Nights 265 - 274: Towards Adelaide

  NIGHT 265  -  TWO MILE ROCKS REST AREA,  EYRE HIGHWAY.

We drove much of the day, excited to be nearing the Nullabor.  We arrived at the rest area after dark, not sure what it looked like, not sure who was there. 

We were greeted by a series of deep potholes that bounced the ‘bagos lights as they illuminated nothing but spindly trees and vacant spaces.  Driving in further revealed a few vans secreted behind the larger clumps and two Harleys parked off to the side, tents erected beside them.

I’d say it was just a place to sleep and that it offered no excitement at all.  Shana would probably argue otherwise.

 The morning revealed the Harley riders to be young, shirtless and buff.  Shana ate her cereal and gazed out of the window, oblivious to the fact I’d also removed my shirt and had accidently covered my pecs with olive oil.

 

I give The Two Mile Rocks 1 star out of 5 – there were two too many distractions for my liking.

NIGHT 266  -  MOODINI BLUFF REST AREA, EYRE HIGHWAY

Another day of continuous driving, Shana and I sharing the duties.  The Nullabor proper has yet to start and there was no scenery other than the typical low level scrub that seems to cover much of Australia.  The only thing of interest, and it was of little interest to me, was that the two hunks on Harley’s seemed to be constantly around us.

Because they journeyed faster than us, but they made more stops.

So they were a constant presence in the rear-view mirrors, gradually becoming larger and more imposing as they approached.  Then they’d roar past, all pointless exhaust noise and chrome-plated bluster.  Once in front of us they’d remain visible for many kilometres, pulling away only slowly on the long, straight highway.  Eventually they’d be too far ahead of us to see them.  Good.  Sons of Anarchy is only a television show and in real life bikers aren’t that pretty.  But, before long, there they’d be as we drove past, in some poxy rest area on the side of the road, pulling on their cigarettes like rockstars from the 70s, leather jackets and helmets removed, oozing insouciance.  

All freaking day.

And wherever we stopped, they were there.  It was a long day of driving and we had to refuel three times - top ups to maintain a full(ish) tank.  They were there every time.  At one road-house we purchased a token to have a shower - $5 for 9 minutes.  They were laughing and smoking at a picnic table when we entered the shower block and they were still sitting, laughing and smoking when we came out. We all nodded towards each other.  “Hey”.  “Hey”.   Shana drove away and they appeared in the rearview mirrors 15 minutes later.  I’ve never seen her so interested in what was behind her.

When we eventually pulled into Moodini Bluff Rest Area I was sure they’d be there, tents erect, abs glistening.  But they weren’t.  So we pulled in between two trees, amongst the dust and the wind, and hunkered down for the night, just us and several comforting old couples with caravans.

I give the Moodini Rest Area 4 stars out of 5.  It didn’t have two too many distractions for my liking.

NIGHT 267  -  PEG 164 REST AREA, NULLABOR DESERT

There’s me, and there’s whoever used Latin to name where we are, and one of us is being too pedantic.

You see, I can not agree with the Nullabor’s name.

Because the word ‘nullabor’ has a distinct meaning. ‘ Null’, in Latin means, none, zero, the lack of any.  ‘Arbor’, in Latin, means trees (not plants in general but trees in particular).  Combining the two gives us ‘nullabor’ meaning ‘no trees’. 

And that’s bullshit because, although there’s not large stands of them, there are lots of trees on the Nullabor. 

So am I being pedantic for pointing out the obvious flaw in the name, or was the naming dude being pedantic, perhaps following some esoteric system of categorisation regarding trees per square acre or something similar, and thereby, in slavish adherence to propriety, ignoring the (admittedly few) trees so obviously present? Basically my point is this; if you see one tree – even just one solitary tree – does that not render the name inaccurate?  (But Australia has a history of misusing Latin.  Wasn’t Australia declared Terra Nullius, meaning (roughly) ‘land belonging to no one’, when there was so obviously a race of people living here with a complex social and societal structure?)

I was disappointed at just how many trees were surviving in a place where they supposedly couldn’t.   And not just trees, but plant-life in general.  I expected the Nullabor to be kilometre upon kilometre of continuous sand devoid of anything living, or at least not visible when flashing past at 90kph.  In my mind deserts exist as the images I can readily recall  - Egypt around the pyramids, great drifts of sand in the Sahara, even America with its occasional rattlesnakes and cactus plants.  The desert is where sand creeps with the wind and, if left unchecked, claims everything in its path.  But the Nullabor was just more of that bloody low level scrub.  It looked no different than the drive into Exmouth or Denham.  AND IT HAD ABOUT THE SAME AMOUNT OF TREES with less sand than the average beach.

Nullabor Desert – as if!

It did have its own freakiness though.  It was a wild place to spend the night.

Firstly, there’s the flys.  I think that in a crazy piece of celestial accounting, perhaps for ease of stocktaking, God has populated the Nullabor with one fly for every grain of sand in all the other deserts of the world.  They’re easy enough to kill, being big, fat and docile, but killing one is useless.  Immediately there’s another to take its place, in the same spot, doing the same thing.  And then there’s another, and then another, etc.  You know how in space there’s no end and you could just go on and on and on without ever reaching any conclusion.  That’s what it’s like.  And they’re friendly too, the flys.  They’d make very loyal pets, nestling into your eye or your ear canal or up your nasal cavity.

But there is also great beauty. 

Just on dusk, as the sky darkened, storms started throwing lightening around in any direction we looked. Like a giant stadium with us in the middle. There were no sounds.  We heard no thunder.  But we watched as sheet lightening illuminated the clouds and angry bolts slammed themselves into the ground.  It was all a long way away, out to sea on our left, over the desert proper on our right.  We didn’t know which way to look.  We braved the flies as long as we could, entranced by the violent beauty, glad we could watch from a distance. 

 

Then out came the beetles.  Apparently flies are for the day-time.  Then, as if scared of the dark, they go.  Or maybe there isn’t enough air space for them and the beetles to be out at the same time for the numbers are about the same.  In the Nullabor beetles are the creatures of the dark.

We were sitting in the ’bago and thought it had started to rain.  There was a heavy thumping against the sides and the roof, like seriously large raindrops.  In fact it was so heavy it could be hail.  But there was no other indicator of rain.  It hadn’t cooled down.  There was no fresh ‘rainy’ smell on the breeze because there was no breeze at all.

I poked my head out through the door and hundreds of beetles smashed into it like a concrete barrier dropped across a busy freeway.  They were just throwing themselves at the ‘bago, and anything in the ‘bago’s path.  They were seeking the light and must have thought that, through sheer weight of numbers, they could somehow break through the walls.  They couldn’t get in of course - ‘Bagos are stronger than beetles.   But thousands of teeny flying nuisance bugs could get in, and they bloody well did.  They flowed in through the windows, small enough to fly through the squares in the flyscreen.  We sprayed, we endured, we sprayed again, we endured some more, but we couldn’t close the windows because...

…at 10pm it was still 35 degrees.  Sweat exploded across our bare skin.  It soaked into our clothes and captured the teeny bugs, trapping them against our bodies.  Any bare skin felt like it was coated in a teeny bug broth.  We’d have turned all the lights out and gone to bed but…

…we lost 2 ½ hours when crossing the border.  It was over a day ago but we’d yet to recover.  ‘Bagolag was throwing us out of synch.  It was midnight in the (so called) desert but our bodies were happily humming along thinking it still only 9:30pm.  And wanting action. 

Eventually we found sleep but a storm manifested in the early hours, the wind trying its best to tip us over; big heavy rain drops splashing us through the open vents.  There were deep fresh puddles in the morning, and raindrops glistening in the trees that apparently shouldn’t exist.

I give the Peg 164 rest area three stars for the show but only one star for hospitality.

NIGHTS  268 & 269  -  POINT SINCLAIR CAMPING GROUND, CACTUS BEACH.

Cactus glorious Cactus.

It’s the first day of summer and I’m at a famous surfing icon.

There are only two places in Australia where wilderness and consistent epic surf converge to create mythology  – Gnaraloo and Cactus.  Gnaraloo is by itself, at the end of 100km of dirt road, beckoning and teasing from the rugged and inhospitable coastal edge of the Pilbarra.  I couldn’t get there.   Boohoo re Gnaraloo.  Although Cactus is on the coastal edge of The Nullabor it is less rugged, less inhospitable.  We still had to nurse the ‘bago along 20km of often heavily corrugated dirt road to get there.  At times we crawled along at 10kph and still the corrugations echoed around the ‘bago like machine gun fire.  But I was resolute.   I wasn’t going to miss this one. 

And it was worth it, for many reasons.

Point Sinclair camping ground is beautiful, reflecting the respect that the owner has for the local area.  It is built in the sand-dunes with all amenity buildings constructed from rocks gathered locally.  The same guy has owned it for years and, being from the surf hippie era, these rock buildings have been crafted and re-crafted over the years rather than quickly cobbled together.  The walls swirl and rise like a wave and they are fastidiously maintained.

 

 

The campgrounds themselves are divided up into a series of keyholes, each one capable of housing five tents/vans/etc.  Each keyhole has its own rockwall toilet and taps.  There are paths linking the keyholes and a series of ‘roads’.  In this way nobody need walk on the dunes themselves, thereby maintaining their structural integrity.  It’s well thought out, well-constructed and well maintained.  The owner calls every evening to clean the amenities and he doesn’t mind a chat.  Naturally he is full of stories.  On the first evening he predicted that a good swell would arrive in the morning.  I was like a kid at Christmas by the time I fell asleep.

His prediction was accurate.  A morning surf check revealed line after line of perfectly formed waves marching around the point, playful at about 1mtr high.  On with the wetsuit.

To reach the line-up was dead easy involving more walking than paddling.  It was a matter of walking the reef beneath the headland and then jumping off into the rip.  The reef had some sharp edges, and walking it while wearing flippers required concentration, but after 5 minutes I was grinning like a fool from the edge of the Cactus line-up.  Two minutes later I’d caught my first wave, deliriously happy with how benign it was.  At 1mtr Cactus provides power and thrust and continually rebuilds before you, allowing you to climb in and around the face at will.  It doesn’t snarl at you.  It doesn’t threaten to bite or throw you onto the reef.   You ride it until it closes out, about 400 playful metres from where you started.  It’s not a steep rollicking adrenalin rush at this height.  It’s just fun, over and over again.

 

The place wasn’t busy but everyone there was there for the surf.  After my surf I continually walked from the ‘bago to the bench overlooking the break.  There I’d sit for a while and chat to whoever else was there, or who walked past with their board.  We’d sit and talk and watch those out enjoying the waves and the sunshine.  I did this for two days, the surf slightly larger on the second day.  I surfed, I ate, I slept, I talked, I sat in the sun with Shana and Moz.   And all the while I realised how lucky I was, and all the while I was drunk with contentment.

 

Cactus glorious Cactus.

(An interesting aside is how the place got its name.  There’s not an actual cactus anywhere near the place. Apparently, so the story goes, the first surfers to scour that part of the coast, after fighting their way in with with no track, were greeted with a less than inspiring sight.  The surf was terrible.  One of the surf adventurers then loudly lamented “What a waste of time.  This place is cactus (meaning shitty)”.  This initial assessment was proven to be hasty and vastly inaccurate but the name stuck, primarily as a way to dissuade travelling surfers.  The locals knew the place fired up but they wanted to keep it for themselves so they actively maintained the original assessment  - “We don’t go there.  The place is cactus”.  The deception worked for a while but, yay for me, not anymore). 

I give Cactus my heart.  It’s now a proclaimed surfing reserve.  Hopefully that means it should never change.  I hope so. 

NIGHT  270  -  STREAKY BAY CARAVAN PARK

The trip out of Cactus was worse than the trip in.  The road was the same, but instead of being fuelled by anticipation my desires were dragging along the ground.  If we weren’t now on a schedule – if we didn’t have to be in Melbourne by a given date – we would have stayed longer.  Who knows how long we would have stayed.  But we had to leave, and it was this ‘had to’ that magnified every corrugation on the road out.  Each bump reminded me that I wanted to stay.

Shana’s good.  She reads me accurately.  She kept talking about Ceduna, the next town along.  It was a place we had joked about, saying how, in a way, we’d lived in Ceduna since we left Newcastle. (Winnebago names each model after an Australian town – Birdsville, Esperance, Longreach, Menindee, and more.  Ours is a Ceduna).  She was wondering aloud what symbology Ceduna might hold, talking my spirits up.

Having now been there, we’ve no idea why Winnebago chose Ceduna as an iconic town.  It’s true that, like the large and lumpy ‘bago, Ceduna is moderately beautiful in a ‘thank god the Nullabor’s over’ kind of way.  The town is on the water and there’s a tourist centred foreshore.  It’s got all the shops you need.  Thankfully, however, the ‘bago doesn’t reflect the prevailing attitude of the town, which seems to be sullen apathy.  In all the places and shops we visited, and there were several, we were greeted with how-dare-you expressions and begrudging groans that we’d interrupted them.  If the ‘bago followed its namesake’s lead it would refuse to start in the mornings and it would disregard any direction we tried to steer. 

An hour was long enough for us in Ceduna.

Streaky Bay is a town we’d been told to visit.  People we’d met raved about it. 

It was ok.

It’s a big flatwater bay where large tides expose stinking mud to the sun.  You can walk hundreds of metres into the bay and still only wet up to your knees.  The caravan park is right on the shore line, which is a beautiful place to be at high tide, but high tide is fleeting.

 

We met a couple who were staying there for six weeks.  We couldn’t understand why.  I guess it’s just not our kind of place.

We give the Streaky Bay Caravan Park 4 stars out of 5.  If you like that kind of thing then it’s the perfect location.  It’s clean, well maintained and has a fish and chip shop on site where we had our first delectable taste of King George Whiting.

NIGHT  271 -  ELLISTON CARAVAN PARK

I was still on a bit of a high after Cactus and trawled the net looking for South Australian surf breaks.  I read of a place called Blackfellows which, according to the surrounding hype, was one serious slab of water.  Cactus had left me feeling good about my ability so Blackfellows was added to the agenda.  It was about 200kms away.

The place is hardcore.

Forget about beaches or sand, Blackfellows breaks at right angles from a cliff face, across a shallow reef into deep water. It’s surrounded by more cliff faces.   You can access it two ways – either by following a mountain goat cliff walk from the top which requires a jump in at the bottom, or paddling out from a bay which is a couple of kilometres away, across eerie and open waters.  A beautifully mosaicked table and bench on top on the headland sadly announces the presence of sharks, a monument to the life of a young local surfer who was taken there.  

There was no surf though, a strong wind was throwing the ocean into confusion, the waves crashing into each other and bouncing off in all directions.  It wouldn’t have mattered though.  Even if the surf was perfect I doubt I’d have gone out.  Blackfellows isn’t pleasant.  It’s not for relaxed surfing and communing with nature.  It’s about putting your body on the line; pushing yourself with your heart in your mouth.  And that’s just to reach the line-up.

Surfing disregarded, we continued along Cliff Top Drive, a hard packed dirt road that weaves around a series of cliffs and bays before looping back into town.  Various sculptures have been installed along the cliff tops, most created to interact with the environment in a humorous way.  They were fantastic and, somewhat surprisingly, free from vandalism.

 

The nearest town was Elliston.  It was friendly enough, especially at the tourist centre/ op shop, but unremarkable really.  Actually it made me a bit restless because, on a trip like this, I understand that you can never really know things in advance, but that understanding didn’t stop me feeling like this was a wasted night. For all we knew Blackfellows could have been brilliant, and Elliston could have been fantastic.  But they weren’t, and it made me wish we’d had spent another night at Cactus, or Quagi, or Esperance.  

I give the Elliston Caravan Park 1 ½ stars out of 5.  We know it was the lead-up to Christmas, and that they are busily preparing for their busiest time, but much of the place existed as a construction site.  Not really their fault, but not ours either.  It didn’t lend itself to relaxation.

NIGHT  272  -  PORT LINCOLN TOURIST PARK

To put it bluntly, poo (shit, faeces) had become a problem for us.  We could both do it freely enough, no drama there, but a part the ‘bago’s toilet had broken.  We discovered it in Ceduna, much to our horror.  An immediate ring around informed us that the part was available in Port Lincoln.  So, until then, we had to steer away from free camping, or suffer the consequences.

Originally we’d planned to spend this evening at Farm Beach which, we thought, had some ramshackle form of toilet.  Farm Beach is along a dirt road.  It’s a fishing place with old tractors filling the surrounding fields, waiting to tow small boats to and from the water.  The day was dreary and grey as we drove past what serves as the caravan park, several grizzled and whiskered faces watching us intently as we did.  It wasn’t hostile necessarily, but it sure wasn’t welcoming.  We made a snap decision and immediately revised our plans.

Next stop was Coffin Bay, which we knew had a large dog-friendly caravan park right on the beach.  This was Shana’s choice of place.  Famous for the quality and affordability of its locally caught seafood, Coffin Bay was always a ‘must go’.  But, once we’d checked the place out and purchased a dozen unshucked oysters for $8, neither of us could see another reason to stay.  Port Lincoln was only 50 odd kilometres away.   We could go there, get the part, fix the toilet, not have to worry about wandering through the night with an amenities key in our hand.  So, like weary sailors, we gladly headed towards the port.

 

We drove straight to the Caravan Centre and bought the part.  It was easily installed.  Great.  We drove away relieved that we could once again be easily relieved.  Bring on the night.

We drove to the Port Lincoln Tourist Park, a massive park overlooking the calm sheltered waters of Boston Bay.  The park was nearly empty and we marvelled at the beautiful flat concrete sites that stepped their way down the hill toward the bay, offering superb views.  Then we drove past them.  We drove to the far corner of the park, where tiny gravel sites lay uneven and obscured.  It was an area fit for dogs.  And, apparently, for the people who travelled with them.

I give the Port Lincoln Tourist Park two stars out of 5. The view was still okay from the dog sites and rabbits frolicked (menaced) in large numbers as the sunlight disappeared.  They were cute to watch. (as was Shana, who spend much of her time trying to photograph them).

NIGHT  273  -  SECOND CREEK PICNIC AREA

I’d developed a new infatuation – King George Whiting.  Many fishing books list them as the tastiest fish in Australia.  We’d eaten one once, bought from a fish shop and fried in batter, and it was delicious and extremely moreish.  Expensive though.  Given that we were now deep in King George Whiting country I was determined to catch a few myself, feed the family etc.

I’d already tried a couple of times, fishing off jetties.  I don’t like fishing off jetties.  I never seem to catch anything but pointless puffer fish.  We tried at Elliston during a gale.  We tried at Port Lincoln among the rabbits.  I’d researched the right hook, the right rig, the right bait.  All was in order but still I’d yet to catch any.  Upon further reading we chose Tumby Bay to be the site of my success.

But Tumby Bay was crap.  I was at another jetty rugged heavily against a gusty wind.  Shana watched for a while as puffer fish nibbled my bait, then she left.  I thought she’d just taken Moz for a walk, which she had, but she was also doing reconnaissance.   She went to the servo, to the supermarket and to the post office, asking at each venue in turn where the most likely place was to catch King George Whiting.  Everyone agreed the jetty was useless; most made mention of a place called Second Creek.

Shana already knew of Second Creek.  She’d read about a picnic area there where it was legal to camp overnight.  It was positioned above the Estuary, near to where it meets the ocean.  This was exactly the place recommended to us.

Fifteen minutes of pretty good dirt road later I was on the water’s edge, pippi on the hook, hook in the water, waiting expectantly.  10mtrs to my left was a guy and a girl with their 4wd ute backed down to the water.  He spoke like an expert.  He was teaching the girl how to fish the place.  I listened while pretending I wasn’t, but I couldn’t hear much without making it obvious.  That was okay.  The sun had come out and the estuary was protected from the wind.  I would just soak it all up and wait for the fish to come.

The girl caught a fish.  Good for her.  It was a small flathead that she threw back.  The girl caught another fish, a trevally this time, big enough to keep.  Then the guy caught a fish but I didn’t know what it was.  He threw it back.  Then the bloody girl caught another fish, to great excitement.  It was a King George Whiting, big enough to keep.

I’d yet had a bite.  I was doing something wrong.  I must have been doing something wrong.  I stopped trying to be cool and yelled over to the guy “What are you doing differently to me?”  He pointed across the channel we were fishing.  It was only about 4mtrs wide.  “See the far edge?” he said “That’s where the deep channel is.  You have to cast into it.  It’s like a fish highway over there”.  I thanked him and we started chatting.  He said he was surprised to see us fishing there.  It was pretty much a secret spot he reckoned.  I told him the people in Tumby Bay told us to go there.  He was good natured enough, but didn’t seem impressed.

So I changed rods, from my little spinner rod to my large beach rod.  With this rod I could cast further.  On it I attached a rig with two hooks.  I put a pippi on one, some squid on the other, and then cast into the deep channel.  I then put it in the rod holder and started chatting to the guy again.

Two minutes later the rod holder hit the sand, dragged over by a sharp lunge.  I rushed across and started reeling.  There was something heavy on the end, but it didn’t feel like a normal fish.  The resistance felt strange.  I kept winding and winding and dragged in two large fish, both caught at the same time.  On the squid was a good sized trevally.  You beauty.  And on the pipi, as true as I sit here, was a large and succulent King George.  I couldn’t believe it.  The bloke next to me couldn’t believe it either.  And Shana, who had been beachcombing, seriously couldn’t believe it.  But there they were when she returned, swimming in the bucket, a trevally and a King George, both big, fat and juicy.

I fished some more.  Caught a few things I had to throw back, including too many puffer fish.  I was using the beach rod and Shana started using the small rod.  Almost immediately she caught a big stripy fish, easily the biggest fish of the day so far.  I didn’t know what it was so I took it over to our nearby expert for appraisal.  He agreed it was a fine specimen, but said the fish wasn’t worth eating.  “It’s a luderick” he said,” and nobody eats those around here”.  I wasn’t sure really, but we reluctantly threw it back anyway.

 

Two fish wasn’t really enough for a meal and they’d gone off the bite.  The tides had turned and we were told it was best now to wait until sunset, three hours away.

The sunset was spectacular.  The sky reddened and then kept becoming redder.  It was magical. Against this sunset Shana fished.  Then, just before it was too dark to see, she reeled in another King George whiting.  We hollered and danced on the sand.  We’d done it.  We said we were going to do it and we had.  We ate well that night.  Another couple of fish would have provided a feast, but we were happy with a simple meal.

 

 

We give the Second Creek Picnic Area the full complement of stars.  We asked it to provide and it did.  Can’t ask for any more than that.

NIGHT  274  -  NORTH BEACH CARAVAN PARK, WALLAROO.

Quick quiz – what’s more important, time or money?

Last night, while chewing our King George, we chose time.  We decided that, in the rush to get to Melbourne, time had become more important than money, in the short term anyway.  We’re lucky enough to have money at the moment.  But already we’ve had to leave a few places regrettably earlier than desired.  So it came down to this - if there was a way of getting off the Eyre Peninsular quicker than originally planned, yet still following the coast and seeing the sights we wanted to, would we do it if it cost an extra couple of hundred dollars?

The answer we came up with was yes. The solution we’d stumbled across – the Spencer Gulf ferry, leaving Lucky Bay in the morning and cutting directly across the gulf before arriving at Wallaroo in the afternoon; effectively cutting out over a six hundred kilometres of driving, which equates to at least a couple of days.   It meant we missed out on Whyalla and Port Augusta, but we’re okay with that.  We’d rather have time ‘up our sleeve’ to use at a place that enchants us.

 

Which wasn’t Wallaroo.

Although Wallaroo is a pretty name – like a cross between a wallaby and a kangaroo – the town is as ugly as a cane toad.  It’s a steel smeltering town and if you don’t like that then piss off.  The caravan park itself was nice, and the owners lovely.  It tried hard.  But the beach was a carpark.  Literally.

 On North Beach, Wallaroo, you drive your car down onto the beach and park like you would were you at Woolworths, all lined up in neat rows.   People sit in the boot, or erect shelters around the cars, or tie tarps between them, and, with car radios blaring, watch the ocean.  Once done they drive off again, the sand as hard as concrete beneath their wheels.

There was nothing wrong with it but it did seem odd.  I guess it’s a matter of what you’re used to.

I give the North Beach Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5.  The town sure is ugly, but the caravan park has everything required to make one feel comfortable.