Thursday 31 July 2014

Day 55: Paroo and Currawinya


Standing on the banks of the Paroo River with a fishing rod in one hand I have come to the realisation why I enjoy photography so much. I have never understood the desire to spend hours fishing (sorry bro). It may have to do with my limited patience but a fishing rod just spoils a good view.  



But I digress as this morning we woke to the sounds of flocks of Galahs skylarking in the trees enjoying the first rays of sunlight.  The bush camp we stayed at was on old disused bore with the remnants of an old water trough still trickling water.  While no longer providing water to cattle it was a magnet to surrounding wildlife.





Leaving camp we made our way south heading towards Hungerford on the NSW/Queensland Border.  Part of this road travels along a large wire fence that was initially installed in an attempt to keep the Queenslanders from trying to enter NSW (or so I have been told).  However it was later put to better use keeping the dingoes out to protect the sheep country of the north.




The fence also has the unintended consequence of being a barrier to other animals such as emus, kangaroos and cattle.  As you hurtle along the dirt track kamikaze emus who are caught between the road and fence throw themselves in front of the vehicle legs going in all directions. Luckily this road is not well travelled - we could ount the number of cars on our fingers with out taking shoes off - so we spent much of the trip weaving all over the road.

Arriving at Currawinya National Park, famous as a Ramsar Wetland site due to its importance for migratory birds, we headed straight out to the lakes.  Lake Numalla is an immense brown soup that extends as far as they eye can see.  Unfortunately the birds must have decided that soup was not on the menue as there were none to be seen.  This must have been a disappointment for a twitcher who was there with the biggest monocular - unless there was a nudist beach on the other side of the lake i was not aware of.




We then headed to Lake Wyara which is also meant to be a significant spot for wading birds but due to the drought conditions it was dry. 

From here we headed to camp, stopping on the way at an old woolshed.  Standing inside, the dust flecks shimmered in the light, the sound of corrugated iron echoing through the empty shed.  This is in marked contrast to the noise that must have been here as hundreds of sheep baahing would have been only just audible over the humming of the motors running the old shearing wheels.




Getting to camp, we set up on the top of the bank of the Paroo River.  Deciding not to fish today ( I just remembered the earlier advice) we sat and enjoyed one of the last fires of the trip along with fresh damper.





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Wednesday 30 July 2014

Day 54: the end of two journeys

Leaving camp we were to continue our trip following the explorers Wills, King, Gray and a bloke who's name begins with B I have temporarily forgotten. 

Arriving at the grave of Robert O'Hara Burke you wander down the path passing stands of magnificent River Red Gums. 



These are old enough to have watched Burke slowly perish on the banks of the Cooper River. This was not from the lack of water, or access to food but a series of poor decisions and a dose of bad luck.



Further along the Cooper Creek we then got to the famous Dig Tree.  This is where, following finally reaching the gulf (less about 20km) and the death of Gray, they were to reach the safety of the support team.  However on arriving at camp 65 they discovered their lifeline had departed leaving them to their fate in the desert.



Having reached the end of their journey, it was almost time for us to end our own.  With only 4 nights left before returning to the big smoke we started to make our way further south.  Finding another bush camp somewhere outside Thargominda we spent the eavening debating the myths and stories of their fateful journey and reliving some of our own.



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Tuesday 29 July 2014

Day 53: In the steps of Burke and Wills (plus King and the other guy)

This morning we were back on the Birdsville Track.  




While this was once a rough difficult journey, the track has become a well maintained connection through to Maree making our travel easy.  However this was only a short reprieve as the plan was to take a less trodden path on the Walkers Crossing heading to Inaminka.  While I was originonally proposing to go via Cardillo Downs which cuts through the centre of the Sturts Stony Desert, the audiobook on Burke and Wills was fascinating so the idea of travelling over some of their path took hold.  The idea of 5 hours on gibbers was not so fascinating.



Walkers Crossing skirts the edge of the Sturts Stony Desert and passes through the Strezeleki Desert.  It is an interesting drive with sections of Gibbers (just enough to remind me this was a good idea coming this way) and white and red sand dunes in ribbons.  In between there are the gnarled eucalypts, acacias and haceas clinging to the sand waiting patiently for the rare rain to rejuvenate them.



 It reminded me of Midnight oils song dead heart

We don't serve your community,
Don't serve your king,
Know your custom,
Don't speak your tongue,
White man came took everything.
Da, do, do, do, do, do, do

Rob Hurst, the bands drummer, supposedly wrote the do, do, do, after listening to the knock of the axle on the toyota landcruiser as it crossed the central Australian desert.  After this trip I can relate to it.    



The area is also the location of gas fields with numerous restricted tracks that bulldoze their way through, with little care for what is in front of it.  These wide straight roads are in sharp contrast to the track we are on which is narrow winding in and out of the creek crossings and dunes fitting in to the landscape not fighting against it.



The track crossed the path of Burke and Wills as they headed north. In the comfort a our 4WD it was hard to fully experience the hardship of their journey but I can appreciate being stuck with the same person for an extended period of time and how this can drive a man crazy. 



As we got close to Innamincka we diverted to see Wills grave and where King was found alive. 

Wills died in June 1861 and was originally buried on the Banks of the Cooper River.  Following Burkes death, King stayed wth aboriginal people until he was finally found by Edwin Welch. The more we listened to the full account of the journey the more I learnt about the misguided trip.  While my school boy memories were about Burke being the hero, he was probably the most foolhardy of them all.  I have a new found appreciation for the others in the trip in particular King and the other guy.




With more of the Burke and Wills story tomorrow, we made our way to Innamincka to refuel and - yes - visit the Innamincka Hotel. Innamincka is not much more than a stop over point lacking the real character of other remote towns we have visited.  Either that, or it was the lackluster and uninterested service at both the pub and store that gave me that impression.



So after a quick stop we moved on to Cullyamurra waterhole on the bank of the Cooper Creek. Here we camped under the shade of a Coolabah Tree waiting for the billy to boil and I had to hold by self back from singing a tune.




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Monday 28 July 2014

Day 52: Birdsville, Big Red and getting stuck

Waking to another cloudless sky reaching down to the flat endless plains we set off for Birdsville.



 This was an appropriate time to start listening to an audio book of the journey of Burke and Wills. Despite being taught the history in Primary School it is not until you come out to this harsh land that you can fully appreciate the hardship of the journey they undertook.  What was disguised as a scientific exploration in reality was a race to be the first to cross Australia. 

In 1860 they set up camp 76 on the banks of the Diamantina River on the edge of what is now Birdsville. Birdsville lies between the rolling red sands of the Simpson Desert and the rough gibbers of the Sturts Stony Desert. You are left in no doubt when you are entering the Simpson Desert as the first mountain like red sand dune you reach is Big Red, believed to be the largest of all the dunes. 

So with this in mind there was only one thing to do and that was to go out and tackle the dune.  When you arrive at the base of the dune the first thing you notice is how red it is against the blue cloudless backdrop. I have experienced white sands on Fraser Island and Stockton Beach but this was a unique experience.



I was surprised when we arrived that there were not any other cars attempting the climb.  However there were 2 others waiting patiently for some entertainment.  There were two tracks up, the first much steeper. So not wanting to disappoint them I lowered the tyre pressure, pointed the car at the steep track, shifted the car in to 4WD and hit the throttle. 



Starting back on the flat plain the car builds up speed along with the level of confidence.  Then at the base of the dune the car jumps and shudders from side to side as the grip on the steering wheel tightens. Reaching the dune the car begins to claw its way up however it does not take long for sand to grab at the tyres sapping all forward momentum.  As the wheels spin and sand flies the battle between machine and nature is now at its peak. But today nature won. The car came to a halt only metres from the top of the dune.

That was awesome!  Let's do it again!

Despite a couple more attempts we just couldn't beat the soft sand at the top so decided to take the slightly less steep approach.


Reaching the top of the dune this time was easy.  What was not so easy was deciding to continue on and stopping just before the track disappeared down the other side. I know the golden rule is to never stop at the top of a crest and now I know why. Like a playground sea-saw the car lodged it self at the crest, wheels helplessly digging them selves in to the sand.

As we were the only ones driving in the dune there was no one to snatch us our.  Luckily I had my recovery gear so got Hux out of the car and told him to start digging.  I was even considerate and lent him the maxtrax.



After a bit of sweat, interspersed amongst the laughter, we were out and down the other side. If we were doing the Simpson there was another 1133 dunes to go!  For some reason Hux declined to agree to join me on that future trip.



With the adrenalin slowly disappearing it was time for a beer, and what better place to go than the Birdsville Pub.

Birdsville pub is one of the great iconic pubs of Australia. The pub has served drinks to weary travellers as far back as 1884. It is full of hats of past locals who have done their time in this harsh environment. Standing on the edge of the verandah, beer in hand, our trip may not have been as harsh but following today's adventure it was enjoyed just as much.





The town is said to have a population of 115 + or - 7000.  This is largely due to the Birsdsville Races.
Started in 1882, thousand converge in this tiny town to watch them.  As we stood in the middle of the race track you could almost hear the echoes of the hooves kicking up the dust as they gallop down the home stretch, revellers cheering on the riders, not caring who is winning but just enjoying the moment. 






Leaving Birdsville we followed the path of cattle duffer Harry Redford who pioneered the now famous Birdsville Track.


 Another night was approaching so we found a spot just of the track to set up camp and enjoy the most magnificent roast beef and vegetables, garlic and butter potatoes cooked in the camp oven.  Life doesn't get much better than this.


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Sunday 27 July 2014

Day 51: Reaching a Century




"To pass a night in the desert spinifex country, is to feel as much cut off from the ordinary life of the world as one could feel if transplanted to another sphere". Ernest Favenc 1905


3 years ago I  mentioned to Kathy that I would like to get a camper trailer.  

Kathy, it will save us heaps of money.  Just imagine how much we can save in hotel bills.
Kathy, they have a great kitchen and you will have much more room than the tent.
Kathy, imagine all the exciting places we can go.
Kathy, if I try to use it atleast every month it will pay for itself. 

Despite all of this she agreed, so here I am tonight celebrating a century.  This is the hundredth night we have used it.  It has taken us to some great places including Fraser Island, Grampians, Flinders Ranges, numerous national parks in NSW, and none better than this trip. 

Last night we decided not to pitch the tents (not the done thing if you are a cowboy) so we pulled out the awning and rolled out our mats in the open air. 



Throughout the night the sounds of Lee Kerneghan echoed through paddock, punctuated by the sounds of stumbling revellers returning to their swag.  As the first light began to stir the horses and the bulls nervously shifted in the dust, the sounds of Johnny Cash came over the loud speaker waking those from their sleepy haze.  To one side of me two silhouettes pass in the dust filled light, arms around each other in either loving embrace, or to maintain balance, or more likely both.  As I roll over there is a large timber bed sitting amongst the brown dirt and grass and a half empty can of beer precariously balancing on the bed end. Protruding from one end the wisps of blond hair hiding the likely throbbing head below the bed covers.



Finally rising ourselves we walked past a graveyard of thousands of crushed XXXX cans and squashed plastic cups with their traces of bourbon and rum dripping on the edges. Luckily the smell was overshadowed by the hangover saving bacon, eggs and sausages sizzling on the large BBQ's the Quamby Sports Association had kindly prepared.

Reluctantly leaving camp it was not long before we rounded a crest on the road and came across the "boys in blue".  

Evening sir, you have been stopped for a random road side breath test"

Now I am not a mathematician (or a good speller), but the word 'random' is obviously used loosely as they stopped everyone heading out from the rodeo.  A I am sure based on some of the sore heads this morning they would have had a good catch.

Back on the Diamantina Development Road we made the most of the narrow strip of tar quickly travelling  through Dajarra, Boulia and Bedourie, three small dots on the map.  Lee Kernaghan calls these 'hat towns' and there is no doubts based on the old cowboy hats hanging in the Djarra hotel, the name is appropriate. 

Boulia Shire Council has an area of over 60,000 sq km with a total population of a mere 500 people.  For a second I pondered the idea of coming to work in a council like this but quickly realised that this was as stupid as the possibility of seeing min-min lights - oops just realised Boulia promptes it self as the min-min capital even with a 45 minute show if you were silly enough to pay $18.

As we moved through the Channel Country the landscape slowly changed.  The trees and green shrubs slowly made way for endless flat tussock grass and dry stones punctuated with the occasional ribbons of red dune.  The road, winding its way through the red rocky outcrops made way for straight stretches disappearing in to the mirage of water appearing to lie on the road.  Even the sky appeared to change from a rich blue to a pastel bleached white as though the colour had been stripped from the landscape along with the water. We were finally returning to desert country.



There are stories of travelling to Africa and the need to see the Big 5 game animals.  While no where as near as romantic, I was hoping to see some of the classic outback animals on this trip.  Luckily we ticked of our list the croc, Jabiru, Wild horses, wild donkeys (not really bit we saw them anyway) and a buffalo (it was dead on the side of the road but I will take it).  There was one more on the list.  Wild Cammels. 

As we travelled along the path that Burke and Wills took over 150 years ago (Hux informs me it was 154 to be precise) we came across over 20 camels.  It is only because of these ships of the desert that they managed to achieve there successful (although fateful) journey.

But the sun was slowly dipping over the distant horizon, and it was time to find camp. While we had seen very few other cars on the road, the desire for complete isolation saw us pulling of the dirt road and following two wheel ruts across the flat bare earth finally reaching a disused windmill. As the sky changed from dark orange to ink black, the light from the roaring fire and a thousand stars above lit up the trailer.

There could be no more fitting stop to achieve the century than here in the remote centre cut off from the rest of the world.



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Saturday 26 July 2014

Day 50: Cowboys, bulls and Quamby

Looking out of my tent this morning the ducks gracefully paddled down the overflow channel, weaving in and out of the floating plastic. On the other bank, red and yellow colours brightly glistened in the morning light from the rows of gas tanks.  The morning noise only broken by the soft chirping of the fork lifts.  While the view from the Sunset Caravan Park may not be the most glamorous, this IS THE ISA.



Leaving camp our next stop was Boulia.  Or was it?

Stopping at the service station I was distracted putting air in the tyres, while Hux was also distracted talking to three fine young ladies.  Later inquiring the nature of the conversation (code for - were they chatting you up) he replied that they had asked if we were going to Quamby?

Not having any idea where Quamby was, or why these lasses may be travelling there we did a quick search on the ipad and "Quamby Rodeo 26th July" appeared in the search screen.

Pulling out a map Quamby appeared to only be 150 km from the Isa.  However it was on the WRONG direction!

As in the past my recolection of the conversation went something like this: 

Hux: what do you think - should we go
Jim: I'm not sure. We have a long way still to go and it is the wrong direction
Hux: cumon, this will be an adventure
Jim: I don't think we should as Karhy and Karen would not be happy
Hux: naaaa, they would understand
Jim: ok if you insist.

(You believe mt Kathy don't you)

Finally reaching Quamby (which only has 1 building - a pub) we round a bend to see the un-mistakeable gathering of rows of toyota landcruiser utes, swags on the back, large horse floats and cattle trucks.

We spent the day watching steer wrestling, buck jumping and bull riding that went something like this:
  
The bull tenses, 800kg of muscles bulging and twitching, desperate to escape the tiny enclosure.  The cowboy slowly lowers himself. Wrapping his hand around the rope, twisting and twisting, the only thing stopping him from being violently thrown to the earth.

The gate opens.  Dust flies as the heaving mass lurches one way then the next trying to dislodge the foreign body on his back.

Legs tighten and one hand is thrust in the air in the vain attempt to remain upright. 8 seconds does not seem long but it only takes a split second until a left kick sees the cowboy catapulted in to the air and come crashing down in the dirt as a flurry of hoofs crash centermetres from his Akubra hat.




Wow!  And the amazing thing is that we watched this happen all day. By the end of the eavening there were only 2 calls for ambulance assistance but I am sure there were many more bruises quietly suffered.








With the ribbons and belt buckels given out with little fuss, the crowd slowly returned to the shed in preparation for the nights festivities.

As the band started up and the beers and rum and cokes started to flow freely, we sat and enjoyed the atmosphere as the night roled on.  



Chatting to a lady next to us it must have been obvious to her that we were not country folk.  I am sure my new Akubra hat didn't help (if only I had my old one). She said:

 If you ever want to meet a nice girl then this is the place.  Although they would not go for a city bloke like you. She will only have a cowboy.



While both miners and country folk both come from the bush they could be worlds apart. The uniform for the cowboys are blue jeans (absolutely compulsory), long sleeve checkered shirt, and a self styled Akubra hat (also compulsory), with the battle scars from horse falls or having the cattle dog chew it.  The country girls are a perfect match in their paisley shirts, jewel bedazzled belts and blue jeans and neat tied back hair - or as Hux referred to as being " very tidy".

As the band played late in to the night and the drinking, dancing, drinking, stumbling, and more drinking continued, we followed lasts nights advice and made a quiet exit. 






To me the Quamby Rodeo defines this country. And if it was not for the three young lasses on the service station I may have missed probably the most memorable part of the whole trip.

I couldn't sum up the night any better than a train driver we met on the night who said:

"You wouldn't want to be anywhere else in Australia tonight"

And I could not agree more.


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