Category Archives: travel

Landcruiser 4WD

OTT – a driver’s perspective

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When the river crossings of the Old Telegraph Track are mentioned, there are hushed tones and furtive glances for 4 WD killers, Nolans Creek, The Gunshot.  I don’t recall Palm Creek hitting the headlines as a terroriser, but for our first intro to the OTT it got all our attention!

A small encampment of spectators have taken residence near the entrance.  I walk with the group to survey the route, a steep slippery mudslide into a dirty brown knee deep creek.  A 90 degree left turn then 90 degrees right to line up with the exit run.  I glance up the bank, a muddy rutted and washed out ramp about as high as a two storey suburban house.  My heart sinks.

I notice a battle scarred cruiser’s driver changing his tyre pressures.  “What are you using?”  “18 and 22”, he calls back and noticing my surprise adds “But only because I’m fully loaded, it would be lower otherwise”.  I sprint back and lower mine.  

Max is first to go, skidding down the approach, along the creek bed then gunning the big V8 until 10 m from the top.  The familiar sound of tyres spinning with no traction echoes around the creek

Not for the last time my Gemini twin asks “Why exactly are you doing this?” 

The electric winch whines and Max has reached the summit.

My turn arrives.  Low 3, I hear advised.  The cruiser slithers down the bank into the creek and I line up with the exit after a brief boat impression along the creek.

“Oh hell”, I utter as I see first hand the route I have to take.  “Hold on”.  And off we go, bucking and jumping, ascending with bone jarring leaps every few metres.  I hear a scream, followed by soft sobbing.  My passenger leans over, pats my arm comfortingly and says “Don’t worry, it’s nearly over.”

A last sickening thud and the windscreen fills with sky as the front rears up and over the lip of the escarpment, leaving terra firma briefly and all four wheels return to the ground well clear of the exit.

As a trainee pilot, I don’t remember a more a dramatic landing.

  I slide out of the driver’s seat my legs shaking, striding back to the exit and the clapping spectator who grins and advises that our side awning almost replaced his moustache as the cruiser made its final jump to the top.  I smile.  “No seriously, my son has it on video”.

“It’s awesome” he says “I swear you shaved the old man’s moustache and just missed that tree by millimetres.”  

I watch the video, the shaking of my legs returns.

Max strolls over, cigarette in hand and grins.  “We made it”.  I laugh nervously.  Max adds, “These cruisers go anywhere”.  He puffs his cigarette again.  “Next time though I think we should use 4WD.”

I hear his gravelly chuckle as he saunters back to his mount.
Written by Richard

 Old Telegraph Track

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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?

Malcolm and Roothie

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.

Old Telegraph Track

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.

Weipa to Pennefather River

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Weipa is a mining town.  Bauxite lies just under the surface here, an important input to the production of aluminium.  Rio Tinto has the mining license and is the major employer in the town.

There is a tour of the mine advertised at the caravan park.  It seems a good opportunity to see a working mine and find out how it operates.

Off we go, in the tour bus.  Rio Tinto employees have to live in Weipa to work at the mine.   There are no fly in fly out workers, except for some contractors.  The focus is on building a strong community of long term workers at the mine.  The bus driver tells us about the facilities Weipa has at its disposal, many sponsored by Rio, including a well equipped hospital.   Minor operations can be carried out, but there is no maternity ward.   Mothers to be have to fly to Cairns, four weeks before the baby is due.

The bus takes us across a long one way road and rail bridge to get to the mine.  We are told bridge maintenance involves the most dangerous dive in the world.  Divers have to work in an underwater cage because of the crocodiles, sharks and sea snakes in the water.

Haulage truck

At the mine we watch massive water trucks drive along the wide roads, wetting them down to reduce dust.  Driving one of these mammoth vehicles is a sought after job in the mine.   We see huge haulage trucks thundering along the red orange roads, carrying tonnes of the valuable bauxite rocks.  Production operates all day and all night.  The mine has to constantly fill ships that carry the bauxite to Gladstone, Tasmania and NZ.

This is mining at its simplest.  The vegetation and top soil are removed.  Loaders dig out the bauxite layer and take it away.  There is no processing required.

Once the bauxite layer has been exhausted, the top soil is replaced and contoured to replicate the landscape before mining.   Seeds that were saved from the original vegetation are sown to regenerate the area exactly as it was before.   Any animals, including reptiles, are captured and housed while the mining is taking place.   The indigenous group that owns the land also retrieves any sacred objects and notes any off limits areas before the dozers go in.   The recovery work is world leading, they say, and is very effective.

After the mine tour we head off to the mouth of Pennefather River for a beachside camp site.  We cross the mining roads and watch and wait as the monster trucks rumble past.  Down a narrow dusty track to the beach there’s a spot for lunch and time to prepare the vehicles for four wheel driving.  Tyres are deflated and hubs are locked.

The beach is golden sand and the sea calm, blue and inviting.  No one is swimming here, there are crocodiles and sharks.  Even Aussies, who shrug their shoulders at venomous snakes and spiders, generally avoid swimming with these two apex predators.

Penñefather beach

Driving across the soft sand, our ute wags her tail in increasing arcs, trying to find grip in the loose sandy surface.  We follow Beryl and Howard down to the water’s edge, looking for harder sand.  As we start to climb back up the ridge to move away from the water, the tyres dig into the sand and we come to a standstill.  Richard leaps out, lowers the tyre pressures a few more pounds and engages both diff locks.   I stare at the water, just inches away.  It is hot outside with the sun beating down, then reflected back by the crystalline sand.  People call encouragement and ask questions on the radio.  The ute is up and away and we drive on to find the camping spot at the mouth of the river.

There’s an old ranger station just off the beach and a satellite dish provides the fastest wifi I’ve come across since we left Victoria.   Safari tents have been set up on the riverside and water is pumped to a basic shower in a tin shack.  A long brown snake is seen disappearing into a hole by the shower door.  A yellow and black spider sits inside, in an unusual web, marked with a white X.  There are a few campers here already, and not all of them are human.

Penne father sunset Penne father spider

The view is idyllic.  Sand, gentle lapping waves, swaying she oaks, blue sky.   Picking up my binoculars to look at a sea eagle on the sand bar, I see a dark shape on the sand.  It’s a croc.   He’s small, about four feet long.   As I watch he slides down into the water and lies in the warmth of the shallows.  A little later his brother is spotted on the other bank of the river.  I’m staying well away from the water tonight.

Max heads off to the beach, fishing rod in hand.  Standing where the sand meets the sea, casting out a lure into the shimmering water, with one eye watching the line set with bait, he’s at one with the world.

Deb Pennefather Max fishing pennefather

The camp site is busy, with trucks and quad bikes driving past late into the evening.  It’s a remote spot, but an easy weekend getaway for the workers of Weipa.   The sand is lined with criss cross tracks from their vehicles.

Few have heard of Pennefather River, but the map shows that this was the site of the first recorded European landing on the Australian continent.  A Dutchman, William Janszoon, landed here in 1606 and mapped the coastline.  The chart he drew was so accurate it was only a metre out from modern GPS sightings

Every place has a story.  The European story is now entangled with the story of those who have lived here for tens of thousands of years.  Turn the page, let’s see what the next chapter brings.

A night at Weipa

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We are on the road from our campsite near Bathurst Heads.  This is not a place for people.  It is a place for termites, mosquitoes and crocodiles – and decaying old carcasses of trucks.  

Beryl walks out of the campsite in the heat.  I wonder at her bravery to walk among the swamps and billabongs, crocodile habitat.

Despite the desolate landscape, we come upon occasional wild beauty.  White water lilies shimmer on dark lagoons.  A wild horse watches us as he drinks, then turns away.  A horned bull stands and stares, daring us to come closer.   Flocks of black cockatoos perch on the scrubby trees.   There’s life in the scrub around us.

We turn towards Weipa at Kalpower campground.  The Peninsula Development Road is red, full of corrugations, but light rain damps down the dust thrown up as we drive along.  The roadsides are green with fresh new growth, grasses and eucalypts.   Flat sided magnetic ant hills stand high, buttresses built to point to north.  Tall striped grasses wave in the wind.

The road to Weipa is plagued by racing caravans, eager to book the last site at the caravan park.   They overtake on blind bends in clouds of red dust.

We are lucky to find enough sites free at the campsite when we arrive and we settle in.  Suzanne makes friends among the locals and is soon the newest member of the Weipa golf club.  This exalted position brings privileges.   She signs us all into the golf club for dinner and dancing, the best night in town.   It’s a hike from the caravan park and Suzanne once again comes up trumps.  She’s a hit with the local taxi driver, Steve, 59, and we travel by taxi bus to our evening out.

We dance the night away to seventies disco, night fever, hot stuff, Jive talkin, nut bush city limits.    Heather and Max hit the dance floor rock and rolling to greased lightning.   Through the evening, Suzanne sprays us with her magic mist, kept in a bottle at her side.  Is it a secret recipe to keep mozzies at bay, or love potion number nine?

Weipa is a hit with us, and we are a hit with Weipa.  As we leave a local says, “Don’t go.  Youse was our excitement.”

Cape Tribulation to Cooktown

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It’s raining.  Cape Tribulation has a beautiful beach, fringed with palms.   The clouds are grey and the waters dull in the gentle light.    We run from the car in the rain, but do little more than glance at the beach before we are on our way again, on to the Bloomfield Track.  

The gravel track is steep.   Sharp climbs and rocky creek crossings provide our first driving challenge of the trip.  The track follows the coast along the edge of the Daintree Rainforest.  Tropical Tarzan vines hang down over the road and tangle around fan palms and tree ferns.  We speed over the track, as fast as the landcruisers will carry us.

Not everyone who passes by values the rainforest.  It’s sad to see styrofoam food containers and aluminium drink cans lying on the roadsides.  

We stop at an indigenous art gallery for coffee and a browse.   The art is not as impressive as the nearby waterfall, thundering down on the rocky river bed.

Further along the track, misty mountains rise up ahead of us. They create the heavy rainfall, about 7 metres a year, that is needed to sustain the Daintree rain forest.  

Lunch is at an old hotel with a long history, named The Lions Den.  It’s been a watering hole since the 1800s.  Check out the car park these days and it’s full of four wheel drive vehicles.  Like many outback pubs, the walls are covered with the names of past customers, backpackers and campers.   Is there a need to make a mark?  To be part of a travelling tribe?  How many return to find the names they scrawled years ago, to touch their youth?

On again.  Next stop Cooktown.

  
This is where Captain James Cook landed to repair his damaged ship, back in 1770.  There are memorials to Cook, including a life size statue on the waterfront.  The town grew to a major centre when gold was discovered on the Palmer River, but has now become a pleasant, but overlooked backwater.  Who knows, it’s time may come again.

At the end of the day we drive to Endeavour Falls to camp overnight underneath the palm trees.

We are sailing

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Cid Harbour is a sheltered anchorage.  We share it with four or five other yachts.   As the sun goes down, we see their white anchor lights shining around us.   We dance with them in an evening waltz, each yacht swinging on its anchor chain, back and forth to the music of the wind and the waves.

There is an air of anticipation about the crew.  Tonight is Gilligan’s Island night.  Each of us has been given a character to play from that ancient US TV show.   The identity of our alter egos has been kept secret until now.   Costumes on, we emerge from our cabins and attempt to stay in character through the evening meal.   

Ginger steals the show, with her firey red hair, black evening gown and dark sultry looks.   She makes a fine figure casting fishing lines from the bow of the boat as shoals of tiny fish leap in the moonlight.

In the morning we rise early for a day of swimming and snorkelling at Butterfly Bay.  Time to relax and enjoy the warm sunshine, to slip off the back of the boat into the turquoise blue water and to head off with snorkel and flippers to explore the underwater life of the coral reef.  

The next day the wind is blowing a good fifteen knots and the sails go up.  We are sailing!

Heather proves to have a sensitive hand on the helm, getting the yacht to move at a respectable 7 knots.   Richard tightens up the main to eke out a little more speed, while Max trolls his lines from the stern.   As the sun rises in the sky, the crew get sleepy in the warm sea air.   Suddenly there is a shout and Max is reeling in a glistening blue mackerel.   The boat comes to life with calls of encouragement.   Reference books are consulted to identify the precise species.   Everyone wants to take a look.  The fish is too small to keep and is thrown back to the ocean depths, but the buzz lingers to liven up our sleepy passengers.

We tack down the coast, watching out for other yachts.  We admire the sleek lines of thoroughbred racers that glide past, overtaking us with ease.   A turtle swims alongside, lifting his head on his wrinkled neck to survey the surface before diving back down.  A whale, or is it a dolphin, slips past.

Our destination is Whitehaven.  The fine white silica sand squeaks underfoot as we walk the length of the beach.  Day trippers disappear on to the tourist boats. We climb into the jetty and return to the yacht.   

The evening ends with a huge full moon rising over the water, glowing pink against the azure blue sky.  The reflection of the moonlight on the surface of the water is broken only by gentle ripples in the cool breeze.  

Tomorrow we return to dry land.   Thinking back, it’s been a great few days on the water.  We have had no sea sickness.  Able Seaman Jeffery has manfully tackled every sailing task, proving it is possible to swim from shore fully clothed.  Gourmet meals have been cooked by the ladies in the smallest galley kitchen I have seen.  Entertainment every night has had us roaring with laughter.  

Howard has explored the underwater world.  Max has caught two fish.  Richard has managed the boat and engine in all conditions, forward gear or not.  And I have had a great day’s sailing.

Oh, and the skipper with his blokey ways will stay on the island, with Ginger.

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.

Motel California

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You can’t always rely on the Internet to find last minute accommodation. Trust me, I know.

The motel comes into view as we drive around the corner. Grass is growing between the cracks in the concrete. Paint is peeling from the faded sign.

I climb reluctantly out of the ute. Heart sinking. Foolish optimism making me hope that maybe first appearances are deceptive. I’ve booked the motel for the eight of us to stay overnight before taking the ferry across to Hamilton Island. I need to check it out.

A paper sign is stuck to the window with Sellotape, handwritten in black ink. “Call Dave on 0431 254 876”. I peer inside the darkened interior. A figure moves slowly towards the door. A middle aged man, dressed in baggy trousers and a stained cotton shirt pushes the sliding door open.

We’ve booked rooms, I say.

He mumbles. You’ll have to speak to Dave in room 5. Just knock on the door.

The door to room 5 is closed. The curtains are pulled over. I knock.

No response. Knock again, calls Beryl.

I knock again, louder. The door opens. I see a bed. The sheets and blankets are pulled to one side, pillows piled in the centre.

We’ve booked rooms, I say. At this point I’m contemplating my escape plan.

Dave, hair sticking to one side of his face, taps the side of his head.

Give me a minute to get my head together. Just give me a minute.

He closes the door, then quickly reopens it. His face confused.

You have to give me a minute to get my head together.

We’d like to see the rooms, I say. He fumbles in his pocket and drops a handful of keys into my hand. Look at 3, 5 or 6.

I look at the jumble of keys. I can see two with labels marked 3 and one with a label marked 9. Room 9 is nearby. I turn the key in the lock and look inside. The room is a mess of bed clothes, a mop and bucket stand by the door. I close the door quickly. No way are we staying here.

He said look at room 6, says Beryl. As I walk over to the door marked 6, I hear Howard call out. Lovely gardens you have here.

The small dirt area in front of the motel building is sunbaked. A few lonely weeds struggle to find life in the desolate strip of soil.

A strange noise is coming from room number 6. My feeling of foreboding increases. I walk towards the door. Hand ready to turn the handle, I stop and listen. Silence, except for the strains of a familiar song playing in my head. “Welcome to the Motel California, such a lovely place, such a lovely face…”

There is a key to room number 6, but the door opens as I turn the handle. Two beds. A view. It looks all right, says Beryl. Inwardly I admire her chirpy optimism. I wish I could share it.

The red counterpanes on the beds look old and tired. The carpet threadbare, well worn. Turning back the bedclothes I see biscuit crumbs.

A sound comes from the bathroom. I turn my head. A cloud covers the sun and the room darkens. I take one step forward. The door to the bathroom slowly opens. I step back in surprise as much as horror.

“There’s plenty of room at the Motel California, any time of year, you can find it here.”

I run quickly from the room and thrust the keys back into Dave’s hand. It’s not what we are looking for, I call, as we drive away.

What did you see? Asks Richard. I look out of the window at the figure of Dave receding in the distance. The doorman is just visible behind the smeared glass entrance door. A shiver runs down my back, I’ll never tell.

“You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave…”

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.

Brahman

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.Roma hand sits it outl

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.

Roma auctioneer

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.

Roma yard

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.

image

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.

All roads lead to Roma

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General Howard leads his troops out of the bush.  He’s smiling, “We’re four minutes early.”

We are on our way to Roma, home of the largest cattle sales in Australia.   The roadsides here are dotted with white fluffy cotton buds.  Cotton is cropped in the area and seedlings are breaking out of the paddocks to mix with grasses, gums and prickly pears.  A flock of bright lime green and red parrots swoops around us as the utes roll on.  Bright yellow sunflowers, more escapees from horticulture, nod as we go by. It’s a fine day in colourful Queensland.  Layers are stripped off as we moult our winter woollies.  Some go straight to shorts and tshirts while the more cautious start with slightly shorter 3/4 pants.

I blink and wipe my eyes.  No, it can’t be, that looks like a flock of bright yellow sheep.  Sure enough, here are more newly shorn sheep, happily grazing, oblivious of their lurid hue.  Yellow dyes have been added to their dip to mark out those who have been protected from ticks, lice and other parasites.  Any that have missed the dip can be easily spotted by the farmer. It’s logical, but it gives the view a surreal flavour as if we are waking from a morphine dream.

We are soon at St George and ready for morning cuppas.  St George is a gracious patrician town, wide roads, well maintained buildings, a John Deere franchise and a river frontage.   We can’t stop long to discover more this time.  It’s on to Roma and the cattle sales.

Even the scrub looks like parkland here.  Red red earth, grey green grassland dotted with trees.   Well nourished cattle wander in the shade.  We hope for a sighting of Major Mitchell’s cockatoo, a pink and yellow bird with a magnificent crest, named for Major Mitchell who explored this area in 1846.  In pictures he looks a rare beauty, (the bird, not the major) but he has not shown himself to us yet.

Lunch is at Surat.   An historic town on the Balonne river.   Bottle trees line the street, one appears to look back at us, the shape of an eye drawn in the markings in its bark.

Eye in treeSurat shire hall

We admire the old timber buildings in Queenslander style, a post office, the magnificent old shire hall and a Cobb & Co changing station.  Inside a free museum on the Main Street there are old wool industry artefacts and the star of the show, a restored Cobb & Co carriage.

What must it have been like to speed down these roads in this wooden carriage, harnessing the power of seven horses, bouncing on the leather springs? No glass in the windows, no air conditioning to block out the climate, dust and scents of the outback.

These days it’s diesel-powered cattle trucks and road trains that drive through Surat’s Main Street.

We drive on. It’s not far from Surat to Roma. We soon see the signs for the cattle market and pull in to the sale yard car park.