Travelling Hopefully - Stripy Rocks Edition

 Early the next morning, far, far too early we dragged ourselves from our respective tents, doused ourselves in refreshing cold showers and prepared to face the day. I'm surprised the day didn't flee at the sight of us. I dragged on a yellow t-shirt I had bought at Perth airport at the insistence of my travelling companion who was afraid my all black wardrobe would attract flies. Of flies there were few but she emerged from her tent rubbing steroid cream on yet more mosquito bites.

The Bungle Bungles are an area of uplift looming over the plains around. Gorges trace through the hills providing a rough and beautiful landscape perfect for walking through if walking through gorges in 30+ degrees heat is your idea of a good time. Strangely it is mine. Then there are the rocks. This is the Bungle Bungles' drawcard. The exposed stone is striped orange and black like oversized humbugs or bees with a glandular problem. The orange is iron, the black is a type of bacteria that obviously has an artistic bent.

We set off for a walk in Cathedral Gorge. The intention was to get this walk done before the heat of the day really starting impacting us but it turned out that the heat of the day had got up early to welcome us. Despite the rapidly climbing temperature we ploughed on. Various Bungles rose up around us as we weaved our way through a beautiful landscape marred only by a vast profusion of cane toad corpses. The sight would have pleased me if I had believed a serious dent was being made in their numbers. Sadly this is not the case.

Despite these reminders of mortality we headed into the gorge until we came to an area with a small pool which historically was used as a birthing area by indigenous women. The entire of Cathedral Gorge was used as a shelter that women and children could hide in if danger threatened. After the birthing area we carried on deeper into the gorge until we came to a larger, beautiful pool. I don't know if the local indigenous people used this area for anything in particular but with stunning views, fresh water and only one way in or out they would have been mad not to.

Once scenery had been appropriately gawped at we retraced our steps back almost but not quite to our starting point and headed out on the more difficult track. Again dipping into our trip notes my companion and I were expecting a brutal death march, stairs were threatened in a manner which led me to believe there would be a ladder bolted to the cliff that we would have to ascend under the grim oversight of our hard driving taskmasters. We trotted up the stairs assuming the worst was to come. It wasn't, I am ashamed to say that my companion and I engaged in a little mockery of the difficulty level as we went along. The fact that we still had breathe enough to be smartarses indicates the level of difficulty actually undergone. My companion is, as noted, a pilates instructor with enough energy to power a city. I on the other hand am a shambling wreck whose lifestyle is basically a low level exercise in self harm. Despite this I was able to keep up with her even as the sun rolled up its sleeves and really got down to business.

Piccanninny Lookout whose name survives I suspect because no one knows what "piccanninny" means anymore provided us with spectacular views over parts of the Bungle Bungles and also provided a helpful fence to stop us pitching face forward into those parts. We photographed, my companion posed and yet more photographs were taken. Then, because the lookout had neither a bathroom or a Pizza Hut we returned to the carpark where we had left our noble steed. It was still early in the morning and despite the sweat lathering our bodies we were nowhere near finished for the day. Our truck bounced and jolted across the track heading for the aerodrome.

Yes, you heard me. To be fair an aerodrome is simply a flat patch of land where aircraft are allowed to land. And land they do. Somewhat more financially stable tourists fly in to the Bungle Bungles rather than subject themselves to the road. This is where they land. A small passenger aircraft lurked in the shadows as if to add verisimilitude to this fact. We weren't interested in leaving but also here were a trio of helicopters that did sightseeing flights over the Bungle Bungles and every single member of the tour had booked an opportunity to look at the sights without having to go to the effort of walking through them.

The helicopter flight was amazing, the Bungle Bungles spread out before us and the view from above was incredible. The flight lasted half an hour during which time the pilates instructor, who had hijacked my phone, took about a hundred photos. I settled for staring out of the side of the helicopter in astonishment. I would happily have stayed up there forever except; bathrooms and Pizza Hut. We landed in time for lunch which wasn't pizza but was welcome all the same.

In the afternoon there was another walk. No "cool of the morning" rubbish this time. It was peak sunstroke time but we were assured that the bulk of the walk was in the shade. It certainly was, Echidna Chasm was a narrow crack in a Bungle that stretched out before us. Shadows and darkness beckoned and I stepped forward eagerly and almost sprained my ankle. The ground was loose rock and pebble and rather difficult to walk on. Yet walk on it we did as towering rock walls closed around us as the chasm got narrower the further we went into it. Sadly we couldn't get all the way through. Parts of Echidna Chasm had fallen onto lower parts of Echidna Chasm effectively blocking the path. One of our guides claimed to have seen a snake but nothing came of that. I suspect it was scared off by the sound of over a dozen people crunching over a loose rocky path while squealing excitedly at the towering rock walls all around (ok, it may have just been me doing that last bit). 

That night our guides cooked us roast lamb over the fire and a tawny owl turned up and posed for photographs. I crawled into bed with my cup not just running over but floating away on the stream. 

Travelling Hopefully - Bouncy Edition

The next day dawned, gazed down on our campsite and blinked in astonishment. 

"Are you guys already up?" muttered Dawn, "Christ you're eager."

I'm not sure if eager is the correct word but there was an overriding desire not to be abandoned in Fitzroy Crossing so we lurched out of our tents, bundled up our gear and made a panicked dash for the truck. Our destination was the stripy hills of the Bungle Bungles but there were a couple of stops along the way.

First up was Halls Creek which is the largest town in these parts by dint of having virtually no competition. It seems to exist so that kites and eagles can lounge photogenically on telephone wires. It was also an opportunity for us to have the last cup of coffee that wouldn't come out of a jar for several days. Once out of modern Halls Creek we stopped at old Halls Creek which consists of a group of ruins some of them rather improbably built out of termite mounds. The town was moved closer to the airfield (which had been built in the Second World War in case the Japanese had an overwhelming urge to conquer Halls Creek) and the old buildings left to picturesquely decay.

In truth each stop along the way was an opportunity for us to make a mad dash for whatever toilet facilities existed but we wandered around taking photos to show willing while our guides let the air out of the truck tires.

Halls Creek is also known as being one of the catalysts for the creation of the Royal Flying Doctor Service. A stockman fell from his horse during a cattle stampede and suffered severe internal injuries. He was carted the 80kms to Halls Creek where the only man in town with a shred of medical knowledge (the local postmaster) placed him on a kitchen table and performed an operation with a penknife while receiving instructions from a doctor in Perth via morse code. Strangely the stockman survived the operation and the doctor in Perth set out for Halls Creek to perform after surgery care. It took him over two weeks to get there by which time the stockman had died. Ten years later this story prompted the Reverend John Flinn to start the RFDS.

With history imbibed, our bladders relieved and the truck tires appropriately floppy we continued our journey squealing with excitement at trees and scrub and what I was informed was Australia's largest flying bird, the Australian bustard. Insert your own jokes here.

The next stop was China Wall. My companion had studied the trip notes and noted that there was a punishing walk involved in seeing this particular feature. We agreed that we were sturdy souls and capable of much effort. With our loins well and truly girded we set off, descended a slope and we were there. Somewhat baffled we looked around for the arduous track we had expected but our guides assured us that we had arrived and pointed out the China Wall in front of us.

The China Wall is neither Chinese nor a wall. It is an outcrop of white quartz which has chosen to rear itself out of the surrounding sandstone. It does actually look a bit like a miniature version of the Great Wall of China and one can certainly be forgiven for thinking it was man made. It wasn't though but is rather the product of erosion and uplift over several millennia just in case you're thinking of criticising Australian construction practices.

After photos were taken it was time for the grueling hundred metre walk back to the truck. We were getting close now (in WA "close" is a relative term) and we turned off the nicely sealed road onto another which wasn't. The reason for letting some air out of the tires became apparent as we bounced and banged our way over loose and rather sharp stones, ground slowly through creeks and lurched, dripping, up hills on the other side. At least the truck did all of that excellently handled by our guides. As passengers our job was to clutch our seats and check to make sure our fillings hadn't fallen out.

And at some point the skyline of shrubs and occasional trees gave way to the Bungle Bungles looming around us as we approached our destination. For the record our destination was a classy camping area (our tents had actual floors) which would be our home for the next couple of days. At some point on the trip we had been encouraged to gather firewood with the result that our truck was carrying several trees worth of wood and a vast amount of insect life had been deprived of homes.

The camp was on a raised plain looking across at various Bungles which were appropriately lit up by the setting sun. My traveling companion was in transports at the prospect of sunset but sadly the Bungles between us and the sun prevented a dramatic photo. Instead the dramatic photos came later at night once the sun had set and an entire galaxy was spread across the sky for our entertainment. On the way back to her tent one of the new set of CoRS we had accumulated accidentally kicked a cane toad with such force that it prescribed an interesting parabola before thumping into the earth. I hope it doesn't learn anything from this, the last thing we need is cane toads that have learned how to fly.  

Travelling Hopefully - Ruined Bridge Edition

The road stretched out before us. My companion and I took our seats and gazed out at the surrounding scenery. The surrounding scenery consisted of scrubby plain interspersed with not particularly enthusiastic looking trees. Five hours later the road still stretched out ahead of us and the surrounding scenery consisted of scrubby plain interspersed with not particularly enthusiastic looking trees. My companion and I pointed out trees to each other with such eager enthusiasm that it's amazing we didn't murder each other before reaching our destination.

It hadn't been all scrub and trees of course. The scenery was enlivened by the occasional bloated cow corpse and stops at various road houses to partake of one of the wonders of civilisation, a flush toilet. Then just when we thought the trees couldn't get any more interesting we stopped to look at a boab tree. A boab tree is what Australias call a baobab although to be honest I insisted on calling it a baobab until my companion asked me what I was talking about. The baobab/boab tree was immense and gnarly and twisted and well worth taking a photo of so I did. Then it was back onto the truck/bus but sadly the other trees now rather paled by comparison.

Fitzroy Crossing was our destination for the day largely I suspect because we arrived there just before sunset and our guides didn't want to drive in the dark. Fitzroy Crossing has a large, handsome bridge spanning the Fitzroy River. This replaces the older, somewhat demolished bridge which was washed away in the bad floods of 2023. You don't remember those? They do in Fitzroy Crossing. The army had to airlift food to the inhabitants.

We were supposed to meet an indigenous guide who would explain the history and cultural significance of the Fitzroy River to the local indigenous population but she was unavoidably detained. Off the top of my head the presence of a large amount of drinkable water containing yummy fish is quite good enough reason for the indigenous population to find it significant. Guideless we wandered down to the river bank and looked at the ruined bridge site. People were swimming there. This seemed to indicate either an absence of crocodiles or that the crocodiles were full. Either way I didn't risk it.

We stayed the night at a camp ground where I saw my first cane toad. Shortly thereafter I saw my second, third, fourth and then stopped counting. The poisonous little bastards were everywhere. A local indigenous woman pointed out that since the cane toads arrival the goanna population had crashed which was a problem as the indigenous population used the goannas for such significant cultural practices as not starving to death. Even today (or rather in the recent past before the cane toads turned up) clobbering a goanna on the head and tossing it on a fire was a way of gaining useful protein when money was a little skimpy. This did not raise the cane toad in my estimation.

We rose early the next day. This would become a prevailing trend, we always rose early the next day. We swept the more visible dust out of our tents because exercises in futility seemed to amuse us before piling back into our rugged steed for another day on the road.

At this point the insect situation has to be addressed. We had been warned that this area was so inundated with flies that you couldn't breath without choking on them. In fact the flies weren't too bad but mosquitoes and other such biting things were a menace. At least I assume they were. Neither I nor the rest of the tour group seemed particularly bothered by them but my travelling companion was savaged. It didn't matter how much insect repellent she put on, this merely encouraged the mosquitoes to be more creative and, shall we say, intimate about the location of their biting. My travelling companion, drawing a distinction between herself and the pallid Anglo-Saxons she was surrounded with announced that her "spicy Indian blood" was irresistable. The mosquitoes certainly thought so. She treated the bites with steroid cream and by the end of the trip was in danger of looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Travelling Hopefully - Hopefully Traveling

 We left the place of carved wood ignoring the vengeful muttering of bumblebees outraged at our escape and pointed our nose towards Hobart and the end of our journey. My companion was driven to transports of ecstasy over the beauty of the Tasmanian countryside. I, who had visited Tasmania several times, affected an air of world weary indifference that impressed her so much she threatened to brain me with a water bottle. 

As we approached Hobart and the Tasmanian countryside started to change into the Tasmanian cityside it became obvious that something was wrong. The minibus, our noble steed for the past few days, was struggling. Warning lights that no-one, not even our tour leader, recognised started appearing on the dashboard and our pace slowed to a glacial crawl. Painfully we inched our way up hills while other traffic, bicycles and the occasional motivated pedestrian whizzed past us. Downhill gravity and momentum came to our aid which gave us enough of a run up for the next labouring ascent.  

Inch by inch we crawled towards Hobart cursing every red light that brought our dubious progress to a halt. Eventually however the minibus heaved itself over the last rise and trundled down into the streets of Hobart where gathered impetus and the prayers of the passengers helped it lurch to a halt at the Travelodge which was our finishing point. Here my companion and I said a hasty farewell to our leader and the remaining CoRS before grabbing a fully functioning uber to the airport adjacent caravan park that would be our home for a disturbingly short number of hours before our flight to Broome the next day. Once in our accommodation my companion amused herself by striking pilates poses while I amused myself by ogling and taking photos (with her consent I hasten to add).

At obscene o'clock the next morning we dragged ourselves to Hobart airport for the first of three flights that would eventually deposit us in Broome at the other end of the continent. As we flew over Bass Strait the rising sun provided us with an unforgettable picture that was eclipsed only by the sight of the same sun setting as we were landing in Broome. Having woken before 4am we arrived in Broome after 7pm and arrived in our accommodation. As we entered my companion stared at me with an look of betrayal on her face. I had selected the accommodation based on the fact that our tour would pick us up there the next day. My companion thought we were staying in a Travelodge, a cheap but reliable hotel chain. We were actually staying in a travelers lodge, essentially a backpackers hostel thronging with young people disinclined to go to bed at an early hour. I pointed out that we were only there until 7.30 the next morning and she pointed out that the chances of my surviving that long were decreasing by the minute.

Strangely we both survived the night, had our last hot showers for several days and presented ourselves at the entrance in good time the next morning along with a couple of other travelers joining our trip who had made the same foolhardy decision as myself. A little while later we got a call from the tour group asking where we were. Apparently they were at the end of the driveway and hadn't thought to come up to the actual entrance to see if we were around. With that little misunderstanding resolved we clambered onto a large wheeled truck with windows and (blessedly) airconditioning and pointed ourselves in the general direction of the Bungle Bungles, our ultimate destination. 

Travelling Hopefully - Carved Wood and Bumblebees

 The next day steeped in culture and with the scent of rainforest lingering in our nostrils we departed Strahan. Truly there was no reason to stay and the place was becoming less like a tourist attraction and more like a haunt for serial killers with every passing hour.

So off we went my companion and I plus a tour leader and various hangers on. Our first stop was Queenstown which completely failed to alter the latent serial killer vibe that was starting to permeate everything. 

We had breakfast at a cafe attached to Queenstown railway station.

“Aha!” I hear you cry, “So Queenstown has a railway service.”

Well yes and no. Slightly yes but mainly no. What it has is a heritage railway run as a tourist attraction. Technically it connects Queenstown with Strahan but the last time I caught it the  train stopped halfway and returned to its point of origin. Not that I’m complaining about not visiting Queenstown.

We finished breakfast and fled Queenstown as quickly as we decently could. Behind the wails of souls damned to walk its treeless streets clawed at our sanity.

Which is probably why we stopped at Lake St Clair. It is virtually impossible to travel to Tasmania and not stop at Lake St Clair. Certainly there is a very pretty lake there and it’s also the terminus of the Overland Track. 

The Overland Track starts at Cradle Mountain and finishes at Lake St Clair. Hikers whose fitness and enthusiasm are sadly not matched by their sanity or good judgment launch themselves into the alpine wilderness and usually emerge at Lake St Clair where they call a bus to take them home. I say “usually emerge” because sometimes they don’t emerge at all. Finding the unfortunate victims bodies is difficult because Tasmanian devils have very powerful jaws and even more powerful digestions.

On that cheery note we dined on pizza by the lake and looked out for the snakes that warning signs promised us were stacked ten deep on the most popular trails. We didn’t see any and slunk back to our minibus to look at some carved wood.

At least some of the CoRS looked at carved wood. I had seen the carved wood the last time I was in Tasmania and had no desire to see it again. Other CoRS came out with words of praise for the carved wood and the Pilates instructor berated me as she had followed my example and not looked at the wood. Instead she had spent most of her time watching one of our number flee squealing pursued by a bumblebee. Possibly the least menacing predator known to man. As for me I was still getting over the shock of someone making decisions based on my opinions.

Travelling Hopefully - Rainforest Edition

At Strahan a stern choice awaited us. We could either go for a walk through the rainforest or take a cruise up the Gordon River which would allow you to see the rainforest while sitting in a seat. For reasons that are unclear to me even now I and the Pilates instructor chose the first option in the company of a couple from England while the remaining CoRS chose Option B.

Our tour leader bundled the four of us into the minibus and drove us deep into the woods. Despite this horror movie themed start the day got better as we set out on our walk. The sky was grey, the air was cool, rain threatened but didn’t eventuate and we ambled along chatting and photographing the scenery.

It wasn’t virgin rainforest, we were walking along an old mining track and in the recent (geologically speaking) past miners had stripped the countryside bare. Since they stopped the countryside has grown back with a resilience bordering on bloody mindedness presenting us with apparently pristine wilderness. We took photos of fungi (me), leaves (the Pilates instructor) and less specific scenery (everybody). Our destination, and we did have one, was Montezuma’s Falls a waterfall which promised to be in good shape after recent rains.

As we strolled through the lush bush we spared a thought for our fellow travellers forced to sit in comfortable seats, choking down complimentary salmon and champagne while the boat did all the work for them. Poor bastards.

Our walk took us past an old mine shaft, a dark opening in the hillside. I took a photo and stared at the indistinct figure that appeared to look back at me out of the darkness. I apologised to the tourist I had inadvertently photographed and hurried on before she could press charges.

Montezuma’s Falls came into view with an impressive amount of water taking the most direct route down without any of that “carving of a valley” nonsense. There was also a suspension bridge that seemed to exist only to creep out those who crossed it. It didn’t actually go anywhere.

On our way back to Strahan we stopped at Zeehan for lunch. A Sunday visit to Zeehan is like walking into a scene from a Scooby Doo cartoon. You expect the ghost of an ancient miner to pursue you through the abandoned but picturesque streets. Sadly we had to leave before we could reveal that the “ghost” was actually the much loved family solicitor trying to swindle the heiress out of her fortune.

Back at Strahan we collected the rest of the CoRS and were quietly smug to learn they hadn’t had a great day. Then we went to see The Ship that Never Was a play I saw last time I was in Strahan and is immense amounts of fun if you like pantomime and audience participation.

Travelling Hopefully - Rapid Walk Edition

After our triumphs at the Devil sanctuary we set off for Dove Lake where we intended to challenge the elements by walking the six kilometre circuit in weather conditions my companion called delightful and I thought was a precursor to the apocalypse. There was wind, cold and icy rain while mist virtually concealed Cradle Mountain, the putative object of our efforts , from all but the most penetrating of gazes.

We were in a hurry, apparently. Our tour leader chivvied us and impressed on us the absolute importance of our doing the six kilometre circuit within an hour and forty five minutes. If we lagged behind it was strongly implied that we would be abandoned to the ice and snow and the devils would feast on our bones.

While we were challenging the elements at Dove Lake our tour leader guided the bulk of the remaining CoRS on what was supposed to be a more modest walk that would culminate in wombats.

With our leaders encouragement/threats ringing in my ears I charged down the path. My companion showed a disturbing tendency to stop and enjoy the view or take photographs. I had no patience with such trivialities and urged her on through the sleet and mist.

Despite my companion’s annoying tendency to attempt to enjoy herself we made the six kilometres in an hour and thirty seven minutes and had time left over to photograph wombats. 

After that giddy with triumph (and in my case hypothermia) we headed off to Strahan.