Nights 200 - 217 - The Coral Coast part 1

NIGHT  200  -  NINGALOO CARAVAN PARK, EXMOUTH.

You don’t go to Exmouth by happenstance.  Exmouth is not somewhere you go as a quick diversion on the way to somewhere else.  If you end up at Exmouth it’s because you intended going to Exmouth.  It’s a 170km diversion off the North West Coastal Highway.  That’s 170km of nothing – coastal scrub, coastal scrub and more coastal scrub.  Each way.  The town is now built around an armed forces communication centre but its once secret history was that it housed an American submarine base during World War 2.  The communication centre was built in the ‘60s.  A RAAF base was built nearby after that.  So why would you go there?  Unless you were a trainspotter of remote military outposts, why would you venture so far off the main road to travel through so much coastal scrub?

The answer is ‘Ningaloo Reef’. 

Ningaloo Reef is a coral shelf that starts at Exmouth and runs for 300km down the coast and, unlike the Great Barrier Reef, Ningaloo can be easily accessed from the beach.  In some places the reef is only 2 mtrs off the shore.  This makes for free, easy and spectacular snorkelling.  Furthermore, Cape Range National Park has been created around the reef so that the sites are protected and generally pristine.

But we were to do the reef tomorrow.  Today we had shopping to do and we also had to organise  where the Mozza-dog would be going for the day.   There were 3 options – a vet, the pound, or a caravan park near the national park that offered dog minding at fifty bucks a day.  We also had to book in with National Parks to sort out a camp within Cape Range. 

With so much to organise we went surfing instead.  Exmouth has a reef/ beach called Dunes that opens out onto the Indian Ocean and funnels in quality surf with regularity.  Or at least the books told us it did.  It wasn’t great when we arrived but that was due to the wind, which had turned onshore.  I paddled out and gumbied around, having not surfed for 4 months or so.  I caught a couple of choppy foamballs and came in after half an hour.  It wasn’t much, but Dunes whispered promise.

 

We give Ningaloo Van Park 2 ½ stars out of five.  There was nothing great about it, nor nothing terrible. It was an easy walk to the shops but Exmouth isn’t large.  Everywhere in town is an easy walk to the shops.

NIGHT  201  -  YARDIE HOMESTEAD CARAVAN PARK, EXMOUTH.

It wasn’t the perfect day but it was pretty close.  The perfect day would have delivered less wind and a great camping site in Cape Range National Park.  But the National Park was full and the wind was gusty all day.  So, if it wasn’t the perfect day, it was none-the-less great.  Morrissey had been boarded at the local vet and we had no restrictions.

If you only go to one place along Ningaloo Reef, so all the brochures say, then make sure it is Turquoise Bay.  Who are we to argue?  Turquoise Bay is spectacular.  I never realised there were so many colour variations between blue and green, but there are least 20, and all of them separate and combine and merge and swirl in the water at Turquoise Bay.  I’ve seen lots of oceans but I’d never seen water so spectacularly coloured.

Turquoise Bay has a snorkelling drift.  That is, you enter the water at one end and the current pulls you along above the coral.  When you reach the sand spit at the other end you get out and do it again.  Unfortunately the wind had turned the current into a torrent that swept you along so fast you continually worried about missing the sand spit. Or at least I did.  If you missed the sand spit there was a strong possibility of being swept out over the reef to the surf breaking beyond it.  Or at least I thought there was.  As such, instead of enjoying the coral beneath you, you continually lifted your head out of the water to check exactly where you were in relation to the shore and the sand spit.  Or at least I had to.  It was exhilarating …and stressful.

But around the point was a quiet and sunny bay out of the wind.   Here you could stretch out on the towel and let the sun caress your skin.  No stress involved.

We then went to another snorkelling place called Oyster Stacks.  Oyster Stacks gave us a better snorkelling experience.  There was still a strong drift but it didn’t threaten to drag you anywhere except further along the beach.  Here we could relax more and watch the underwater-world sweep by below us.  We watched as outrageously coloured fish paraded their stripes of green and yellow and orange and vivid blue; some as tiny as a tadpole and others large and meaty. 

At Oyster Stacks we saw a guy we’d already seen three times.  When we first saw him we couldn’t really believe it was true.  He’s a young Japanese guy with long hair and little grasp of English (we know because he was with us in the National Parks office while we all waited to see what campsites were available that day).  What made us look twice (and eventually caused me to take a photo) was his mode of transport – A POSTIE BIKE!  A bloody postie bike!  He had the thing kitted out like it was some thousand cc road touring machine – like something Ewan McGregor would be riding across Siberia.  But, and I say it again, it was a postie bike - 110cc of lacklustre letter-delivering whimper.  When fully loaded I doubt he’d go much faster than 80kph, and they have a fuel tank the size of a lawn mower’s.  But he’d somehow managed to get to Exmouth travelling all those kilometres through the scrub.  We dearly wanted to talk to him.  I had so many questions to ask.  But we already knew he spoke little English so we nodded as we passed by and admired him from afar.  

 

The last place we went was a bird hide in amongst the mangroves.  There were already a couple of American twitchers holding binoculars to their eyes when we got there.  They were friendly and knowledgeable and with Shana discussed various Australian wading birds and the likelihood of spotting them.  I played with the camera.  Shana didn’t spot any she hadn’t seen before.  

The Yardie Homestead Caravan Park was just outside the boundary of the National Park.  It looked tired and old, with a clientele of old-school caravans that looked like they hadn’t moved in years. Shana and I felt tired and old, both falling asleep soon after arrival.  We woke up, ate something lacking nutrition, then crashed out again ‘til morning. 

 

We give the Yardie Homestead Caravan Park a hearty thumbs up.  We were tired little munchkins and can’t remember much about it.

NIGHT  202  -  SOME PARKING BAY BETWEEN EXMOUTH AND CORAL BAY, EXMOUTH RD.

Another fairly big day in Exmouth.  We left Yardie Homestead early, me seeking surf.  Dunes beach was nearby.

But I was a wuss.

The surf was clean, but big, bordering on massive.  There was a nice rip running which would provide an easy ride out the back.   I watched several sets thunder through and made the decision to stay on the beach.   Some people caught screamers, grabbing the rail and leaning into the wave as it reared over the reef.  Others got thrown over the falls and had to fight their way back out.  I decided to go fishing instead.    

Learmount Jetty is on the way out of Exmouth.  It has been written up as a fishing mecca.  If you don’t catch fish at Learmount Jetty then, sorry my friend, you have no business baiting hooks.

 If you’re expecting me to say I didn’t catch any then you are wrong.  I caught 4.  They were all babies though.  I couldn’t keep any of them.  The point remains, however, that I caught them, and in the doing so have restored my outdoorsman credentials.  It only took 2 hours.  Shana and Moz walked the shoreline waiting and, having returned, smiled encouragingly at my empty catch bucket.  “Next time huh.”  

The wind as we drove out of town was ferocious, the worst I‘ve ever encountered, and we were driving directly into it.  What appeared as red smoke hazed the horizon ahead.  It was dust – blown up off the ground and held suspended by the wind.  Advice I’d read came back to me - don’t drive directly into the wind as it doubles fuel consumption; don’t drive through dust as it clogs the air filter and affects engine performance.  We saw a siding off to our left.  It wasn’t a recognised rest stop, although there was a yellow garbage drum halfway along.  It was nothing more than a track off the road.   But it became our track off the road. 

We pulled into the middle of nowhere and braced ourselves against the wind.

 

I give the track alongside the road 1 ½ stars out of 5.  Why not? Perhaps it has aspirations toward something grander.  Maybe all it needs is encouragement.

NIGHTS  203 - 208 -  WAROORA STATION

We first went to Coral Bay, a place that literally exists as just one street, ½ kilometre long, with nothing but coastal scrub around it for hundreds of kilometres in three directions.  Along this street there are two shopping strips, two caravan parks and a swanky resort.  At the end of this street is one of the most beautiful bays you will ever see.

 

Coral Bay has clean white sand and shimmering water of blue and green and turquoise.  It’s breathtaking.  The water is clear and large fish swim close to shore.  There’s no fishing in the bay so these fish swim next to you without concern.  You can lie in the water or sit on the sand in the shallows and watch them swim around you. 

 

Ningaloo Reef runs just off the shore with large patches of lavender coral protecting hundreds of tiny iridescent fish.  There’s a hard coral bulb as big as a small house – they call it ‘The Brain’ – that is almost like a small island in low tide.  You can sit on it if you want and it attracts bigger fish as it offers them a place to hide. 

We spotted a turtle swimming below us and we swam with it for a few minutes, enchanted.  How can something that is so cumbersome on land be so graceful through water?

But school holidays had started and Coral Bay is an understandably popular destination.  Both caravan parks were fully booked so we were only here for the day.  We didn’t really want to leave and would have stayed if we could organise it but, instead, we headed for Warroora Station, a place that had been recommended to us as a beautiful destination unaffected by school holidays.

Warroora Station was initially disappointing.  After clunking along 12kms of the worst dirt road we’d yet negotiated, we arrived to see a long, open beach and howling onshore winds.  The reef looked beautiful, having similar turquoise coloured water as Coral Bay, but it seemed as open and inhospitable as Coral Bay had seemed sheltered and welcoming.  There were 4WD only camping areas along the sand but we 2WDs were restricted to a small section on a bluff overlooking the beach.  We found a spot and parked, sitting in the back and feeling slightly grumpy.

We soon realised Warra (as it is known) had a distinct weather pattern.  It was moderately windy in the mornings until about 10am then a much welcomed calm descended, lasting until the early afternoon.  After that strong onshore winds developed again, buffeting everything all afternoon and through the night.  This continual buffeting caused us to build a windbreak to try and gain some shelter and allow us time outside the ‘bago box.  It worked to a degree, keeping our top halves comfortable while our legs continued to be sand-blasted by the wind coming under the van.

 

 During the calm, however, the water at Warra was even more startling than at Coral Bay.  The reef was further out and we didn’t see many fish but the colour of the water as it dazzles calm and green in the sunlight is etched into our minds.  I can’t explain it and the pictures we’ve taken don’t do it justice.

We stayed for 6 days.  We had initially intended staying seven but the wind wore us down.  The calm spell each day was magical but all the fine particles of sand blowing through the air rubbed away our patience and our resolve. 

Quote of the stay comes from old Barry, camped nearby, a long-termer who was going fishing to his ‘special’ spot.  

“If I have a lucky night you might get some neighbour fish.”

“What’s neighbour fish Barry?”

“The edible fish that I don’t want.  They’ll taste alright, but not as good as the ones I’ll be keeping for myself”.

(We didn’t get any fish, and didn’t see Barry again before we left.  Our guess is that it was an unsuccessful night).

I give Warroora Station 2 stars out of 5.  At $15 per night with no amenities provided it’s expensive for what it is.  And the sewerage dump point was so far away old Barry gave me a lift there.  Apparently the fishing was good along the shore but I only went once, tossing the bait out toward the ocean using all my might, only to watch the wind arc it back to within 2 mtrs from where I stood.  If the fish were that close I could simply wade out and kick them onto the shore. 

NIGHTS  209 – 212 -  CORAL COAST CARAVAN PARK, CARNARVON.

Sand seemed to be embedded in every crevice and hole in my body.  I won’t go into graphic details but we were over bush camping for the moment.  Time to lay out some serious cash and take advantage of the trappings of Western civilisation.

Carnarvon is noted as being the fresh food capital of Western Australia.  It grows much of the fruit and vegies for the state and provides over 70% of the seafood.  For us, however, Carnarvon turned out to be the junk food capital of the trip so far.  You can keep your fresh bananas, I’m up for pizza and burgers and fried chicken and fish and chips (not all on one night – spread across our stay there).  We chose the caravan park closest to town and took advantage of the easy walking distances.  There wasn’t that much else to do there really.  Apart from the town centre, Carnarvon is laid out so that any natural landscapes are a drive away and, once parked, the ‘bago stayed put (which was next to the large LPG tank, quite a contrast from the wilderness of Warra).

Carnarvon was a town-in-progress while we were there.  There are all sorts of beautification works being completed along the river front (The Fascine) that will make it a pretty place one day, if ever the wind stops howling.  All we saw was construction areas and chainwire fencing and signs telling us how much Rio Tinto are proud to be involved.  Mining money to the rescue again.

 

We also timed our Carnarvon stay to coincide with the NRL Grand Final.  I didn’t really care about either side in the contest but I love watching the Grand Final.  Shana offered to stay back with Morrissey while I watched the game at a pub.  I accepted and, after spending the first half hour alone, met a guy called Stan and we watched the game together, two rugby league buffs in a state devoted to Aussie Rules.  Jim Beam sat with us a while as well.  A take-away pizza on the way home rounded off a good afternoon - ½ chicken for Shana, ½ any and all meat for me.

We give the Coral Coast Caravan Park 4 stars out of 5.  It had new shower rooms, which I never wanted to leave.  It was very dog friendly, with an (unofficial) off lead area behind.  And junk food was within easy reach.  They even gave us a ‘four nights for the price of three’ deal even though the special commenced after we’d already booked in.  It was a pleasant place to kill more of the school holidays.

NIGHTS  213 – 215  -  POINT QUOBBA CAMPGROUND, POINT QUOBBA

If, for whatever reason, you’ve felt like feeling sorry for me, then now is the time to do it.  I must admit to feeling a little sorry for myself.  It’s because I’m within 100km of camping at a surfing icon.  I’m within 100km of visiting a surf break and surf camp that I doubt I’ll ever get to again, at least not while I’m capable of actually surfing it.

The place is Gnaraloo and it has featured at least once I reckon in every surf magazine in the world.  It’s a heavy wave by all accounts, made heavier by rogue waves that frequent the area, marching through fatter and taller and more malignant than your regular set wave.  It’s a place to be wary and a place to test yourself out and a place that, possibly, had I managed to get there, I’d have sat on the surrounding cliffs and watched, scared shitless as others paddled past the point of no return.  Who knows? and that’s my point.  Lots of people know but I don’t.  I only got to within 100km of the place.

Okay, to be totally honest, if it had been an all-consuming passion of mine to get there, then I could have done so.  Sure, the road in is supposed to be terrible.  It’s for 4WDs only.  I’d been told that on a number of occasions.  But I’ve also read stories of people getting there in conventional 2WD cars.  I don’t know how – maybe luck, maybe desire, maybe both.  Really, we could have ‘thrown caution to the wind’ and, while ever forward progress was maintained, kept the ‘bago charging ahead.  After all, it’s built on a truck chassis.  We might have broken a diff or rattled the cupboards off the walls or broken an engine mount but these things can be repaired.  It’s only money after all, and what’s money when compared to a possibly life-changing experience?

Or, and Shana bless her suggested this, I could perhaps hitch in.  I could buy a little tent and a sleeping bag and stand on the side of the road at Quobba blowholes, waiting beneath the ‘King Waves Kill’ sign with my thumb out and an expectant face.  Surely I’d have gotten a lift.  Shana and Moz could have stayed at Point Quobba and I’d have had my Gnaraloo experience.

 

 

I’m not totally sure why I didn’t.  Honesty is rarely exciting and, being honest, I think I wanted Shana beside me.  That’s part of the beauty of a relationship – having someone help you confront your fears or help salve your failures. 

Or share in your joy.

 I didn’t want to go alone, and I didn’t want to jeopardise the whole trip by breaking the ‘bago.

Therefore I’ve changed my mind about you feeling sorry for me.  I’d rather you didn’t.  I made the decision and missed one place I’d have loved to have gone.  Boo Hoo.  I need to suck it up. I need to embrace the hundreds of places we have been to.  I need to enjoy the experiences we’ve had.

Like Point Quobba.

So…how can I describe Point Quobba?

Point Quobba is violently beautiful and charmingly ugly.  Simultaneously. 

It has a lagoon full of Ningaloo Reef coral and content and fat protected fish.  This lagoon beckons the snorkeler with its relative calm – a peaceful flatwater tucked behind a tiny island.  The sun reflects and dances across the surface and the wind draws playful ripples that leap onto the shore.

 

But large swells build in the sea beyond and the larger waves form into groups and explode at the mouth of the lagoon, one, two, three in a row, sending an angry surge fizzing and charging and swelling the lagoon with froth and turbulence.  The snorkeler, head down, unsuspecting, becomes captive to the sudden current, swept across the reef like a paddle pop stick in a storm drain.  The fish take refuge amongst the coral.  You see them staunch against the current as you flail past, your flippers flapping urgently as you kick pointlessly towards the shore, your breath quickening and rasping in the snorkel tube as you seek air.

 Then the current stops and snorkelling becomes a gentle pursuit again.  You look up and see a calm lagoon, now in the distance.  You are 300mtr along the beach and not totally sure how you got there.

Point Quobba campground has a style all of its own.  If Max was a beach fisherman in Mad Max 2 then Point Quobba would be tailor made for him.  It looks a lot like an encampment that could exist  near the end of civilisation with old caravans and corrugated iron shacks cobbled together amongst the sand dunes; a place for outlaws and ne’er-do-wells.  The dominant colour is rust and everywhere loose sheets of iron rattle and clang depending on the speed of the wind.  Amongst these streets of decaying fishing shacks park us modern types, our Winnebagos or Jaycos or house-sized tents on trailers echoing that civilisation hasn’t ended yet, and that modern relaxation can often come with a hefty price tag.   

 

Point Quobba blowholes are within walking distance of the campground.  There are several plumes that become visible as the ocean is spit into the sky through the cliff face.  It’s a great sight and a little scary - the ferocity of the Indian Ocean seemingly more violent and malicious than my friend the Pacific.

 

We give the Point Quobba Campground 3 ½ stars out of five.  It has fresh new toilets at the entrance to the grounds which, while a walk away, does encourage regularity of bowel movements and forethought regarding torch placement.

NIGHT  216  -  WINTERSUN CARAVAN PARK, CARNARVON.

Leaving Point Quobba had a touch of déjà vu about it.  We’d planned to stay longer but the wind continued to howl and gust and, well, piss me off really.  We’d get the occasional day of calm sunshine but ever since we hit Exmouth the wind has remained strong and constant.  The Wintersun Caravan Park is set back off the coast in Carnarvon, more out near the farms and orchards.  Hopefully we could have a day or so without becoming wind-addled.

But first we had a score to settle.

When previously in Carnarvon we’d neglected to buy any fresh fish.  We’d walked out to the small boat harbour to the fresh fish retail outlet but it was closed.  We vowed that this time in Carnarvon there’d be no junk food.  Fresh fish was our desire.  We walked happily into the shop, laughing and full of expectation.   We snuck out soon after, disappointed and aggrieved.

The fish was $50 per kilo.

We’d agreed it was too expensive without uttering a word.  Our faces communicated our disbelief perfectly.  

My alternate plan was terrible, but we followed it none-the-less.

My alternate plan was this – I was going to catch us some fish.  It’s a simple plan, and brilliant, if you completely disregard history.

We pulled into a little car-park on the river that had two jetties leading from it.  Around a fish cleaning table two men were scaling and filleting fish, which I took to be a good sign.  Once parked I walked briskly to the jetties, checking, as if I knew what I was doing, what sort of rig I’d require.  I took a wide berth of the fish table.  Talking could only reveal me as a fraud.

Shana, conversely, with Morrissey shaking his tail and leading the way, walked straight up to the fish cleaning table and asked the logical questions.  The fish being cleaned HAD NOT been caught where we were.  It was UNLIKELY I’d catch much from the jetties.  The fish shop was ALWAYS too expensive.  The BEST PLACE to get fish in town would be out of the esky the guys were slowly filling.

I walked over and joined in the conversation.  The two guys were local larrikins who, judging by their stories, didn’t worry much about the law - larrikins, but nice guys who asked questions about us and answered our questions about Carnarvon.  We chatted for over an hour and, when we left, we did so with a plate of mullet fillets they’d given us.  Maybe this was in part because I’d channelled my Dad when I said that mullet wasn’t a nice fish to eat.  

“This is Western Australian mullet” they told us “best eating fish you can get”.

They gave us the fish and challenged us that, if we didn’t enjoy it, to find them the next day and let them know.  They also gave us two crabs – a blue manna and a mud crab.

It was a successful afternoons fishing then.  We drove out of that carpark with fish in the fridge, just like my plan proposed.  The mullet was tasty and the blue manna crab succulent but the mud crab was manky looking and tasted like mud.

 

 

We give the Wintersun Caravan Park 2 stars out of 5.  It was big and almost empty and the showers, although hot, had a pathetic little flow.  They also ‘asked’ that you mop the shower after each use – “as a kindness to the other residents”.  Bugger that.  I’ve never had to mop out a shower cubicle in the 216 nights so far and, for the prices the Wintersun charges, they can hire a local cleaner rather than ‘suggest’ I do it. 

NIGHT  217  - ROADSIDE REST STOP 80KM WEST OF DENHAM.

We thought we might stop the night at Gladstone Lookout which, as you can imagine, is built on top of a hill.  The wind screamed through though, so we didn’t stay.  We had lunch and then sat with the gnomes, all of us looking out across the landscape.

Now gnomes are curious creatures and who really knows what drives their actions.  I’m not here to psychoanalyse garden gnomes.  We sat beside them and shared the view.  They said nothing to me and I said nothing to them.

Sometimes silence is best.

 

We ended up on the side of the road again.

 Still buffeted by wind.

Aaarrrgghh!