Category Archives: On the road

Old Telegraph Track

Bramwell Station is a day’s drive away from Pennefather River. The campground has space, shade and good hot showers. In the late afternoon, we watch the station hands sorting weaners from their mothers in the cattle yards next to the campsite.

It’s a big night at the station. There’s a smorgasbord dinner, with barbecued steak and sausage, a table groaning with vegetables and salads and a sweet sticky toffee sponge dessert. Music gets us up on the dance floor, winning a bottle of wine for the first to dance. Who would have thought the singer would include the theme to Gilligan’s Island in his set?

A surprise guest at the dinner is Roothie, with his old Toyota Landcruiser, Milo. He’s a four wheel drive legend and creates a buzz of excitement when he arrives with camera crew in tow. Malcolm chats up Roothie, while his wife, Olive, makes a beeline for the handsome young camera man.

A high spot is the duet singing “Love Potion Number 9”.

The night is hot and steamy. What sleep we grab is disturbed by the bellowing of the steers in the yard. There’s a nervousness in the camp this morning. Snatch straps are attached to the vehicles, just in case. Today we are tackling the Old Telegraph Track.

Roothie and crew follow us out as we leave the campsite. They are filming on the track today.

The track is narrow, tree lined, one car wide. It is deeply potholed. We soon arrive at Palm Creek, our first creek crossing. A steep mud slide runs into a wet clay hole before levelling off into the creek. The track runs through the creek to the left then up and out.

People are camped here, watching the attempts to cross. “I wouldn’t take my tractor down there”, says Howard. Cars are queueing behind us waiting to cross.

Max goes first. Down the slide and to the left. He tries to climb the steep exit out of the water and doesn’t make it. He winches out. Malcolm and Olive are through and then it’s our turn.

Richard is revved up, ready to go. I’m gripping the door handle. We scramble down the mud slide into the creek. The ute rolls from side to side. Richard turns the steering wheel left and we are driving up the creek. The water is not too high, then the steep slope out is in front of us. My heart pounds. The engine revs climb and we shoot up the slope, rocking from side to side.

I can tell you, if I could have opened the door and got out, I would have done so there and then. Christine, you would have had your eyes tightly closed.

I glimpse the track as we leave the creek behind us. There’s a deep pot hole on one side and a huge lump of clay on the other. The engine roars, one wheel drops into the hole and the ute twists sharply to one side. We fly forward at an angle. I can see only the sky. Time slows down. There’s a loud bang and we shoot out of the exit, landing on all four wheels.

Getting out, I look back at the vehicle. It seems to be intact. I hear later that our brand new ute missed a tree by a few inches.

I decide I’m not a fan of hard core four wheel driving.

The rest of the group make their way across without mishap. Our Old Telegraph Track experience has started.

Where the rainforest meets the reef

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The roads hug the coast in Douglas Shire, steep rocky cliffs running along sandy beaches, like a tropical Great Ocean Road. Turning away from the ocean here you do not see mountain ash and tree ferns, but dense green walls of sugar cane, neatly clipped and standing to attention like a sailor’s crew cut. The air is as warm and steamy as a gardener’s hot house.

The entry to Port Douglas is grand, lined with mature palm trees. It’s a much bigger town than I’d imagined, a tourist Mecca. The wharf is busy, with boats offering crocodile spotting tours in the waters nearby and ocean going yachts bristling with equipment and the scars of past voyages.

A white timber clad church stands on the bay. It dates from 1880. The little church is cool and peaceful inside. The east window looks directly out to sea, framing the view to the Great Barrier Reef. I wonder how many have sat in these pews, what stories they could tell of the history of Port Douglas. Who was married here? Who tried to save the church when it was destroyed by cyclone in 1911? The building keeps its secrets.

We walk through the main shopping street, passing tourist souvenir shops, ladies clothing stores and hotel bars in colonial buildings. Moccas famous pies live up to their reputation and draw a succession of hungry customers into a side street for lunch.

From Port Douglas we once again pass through lush green sugar cane country. Cane trains stand loaded with harvested cane. We are in the wet tropics now. Clouds sit on top of misty tropical mountains. We see banana orchards, each bunch wrapped in its own protective bag.

Stopping at Daintree village we wander down to the river. Two fishermen tell us tall tales of man eating crocodiles. They are not joking. The number of signs warning of crocodiles is increasing as we travel north, as are the tales of attacks. We take the warnings seriously…

The utes queue up for the old cable ferry that takes us across the Daintree River to Cape Tribulation. It’s a steep climb up the other side. Now we are truly in the world heritage Daintree rainforest.

The forest is dense around us. Strangling figs clamber up the trunks of fan palms, seeking the light. Elephant ear vine leaves spread out to capture the few rays of sun that break through the rainforest canopy. The forest glistens and drips in the steamy atmosphere.

We take a walk in the rainforest with Cooper Creek Wilderness Tours. Almost immediately a cassowary crosses our path. Strange flightless birds, in the same family as the emu and kiwi, they have a horn like growth on their heads, bright blue necks and red wattles hanging down below. Standing 1.5 metres tall they could be intimidating, but Big Bertha completely ignores us as she strides purposefully past.

The rainforest tour is fascinating. We see primitive spiders that gather up their silk at night and camouflage themselves to look like thorns on the branch of a tree. We hear about the yellow cyrus, the toxic white walnut, the zombie fungi and a tree that expels cyanide gas when chopped by an axe. I am amazed by the height of the fan palms. Here they form the rainforest canopy, a roof top of green that shades the plants below. So tall, so high above us, we would need binoculars to spot birds or canopy dwelling marsupials.

Unfortunately, feral pigs cause damage to the rainforest that will never be healed. While vines grow quickly here, many plants grow so slowly they can never recover when seedlings are wiped out by a wallowing pig.

Howard and I spy another rare creature here, a short, elderly, bearded Japanese man, in the rainforest with a film crew. Dr Suzuki, we presume.

The evening light is growing dim. We need to catch up with the rest of the party who have gone on ahead of us. We have planned to meet at Noah’s Beach. So we leave the wilderness tour and head down the winding unsealed road to find the campground.

When we arrive, it is dark. Driving around the wilderness campsite we peer at the campers in each of the sites. No, we don’t recognise them. Back on the road, we decide to circle around again. I glance at a sign board at the entry, there is a piece of paper flapping in the wind.

Stop! I look at the paper, it says “See you at Coconut Beach. M & O, M & H, D & S”.

Where on earth is coconut beach?

We drive down the road, looking for a sign. A voice crackles over the radio, “Turn right at Masons Store”.

Turning right after Masons Store we find the lovely Cape Trib campsite on the beach and are reunited with our convoy.

Worse things happen at sea

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Let go the mooring line!

She’s away.

Richard puts the yacht into reverse and we move away from the mooring. A stiff morning breeze blows across the water. The crew are up and about, ready to sail to Stonehaven Bay on Whitsunday island.

Crunch, clonk, clank. All heads turn. What was that?

A grinding noise is coming from the stern as Richard pushes the motor into forward gear. The mooring is drifting away to port and we are being carried north by the tide.

I can’t get any forward gear, he calls. He pushes the lever forward again and the crunching noise grows louder.

Can we pick up the mooring again?

I don’t think so Debbie, it’s over there. Malcolm points at a blue dot on the water in the distance.

Richard shouts, I can get reverse. I’ll try to reverse back on to the buoy.

Yachts will reverse under motor, but steerage is poor, especially into the wind with the tide against you. We are moving, but the mooring is out of reach.

Shall we put up the foresail? I ask. We’ll at least get some forward motion then.

Let’s keep trying the engine, I don’t understand what’s wrong with it. It sounds terrible.

The yacht is holding its ground against the tide in reverse, but we just can’t get any forward motion.

I look at the inexperienced crew around me. Many of them have not been on a sailing boat before. Sailing to another mooring is an option, but not an attractive one. We are on a charter boat in unfamiliar waters. While the channels are deep around the islands, there are hidden underwater obstructions, coral reefs and rocks.

I feel a little sick. Not from seasickness, but from a sinking feeling inside me. I have brought these people out on to the water to experience the exhilaration of sailing, to share something I love, only for the yacht to fail us on the first day.

I decide to call the charter company on the VHF radio. We can hold our position in the deep channel under reverse gear quite safely for some time. If the engine fails altogether, we will put the foresail up and sail into the main Whitsunday channel where there is plenty of water. We are safe, but it’s getting uncomfortable out in the channel with the waves rocking the boat from side to side. We could see some green faces if we don’t get moving soon.

Richard keeps working to try to get the gears to engage. No joy. We have to accept the gears have failed and we will have to suffer the ignominy of a tow back to port.

I pick up the VHF microphone. Sunsail, Sunsail, this is Rhythm, Rhythm, over.

Rhythm, this is Sunsail base, go ahead.

The radio exchange continues. Sunsail Base asks us to get back on to the mooring if we can. They will see if they can send a boat out to assist. The conversation ends.

I ask Beryl to sit below and listen to the radio and let me know when Sunsail calls back.

The mooring buoy is truly out of reach. I am soon calling back on the radio to request assistance again. We’ve been sitting out in the channel for 20 minutes and no sign of the rescue boat. The boat is bouncing around on the waves and although everyone is upbeat, we all know this is not a good situation. I consider the option of putting some of the crew to shore in the dinghy if seasickness hits.

Sunsail are on the radio, calls Beryl. I go down below and explain our situation again. We switch to mobile phone to finish the conversation and they confirm a fast boat is being sent to tow us back to the marina. We spend another twenty minutes bobbing up and down in the deep water before we see the fast boat coming towards us in the distance.

There are two men on the boat. It’s a charter fishing boat with two huge 220 HP engines on the back. The younger man jumps aboard the yacht as they come alongside. He first tries to put the engine into gear, to prove to himself that there really is a problem. The crunching and grinding sounds convince him quickly.

He ties the two boats together side by side. I’ll steer, you provide the power, he shouts to the older man in the fast boat.

The engines roar and we begin our journey back to base. Lance, the younger man, is a kiwi. He chats to us as the boats drive forward into the wind and waves. Every so often a wave crashes over the bow of the fast boat, showering the helmsman, John, with water. Lance roars with laughter. You owe me a beer for this, calls back John.

We pass a white monohull, from the decks two people wave. They live full time on that boat, Lance tells us.

He makes a few phone calls as we motor along, trying to find us a replacement boat. It looks like the only option is a catamaran. Neither Richard or I have sailed one and they have a reputation as floating caravans amongst serious sailors. But, we can tell it’s going to be the only option if we are to continue the sailing holiday.

As the two joined boats enter the marina, I feel relieved, but a black cloud descends on my mood. It is so disappointing I can hardly speak. I’m not good company.

At about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, we hear the new yacht is ready. It is a 38 foot cat, named Alida. To our surprise it is John, the helmsman of the fast boat, who shows us around her. He tells us he owns the company which has just taken over the local Sunsail franchise. No wonder Lance was so amused when his new boss took a soaking on the way back to port!

My mood lifts as we head out on the water again. The sun is setting over the ocean when we find a sheltered anchorage at Cid Harbour on Whitsunday island. We are back at sea and tomorrow is another day.

Roma cattle sales

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The markets at Roma are on a huge scale. About a million cattle pass through the sale yards and spelling pens each year. Today more than 8000 cattle will be sold.

I walk along the metal gantry above the yards where the cattle are penned. Angular steel pens stretch out into the distance. The smell of manure is sharp and sour. The calls of the cattle blare out. Their mix of tone and pitch like a ragged brass band tuning up before a gig.

The animals are grouped together into lots for sale. I watch with interest a group of Brahmans, milky white with flop ears and hump. An unusual sight in Victoria, they are common in Queensland. A group of Herefords sniff through the rails at the unfamiliar cattle next door. A solitary Droughtmaster bull stands and stares. Most of the animals are remarkably calm, despite their strange surroundings.l

The proceedings are carefully orchestrated for speed and efficiency.

Sale yard officials are colour coded. Pink shirts are auctioneers. Spot them and you know where the action is. They jabber and gesture in an arcane ritual as unintelligible to the uninitiated as a witch doctor’s chant. As they move through the yards, a team of four, they conduct the movements in this agricultural dance.

Blue shirts are yard hands, both men and women, driving the animals through the yards by waving old grain sacks on poly pipes. They stand on the overhead gantries above the cattle, waiting for the metal gates to open by remote control like lock gates letting the flow of animals through the system.

Buyers wear a mix of pastel coloured shirts, some checked some plain. They gather at ground level, moving from pen to pen to assess the quality of the stock for sale. An almost imperceptible nod or wink can buy a pen of thirty steers. To the untrained eye the buyers’ faces look impassive, their movements slow and cautious. A counterpoint to the frenzied pink shirted auctioneers.

Everyone wears a white akubra hat.

Snatches of conversation. “It’s been a patchy season.” “Good price for cows.” “Export market’s holding up.” “Prices are booming in the U.S.”

A yard hand named Fish stands and chats as we watch the sea of cattle move below us.

He’s worked at the sale yards for 35 years, starting when he was fifteen. They talked about selling them off a few years ago and there was an outcry, he says. They stay in the Shire’s hands, for now.

Its hard work but he loves it. Every market day the auctions run from 8am until 8pm. There are private sales using the yards and a significant business spelling cattle in the yards. There is always work to do and he knows the ways of the sale yards well. It’s a good life.

Road closed

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We wake to the mournful cawing of a crow. It feels good to be in the bush again.

Dom has been tending the fire in the night and the embers are hot and glowing. The campfire is welcome in the cool air and we warm ourselves around it. The toasting fork comes out and we enjoy buttered toast for breakfast.

We’ve heard rumour there’s been a heavy fall of rain in the area and some of the roads may be closed. Driving towards Wilcannia I imagine rain on this road. It’s little more than a deep rut cut into the red earth. Water would run through here like a river.

Sweet little kids follow attentive nanny goats into the bush as we pass. A big old roo reclining in the sun lifts his head to watch. The road becomes more rutted As we drive on. There’s a road sign on an unsealed side road to Bourke. Taking a quick detour to check the sign posted nearby, we see it says “Road Closed”. This is not promising.

Our plan today is to tour along the Darling through Tilpa, and on to Bourke along the river route. When we reach Wilcannia, we find there has been 70 mm of rain and the roads have been closed. There’s a heavy fine for using a closed road, $1000 a wheel, we are told. Add to that the risk of getting bogged, and of damaging the road for other users. There’s no option, we have to change our plans and drive to Cobar and take the Barrier Highway to Bourke.

Back on the bitumen. The highway is busy with traffic. Grey nomads in caravans jostle with huge trucks. It’s not what we were hoping to see today. But the highway does not disturb the wildlife. Indigenous kangaroos are outnumbered by the imported goats. We see hundreds of them, all well fed, healthy and leading kids.

A B Double truck drives up the tail of our convoy, urging us to move faster. Caravanners slow ahead of us. We are caught between them. Malcolm engages the truck driver on the radio. Howard in the lead calls out when the road is clear and we overtake the caravans one by one.

At lunch we are accosted by cheeky apostle birds hopping on to the picnic table at the truck stop and swooping on crumbs. The birds are so named because they live in family groups of twelve, like the twelve biblical apostles.

It’s a long tiring journey to Bourke, but finally we arrive. The caravan park, Kidman Camp, is way out at the back of Bourke. It is worth the trip. Showers, kitchen, laundry and a lovely quiet camping spot.

A bus to the local bowling club picks us up for dinner. It’s Chinese food with Tracy and Caitlin. A tower of brightly coloured balloons perches on a half empty table of local girls. They are here to celebrate the 18th birthday of a fragile looking girl with pale skin and long blonde hair. We raise our voices to join the room singing happy birthday, and wish her well.

The bus back to camp takes a circuitous route through the suburbs of Bourke to drop off the locals after a night of pokies at the bowling club. It’s hard to get a feeling for the town we are in, having seen so little of it. I think I will reserve judgement on Bourke until I can spend more time here.

The Long Paddock

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The flat, featureless saltbush plains stretch into the haze on the horizon. We are driving the Cobb Highway, the Long Paddock. Since the 1840s drovers have been driving cattle along this track, from stations in Queensland to the markets in Victoria.

The vegetation offers little relief to the traveller’s eye. The drought tolerant, mineral rich saltbush puts on no airs and graces. It’s not an ostentatious plant. It hides its value beneath its dull grey-green scrubby appearance. Plain but highly nutritious, sheep grow fat and healthy on it. It dominates these plains.

At Hay we stop to visit the historic timber woolshed, moved stick by stick from Darling Downs to become a tourist attraction and home to the shearers’ hall of fame.

The wool industry has had mixed fortunes in Australia of late. Animal rights activists condemn the practice of mulesing as barbaric and cruel. The wool industry claims it is essential, extending the life of sheep many years by preventing them from becoming flyblown.

The debate is heated and insults are thrown both ways.

While the romance of the shearing shed loses its appeal at home, overseas markets, especially China and Russia, are increasing demand for wool and prices are buoyant

Billy, the demonstration shearer at Hay, is defensive. He is part of the marketing arm of a major industry and defender of a romantic bush ideal. Highly skilled, he shears a lamb in minutes. His strong arms are in control, the young animal relaxes and calmly accepts his actions.

The worn timbers of the woolshed, the scent of lanolin and the raw earthy animal smell of the sheep, evoke another world. I fear for sheep that may in the future be shorn by robots in a factory to six sigma efficiency. I hope Billy and others like him continue their craft. Rough and basic this life might be, but these men work closely with the sheep and lambs, they know them, understand their ways. Let’s hold that relationship dear, for all its faults. Let’s cherish the good in that and build on it.

As Hay disappears in the rear view mirror, emus scatter alongside the road, their tail feathers bouncing like ladies bustles behind them. Driving north, the sun is high and reflects on the bonnet of the car, raising the temperature. Soon we long for cuppas and ice cream, and make a stop at the small town of Ivanhoe.

While Richard checks out the list of road closures and the Connoisseur ice cream, I admire the art works displayed in the shop windows along the Main Street. An initiative at the local correctional centre has created remarkable line drawings of bush characters. Each drawing was created on grid fashion with each artist assigned a square of the grid. A clever teaching method that produced great results.

The saltbush plains are behind us now, the roads are iron red sand, unpassable in the wet. A frosting of green pick contrasts with the red dirt to create vivid colour combinations. The country is alive with emus, goats, sheep and kangaroos, all feeding from the minerals held in the rich red soil. The pale wintry colours of Victoria are forgotten as we speed onwards.

As the afternoon draws on we begin to look for our first bush camp of the trip. Howard does it again. “We’re stopping here”, crackles the radio as the utes turn off to the right. 500 m off the road, we pull into a beautiful treed clearing, partly protected from the wind by mounding sand. There’s plenty of wood for the campfire and soon we are cooking dinner together, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the conversation. As I retire to bed, I hear a male voice raised in song, a beautiful Italian operatic aria rings out across the sands, combining with the faint song of nature as the wind whistles and moans in the casuarinas.

On the road

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In the early morning twilight the shapes moving in front of me are vague and unformed. I hear the excited squeals of my dog as she dashes forward, hurtling into the darkness. I feel the ground shake. Thump thump thump. A dark silhouette emerges from the shadows and a panting kangaroo bounds past, almost brushing my left shoulder. A white blur and my dog follows at top speed. I call into the mist as the day begins to break. My heart pounds. Not today…

Rushing to get ready for a long trip alters time. Everything on your to do list takes longer than you expect. But finally we are ready. Dogs safely housed. Chickens and cattle fed. Last minute chores complete. We drive away from the house.

Today we are leaving for Cape York. We have arranged to meet with three pairs of our fellow travellers at 8 am. The phone rings. A breathless Suzanne apologises. They will be delayed.

We arrive at the meeting point and are greeted by Howard and Beryl, our “tour leaders”. Standing smiling beside them are our sending off party, Brett and Christine. This time last year they were getting ready to leave with us. Desert crossing companions, they will be greatly missed, but a last minute gift, a journal, means we will take them with us on our travels.

We learn that Heather and Max, who were due to leave with us today are also delayed by a recalcitrant cow and calf. We feel slightly lonely as two utes of the expected four pull away and leave Dean’s Marsh for Cape York.

Our home state of Victoria is wearing her winter clothes. Pale grey clouds lie unmoving in the chill air. Weak sunlight plays on paddock stubble. I see sheep huddled together for warmth and comfort, their enviable woolly coats barely enough for this late May morning.

At Creswick a biting breeze rises as we hurry to find hot coffee and toasties to help ward off the wintry weather.

Leaving chilly Creswick, a long avenue of remembrance leads us on our way. Each tree marked with the name of a lost son, father, husband, brother. Falling leaves honour them with a shower of yellow, amber and gold. Falling leaves for fallen lives.

Light grey and yellow limbs of gum trees embrace the road as it winds through well grazed paddocks to Smeaton and then to Maldon.

A popular day trip from the city, Maldon today is quiet. Inside the oldtime shop fronts, sellers shiver in their darkened treasure troves. Kitsch rubs shoulders with quirky modern. (Poodle lamps anyone?) Gluten free cakes are on offer beside traditional pea and ham soup. It’s said the best cream bun in the Southern Hemisphere can be purchased here.

As we lunch, the sun breaks through. Golden rays warm the street. Shoppers slow their pace, stop to chat and enjoy the radiant heat while it lasts. We see a familiar vehicle drive by. They have arrived. Dom and Suzanne join us and then there were three.

The road from Maldon passes properties belonging to independent spirited homesteaders. A pig snorts and snuffles in the front yard. Two donkeys graze in the garden. Chooks cluck in backyard chicken coops.

Richard spots lovely old trucks by the score. Oh what bargains he could find here.

The land is changing. Red and yellow ochre stains the banks along the roadside. We are in goldfields country. Ballarat, scene of the Eureka Stockade, passes by. Her sister city, Bendigo, is a regal old lady. She retains much of the grandeur of her bygone days. Chinese dragon museums tell of the long history of Asian Australians hereabouts. There’s gold in these hills. Wealthy citizens built in stone to the glory of God, the Queen and their own success. I wish we had more time to do this city justice.

As we drive out of Bendigo, a UHF radio exchange about the acclaimed Maldon cream bun is interrupted by a familiar wit. Malcolm and Olive are nearby. They tag along as we drive by and now, count the vehicles, we are four. Yes, this is a convoy.

Cuppas on the riverside at Echuca give us time to catch up on all the news before we drive on to Deniliquin, our destination for today. This is where we leave Victoria and cross the Murray River to New South Wales. In NSW the roads seem wider and almost roman in their unwavering directness. Easy driving. We are soon in Deniliquin. Deni Motel is the final stop for the day.

The local RSL is recommended for dinner by a policeman. He stops to chat between random breath tests for passing motorists. It does not disappoint. Good food and an injection of funds for Beryl. Two dollars wagered on the pokies produces a return of ten. Take the money and run, we cry.

The busy days preparing for the trip catch up with us. We retire early. Heads hit pillows dreaming of tomorrow and the Darling River.

Red Sands and Salt Lakes

Bush Poetry #4

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a day at the races

Teetering heels, thundering hooves

pink galahs in jockey colours, starting nerves

fascinators, orange, red, pink, fluorescent green

highly strung, horses and men, muscled and lean

pawing the sand, punching the air

cool water, cold beer.

Distorting PA, slurring speech

calls races in other states

emotions raw, thrills, loss and despair

winning, losing, dying, don’t care

whistling kite, cheering punter

warm hugs, a race down under.

Dancing girls, funky band,

keep to the beat, elbows, arms, hands

giants all, men and horses, sauna sweat

running, jumping, dancing, a bet

whistling train, fire cracker

men at work, land down under.

Queuing for coffee, laying low

eyes are open, brain is slow

plastic chairs, cups, plates, glasses all litter

showering, sitting, still sleeping, some fitter

starting engine, packing up tent

let’s do it next year, time well spent.

Is this paradise?

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Palm trees and water lilies, fresh clear water, dappled sunlight – is this paradise?

With very few kilometres to go until we reach Adelaide River, we have time to detour to the water hole at Bitter Springs, just north of Mataranka. The water here is cool and inviting. Natural springs provide the perfect microclimate for palm trees. They grow in profusion here. No need to landscape. Nature has created what many hotels and resorts try to emulate. There is no smell of chlorine, the water is kept fresh, clear and clean by the plants, insects and fish that call this home.

Pink water lily flowers decorate the fringes of the water hole. Tiny fish dart between rocks and tree trunks. Swimming, I look up through a crisscrossing network of spiders’ webs, strung like suspension bridges across the width of the waterhole. Huge black and yellow spiders are silhouetted in the sunlight. Suspended above the water, they are motionless in the centre of the webs they have spun. I am reminded of a line of poetry I learned at school, “what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry”. Fearful indeed. I swim away.

We are headed today to Umbrawarra Gorge, just south of Pine Creek. The dusty unsealed road takes us through creek crossings, winding towards the gorge. The Nature Park’s camping ground is empty when we arrive. Tents are up in no time, we are getting good at this now. Swimming togs on, we head off to the gorge.

Umbrawarra Gorge

Is this paradise? It is an Australian garden of Eden. Water flows through the gorge over flagstones of pink rock, overhung with flowering gums that drip their golden blossom on to the path and into the water. Birds fly from tree to tree calling out a warning that the gorge has human visitors. The water collects in pools between rocky outcrops. Shoals of fish can be seen swimming there between the shadows. An elegant grey brown bird stands watching, waiting to take her daily feed.

We climb over the pink rocks until the view opens out ahead. Pink and gold cliffs tower above us. Here’s the swimming spot. A perfect natural pool with a beach of crunchy golden sand.

We return in the morning to walk further into the gorge.

Umbrawarra

The morning sun reflects on the cliffs, deepening their golden hues. Above us there is a sacred aboriginal spot for women only. No photographs or men allowed. The climb gives the girls a cliff top view along the length of the gorge. The secret female artwork keeps its dreams to itself. The only art we see is found on the other side of the gorge: a male ancestor spirit drawn on a ledge high above the water.

Hot from the climb, we hurry back to the waterhole. A monitor lizard suns himself on the bank, keeping a watching eye on us. We plunge into the waterhole from the rocks, delighting in the refreshing temperature. Can’t we stay here longer?

With our bodies and minds refreshed by our experience in this Australian paradise, we turn back to the camp and prepare ourselves for a mango smoothie at Mayse’s in Pine Creek before we head to our final destination as a convoy, Adelaide River and the races.

	Adding Colour to our… on Flying north
	Johnny on Reflections
	Deb McSephney on The prison tree
	Deb McSephney on Tunnel Creek
	Deb McSephney on Tunnel Creek

Big Red Bit

Travels into the red centre of Australia

Category Archives: On the road

Old Telegraph Track

Where the rainforest meets the reef

Worse things happen at sea

Roma cattle sales

Road closed

The Long Paddock

On the road

Red Sands and Salt Lakes

Bush Poetry #4

Is this paradise?