Travelling Hopefully - Limestone and Wet Shoes Edition

 We rolled back into Fitzroy Crossing which hadn't changed much since the last time we saw it. We dined at the restaurant attached to the campsite. Other things attached to the campsite were tennis courts, a pool and occasionally hot showers. We dined revelling in food we had no hand in preparing and served on dishes we didn't have to wash. And there was wine, oh blessed, blessed wine.

"Up early tomorrow," trilled our guides, "we have a lot of travelling to do and need to get an early start."

But we didn't get an early start. We woke early as commanded. We packed, cleaned out our tents, evicted the cane toads that had snuggled in overnight, ate breakfast and presented ourselves at our vehicle in good time for the afore threatened early start. There we found our tour leaders hauling out various lengths of pipe long enough to assemble a howitzer while a vast tyre was lowered slowly down from its resting place on the underside of the truck. 

We had a flat tyre which would need to be changed. A few of the more noble/capable members of the tour rushed forward to assist in the long and difficult process of jacking up the vehicle, removing the flat tyre, rescuing those who had been crushed beneath said tyre, manouevring the replacement tire into position, tightening the nuts, tightening them some more, yet more nut tightening, watching as our tour leader stood on the length of pipe used to tighten the nuts to tighten them even more, lowering the jack and collapsing soaked in sweat into the red dirt.

I say the more noble and capable members of the tour assisted with this. Those of us with few pretensions to nobility and none to capability sat around watching their travelling companion do pilates and contemplated crawling back into the tent for some more sleep. Eventually thanks to the combined efforts of a bunch of people who weren't me the tyre was changed, the flat tyre safely stowed in the bowels of the vehicle and we crowded on board as our leaders attempted not to faint from exhaustion. 

Eventually we roused our leaders sufficiently to head off and then off we headed. Our destination was Broome and the end of our trip but as they say (who precisely) it isn't about the destination but about the journey. If that is the case you probably got your destination wrong. But enough of these philosophical musings (to give my thought processes a dignity they don't deserve). Along the way we stopped at Tunnel Creek known to the indigenous people as Dimalurru. If you want an explanation for the increase in the use of indigenous names then the sheer lack of imagination shown by our colonial forebears in naming geographical features. Dimalurru may well mean "tunnel creek" in the local language but at least it rolls off the tongue a bit better.

Tunnel Creek is exactly what  you might expect it to be. It is a creek that flows through a tunnel. Specifically it has carved a path through limestone uplift resulting in a,somewhat damp, subterranean wonderland. In the late 1800's a local indigenous figure Jandamarra led resistance to colonial occupation in this area. At first violently and, when that simply resulted in his people getting killed, non-violently. Non violent warfare consists of terrifying and psychologically destroying your opponents to the point that they are unable to fight and for some reason is considered far more acceptable than simply punching someone in the face. Jandamarra gained a reputation for being strong in magic and dominated the region to the point that Aboriginal trackers and stockmen refused to work here and without them the cattle stations couldn't operate. Eventually the colonists got smart and recruited a tracker from outside the region who was also reputed to be strong in magic. This man hunted Jandamarra down and he was eventually killed at the entrance to the Tunnel Creek caves.

Following somewhat uncertainly in Jandamarra's footsteps we entered Tunnel Creek. We didn't really descend into the earth. More accurately the earth ascended over us as we followed the creek on the path it had carved through a rather friable hill. Up to our knees in water we ploughed through the Stygian depths the only light being the gleam of a thousand head torches as we (and a whole bunch of other people we had no connection with) lit the place up like a rock concert.

We slipped and splashed through the labyrinthine passage ways, slick limestone illuminated by our torches. I'm a sucker for a cave and the stream and the twisted rock formations made a striking backdrop to our walk. Eventually the cave exited the hill and so perforce did we. Then, because we had parked the truck at the other end we had to turn around and go back.

Travelling Hopefully - Maternal Cave Edition

 By this stage getting up at between 4 and 5am was becoming a habit. Our camp was a hive of activity as various sleep deprived zombies lurched back and forth tripping over cane toads, stuffing random belongings into equally random bags and in at least one case giving a highly inappropriate greeting to a large huntsman they discovered in the shower block (guess who). Eventually the bulk of our possessions and camping equipment were hurled onto the truck after which the same courtesy was displayed to us.

The tour leaders pointed the nose of the truck Broomeward but before we fled the region completely we paused at a crack in a limestone outcrop to see what we could find. Mimbi Caves is what we found although in keeping with historical tradition we didn't so much find it as turn up in the general vicinity to find an indigenous person waiting for us. Her name was Rosemary and she was there to guide us, chat to us and (perhaps most importantly) feed us damper and tea once we were done pawing her limestone. 

Firstly we were instructed to rub a small pebble under our armpit and toss it into the creek. This was so the Rainbow Serpent would get our scent and thereafter we would be able to bathe on the tribal lands without fear as the serpent would reccognise us. This was a relief to me as being savaged to death by a legendary indigenous creation spirit was definitely not covered by my travel insurance. Rosemary made no guarantees that the same trick would work on crocodiles.

Then, spirits assuaged, she guided us into the caves. I love a cave and this one was no exception. We followed Rosemary deeper into the cavern. I noticed various side tunnels twisting off and it occurred to me that all she would need to do is step around a corner and the lot of us would be hopelessly lost. With such cheery thoughts ringing in my head I admired the Aboriginal art on the walls and eased my way through the stalagmites and tites that seem to have been designed to make caves look eerily picturesque.

We came to a beautiful pool of translucent green water partially lit by the sun coming through cracks in the roof. We oohed and aahed appropriately and Rosemary noted that we could have bathed there (after all the Rainbow Serpent knows us now) but we had brought swimming gear. Once person was concerned the area was sacred to the local people. Rosemary just laughed and told us she wasn't taking us to the sacred bits. Good luck trying to find them without her wasn't actually said but strongly implied. Since I doubt if we would have even been able to find the exit without Rosemary's guidance I was quite happy to simply look at what she wanted us to see.

"What do you think that rock formation looks like?" asked Rosemary indicating a significantly shaped chunk of limestone. I peered, "Wallaby," I suggested uncertainly. Rosemary stared, then laughed, then directed my gaze to the actual limestone formation she was indicating. It looked, well it looked like a chunk of limestone but if you tilted your head slightly there was a definite resemblance to a heavily pregnant woman. This was a place where women who were having trouble conceiving would come to seek the assistance of the spirits. Apparently it works. At least none of the female members of the tour group were prepared to take the risk.

After the visit to the pre-natal clinic we returned to the outside world and had tea (or coffee) and damper which was delicious.

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.