Home again, home again jiggety-jig

            The highway through the Pilbara - unusually green after unseasonal rain

Question: What’s fat, has a beard, wears reflective clothing and drives a road train?

Answer: Everybody in the Pilbara!

Well it seems that way! We left Barn Hill and after refuelling at the Sandfire Roadhouse made our way on to Port Hedland. It’s been a few years since I was visiting the town regularly – it was a hive of industrial activity then with all of its iron ore and salt exports but it’s really stepped up a gear now. The road trains run around like Thai tuk-tuks on a Saturday night. It was a pleasure to see the “Thank you for visiting - please call again” sign on the way out. We continued on to the Karratha area but called in to Point Samson in the hope of a safe haven for the night and their famous Fish & Chips. The Cove caravan park was packed (like every other piece of accommodation up here) but we managed a spot with a great ocean view. It was late and the owners said that they did a great Fish & Chips so we said that we’d have two – and we did – and they were very passable fish and chips with a salad thrown in for good measure. Mind you, after driving 700 odd kilometres between us that day, I could have gulped down a mullet-gut sandwich and enjoyed it really. We stayed another day in Point Samson because it was warm and pleasant. I made my traditional pilgrimage to the nearby historic town of Cossack – a town that holds a certain fascination for me and I always seem to gravitate to it whenever I am in the area. It’s a lonely little place but nicely restored.

Carnarvon next – another 700 kilometres of pretty well...nothing. Arid country through those parts. The only excitement occurred when Maurs went to overtake a slower caravan and while moving out, an idiot in souped-up Commodore Ute who had been tailgating us for about 10 km decided he would try a simultaneous manoeuvre. Two vehicles don’t really fit in a single lane but Maurs just managed to slip back behind the van while this guy zoomed past, hopefully towards oblivion.

                                                     The blowholes at Quobba...blowin' hard

We spent a day at the blowholes at Quobba, about 60 kilometres north of Carnarvon, checking out the campsites for another time. The blowholes were blowing so all was right in the world, even if Maurs camera lost power and she had to resort to using my poor old relic instead. It’s terribly civilised there now with a coffee truck parked nearby serving cappuccinos and making a fortune. We also had a magnificent swim in “The Aquarium”, a sheltered bay full of tropical fish, coral, clams etc – just a natural joy. There are some marvellous places in this country.

                              Maurs emerges from the Aquarium - a little James Bond don't you think?

I don’t know who originally thought “Carnarvon looks like desert country; the river is almost always dry; I think I’ll grow tropical fruit and vegetables here!” – but it works magnificently. After being largely fresh produce deprived for the last couple of weeks we hit the local farms with gusto and bought a ton of fresh, tasty stuff. We had plates of vegetables every night, except one. Maurs celebrated her birthday there and I decided that we’d go to a really good seafood restaurant – well that’s what the brochure said. It most decidedly wasn’t. It was an ordinary restaurant – very disappointing but on the returd highway sometimes you turn up gems sometimes you don’t.

                                                 Fresh crab with Carnarvon salads

After decimating the Carnarvon vegetable crop we looked around for our next destination. Unfortunately it was school holiday time and our possible venues of Shark Bay and Kalbarri were both heavily booked by mainstream society. What to do? We decided to head inland and try a station stay at Wooleen Station. Maurs had been there before – it was used for a couple of her survival walks (where she set off with a compass, a teabag and an aspirin and walked 50 or 100 or 200 kilometres with other so inclined individuals – no food – it’s a wonder there wasn’t an outbreak of cannibalism). This time we had food and spent four days there in very pleasant if not sparse surroundings, enjoying the serenity in a bush setting.

                    The country road to Wooleen Station - about 200 kilometres of this stuff

                                              Old wood stove relic at Wooleen Homestead

                                           Lunch in a lonely place - the dry lake at Wooleen

We went out sight-seeing and bird-watching – but not so many birds. Finally she spotted a rather beautiful blue wren in the binoculars and handed it to me for a look. Just as I brought the bird to bear I felt a weird sensation in my legs. I looked down and discovered I was standing over a nest of rather large ants who took exception to my presence. I was covered below the knees in ants and some had started chewing on me. The irish jig that I performed was mildly amusing for Maurs, especially as I dropped my pants halfway through the performance to get the blighters out, but after I had extricated the invaders all she said was “You scared the birds away.” Well pardon me!

                                                           "You scared the birds!!"

Our run of luck with dodging rain finished here. We got a downpour on a sheep station that has resigned itself to never getting rain with the result that all our canvas was wet when we packed for the home stretch. We drove along slippery, muddy country roads, heading for a little town in the northern wheatbelt called Mingenew. The rain system had passed by then and we happily dried out the annex in the afternoon sun and packed it away. Unfortunately after the rain came the fog – heavy fog – which saturated the camper as effectively as rain ever could! So we packed it up wet again and sailed for home. Seems every time we finish an adventure we are destined to end it wet. Such is life on the Returd Highway.

                                        Foggy day at Mingenew (didn't even see it coming!)

          Hitch hiker we found in the camper. We actually got him a ride back home to Wooleen.

Blog Epilogue

Maurs and I set out in February 2012 to search for Australia. Here it is July 2013 and we only found a bit of it. We clocked up 34,000 kilometres in that time and visited all States and Territories except Tassie (we had to keep something in reserve). We also managed sojourns to the USA and Canada, Vietnam and Singapore as side visits just to mix it up a little. The vehicle and camper performed well beyond our expectations and could do it again tomorrow if we asked nicely. What was satisfying for me personally was the fact that we used just about every piece of equipment that we originally packed in the hope that it might be useful, with the exception of one jaffle iron (somehow jaffles didn’t seem appropriate at any stage of the journey). We must have encountered every configuration of camping equipment around from the sublime to the ridiculous but we remain happy with what we have (no big-rig envy around here). We also came into contact with the entire spectrum of people – some wonderful, some dodgy, some German and some abjectly stupid – but all interesting (especially the stupid...and some of the Germans).

Our favourite place that we visited? A lot of people have asked us that and it usually shuts us up completely because there are so many wonderful moments to consider that we can’t judge them one against the other. In summary, our favourite place is Australia – for all of its faults and for all of its natural beauty; for all of its harshness and its gentler moments; for its rip-off merchants and for the sights that no one can charge for; it’s not such a bad place. And some of the gob-smacking stuff  we saw that didn’t even make the blog – like the night we witnessed a Gordian worm emerge from a dying Praying Mantis (google Gordian worms if you have a spare moment, it’s fascinating).

Maybe we will have to go again sometime and see all the stuff we missed on this trip (there’s quite a lot of that) but it won’t be for a while. Shorter trips closer in will be the order in the immediate future for us.

Thanks for following us around too. I hope you enjoyed the e-tour. We loved your feedback and it certainly kept me going when my mind kept telling me “that’s not interesting Gus, that’s just being a travelogue!” Oh, you mean it was just a travelogue after all? So it was.

Barn Hill

                      Barn Hill from the beach (go on, click on the image, it won't bite you!)

It’s a cattle station about 140 kilometres by road from Broome (50 kilometres as the crow flies) and within it lies a caravan park nestled on cliffs overlooking the Indian Ocean: Barn Hill is really quite pretty if not a little on the unsophisticated side. We are camped in the unpowered area meaning we are relying on Vic and Cheryl’s generator for any electricity we may need (we get by on 12 hours a day quite easily). The amenities block is...very airy, to say the least. But at least the toilets flush and if you shower in the afternoon then the coils of black poly pipe lying on the ground will provide warm water (woe betide those who shower late for they are consigned to a cold water, hurried wash – we even overheard a lady [obviously not in the “know”] trying to have a shower at 5.30 in the morning saying to her husband “I’ve tried both taps and they’re both cold!”) You see, this is what you get if you don’t ask questions around the camp – ignorance is no excuse).

                                                          The shower block, Barn Hill

                                                        Loos with views, Barn Hill

We have been blessed with a campsite right on the coastal cliff, much coveted by other campers who become relegated to a spot in the backblocks – it’s a site that you hang on to if you can and we are staying for as long as possible, weather permitting, while the other campers plot and scheme and try to guess when the prime space may become available. And yes, we have been caught up in some unseasonal rain through this part of the world although Barn Hill has fared better than the poor sods down the road in Karratha where 200 mm were dumped on them in 24 hours. We might have got a tenth of that amount. Can’t complain though, this is the first bit of weather that we have seen since leaving the Clare Valley in South Australia at Easter. A bonus from the rain was witnessing a flight of Frigate birds hovering above the shore and taking turns to dive and flutter their wings to shake off the annoying raindrops accumulating on their feathers (be careful we don’t subject you to the movie we took of it next time we see you).

                                                         The Barn Hill campsite

                                                       Sunset from the campsite

We discovered a casualty to our camper, probably from the Gibb River Road experience, but the long plastic tube on the back that carries our tent poles had been jolted loose and was found just hanging on. Repairs were needed lest our tube of tent poles be found lying on the highway next to Kevin’s caravan door (see last episode for further explanation). With Vic’s help and electric drill and another camper’s pop rivet gun we made the necessary repairs, ready to resume the travels safe in the knowledge that there’s a secure home for the tent poles.

                                    A tradesman (Vic) and his mug helper fixing the camper

A lot of people come to Barn Hill year after year to sit out the southern winter so it’s a real community feel down at the powered area, probably like the feel one gets in an old people’s home when one’s special time has come. Everyone says hello whether you want to or not. The beach is beautiful and behind the beach abuts sandstone rock formations with vivid red shades to contrast against the blue sea and white sand. There are a lot of keen fishermen here but we’ve yet to see evidence of many fish (a familiar story). I saw one old bloke simply give up and feed his remaining bait to the grateful seagulls.

                                                             Maurs on the Rocks

                                      The foreshore at Barn Hill (Gus digs a hole for himself)

The other day we decided to visit the Eco Resort that lies up the beach past a few headlands. We didn’t know how far it was – now we do – a 17.4 kilometre round trip, best done at low tide to get around the rocky bits. We had lunch there – all very nice and civilised. Being there though took me back to 2000 when Barry Hanstrum and I were working the cyclone warning centre and we watched on radar as cyclone Rosita blew the whole resort away with Category 5 ferocity, but it has recovered very well.

The first week here we just walked the beach and swam and suntanned but then we had those few days of watching the rain form puddles around us and wondering when it will go away. Well it did go away but was replaced with a blast of easterlies that has been buffeting us and testing the sturdiness of our campers and annexes. I figured it out – this is why people live in HOUSES!!! We have limited internet access here - we must be right on the edge of internet range as it floats in and out – mostly out.

                                                        Victor in repose - on the beach

We have spent 15 days in the warmth of Barn Hill but it’s getting to be July and we need to be back in Perth in order to get off the Returd Highway and back into a more normal existence. I mean, we can’t have fun forever can we? So it’s a compass heading of south soon, leaving our friends Vic and Cheryl to squeeze the last bit of heat into their remaining holiday while we plunge into cooler climes. However, it’s not over til it’s finally over.

And what’s biting me today? Sandflies!!

Tales from the Gibb River Road Part 4: The end of the road to Derby and beyond

The time had come to drag Cheryl kicking and screaming from her beloved swimming spot and move on. The sweetener was that we had booked a trip out of Derby to see the Horizontal Waterfalls – more on that later. I had travelled part of the last section of the Gibb River Road (GRR) five times now – twice on the mission for a new battery, twice to see Bell Gorge and now our exit trip. The road itself was akin to the old curate’s egg, good in parts. There were still your bone-rattling corrugations but then strangely you would happen across a stretch of super-smooth dirt road and you find that your speedo had leapt up to 100 km/h. Of course reuniting with the real GRR could come as a surprise if you weren’t watchful and you could find yourself airborne no matter what sort of rig you were driving. Speaking of camping rigs, just sitting in one spot like Mt Barnett gave us the opportunity to watch lots of people move in and out around us, in every conceivable mobile home ranging from “take it all with you” super-big caravans to camper-trailers to tents to minimalist swags, and not least the Britz and Apollo hire motor-homes, so favoured by Germans in a hurry (they mostly swoop in to Mount Barnett, see the gorge, tick the box, and then move on at speed to the next Lonely Planet attraction). Seeing all these rigs, I don’t believe that there is any perfect camper – all have flaws and fall short in places, but work well in other situations (you just don’t want to have the one that shakes itself apart and you leave it twitching in its death throe on the side of the GRR).

Aerial view of the tidal flats out of Derby

It’s about 340 km on to Derby, a town that appears to me to have been unduly maligned over the years and the word you hear down the road is to avoid Derby because of this issue and that problem, but it seemed quite a neat little town, well stocked and with good facilities - and no more or less issues than any other northern town that we had been in. It’s not worth starting a world movement over, but Derby deserves a fair go!

One of the horizontal falls from the seaplane - lot of turbulence there!

We waited outside of our caravan park on Friday afternoon, to be absorbed into the well oiled machine that is the Horizontal Waterfalls tour; a bus to Derby Airport where a seaplane whisked us north to Talbot Bay, the site of this remarkable phenomenon. The landing was nothing short of spectacular as the aircraft followed a path between steep hills (much like landing at the old Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong) and then onto the bay itself. The seaplane taxied up to the large pontoon complex where we were welcomed, shown our cabins for the night and then invited out to feed the sharks and have a swim (in cages). Maurs and Cheryl were the first ones in swimming of course. The group (about 20 of us) then boarded a large and zippy speedboat in which we toured the bay and the horizontal falls. Safety is the tour operator’s main priority and we were issued lifejackets for the trip. Some of the more “age-challenged” guests did have a little difficulty working out the intricacies of donning the garment for some reason. It did amuse to watch the struggle.

Women swimmin' with sharks!

                                                           Lifejackets for the gifted!

The shore - Talbot Bay

I should explain that the falls are a result of the large tidal variation in the area (up to 10 or 11 metres) with water rushing in and out of three adjoining bays as they drain and fill. There are two narrow openings between the bays and the water just can’t leave in an orderly fashion. This results in “jumps” in the water levels between the three bays causing the water to rush through the narrow gaps. Apparently David Attenborough coined the phrase horizontal waterfalls many years ago and it stuck. They can be quite dangerous to negotiate when there are really big tides but we were able to jet through them several times much to the thrill of the passengers (although the next morning was considered too dangerous for the smaller falls).

                                                           "Yesh! That is a fast ride!!!"

                          The Horizontal Waterfalls with one water level higher than the other

Back on board the pontoon we pondered the sunset with the aid of a glass of wine - barramundi for dinner. The waters around the pontoon were floodlit allowing an intriguing variety of sea life to be observed all night long.  We spent the night in air-conditioned cabins (the first time we had slept in air-conditioned anything for months!) and after breakfast and the second trip to the falls area it was back on the seaplane for the trip back. Well recommended.

We had all agreed to give Broome a swerve as we had all been there before and we knew it was full of “snow geese” from down south who sit out the southern winter by the beach. However the vehicle was crying out for a service so we booked into Broome for two nights in order to achieve an oil change. It gave us an opportunity to catch up with old friends Kevin and Shirley G who also had no intention of staying in Broome but who had lost their caravan door on the way north and had called in for possible repairs. If anyone does happen to spot a door without a caravan attached out on the highway, let me know and I’ll put you in touch with Kevin.

With clean oil and a full mainsail this reprovisioned unit wheeled out of Broome heading south in pursuit of Vic and Cheryl – first stop would be Barn Hill.

Tales from the Gibb River Road Part 3: Mount Barnett

Most of us thought that we were only going to spend one night at Mount Barnett before moving on to other spots. How wrong most of us were! The campsite  at the Lower Manning Gorge sports probably the best swimming area along the whole GRR and Cheryl (who is searching warmth, sun and water away from the southern winter for her well-earned long service leave) was not about to let this slip through her fingers. We hiked to the (upper) Manning Gorge on the first day, which also boasts a magnificent stretch of water and falls. As the days passed by, the cool, clear waters of the swimming hole and the fact that we had found a little path down to the river at the back of our camp that led to a private stretch of deep water beckoned us to stay. Talking to a few other people, it was apparent that the other places that we had planned to visit were not as good as where we were. Our campsite was shady and well positioned and we figured why not use Mt Barnett as a base, visit the other sights, and keep swimming for as long as our provisions held up. We managed 15 nights! Most people only stay one night and move on.

Lower Manning Gorge swimming pool

Maurs and Cheryl checking out the swimming area from on high.

Maureen and Cheryl love to pad around rivers and creeks to check out wildlife and just...be. They think they are alone but they rarely are. On one field trip they found a Bower Bird's Bower. On another they had to gingerly tiptoe around a couple of rather large station bulls who believed that stretch of river to be their own bit of turf, and later they were checked out quite closely by a wild dog/dingo who looked hungry enough to have a go at anything. It eventually sloped off again into the bush and the ladies resumed their romp up river to our private beach behind our camp.

The Bower - this bird uses shells and vertebrae to attract its mate

Manning Gorge Falls

 

Close encounter of the dingo kind, and don't he look starved!

 

While they are away on these river trips Vic and I busy ourselves by talking about them, making cups of tea and eating our snack of choice up here, Black and Gold brand fruit cake. Cheryl and Maurs attempt to bake cake for us, but they only use healthy ingredients while the B&G cake contains ALL the food groups! Heaven...

The ladies a baking a cake camping-style...

The clear winner in cakes though...mmmmm!

We did a day trip (240 kilometres) to take in Galvans Gorge and Bell Gorge – both quite beautiful. Bell Gorge is spectacular with a cascade of waterfalls emptying into a big deep swimming area. We swam, but not alone. I noticed a splash from a rock ledge into the water where it took shape into a rather large python that swam to shore and slithered out of sight into the rocks. Headline would read – “Women Swimmin’ with Serpents”! The rest of the trip that day was relatively uneventful until we were about 200 metres from the Mount Barnett turn-off. I had slowed right down to make the turn and yet I managed to collide with and despatch a small (apparently suicidal) wallaby that leapt out of the long grass on the side of the road and under the vehicle before I could react. So much for the “Shoo Roo” I had fitted! I now call it the “Here Skippy!”

Bell Gorge from above

The punt across the Barnett River - spills and action aplenty for those who wish to stay dry but generally don't. It's much better to just swim across.

Hauling water from our "private stretch" of the river.

Every morning I wake up and suppose, “What is going to try to bite me today?” and up here in the Kimberley that can range from a sizeable crocodile through to dingoes and snakes right down the food chain to ticks, mosquitoes and sandflies with the smaller denizens mostly succeeding with their aftermath displayed as spots and welts on the legs and arms of numerous happy campers walking around the campsite. It may be a truism that human beings have a primal need to leave their perfectly comfortable surroundings from time to time to spend periods walking around in the dirt, foraging for firewood, living quite ferally really, and presenting their nether regions as a target for voracious insects. One day I may find that need also...

Our campsite - Lower Manning Gorge

 

Tales of the Gibb River Road Part 2: El Questro to Mount Elizabeth

We called in to Home Valley Station, which is another cattle station with a resort – all very nice and comfortable – before heading up to Ellenbrae Station where we spent the night. The owners do a good scone with jam and cream too. The Ringer’s Camp, where we stayed had an interesting bath and toilet system. The builder was obviously unschooled in conventional building techniques and the plumbing and the electrics were...rustic to say the least. Still, we had hot water for a shower that night, and the toilet flushed on demand.

                                    Crossing the Pentecost River - a road with few bridges

                                                                 Kimberley Country

From Ellenbrae we plugged along to Mount Elizabeth Station, only 40 kilometres off the GRR to the homestead. It’s a sizeable station running about 6000 head of cattle, although there are some smart cows that have never been brought into the yard and so never counted – they evade mustering every season. The station people offer a tour that takes you to see a few interesting features including some excellent aboriginal rock paintings, both Wandjina and Bradshaw – distinctly different styles of art laid down thousands of years apart. Wandjina is the more recent style of the last few thousand years while Bradshaw is dated back as far as 18000 years. Today’s indigenous people only recognise Wandjina and apparently have no affinity to Bradshaw art at all. A puzzle for the anthropologists amongst us. The tour also gave us the opportunity for a cooling dip by a waterfall and a cup of traditionally brewed billy tea.

                                                        The bath and shower at Ellenbrae

                                                         Ringer's Camp - Ellenbrae

A minor drama occurred when Vic’s car battery decided to give up the ghost. He got the vehicle started off his battery charger but decided it prudent to replace the dead battery so off he and I set for points west (as far as Derby if necessary, that’s a 740 kilometre round trip) in search of a new battery. Mount Barnett had nothing so it was either Imitji store (320 kilometre round trip) or on to Derby. Fortunately Nev at Imitji happened to have a couple that would suit the Tojo and one was duly purchased and installed. We got back to Mount Elizabeth just before dark. There are no corner shops on the GRR.

                                                Rosella plants - the fruit makes the jam

                      Pedestrian on the GRR - rather large goanna lazing his way across the track

Wandjina art at Mt Elizabeth circa 5000 years old

Lunch break at Mt Elizabeth - great swimming hole too!

Bradshaw art circa 17,500 years old

Creek scene from Mt Elizabeth - there's a small freshwater crab in there if you can spot it

Nicky swimming Mt Elizabeth  - you just couldn't stop them!!

Next up - Mount Barnett Station and the Manning, Galvans and Bell Gorges.

Tales from the Gibb River Road - Part 1: El Questro

I had long maintained that, many years ago, I flew over the little town of Wyndham at 2,500 feet and that was as close as I ever wanted to go. Now here we were in Wyndham confirming that thought. It’s a hot, humid little mudflat clinging to dear life as a port of a sort. Enough said. El Questro Station on the other hand sits on the Pentecost River and is a nice place to just hang out. We booked for four days and chose one of the more remote, private campsites spread along the river away from the other campers. Mindful of a heavy rain event unfolding at the other end of the Gibb River Road (GRR) and after further checking of the same we extended another two nights.

                                          Our campsite at El Questro - six days of seclusion

The campsite was not only picturesque and serene; it had its own entertainment channel. There were at least two resident crocodiles (freshwater for the most part, but possibly a small salty in there too) and, on the opposite bank to us, a colony of bats. Every morning the bats would settle into their Pandanus tree perches just above the water line and sleep for the day. Unfortunately, bat families being what they are, little disputes would break out and occasionally, some pushing and shoving would occur resulting in a hapless bat losing its grip and plummeting into the river. Instantly there would be a splash and a wily old croc would have his breakfast. We could sit and watch for hours! And no shortage of bats on the menu! It was hard to feel sympathy for the bats as they were in the habit of conducting night-bombing missions over our camp, showering our campers with guano and keeping us huddled under cover as well.

 

                       Crocodile breakfast bar - Kimberley style! (just shake the tree for a snack)

Gus and Cheryl at Zebedee Springs. Best hot springs we've seen on this trip.

There are some wonderful gorges and places of interest around El Questro. After a stop at Zebedee Springs to luxuriate in the thermal waters we went on to tackle the El Questro Gorge. It was not an easy amble by any means with some challenging sections to scramble over (Maurs in fact lost her grip at one point and fell, wedging herself between two large rocks until she got herself out. She was bruised but not bloodied and got home under her own steam). Next we tackled Amalia Gorge. Halfway up the gorge is a swimming hole – irresistible to Cheryl and Maurs – they had to take a dip. I climbed up to a rock ledge to grab a photo of them, which I did, but when I looked down to the pool below, looking up at me was a nice sized freshwater crocodile. “Worried who you’re swimming with?” I shouted. “I’m not too bothered” called back the croc, “they seem okay sheilas to me.”

Water hazard at El Questro Gorge - a trifle tricky but worth the effort

 

Maurs and Cheryl having a dip in Amalia Gorge (with a friend)

 

"Bluddy women spoiling a guy's peace!!"

Back at the campsite, night time activities included cane toad busting (yes they have invaded as far as El Questro and we managed to hand in a couple for, er, processing), and snake spotting (we saw a beautiful black and white banded variety one evening). Despite the peace of the camp, the bar and restaurant at the resort itself and the bats, it was time to move on and tackle the GRR in earnest. The road out to the Pentecost River is sealed now but after crossing the Pentecost it was a little bone-jarring as we got personal with the famous corrugations and ruts that make the GRR some sort of rite of passage for over-age, over-testosteroned males (“you’ve got your 4WD mate, but have you done the Gibb River Road?!!”)

In the country it is traditional for driver to wave to fellow driver as one sails past. It is also fair to say the (usually) female passenger never waves in this situation but looks impassively ahead. Not so here; at the impending end of the GRR, the female passengers in passing vehicles were joining in, waving frantically as we passed them, such was their obvious relief to be nearly over the ordeal and back to smooth roads with bitumen, shops, mobile phones working, electricity and television, and thinking “Thank god he’s got this out of his system!”

Our journey was just beginning...