The Long Paddock

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.

The long road north

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Get out your map of Australia now.

We are going to Cape York. How are we going to get there? Read on for the route of our long road to the north.

We like to go off the beaten track. So rather then heading up the freeway to Melbourne from our home in the Otways, we’ll head inland through the goldfields and wool mills around Ballarat and Bendigo. Two of our party will meet us on the way. Five vehicles will then head north across the great Murray River to overnight in the country town of Deniliquin.

Taking a turning to the west, our camping convoy will head for the Darling River, one of the longest rivers in Australia. Our journey along the Darling will take us through small towns like Wilcannia that were once bustling river ports. Back in the river boat era, the Darling was part of an extensive water transport network that took wool and other goods to the coast.

Leaving the river for the outback, the convoy will visit the mining town of Lightning Ridge, famous for its black opals. Then on to Roma, home of the largest cattle sales in Australia, if not the Southern Hemisphere. We’ll spend some time there admiring the animals at one of their famous outback cattle auctions.

After the excitement of the sales yards, we head into the wilderness of Carnarvon National Park in Queensland’s central highlands to bush walk, admire the birds and wildlife and be inspired by the indigenous art.

If time allows, Longreach will be our next stop. Famed as the birthplace of Australia’s Qantas airline, there is much there to interest the aviation enthusiast. Those more interested in Australia’s rural history, can wile away a few hours in the Australian Stockman’s Hall of Fame.

Northwards to Airlie Beach, where the cars and campers will be given a few days rest in secure parking. Skipper and crew will head to Hamilton Island for a week to explore the beautiful Whitsunday Islands by yacht. On the edge of the Great Barrier Reef, this is a perfect sailing spot, sure to please even the most nervous novice sailor (I hope).

Refreshed from our sailing adventures, it is onwards and upwards to Charters Towers, then along the Gregory Development Road to Cairns and on to Cooktown in the Cape York Peninsula. It’s starting to get hot and steamy up here. Cooktown sits on the edge of the tropical rainforest and is a botanist’s paradise, as well as a handy stopping off point for the Great Barrier Reef or the Lakefield National Park.

Now in one of Australia’s true wilderness areas, we’ll take the Peninsula Development Road towards the town of Weipa. Looking out for crocs we’ll head up the Old Telegraph Track to the northernmost tip of mainland Australia, Cape York. This could test our vehicles and our drivers. Its rocky creek crossings are spoken of in hushed tones by experienced off-road drivers. Gunshot Creek, the scariest of them all, requires a steep descent into a running rocky river. As the old timers used to say, “there be dragons…”

Having made it this far, we hope to have time to take the ferry across to Thursday Island. The island is the centre of the Torres Strait Islands region, culturally Melanesian but administratively part of Far North Queensland.

And there, as far north as we can go, we will have reached our destination and can make our way slowly back home.

This is the plan. Dear reader, do join us on our travel adventures to the most northerly tip of Australia. Bigredbit will document what happens as the plan meets reality.

Off the beaten track

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Don’t laugh. This sketchy map is pretty much how I viewed Australia until I came to live here. It’s defining features? The big red sandy bit in the middle and the country’s incredibly deadly wildlife – snakes, sharks, spiders, poisonous jellyfish and man-eating crocodiles. Its culture? Cricket and beaches. Beer and barbies. Crocodile Dundee and Kylie Minogue.

Of course, it is more, much more than that. Its vast, open spaces are mind expanding. Its wildlife is unique and diverse. Its indigenous culture ancient and mysterious. Its written history, short, brutal and at times full of despair. Turn off the beaten track and you begin to dig beneath the surface of modern Australia.

That’s why when we leave the green, pleasant land of Victoria and head north, we will steer inland, away from the major roads. We will visit monuments to early settlers, old woolsheds, opal fields and outback cattle yards. We will see the sobering effects of drought and enjoy the mateship of a country pub. We will cross rivers, some running, some dry, as we make our way slowly northward to the tropical wilderness where the deadly predators still roam.

Off the highway, we may begin to understand a culture that celebrates heroic failures more vigorously than stoic survivors. The tragic loss of the Gallipolli landings? Honoured as a defining national event. Bourke and Wills, the explorers who never came back? Recognised by a bronze statue in the centre of Melbourne and better known than any who lived to tell the tale.

Modern Australia is a country built by victory over extreme adversity. Off the beaten track, the human struggle to live on this harsh, parched continent is more apparent. Think back through history. The urban poor of the British Isles, transported as convicts to a far off land, lacked the most basic agricultural skills to scrape a living from the land. They almost starved. New settlers, seeking gold or escaping political discrimination were little better equipped. Tragedy was commonplace in the early days of modern Australia. But still they came, looking for a better life. Hoping to win against the odds.

Perhaps that’s why we celebrate the battler, the man or woman who will take risks and have a go, no matter the consequences.

Travelling inland we will hear their stories and see the land as they would have seen it. Away from the hubbub of 21st century coastal city life, if we listen carefully we may catch the melody of their songs on the wind.

There is much more to Australia than its travel brochure reputation suggests. Dig beneath the surface, leave the highway for a dirt track and discover another country.

Here we go again…

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Autumn draws to a close. Winter is coming to the Otways and we are heading north.

Looking outside my window I see gold and red leaves on the Japanese Maple. The garlic is planted, the apples harvested, the last of the tomato plants despatched. It’s a fine clear autumn day in the Otways. I feel the chill in the air as the sun drops down below the horizon. Another log on the fire warms the room. As the sun retreats and the days grow shorter and cooler, like migratory birds we feel the need to be on the move.

Travel plans are well advanced. It’s time to wake up this sleepy blog. Big Red Bit is off to Cape York in Far North Queensland.

The Artist’s Studio

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The artist’s studio. A place to be creative.

A house plan these days will often include two or three bathrooms, a home movie theatre and a double garage, but very rarely does it consider the need for a special place for creativity.

I’ve been thinking about this since I visited Hans Heysen’s studio in Hahndorf in South Australia. Hans Heysen was an acclaimed artist, a German who settled in Australia. His stone-built studio is located high up on his sloping property, positioned perfectly to take in the view of the eucalypts and cedars in his garden. Clear daylight streams into the building through enormous windows that fill its south-facing wall.

Hans Heysen Studio

The studio stands apart from the house where Heysen lived. Apart both by location and appearance. A national treasure, it is said to be the oldest artist’s studio in Australia.

So much love, time and money was spent on this building. The artist commissioned a local Hahndorf firm to build it, using raw materials from the area. He worked closely with a team of architects to perfect the design. The resulting studio is faintly reminiscent of an alpine lodge, but in sturdy local stone. It is a man’s building, solid and strong.

Inside, you can see it is more than Heysen’s workshop, more than somewhere to keep his tools of trade, his paints, charcoal sticks and brushes. The essence of the man is here. The house, it could have belonged to anyone.

Heysen loved nature. He loved painting the day to day agricultural activities in and around Hahndorf and was deeply inspired by the stark, majestic beauty of the nearby Flinders Ranges. He toured the area to find his subjects, deftly capturing light and shadows with his charcoals, drawing from life, outside in the open air.

Returning to his studio, he painted from the black and white preliminary drawings, reproducing by memory the fall of the light, the tints and hues of the natural world. His oil paintings document his time and his place, giving us a secret window into South Australian life in the early twentieth century.

Perhaps that is how creativity works. We live, we love, we travel. We see for ourselves the beauty and the dark horror of the world, then we return home to our special place, our studio, to interpret these experiences in our own unique way. In the process of creating something from our experiences and our emotions, we understand ourselves better and communicate more deeply with the people around us.

We can’t all build a self-standing studio, like Hans Heysen. We can’t all afford that luxury. But, a desk, a shed, a special corner of a room? That’s possible.

You might say you are not creative, not an artist. Think again. You might not use a paint brush, but your unique work may be produced with a welder, a camera, a garden trowel, a drum machine or a laptop computer. Creativity takes many forms.

How different would our world be if every house included a special place set aside solely for us to be creative? How different would our lives be if we valued art and creativity that much?

Build yourself a studio. Who knows where it might lead.

Red Sands and Salt Lakes

Reflections on a journey

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This journey has given me a new perspective on Australia, the continent and the country. I’m new here. I will always be an outsider looking in. But, am I so different from the majority of Australians? 12 years, 60 years, 230 years, how long before we truly belong?

We all huddle together on the coast, safe in our hustle and bustle, living our remote version of the European lifestyle. Out there, not so many kilometres away, the ancient heart of Australia beats on.

Travelling through Europe, I’ve marvelled at the sights, sounds and tastes of different cultures. I’ve stared in wonder at the remnants of great civilisations, Roman, Greek and Ancient Briton, and sought my origins in the stories of my Anglo-Celtic ancestors. On the North American continent I’ve admired the natural beauty of the Grand Canyon, the Arizona desert and the Colorado mountains. But never before have I been touched by the spirit of the land.

What was it about this journey and this continent that was different? Was it me? Am I at an age where I am more receptive to the unseen, intangible feeling of a place? Or is this the natural response to travelling in a land that resonates with an unknown, mysterious past; a land where we do not truly know what layers of human history lie below the superficial patina laid down since our recent arrival?

Somehow, the red centre has a power that transcends human history. The never-ending expanses of shining flat gibber plains, the strange otherworldly forms of the rusty red mesas and escarpments, the ochre sands and crystal clear water holes. They were here before us and they will continue to exist long after we have made our mark. This may also be true of the continents of Europe and America, I have never felt it so keenly before.

How insignificant we seem in these wide open landscapes. And yet, there is a sense of the sacred here, in the nature of the land and in our inescapable attachment to it.

The aboriginal peoples are another mystery, unknown to me as they are to most modern Australians. I’m confused by the apparent contradictions. They have an innate feeling for the land, but leave the debris of modern life piled high near their communities. I’m saddened by the history of our dealings with them.

I hope the knowledge of the people who have inhabited this land for tens of thousands of years will not be lost, that somehow we can find a way to come together to listen and learn. But, I’m not naive enough to imagine this will be easy, or perhaps even possible. The barriers seem too great.

I loved my journey into the red centre of Australia. I loved the companionship of my fellow travellers. I loved the new experiences.

I have treasured memories – a campfire circle on a starlit desert night, a swim in cool clear water under pink and gold cliffs, a dingo in the desert, the crisp white expanse of salt lakes, the taste of fresh made damper and the magnificent splendour of Kata Tjuta and Uluru.

But greater than these, I’ve come away with an unexpected feeling, a respect and awe for this vast and ancient land.

Oodnadatta to Coober Pedy

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It’s busy in the Pink Roadhouse. Two tourists search for the perfect Tshirt. An indigenous mum and baby girl stand and wait. We are getting our takeaway cups filled with coffee, it’s early and we are the first customers at the coffee machine.

Richard is keen to get on the road today. He’s looking forward to seeing the remains of the Old Ghan railway that runs beside the Oodnadatta track. You could call the track an open air museum, there is so much history here.

The Ghan railway has a mystique about it. It was a pioneer railway with a long and protracted history. It was originally named the Afghan Express after the camel trains that served the inland routes in the nineteenth century.

The old route was discontinued in 1980 because it was frequently washed out by floods and the timber sleepers had to be replaced often because of termite damage. In its heyday it carried passengers and supplies from the ports of Adelaide to the outlying townships in the remote inland territory, all the way to Alice Springs. If the train got into trouble, the passengers had to get out and help rebuild or clear the track.

It was a steam railway and needed water. It followed the same route taken by the Overland Telegraph Line, by the Afghan cameleers, by early explorers and before that by Aboriginal ochre traders. They all followed the water. The track follows a string of mound springs where water bubbles up to the surface from the depths of the Great Artesian Basin. Follow the water. Not a bad adage for Australian life.

The flat, red gibber plains of this country are familiar to us now. They run unimpeded to the far horizon, reflecting the light from the morning sun. The old railway track follows the curves of the road and we are soon deep in industrial archaeology. We stop for bridges, embankments and to wander through old ruined railway buildings.

Old Ghan Bridge

Richard walks along the old line looking for treasure, like an exploring schoolboy. He holds up an iron nail used to drive in the timber sleepers, “Look at this.”

Oodnadatta mud map

The Oodnadatta Pink Roadhouse publishes a hand-drawn track map, given out for free, and has set out homemade road signs pointing out the sights to see on the rail trail. It is uniquely quirky. This feels more and more like a treasure hunt.

Ghan Ruins

The ruined buildings so isolated even in their day evoke a wistful sadness. The age of steam, once at the leading edge of technology, is now a romantic memory. How long will the bridges and buildings stand before they disappear into the featureless flat plains?

On the recommendation of the pink mud map, we take a 15 km detour off the main route, up a long winding sandy track. Heading into the remote area off the already remote track feels like an adventure. We are making for Peake Creek, settled around the telegraph line in the 1860s. After a slow drive along the poorly maintained track, we are disappointed to see a lonely pile of bricks ahead of us with a sign next to it.

Peake Creek

Fortunately, there is more. This is the eating house, or what is left of it. The settlement lies just around the corner. The sound of squawking cockatoos swirling around an unexpected group of Palm trees tells we have arrived. The settlement was built on a spring. It’s an eerie, deserted place. The telegraph station’s grandeur can still be seen in its ruined state. The inhabitants even built a copper smelter, such was their optimism about the future of the settlement. But it all came to nothing and eventually, when the telegraph ceased to be essential, the copper failed to be economic and the droughts came, the pioneers walked away.

We turn off the Oodnadatta track at William Creek, a tiny town, apparently all owned by one man. The pub sells everything. Bush humour is alive and well. A parking meter has been installed outside the pub for tourists.

Woomera Truck

We do not have time this trip to follow the track all the way to Marree, so we head off across the Woomera Prohibited Area, the rocket testing range for the Australian army. We only see one other vehicle along the track, an old truck that has seen better days. Two hundred kilometres of the loneliest, most remote driving we have done. No emus. No dingos. No camels. Just two old bulls who stare at the ute and look prepared to send us on our way.

Woomera – a lonely track

The opal mines of Coober Pedy are a welcome sight on the horizon, although they signal the end of our outback trip. Tomorrow we head down South on the highway.

We have come to the end of our outback adventure and what a grand adventure it has been.

Outback roads

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It is 11 degrees C when we leave Yulara. We have a day of driving on outback roads ahead of us.

Turning off the highway after Curtins Creek on to Mulga Park Road, we stop to deflate the tyre pressure to cope with the sandy terrain. Mulga Park Road is a wide roadway, scooped out of the red earth. No frills. The road lies well below the level of the land around us. I see camel tracks padding along side the roadway and we keep our eyes peeled for unexpected pedestrians.

The combination of sand and gravel rattles our bones as we drive along. We pass the mighty Mount Connor, a flat topped mesa monolith that we had mistaken for Uluru from a distance a few days before. It is part of the same ancient family that created Uluru and Kata Tjuta.

This is the first time we have driven off the beaten track on our own and we are a little nervous. I keep a watch on the rocky red cliffs that run alongside the road, on the lookout for camels or cattle. Richard drives with one eye on the road and one on the tyre pressure indicators.

Camel crossing

“Camel”, I shout. A small buck camel stands by the side of the track, chewing. He looks up and watches us as we drive slowly by. He’s not bothered in the slightest. He’s the first wild camel we’ve seen on our outback trip, although we are told there are a million camels running wild in Central Australia. He looks rather cute.

We see dust approaching and a Landcruiser passes, giving the outback salute. Two fingers are lifted from the wheel and the head nodded slightly.

A few minutes later we disturb two emus feeding in the scrub. This lonely road is busier than we imagined.

The Curtin Springs station homestead comes into view and we turn left on to the Old Gunbarrel Highway. We have been reading the tales of Len Beadell, the man behind many outback tracks, including this one. The road is named after the Gunbarrel Road Construction Party he formed to build it. The name indicates their intention to build a dead straight road from East to West across Australia. He admits it should perhaps have been called the Corkscrew Road, but the name stuck and was adopted by the mapping authorities. With typical Aussie humour, he referred to all the roads he bashed through the bush as highways, and that stuck too.

Old Gunbarrel Highway

We bounce along over the corrugations and weave to and fro across the highway to find the smoothest path. The land looks fertile, grasses and Mulga trees are growing with vigour. The palette is minty olive green on dark red ochre sands. Some well fed cattle peer out from the scrub and kick their heels up as they scatter on our approach.

There’s a rapid movement, a flash of blonde fur, and we see a dingo on the side of the road. We slow down to take a look. The wild dog trots into the road and looks at the car. He’s curious. Then, turning his head back every now and then, he continues on his way.

Dingo

We are enjoying the vibrant colours of the scenery and the varied animal life along the way. The road stutters to a rugged, rocky end and we are once again turning on to the Stuart Highway.

	Vanhaaps, Maarten on Mungo National Park
	Deb McSephney on Mungo National Park
	Vanhaaps, Maarten on Mungo National Park
	Adding Colour to our… on Flying north
	Johnny on Reflections