Nights 87 - 102

NIGHT 87  -  THE CALLIOPE RIVER REST AREA.

The Calliope River Rest Area has long been a jewel in the crown of the free camping lifestyle. It’s a big deal.  Several times I’ve seen it gracing the covers of free-camping magazines, always with the river in the foreground, photographed catching the light and reflecting the clouds.  It does photograph beautifully. Behind the river in the middle distance is a steep bank and on the bank, above the river, you can see a line of vans and campers parked peaceful and benign.  Presumably there are scores of happy campers frolicking just out of shot. (I couldn’t resist attempting a photo myself).

 

Normally, or perhaps previously, camping was had on both sides of the river.  The southern bank - the lower, prettier bank - rises just above water level with sandy spits and small deep water pools. It’s now closed for camping.  The river reclaimed the area during the last floods, creating a series of rapids that dragged most of the grass and topsoil away.  It’s now full of holes with few flat places available. There are mounds of topsoil dumped about the place hopefully indicating that the damage will soon be rectified.

The northern bank is the high bank you see in the photos.  It provides only a few steep tracks to access the river.  It houses a bitumen road, a few taps and a toilet block.  There are flat grassed areas and several large shade trees but these areas were also unavailable – recent rains had made them too boggy to drive on.

So, into an area that until recently offered triple the space, this jewel in the crown continues attracting travellers expecting a beautiful, iconic camp site.  Unfortunately the whole rest area currently exists as a single bitumen road with people packed head to tail along both sides. Even so,  some RVers remain undaunted, creating elaborate sites of shadecloth and washing line.  Some people are still prepared to stay for up to a week.  Not us.  We’d had enough after only a night, although we might have felt different had we been parked on the side with a view of the river.  I give The Calliope River Rest Area 2 stars out of 5.  1 star for how it exists now and another for the potential to shimmer again.

NIGHT 88  -  COOEE BAY CAR PARK, YEPPOON.

Sneaky, sneaky.

 We spent most of the day in and around Emu Park, a beautiful place with aquamarine water and spectacular views of tropical islands.  I recommend you go there.  We intended staying the night but, latish in the afternoon, we hit on the idea of spending the next day snorkelling on Great Keppel Island.   It was a great idea but involved rapid organisation, dumping the dog for a day, luck, and relocation to Yeppoon.  Off we went, excited, but with nowhere to stay.

Driving along the main road we saw a sign that said ‘Cooee Bay’.  Really, how could you not go there?   It sounds like a place from ‘Home & Away’, maybe where Alf Stewart grew up.  We took the turn and luck was waiting for us.

 

Directly on the beach, right opposite a park with toilets, nestled among established houses, was a flat ground carpark, friendly and welcoming.  We smiled to each other and relaxed.  We drew the curtains, turned on the lights and created a feast of canned soup and noodles.  Home.

NIGHT 89  -  COOEE BAY CAR PARK, YEPPOON.

We truly didn’t expect to be here again.  Last night worked well but we’re not usually ones to push our luck.  Circumstances led us back though. 

 

We’d had a great day on Great Keppel.  Great, but exhausting.  We hiked many kilometres (I say 6 but Shana says 3. She might be right, but I take lots more little steps) to get to Monkey Beach, which was recommended to us for snorkelling.  (The snorkelling was fun but here I get really serious.  The coral is in a terrible state.  Like everyone, I’ve heard stories of how the reef is dying, probably affected by global warming.  To actually see the affect is heartwrenching.  Most of the coral was bleached ghostly (and ghastly) white.  Most of it was dead, covered in what looked like mould or fungus.  This wasn’t on the outer reef, but in an area I would have thought to be more stable.  It was horrendous).

We were knackered by the time we got back to the ferry at Great Keppel, even more knackered by the time the ferry churned us back to the mainland.  On any other night I’d have been content to go straight to bed, but not on this night.  This night was STATE OF ORIGIN NIGHT.  We’d managed to get the Mozza dog boarded over-night and so we were free to fill ourselves with pub grub and footy (Shana was into it but several levels of excitement below me).  We needed to find a pub to watch the game.

Well, it had to be more of a tavern than a pub.  There is a difference.  To me a tavern sprawls across the landscape and welcomes women and the family unit.  A pub, on the other hand, squats into a crevice and scowls at anyone beyond its immediate circle of friends.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that, when it comes to cheering for the Blues deep in the heart of Queensland, then I want somewhere friendly and safe.  Call me a wuss but I want women and children around me in case my ‘southern enthusiasm’ causes offence.

We knew of just such a tavern.  We’d driven past it going to and from Cooee Bay.  For any occasion other than the State of Origin I’d have considered the place generic and bland, with its white brick walls and its salad bar in the corner of a large open room.  But for tonight it was perfect.

History records that NSW won.  Me and a few others cheered (not Shana.  She is a bloody Qld supporter).  Sad faced losers wearing maroon skulked out and I wavered between silently laughing at them and wondering where we were going to sleep.  Cooee Beach was just up the road.  Great.  Decision made. Now I could properly enjoy loser watching.  We give the Cooee Bay carpark 4 stars out of five.  It’s a lovely carpark. We’d recommend parking your car there anytime (night or day, snicker, snicker).

NIGHTS  90 – 92    ST. LAWRENCE RECREATIONAL RESERVE.

The township of St Lawrence has a police station that only opens on Tuesdays from 8am – 3pm. (Other times by appointment).  Luckily we weren’t at St Lawrence on a Tuesday because, obviously, Tuesday must be law-breaking day.  On Tuesdays, I imagine, local hooligans and criminals enact all the law-breaking they’ve been plotting for the last week.  I imagine them spilling from the pub and commandeering the main street, constantly scrapping on the bowling green and refusing to be quiet in the library.   The police, having had a week to prepare, stand  primed on the verandah of the station, shooting off stern looks and waving their fingers threateningly.  The curtains have been drawn in the school house. The postmistress has taken shelter across the road, shivering in the shed belonging to the Bougainvillea Nursery.  Best stay out of town on law-breaking day.

The Queen’s Birthday weekend had arrived and we needed somewhere to hole up.  To help our Queen celebrate another year caravan parks all over Queensland raised their prices and banned dogs (even corgis).  Same story, different holiday. The St Lawrence Recreation Area, however, cared little about the Queen and remained large, free and available to all.

 The St Lawrence Recreational Reserve is really just a dusty big parking area beside some cattle yards but it has decent amenities and pay-per-use showers.  A dollar doesn’t buy much these days but, in dry and dusty St Lawrence, one dollar will buy you three minutes of steaming hot water.  And 2 x $1, when put in together, gets you enough hot water to glimpse nirvana. (This ‘user pays’ system, which is a cornerstone of modern capitalist ideology, pays little heed to environmental concerns, or at least  in my experience.  If I pay for nine minutes of hot water, as I did one night after being attacked by invisible things that made me itch all over, then the money paid absolves me from any guilt about wasted water.  I’ve paid my three dollars so bugger off.  What I do after that in the privacy of my own shower cubicle, and how long I do it for, is no-ones business but mine.  I’ve purchased that right.  Why should I care if the hot water runs out?

 p.s. -   I think carbon credits are meant to work the same way – “I’ve paid the bucks and bought the credits so piss off, I’ll consume as much as I want and spew forth as much pollutant as required.  Leave me alone.  I’ve followed the rules haven’t I?   It’s not my fault if the rules are ill-conceived and meaningless”.)

 

We stayed at St Lawrence for three nights.  It overlooked wetlands which attracted many water birds and drew Shana and her bird book out for an afternoon of twitching.  We watched the big open sky  cast orange and pink light across the clouds at sunset.  It wasn’t an exciting four days, but Shana and I don’t seek much excitement.  We are quite insular really.  Why, when there’s a gathering of folk having ‘fivesies’, and four grandparent aged people are leading the group in singing ‘Home Among the Gum Trees’, complete with all the actions, then, instead of wanting to join in on the ‘good times’, Shana and I tend to roll our eyes and continue on with whatever we were doing, staying as far away as possible.  I guess we are not natural ‘joiners’.  We give St Lawrence 3 stars out of 5.  The hot water was hot, the toilets inoffensive and the wetlands sufficiently swampy.  However, both of us being primary school teachers, we’d be ecstatic to never hear ‘Home Among the Gumtrees’ ever again.

NIGHT  93  -  A GRAVEL PIT, MACKAY.

We wanted to go see Finch Hatton Gorge, which I remembered as a series of waterfalls and deep water pools.  I lived at Mackay for a while and used to escape to Finch Hatton Gorge whenever I was feeling overwhelmed.  If you like bushland and waterfalls then it’s a place that soothes and heals.  I wanted to go back and visit it as I would an old friend.

Finch Hatton showground is, like Bellingen, open to campers every day of the year except for the week leading up to the local show.  That was the week we arrived.  A sign on the gate announced the showgrounds closed.  Then it started to rain.  Truly.

We’d travelled a long way inland (relatively, for us at least) to go see the gorge so off we went anyway, in the rain, with nowhere organised for us to stay.  We only went to the bottom pool and we didn’t swim.  It was too cold and my old friend seemed a bit grumpy.  It was still nice to catch up though.  I still felt wistful in the rain.

We left, heading back towards Mackay as the sun readied for bed.  Near Mackay we drove past a flat area on the side of the road, stockpiled with mounds of gravel.  After a quick discussion we agreed that, if the ‘bago really does only require flat ground for us to be comfy, then we had found some.  We turned around and nestled in between some piles, hoping that no-one required gravel early in the morning.

 

  We give the gravel pit ½ a star out of five.  Even for a gravel pit it was a bit grungy and big noisy trucks shunted past all through the night.

NIGHT 94  -  GUTHALUNGRA REST STOP (NOT BOWEN).

It was a day of reminiscing.  I detoured us all to a place called Laguana Quays, where I once worked as a scaffolder.  Laguana Quays was to be a golfing resort – a blend of state of the art golf courses mixed with tropical resort styled living.  I helped build several accommodation blocks, a clubhouse and a marina in the six months I worked there.  It opened to great fanfare and was highly regarded.

We drove into Laguana Quays and immediately drove past a building overtaken by vines.  As we drove further we passed golf courses left untended for years, wallabies colonising the fairways; we passed signs that had fallen to the ground like over-ripe apples, their arrows pointing wherever they liked; and we passed red tiled roofs that had fallen into the buildings, leaving holes gaping and open to the weather.  It was eerie to see what was once so opulent now lying in disrepair.  Eerie and shameful really.  Perfectly good housing had been left to rot away.  Good on us first world (I say sarcastically), if it doesn’t reap a profit then let’s let it fall apart rather than use it for any societal good.  I’m sure it could have been utilised by some section of society.  Apparently it only lasted ten years or so before it was abandoned.

We drove away from Laguana Quays saddened and headed for Airlie Beach, a place I don’t like aesthetically but it was where I lived while working at Laguana.  More reminiscing.  Airlie had gotten bigger, more gaudy, seeking even greater attention for itself.  We stopped and went to the markets.  We had lunch on the beach.  And we drove away thankful that we were just passing through.  We intending spending the night at Bowen.

I really like Bowen.  It has a few lovely beaches but I’m especially fond of Horseshoe Bay.  We got there in the afternoon and it was sunny with little wind.  We hit the water and played around, cooling down and being silly.  There were several ‘backpacker vans’ in the carpark and young men with European accents were playing soccer on the beach or attempting to walk along a rope strung between two trees. A man and a woman lay entwined on the sand, young and oblivious. It was everything you could want a tropical afternoon to be.  There were signs everywhere warning against camping there though.  Signs that warned of on the spot fines.  We weren’t concerned.  We’d sneaky camped before.  We were sure we’d find somewhere nearby.

And we did.  It was only two bays over from Horseshoe and there were no signs anywhere warning against camping.  The scenery was beautiful.  There was a toilet nearby and a tap beside us.  We got the weber out and cooked a meal and ate it as the sun went down.  We then climbed into the van and settled down to watch ‘The Voice’. 

 

Not long later there came a knocking at the door (a rapping at my chamber door).

It was dark and about 8:30pm.  A guy dressed in a hi-vis shirt with a council logo handed us a warning card and told us to leave.  I said there was no sign and he said it had been ripped down and that we’d be fined if we were still there in the morning.  Bummer.  I guess it had to happen sometime.  We waited until ‘The Voice’ ended and then packed up and hightailed it outta town.  Our ‘Camps Australia’  book informed us that Guthalungra Rest Stop was about 50kms away.  Luckily there were a few vacant spaces available when we arrived.  We pulled in close to midnight and, trying to make as little noise as possible, we went to bed.  I don’t give the Guthalungra Rest Area a score.  It could be 5/5 because it welcomed us in the middle of the night but, realistically, we saw little of it.  We were up and out of there early the next morning.  Glad it was there though.

 

NIGHT 95  -  HOME HILL COMFORT STOP.

Home Hill is a satellite suburb of Ayr and has been enduring economic hardship.  Not long ago, apparently, most of the shops in the main street were closed.  I guess the local council debated various ways to revitalise the town.  Someone realised that thousands of tourists in RVs travelled through the town each year and surmised that they’d have spare dollars to spend.  What happened next was quite innovative I reckon.

Running parallel to the main street, but one street over, languished a disused railway station.  This was turned into an information centre.  Opposite the station three new brick buildings were constructed, each catering directly to the travelling RVer.  The town built a toilet and shower block, offering free hot showers any time of the day or night.  Next to it they built an open kitchen providing sinks and power points and dining tables.  The last building was a coin-operated laundry.  It was a great idea that appears to be re-invigorating the town.  When we were there the café was doing a roaring trade, the supermarket was busy and well stocked and the local pubs had been refurbished and were offering cheap counter meals and extended ‘happy hours’.  Little trinket and gift shops are opening up and the pet shop keeps running out of doggy treats.

 

It is a bizarre place to stay though.  The amenities buildings supplied have the air of a caravan park but everything happens along two edges of a busy suburban street.  It’s not uncommon to see someone dodging through the traffic in a dressing gown, wet hair wrapped in a towel; or someone carrying a plate full of food across the road to their car.  The personal is still very public in a caravan park, but at least they provide an over-riding sense of separation from the general public.  Not so at the Home Hill Rest Area.  It’s a great idea though.  There should be more of it.  I give the Home Hill Rest Stop 3 ½ stars out of 5.  It is a demonstration of innovative thinking.  It does have problems though.  Goods trains still rattle by throughout the night and sometimes hoons drive down the street tooting their horns and yelling, thinking it hilarious to wake people up I guess.

NIGHT  96  -  BLUEWATER REST AREA, TOWNSVILLE

Townsville came as a pleasant surprise to us.  The place is beautiful, especially around The Strand and Flinders Street East.  We’d been led to believe that it was an unpleasant place, and maybe the ‘burbs are, but the town and the water front are clean and spectacular.  But there were no dog friendly parks nearby so we only stayed for the day.  We were spending the night at Bluewater Rest Area – one of four free camping areas provided by the Townsville council, all of which are in picturesque surroundings.  Good on you Townsville.

 

We didn’t actually stay at the Bluewater Rest Area though.  It was full when we got there, all available space being used.  Having learnt nothing from our experience in Bowen, we found a spot across the park, opposite the designated free camp zone.  We parked behind a no camping sign, comforted by the fact that three other travellers were doing likewise.  It was on the edge of where the schoolbus picked up the local kids to take them to Townsville.  It felt wrong to be there.  We vowed to be up and out of there by 7am (and we were).  I give the Bluewater Rest Area one star out of five.  It looked okay from across the park.

A BIG DECISION

Being on the road forces you to make decisions, much more so than when your abode is fixed.  Everything is constantly in flux.  For example, the environment takes on a crucial role in forcing decisions to be made, and it limits the options available.  A calm and warm night allows you to do pretty much anything you want, pretty much anywhere you want to do it.  On a calm, warm evening you can BBQ outside, maybe using a council barbie beside a beach, perhaps set up the butane burner beside it, sit in the shade, sit in the sun, etc.  The main decision to be made is whether you lather yourself with insect repellent or don a long sleeved cotton shirt and lightweight trousers.  Heavy winds present less options.  Heavy winds are unpleasant all round as they attempt to rip the awning down or fold it in on itself.  They sweep sand and dust up into the air making it hard to breathe.  Strong winds make outdoor cooking impossible, weakening the flame so that the barbie never heats up.  Rain is the worst.  You get wet, your gear gets wet, the ‘bago floor becomes smeared with clumps of mud.  When rain and strong winds arrive together …you get the point.  When shopping, grocery buying decisions must consider a probable ratio of indoor to outdoor cooking and the subsequent requirements.  Etc, etc. (Technically everything could be cooked inside.  Bloody hell, the ‘bago has a microwave, a griller, an oven and three hot plates.  However, cooking creates smells and many smells linger.  Meat and fish for example.  So, just as you wouldn’t cook meat or fish in your bedroom, we try not to do it in the ‘bago.  It just creates a more pleasant inside environment over time when some things are cooked outdoors.)

Yep, life on the road is about decisions.  Sure, you always have options, but those options need to be continually assessed against one another with a clear victor needed.  Otherwise confusion reigns and inaction rules.  We play scissors, paper, rock quite a bit.

At Townsville we had a massive decision to make.  We had to decide whether to turn left or continue on straight ahead.

In other words, did we head inland turning left along the Flinders Highway enroute to Darwin, or did we continue straight ahead, through town and on up to Cairns and the Daintree?  The second option sounded fantastic at first.  We both loved the idea of spending time in the rainforest.  There was a problem of logistics though; a problem of time and a problem of repetition.

In a vehicle as cumbersome as the ‘bago, however far north we travelled from Townsville on Highway 1, we had to travel back along Highway 1 for the same distance.  There are alternate roads that go from Cairns to Mt Isa but they can be sketchy.  If we had a 4WD then there’d be no worries, but we don’t.  We have a 5 tonne lumbering house-bus that steers like a rock and shakes and jars when traversing even the lowest of shopping centre speed humps.  To get to Darwin we must turn off from Townsville.  That’s the reality.

Enter logic.  We’d both already been to Cairns and I’d been to the Daintree briefly before.  Shana wanted to see the Daintree but we reasoned Kakadu and Mataranka and The Kimberleys, all of which are definite destinations, would offer similar experiences (sort of). But it wasn’t only the repetition of distance that concerned us, there was a time factor as well.

We think we are just ahead of the main body of RVers heading north for the winter, or so we have been told.  The oncoming flood is still just a strong trickle at the moment.  When the season is at its absolute peak everywhere becomes crowded and claustrophobic.  We don’t take well to crowds.  So far we’ve had little trouble finding space where we wanted to be.  That’s the way we’d like it to stay.  Maybe we’ll regret it later but, as I say, decisions have to be made.

Having said all this we didn’t ‘turn left’ at Townsville.  Although happy(ish) to delete the Daintree from our itinerary, Shana really, really (really) wanted to go to Mission Beach – about halfway between Townsville and Cairns.  Fair enough.  Another decision made.  Off we went.

NIGHTS 97 – 100  -  MISSION BEACH CARAVAN PARK.

Shana, the queen of the internet, had done her research again.  At Mission Beach there are two caravan parks beside each other, a road running between them.  Directly fronting the beach is the council run caravan park.  Its amenities are crusty and old and it costs $20 per night.  It doesn’t take bookings.  Behind it, across the road, is a privately owned caravan park.  It is spacious and new and beautifully laid out at $42 per night.

We’d recently parked in a gravel pit and frequently used dodgy public toilets on the side of the road so opulence was not a requirement for us.  We crossed our fingers hoping for a space in the council run park.

We scored the last space available.  Yay!  We were shoved in on an odd angle closer to a family of four than we’d have chosen ourselves, but happy to be there.

Mission Beach is a tropical island on the mainland.  The beach is fringed with Cocos palms which curve gently towards the sun.  The sand is white and wide and leads to water warm enough to play around in during winter.  The town has as many restaurant/bars as it does other shops combined.  The pace of life is gentle and slow. 

 

We stayed for four nights.  We enjoyed it but we must say that the park had a surprising air of unfriendliness about it.  We’ve discussed it, Shana and I, and we can’t pinpoint anything in particular, but we didn’t feel as relaxed and comfortable there as we had in most other places.  Maybe it was our proximity to the family next door.  We could certainly hear everything they were doing so they must have been able to hear us.  The park emptied and filled around us several times so we could have moved.  We didn’t though.  We give Mission Beach Caravan Park 2 out of 5 (plus 2 for location). They did squish people in but we learned that actual eavesdropping is more entertaining than reality TV.  We also celebrated 100 nights on the road while there.

NIGHT  101  -  BLUEWATER REST AREA, TOWNSVILLE.

It wasn’t our intention to be here again.  We knew we had to retrace our steps along the same road but we hadn’t intended returning to exactly the same place.  We had our hearts set on a place called Balgal Beach.  It read wonderfully on the net and we were looking forward to it.

Balgal Beach met all expectations.  It was majestic – a white sand beach meeting a flowing river mouth with the free camping area positioned on the headland between them.  The area was tiny and completely full.  Ridiculously full actually.  Imagine a wall of bricks held together by mortar, then replace the bricks in the image with large campervans and caravans, now replace the mortar with ‘backpacker vans’ and tents.  Between them all possible space had been taken.

Bluewater was only 10kms away so, sadly, back there we went.  This time we camped in the appropriate area and were pleasantly surprised by Bluewater Creek.  It flowed cool and fresh and had no crocodile warnings attached.  I splashed around in it for a while, keeping Morrissey near in case a set of nostrils and eyes slunk along the river towards me. (To save Morrissey of course, not to throw him toward any croc while I made my escape).   ( I think.)   This time we give Bluewater Rest Area 2 ½ out of 5.  It’s a much better place when used as authorised.

NIGHT 102  -  CORAL COAST CARAVAN PARK, TOWNSVILLE

I was becoming excited.  I’d never been ‘out west’ before and I’d long looked forward to driving through ‘the outback’.  We needed to do a few things in town before we left, stocking up on all the essentials – food, water, gas, grog, 2 kinds of coke.  We decided to stay a night on the fringes of town, close to all the mega-shopping centres and homemaker warehouses.  And close to the RAAF base as it turned out.

Did you know that helicopters are nocturnal?  I had no idea.  During the day, when the sun shone hot and bright, we never spotted a single helicopter.  To be honest, if it wasn’t for the signs pointing to the RAAF base, we wouldn’t have even known we’d entered their ecosystem.  They started appearing at dusk.  We heard the first one take off while we were out ‘webering’ our sausages.  It was very noisy but, like bats, a single one is tolerable.  It’s a whole colony that can drive you mad.

Well the whole colony were out that night.  We could hear them filling the sky, a large group, flying over us and around, noise alternating between loud and FUCKING LOUD, the TV working sometimes but mostly not.

There’s nothing we could do and culling is not the answer.

We went to bed about 10pm and they were still there.  Surely they didn’t do this every night.  There was residential housing nearby.  Nobody could endure it every night.  Maybe it was just a case of bad timing on our part.  Maybe we’d witnessed a rare occurrence; chanced upon something like a seasonal mating ritual.  We’ll never know.  They were gone again in the morning.  We give the Coral Coast Caravan Park 1 star out of 5.  Hadn’t they heard of anti-aircraft guns.

 

This is the last coastal entry for a while.  From here it’s the wide brown land for me.

 

 

 

Nights 68 - 86

THE DOG RULE

Lately we have been confronted with a rule enacted by some ‘dog friendly’ caravan parks concerning allowable dogs.  It’s a rule that hinges upon a complete lack of reality as far as I can tell.  The rule goes like this – ANY dog that weighs less than 10kg is a safe and welcome dog; ANY dog that weighs over 10kg is unsafe and therefore unwelcome.  This is a standing rule, regardless of the breed of dog or the dog’s individual temperament. Thankfully not every ‘dog friendly’ park observes this rule.  The ones that do sound a lot like this over the phone:

ME: Blah, blah…we also have a dog.

THEM:  How big is it?

ME: What do you mean? (playing dumb is my best strategy).

THEM: How much does your dog weigh?

ME: (lying a little) Oh, it’s about 14 or 15kg I guess. (Morrissey actually weighs almost 20kg).  He’s solid but not large.  He has a great temperament. (I say pre-emptively, hoping to subvert the rule I know is coming).

THEM: We only accept dogs up to 10kg in weight.  Sorry.

ME:  It’s only a couple of kilograms more and he really is a lovely dog.  He’s very placid.  He’s no bother (I say this not quite begging, but I do have a moderately pleading tone).

THEM: I’m sorry but your dog is too heavy.  I can’t accept your booking.

ME: But…?

THEM:  Sorry, it’s the rule.

And there is nothing I can say from this point that will make a scrap of difference.  The ‘Dog Rule’ stands,  apparently sacrosanct.

 

 

Once I tried debating the voice on the end of the phone.  I pointed out, quite rightly I believe, that small breeds of dog are often the most aggressive.  I explained that the ‘little yappy dog’ syndrome actually does exist and that a caravan park full of snarling and yapping hyperactive little dogs all standing off against each other and against the world doesn’t seem like a well thought through goal, no matter how much each individual dog weighs.  Her rebuttal was, and I am still shaking my head as I write this, that “a small dog biting a child would create less of a wound than if a large dog bit a child”.  That’s it.  That’s the rationale beneath the rule.  I understand it a bit – like I know that if you cut yourself with a steak knife the wound will be less severe than if the cut was caused by a chainsaw.  I get the ‘economies of scale’ but my point still stands.  If the bigger dog has no temperament towards biting then the whole bite comparison is moot.  Morrissey’s bite may well be bigger than that of, say, a fox terrier, but, unlike most fox terriers I’ve ever met, Morrissey doesn’t open his mouth in anger.

 

If ‘dog friendly’ caravan parks see fit to discriminate against certain dogs then surely such discrimination would offer better results if based on temperament – of both the dog and the owner.  Any judgement of a dog’s suitability should be based on witnessing the dog and watching how it behaves and reacts to commands.  And, when satisfied that the dog poses no problem, the owners should be made to demonstrate an ability to use a doggy bag to clean up after their pet.  A more apt phone booking conversation would include the questions ‘how well does your dog respond to commands?’ and ‘on average, how many poos does your dog do each day?’  If the owner cannot answer the second question THEN refuse the booking.  The owner should have picked up every poo the dog has done.  Responsible dog owners have a rough understanding of the pooing habits of their pets etched into their consciousness.  Picking up poo is never pleasant and not something easily forgotten. 

 

 In my utopian dog friendly caravan park responsible owners of bigger dogs would rightly be given the respect they deserve – the bigger the dog; the fuller the bag.   The booking conversation would go as follows: “You must really love your dog to pick all that up four times a day.  Come on in.  We trust you. We trust how you will control your dog.  Welcome”.

 

NIGHTS  68 – 72  - BRISBANE.

We had some unfinished business to complete in Brisbane before we left.  The first was Frida’s birthday.  Shana was present at Frida’s birth 9 years ago and they remain close.  Of course Frida wanted Shana to go to her party.  And of course we wouldn’t miss it.  And of course, 9 year old girls at a party scream constantly and for no valid reason.  Ado, Kieran, Tom and I, doing our best to further maintain gender stereotyping, went to the pub to watch the footy.

The second thing we had to do was transform ourselves into musicians.  Tom, who is a songwriter, has created the ‘youdoiticantbebothered’ project.  This entails about thirty people interpreting and recording one of Tom’s songs however they want.  Roping in pro-muso and producer Kieran, Shana and I were to record a song each.  It wasn’t a spur of the moment thing.  We’d had months to hone it.

 Shana created a spoken-word poetic narrative backed by Kieran on mandolin and an all-star chorus of singers including herself, Cammie, Ness, Frida and Henry.  I played acoustic guitar and attempted a Joy Divisionesque atonal mumble alongside Kieran’s sweet voiced backing and bass playing.  We left the ‘master tapes’ in Kieran’s hands.  The results will be available on ‘sound cloud’ soon.

So, with business completed, it was “See ya Brissie.  Love the people but hope your footy teams lose”.

 

NIGHTS  73 & 74  -  MUDJIMBA CARAVAN PARK, MUDJIMBA.

Leaving Brissie we headed for the Sunshine Coast – first stop Coolum.  The Coolum Caravan Park provided our first encounter with ‘The Dog Rule’.  We’d researched places to stay on the Sunny Coast and Coolum Caravan Park hawked itself as ‘dog friendly’.  “We have a dog” I told the crabby old stick behind the counter.  She launched into the weight theory of dog appropriateness.  Somewhat gobsmacked, I convinced her to at least look at Morrissey who exited the van when called, sat on command, dropped when asked and was summarily rejected anyway.  “He’s too big and too heavy” she said, sounding to me like Cruella DeVille.

 

Mudjimba Beach is 5 minutes south of Coolum.  They accepted Morrissey unseen and without reservation.  The caravan park is only 50mtrs from the beach, about 40mtrs from a little shopping strip.  It was a small and lovely, quiet and unpretentious.  It was a great place for the three of us to reacquaint ourselves to living together in a tiny box, re-establishing routines and rules of personal space.  I give the Mudjimba Beach Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5. It was a bit of an oasis hidden in the somewhat gaudy Coolum area of the Sunshine Coast.

 

NIGHTS  75 – 77   SARAWAK CAMP GROUND, INSKIP POINT.

 Inskip Point faces Fraser Island and is comprised of several camping grounds just north of Rainbow Beach.  Most are only accessible by 4WD but a couple can be negotiated by 2WD cars and chunker buses like the ‘bago.  We chose ‘The M.V. Sarawak’ over ‘The M.V. Dorrigo’ campground.  (Bizarrely all the camp grounds are named after ships that have come to grief in the surrounding waters).   Sarawak was further from Rainbow Bay and closer to Fraser Island and, to us, that seemed better. 

We were back to roughing it (yeah…right) with no power or potable water and reliant on the always pleasant and exciting long-drop toilet.  (Of course this is not true as we have a clean and comfortable toilet in the ‘bago.  We try not to use it much though.  Especially for number twos). 

We’ve been very lucky with bush camping and we again found a space in the front line overlooking the beach, even though the camp ground was fairly full.  There was no surf – the beach fringed a water course that ran between the mainland and Fraser Island, about 500mtrs away.  The water flowed in a strong current and didn’t really entice Shana or I to go swimming or fishing. You could swim further down the beach - about 800mtrs away - where Fraser Island ended and allowed surf to sneak past.  Here was where the M.V.Dorrigo camp ground was, which, now being able to compare the two, we would have preferred.

 

We didn’t move though.  We couldn’t be bothered packing everything up and so we stayed put.  We were content enough, hanging around for three days, relaxing and reading and going for walks along the beach.  We met fellow campers and struck up conversational friendships.  As a generalisation older people love to give advice.  Shana now knows the minute details of how to work the CB radio and we both know how to repel mosquitoes using smoke from a wood fire and by ingesting the appropriate vitamins (B12). 

 

We went to Rainbow Beach on leaving – we could see the rainbow sands clearly from near where we were camped.  The sands are spectacular.  Rainbow Beach township is not bad either.  We went looking for ‘Carlos Sandblow’.  All the guides say it is a large sandhill but we still believe it to be the name of the local porn star.  I give M.V.Sarawak camp ground 2 stars out of 5.  It’s a dumb name and we went to the wrong campground. M.V. Dorrigo is an equally dumb name but at least you can swim there.  Plus long-drop toilets only work well until the sun heats up.  Heat transforms them into a bug infested stink cell.

 

NIGHT  78 – ABSOLUTE WATERFRONT CARAVAN PARK, BARGARA.

The name is accurate.  Parking on our allotted space was as absolute waterfront as it gets, like parking along Nobbys Breakwall would be absolute waterfront.  In fact, it felt like we could have been on Nobbys Breakwall except that we were not as high above sea level.  We had similar boulders stacked up from the ocean, a similar mix of gravel, bitumen and concrete beneath us and no way of accessing the water without having to scramble across a razor sharp field of barnacles and oyster shells.  All that was missing was a parade of joggers.

This park wasn’t our first choice.  Again Morrissey was the victim of ‘The Dog Rule’ at our park of choice in Bargara; near the sandy beaches; next to all the funky shops.  I must say, however, that the owners of The Absolute were fantastic and I’d rather not bag the park out too much.  They had this sows ear almost looking like a silk purse in various places.  It was clean and tidy and it was apparent they had made a great effort.  It’s just a pity that ‘the best spot in the park’, as our space was described to us, was really a carparking space.  We were put there because the park was full.

Which I find un-nerving.

 

Why is a place as mediocre as The Absolute Waterfront Caravan Park full?  I can only put it down to The Dog Rule.  Everyone staying at this park had a dog, most over 10kg.  Is this a sign of things to come?  Is it a case of “you have a dog, take whatever crap spot you are offered”.  Maybe we should dress Mozz in a bonds suit and cover him with a crocheted blanked; pretend he’s an ugly kid.  I give the Absolute Waterfront Caravan Park 1 ½ stars out of 5 and this is mainly for the pretty fish themed shower curtains and the homely quotes on the amenities walls.

 

NIGHT  79  -  FIRST POINT CARAVAN PARK, AGNES WATERS

At $40 per night off peak rate, this is the most expensive place we have stayed.   We had to come here because, we’ve been reliably informed, Agnes Waters is the last place offering surf when heading north. (Yes, yes, yes, we know the last statement is technically incorrect.  We know that during a cyclone several waves appear in various harbours and bays along the coast.   But we don’t want a cyclone.  Really, we could think of nothing worse.   So, like he-who-cannot-be-named, we refuse to acknowledge them or entertain any possibility of experiencing them). 

First Point is a pretty headland at the southern end of a long, open beach.  It looks like it could throw out a good wave on the right day.  But today is not the right day.  The water is warm and inviting but almost lake-like.  A pity, but we were in the caravan park seeking hot showers and washing machines and electricity. Tomorrow we intend bush camping in the next bay south, less than a kilometre away –  just $6 per head per night.  At forty bucks a night for a little power and hot water, the last surf on the coast, and an almost perennial summer, you’d think the First Point Caravan Park must be making a tidy profit.

 

We also went to 1770 (the town, not back in time).  We initially thought we might stay there but, although it is nice, it wasn’t our ‘nice’.  It’s a fishing village with a pub and a caravan park and large tidal movements that when out turn the ocean and the river into one wide mud flat.  I know people who find the place enchanting.  Fair enough.  Shana & I give the First Point Caravan Park 2 stars out of 5.  It was expensive with out-dated dark and dingy toilets.  We fixed them though.  We had two showers each.

 

NIGHTS  80  -  85  - WORKMANS BEACH, AGNES WATERS.

Workmans Beach is a bush camping area 0.8 km up the hill from Agnes Waters township.  Positioned atop a headland it overlooks a rocky beach with surf breaking into a little bay. It has walking tracks through the bush going in both directions.  Run by the local council it has flush toilets and a cold water shower.  Dotted amongst the trees there are campsites ranging from small tents to fifth wheelers that make the ‘bago look small.  Theoretically, camping there is limited to 30 days, but some campsites demonstrated years of habitation.

We stayed for six days – here are some vignettes.

 

 

                Surf!

This was the last place to surf for months and on the third day a chunky swell arrived.  It looked fantastic – corduroy lines sweeping around the point groomed by offshore winds.  Workmans was clean and sweet that day, and I had it for an hour by myself.  There were many other surfers in the camp but I don’t know where they all were.  It was mid-tide and rising.  I couldn’t imagine it getting any better with more water.  The rides were long, but the waves lacked power really.  They were big, but fat and wobbly.

The surf the next day was bigger and Workmans little bay was a mass of moving water.  With my board tucked under my arm, I rode the pushie down the hill to Agnes.  While I was watching from the beach, bodyboard beside me, the life-guard came to check me out, checking my intentions.  He advised me not to paddle out.  I think he was following the ‘bodyboards are for kids’ line of logic.  I assured him I’d be fine (a big swell at Agnes Waters tops out at 2mtrs or so).  I had a couple of hours of fun.  Again, the waves lacked power, but if you worked them hard enough you got a decent ride. 

I surfed Workmans for the next two days, with the swell dropping slowly.   Waves came through less frequently but it was the start of winter and I was in boardies and a rashie.  Can’t complain.

                Mr Manly Vs the Magic Bus driver.

I first met Mr Manly in the surf.  I’d been surfing on my own for an hour when he paddled out.  I was glad for the company.  If nothing else, he being there halved my chances of being eaten by a shark.  He told me he was from Manly.  He said it in that way I’ve found common with people from Sydney’s Northern Beaches – in a tone close to skiting, as if Sydney’s Northern Beaches are the pinnacle of where anyone could possibly live.  I glorified Newy.

He and his wife were in a camper van near to us so I saw him often.  He was a strutter – roostering around and preening shirtless, his nipple ring reflecting sunlight.  He was my age and in good physical condition.

Now, the Magic Bus arrived on our fourth day.  It was a large coaster bus painted brightly and advertising itself for hire.  It had two owner/drivers and six backpackers on board.  The backpackers could get on and off at certain points, paying for the experience by the day.  The drivers owned the business.  The bus stopped in a prominent position and several two person tents were erected around it.  They had fun.  They were noisy and drunk at night but not disrespectfully, or I didn’t think so.

On the morning of their second day they fired up a generator.  Generators are noisy but not banned.  There were many in the camp ground.  One of the bus’ drivers started playing music loudly through the bus speakers, I believe to cover the sound of the generator.  It was about 11am.  I didn’t know the music but it was a ‘coastal chill’ type of song.

Mr Manly had just returned from surfing.  He didn’t like the loud music.  Clad only in wet speedos, he hurumphed his way over to the bus, shouting all the way and acting like the little bantam rooster he was.  He yelled without pause, he pointed his finger accusingly, he reached into the bus cabin trying to grab the keys and he puffed himself out.

I could see it all from where I sat.  Mr Manly believed he spoke on behalf of the whole campground – “we all don’t want this noise, etc”.  Really, I’d rather have the music than listen to the generator droning.  Mr Manly got into the face of the bearded and bare-footed bus driver.  They were nose to nose.

The young guy was very cool.  He spoke loudly but he didn’t shout.  He said “if you’d asked me I’d have turned it down.  You didn’t have to come over and threaten me.  Chill out.”  Mr Manly hollered back “The music was so loud you wouldn’t have heard me”.  The young guy simply said “bullshit mate.  That’s bullshit and you know it”.   These words deflated Mr Manly.  He tried various other excuses but with lessening conviction.  It was obvious - Mr Manly had gone about it the wrong way.  It was he who was guilty of disrespect to others.  The music was turned down but it was clear that Mr Manly was not the victor.

When I saw him later that day I just ignored the whole issue, discussing the day’s surf instead.  He’d never enlist me to support him in any way.  If anything, it was the bus driver who was the hero of the camp.

                The Vespa

We haven’t had much occasion to need the Vespa.  It’s a complicated process to remove it & not really worth doing if camping for single days.  However, camping for six days with the town (coffee shops) nearby was the perfect opportunity.

She’s a townie is Vron (Shan’s name for the Vespa, which is female by the way).  Vron scoots comfortably around city streets, she finds sneaky parking spots, she edges forward cheekily at the lights.  But she positively and absolutely does not take to the country.  It’s not what she was built for. 

To get anywhere in the campground requires negotiating a maze of overlapping tracks.  These tracks are made of sand.  Vron hates sand most of all.  With her petite wheels and smooth tyres sand crosses her up and trips her over.  Keeping her upright becomes a fight.  Picture Shanzie, helmet on and desperately seeking coffee, both legs stretched like outriggers making an isosceles triangle from her bottom, paddling through the sand at 5kph.  Watch her do this until she disappears from sight.  She stuck with it and by the end of our stay she was throwing the tail sideways like a motocross rider (well…almost).

 

                Kev and Rebel the randy.

While camped Morrissey made a friend.  His name was Rebel and he was a black and white staffie – a bit shorter than Moz and a lot stockier.  Rebel had grown up living mostly in the wild.  Kev, Rebel’s owner, was a permanent nomad from what we could gather.  He had a limp and an air of melancholy and we got the impression that he lived on the road more due to necessity than choice.  We never asked why.  We became friends but not at a delving level.  We visited his camp with Moz; he and Rebel visited ours.

Rebel had a distinguishing feature – his testicles hung large and low like a cow’s udder full of milk.  It was noticeable.  Kev said that people always commented on it. (He also said that a dog takes after its owner.  He was only joking but we sought no validation).  Maybe this is why Rebel spent a lot of his time trying to mount Moz, lip-stick out and humping wildly towards genitalia that Moz simply didn’t possess.  It didn’t worry Moz too much.  He’d just wriggle and squirm out from under him and they’d wrestle again for 10 minutes or so until Rebel’s overwhelming randyness returned and the whole impossible dance recommenced.

                The Big Earthworm.

My ideal me is a man who is capable of providing fish on cue.  My ideal me would say “I’m going fishing now.  Any particular fish you desire?” and have the skill and knowledge to make it real.  When as-I am-now me says those exact same sentences, well, we both have a laugh and then Shana checks our stock of tinned salmon or tuna.  I’m learning though.  I’ve studied different fishing rigs and tried various baits and skimmed fake fish through the water, all with little success.  And I’ve read books.  The latest advice I’d read regarded bait.  I read that local bait is always the best.  More fish will be caught if the bait comes from the local food chain.  Makes sense.

I was walking back from the toilet one day late in our stay.  I was following the main sand track and it had been churned up following a spell of rain.  Sticking out about 75mm into the air was what looked like a massive earthworm. It was beige/white and about as thick as a pencil.  It struck me as an ideal instance of local bait.

The problem was this – we were leaving the next day and I hadn’t intended going fishing again.  The day was grey and I was feeling lazy.  So, if I wasn’t going to use the worm immediately, should I leave it to its wormy ways or pluck it from the sand for later?  I stood in the middle of the track thinking about it.

Mr Manly saw me and came over.  I knew he’d have advice.  “Pull it out” he said, “take it with you.  Worms are fantastic bait.  You’ll catch fish somewhere with it.  It’s much better than using frozen bait.”

I did what he suggested.  I can’t yet report on any success or not as the worm remains unused.  It was about 300mm long and I put it in a bag with some sand and then put the whole lot into my fishing bag.  I hope it’s still there.  It could have escaped by now, slithering through the ‘bago late at night, growing stronger and larger and waiting for its time to retaliate and find its way home.

                Taking Morgan Fishing

I can’t recall exactly how I met Morgan but suddenly there he was, in our van, looking around and seeing if is head would hit the roof; and there we were, sitting uncomfortably on the unmade bed of his 28 year old Nissan Urvan, he demonstrating how he could reach the fridge without getting up. (Morgan and his van are the same age.  This is the main thing he loves about it).  Morgan is a French spearfisherman.  Not professionally, but he has all the gear and seems to know what he is talking about.  Unfortunately the water around Agnes Waters was too dirty for spearfishing.  Recent rains had muddied everything and so visibility was terrible.

Somehow we’d decided to go fishing off the rocks together.  We both had fishing rods and I had frozen squid and prawns to share.  Shana and Moz came with us as we headed along one of the bush tracks towards a back beach that had been recommended as the best bet for rock fishing.  We clambered down rocks to a windblown headland and quickly gathering stormclouds.  Two minutes in and rain began pelting down.  Serious heavy rain.  We sheltered under trees until the downpour passed.

Morgan quickly realised he would learn nothing from me.  Apart from the realisation that our rods were hopelessly inadequate for rock fishing, we had no success.  The wind was too strong, the surf too rough, our rods too short to clear anything.  After 15 minutes we gave up.  Defeated, we all trudged back to the campground.  I let Morgan keep some of the bait.  He was going fishing later, with Max, an easy-going dreadlocked Aussie boy who befriended most people in the camp.  Max was a good guy who could fish.  He’d already caught a large mackerel which fed him and Morgan and The Germans.  (The Germans are Daniel and Anika, a young couple (obviously from Germany) doing the East Coast in a Ford Fiesta, sleeping beneath a small, flimsy tent and two dollar shop tarp).   I’m happy to announce that Morgan and Max caught nothing that evening.  Obviously there was only a single fish lost in the ocean around Agnes Waters and it had already been caught.  I give Workman’s Beach Camping Area 4 ½ stars out of 5.  It is a fantastic place, almost as good as Goolawah (see Blog entry 1).  It has surf, sun and a town nearby.  The toilets flush and you can drink the water.  If for some reason you were homeless and had to live rough or out of your car then this is the place to come to.  Some people even believe fish can be caught here.

 

NIGHT  86  -  FIRST POINT CARAVAN PARK, AGNES WATERS.

Workman’s was fantastic but we had a pile of dirty laundry and we hadn’t had a hot shower ourselves for a week.  We weren’t really sure where we were headed next and so went for the softest option of all – the caravan park a kilometre back down the road.

 

First Point hadn’t changed during the week.  It was still too expensive and un-necessarily dingy.  But, again, it served its purpose.  We did what we needed to do and plotted a possible trajectory for the weeks to come.