Tag Archives: Road trip

The Tanami

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Author: Richard McSephney

The Tanami has a reputation.

It’s very rough, not very interesting, it’s only a shortcut.

Well, I have to say I thought it was great. Maybe finding a couple of ripper bush camps helped?

I have to admit to being a real truck fan so for me watching out for the enormous road trains was an added bonus. These beasts are truly gargantuan. Think of a normal semi, or as others may call them articulated trucks. These beasts have four of those trailers joined on the back so your looking at about 60 meters long being towed along by a 600 horsepower Kenworth.
These trucks are made in Victoria from an American design modified for the harsh Australian conditions. Around 50,000 of them have been manufactured since their introduction in the 70s but out here they are truly the king of the road so imagine my surprise as I see one in the distance, let’s say 2 km away. My eyes must be deceiving me. It’s on my side of the road.
Now what is the etiquette in these circumstances?
It’s very easy. Move over and let him go any where he wants! I did and that’s why I’m still able to write this piece.
To be fair it was an extremely rough piece of track and he was trying not to turn to a cocktail the 100,000s litres of fuel he carried. He was plying his trade from Alice across the Tanamai to points north and west. This is the north west’s life blood. We certainly found that out when we arrived in Halls Creek and found closed signs on the diesel pumps.
What do we do now asked a visitor?
Wait until the Roadtrain arrives! When will that be? When he arrives!

I really enjoy the drive, we keep a distance between the vehicles. The dust hangs in the air making forward vision almost impossible. I mean for at least 60 m of zip if a Road train passes.

We approach Wolf Creek!
Now I’m not a horror fan but for those who like to entertain themselves with fear, this location is the site of an horror film par excellance. I’m just not into that entertainment. In fact I’ve been known to cause great entertainment to others who find my easily alarmed nature amusing.
Take the other night.
We walk in darkness to a local hotel in Halls Creek. Two Aboriginal ladies join us and give us direction to the hotel entrance. I lead and as we walk up the path there’s some rustling in the undergrowth. My alarm level rises and unlike other circumstances where the rustling recedes, It doesn’t this time and continues toward me. Well I start hopping about squealing and carrying on like a pork chop ( for non Australians that means acting like a fool). Then a large cane toad appears. My dance pace increases with steps that at audition for Michael Flately’s troupe would have me touring with them in a flash.
I reach the hotel entrance and safety only to hear the chucking of our Aboriginal guides, muttering to each other about this dopey white fella. They of course are probably crocodile wrestlers and can’t understand what the ridiculous fuss is about. Still probably gave them a story to tell their pals who I could envisage all shaking their heads in disbelief.
I learnt my dance steps from earlier experience s with frogs. Whenever I saw a frog in the garden when the kids were young I would hop about like a complete idiot explaining to them that I just didn’t want to step on the poor chap. I think they never swallowed that either!
So Wolf Creek horror film would never be for me.
I think briefly that I should suggest we camp here for the night out of sheer bravado and so I could say to anyone who won’t “chicken eh?” but can’t think of a sound excuse for withdrawing my suggestion if anyone actually agrees. So I dare not raise it.
If you’ve seen the film you’ll realise that the acting from those who should be awarded an Oscar doesn’t actually come from their skills learnt at acting school but the realistic terror is real. They had no idea what was going to happen and were really terrified. I can’t help but laugh….from a great distance with the lights on!
The crater is astonishing, written about elsewhere in the blog.
I fly the drone to about 100m altitude and take some photos. There’s a blip and the vision signal is lost. I see the drone so ignore the auto return to home and manually fly it back, re boot the system and set off again. A second warning ⚠️ sounds and again the return to home is triggered. I grab a couple of quick shots and land wondering if maybe my drone has caught my sense of spookiness.
I pack it away and we’re on our way.

As we approach Halls Creek I reflect on the previous couple of days in the desert.
I don’t care what’s said about the Tanami I loved it.

 

Sent from my iPad

Outback, suburbia. Suburbia, outback.

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Guest author: Richard McSephney

What an incredible day.  Departing Port Augusta, at the top of the hill turn left to West Australia, turn right to Darwin. It doesn’t matter, 3000 km either way before you see an ocean again.

This is the point at which a line has been drawn in the sand.  The outback starts at the 110km speed advisory.  Literally, suburban town abruptly stops and the deep red sand and mint green saltbush contrasts with the bright blue sky. You could straddle it. Outback, suburbia. Suburbia, outback. It truly is that simple.

I find myself at peace. I’m a total novice but I feel strangely belonging. I love this feeling. I feel at home. It can’t be so but that’s how I feel. I truly wish I’d known this place earlier.
The day is spent thundering up the Stuart Highway. We aim for Coober Pedy some 600 km away.

Janette has invited us to visit her on Ingomar Station about 50 km from Coober Pedy. There has been rain so our route has to be carefully orchestrated to ensure we don’t damage the road or get stuck in the soft slippery soils of the outback. Following Howard’s ute looks like attending a neatly choreographed dance as the Landcruiser slithers sideways, is carefully caught and scrabbled for grip. It feels like ice.

Dave a maintenance man on the station relays a route to ensure we make it in.
“About 40 km from Coober you’ll see an overpass. Keep the mine haul road on your left and follow a bitumen mine road for about 20 km then turn left pass a dam..”…and so the instructions go on. The homestead is about 40 km off the highway. It never used to be but the state rerouted the road and now the driveway is essentially 40 km long. Now that might sound a lot but dimensions here are of gargantuan proportions.

The cattle station has 3 airstrips and its very own atomic shelter. This is located in the prohibited Woomera area and not all that far from Maralinga where from 1956 to 1963 Britain tested a few atomic bombs. It was safe though, no chance whatsoever of the cloud drifting anywhere near Westminster! Not so for our host’s property as the earth shelter testifies! Wonder how the animals were protected?

The adjoining station Anna Creek is the largest working cattle station on earth. Anna Creek and the associated outstation, The Peake, cover 23,677 sq km of pastoral land, which will double the size of Williams Cattle Company’s holdings to some 45,000 sq km. Together, they have a capacity for 35,000 cattle. It’s larger than some European countries.
So by contrast our host’s property is a modest 1,000,000 acres! That’s twice the size of the ACT (Australian Capital Territory) and twice the size of Luxembourg.

The station is home to 13,500 sheep and 3,500 cattle. The logistics of running a place like this are staggering. The cattle yards are just 50 km away, with a second set 150 km away. Last week it took two helicopters 5 days to bring the cattle in. That doesn’t include the 8 ringers on motorbikes assisting.

This is not an operation for the faint hearted.  Scott the new owner has great plans for improvements as the station is a bit run down and when I see the stocks of pipes, steel, trucks and machinery I can only marvel at the task ahead.

We gather wood for a fire and I’m reminded of the story of an adventurer who not that long ago met a King Brown snake whilst gathering wood.   His body was found 7 years later not far from here. I shudder at the memory and look out into the dark where I hear shuffling and crackling. I call out…”You ok Howard, no sign of snakes?”

Where was I, you ask?  Standing on the step of the Landcruiser holding a torch so he could find the way back, that’s where I was.  Oh come on, that’s also a dangerous task.  I wasn’t shirking my responsibilities, you could easily slip off and sprain your ankle.
It is a tough job and someone had to do it and to be fair it was Howard himself who planted the fear of snakes by telling me the story in the first place.

It was a very cold night and we wake early to the sound of the fleet of vehicles heading off to the far flung corners of the station to start the day’s work, for us a cruise day toward Alice.

A Paradise of Wine and Old Tractors

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Guest author: Richard McSephney

You can’t spoil a drive through the Clare Valley.

It’s grey and cold but the valley is spectacular. Every kilometre there is the name of an old friend, Annie’s Lane, Mitchell, Mintaro Wines, Knappstein and so it goes on.

A personal favourite name but not tasted is Mad Bastard Wines. Allegedly Mark Barry the winemaker is known as MB by both name and nature, his unconventional ways have earned him the title. That may well be the case, but equally I wouldn’t be surprised if it were a warning on the label that after just one sip it has a dramatic effect on the consumer’s personality! I may even know one who has partaken of that brew and he certainly could equally be named after the wine.

We visit Sevenhill Winery. A beautiful location dominated by St Aloysius Church and adjoining Jesuit retreat surrounded by an immaculate garden. I think this might be a little bit of heaven if you’re a Jesuit priest hanging out here for a break. Turn right out of your lodging and you have some fine rieslings or tokay or turn left and praise the Lord at St Aloysuis. It’s all so convenient that you wouldn’t even get your cassock wet if it was pouring down.

My favourite part though was an inscription hanging above the cellar cat’s bed, a half barrel filled with straw. He was very cosy and so as not to be disturbed a notice pronouncing that he was not receiving visitors today protected him from endless visitor fussing.

The inscription reads;
Blessed are you. Lord God of all creation. Through your goodness we have this wine to offer fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become our spiritual drink.
Hallelujah….this isn’t on the inscription but I’m adding it. It seems very appropriate.

Our plan is to head for Booleroo Centre where there is a rare steam and farm machinery museum like no other you’ve ever visited.

Ian, a retired farmer, personally shows us around.  His knowledge and anecdotes are timeless, but he insists he came late to the society.  He was standing in for someone otherwise overcommitted for a particular role and here he is now, 25 years later, raising his concerns over the future of the collection with diminishing membership and even worse diminishing population in the area. Who’s going to keep it open?

Every item was donated, an amazing feat unlikely to be achieved in today’s society. This whole collection was the vision of one man and has been kept going by the efforts of a few. Well done chaps keep it going.

Of special interest is a Benz 125 hp model engine and generator believed to be out of a WWI (1914-1918) German U-boat, or submarine.

Next year is the 50 th anniversary of the society. On the 25th March 2018 a rally will be held with many of the exhibits showing their capabilities.  So if you happen to have an old Lanz Bulldog or a steam traction engine lurking around at home get on up to Booleroo and blow some smoke into the air with the best of them.

Ironically it looks like modern day technology provides a stable income for the group. Two mobile cell towers, 21st century equipment contributing to a 19th century maintenance bill. I like that.

During the day I notice a number of road signs: ‘Dog Registrations Now Due’ with a strap line “desex your dog”.

I’m wondering if the dog population of South Australia is so sizeable the Government sees dog rego as a major line of income? If they do, why then add desex your dog? Isn’t that restricting future income potential?

How did this initiative come about? Did the SA Government Finance Committee see a hole in their budget? How was it proposed? The right Honourable member for Woop Woop moves to remind residents of the drain on our economy of the dog population…..

As I approach Port Augusta my mind slips into neutral, just like the Landcruiser. The end of a great day.  Wine and old tractors, who could ask for more?

Thanks to Tourism Australia for the photo of St Aloysius.

Red Sands and Salt Lakes

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Here’s a missing post that was written on our second day in the Simpson Desert. It didn’t make it up on to the blog, so it’s a bonus for you today.

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Refreshed from a night of deep sleep in the warm, dry desert air, we breakfast quickly and make an early start on the road again.

Once again we are making our way over and across the parallel waves of sand. The dunes rise and fall in front of us, creating a rhythm of their own. The rhythm is hypnotic, up and down, up and down. We become part of the song of the desert as we climb to the crest of each dune and then drop away to the trough. The note of the engine rises and falls as gears change. The drivers are focused, selecting the right gear, choosing the best track to make their way over the dunes. They cannot help but move to the beat of the desert’s song.

Lizard tracks

Lizard tracks

It is a beautiful song. Red sienna dunes rise from grey sandy troughs. Clawed tree branches clutch at the pastel blue sky. The colours change in time with the rhythm created by the shape of the land. Up and down, up and down. As we drive deeper into the desert, the colours grow more intense. The channels between the dunes are dotted with squat bonsai-like trees, yellow flowers in silvery grey foliage. The desert is beautiful but hers is a harsh environment. To survive here, plants must live in an arid sandy soil under the fierce glare of the sun. They defend themselves from dehydyration by growing a silvery armour on their leaves and holding on tightly to any water that falls, storing it within. Life in the desert is always on her terms.

Driving in the desert

Driving in the desert

We cross paths with a group of fellow travellers in Land Rovers. They have decided to ignore some of the desert park rules and are not pleased to be reminded of them. Live and let live, but safety must come first in the desert. You can lose your life here, or cause others to lose theirs.

As the the sun rises into the sky, the colours around us deepen. The sand blushes in pastel red and orange hues, complimented by the milky blue sky. And still the rhythm of the dunes beats on, up and down, up and down.

Desert flowers

Desert flowers

We lunch quickly, keen to make progress on our journey, impatient to rejoin the hypnotic rhythm. We drive on. In the early afternoon we come to the first of many salt lakes, empty estuaries that are part of the great inland water system that runs into Lake Eyre. Lake Eyre is fed by a network of channels and waterways that stretches all the way to the East coast of Australia and far to the North and South. It may be the last truly unregulated lake catchment system in the world. Water flows as nature intended, as it has for millions of years. For now, the salt lakes are dry and wait patiently for water to come. Salt has crystallised on the exposed surface of the lakes, forming a crisp white crust that is strangely reminiscent of an early fall of snow in colder climates.

The lakes break the rhythm of the dunes. They are flat and even. We drive across them with ease. The pure white of the salt contrasts with the red sand and sparkles in the bright sun light. Here and there the pristine salt surface of the lakes has been disturbed by the tyre tracks of errant drivers. Man leaves his mark.

The coloured sand flags on our vehicles wave to and fro as we drive around Lake Poeppel to Poeppel’s Corner where three state lines meet. We find the marker post and prove that it is possible to have your photo taken with one arm in Queensland, one arm in the Northern Territory and your legs in South Australia. This is most impressive when it is achieved by lying stomach down on the marker pole, legs and arms stretched out like a starfish. Those who attempted this will take home an unexpected souvenir, an imprint of three state names on the sensitive skin of their stomachs. But it had to be done!

Brett in three states

Brett in three states

At Poeppel corner we leave the QAA Line for the French Line. “Ooh la la!” Time for a little French over the radio. We are soon put in our place by the support truck for a group of motorbikers crossing the Simpson from West to East. “You’re not the only ones using this channel you know.” “Quelle dommage…”

Desert clouds

Desert clouds

As the afternoon draws on, the sky fills with hundreds of flat bottomed clouds, brilliant white on top and a dusky pink grey below. Is it going to rain? We rejoin the rhythm of the dunes, up and down, up and down, rock and roll, rock and roll. Red sands blush more deeply and clumps of bright yellow flowers add another colour to the desert mix.

It is time to call it a day and we pull in to a perfect camp spot. The fire is soon alight and we end the day with a camp oven roast, much laughter and Malcolm’s memorable impersonation of Elvis Presley. The evening is cut short by a shower of unexpected desert rain. We take to the shelter of our tents and lie in bed listening to the sound of raindrops as the subliminal background rhythm of the desert beats on.