
the road.
An unusual sight, three camels
in the fore, one behind (not visible). The owner was taking it easy inside.
Alice Springs is dead, it being a Sunday. So I refuel, buy a squeegee and some drinks,
catch up on the cricket score and head for Yulara. I drop in to the Henbury Meteorite
Craters on the way. Interesting small craters, used by NASA for astronaut training at one
stage. They are eroding very fast and will soon be gone. I travel the 100 kilometres of
dirt road but then get lost right at the end as the signs become confusing and a station
marked on the map does not appear. Eventually I sort myself out and continue on. After a
few more hours I arrive at the campsite I left 6 days ago. I spend a couple of night here
and then decide to press on. There is not a lot to do, and I did most things the first
time I came here. I move East and South now, intending to camp in the bush fairly close
(within 100 kilometres) to Coober Pedy.
A Nocturnal Ambush?
Just as I start to look for a place to camp I am waved down by two aborigines. I am wary,
having heard of people being stopped and mugged this way. I stop the car short and call
ahead, 'what's up?' It turns out a group of them travelling North in a near-derelict car
have 'run out of oil'. I notice many ritual scars on the man's arms as I hand him all the
oil I have, and give him water too. He says 'God bless you, boss' several times and then
asks for a cigarette too. I don't stay, partly because I am hopeless with cars, but mainly
because I don't want to get involved any more than I have to. When he asks me where I am
heading tonight I say Victoria, rather than tell him I am going to camp as soon as I find
a good spot. When I pull off the road later I set up camp and try not to use a light,
hoping that no passing cars will see me. This is easy enough, as I can see them several
minutes before they come past. Soon I have eaten and the last of the cars has gone by. My
eyes' sensitivity increases and I lean back and look at the stars. The sky is a perfect
180 degree dome. I count nine satellites travelling overhead, see three very bright
meteors, one of them passing very close to the star Canopus, and being about equal in
magnitude, though more yellow in colour. I also see the two Magellan clouds very clearly,
as well as the shadows of the dust clouds in front of the Milky Way. I have never seen
these things before tonight. For an hour or so before the nearly full moon rises I enjoy
the celestial sights, then get into the tent with my big diving knife and shovel, weapons
intended for defence against human rather than canine threats.
Vast areas of South Australia are very harsh.
Here a fire has passed through. The Mulga trees are all dead, but the Spinifex grass has
survived. The spots on the photograph are caused by bits of dust on my lens. By this time
dust was everywhere!
The Rocket Range, and Sad News About a Great Explorer
An early start in the morning, with stops at Glendambo and Marla Bore (home of the
grasshopper). I deliberately avoid stopping at Pimba after the way things went on the
inward trip, though I do turn off the highway here and head for Woomera. I remember as a
boy Woomera being in the news for rocket launches that took place here. A great deal of
US, UK and Australian rocket tests were performed here, and not far away, at Maralinga,
the British tested atomic bombs. So I am curious about the place. It is a neat little town
looking for all the world like the air force base it almost is. Near the school is a
display of many of the rockets that were fired here, and a small 'museum'. This has a
charming, home-made feel to it. Many of the displays look like school projects, but the
material is fascinating. I am delighted to learn that Len Beadell, whose book 'Beating
About the Bush' I have just finished, surveyed this town and is a bit of a local hero. I
am saddened though, to learn that he died just last May. The woman looking after the
museum that day, Shirley, met Beadell 35 years ago, when he must have been at the height
of his explorations across Australia, and was obviously very impressed by the man. She
tells me he made a video before he died and asks if I want to see it. I get a couple of
drinks (it is indicative of the relaxed atmosphere in this part of Australia that they
don't worry about people wandering around their museum with drinks in hand) and settle
down to watch it. It is clearly a bit of a promotion for Land Rover, but a good program
anyway. I buy a copy for my parents, and buy myself the two Beadell books I have not yet
read. I leave Woomera feeling this was a very worthwhile stop.
One of the salt lakes I saw in the gloom on my travels North. The backtracking
gave me the opportunity to photograph one of these bone-dry salt pans, but I got stuck in
the sand here. A few minutes of rocking back and forth saw me free and back on terra
firma.
The Big Bull
Today I see ten Wedge-Tailed Eagles. This is more than the entire trip so far. The other
notable animal encounter today was with a bull. It was standing on the Stuart Highway and
a car coming the other way had stopped quite a long way short of it. Though the bull was
enormous I decided to go past it on the other side of the road. This incensed the animal,
who started stamping and literally blowing steam out its nostrils. It looked ready to
charge but decided to run, after firing a couple of badly aimed kicks in my direction. It
was my mistake, of course. Such a big animal could have made a write-off of my car. I
should have let it move away of its own accord, or let another driver do the dangerous
work of moving it, as the car travelling North had done! Keeping awake this afternoon has
been a problem. The sun continually shining into the side of my face has made it harder to
concentrate too.
Scene of someone else's
misfortune. This photograph tells the whole story: they saw a nice flat salt lake to drive
on (so much better than jolting through the Mulga), they sank to their axles, with much
effort they dug themselves out, and reversed right back along their tracks.
The Country Softens Again
Southeast of Port Pirie the countryside becomes quite English, with rolling hills, and
herds of sheep in paddocks. Even the cottages are built of stone. A small town of Burra
seems to typify this area. I stop there for the night and next morning have a look around.
Burra was founded to exploit copper seams discovered by two shepherds last century. Most
of the people here were Cornish, having been brought out here for their mining skills.
Nowadays the town clearly makes quite a bit of money from tourism.
In the afternoon I head for home, which is now only about 1,500 kilometres away. I pass
through part of the state of Victoria, and back into New South Wales. The road is tedious
and flat. This really has been the kind of country that has made me realise just how vast
Australia is. When the journey is interesting, one is unaware of the great distances
involved. It is only when features become so widely spaced that one becomes aware of the
distance as a feature itself. On the plain approaching the town of Hay. I count the time
between seeing headlights ahead, and passing the car. It is over 5 minutes. If one
estimates that our closing speed would be about 200 kph, then the distance at first sight
must be about 17 kilometres!
Home Again, Time to Reflect
That really marked the end of the trip. I spent the night at Hay, then drove the remaining
800 kilometres to Sydney the following day. I had driven 9,510 kilometres in all, in 18
days, about 1,500 kilometres on dirt roads. I have spent $2,400 in total, $900 on petrol,
$250 on spotlights, $250 on books, maps, videos, $200 on drinks, $100 on the chair, billy,
squeegee, jerry can and other assets, $100 on campsites. It has been well worth it. I have
learnt so much about the bush, about camping with a vehicle (so unlike mountaineering),
and about four wheel driving.
The superlatives are legion: the world's oldest river (Finke), the world's (second)
largest monolith (Ayer's Rock), the world's longest fence, the world's biggest opal field
(Coober Pedy), the world's largest termite mound (possibly), the world's oldest surface
(Devil's Marbles), the world's largest city (Mount Isa). There are probably others. The
highlights of the trip were Ayer's Rock, Gosse Bluff and the Plenty Highway, which I had
expected, but also Woomera, which had not even figured in my original plan.
The loose ends: I never did really identify the dog-like creatures, and some aborigines
did wave from cars.
What were the other costs? I killed a Brown Falcon, a small goanna, two skinks, and two
small birds. Not to mention the hundreds of locusts and other insects. And I gave a cow a
dead-leg. Quite a small count for the distance I travelled, yet still too much of course.
What Next?
Well, the climbing of a number of features I have visited would make an excellent
adventure, especially with Chamber's Pillar thrown in for good measure. But the real
challenge would be a crossing of the Simpson desert. Stay tuned!
The Return Trip
As I expected, I returned to the Territory a year later, though in slightly different
circumstances. The combination of a family Christmas get-together in Noosa, Queensland,
and the presence in Australia of my niece, Ruth, halfway through a year-long round the
world trip that started in England in July, convinced me that another trip was called for.
My plan was to take Ruth to Noosa via many of the good places I had already visited, and
to do a few things that I had missed out on the first time, such as climbing Mount Conner
and the highest part of the crater rim at Gosse Bluff.
The plan was to leave Sydney on the morning of 14 December, and arrive in time for
Christmas Eve in Noosa. This is what we did.
Ruth and I pack the car and say goodbye to my parents, who have been hosting her during
her stay in Australia. My mother tells me to take care of Ruth, but I want this trip to be
more a partnership than a chaperoning. Driving west Ruth and I get to know each other a
bit better. We have never really had the opportunity to talk at length so there is much we
don't know about each other.
The first day is relatively uneventful. I tell Ruth about the vast numbers of kangaroos
we will see on the Barrier Highway as we head for Wilcannia, but when we get there we see
nothing like the numbers that were there last year. It is a bit embarrassing for me, as
I'd been making such a big thing of it. We call into the same campsite at Wilcannia that I
used last time and after a quick cuppa get into our tents and go to sleep. Things are very
dry, even here right on the banks of the Darling River. The dryness turns out to be the
biggest contrast with the last trip, along with the consequent reduction in animal
populations.
Next day we drive through Broken Hill where Ruth searches out the pub featured in her
current favourite film, "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert'. We find the pub on the main
street. We pass into South Australia trying to eat all our fruit before we surrender it to
the border guards. At one drop-off point I find a Kangaroo pelvis, with femur attached. It
is large but incredibly light. The various waters surrounding Port Augusta still look very
strange and unhealthy: multicoloured and foam-flecked. We drive up through Pimba without
refuelling (I haven't forgotten the bad service I got there last time) and reach Coober
Pedy just after sunset on the second day. Just in time, in fact, to go to the pizza
restaurant for dinner. I had been imagining my pizza for several hundred kilometres, and
built up a real craving, so it is imperative that I get it. On the walk to the restaurant
we see, and hear, a landrover clanking past on only three tyres. The fourth wheel is
completely bare. There are several aborigines in the vehicle, all apparently quite
unconcerned, as they had just driven right past a service station selling tubes, tyres and
tools.
Ruth poses with the big tree.
It is the claim to fame of a small town whose name I've forgotten, somewhere near the
Flinders Ranges.
Back at Coober Pedy
The following morning Ruth takes a tour of the town and local area while I just laze
around and read. Coober Pedy has an unexpectedly good bookshop which can be reached via a
tunnel leading from the Swiss cafe, a good spot for breakfast. I get the idea of going to
Oodnadatta, thus detouring off the tarmac Stuart Highway which is monotonous and tedious,
rejoining it 200 kilometres further north at Marla. This side trip involves about 400
kilometres of dirt road, the last part of which is along the famous Oodnadatta track, also
the route of the original Stuart Highway. Oodnadatta is well-known because it used to be
the northern rail head of the Ghan line. Trains from the south coast would pull in here
and transfer loads and passengers to camel trains that would walk north to supply the
remote sheep and cattle stations trying to eke out an uncertain living on the fringes of
the Simpson Desert and areas further north. Eventually the rail line was continued further
north and rerouted, bypassing Oodnadatta completely. It is now a small dusty town of
little significance. A town 200 kilometres from the nearest tarmac is still something
worth seeing though, as it is becoming a rare thing even in Australia.
But we are not there yet. I go looking for the police station to ask about the
condition of the road to Oodnadatta. I get to where I thought it was but can't find it.
The dusty street is deserted apart from an aboriginal girl walking towards me. I wait
until she is near and say 'excuse me'. No reaction. I repeat it, and this time she looks
at me, 'Do you know where the police station is?' I ask. She just looks at me. I have to
ask again. This time she replies.
'I'm just going there myself' she bends down and reties a shoelace. 'I'll just tie my
shoelace and show you where it is.'
She looks very like Cathy Freeman, the 200 metre silver medallist in the Atlanta
Olympics. Well-proportioned, loose-limbed, dressed all in black. She walks fast in the
heat and I ask her questions about herself. It turns out she has just returned to Coober
Pedy from Sydney. I ask her how she liked it. 'A bit boring' is the unexpected reply.
Again I get the feeling that there is very little in western culture that holds much
interest for many aborigines.
Later in the day I ask two girls, one Canadian, one Irish, who are travelling through
Australia, if they have met any aborigines, and wonder what their impressions were.
Immediately I feel one if them prickle.
'They're just like everybody else' she retorts in an offended tone. This ridiculously
politically correct response irritates me greatly. Aborigines are not like any other
people, that is what makes them so disturbingly fascinating. Her answer also goads me
because her inference is obviously that, as I am asking race-specific questions, I must be
a racist. Coober Pedy is a small town and we meet her three more times before we leave.
She refuses to talk to me! Luckily her companion is less prone to silliness and is willing
to compare the apparent lack of materialism in aborigines with that of native tribes in
Canada.
As the aborigine girl and I approach the police station I open the door for her and let
her go in. She takes a seat at the back of the waiting room, while I go up to the desk and
ring the bell. Did she deliberately let me go first because that is the way things are
done; white man before black woman? When the officer emerges I gesture towards her and let
her be served first. He eventually tells me the Oodnadatta road is fine, and that the
weather forecast is thunderstorms, but nothing to worry about. I return to meet Ruth and
we agree to leave for Oodnadatta the following day.
That evening we have dinner in an underground restaurant, and chat with the owner. She
turns out to be an American who arrived in Coober Pedy about 30 years ago expecting to
stay for two weeks. She ended up marrying a Croatian miner, settling in town, and becoming
a local historian. She tells us that the first white person to be born in Coober Pedy
still lives there, and is now in his seventies. Very few white people actually come from
Coober Pedy, so nearly everyone you meet has an interesting story about how they came here
and stayed. When I ask for another cappuccino she declines to serve it and instead bundles
us off into the night so that she can close shop. The time is 10 pm.
The Road to Oodnadatta
The road to Oodnadatta passes through flat lifeless country. Dry sands and rocks prevail,
and we see mirages in all directions. Distant mesas seem to float above the horizon, or
appear to be stretched up into the sky. Distances are hard to judge. I see what appears to
be a truck up ahead. It turns out to be a discarded car tire. We begin not to trust our
vision. Later, when I see a strange brown structure sticking up from the desert surface I
half jokingly ask Ruth if it is a horse. Neither of us can be sure. We get closer to it
and then decide it is a model of a horse, made out of rusty iron, perhaps erected by a
station hand with time to spare, a creative streak, and a sense of humour. Then we notice
the mane fluttering in the wind and realise it is a horse indeed. We are now only 75
metres away from it. The stallion is stately and huge, a magnificently sculpted animal. He
begins to walk slowly away towards a wooded creek bed as we drive past.
We see a sign at the side of the road. It points down a side track and promises a
'Painted Desert'. As the diversion adds only 40 kilometres to the trip we decide to have a
look. The area called the painted desert is actually a number of breakaways with strongly
contrasting colours of sand. When we get out of the car we realise how very strong the
wind is. It blows steadily from the southeast and is powerful enough to lean into, and hot
enough to dry out one's mouth.
Oodnadatta:
200 kilometres from the nearest tarmac, an obvious place for seafood dining.
We pause at Oodnadatta for fuel and something to eat. I order fish and chips at the
roadhouse, out of sheer perversity. The idea of eating fish here on the rim of the driest
part of Australia, the Simpson Desert, appeals to me, despite my recent decision to avoid
eating meat. Looking east towards the Simpson we can only wonder what it is like out
there, as the land we have just passed through, silent, empty and unwelcoming as it is, is
not thought of as desert in these parts.
Is it a River or is it a Mirage?
Almost unbelievable, a river in the
driest of deserts near Oodnadatta.
We start to see several eagles and falcons about. At one point we see both species of
inland eagle together; the wedge-tailed eagle and the much smaller little eagle. Later in
the trip we see an eagle fly high across the road with a metre long snake in its talons.
This is our fourth day. Our plan is to make the first 'bush' camp of the trip sometime
before we get back to the tarmac of the Stuart Highway. After a couple of hours travel
north of Oodnadatta I start to look for a good place to stop, hoping for a shady tree and
some shelter from the unrelenting wind. We have passed a few creek beds with relatively
large trees, but kept wanting to get a bit further. Now that it is time to stop, even the
dry creek beds seem to have been left behind and all we have is gibber plains, low hills
and the occasional twisted acacia tree. Then I see some gum trees to the right and head
off the road towards the tallest of them. What we see ahead makes us doubt our eyes.
Stretching into the distance both left and right is a river! The creek bed is nearly full,
many species of birds including pink cockatoos, galahs, corellas and black-tailed native
hens are already enjoying this rare delight. We set up our tents high on the top of the
bank in case of flash flooding during the night, but temporarily move everything else down
to the water's edge for a very civilised supper, baked beans, chili, tinned tuna, tea,
coffee and biscuits. A spectacular sunset adds to the romance of the scene, and mercifully
the strong wind has kept the flies and mosquitos away. We erect both flysheets in an
attempt to make the tents as wind-resistant as possible. I also position the car so that
it acts as a windbreak. Despite these efforts the wind drums hard on my tent all night,
and several times manages to blow right under the groundsheet.
Windy camping: flysheets on, and the car used as a
windbreak. The creek can be seen through the trees. We had survived the wind but the
noise it made kept me awake, and therefore in the rare position of being up at sunrise.
Breakfast is made equally memorable by a brilliant sunrise, with brightly lit clouds
scattered across the sky and long shadows stretching away to the west. We had talked about
swimming, but the wind had deterred us. It is still driving hard from the south east. Had
it been a little warmer in the evening, a swim would have been the most exotic and
surprising of luxuries here. By walking along the bank I discovered that this is not
exactly a river, as the creek could be crossed about half a mile above and below where we
camped. The watercourse is the Alberga Creek which, when it runs, drains into Lake Eyre
about 300 kilometres east. By great good fortune we had discovered it at its closest
approach to the Oodnadatta track, less than 500 metres north of the road. The floodline is
a metre or so above the present level of the water, so considerable time has elapsed since
the last heavy rain.
We pack everything into the car, using my technique of rolling the tents up complete
with sleeping bag, mattress, water bottle and insect repellent inside, and stuffing them
into a monstrously large holdall. This makes for very fast pitching and breaking of camp.
Soon we are back on the Stuart Highway. We make a little detour north to see the Henbury
meteorite craters, before eventually heading west to Mt Conner.
A Creepy Night at Mount Conner
Mt Conner is shown on the map as both a high altitude point, and the site of some ruins,
presumably an old station homestead. I'm interested in the mountain, Ruth is interested in
the ruins. We search for both, exploring all the winding tracks that lead east of the dirt
road down to Mulga Park. As happened last time I was here, the tracks either peter out,
turn round or, in one case, come to a locked gate. We park the car at the end of one
track, having found the only flat clear section of ground that will be suitable for the
tents. It is getting dark and we don't have time to search further. I am quite frustrated,
having hoped to have had time to get to the mountain and find a way up. I have to accept
that this is now looking unlikely.
The fuel in my little stove has run out and nowhere we ask appears to stock it. This
means no hot food or drink tonight, until Ruth points out, quite reasonably, that we can
light a fire instead. I hadn't quite got hold of that paradigm, it is not usually an
option when mountaineering. Ruth skilfully builds a tiny fire and we get the billy boiling
in no time. She is turning out to be a useful companion, an accurate and interested
navigator (unlike most people) and now a competent outdoorswoman too.
This site is made somewhat sinister by the presence of three dumped car bodies.
Obviously destruction and abandonment have taken place here. As darkness descends a
bizarre trick of the moonlight makes it look like there is a light on inside one of the
cars. It is decidedly creepy. Suddenly we both hear something stumble nearby. Rocks
clatter and we both freeze. Listening hard all I really hear is ringing in my own ears.
After a few minutes we resume our fireside conversation, slightly unsettled. Fear of
animals in the Australian bush is, to all intents and purposes, unjustified. There are
poisonous things like snakes, spiders, and scorpions, the odd voracious crocodile up
north, perhaps an occasional raging bull or a baby-snatching dingo, if Lindy Chamberlain
is to be believed, but the only animal to really fear is man himself. You can take
precautions against all other species, but homo sapiens is capable of the worst and most
frightening acts. Once again I take my shovel and diving knife into the tent with me,
along with thoughts of drunks, thieves and psychopaths.
Ruth normally sleeps very easily. She never uses a foam mattress, relying only on the
padding of her sleeping bed to smoothen the bumps of the ground. I end up using both our
mattresses, being, so I tell myself, of a bonier constitution. This night is different.
Ruth wakes up at one point sure that there is something moving around her tent. She even
gets up and shines the torch around, and calls out to me in the tent next door, but I am
blissfully unconscious. Nothing for it but to get back in the tent and sweat it out.
Having survived the night we try to hike up the ridge that hides the mountain from us.
At the top of the ridge we see only another, the mountain is still hidden. Ruth finds a
gibber jumper, a local adaptation of grasshopper, looking like a chicken leg in
breadcrumbs in colour and shape and texture, but only two inches long. I find a mulga ants
nest. After more walking we get a glimpse of the mesa, still a long way away. It is clear
now that the only way to get to it is the track through the gate. There is no question of
breaking through. We try to find the ruins instead. This entails criss-crossing the bush,
dodging the mulga stakes and deeper creek beds, and following everything that looks like
it could have been a track at one time. We surprise a few lone kangaroos enjoying the
first few cool hours of daylight, but find no ruins. These too must lie on the other side
of the gate. Later I ask a guy working at Curtin Springs station about Mt Conner. He tells
me it is on private land and the owner does not want people visiting it. This seems to
support our conclusion that what we were after was behind the gate. By now I am resigned
to not accomplishing my goal here.
Making Contact With Civilisation Again
Later that day we reach Ayer's Rock, having stopped and photographed a camel unconcernedly
browsing on the grass at the roadside. At Yulara we shop, wash, read, launder and eat. In
the evening we drive around the Rock hoping to see some nocturnal animal life. I vividly
remember my encounter with a beautiful young dingo here on my last visit. We see one
rabbit, the excitement is unbearable. The next morning we set off very early to make the 9
kilometre walk around the rock. We see no euros, there are no shield shrimp in the water
pools, there are in fact very few pools. Even the birdlife seems scarce. I keep wishing
Ruth could see the abundance of life I experienced on my last trip but the absence of
water seems to have put paid to this hope.
A
slightly annoyed camel. As might be expected, we were the cause of its annoyance - we had
the temerity to drive along the road just when it wanted to chew grass as the roadside.
Our disrespect for camel proprieties knew no bounds.
Around lunch time we head off towards Gosse Bluff, via the Mereenie Loop Road. The road
has deteriorated and has become quite nasty in places. Deep drifts of sand lurk
everywhere. I keep to a low speed and enjoy the trip.
An attempt to get arty: a burnt out stump near the Ayers Rock walk frames the
dry spinifex and near naked trees.
The Silent Crater
At last we see a dingo. Late in the afternoon he crosses the road ahead of us and hangs
around to watch us for a while. he looks thin, they all do, but quite healthy. When both
he and we have decided we have seen enough of each other we set off in different
directions. The map shows that there is a short cut to Gosse Bluff, which cuts out an
acute detour in the direction of Hermannsburg. As we have plenty of fuel and water I am
keen to find this road, especially as it goes west of the crater, and will give me a
completely new view. Looking to the left we notice a track and follow it. It heads too far
to the north west, so I keep turning right and trying out all tracks that head towards the
canyon. After about 15 kilometres heading in a dead straight line, having found no good
tracks to the right we come to a cross roads and take the road going north east, directly
towards the crater. This must be the track shown on the map. If not, then it is in exactly
the same place! As the sun sets we see the west side of the crater magnificently
illuminated in reds and oranges. We are still 15 kilometres away, but get closer by the
minute. By the time we have driven to the north rim and entered the crater the light is
just about to die, but the scenery has been spectacular, having that dreamlike quality
that seems to descend on the bush just before twilight.
Inside the crater we find two other four wheel drives. This is a big disappointment, as
we had hoped to be alone and camp illegally here. I park the car and we get dinner ready,
giving no obvious signs of staying the night in case one of the cars belongs to rangers.
Soon after dark they both drive away, perhaps thinking we were the rangers.
This place is one of my favourites. From most points inside the ring one can see all
360 degrees of the crater rim, a broken line of hills rising several hundred feet in all
directions. As we eat our food the stars emerge, the night is absolutely still, gone is
the fast wind that has kept us company all the way so far. It is as if some great stage
manager is commanding the elements to create a truly magical feeling here. The moonlight
is intense, even though the moon is little more than half full. We are free of insect
pests. Aboriginal mythology has stories about the crater being created by something that
came from the sky. Magic indeed, though the earth had not yet been trod by humans when
this was created, and all that anyone has ever seen is the last small remnants of
something much larger.
As planned, on day eight we get up very early and break camp, hiding all evidence of
our illegal nocturnal presence, and head off for the rim on foot. My objective is to climb
to a point so high that we can see both inside the bowl of the crater and outside to the
surrounding plain. Most parts of the crater have two or three rings of hills arranged
concentrically, so height is imperative if you want to see both inside and out
simultaneously.
Heading east from the car we deliberately keep in the shadow of the rim and therefore
make the most of the early morning cool. The climb gets steeper and steeper, and the press
of vegetation makes it harder to make progress on the loose stone slopes. Ruth is limping
and having trouble with the spikiness of the spinifex, so I offer her the option of
waiting for me about halfway up the crater wall, as I press on and climb the steeper
section above. Some low-grade rock climbing helps me gain height without the trouble of
pushing through vegetation. The rock is clean and dry, giving solid handholds. I look very
carefully around me, hoping to spot any sleepy snakes before disturbing them, I also test
all rocks before putting any weight on them, as the original impact has hurled up the
strata vertically, and some large slabs seem poised to fall. In only a few minutes I
achieve my objective. Standing on the rim, which is knife sharp and falls away at about 70
degrees on the inside, I can see a little white dot below, which is Ruth, and the rapidly
shrinking shadow of the rim. All around is quiet, but the day is getting hot already. Over
a few lower lying ridges I can look eastwards, between parallel ridges of the Macdonells,
towards Hermannsburg. A few photographs and I am done, fully satisfied.
After rejoining Ruth, and driving out of the crater I enjoy a huge feeling of
satisfaction. I didn't manage to climb Mt Conner, but this is more than enough in
compensation.
The Start of the Long Haul
Day eight marks the beginning of our huge drive east, back to the coast at Noosa. We have
allowed ourselves three days for this trip. Three days constantly driving in the same
direction. At this stage I had no idea how hard this is going to be because I had
underestimated the distance. It is about 3,000 kilometres, about 1,000 in the dirt.
Australia never stops reminding you how vast it is. I hope to spend tonight on the banks
of the Georgina river. As it turns out we spend too much time in Alice Springs and fall
far short of this point, thus increasing the distance to be driven in the last two days.
Head-on Collision, Nearly
At several stages along the road I have looked into the bush and seen steep dunes or
hillocks and wondered how good my car would be at climbing them. To the left now I see a
prominent grassy knoll with a track going right over the top. I slow down, reverse the car
and turn off the road towards it. I put the car in second gear, low box and head for the
summit, Just under the lip the gradient becomes very steep and all four wheels start to
spin. I have to give up and let the car down backwards. Suddenly the bullbar and bonnet of
a landcruiser loom over the crest right above us! If I hadn't reversed we would have had a
head-on collision. After backing off I try the summit from a slightly different angle,
wheels spin, but we climb onto the top in a flurry of dust and stop beside the other car.
There is enough space for us side by side, but not face to face. I thank my lucky stars I
had to back down anyway. The other car is driven by a couple of lads from Austria, heading
for Kings Canyon. I'm not sure if they really appreciate just how immensely improbable it
was that we should both be climbing the very same knoll at the very same moment, from
opposite directions, off-road, miles from the nearest traffic. We joke about our near miss
and head our different ways.
Whiling Away the Time
Not far on from the crater we stop at Glen Helen for a swim in the Finke river. This is
such a luxury. The water is cooler than one expects, clear and refreshing too. One looks
up between two towering rock faces, dotted in places with clusters of the bottle-like mud
nest of birds. Ruth and I initially have the pool to ourselves, but then a couple appear
and the woman is obviously very keen to go skinny-dipping, though her boyfriend seems to
be of more modest persuasion, at least while we are around. We oblige them by drying off
and disappearing.
The caretaker at Glen Helen Lodge is abrupt and curmudgeonly, in a good-hearted kind of
way. He has a sign in the bar saying 'My name is Stan. I'm not as rude as I seem.' He
tells me that three cars have rolled in the last two weeks, on the short stretch of road
we just covered. This is not surprising. From now on though we have tarmac all the way to
Gem Tree, partway along the Plenty Highway. Although we stop at Alice Springs this
accomplishes very little, as we are still unable to find the right kind of fuel for my
stove, and the cafe where we stop for lunch fails to bring me a cappuccino despite my
reminders to the waitress.
Eastwards on the Plenty Highway
At some point along the Plenty Highway we see three camels. While watching them we see a
couple more, then three four, five, six, seven. Ten in all, the herd moves slowly south,
with a regal looking male bringing up the rear. The way camels hold their noses so high
looks very disdainful. It doesn't suit them when they panic and have to break into a trot.
What drives animals to walk along these
paths? If there is something good at the end of it, why not just stay there?
We stop just a few kilometres short of Jervois station, as I am keen to spend another
night out in the Wilderness. The place we choose is in the middle of an endlessly flat
plain, broken, in the west, by a small range of rocky kopjes, the tallest of which has a
cairn on top. In nearly all directions we can see to what appears to be the edge of
reality, as in the distance the sparse mulga trees become less and less distinct until
they join the ranks of the mirages. Here we have to drive around looking for firewood. The
ground is quite flat, except for pads which cross the country here and there. I think most
of them are made by cattle, but wonder if kangaroos also make such tracks. In rocky flat
country the feet of the animals have kicked away all the loose stones and left very smooth
and convenient paths. Here in the soft earth of this plain the pads are deeply pressed
into the soil, and seem to wander forever. I wonder what it is that motivates animals to
walk these long paths. Are they drawn along them by a strong feeling of 'good' up ahead?
We set up our camp. Ruth gets another good fire going. It is small and hot and probably
visible for many miles yet we expect no company out here. We are perhaps 300 metres from
the road, in full view. There is little point trying to hide here, as firstly there is
no-one to hide from, and secondly, it would mean driving a long way from the road before
my high-sided white car would not be noticeable.
Everything
you need for desert dining. Note the ostentatious diving knife laid on the table. Note
also the romantic lighting care of the Petzl headlamp.
It is another wonderful bush evening. Not windy, though there is a steady movement of
air from the south east, this moves our smoke in one direction and allows us to sit in one
place without having to dodge it. As the fire burns down to embers we get our night vision
and can see far across the moonlit plain. Sipping our mint flavoured drinking chocolate in
the silence we enjoy the purity of the night. You always see shooting stars in the
outback, and the clarity of the air makes them seem very close.
1,300 Kilometres in One Day - Too Much
Another brilliant sunrise wakes me on day nine. As soon as the sun is above the horizon it
shines on the tent, as there is no intervening object to cast a shadow. It's warmth is
strong and immediate. We have a long breakfast, reading the newspaper I bought at Alice,
giving the people at Jervois a little time to get up before we ask them for petrol and
water, then set off. At Jervois we are told the Urandangi road is closed, though the
Boulia route is still open, luckily. I have let the sun get a little higher in the sky
before setting off so it is not in my eyes as I drive. We get hot. At Tobermorey the
temperature is 43 C in the shade, probably much higher in the windless, cloudless
conditions outside. The creek that prevented me from getting to Tobermorey before is now
completely dry. I take a photo of the car in roughly the same position as it was parked on
my last trip, when I wondered whether to attempt a crossing, and finally decided against
it.
On the left, the creek in January 1997, as
it normally is. On the right, the creek in January 1996, much wetter.
The young station hand who serves us petrol says he has just got married. We meet his
wife later in the shop. Both Ruth and I wonder how you go about the process of meeting a
mate in such remote places. Surely the chance of someone in your own age group, of the
opposite sex, being within easy reach is very remote. In the shop there is a picture of
Tobermorey station taken from the air during the floods of January 1995. The water appears
to be five or six feet deep. This is astonishing when you consider that the surounding
country is so flat. The statistics of the flood were mind-boggling. Something like twice
the area of France was temporarily under water.
Birdland: Queensland's Channel Country
Pressing on into Queensland we note the sudden reduction in road quality. Though this is
the only east-west road between the Barkly Highway to the north and the Mitchell Highway
to the south, it is not well looked after. In this stretch we see several groups of emu.
They amuse us by walking in one direction while looking at right angles towards us. They
look very sleek and healthy compared to the few we saw in an enclosure at Erldunda. At
Boulia we refuel, get drinks, park for a few minutes beside the Burke River, full and
flowing, then press on, growing aware of the huge distances ahead. On tarmac now, we make
better progress. Periodically, small flocks of wild budgerigars wheel in front of us. As
all the flocks are the same size, and all the budgies are green, it always looks like the
same flock. We joke about the prodigious flying feats of this flock of budgies, pacing us
across the country. Later in the day as we cross the channel country proper we see several
pairs of brolga. These huge cranes are comparable to emus in size, are a stately grey
colour, and perform elaborate dances in pairs. They are quite wonderful. We also see a
cassowary in the channels. Today seems to be the day for large birds (and budgies).
The Ghost Pub of Winterton
Pressing on as the sun descends we pass through Winton, claiming to be the home of Qantas
(or is that Longreach). I start to get tired and we stop at a wonderfully incongruous pub
at Winterton, a place so tiny and remote it probably wouldn't have a name if the pub were
not there. Halfway between Winton and Longreach, the pub seems to have no visible source
of clientele. A young couple at the bar talk to the barman, and a woman is working in the
back. We order coffee and chat about cricket for a few minutes. There are many interesting
photos showing the pub during the fifties and sixties. Ruth finds it impossible to
understand more than a few words of the broad country accents of the people here. Later in
the car I give her the translation. It is noticeable again, how many places we go to
either have the cricket commentary playing on the radio, or on the television, if people
are not actually talking about the game. Strange how the activities of 22 men in an oval
can so preoccupy and unify an entire continent. Back on the road, driving through the
night we begin to wonder whether the pub really exists, perhaps we just encountered a
ghost pub. We imagine telling someone about stopping there and being told that the pub was
pulled down in the sixties when new roads or other changes caused people to no longer pass
this way. It is a compelling idea, less unbelievable than the reality of it.
Grinding to a Halt at Alpha
The endless driving continues, there is still 1,500 kilometres to the coast, and less than
a day left. We want to get to Noosa tomorrow evening. We decide to drive right through the
night. Ruth keeps me awake with good conversation, which is better than rests, coffee,
music or fresh air. At Longreach, which also claims to be the home of Qantas, we refill
the car from the jerry cans, make up some gatorade to combat the aridity, and start
driving again. The miles seem to pass in a blur, and as the sky lightens I realise I am
near the point of simply falling asleep at the wheel. At a town called Alpha I park the
car outside a cafe and we both fall asleep in our seats. It is not comfortable enough to
sleep properly, and after about 45 minutes we are both awake. It is 7 am by my watch, so
it is 6 am local time. The cafe is due to open in an hour, according to the sign on the
door. We cross the road and get washed in the public toilets, convenient conveniences.
They are artfully muralled.
Alpha is a pleasant little country town, smartly presented, like so many little towns
west of the dividing range. There is so often a memorial park dedicated to people who died
in the wars, and an air of simplicity, cleanliness, necessity and friendliness in these
places.
Approaching the Coast at Last
When the cafe opens we buy our breakfast, toasted sandwiches and coffee, followed by a
milkshake in my case, and head off again. It is our last day. Now we finally feel we are
getting closer. The coast is only 1,000 kilometres away. We pass through each town hardly
aware of it, stopping only for fuel. Yesterday I started driving at 10 am and didn't
finish until 6 am the following morning. Today the driving starts at 9 am and takes all
day. The vegetation gets greener, lusher, taller and denser. We pass through archetypal
Australian paddock country, tall gum trees casting strong shadows across closely-cropped
grass fields. We start descending towards the coast just as light begins to fail. At one
point the coastal humidity hits us as suddenly as if someone has just turned a switch on.
This is a good sign that we are nearly there. The increased density of traffic irritates
me because now I just want to get to my sister's house and stop. I don't want anything
more to contend with. To worsen matters, the car is losing oil pressure, I suspect a leak.
I top up the oil and hope for the best. We end up getting lost around Noosa, on an empty
petrol tank, and delaying our arrival by 90 minutes, to my mounting grumpiness, but
eventually pull into the drive at about 8:30 pm. We look and smell awful. Our hair is
matted, having only been washed three days ago at Yulara, we are dusty and tired. A few
stories, a shower, a little to eat and drink, and it is time for bed.
Time to Reflect, Once More
So ended the trip. It was ten days long, and we covered 6.500 kilometres. We spent four
nights at campsites, four in the bush, and one in the car at Alpha. I have decided that I
will never again take on so much driving, or be so destination-oriented in the bush. Were
it not for Christmas we would not have had to drive so hard of course, but the rest of the
trip would have benefited from less time in the car and more time allowed to experience
the country. My goal is still to do a crossing of the Simpson desert, and driving up the
Birdsville Track may be a way to help prepare for that. As for the well-known sights of
the desert lands, I shall take them as they come, markers along the trip, rather than
treating them as isolated goals that must, of necessity, be joined by long distances
travelled. The novelty of distance has worn off, the tyranny always remains.
