Nights 103 - 113 - outback heading west.

NIGHT  103  -  BIVOUAC JUNCTION CAMPING GROUND

I think it was as much my imagination as anything.

 It was my first trip ‘out west’ and, even though only two hours from the coast, Charters Towers leaned into the landscape like a (modernised) town from a Western movie.  It was one long street, a slight curve preventing you seeing the end, with buildings echoing a time of hitching posts and drinking troughs.  Looking along it from one end I could imagine horse-drawn carriages and toothless prospectors coming to town for supplies.  (I could also imagine American Indians and chewin’ to’baccy, which highlights how my concept of ‘out west’ has been formed through a young boy watching Saturday afternoon movies). 

It surprised me to learn that Charters Towers was once the second largest town in Queensland – Brisbane being the largest.  It was nicknamed ‘The World’ by the residents of the time, with gold mining success providing a standard of wealth that brought ‘anything one could want’ to the area. (And here my wandering mind has visions of Sydney’s Kings Cross, a legacy from a less innocent me and his formative experiences).  Today many of buildings from the era have been refurbished and look spectacular.  The past opulence is readily evident, even if what looks to have been the grandest of department stores now houses a Target. (Ahh, but it’s not your ordinary Target, it’s one especially branded ‘Target Country’.  It could be interesting to research what the difference is but I don’t care enough about department store philosophy and market positioning to think about it anymore).

Bivouac Junction Camping Area lies 22km west of Charters Towers, and 3km off the highway along a dirt road.  Even though the road was well maintained it still held enough corrugations and ruts to make us hold our breath, each one magnified by the sounds of cutlery rattling against itself in the drawer, glass jars clunking in the fridge and something creaking behind us that we’ve yet to determine. 

 

 

The camp was great.  It was once an army training area (hence ‘bivouac’) beside the Burdekin River.  The river was flowing while we were there and, apparently, there was good fishing to be had.  I couldn’t be arsed even though I think I like fishing.  It’s just so messy though.  What would happen if I caught something big enough to keep.  I’d have to go through the whole rigmarole of cleaning and disposing, etc, etc.  It all seems too much effort when there’s only a few hours before nightfall and you intend leaving early(ish) in the morning. (And what a positive attitude I here demonstrate.  I envision only success and the consequences there of.  As such, I find the supposed apathy of ‘couldn’t be arsed’ strangely inspirational).

 

We had a firepit beside our site and so collected firewood from beside the river, supervised by a mob of wallabies on the grass nearby.  That night we sat beside the fire, bellies full, alternating between watching the dancing flames and watching the winking welcoming of the clear night stars (cue acoustic guitar).

We give the Bivouac Junction Camping Ground 3 ½  stars out of 5 for the night skies, fauna and fire. And for the fact that I can now use the word ‘bivouac’ reasonably often without sounding like a wanker (no correspondence entered into).

 

NIGHT  104  -  THE CAMPASPE RIVER REST AREA.

Not much to say really.  We travelled 180kms to the Campaspe River Rest Area.  It’s really just an expanse of grass around a moderately maintained toilet block, a few stands of trees nearby.  There may have been a river but it’s dry now.  It had a lemon tree but all the lemons had been taken, those left too high to pick.   It was flat and felt safe and that’s good enough for the night.  We give The Campaspe River Rest Area 1 star.  It had a toilet.

 

NIGHTS  105 & 106  -  RICHMOND RV STOP.

Hughendon is a dusty two street town that sets me to wondering why people live where they do.  It makes me think of familial attachments.  Surely it can only the desire for close ties to family and friends that keeps people here.  That I can understand.  I can’t really understand anyone choosing to be here otherwise.  Maybe I’m missing something.

The ‘Lonely Planet’ said that Hughendon did have one noteable feature – ‘FJ Holdens’ - a hamburger place (joint) that was decorated with old rock and roll memorabilia.  I love a hamburger so we stopped for lunch.  I couldn’t bring myself to attempt the ‘Hughendon Special’, a burger that involved more meat than a meat-lovers pizza.  I did have a works burger though.  It was nice.  I didn’t look at the memorabilia too much.  I have little affinity with 50’s music and old American cars.

 The ‘dry season’ holiday had just started.  Students at the local high school finished at noon. We know because we witnessed swearing practise while we ate.  While we chewed fried meat assembling teens cultivated nonchalant poses and threw f-bombs into the air like confetti.  I didn’t care.  They weren’t my kids.  It wasn’t my town.

Richmond was roughly a 100 kms down the road, in the middle of what was once a vast inland ocean.  I’m talking about pre-historic times.  This inland ocean was once the home to a marine dinosaur - the Kronosaurus Queenslandicus - and Richmond’s identity revolves around being a major centre of Australia’s ‘dinosaur trail’.

15kms out of town there are two areas set aside for amateur fossicking.  Dinosaur bones and important fossils had been found here over time.  I quite liked the idea of achieving fame through discovering a new species of marine dinosaur.  Thinking about it as I drove, maybe that was the reason for us being here, at this time, on this day.  Perhaps it was fated that I discover fossils of extreme significance.  Why not? And, if indeed fated, then we needn’t hire the ‘correct’ fossicking equipment.  Fate wouldn’t care what I used.  With me I had a 20oz claw hammer, an insulated blade electrician’s screwdriver and a watercolour paintbrush.  Shana had a cheeseknife shaped a bit like a mouse and a watercolour paintbrush.  We shared the hammer.  With these tools we set out to create history.

 

Maybe fate had a sickie that day.  You haven’t seen me on the news have you?  Turns out we didn’t unearth a single skerrick of dinosaur.  We did find a couple of cool shell fossils and many little brown rectangles that we have since learnt were prehistoric fish scales.  They’re all very commonplace and not very exciting, even if the shell fossils are pretty cool.

After a hard days’ fossicking in the outback we craved water, and in more volume than a glass or bottle.  Richmond has just such a place – the Lake Fred Tritton .  The ‘Fred’ was constructed in the 80s to provide an aquatic recreational park for the area.  In and on the ‘Fred’ one can swim, water ski or jet ski.  It’s not a massive lake so the main rule is that powercraft must all steer in a clockwise direction.  (Here goes my imagination again, this time seeing the watercraft creating a whirlpool like kids do in a swimming pool.  Someone stuck in the middle, spinning round and becoming dizzy). It’s stocked annually with fingerlings of fresh water fish and yabbies and fishing is encouraged. 

We were absolutely alone as we walked around it. 

The most bizarre thing about the ‘Fred’ is that it was constructed over an existing grave site.   The grave is of historical relevance (can’t remember why) and so it wasn’t moved, instead a rock mound was formed atop it.  This mound now exists as a small island in the lake.

It sounds like a wonderful gesture of reverence until you spy what looks like a plastic bucket sitting on the island and read of its purpose.  The bucketesque thing functions as the hole for the annual hole-in-one competition.  So, onto the grave that reverently couldn’t be moved, each year scores of people attempt to land golf balls.  They pepper it for hours, balls bouncing off the rocks, attempting to land one in the bucket.  It’s seems a weird form of respect.  Rest easy historical dude.

Still, being around water was cool and refreshing and again I decided against fishing even though, as Shana pointed out “the fish are all captive.  They have nowhere else they can go.  If you don’t catch one here you might as well give up”.  Precisely.  There was no couldn’t-be-arsedness involved this time.  It’s just that no failure hits harder than the failure of a sure thing.

 

I give the Richmond RV Stop 2 stars out of 5.  It was, literally, a dusty paddock upon which people could park.  It wasn’t level.  It had no toilets.  But it was free and it was somewhere to park legally. So, Richmond, thanks for that. I’m not being sarcastic when I say that it’s better than nothing.

NIGHTS  107  &  108  -  JULIA CREEK CARAVAN PARK.

It was at Julia Creek that we first noticed how the landscape had changed.  Being also once part of the inland ocean, Julia Creek , like Richmond, is flat on all sides, plains of low scrubby trees extending all the way to the horizon.  But here we noticed a difference.

Shana articulated it the best.  She said it was as if everything had been brushed with a yellow wash, and she was right.

The trees all had leaves of green, but a yellow-green, a green similar to a Granny Smith apple.  Wild grass grew vibrant and healthy, but was sun-bleached or washed out, turning the ground the colour of straw.  The dirt was yellow-ochre and the light glowed strong and clear and lemon against the clouds.  It’s not what I had expected of the outback.  I expected vivid reds and achingly vibrant blue.  This landscape appeared jaundiced compared to the lush greens and blues of the coast.  Jaundiced, but not sickly.  It was entrancing and a different beautiful than I’d ever experienced before.

 

I had similar feelings toward the township of Julia Creek itself.  I surprised myself hearing my mouth tell Shana that “I could live here for a while”.  Only half-jokingly I suggested we seek teaching work in the area.  There was something attracting me to this place.

Possibly it was the abundance of water.  In Julia Creek water hangs in the air everywhere – floating in small droplets.

Julia Creek has a bore set into The Great Artesian Basin, an underground sea of water that exists under about 1/3 of Australia.  Water has been pumped out of the Basin at the rate of one million gallons per day for over one hundred years and the levels haven’t dropped.  Somewhere, somehow, the levels are constantly topped up.  What this means for Julia Creek is that water is not an issue, and so sprinklers throw water into the air everywhere you look, seemingly without stopping.  The caravan park had sprinklers that ran all night.  The local pool had sprinklers running whenever it was open.  Sprinklers watered the flowers at the McKinley Shire Council offices.  Water ran in rivulets over the roads and footpaths were soggy under foot.  It reminded me of summers as a child; warm wet air and long days of sunshine. 

 

Julia Creek also has an information centre that is the best I’ve ever seen.  It has several buildings each housing interactive visual and aural displays.  It’s really impressive.  (It told me about the Great Artesian Basin).  Plus it houses a ‘dunnart’’ - a hyperactive madthing of a rodent that hadn’t been discovered until recently.  It also has a sports centre with a skatepark, indoor sports arena, football field, netball courts and swimming pool all set around a community centre with a verandah perfect for lazy bbq fundraisers. 

I really liked the place.

We give the Julia Creek Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5.  The owners are extremely friendly and they let us wash the ‘bago for the first time since we left.  Never thought I’d be excited about washing the car.

 

BOUGAINVILLEAS

I’ve owned bougainvilleas during my life and I’ve never really taken to them.  Sure, the flowers can be stunning, but the plant runs rampant and has thorns all along the length of its stalks.  I’d pigeon-holed them along with blackberries and lantana as a pain-in-the-bum plant that was more work than it was worth.  Chances are I’d still feel the same if I had them in my own (generally small) garden.

They really brighten up an outback town though.

We first noticed a clump of them at St Lawrence, where there was a bougainvillea nursery.  One corner leading into town was ablaze with orange, crimson and red bougainvillea flowers.  The effect was quite startling.  This effect becomes even more startling the further west you get.

As mentioned earlier, outback landscapes can have a ‘yellow wash’ effect or even a non-descript emptiness of foliage and colour.  It can be beautiful in its own way.  But, against the paleness of the surrounding landscapes, the vibrancy of bougainvillea flowers catches the breath.  They look exotic in the outback, and rightly so, given that they originally come from the tropics.  But they love sunshine and tolerate drought and burst with health in the main streets of Hughendon and Richmond and Julia Creek where, planted en mass, their vibrancy of colour can feel like a carnival.

NIGHT 109  -  CORELLA DAM (NEAR MT ISA)

Although in the dry and dusty heartland, our love for water continues to dictate our choices.  We’d been told by people we’d met that ‘you simply must go to Corella Dam’.  It turned out to be a panacea.

The constant dust was having an effect on not just our mental state but our physical health also.  Shana’s nose was blocked, throwing up symptoms similar to hay fever.  She was sneezing and felt continual pressure at the back of her nose.  My nose was fine, the dust congregated at the back of my throat.  It felt disgustingly thick, like it’d been applied to my tonsils with a putty knife.  I tried to cough it away but it lingered.  I drank and I drank and it just turned to mud.  By day the ‘bago echoed to the sounds of Shan sharply dragging breath through her blocked nasal passages and me rasping and hacking like a fifty-a-day smoker.  Moz seemed okay.  I think he found the noises strangely attractive.

The Corella Dam contains several square kilometres of beautiful thank-god water.  You go along a dusty track that opens out to grassed banks and park where you want, right on the edge of the dam.  You can go fishing, if you want to fish; or swimming, if you want to swim; or boating, if you have a boat.  Or, if you’re like us when we arrived, you can simply sit back and look at the water.  You can sit back and let the dam moistened breeze salve your nostrils or throat.  You can sit back, breath deeply, exhale and relax.

 

We met people who directed us towards where fresh water crocodiles (freshies) usually swim.  Freshies, they assured us, pose no threat to life, either ours or Mozza’s.  We believed them and so set off in search.  The dam is massive (having once supplied water for a now defunct mine) and so we walked its bays and contoured edges for an hour.  It felt, looked and smelled beautiful but we never caught sight of a freshie.

It was sunny and hot during the day.  I wore only boardies and walking sandals.  Shana was similarly dressed in shorts and a singlet top.  We had to apply sunscreen.  It was a great shock, then, when the night brought with it the need to wrestle over control of the doona.  Corella Dam was the first place we’d encountered where the temperature differences between daylight and dark were as marked as if they were parts of separate seasons.  It gets bloody hot and it gets bloody cold, and does so within hours of each other.

I give the Corella Dam 4 stars out of 5.  It had water.  It had water. It had water. It had water.

NIGHT 110  -  SUNSET VIEW CARAVAN PARK, MT ISA.

From the sublime to the ridiculous.  If there was a notable view of sunset then I never saw it.  Then again, I was too busy preparing for the second state of origin.

We could have stayed at Corella Dam for many more nights had I not been a league tragic.  But there was no TV reception out there and I didn’t want to miss NSW’s glorious series victory (and from here I will mention the actual game no more.  I find bitter salty tears affect my laptop’s keyboard).

I’d become excited about watching the game in Mt Isa.  In my imagination I’d find a rabid Queenslander pub, full of rabid Queenslander miners, where I would sit quietly and watch NSW shatter their rabid Queenslander dreams.  I wouldn’t even support NSW, or not noticeably.  I’d just be a guy at the back, watching the game as if only mildly interested, cheering and dancing and delivering the bird internally, sipping quietly on a frosty cold cider.   

The reality was that the only Mt Isa caravan park that allowed Mozza dog was nowhere near any form of pub.  Sure, I could catch a taxi if I wanted…(but I didn’t want).  On to plan B.

Plan B involved the common room/camp kitchen of the caravan park.  All caravan parks have them.  I quickly revised my imagination to now witnessing the same decimation of the Queenslander rabid, this time involving Queenslander tourists and quietly sipped cans of coke zero.  I went and checked it out just before kick off.  The TV was on and the game was being shown, watched by 1 guy and two kids who were running around and screaming and no doubt having a blast but well cramping my Origin vibe.  I went back to the ‘bago, surprising Shana who thought she’d be blessed with alone time.  She was even less impressed at the end of the game when I’d regained my NSW sullen.

 

Of Mt Isa itself I’ve little to say.  It has a mine.  A big mine with two chimney stacks that are visible from everywhere, like Centrepoint Tower in Sydney.  The big difference is that Centrepoint Tower doesn’t continually spew forth plumes of black smoke.  (These stacks are the first visible sight of Mt Isa as you approach.  The landscape leading to Mt Isa is beautiful having changed from flatlands to crags and sculptural rock faces but then, through a gap between stunning red hills, you see a long phallic white chimney spitting bile to the sky).

The town itself could be anywhere.  Big enough to have suburbs it is a series of connected shopping strips and housing estates.  There’s all the big names – Subway, McDonalds, KFC, etc.  It could have been Parramatta.  It could have been Logan.  People tell us the tour of the mine is brilliant and not to be missed.  We missed it and maybe we’d have a stronger attachment to the place and its people if we hadn’t.  We’ve got limited funds though.  I’d rather fish on a top end tour boat than don workboots and head down a mine.

I give the Sunset View Caravan Park 1 ½ stars out of 5. In Queensland’s heartland they lacked Queenslander rabid.  1 bloke and 2 kids watching the game.  What a gyp.

NIGHT 111, 112  -  CAMOOWEEL BILLABONG.

More water on recommendation – a series of billabongs usually connected by a small flowing creek.  I say ‘usually’ as Queensland is in drought and the water in the billabongs is low, the creek a dry gouge through the rocks and dirt.

There was enough water for Shana to get the bodyboard out though.  I didn’t think she would.  It was hot, we were hot, and Shan’ said “I might go bodyboarding”.  There were 10 or so vans parked along the length of the billabongs.  Most had people sitting beneath the shade out the front.   Everyone faced the billabongs.  But Shana didn’t care.  She strode to the water, squelched through the mud, and then paddled her away along the billabongs and back, all through water no deeper then 500mm.

 Morrissey chased her of course.  There was a little island in the middle of the first billabong and Moz swam out to it and waited for Shan’ to come back.  When she did he jumped around like a mad thing.  He then came running up to me, looking like a two-tone dog; his upper body the usual red, his legs and belly a deep muddy chocolate brown.  Then Shan’ arrived (looking a bit like a two-tone significant other for the same reason.  Well…muddy half way up her shins).  She was refreshed but didn’t dare put her head beneath the water.  She headed for the bago’s shower.

While here we got the pushies off the rack.  Camooweel was only a kilometre or so away so we thought it’d be fun to ride into town (town being a servo, a historical museum, a post office/supermarket/liquor store and a mechanic).

We were following the dirt track towards town when a car stopped for no reason other than its occupants were keen for a chat.  We were reliving road experiences with the driver when the lady in the passenger seat went white and started pointing towards the grasslands we’d ridden through.  All heads turned, following her finger.  We watched as Morrissey half ran half bounded through and across the low lying tussocks, chasing three wild horses.  The horses were loping along, at speed but conserving energy.  Morrissey wasn’t conserving anything.  He was going flat out after them.  But he made no ground.  Even loping the horses pulled away from him, oblivious to his presence. 

We panicked at first and tried calling him back, but he was focused. He was in the zone.  I’ve no idea what he thought was going to happen.  He chased and he chased and when he could chase no more he returned, exhausted.  His tongue hung low, almost brushing the ground, and he was panting like a piston.  He followed us slowly to town and sat beneath a tree when we arrived.  People commented on how placid he was but  he was just too tired to raise his head.  When we got back to the ‘bago he layed still in the shade all afternoon.  He went to bed early but still managed to be eager and in our faces the next morning.

 

We give the Camooweel Billabongs 4 stars out of 5.  They are a great free camp.  The place is fantastic and the people who go there all seem to be hard core ‘travellers’, many having been there several times before.  They leave space between one another and, although very friendly and chatty, they don’t intrude or encroach on your privacy.

NIGHT  113  -  BARKLEY HOMESTEAD, NT.

Barkley Homestead sucks.   That’s how I feel.  We’ve driven 250 kms to stop in a place that offers nothing other than being a place to stop.  It’s a service station.  It has a caravan park and a bar attached but it’s a bloody service station.

The wind is howling blowing dust everywhere.  I’m not sure what there is to see and do outside our box on wheels because I daren’t exit to find out.  There is too much dust.  We’ve opened some windows just a little to allow air into our cell, but every particle of air has two particles of dust attached.  It’s everywhere I look.  It’s clogging my every orifice.

I’ve just had a shower.  It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and I stood beneath the dribble that fell weakly from the shower rose, twirling like a dog chasing its tail.  I’ve just come back to the ‘bago but I’m not happy.  I’m not relaxed. 

 

We’ve just come back from the evening meal.  We went to the bar and had the NT equivalent of pub grub.  I’ve just found out that the Barkley Homestead was never really a homestead.  I thought it was a relic from an older time, converted to a servo.  I thought it may have played a role in droving or opening the area up to cattle; something suitably historical.  But it wasn’t.  It’s only ever been what it is now, a place to buy fuel and to stop driving for a while. It was built in the early 80s.   It was called ‘homestead’ to make it sound more sympathetic to the local environment.  In other words, to make it sound like something historical.  It’s hot and it’s dusty and the built environment is playing word games with my emotions.

It’s morning and the wind has howled all night.  Fine red dust covers every surface and is again coating the inside of my throat.  It hangs defiantly, dancing up a storm in the shards of sunlight that come through the skylight.  We are supposed to stay in the area a couple more days.  Fuck that.

I don’t want to say I’ve had a tantrum but that’s because I’d rather not admit it.  I think Shana was sympathetic but I unloaded on her unexpectedly.  My hatred for this wind and this dust became rebellious while she was having a shower.  It ambushed her as she walked through the door.

I want out of the outback.  Take me back to the coast.  I refuse to stay here in the dust and the wind.  It’s a choice.  We don’t have to.  I don’t want to.  Tennant Creek is an hour away.  It’s too close.  I want to get out.  Let’s turn right at Three Ways.  Turn towards the sea and keep driving.  We could drive all day if we wanted to.  Please can we drive all day?

I give the Barkley Homestead ½ star out of 5.  I’ve read people who have reviewed how they love the place.   They’ve called it an oasis.  I guess it depends on the weather.  On a still day it might have been tolerable.  I hated it.