Trip 4: August 16, Part 1

Up early, as usual. Greeted by galahs, parrots, correllas, and others. Camp quickly taken down and packed (we’re getting good at this). On the road, under the watchful eyes of several kangaroos along the road (morning is good for viewing ‘roos). Headed into Innaminka to refuel and load up on water, and then into the great nothingness on the first leg of our run to Birdsville. We’ll cross the Strzelecki Desert and Sturt’s Stony Desert—hard to imagine what might qualify for the name “stony” in an area that seems to be defined by rocks. We’ll see.

The sign at the edge of town said that the road to Birdsville via Cordillo Downs is open. (It isn’t always. There is a website for checking this and other outback roads, and Richard checked before leaving home, but things can change quickly, so “day of” signs are needed, too.) So with the “okay” from the sign, we crossed the Cooper at the causeway and headed deeper into the outback.

Gidgee trees popped up out of the vast expanse of gibbers around us. Eventually, even the gidgee tress vanished, and we were surrounded by rocks and tough grass. As always, however, even the most modest water course, though dry on the surface, presents us with a wonderful burst of trees and greenery. So the desolation is relieved with some frequency.

To my right: rocks, tough grasses, and cattle. (Apparently, the Japanese have a special fondness for the taste and quality of the meat raised in this area, and Japan is where this cattle will eventually go.) To my left: rocks, in the distance, the greenery of a creek and, rising above the tree tops, the towering red dunes of sand country.

I’m still amazed by the relentless and seemingly endless expanse of gibbers. However, it does seem that the gibbers are getting smaller, and there are even a few bare patches. So not quite as merciless as yesterday.

Then suddenly we were in sand country. We stopped at Patchawarra Bore to take a “classic” photo of a windmill, dam, and cattle (the windmill being the means of pumping water from underground, to fill the dam and provide for the cattle). This area was one of the first places in Australia that gas and petroleum reserves were noted, since gas came up with the water when they first drilled the bore.

Then back to the gibbers. Passed a bore where a bunch of ringers (Australian cowboys, called ringers because they ring the mob, or round up the herd) had set up camp. They were busy tagging calves. Somehow, this just doesn’t seem like the perfect place for raising cattle, but apparently, it works.

Red sand again became more frequent. We passed a creek where the silcrete was clearly visible. (Silcrete is a hardened layer of soil that is rich in silica. Most common in hot, arid areas where silica that has dissolved has plenty of time to dry out and glue together soil grains, forming an extremely hard layer. It is tremendously hard and tends, given enough time, to weather into boulders.) Here, silcrete forms the top layer of the oldest part of this region, and it was clearly visible.

Trip 4: August 13, Part 2

Cleaned up after lunch, and then headed off on the Gorge Loop Road, heading for South Myers Tank. In the outback, a tank is essentially, a large, manmade pool or pond, that captures water during rare rains—water that would otherwise simply run out into the surrounding desert and dry up. This tank is a birding “hot spot.” More than 100 species of bird have been spotted here. Among the many we saw, most abundant were pied and black cormorants, pelicans, and a variety of ducks. Plus there were gorgeous butterflies.

Continuing on, we crossed gibber plains, surrounded by sampfire plants, gidgee trees (a type of acacia), dry river courses lined with river red gums, coolibahs, emus, and rocks—lots of rocks. Stopped at Horton Park, an old sheep station now in ruins but used as recently as the 1950s. Passed the South Torrens Bore, which marks the southern edge of the Artesian Bore. Miles and miles of rocks—it amazes me that this area ever got explored, let alone settled. Kangaroos—reds. Actually, the males are red, but the females, called blue flyers, are blue/gray. And more emus. Males incubate the eggs and raise the young. (I’ve seen more emus in the last two days than I’ve seen in my three previous trips combined.)

Richard noted that these gibber plains are known as Mitchell grass plans in the spring, when they are green.

Stop at Mt. Wood Station, a historic site begun around 1890. Still standing are the homestead, shearers’ quarters, shearing shed, and wool scouring shed.

Continuing on, headed for Tibooburra, Richard commented that the road to Tibooburra used to be considered one of the worst roads in Australia. Hard to imagine how much worse it could be and still be passable. Lots of rocks.

In Tibooburra, stopped at the Charles Sturt memorial at the Pioneer Park. Sturt came through Tibooburra as he searched for a route north—and for an inland sea that he felt must exist. The memorial includes a copy of a boat that Sturt brought along on his exploration, just in case he found that sea, which he never did. (If you’ve read my book, Waltzing Australia, you may remember the poem I wrote titled “Sturt’s Revenge,” when I got trapped in an outback flood.) Took a few photos around town and then back to our camp site.

It’s a beautiful evening. The sky is cloudless. Galahs and magpies keep flashing through camp. The sun is setting, making the already beautiful spot absolutely magical. I’m so glad we spent a couple of days here.

Richard has the maps out and we’re planning tomorrow’s journey up the Strzlecki Track toward Innaminka. Before he became a bush guide, Richard was a history and geography teacher, so he shares more information than just directions. Then it was time to fix dinner.

Euros are feeding nearby, a magpie is begging for handouts, galahs are chattering in the trees. Wonderful. One young euro was right at the edge of our camp and didn’t seem to even notice when Nikki turned the flashlight on it. Must be used to campers.

The Milky Way is unbelievable—so dramatic in this hemisphere. But now it’s time to go to bed, as we have an early start tomorrow.

Trip 4: August 13, Part 1

Wild wind last night, so not a great night for sleeping—but the wind has at least swept the sky clean, and there are no clouds in sight.

Richard was up a bit earlier than Nikki and I, and he made tea and brought it to us in our tents. Such service. This is the life—room service, fresh air, warm sleeping bag, great view. Galahs, kites, rocks, trees, wild flowers, BLUE sky. This place, Sturt National Park, like other National Park properties on which I’ve camped, is beautiful and well-tended. Camp sites are arranged in areas that don’t affect the surrounding land forms. There are just enough facilities (dunnies/outhouses, grills, rainwater tanks) to make camping a bit easier, colored to match the foliage, and well-spaced so they don’t block the view. Plus there are walking trails through the area nearby. Ideal.

And speaking of trails, we were soon hiking about, following the Granites, a 4-kilometer walking track. “The Granites” for which the track is named are giant boulders formed by magma that pushed up through the earth when the volcano here never quite managed to really erupt. The granite boulders are estimated to be 450 million years old. The name of this area, Tibooburra, is actually an Aboriginal word that means “heap of rocks,” so this trail was living up to the area’s name.

Trees (mostly desert bloodwoods) and flowers (including some of the lovely Sturt desert peas) decorated the landscape. Copper-burrs were not blooming, but Richard pointed out the fruiting bodies covered with white hairs. Lizards basked on rocks and wallabies grazed on patches of grass.

The terrain changed dramatically and often as we continued. Granite boulder outcrops gave way to quartzite and granite, and then shales, ironstone, and other layered rocks. This was a big area for gold mining, and everything sparkles with gold dust.

The track was a loop, and it eventually took us back to our camp site. From there, Richard drove us to the nearby Golden Gully Mining site. As the name suggests, this was a site where gold was mined, but it was also processed here, and the site was littered with aging equipment used for all stages of the process: steam engine, whip and mine shaft, stamper battery, windlass, sluicing tower (called a whim), with a wheel for turning the crank to lift the water, drill press (with a tree growing around it), wagon bellows, grinding stone, and an old miner’s cottage, with the roof collapsing but the chimney still intact. Definitely hinted at stories and dreams and hard work. Remarkable to even think of working here.

Exploring done, we headed into town, to get some beverages and petrol, then ran back to camp for lunch.

Trip 4: August 10, Part 2

On the road again, we continued north before swinging eastward. As trees thinned, we saw eagles taking advantage of telegraph poles, and a couple of poles were topped by eagle nests.

In a few hours, we were surrounded by nearly flat, rocky, red, scrub-covered country that seemed unrelated to the rolling green countryside from which we had departed this morning. Saltbush became common. An occasional dead tree was filled with corellas (small, white cockatoos).

Before long, the highway was the primary sign of human habitation, along with an occasional sign, as we crossed increasingly rugged terrain. Wonderful. This is what I had come for.

At one point, Richard pointed out the sign for Radium Hill, which was just south of the highway. This was the site of Australia’s first uranium mine, which operated for roughly the first half of the 20th century.

I was astonished and delighted by all the kangaroos we saw grazing in or near dry creek beds not far from the highway. I imagine the traffic here is light enough to not scare them away—but still regular enough that they aren’t as bold as the unfortunate wallaroo that collided with us last time I was out bush with Nikki and Richard (Trip 3).

Quick stop in Cockburn, which is right on the state border. Charming little, old town. Cockburn was established in 1886 to facilitate the transport by train of ore from Broken Hill in neighboring New South Wales into South Australia—because here, too, the rail gauge changed between the two states. I took a photo of the railway water tower—and then we drove across the border into New South Wales (NSW).

More corellas. More red rocks. And finally, into Broken Hill. So much history here—most of which I know from a visit to the geology museum in Sydney during my first trip to Australia. The ragged, broken-looking hill in the town’s name is thought to be the largest lead-zinc-silver ore deposit in the world. It is because of this ore that the town exists. Among the best-known abbreviations in Australia is BHP, for Broken Hill Proprietary, the company founded in 1885 to handle mining at this site.

As we drove into town, Richard pointed out a few highlights, including the stunningly large and crowded cemetery. (Mining was dangerous.) He also pointed out some iron houses that came prefab from England early in the town’s history. Can’t imagine having an iron house in the heat experienced here.

We reached the local campsite more than an hour before sunset. Richard had the “kitty” (we had each contributed a couple hundred dollars, to cover gasoline, campground fees, meals consumed in camp, and any other communal travel expenses), so he settled our account, and then we got busy setting up camp.

Then it was back in the car to drive the roughly 15 miles to Silverton, where we had a view back over the plain we’d crossed—a terrain that I’d actually seen before only on the silver screen—because it was here that the movie “Mad Max/The Road Warrior” was shot. Glorious sunset. Then a brief stop at the Silverton Hotel, where they shot part of the great mini-series “A Town Like Alice.”

Back in town, we stopped for dinner at a Chinese restaurant, and then returned to camp for coffee and stargazing. Because there are so few lights out here, the stars are amazing—a great sparkling swath across the darkness. Glorious. Saw the Southern Cross for the first time this trip. Happy end to the day.

An Aside – Awed by Antiquity

As an aside, before continuing on with reporting on this adventure, I think it’s worth noting that this remarkable barrier reef, heaved up from the ocean floor to become the Napier Range, is not the only stunningly ancient bit of rock in this corner of Australia. It’s all mind-bogglingly old here. In fact, the Hamersley Range, a bit south and west of here, and which I visited on my first trip Down Under, is believed to be the first part of the Earth’s crust to have cooled after the planet was formed.

Here’s one of the posts I did a few years ago about my time in the Hamersley Range, after a visit to Hamersley Gorge, one of many breaks in the range, but one that is famous for showing clearly the effects of the tremendous pressure that formed and shaped some of these ancient rocks.

Hamersley Gorge

Then, just a few years ago, on a sheep ranch at Jack Hills, not too far from the Hamersley Range, scientists found what they believe to be the oldest chunk of rock on the planet—a zircon crystal that they estimate was formed at the planet’s dawning.

Here’s an article with more details on this ancient zircon—and a photo.
http://www.livescience.com/43584-earth-oldest-rock-jack-hills-zircon.html

So I was traveling through a region where phenomenal antiquity is the norm. One more reason to love this remarkable place.

September 2, Part 3

We headed back the 30 kilometers to where we had set up camp. We had no need to change clothes, as the hot weather had already dried everything after our wade through the tunnel, but we did drop off flashlights before walking the short distance to Windjana Gorge. Tall, mostly black, deeply striated walls, in places touched with red, rose before us, but a short cave in those walls gave us access to the main gorge. Wow.

The rock formations were wonderful, black, red, pink, and cream. Weird, knife-pleated stone covered parts of the wall and rose to peaks in some places. It was easy to imagine the formations being at the bottom of their original ocean.

The gorge was remarkably beautiful, with clear water down the center, surrounded by pale sand, with paperbark trees and lovely green ivy adding a touch of color.

Athena and I hiked for about an hour up the gorge, stopping to photograph freshies and a white egret, vines, trees, the rocks, and glassy water. When we met up with Belinda, we turned back toward the entrance of the gorge. Belinda and I stopped to swim, but Athena was worried about the freshies, so she sat on the beach.

The most astonishing thing was the cockatoos. There were hundreds upon hundreds of little white cockatoos (corellas). It must be the mating season, because we saw them exchanging “gifts,” rubbing heads, and flapping wings in little dances. They covered the beach, filled the trees, and stood on the cliffs. It was astonishing.

When we got back to camp, I headed for the shower–an outdoor affair, with walls but no roof and only cold water—but it was bliss getting cleaned up. (We got wet in the underground tunnel, but not clean.) Then it was have a cup of tea and circle the chairs around the cooking fire, for another friendly evening.
Butcher birds were very brave, and approached us to see if we might have food to offer. The willy wagtails were on hand, but they were skittish and never got close. Blue-winged kookaburras were nearby, noisy but out of sight. Wonderful.

Among the birds, only the crows are annoying. Two nights running, the crows have destroyed our garbage bags, tearing them apart to look for goodies. It’s not hard to imagine how the expression “Stone the crows” arose. I’m told the crows here will even kill newborn lambs. So not all the birds have endeared themselves.

September 2, Part 2

After setting up camp and having lunch, we jumped back into the 4WD and headed the 30 kilometers back to the King Leopold Range, and to Tunnel Creek. Wow! Tunnel Creek is a river that flows under a mountain, and, with a bit of wading (from mid-calf to about chest deep) and scrambling over rocks, it is possible to traverse the half-mile distance of the tunnel, to the far side of the mountain range.

Welcome to Tunnel Creek

I had forgotten to bring my flashlight, so Athena and I stuck close together, which benefited both of us–she was nervous in the water, and I needed her light. We scrambled down a tumble of quartz and pink-and-white marble to the mouth of the tunnel. The roof was high, and, in places, decorated with stalactites. We waded into the chilly water, flashlights barely piercing the intense darkness, and we picked our way in and out of the water and along boulders and sand spits, stopping to admire caves and look for “freshies” (freshwater crocodiles—the crocodiles that don’t kill humans).

About half way up the tunnel, a light became visible and grew brighter till it was daylight, where a wall had caved in. There was an immense, braided, fig-tree root reaching from the cliffs above, through the break and into the water in the tunnel. Remarkable. We climbed over the rocks of the collapsed wall and continued up the tunnel, back into the darkness.

The end of the tunnel was a wonderful, bell-shaped opening that let out into a narrow gorge, where trees crowded around the clear stream emanating from the mountainside.

We splashed and chatted for a while, then headed back through the astonishing tunnel. We stopped at one point and all turned off our lights, to see how truly dark it was–and it was, totally.

Continuing on, we saw a yabby (a freshwater crustacean–like a crawdaddy, only much bigger) perched on one of the sand spits. The sound of falling water drew our flashlights to a far wall, where a small cascade sparkled as it descended. Eerie, lovely, and strange.
Definitely an odd little adventure, walking under a mountain, chest-deep in water and quite dependent on our flashlights working. But some fascinating things to see.

I had decided to not take my camera through the tunnel, which was absolutely the right decision. So after reemerging, I grabbed my camera bag out of the truck and went back to at least photograph the entrance of Tunnel Creek.

Tunnel Creek entrance

Trip 3:Saturday, September 2 Part 1 (of 3)

It is almost inconceivable that the trip is so nearly over. It seems odd, too, that I can spend so much time with people I really like all the while realizing that I’ll probably never see them again. I am battered and bruised and weary, yet I am sorry to have this part of my current Australian odyssey end. It is so fresh and beautiful out here, and though it is hard, it is uncomplicated.

We arose this morning to a noisy flurry of cockatoos. There were a few clouds in the sky, and they were tinged pink by the rising sun. Soon the magpies added their caroling to the other morning sounds.

We were breakfasted, packed, and on the road by 8 a.m., crossing the miles, climbing into the next mountain range, stopping to look back over the plain we’d just crossed.

The mountains rose before and around us, red and stained, in slanted slabs and layers jutting out of the ground, like the bones of the earth with the skin peeled away. I was reminded again that much of what one sees in the Australian landscape is owed to erosion. So, in a way, it is the bones of the earth we were seeing. Up and through Inglis Gap, a pass in the King Leopold Range, and down the other side, to continue our drive to the Napier Range.

From Inglis Gap

King Leopold Range

Birds were wonderfully abundant. In trees, on the ground, or on the wing, they were delightful, and we occasionally stopped just to enjoy them. There were galahs, pink and gray and handsome; wompoo pigeons, with their “woop, woop, woop” call: butcher birds, black and white and noisy; a wedge-tailed eagle, always impressive.

We rolled into Windjana Gorge National Park, and this evening’s campsite, around lunchtime.

Camp near Windjana Gorge

Windjana is cut through the Napier Range, which was once a barrier reef that got thrust up long ago from the ocean floor. The range is Devonian-era limestone, with the outlines of coral polyps and even older pre-coral skeletons still visible in places. The rock is strangely worn, with sharply defined, black pinnacles in some places. Fascinating. I look forward to exploring—later.

September 1, Part 2

Giant termite mounds became more numerous, though these mounds were much different from those we saw back in the Northern Territory. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a different species of termite or if it has to do with different soil, but the reddish mounds here were rather grotesque—like a cross between the Venus of Willendorf and dinosaur droppings, rather than the tidy, pleated, gray mounds seen in the Top End.

Termite Mound

Our campsite tonight, at “Fern Gully,” is beautiful, with water, pandanus, and white cockatoos in abundance. Before lunch, we had a dip in Bell Creek, which runs along the side of our camp. It is always a surprise to find how cool the water is when the air/sun is so hot—but perhaps it’s the contrast.

Fern Gully

At 2 o’clock, we climbed back into the 4WD and headed for the start of the hike into Bell Gorge. It was a less strenuous walk than the hike into Manning Gorge, and only about 1 kilometer, but it was hard enough, with loose rock underfoot much of the way.

Bell Gorge was spectacular, with a waterfall in the middle, connecting upper and lower pools. We photographed and then swam for an hour. As at the last few gorges we’ve visited, we saw a water monitor, though rather than lazing on the rocks, this one was in the water with us.

When we finally emerged from the water, we sat for a while on the rocks, drying out before changing, and catching the huge, nasty march flies and feeding them to tiny, copper-colored lizards.
During the hike back out, I was more aware of the music made by the gurgling stream. The lowering sun set the red rocks ablaze. Another remarkable day in a glorious setting.
Back in camp, we made tea, enjoyed the sunset, and settled in for another amiable evening of conversation and stargazing.
We’re not quite as remote here as we have been, and there is a park ranger station not far away. Knowing we were camping in the area, a ranger dropped by after dark to let us know not to leave any shoes or small objects out, as there is a litter of dingo pups nearby, and they would be likely to steal such items. A few dingoes were sighted around camp, at the edge of our firelight, so I decided to sleep inside a tent after all.

Trip 3:Friday, September 1, Part 1

September 1 is the first day of spring here in Australia. We rose at dawn, as usual, but had a leisurely morning, while John greased the truck and did a few minor repairs. (Those rough roads really beat up even rugged vehicles.)

It was another crystalline morning—clear, unblemished blue from horizon to horizon. The magpies, cockatoos, and crows set up their usual morning chorus. John says the crows in this region are the largest in Australia. That’s easy to believe. I had thought they were ravens, they’re so large.

Most of the group has wandered off to swim or take pictures. I explored for a while but then returned to camp, for a bit of tea, rumination, and writing. I have written extensively about all I’ve seen, but I should probably also note that those with whom I am seeing it are a remarkable lot and have added immensely to this experience. Everyone is well read, well traveled, both interested and interesting, fun, enthusiastic, and thoroughly enjoyable. I consider myself extremely fortunate in having such an ideal group of traveling companions.

I’ve been impressed with our guide, John, as well. He’s very tall, wiry, thin but strong, with shoulder length, wavy, dark blond hair. He is tremendously widely traveled and at times appears a bit world weary, but he is patient, resourceful, polite, and full of stories about his interesting life. Born in London, he left school at 15 and has spent most of his life wandering, mostly in Africa and then Australia. He rolls his own cigarettes and often seems to prefer smoking to eating. Amiable. Slow of speech but quick of wit. He actually delights in the challenge of the horrific roads, even though it means a lot of time fixing the truck, as he was doing this morning. So perfect—in fact almost iconic—for this setting and job.

Belinda came by as I finished my notes, and we hiked together down to the water hole, to photograph reflections and water lilies.

By 9 a.m., John had finished working on our vehicle. We had a final coffee and biscuit break before heading back on the road at 9:30. (Had to push start the truck, which seemed reluctant to leave.)

We made a short stop back at Barnett River Roadhouse, for fuel, water, and treats. I had one of the wonderful fruit “ice lollies” they seem to have everywhere here, even in these remote spots—a frozen cream, passionfruit, and pineapple confection on a stick that was yummy and refreshing. Then we were rocketing along the dusty red road again, covering the 120 kilometers to Bell Gorge in the King Leopold Range.

When we stopped to stretch our legs at one point, I was delighted to see delicate flowers growing along the road. I thought they looked like Sturt desert roses. Someone else said they thought they were native hibiscus. So I grabbed one of the reference books on board and found out that we were both right – because the Sturt desert rose is a type of native hibiscus. Lovely flowers.