We didn't 'Planet'!

Gallery: Captain Thunderbolt

wanderyears — Sun, 22 Apr 2007 15:26:00 GMT

following the old bushranger route, Thunderbolt's Way

Captain Thunderbolt

wanderyears — Sun, 22 Apr 2007 15:01:00 GMT

Our tour of duty as Ambassadors for WorldNomads has now reached its climax (sorry, did you miss that)? Back in Stanthorpe, Queensland, it was time to say goodbye to Matt and the boys, before departing on the lengthy drive back to Sydney. I had hoped to take in a passenger to share the fuel costs – but most people seem to be travelling north rather than south. Either that or people just think I look too damn scary.

I really did not plan another blog, but I have a few people to thank and the last one already rambled on far too much. Besides, I was a day ahead of schedule on my trip south, which led me to finding an interesting little route that almost avoided the Pacific Highway altogether.

The 900km journey began by following the New England Highway south. Traffic was light and I could enjoy the rolling green hills, such a contrast to the outback, and rusty autumn colours. At night, now able to sleep on the main lower double bed, a glance at the map revealed an alternative route through the Great Dividing Range. I had time to spare, and the name alone was all it took to reach a decision – I was going to follow Thunderbolts Way.

The backcountry road is named after bushranger Fred Ward, born in the 1830's, more commonly known as Captain Thunderbolt. It runs from Uralla just south of Armidale and sweeps through Walcha, Nowendoc, Barrington, Gloucester and Stroud, connecting with the Pacific Highway north of Raymond Terrace. The attraction is that the narrow, mountainous sections along the way mean the trucks avoid it, as do the grey nomads and their caravans. But for motorists with a little time on their hands, it is a road to savour.

Bushrangers, basically stock rustlers and outlaws, are generally held in high esteem in Australia. The more notorious ones, such as Ned Kelley, are well documented. However, everywhere you go along the coast and inland, from South Australia, through Victoria, New South Wales and into Queensland, there are stories of lesser known outlaws to discover. In the areas where they were notorious, there is usually a route named after them. Once the Great Dividing Range had been conquered, this area became classic settler country. It was and still is some of the country's most productive farmland, and the bushrangers ran riot with rich pickings.

In each little town along the way, it is possible to follow Captain Thunderbolt's story. His list of misdemeanour's is extensive, including 25 mail coach robberies, 16 hotels and stores, 80 horse thefts and one each of toll gate robbery and escape from custody. He was an exceptional horseman, and despite the occasional shoot-out, he never actually killed anyone, preferring to avade capture on horseback. For the full story, you could do worse than pay a visit to this website.

After a great riverside camp and a misty early morning start, still ahead of schedule, I took another detour to Port Stephens. Last time I was here there was a Tornado, and I never had the chance to appreciate the beautiful coastline. Today, the weather was on my side, and despite being autumn I was able to enjoy a swim on several of the numerous sandy beaches. The natural harbour stretches 20km inland and is dotted with many bays and islands, and certainly the water was a bit calmer this time around. It is well known for its abundant Dolphin population; they can be watched from the shore, especially at sunrise or sunset. There is good clean surf worth a ride, and options for fishing everywhere you look. I had every reason to give Nomads or Travellers Auto Barn a call and tell them I had been unavoidably delayed.

I called into Newcastle on the way down, one of Australia's largest coal export ports, carrying with me a last minute hope of getting home by ship. I quickly learned that the port is in chaos at this time, with close to 150 ships waiting offshore and massive delays in loading. Mineral export is such a massive part of the country's economy, droves of journalists had arrived to stir up the story, while politicians passed blame from one to another. Meanwhile, the likes of me, hoping to hitch a ride on a ship, could not get a look in at the busy shipping offices.

And so with just hours to spare, I steered the TAB Ambassador van through central Sydney, along the streets of Woolloomooloo (I'm not kidding either) and into the Travellers Auto Barn depot. Our trip had come to an end.

Like an executive who has just been sacked, I cleared my things from the van and stuffed them into my pack. Back on two legs – something I really actually do not mind at all, but it takes a while to adjust after the independence a camper van affords. To explore a country like Australia, having your own transport really is hard to beat, and a camper offers the most options. For anyone spending a decent amount of time here, buying is always a good option, but when the time comes to sell, it can get tricky. Travellers Auto Barn have, in addition to their traditional rental service, a great initiative where they sell vehicles and offer guaranteed buy-back. The package comes complete with various warranties and the piece of mind in knowing you have a well maintained and roadworthy vehicle. The big attraction is that if you have the chance to sell your wheels for a higher price, there is nothing in the contract to stop you doing so. Certainly from our point of view, the guys have been a pleasure to deal with, and the van has coped with every substantial thing we threw at it. From dusty farm roads to extreme outback temperatures, the Ambassador van sailed on without complaint.

I had a day or two to kill around Sydney, so I chose to stay at The Original Backpackers Lodge on Victoria Street, Kings Cross. The beautiful victorian building caught my eye last time and I was happy to find a spare bed for a couple of nights. I was not disappointed – the rooms are palatial in size and some have a balcony overlooking the street. The leafy streets around Kings Cross could easily be compared with parts of spring time London, especially with names like Victoria or Bayswater; except there are not enough Australians around for this to be London!

The row of Victorian buildings that make up Victoria Street are lucky to be there at all. During the 1980's, a time when planners had no shame at all, there was a drive to level the lot and replace them with the usual concrete boxes. Locals rallied together and were successful in saving them; though the council went ahead and built high-rises behind and in front, ruining the stunning harbour views. Today, the friendly Original Backpackers Lodge is expanding to meet the demand from a new style of traveller – known as Flashpackers! These thirty something professional folk have more money in their pocket and demand en suite rooms and more facilities. I suppose travel is a continually evolving activity and there does seem to be more of either the very young or the thirty plus age group. Hang on a minute! I'm thirty something (lower end, I hasten to add) – why don't I have more money in my pocket?

GOING HOME

Reaching Sydney signaled the end of my time as a WorldNomads Ambassador. This has been an unexpected and unplanned-for adventure, which is also the culmination of a two year personal journey. I'm going home, and despite the odd day when I wonder if I will ever get travelling out of my system, I am excited about that. If anyone is interested enough to read about my trip through Europe, Siberia, Mongolia, China and beyond, check out my personal website, The Wander Years.

The WorldNomads team have been great to deal with, and I wish them every success over the next two years with this project. It really does seem to be a genuine attempt to try something new and interact with their customers. Anyone can do this – and I encourage you to keep following the project throughout, and if you are visiting Australia, why not apply?

I would like also to thank Matt – great travel buddy, patient, good driver (for a Kiwi) and always up for an adventure. I don't think we ever mentioned it, but we had some interesting conversations while driving. I am a little hard of hearing in one ear, a result of doing a lot of shooting and not enough hearing protection, I don't know Matt's excuse. With all the background noise, conversations regularly went as such:

“How far to the next town”? “Ay”? “HOW FAR TOO THE NEXT TOWN”? “Take the next right”. “What's that”? “Yup”. “Watch out for that 'Roo”. “Nah, don't need the loo”. “Eh”? “Can you turn that shocking music down”? “It's about 65km”. “cool”. And so on....

Finally, and I really am going now, better pass on best wishes to “The Lost Girls”, a sharp-shooting all-girl threesome from Manhatton. They are the next Ambassadors, and I look forward to following their trip.

My own website - The Wander Years

Gallery: Two Old Dogs

wanderyears — Thu, 19 Apr 2007 13:09:00 GMT

Timo and Matt wind up their trip with a look at Fraser Island

Two Old Dogs

wanderyears — Sat, 14 Apr 2007 21:39:00 GMT

A group of Australian guys were, along with the rest of Queensland, taking their Easter break seriously, and had arrived with several utes loaded high with equipment. Before long they had erected a tent city that would put the Red Cross to shame, and were working their way through several eskies full of beer. I just happened to be looking in the right direction, when it happened. They had decided to pitch their chairs in the creek itself, apparently a perfectly normal thing to do in Australia. As often happens with cheap camping chairs, a leg buckled which sent the occupant tumbling into the water. To my amusement, the man in free-fall knocked the next chap and the domino effect took over. This was a noteworthy bit of comedy and I looked to my Danish companions to share the moment, only to find looks of pure bewilderment on their faces. “What is this men doing?” they asked. “Well, they are having a beer, and one….” Why was I needing to explain this at all? “But it’s funny, don’t you see, he, he fell in the creek”! They continued buttering their sandwiches, and I looked to Matt for enlightenment. He was sprawled across the front seats, fast asleep. A potential camping nightmare was underway.

Matt and I decided to finish our Ambassador tour of duty with a classic East Coast adventure. We wanted minimum effort and maximum party potential. Additionally, both budget and time frame was limited. Hervey Bay is a mere six hour drive away, gateway to fantastic Fraser Island, and that sounded just fine to us. In a classic travel style that is the habit of older travellers like us two, we rolled into Hervey Bay having made no reservations and completely ignorant to the fact that it is Easter. Every trip was full, and just about any vehicle with four wheels had been rented out. Could we get the Ambassador van across to Fraser Island? Would Travellers Auto Barn mind terribly?

At last we have been able to make use of the excellent Nokia N series mobile, supplied by the sponsors. It is the first time we have really been in an area with any signal on this trip, and I personally have been itching to play with the thing. I have always been one of those people who owns the least-cool phone available, a habit that was born out of necessity, as I am forever losing them, dropping them in rivers or in one case, even driving over one in my truck. They were the sort of phone that when in town, if somebody actually called, I'd have to duck into an alleyway to answer, avoiding the embarrassment of anyone seeing me using such an ancient tool. On the other hand, the Nokia N series I lay prominently on the table in an expensive cafe, occasionally flipping it open, just to let nearby people appreciate the cool display. It has so many features I liken it more to a small computer than phone, and we did make use of the inbuilt video camera during those movie making moments when the usual camera was not close.

A depressing process ensued, visiting or calling every operator listed in the Lonely Planet guide, and being turned away. How could we be so foolish to just arrive without any planning? What a waste of time and fuel! However, our last stop, Fraser Roving, cool guy Kiwi Mark had a potential “no show”, so he put us on standby for a trip beginning the following day. He kindly let us set up camp in the car park, sparking much interest from passing travellers – the Ambassador van does tend to stand out somewhat. Two hours later, we had been booked on and were attending a lengthy lecture about the forthcoming trip.

There was close to forty folk in the room, and they were to be divided up into four vehicles for tomorrow's trip. This is the crucial part of any jaunt to Fraser Island, so be careful where you sit. Obviously, there is plenty of opportunity to ensure you are in the same truck as your travel buddies – but the rest is really down to luck. Matt and I were put into a friendly looking group of mixed age and sex – things were going to be okay. Each group has to provide one credit card for the bond, and a minimum of two drivers over the age of twenty three. This is where being a) experienced in four-wheel-driving and b) older than twenty three is a real disadvantage. As people shuffled around, Matt and I became the dispensable pawns in the game, rent-a-driver if you like. Young couples stuck close, and single guys maneuvered themselves into groups that showed girl-hunting potential. We, on the other hand, were moved from one to another, eventually settling in a gang of six Danish blokes and one girl, Matt and I the only eligible drivers. To demonstrate the injustice, I talked to a Swiss guy who would be sharing his truck with seven beautiful girls.

Whats it all about?

Sitting approximately half way up Australia's East coast, Fraser Island has, over the course of thousands of years, developed as a result of longshore drift. It is regarded as the world's largest sand island, roughly 120km by 15km and reaching elevations well over two hundred metres. A unique flora has evolved to cover the island in dense forest, and despite the fine sand underfoot the interior is lush and dotted with over two hundred freshwater lakes. The latter are fed by pure spring water that takes many years to filter through the sand.

It takes its European name from James and Eliza Fraser, both shipwrecked on the island in 1836. Later, the Butchulla indigenous people, who called the island K'gari (Paradise), where displaced as the settlers discovered the valuable timber in the forest. For over a hundred years the mineral sand was mined and the forests logged, only coming to an end in 1991 as the emphasis shifted from exploitation to protection.

Early the following morning thirty odd backpackers were assembled in the car park, looking nothing much like explorers, but more like they had just reached the end of a very long weekend. As if being stuck in a vehicle with six other guys wasn't humiliating enough – our Toyota Landcruiser was also painted cerise pink. We were guided through the finer points of off-road driving (I opted not to mention that I have spent half my life driving off-road, and listen diligently), and reminded one more time that we have a thousand dollar bond on the vehicle for misbehaving. I can understand that – lending expensive vehicles to young backpackers to take on the beach, most of whom have never driven out of a city, well, there must be less risky ways to make some coin. Despite the pinkness of our truck, called 'two dogs' but renamed 'two old dogs', it was otherwise clean and beautifully equipped. I wondered just how long that could last.

The half hour crossing from River Heads, included in the cost, is an opportunity to size up folk travelling with other operators. There are roughly twenty vehicles on the landing craft, mostly stuffed with backpackers just like us, and they are all on the standard three day/two night trip. The boat skipper behaves as if he would rather be having toe-nails removed without anesthetic, as he roams the deck barking and cursing the inferior reversing skills of the travellers. Anyone would think this was the D-day landings.

On the island, you are more or less free to roam wherever you like, apart from several areas that are off limits. These include environmentally sensitive parts or places that are dangerous for vehicles. Fraser Roving issues a well planned out itinerary, taking into account the tides, as driving along the main beach is difficult if not impossible at high. There is nothing to stop you making your own plans, but it is important to work within both park and tour company rules: the former especially are rigorous in enforcement, rightly enough, and hefty fines await those who step outside the envelope. For the Two Old Dogs, we had done plenty of navigating and adventure lately, and were happy to follow the itinerary to the minute, as indeed were our Danish friends. Besides, Matt and I had met a group of somewhat livelier folk in another of the pink trucks; we had every intention of camping somewhere near them tonight.

“How do you want your steak”? A reasonably normal question at any Barbie. “With or without sand”? Not so normal. It is only the first night, and I already have sand in places where it really should not be. All four of the pink trucks had ended up at the same camp, along with several from other companies. With ferocious European style organisation, tents were erected, while Matt and I set up the BBQ and blew the froth off a few beers. We marvelled at the quaint Danish game, throwing the shoe, but decided it involved far too little drinking for us. The night developed, new friendships were made, many of which might be forgotten by morning. I have experienced a few such trips before, and out of any group there will always be a few of each; the revelers, the happy to sit and take it all in types and those who prefer to hit the hay early. Whatever you want your trip to be, you will always find a like-minded person to share it with. That is one of the beautiful things about backpacking. Personally, I was happy to sit up late around the gas cooker (fires are now banned on Fraser), any opportunity to delay me sleeping in a tent with Matt was to be grasped. As if I didn't already know from previous experience, I am exceptionally bad at drinking games.

Late in the night, our camp was visited by Dingos. Their isolation from the Australian mainland has led to the Fraser Island animals being regarded as the most pure bred Dingos in the world. Like any intelligent wild animal, they have learned that humans equals food, and problems do exist when the two come together. The park authorities go to great lengths to resolve this – all garbage areas are securely fenced, as are some family campsites. Rangers make regular early morning checks on known backpacker camps, if any food related waste or equipment is left out, a hefty on the spot fine is issued. Any threat of having to part with money is taken seriously by travellers, and it seems most follow this rule. Two English girls had a bit of a fright when a young Dingo somehow got himself stuck between their fly sheet and inner tent, and apparently the ensuing fracas was quite a sight. This happened directly outside my tent and I didn't hear a thing.

Over the following two days, our group, which had now become one convoy, took in most of the highlights on the island. My favourite among them is Indian Heads. I would like to share with you now a bit of a scoop. Any tour guide will tell you that the headland is so named because from a distance it looks like, er, an Indian head. Tosh. It looks about as similar as I do to Pamela Anderson. It was named by Captain Cook in May 1770 as he sailed by. He had spotted a group of Aboriginal people sitting on its summit, and all native people were known in those days as “Indians”. The “heads” of course is an often used term for a rocky outcrop or entrance to a natural harbour. You heard it hear first.

Once you have gotten over any issues you may have with why it is named as such, a climb to the summit of this rocky outcrop is a must. It juts out into the Pacific, meeting with the continental shelf, and just so happens to be a popular breeding ground for Tiger Sharks. An early morning visit will almost guarantee a spectacular sight as you sit on the edge of the 150m cliff, looking below at tens of sharks and huge Manta Rays. As they glide effortlessly in the aqua water, their beauty is unquestionable, and personally I could sit there all day long. However, there is plenty else to take in such as the Maheno Wreck, an old steamer from the 1930's, or Lake McKenzie, a clear water lake with beaches of silica sand so fine, it is possible to polish gold jewelery in it.

An interesting addition to this trip was to witness the Aussies themselves on holiday. Being Easter, it seems every Queenslander with a ute has come here. Most groups consist of several vehicles, loaded sky-high with gear. Large tents cover social areas, under which a barbie large enough to feed an army is held. Men set up their surf-casting rods and sit with an esky full of beer between them. And of course, some sit in the creeks and get wet. But I guess I am the only one who found that funny.

Fraser Island is a popular trip among backpackers heading up or down the coast for good reason. The self-drive trips offer great value, and the World Heritage listed island itself is a natural wonder full of wild ocean views, along with interesting flora and fauna. Few attractions can offer all this, along with an opportunity to meet people and forge new friendships. The above mentioned trip is the classic backpacker package. Expect lashings of sand in and on everything (it is so fine that it travels on the wind and can be hard to see – take care of your camera). Each truck is loaded to the max, and so room for luggage is limited. If roughing it is not your style, there are other options such as day tours in 4WD buses or private vehicle hire. Scenic flights can be organised in Hervey Bay or on the island – the main east coast beach highway is also an air-strip, take note future drivers! There is even a small village growing now at Central Station, where a range of civilized accommodations await the more discerning traveller. Do a web search for follow links below for more information.

We would like to extend our thanks to Fraser Roving, based in Hervey Bay. The efforts of Kiwi Mark to get us onto a trip saved us a long fruitless drive. The hostel is well laid out with its own popular bar, and the vehicles were exceptionally well maintained. However, really guys, is the pink such a good idea?

I know we go on a bit, but there is another short blog to come, hard on the heels of this one. After that, I promise we will go away.

RELATED LINKS

Information about the island

Fraser Island trips

More Fraser Island trips

Even more Fraser Island trips

(you get the idea here; search on Fraser Island, feel the love. Above were randomly selected).

AMBASSADOR SPONSORS

Gallery: Folly

wanderyears — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 20:32:00 GMT

Killarney Ranges Trailbike ride

Folly

wanderyears — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 20:24:00 GMT

If ever there was a time when I was in way over my depth, then this was it. Among the two thousand plus entrants, there was several million dollars worth of the latest equipment. I, on the other hand, had a borrowed shirt and jeans, a pair of hiking boots and camel pack that contained bacteria not yet known to modern science.

A few months ago I happened to be in Vietnam, and found myself on the adventure of a lifetime riding an old Russian motorcycle through the northern mountains. Considering my motorbike experience extends to stealing my mothers scooter when she was away (I was only about fourteen), and that Vietnamese roads are about as safe as Baghdad, it was a foolish venture in the extreme. However, not only did I survive, it became one of the greatest experiences of my life. What’s more, I was now a biker and there was nothing I couldn’t handle – or so I thought.

This is how I came to agree to ride in a two day 120km trail bike ride in Queensland. Matt and his two brothers are devoted riders and always attend the annual event. It is a huge sport in Australia, and I figured in would provide something different to write about.

During the preceding days, the boys begged, borrowed and stole to gather the necessary equipment, namely a bike and a helmet. I opted for a little practise, and out of the three bikes available to me, Matt’s seemed the least scary looking – and my feet could just touch the ground. Apart from the fact it has two wheels, there wasn’t much in comparison with the old Russian Minsk. Just like a horse that wants to go, this bike I felt could take off with or without me at any moment. I suggested to Matt that I would be happy to just record the event and hang around camp consuming beer, but he was having none of that, he would find a bike to suit me.

It came in the form of a DT175, and though it is a bit of a girls bike, it was indeed perfect for a complete amateur like me. With Chris’s jeans, Matt’s shirt and someone else’s helmet, I was ready.

In a convoy of two utes and the TAB Ambassador van, we made the 100km trip to Killarney, a small country town on the edge of the Great Dividing Range. At the venue, the scale of this event, and the absolute folly of me taking part in it became glaringly obvious. I was about as excited as a patient in Doctor Shipman’s waiting room.

With a well practised routine, the four bikes were unloaded and the camp was set up. Bottles of “V” were consumed as if our lives depended on it, and for all I know it might, camel packs filled and brightly coloured protective clothing was put on. Or in my case, a pair of ripped jeans, an old work shirt and hiking boots. We had arrived a little later than the majority, and in my favour we would be starting the loop after the really fanatical guys had taken off. All that remained was to register and part with seventy bucks.

On the way, I should admit a little part of me was hoping the office might be closed, or maybe they had reached a number limit and there was only room for three more. In my helmet, already quite a sweaty environment, I practised at looking thoroughly disappointed. None of this came to fruition, so I filled out the disclaimer form and paid up. I was issued with a sticker, number 2189, which is used to identify my mangled carcass when they fly me out in a box.

Chris rode most of the 2km tarmac to the start on his back wheel. Meanwhile, I was feeling comfortable and confident; this little tarmac rode seems easier than anything I did in Vietnam, at this rate I’ll be home in time for tea. My, I even considered changing up to second gear. At the start, the marshals admired my DT and waved me through a gap in the gate scarcely wide enough to fit a skateboard. This would not be a good point to fall off, less than one metre into a 60km loop. We were on the trail, and as agreed Chris and Daniel sped off to have their fun, while Matt hung back to pick up the various parts of my body.

I followed the narrow track through rolling grassland, steadily gathering pace with confidence, until a mob of riders overtook me on both sides at breakneck speed, kicking dust and grit in my face. One stone hit me so hard in the chest; I actually thought I had been shot. I wobbled along, like a pensioner on a buggy being harassed by a gang of hoons in their fast cars. Further on, I settled a bit more and had yet to find anything that was more testing than the Vietnamese jungle, but the crucial difference was that I was supposed to be going quickly. This ride is not only about getting from A to B; it is about doing it as quickly and stylishly as possible.

The hills became steeper, and I had to quickly master the technique for going downhill, a kind of controlled slide using the rear brake. The last time I felt like this, I was on a horse following the Foxhounds for the first time; there is no opt out, unless I want to squander what little street-cred I have. Personally, I quite like it this way. I prefer things to move at a pace that does not allow you to think too much; otherwise I simply might not do them.

The afternoon wore on, and by now I had tackled slopes that I would have never thought possible on two wheels, and certainly would not have ridden up if it wasn’t for the fact that I had no choice. On one tough undulating section in dense bush, I discovered that my DT had something the bigger bikes lacked – the ability to climb almost anything due to its light weight. Engine size is not everything, and though I no doubt looked quite ridiculous, I could get it anywhere they could go. The first and possibly most important part of my body to suffer was the testicles, left and right, when I descended a short slope almost vertical in nature. As I landed on the gas tank, I am quite sure the squeal was heard in Brisbane. I powered up the exit slope, and then had to take a substantial break until the dizziness subsided. For a while at least, there is no danger of a mini-me roaming the planet.

About a quarter the way in, my visibility almost lost in a cloud of dust, I hit a slippery fallen tree running at an angle. At the time I was climbing a steep incline, so when I fell off it was not exactly a high speed crash. However, the bike hit the dirt hard, snapping the clutch leaver clean off. A helpful marshal taped it up for me, but I essentially had to learn to ride without using the clutch – just what an amateur biker does not need on his first trail bike ride.

In reasonable time, certainly not the first but by no means last, I triumphantly cruised down the paddock and back into camp. I had completed the first loop, and I was ready for a cool beer. The Saturday night camping at the event is as much a feature as the riding itself, and all around folk were scrubbing up, fixing broken bikes or limbs and cracking open beers. Our little camp got busy swapping stories, and all agreed the DT had done a fine job. I was the only one that day to suffer any damage, both me and bike, but nothing that could not be fixed; Daniel got busy fitting a replacement (clutch lever that is, not testicles).

The annual event is organised by Killarney State School P&C, to raise funds for the school. Their costs are very low, and from my calculations they could probably build a new one every year, send the kids on holiday and still have some change. But what a great idea! The local farmers allow use of their land, parents volunteer and everybody benefits from a fun weekend.

At night, most folk gather around the bar area to watch the day’s events on a big screen. Quite unknown to me, a professional camera crew had been on the prowl. I withdrew into the shadows, fearing that the DT & me might suddenly fill the screen. Thankfully, they had concentrated their mischievous efforts on an extra feature of the route – the hill climb. This is a ridiculously steep hill that few people actually managed to complete, but it is the trying that counts, and also makes for some great relaxed viewing and a good few laughs too. It is only now that I realised that I had actually driven straight past it – concentrating so hard on what I was doing. At the time, I had assumed the gathered crowd was waiting to see me and the DT.

Next day continued in a similar vain, on a new loop, but I was definitely getting faster. The course was much more technical, and some of the slopes up and down were so steep I would struggle to walk them. I was actually beginning to enjoy myself. I was still a long way off keeping up with the pro boys, but nonetheless I was getting around and tackling everything in my path.

The course, both Saturday and Sunday, had so far been a really good mixture of country. Open rolling grassland, creek crossings, rock strewn tracks, bush and forestry, fast sections and steep uphill or down hill. Half way through a particularly tiring rocky section (hard on the arms and legs), we ran into Daniel. This was unusual because he was normally and hour or so ahead. Dismounting the bikes, we soon saw the reason – Chris lay on the ground with his foot bandaged up. I knew yesterday had been too good to be true. He had hit his foot hard on a passing rock, and knowing Chris he would not have been going anything like slow. The gathered marshals were very professional, taking good care of the patient but cracking plenty of jokes with it. They inquired into the state of his swollen hand, Chris replying that he had broken it three days ago. “Did you go to the hospital”? He smirked, “nah, they would have put a cast on it and I wouldn’t have been able to ride ay”. Cue looks of disbelief.

Luckily, we were near a clearing that enabled a 4WD ambulance to get close. Unusually for Chris, he was in a lot of pain, and the paramedic had to administer some dope. The bad news is that while the injury is not too serious, the ambulance man did not want to take him out in the truck. It was an hour long drive over very rough ground, and so negotiations were made over the radio to medivac by helicopter. This is quite a tough decision, as the whirlybirds don’t come cheap. According to the officials, today had been busy with injuries, and the chopper had been working flat out. I did want to hang around to get some great footage of the airlift for the movie – but Chris was in good hands and we had to finish the ride, or we would be sleeping out here. Every cloud has a silver lining; Chris was thrilled to get his first helicopter ride, and I could now use his gloves.

The final ten kilometres were tough in every respect. A couple of hills that I could barely ascend were very unwelcome as by now every single muscle in my body ached. I would never have believed that trail bike riding could be so physically demanding. In the helmet, my head sweated so much it trickled down into my eyes, obscuring my vision. It is hard on the back and legs, but the arms and shoulders really get a workout – by the time we had packed up camp and hit the road, I had stiffened up so much it was difficult to drive the van.

Once we had claimed Chris’s bike from the compound, it was time to head home. Daniel went straight to Toowoomba hospital, to where he had been flown, while Matt and I took the gear home and unloaded. It had been a long, but ultimately exciting and fun weekend. Personally I am not really a petrol head or racer of any kind, and I did initially feel out of place. With my lack of skills and equipment, I expected to be the butt of all jokes all weekend. Nothing could be further from the truth – everyone at the event was there to enjoy the challenge and the company of likeminded people. It was not about competition, and everybody I came into contact with showed that genuine Aussie attitude: “Good on ya mate, fair go”.

It is all about giving it a go, mate.

I want to express my thanks here and now to Matt, Daniel and Chris for obtaining the bike and equipment, the advice and encouragement. To Matt, so stubborn, despite me telling him to go on ahead, stuck with me throughout the weekend in case I tried to kill myself.

Back at home, Chris is now laid up with a cast on his foot. The damage is not serious or permanent, and he has now reverted to his usual annoying self. If he issues any more orders from his sofa, I may well break the other foot for him.

Gallery: The Life Cycle of an Apple

wanderyears — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 11:00:00 GMT

Re-visiting Stanthorpe, a place of forced labour and vegetables. Learn more about apples!

The Life Cycle of an Apple

wanderyears — Mon, 9 Apr 2007 17:27:00 GMT

Do you remember that feeling as a kid when your mother would drag you to the dentist? Arriving in Stanthorpe kind of brought back such memories for me; for it was only a few years ago that I was here as one in an army of backpacker farm workers. For two months I spent nine hours each day bent double cutting cabbages. These were no ordinary cabbages, oh no, they were Chinese Womboks – veg on steroids. They are heavy and tough as old boots to cut through. But a young lad needs a way to fund his travels, and once I made some local friends it led to some great experiences.

However, I had nothing to fear this time around, because I am returning older, wiser, and with absolutely no intention of doing any work. I would normally come here to visit my good friend Matt – but as he has been travelling with me on this very trip, we decided to call in for some rest and relaxation. The van needed a wash, as we did too, and I have a little challenge to complete, which you can read all about in the next blog – I can tell you now that is does not involve cabbage in any way.

Sitting close to the border with New South Wales, Stanthorpe lies on an elevated plateau of the Great Dividing Range, and at 915m, is one of the highest in Queensland. The area is known as Granite Belt Country, due to the amount of exposed rock and the soil type. It is the rich soil, hot summers and cold winters that has enabled the region to prosper in fruit, vegetables and boutique wineries. At various times of year the farms all take on a number of travellers for pruning, thinning or harvesting, and it is a good place to aim for if you are on the market for a bit of yakka. Going rates hover around the $15/hour mark.

During the settler days, the English had a go at farming the area, but their conventional methods and choice of stock or crops did not work. During WWII Mediterranean immigrants, mostly Italian, were put to work on the farms and they began to thrive. Today, most of the families behind the more successful orchards and farms are of Italian descent.

Stanthorpe itself is an attractive service town for the surrounding area, boasting several pubs that can get lively at weekends (I spent more than my share in Top Pub last time). There is an RSL for a cheap Sunday evening feed, a supermarket for veg, if you must, and a great little internet café run by a German chap named Wolfgang. Nearby there are two great national parks, Girraween and Bald Rock, both of which are home to dense populations of native wildlife – I guarantee you good sightings of Red Kangaroos here. Both offer excellent opportunities for camping and hiking.

Matt is based twenty odd kilometres out of town, along with his two brothers they all live and work on the same farm. They are all from New Zealand – and they are known in Australia as economic refugees. While brother Daniel has increased in height by three foot and got much hairier, little bro Chris is still the most accident prone person I know. Every time I have met him, he has had a major accident of some sort. This time around, he even managed to have one in his sleep – bitten by a small scorpion in his bed, leaving him feeling ill and numb for twenty-four hours. The next day, he fell off his motorcycle while doing a jump, leaving him with broken knuckles and a hand the size of a shovel. But here’s the thing – Chris feels no pain. Where all our nerves are plugged in at the end, his, I suspect, are all tied off in a neat knot. He went back to work the next day, as usual.

This farm is all about apples, and it happens to be one of the biggest producers in the area. It is the work of two families, and combined they have hundreds of acres of orchards under netting, designed to protect the fruit from the hail storms that are not uncommon in this area. Personally, I have a phobia of orchards and anything in neat rows, but like most blokes, I like machines. So I was happy to spend a few hours one evening in the packing shed. Any images in my head of wondering a leafy orchard at sunset with a beautiful woman, who would be wearing a delicate cream coloured dress, have a flower in her hair and be carrying a wicker basket, were quite frankly ruined in the shed. Welcome to 21^st century apple production.

The grading machine begins near the cold store, where one tonne boxes are loaded into a big tub of water. The fruit floats up and out, then down a channel towards an elevator. There are two good reasons for this; by floating out of the boxes, the delicate fruit does not get bruised as they would if tipped. Secondly, much of the rubbish, such as foliage and twigs, gets separated at this point. It is just like the apple-bobbing competition you used to get at the school fair, just bigger and noisier (and, on this night at least, there was nobody dipping their head in the water). From there, they rumble over various brushes for a clean up, before travelling through a heated tunnel for drying. A quick dip in the wax protects them from future handling and gives them a healthy shine, before they go through the wall to the next stage.

The apples pass through a magic machine that first weighs them and then photographs them! From this point on, each and every one of the millions of apples has its own identity. Both of these help the machine to grade the fruit into different classes, which are sold to different markets. Next they are given a label and then travel along a conveyer that drops each apple in the appropriate hole according to size. At this point, the human eye takes over in the final check for quality and size, before they are packed into boxes and onto the waiting truck. As a grader, which I was for a few hours, I found it hard to concentrate on the job at hand because one apple would catch my eye and I’d follow it to see where it went. It is probably a good thing I don’t work here. Each one has its own personality, and I became especially fond of the “fugitive fruits” – occasionally, two small apples, which are destined to be consigned to the juice bin (and they know it) would stowaway on the same cup. This would fool the robot weighing machine thing into thinking there was one plump, very healthy apple in transit. The two fugitives would appear at my conveyer, trying to mix in with the big apples. If they are spotted, and not much gets past me I should say, well, you can guess where they go. Juice.

You may be wondering where all this is going, or what it is all about. After all, it is not Fraser Island, The Great Barrier Reef or bungee jumping. Quite. But, it is a slice of Australia – and if you are coming here to work, you may well end up doing something like this. I can assure you, the woman with the flower in her hair is nowhere to be seen around here.

After the last time in Stanthorpe, I have since not been able to walk past the veg section in the market without feeling the cabbages. Now I keep an eye out for fugitive apples in the pile – if I spot a couple, I’m gonna think, good on ya guys!

Next time, I do something very silly indeed.

Resources

Stuff on Stanthorpe

More stuff on Stanthorpe

Bald Rocak National Park

Girraween Nation Park

Underground

wanderyears — Mon, 9 Apr 2007 11:01:00 GMT

Early morning we departed Williams Creek significantly lighter than when we had arrived. Two of life’s essentials, fuel and beer, are extortionate, and after filling up with both we could afford to stay no longer. Our quest to organise a flight over Lake Eyre has failed miserably, so we set sail for Coober Pedy armed with the phone number of a man who could help.

This may seem to be turning into some sort of wild-goose chase, but as it happens we are heading in the general direction anyway. Coober is famous for two things; opals and underground houses. More importantly for us, it lies on the main Adelaide to Alice highway and we can pick up the bitumen for the next stage of the journey.

I really am not sure if travellers make a special effort to come all the way out here, but if I had, I would have been severely disappointed. It is known for its “edge of the world” atmosphere – as far as I am concerned, it seems more like the end of the world. Some 5000 sq km around town are covered in mounds of white spoil from open mines old and new, and it certainly feels like another planet.

In town itself, the dusty streets are almost deserted as people stay hidden from the harsh climate. It is an area of extremes in heat and cold, explaining why 50% of the population lead a subterranean life. This has led to something of a tourism industry, and travellers can now visit an underground church or sleep below in a hotel or backpacker hostel.

The type of mining that goes on is mostly small independent operators, rather than the usual big business. Consequently, most are run from home and many houses have yards that are packed full of rusting machinery. In every direction there is heaps of metal, remains of trucks and digging machines. When Mad Max was filmed here, they would have had to do very little work to the set, apart from maybe tidy things up a little.

This is a good place to mention the Aboriginal population, for the area is near their traditional (and now protected) lands. There are plenty around Coober, some of whom appear to be involved in the mining themselves. When scribbling on my own website over the last two years, it is the people that always make my travels what they are to me. I am interested in people and their traditions and I have gone to great lengths to find out more. In this respect, Australia is a surprisingly difficult country for me to be in. It is quite possible to spend a lot of time in the country and never even meet an aboriginal person. Next, travels to the more conventional areas such as the East Coast or here will often only reveal the worst image of them – the homeless and drunk – of course something found in all races all over the world, but a problem that always stands out more among individuals in an otherwise affluent society. The danger of this is that people can and do carry away an inaccurate impression of who they are. Millions of words have been written about their history, the atrocities and the social problems – the reason you will not read any on here is not because they do not exist, but because I am neither brave enough nor educated enough to do so. I have my opinions, but I am not in the habit of airing them in public unless I really know what I am talking about. I just thought I would mention that, because it seems strange to visit a country and not write anything about the most important aspect, the native people.

Taking its name from the Aboriginal word “kupa” (white man) and “piti” (hole), Coober Pedy produces most of the world’s opals. They were first discovered in 1913 by 14 year old Willie Hutchison, and since then the area has drawn people from all over the world. Today it is possible to see many nationalities in the faces, and you don’t have to dig too deep to hear stories of million dollars finds.

We spent most of a day chasing down our contact, whom we hoped would get us airborne. It seemed this was once again a very bad piece of information, as his price was even higher. With hindsight, if we had had the intelligence to observe the map a little closer, it would have been obvious that Coober Pedy is much further away from Lake Eyre. Planes never go further for cheaper. The bottom line is, we were told in no uncertain terms, flying mine workers in and out of the big mines in South Australia is a lot more lucrative than dealing with smelly travellers. He simply does not need our business. We decide we have now done enough – we said we would stand on the lake, and we did.

Without further ado, we turned left out of the little underground town and rejoined the surfaced road for the long trip to Queensland. Matt and I have a date – though not that kind (nobody loves us), and we have just days to make our rendezvous.

Our three day journey took us south to Port Augusta (known as Port-o-gutta to the locals), then a steady north east direction all the way home. We only re-traced our steps for a short section through Broken Hill, and so will have achieved a near perfect loop. In fact, by the time the Travellers Autoban Ambassador van reaches Sydney, it will be more like a figure of eight. Doing the trip was actually quite interesting in as much as the speed made for many contrasts from one small town to another or one landscape to another. From outback SA we passed back into western NSW, and once again the talk among the locals is of water shortage. All along this route, evidence of shrinking towns is rife – deserted main streets, boarded up shop fronts and metal security shutters over windows.

We stopped often to refresh and refuel, and people talked freely about how whole families are packing up and moving on, along with the jobs. This is all attributed to the ongoing drought. In Bourke, I was actually held hostage in the great information centre by a lovely woman who was so desperate to keep us there. This is a famous little town that sits on the Darling River on the very edge of outback Australia – hence the Australian term for anywhere remote, “Back of Bourke”. I felt terribly guilty as I was only there to find out where the library was, and lied that I intended to stay several days. Thus, she talked me through every aspect of Bourke and then insisted I watch a fifteen minute video. The town used to have a thriving tourism industry, much of which revolved around the Darling River, but with no significant rain in nearly ten years, things have changed. She explained that many farms have drastically cut back or packed up altogether, a story we have heard many times already.

Over the next couple of hundred kilometres, we followed the old droving route of the Kidman Highway. Droving routes, as I have written before, probably sum up classic Australian settler history more than anything else. Along their length roadhouses, hotels and bars serviced the hardy men that travelled through; Legendry drovers and bush rangers moving cattle to greener pasture or markets (or away from where they had been stolen) and miners searching for their fortune. Today, these are still legal routes along which to move animals; and it is still happening right now.

With so many farmers out of water, grass and luck, some have chosen to hit the road. Literally, they pack up and walk their cattle south. The road is wide, and either side there is at least two hundred metres of common land. The way it works is this; some farmers actually intend to sell their animals, and while on the move they are fattened to increase value. Some that we spoke with were simply going on an extended walk-about for several months. They head south to keep the animals in condition, in the hope that by the time they turn around and head home, rain will have breathed new life into their paddocks. Because a surfaced road drains so much water, the grass either side is usually quite lush, and this is what makes this such a tempting proposition today (by the way, it is also why every type of wildlife likes to hang out on the roadside, and why driving at night is for lunatics only). The whole family usually travels with them, living in a camper or tent. Day and night, they keep watch over the animals and try to keep them off the road, moving their camp each evening at a pace dictated by the cattle and the available forage.

After three days of solid driving, we flirted with the border between QLD and NSW, making a tiny diversion to the service town of Texas, just because I wanted to go there. Another hour or so got us to Stanthorpe, Matt’s home, where we could rest and clean the van up ready for our next mission. This one may well end with broken bones.

Resources

Bourke tourism

Travellers Autoban

Coober Pedy

Gallery: Underground

wanderyears — Mon, 9 Apr 2007 10:46:00 GMT

We begin our long trip home, through Coober Pedy and beyond

Grounded

wanderyears — Sun, 8 Apr 2007 22:34:00 GMT

Grounded.

At five bucks a tinnie, every mouthful of cool XXXX should be savoured in Williams Creek. At that price, it ought to be an early night. The problem with that notion is, Williams Creek Hotel has one of the coolest pubs we have run into yet.

It was a long hard haul from Marree that morning, over bumpy roads and scorching heat. The road cut close to the smaller Lake Eyre South, offering spectacular views over the plains. They were so good, we did question why we had gone to all the effort to reach the north lake, when we could have just come here. Despite the appalling road, the trip is quite an interesting one, with changing landscapes reminiscent of Arizona. One eccentric station owner has built larger-than-life sculptures along a distance of several kilometres, made from old cars, aircraft and scrap metal. Throughout the outback, I have noticed a definite penchant for using old tyres to decorate the entrance to properties, so why not a bit of scrap metal for a change?

Our aim is to organise a light-aircraft flight to the northern part of Lake Eyre, where the water is currently flowing. If it continues to fill over the next few weeks, then flights will become available out of Marree, but for now, we need to get even closer to the action. The Haligan Track could get us to the western shores of the salt lake, but it is strictly four-wheel-drive only, and we felt we had pushed our luck far enough in that department.

So that is how we ended up in Williams Creek, a tiny settlement with a hotel/pub, an airfield and more than its fair share of flies. Inside the pub a small assorted crowd was gathered. A couple of rugged-looking locals propped up the bar, wearing the standard work boots, shorties and singlet. Huddled in the corner, a small flock of young backpackers sat in silence, awaiting a replacement bus after a breakdown. Williams Creek is a scheduled stop for “adventure bus tours” that run from Adelaide to Alice Springs, and looking at this lot, I’m glad my bus travelling days are over. However, it is thanks to this regular passing custom that pubs like this can exist at all, though I do doubt the legitimacy of flogging beer off for $5/can.

Over a good few years there has been many a party in this place. Testament to this are countless bras and assorted lingerie pinned to the walls and roof, causing me to reflect with some regret, why it is that in all such pubs I have been in, I have never been present while this sort of decoration is taking place. Filling every available space between are innumerable business cards, driving licenses, hats, postcards, photos and even passports. The pub also doubles as the general store, post office, gas station and goodness knows what else. This seems as a good a place as any to enquire about flights, and we are directed to a house that doubles as an airport terminal, just a little down the road.

Unfortunately for us the owner and operator of the two light aircraft on the strip was away at this time. In his place was a young lad who seemed barely old enough to drive a car. With difficulty we explained that we are trying to organise a short flight out over the northern area of Lake Eyre, and we got down to business with some zealous bartering. His hands were tied, he said, the boss having left orders. His quote for the larger charter plane was nearly three times our budget. We moved onto the smaller (and theoretically cheaper) four seater aircraft, but he insisted this one was a bit rickety. That didn’t worry us so much; what did was that this chap, who would be our pilot, has big problems with basic arithmetic. The quote he stuck with was hardly any different for the smaller “rickety” aircraft. It was way over the going rate and we told him as much, asking him to knock on our van if he ever arrives at a reasonable price. It was a weird moment, as rather than him selling us his product, it felt like we were doing all the work in persuading him to sell it to us!

Back in the boozer, locals shook their heads in disbelief at this news. We got talking to Jennie, a woman who I would describe as a classic Aussie sheila. Driver and guide for the group of backpackers, long since tucked up in their beds, she was attractive and outgoing, but a little scary. Any woman who burps or drinks more than I do should be treated with caution. I had to admire her stamina; she drives hundreds of kilometres each day, bouncing the bus along dirt roads, takes care of her flock’s many needs, and still finds time for a few beers in the evening. I happily accepted her recommendation of a chap based in Coober Pedy who, she insisted, would get us in the air at the desired price. She said I should mention her name, and I figured the guy would be too scared to refuse.

Meanwhile, the young lad had come back to us with a new and improved price, having given it some thought and made calculations; exactly the same as the one he had given us earlier. The thing is, if we had saved the money spent on beer tonight – we could have bought our own plane.

Gallery: Grounded

wanderyears — Sun, 8 Apr 2007 22:14:00 GMT

Williams Creek and around

The final a-salt

wanderyears — Tue, 3 Apr 2007 11:58:00 GMT

NEW MOVIE! Took a wee while to get uploaded, but here it is!

“With a full tank of gas, water replenished and good information obtained, we headed up the Madigan track with the aim of reaching the Muloorina waterhole. A sleep there would put us in a great position for an early morning assault on our objective – Lake Eyre”.

That was the final line in our last blog, and it was almost accurate apart from the “good information obtained” bit. So far on this trip we have relied on local information much to plan ahead, but I have to say it has always depended on who you speak with, how much beer they have inside them and probably what phase the moon is in at the time. Regardless, we have got away with things so far without mishap. However, the landlord of the Marree Hotel advised, “ah yeah, she’s a good track that one, no worries getting there”. As it would turn out, we seem to have a very different understanding of what a good road should be. If you want my opinion, and you are going to get it anyway, he could not have got things more wrong if he had told us there was a casino with dancing girls at the end.

I know I keep on saying this, but our surroundings do keep getting emptier all the time. I have kind of run myself into a corner now though, as the horizon on this drive was completely empty. Therefore, we have reached the end of this particular descriptive prose. The huge sky merged with an unbroken horizon, the only interruption to visibility being the heat shimmer. Distances are easily misjudged under these conditions, and the eyes really do play tricks on the mind. We passed through the Great Australian Dog Fence. There is more to write about this, but I don’t want to digress now or we may get stuck in the sand. I ought to tell you that it is “The longest man-made object in the world”, as people around here keep reminding us. I’ll need to do a bit more digging around before reporting back; because I have a sneaking suspicion the Great Wall of China will be a close contender. That aside, the huge stone ramparts of the wall have to rate slightly higher in the “great achievement stakes” than a rickety old wire fence. Bugger, I digressed anyway.

Reaching the Muloorina camp was simple enough. The waterhole was a fly infested puddle of stagnant water, and with only 50km to the revered lake (which has now become our holy grail), we decided to push on and camp there the night. From here, events took a turn for the worse. According to a visitor book we found at the camp, the last vehicle to follow the dead-end route was two weeks ago. We followed their faint tracks faithfully, having to occasionally skirt around a wet hole created by recent rains. Initially the surface was the usual baked hard grit. It was mid-afternoon, so we had four hours to cover the short distance.

It may be prudent of us to mention Travellers Autobarn (TAB), one of the main sponsors of this project. The Australian owned company has offices in almost every city and are specialists in vehicles for independent travellers. Selling your wheels when you leave the country can, at times, be a headache. Plenty of folk end up letting theirs go for peanuts, simply because they have a flight out and have no other option. TAB runs a great buy-back scheme, a guaranteed price for your vehicle at the end of your trip. And the best bit? You are not tied to this at all – if you can manage to sell your wheels for a better price, there is nothing stopping you! Personally, our only concern is getting the vehicle back in one piece. This will be undoubtedly made easier by the fact that she is running like a dream. We have now covered close to 5000km without a single problem – testament to their rigorous maintenance procedures. A well maintained vehicle can be the difference between a good day and a very bad one in this part of the country. What I am trying to say, is we love the guys at TAB very much right now, even if they may not like us too much.

Cruising along at a sensible speed, chatting and generally content that our goal was near, the Ambassador van slowed suddenly as it hit a wet spot. Quick reactions got us out and onto the hard surface, before momentum was lost. A closer look at the surface revealed waterlogged mud with a hard-baked surface that was difficult to notice when walking, let alone driving. So this is what we are up against, is it? What was a short final journey was now looking like a bit of a worry; we’d have to drive steady and keep our eyes peeled from now on.

WHY?

Like us, it may have crossed your mind? Well, firstly it was a case of geography. We are obliged to return the Ambassador van to Sydney after a month (hmm… not looking so good just now). We have both travelled the south and east before, and getting to the far west or north would be nothing short of impossible in the time available. That left a big chunk of western NSW and outback SA to choose from. Lake Eyre seemed like a sizeable enough feature, and then we learned it was actually beginning to fill after rains further north. This is an event that only occurs every eight years on average. What better reason did we need?

Still following the ever so faint marks from a previous vehicle, we picked our way along. Occasionally the track became deep ruts that somebody had powered through and would have been mud just days ago, but have now dried. About fifteen kilometres in, we approached an oasis; literally an area of sand dunes with green vegetation. The track had long waterlogged sections, and the wheel marks we had been following promptly ceased. From the ends of those marks, we followed footprints around in a rough circle that brought us back to the start. Obviously, this visitor had had the good sense to give up. Under the circumstances, I think it is reasonable to say that any normal, intelligent person would do the same.

Walking through the oasis, Matt and I cast around to find firmer ground and a possible way through. We tested for firmness using our heels, and marked a route on the scorched surface with a stick. It seemed to us that the standing water from recent rains had mostly withdrawn to sporadic low lying parts of the track. Like a couple of rally drivers in slow motion, we negotiated our way, following the marks with matt keeping a careful watch while calling out directions. On the other side, we triumphantly drove on; a few kilometres further the scenario repeated itself.

Time was getting on, and by now we had negotiated our way through five such areas. We had to ask ourselves how much longer we could do this before our luck was to run out; it would be a long trip at this pace. It is moments like this you really appreciate having a like minded travel buddy; if I was alone I would have surely given up at this point. Our collective confidence urged us on, one more time.

Not just another lake.

Lake Eyre is the lowest point in Australia, lying fifteen metres below sea level. It is and extensive salt sink, covering an area of 8430 sq km, and derives its mineralisation from the evaporation of floodwaters over countless years. Each time it floods, the salt crust begins to dissolve until the salt level in the water reaches saturation point. When the lake initially fills, the surface water is fresh and drinkable because the heavier saltwater lies on the bottom. From the air, water salinity variations can be seen as remarkable swirling current patterns. The main river systems which feed it include the inland systems of the Diamantina/Warburton, the Thomson/Barcoo and Cooper, the Georgina/Eyre Creek, the Peake, Neales, Macumba and Hamilton Rivers. Collectively, they drain roughly one fifth of the entire country. Think about that! Though the lake receives some water on average every eight years, it has only filled to capacity three times in the last 150 yrs, making about four metres in depth. During this time the lake, roughly the size of Holland, comes alive with a profusion of flora and fauna. Water birds travel thousands of kilometres, somehow knowing the lake has filled. The normally barren landscape explodes with plant and insect life as they race to complete their life-cycles. The waters fill with easy pickings of fish washed down the river systems, and species endemic to Lake Eyre such as the Brine Shrimp, Eyre Dragon, Skinks and more go bonkers.

On a slightly more eccentric side, The Lake Eyre Yacht Club, with its own clubhouse back in Marree, awaits the fill so they can take the boats out for a rare sail!

Meanwhile…

Clearing the fifth oasis, the road improved beyond measure and we were able to keep moving. Just 12km short of the lake, the road gently climbed and disappeared into a drift of fine sand. It was too late to stop without instantly getting bogged, and again with luck our momentum carried us through. This was starting to get ridiculous. This is a dead-end track with absolutely no passing traffic. The nearest farm is 50km away. On the plus side, we had plenty of supplies that could be made to last a long time, ample experience in the great outdoors and almost a whole brain between us. More to the point, there was nothing we could do about this tonight other than drive on and reach our objective.

The final fifty metres of the track gently climbs, and at the top opens into a small area of sand dune just large enough to turn a vehicle. We were finally rewarded with the view we had been looking for – the salty expanse of Lake Eyre, as far as the eye can see. So excited was I, that I drove a little too far forward and promptly sunk into the sand. It didn’t matter – we had reached the lake in time for sundown, and along with the flies, we fully intended to walk out onto the white plain.

Personally, the fact that the lake is currently filling was a bit of an inconvenience. The water is trying to hijack the story. There are plenty of lakes to go and look at, but I have never stood on a salt plain before; so I am quite content that the wet stuff has not reach this far down yet. Donald Campbell set a land speed record here in the 1960’s, but all thoughts of cranking the van up to a decent speed on its surface were quickly dispelled. Under the crust, our feet sank two inches – the result of recent rain. More to the point, it is actually against park rules to drive any vehicle on the surface (unless you go by the name of D Campbell). The weirdest part of a stroll along the salt lake is the compelling desire to keep walking. It is billiard table-flat, and just like the outback landscape, the horizon seems close and there is an urge to “see what is over the other side” – something that was the undoing of more than one bunch of explorers. Luckily for us, and you also I suppose, it is an urge we managed to suppress. The decision was reached with the help of a cloud of attentive flies, two empty bellies and a sun fast heading towards Europe or wherever it goes when Australia sleeps.

Lake Eyre was our most isolated camp yet, and I spent the night worrying about use of lights in case we flattened the battery. Matt pointed out that we have always used lights, computer, radio to name a few, and never had problems. Somehow, I just feel that if a battery is going to pack up, it will be now. When not turning off lights, I fretted about getting over that sand drift in the morning, and started making calculations on making our supplies last and reaching the nearest station. If I knew how to find Witchetty Grubs, or even what they looked like, I’d have been out gathering the things. Matt, a Kiwi to the core, again pointed out that we were here anyway and worrying about it won’t change a thing. Fair enough. I drifted into sleep with a clear view of the Milkyway and absolute silence.

The following morning we ate breakfast with the flies and examined prints in the sand around our van. We had seen a few large spiders last night, drawn by our light, but since then we had been visited by the Fox and a Dingo. There was time to take another walk on the lake. In spite of the scorching temperature, it reminded me of the Gobi desert in Mongolia or Lake Baikal in Siberia, but the crunching underfoot was salt and not ice. If I wasn’t wearing shorts in the photo’s, I could seriously pass off these pics as being in those places, I thought. We collected salt as a gift for the guys back at WorldNomads HQ (how kind are we)? Putting a bit aside, a couple of Tequila Slammers with Eyre Salt are on order when we reach civilization.

And the drive out of there? Well, you’ll just have to watch the attached movie!

Gallery: The final a-salt

wanderyears — Tue, 3 Apr 2007 11:44:00 GMT

We make Lake Eyre at last

Gallery: Following the Camel Toe Trail

wanderyears — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 13:25:00 GMT

The Afghan route - the locals call it the Camel Toe trail. Honest!

Following the Camel Toe Trail

wanderyears — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 13:18:00 GMT

We opted for the slow drive through Flinders Ranges National Park, which would eventually reunite us with the road north. Much of the bumpy road is along dry creek-beds that, during floods, rise by two metres or more. For this reason, unless you have a wheeled submarine, it is best tackled during drier times.

What the Flinders lose in elevation is more than made up for by their rugged beauty; and after days of featureless outback, a few hills are a welcome sight. The road guided us through the Aroona Valley and steep sided Parachilna Gorge, their mixture of Quartzite and Iron Oxide rock glowing pink in the late afternoon sunshine. The 100km diversion is a worthwhile drive if you have time to spare. There are no services along the way, but plenty of opportunities for camping. We had earlier been recommended a great pub at nearby Parachilna, and had absolutely no intention of going any further than that tonight.

Rejoining the bitumen road, we had spectacular views of the northern reaches of Flinders Ranges, before pulling in at the Prairie Hotel. Minutes later, we had a cold schooner of Toohey’s each, and a barman eagerly manning the pumps. After the days driving and hiking, it went without saying that travel was over for another shift.

With further investigation, we discovered that the Prairie Hotel is actually part of the town, population five, that goes by the name of Parachilna. The dusty main drag, directly outside, separates the hotel from an enclosure that passes as a caravan park, two gas pumps and not a lot else. The town acts as a hub for deliveries to the various stations that occupy the surrounding outback; on this evening, a road train was offloading a new generator set and washing machine onto a farmers ute. Running alongside the highway now, and for our next few days of travel, is the old Ghan Railway. Commissioned in 1878, it linked Adelaide to the remote interior, terminating in Alice Springs. It is a story of a harsh land, of rail buckling heat, sand drifts and devastating floods. During WWII, weekly trains jumped from three to fifty six, as troops and supplies were sent north to counter the Japanese threat.

The majority of this route has now fallen into disrepair or been torn up for scrap, but a 500km section from Leigh Creek coalfield runs to Port Augusta power station, along which trundles daily the worlds longest coal train. Luckily for us, it passed through on this evening and we were able to stand right by the track. Pulled by three huge locomotives, the 2.4 km long train hauled its 14,218 Tonne load by at 70 kph. It went on for a very long time. Even the locals came out to watch; and they live here all the time!

The Prairie Hotel is not the sort of place you would expect to find out here. The high-class establishment is quite well known for its richly appointed rooms, which go for a solid price per night. The menu has a well deserved reputation, albeit well above the usual backpacker budget. Matt and I splurged out on Kangaroo and Emus steaks. The cosy little bar plays host to a mixed bunch of clientele most nights of the week. Tonight, we chatted with middle aged Canadians on a self-drive tour, a farmer and the barman himself who was born here, lived and travelled Europe before returning. We also met Simo, another farmer from SA/VIC border country, who had taken to driving a truck to help his brother complete a lucrative haulage contract. A huge character both vertically and the other, he reminded me of a truckie I met in Queensland a few years ago, who could balance a beer on his massive belly when behind the wheel! Simo was hauling double road-train trailers full of rock spoil from a mining operation to Adelaide for export. Six nights each week the hotel also picks up trade from passing tour operators on the Adelaide to Alice Springs run, and so there is usually a cosmopolitan bunch of backpackers thrown into the melting pot – a bonus for the lonely farmers I suspect!

The following morning, feeling more than a little shabby, we turned onto the road north for Lake Eyre. Notwithstanding any distractions along the way, it was only 150km to Marree and then a further 100km to the lake itself. So long as we behaved ourselves, conceivably today could be the day. At this stage, the landscape has become more barren than I had expected. The red stony surface bakes under a relentless sun, broken only by the very occasional brittle acacia bush and little else.

At Leigh Creek we came across the huge open cut coal mine that fills the train mentioned earlier. The spoil heaps that surround it were visible as far as the eye could see, and we drove for around 40km alongside them before finally turning off to the mine itself. It seemed worth a visit, many of these places have guided tours on offer. Unfortunately, they have a new man on the job that has yet to get his driving license, or so they said. I found it a little annoying that a large company can organise a big money making operation like this, but not spare one person for public relations. Still, we found a viewing area nearby, along with some old machines to play on, but they kept us well away from the action.

The Aussies call them towns, but I prefer settlement; and each one we have found so far gets smaller the further we go. Marree then is the smallest of the lot, with a population of just eighty. It sits on the southern end of the Birdsville and Oodnadatta Tracks, and was a major centre for the Afghan camel trains that plied the outback from the 1870’s. It was also a stop on the old Ghan Railway, which still runs through the centre of the settlement. Much of the track has ghan (sorry), but the platform still loyally awaits the arrival of the next continental train. Outside are three of the old locomotives, iron Camels of the desert, stranded at the end of the line. There exists here a real “edge of the world” feel, and the settlement seems sad that this once great route now follows a different course. The last one rattled through on 31^st December 1980, but the memory lives on to this day.

We had a beer in the Marree Hotel, a beautiful old building whose size betrays former busier times. The landlord shared valuable information on the state of the road to Lake Eyre, and suggested a nice camp along the way. He told us about an eccentric who sails his yacht on the salt lake whenever it floods. The rest of the time, well, the majority of the time actually, he stores it in a shed with a sign saying “Lake Eyre Yacht Club”. Typical Aussie irony when you consider our distance from the sea, and how rarely there is any water in the lake.

With a full tank of gas, water replenished and good information obtained, we headed up the Madigan track with the aim of reaching the Muloorina waterhole (not a pub). A sleep there would put us in a great position for an early morning assualt on our objective - Lake Eyre.

What on earth am I doing here? Check out my own website, following me as I tried to get from UK to NZ without flying over the last two years.

Flies and pedestrian Emus

wanderyears — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 15:13:00 GMT

Tenacious D was my road-trip music of choice today. It is a good listen, but some of the language can be enough to make a miner blush. It certainly turned a few heads while taking on fuel in nowhereville, location unknown.

“The road is @*%#$ hard, the road is @#$%* tough”……

At this moment we certainly faced a tough decision. There was a choice between the safe and sensible surfaced route, and the much shorter and adventurous dirt road. Going against, still the threat of localised rain that could turn things decidedly nasty. In addition, the small but significant inconvenience of technically being forbidden from going off road. The thing with rules is it depends upon how they are to be interpreted. It is our understanding that unsealed roads are permitted, to reach a point such as a lookout or a camping ground. Therefore, we agreed, the three hundred kilometre track from Yunta to Wilpena was fair game as we had every intention of camping once there. We checked local advice; several road trains had travelled both directions today. We hung a right turn and hit the dirt.

Yunta itself was pretty much nowhere, but along this route we moved to the next stage, whatever that may be called. Once again the road proved to be in fine fettle and we were able to keep good pace. In the late afternoon twilight the wildlife begin to emerge from the shade. Roo, Emus and even wild Camels had been waiting all day for the opportunity to step out in front of a fast moving vehicle. Since we are guests out here, we figured it was time to give the road over to them and make camp. If this barren land was to be our hotel tonight, then the local flies were determined to be attentive hosts.

Getting out of the van, there is approximately one minute twenty six seconds available to enjoy the surroundings. Considering we have several thousand square kilometres of nothingness around us, I find it amazing that it only takes that long for the flies to find us. It starts with two or three scouts, who then somehow transmit an emergency message to 2,354,043 of their friends (ball park figure) to come join the party. And so, from that point, we are confined to the van while our loyal friends set up their own camp on the outside. Thankfully, once dark arrives they tend to settle down and cooking activities can commence.

Because Matt is an exceptionally long person, I get to sleep on the top bunk in the roof space. This suits me fine; I get the little sliding windows covered with fly-net and a cool breeze overnight. At sunrise, I awoke face to face with a mob of flies, dutifully waiting for us to get up. It turned out, the whole god dam van was covered and they were trying to make off with it, complete with us inside. We didn’t even fuss around with breakfast and opted to get moving without further ado.

Short back ‘an sides, please!

Later on, we ran into a sheep muster. We chatted with the Jillaroo and Jackaroo, and as they didn’t have far to go, we decided to follow them back to the shed to watch the shearing. With permission from the shearing gang boss and the farmer, we were free to look around and take pictures. Both Matt and I are no stranger to the shearing shed, but especially from my point of view, it is interesting to see it organised on this scale. The gang at work here cover large areas of South Australia and NSW, and have around ten thousand to get through, keeping them here over one week. Theirs is a tough lifestyle, a work hard/play hard philosophy that few people could keep up with. Being careful not to get in the way, it was a pleasure to watch them work (isn’t it always, watching someone else work?), like a well oiled machine; the animals passed from the yards to holding pens, to the shearing platform, where they parted from their woolly coats. I could almost feel their relief as they were set free into the count-out pen, while the fleece was gathered, graded and pressed into 250kg bales, then loaded directly onto a waiting truck. Having been on the road myself now for two years, it kind of made me miss the camaraderie of working with good mates.

We were doing ok for time, so we allowed ourselves to be diverted yet again at Wilpena Pound, an interesting geographical feature that begged to be climbed. The natural basin is hemmed in by ridges that rise to around 600 metres, encircling about 80 sq km of bush and clearings. Some lucky chap used to farm the whole interior to himself, complete with its own micro-climate and above average rainfall. These days, it is all a part of South Australia’s pride and joy – Flinders Ranges National Park. Here, we noted three important facts:

1) We had just driven 2000km from the great

Dividing Range to Flinders.

2) We are both not as fit as we used to be.

3) Despite all the climbing, the view is pleasant but without doubt a flyover by light aircraft is the only way to go. That’ll cost you $100 per person for a half hour.

During our two hour hike up the ridge, we met a tour guide hanging back from his flock as they descended the hill. Kiwi, as he is known, takes tours on a six day Adelaide to Alice run. At the end, he picks up a new bunch and turns around. He recommended a pub that just happened to be on our route, which we conveniently reached just before the sun started to dip in the west. Perfect.

Gallery: Flies and pedestrian Emus

wanderyears — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 15:11:00 GMT

general pics from outback Australia

Gallery: Flying Doctors

wanderyears — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 15:07:00 GMT

A visit to the Flying Doctors base at Broken Hill

Broken Hill - The Far West

wanderyears — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 14:46:00 GMT

On the slow journey to Broken Hill, we had marvelled at the increasing remoteness. We stopped at settlements to discuss the road conditions ahead, and even enjoyed some interesting conversations in remote pubs about the problems associated with shearing wrinklies (Marino sheep).

As most people do on any trip, we had tuned into the environment, adjusted to the pace and things quickly become quite normal. So Broken Hill came as something of a shock. It is a real town, with roads, hotels, shops and a McDonalds; an oasis in the middle of nowhere. Just when it was beginning to feel like we were getting somewhere in Australia, it is as if we now have reset and start over.

Broken Hill, population 20,000, lays in the far west of NSW. It owes its existence exclusively to mining, and since 1885 has been tapping into rich reserves of silver, lead and zinc. In the excellent information centre, you can learn in depth about this intriguing little place, and choose between a plethora of mine tours. Mines are interesting enough, and over the years I have ended up underground in various places, so I opted out when Matt booked himself onto one. Using the Lonely Planet Australia, he chose the popular Delprat’s Mine, officially the first, sunk by Broken Hill Proprietary Company Ltd (BHP). Rising from its 130 metre depths wearing his mining gear, Matt could confirm that it is deep, dangerous, dark and damp.

Flying Doctors

Mining aside, we had been looking for something that has Australia written all over it. Browsing the guidebook, we were pleased to find that nearby was a Royal Flying Doctors Service (RFDS) base.

Until now, I had never really stopped to appreciate just what a valuable service this is. It was the brainchild of Rev John Flynn, who regularly witnessed the daily struggle of pioneers living in remote areas, where just two doctors provided the only medical care for an area of 2 million sq km. In 1928 the Aerial Medical Service was born, using a single De Havilland DH50A, a bi-plane made from timber and fabric.

During the 1950’s the service received Royal patronage and was renamed the Royal Flying Doctor Service. It has come on a long way since; from pedal operated Morse code machines to HF radio and satellite. From bi-plane to modern twin engine Boeing aircraft, the service now covers 80% of Australia, an area larger than Western Europe, and can reach any patient, anywhere, within two hours. Today the RFDS employs some 140 pilots along with 120 nurses and 115 doctors, using 50 aircraft based at 22 stations across the country. Each year their aircraft fly nearly 20 million kilometres, the medical teams carry out over 33,000 emergency evacuations and 230,000 patients are treated.

“Our pilots have to be very skilled, they operate day or night in changeable conditions, and have to land in some imaginative places” Ethel told us. All stations have some sort of bush landing strip, and she explained that when aircraft are expected, locals have to go out and clear the strip of Kangaroos and Emus. As you can see in the images attached to this blog, sometimes things go wrong!

In addition to providing life-saving medical assistance to extremely remote communities, it also has a programme of weekly fly-in clinics around the territory. This is the modern face of the service, where the preventative work aims to increase personal health and awareness among outback dwellers, including indigenous communities.

Many remote families choose to purchase the RFDS medical chest, a one-off payment where the chest is updated free of charge. It contains a comprehensive selection of life-saving drugs, and is designed to be used in conjunction with the 24hr GP phone/radio consultation service. Each chest contains a simple diagram of the human body and is labelled to enable clear communication by radio. The drugs are numbered, to eliminate confusion over lengthy names. Many lives have been saved, even basic operations carried out, by instructions over the HF radio while awaiting the arrival of the flying doctor. Ethel, who works at the base, told us of a time when one farmer was instructed over the radio to administer drug “number 9” to his patient. He dutifully carried this out, then came back to the handset to report to the GP – “we don’t have any number 9, so I gave him a shot of 7 and 2”! Thankfully, the patient was still hanging on when the aircraft arrived!

If ever there was a cause worth supporting, for Australian citizen or visitor to the outback, then this is it. It is one of those things you want to get behind and see do well – and thankfully it does. Everywhere out here, in pubs and gas stations for example, you can see collection boxes and posters for fund raising events. It is an organisation that thrives out of necessity, by the people, for the people, with little aid or interference from any government. Long may that continue. To learn more about RFDS, visit their website by clicking here. Related links of interest appear at the bottom of this blog.

After so much driving, we had taken a day off to relax. I used the time to catch up with and publish a few blogs – being the first and possibly last place to get online. We put together the two movies which we hope you enjoyed; we certainly had a lot of laughs in making them! Being a weekend, it was a good opportunity to get around a few pubs and meet the locals.

Like any town that grew out of a mining industry, there are plenty of old style pubs to try out. In its hay-day, Broken Hill sported sixty watering holes. Despite our best journalistic intentions, we have yet to gather any useable material for a “night on the town” blog. Failure to carry the correct equipment, and severe memory loss both play their part; but it is true to say that we met an interesting cross-section of the Broken Hill community. We ended up in one of those bizarre nightspots that are neither a club, a pub, a restaurant nor a gambling den, but a labyrinthine combination of the lot. Visitors like us have to undergo the stringent signing-in process, but once inside the amber nectar flows almost until sunrise.

The following day, feeling nothing like we had just had a day off, it was time to get back on that road – the final push to Lake Eyre.

Royal Flying Doctors Service website

Grey Nomads

wanderyears — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 15:02:00 GMT

One of the good things about travelling outback Australia is the interesting people you can meet. It is that sort of place, where talking to strangers is normal. Whether you are filling up at the gas station, supping a cool schooner in the pub or just walking down the street, it’s ok to be nosey, which suits us just fine.

Spotting a bright yellow Land Rover, Matt and me shuffled over to chat with the owner. This was no ordinary run-around; it bristled with enough add-ons to tackle an expedition to the moon and back. As a spotty teenager, I used to follow the annual Camel Trophy, from an armchair of course. It involved thirty or more identical Land Rovers, crewed by international teams, travelling to remote and generally very muddy parts of the world. Their objective was to complete a gruelling route through a delicate ecosystem, digging large holes and felling trees along the way. For fairly obvious reasons, this has become about as politically correct as President Bush at a Peace Corps AGM, and has now been disbanded. Dave Stephens is a lifelong devotee of the British made Land Rover (love them/hate them), so he jumped at the chance to buy this particular vehicle that has completed an unbelievable three challenges; Tanzania, Sabah and Amazon in 1987. You’d think that spending a small fortune on a truck that has been pushed, pulled and thrashed through some very messy parts of the world would be a bit of a bad deal. Not for Dave though; this is a collector’s piece and he has lovingly restored it to a point where it is almost more beautiful than the Ambassador van.

But Dave’s story only just starts there. Once the vehicle was ready, along with his wife Margaret, they set off from London on a fourteen year odyssey that took them through Europe to Morocco, across the Middle East and Asia, back to Africa and also South America. This is a trip most of us could only ever dream of. Matt and I jostled to get our questions in first – so much to find out! (I wanted to ask where his money tree was, but that is a little personal I decided). You might expect someone who had completed such a trip to be the typical brash and outspoken explorer type; but Dave is an unimposing and quiet man. Quiet, but clearly confident – I imagine there is nothing this couple has not seen or had to deal with. I asked him if they ever had any worrying moments. With casual abandon, he replied “ah yeah, well we got robbed a couple time and spent a few nights in jail with border problems”. Timo and Matt are impressed. ”Plus we did get shot at once, with automatic fire”. The holy grail of traveller panache. Nobody really wants to get shot at, but there can be no denying that those bullet dodging dinner table stories will always get the most Ooh’s and Ah’s.

Dave and Margaret, who live at nearby Mildura, have now joined the ranks of Grey Nomads that roam outback Australia. Having seen a large slice of the world, they now spend their time exploring the vast expanses of their own homeland. The typical Grey Nomad, sixty something, driving a Landcruiser with tent trailer, is a common sight around the country. Somehow, I think this particular twosome will always stand out a little with the Land Rover and their above average campfire stories.

Strewth

wanderyears — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 14:58:00 GMT

For once, we were organised and on the road quite early. The information gained in the boozer last night was so contradictory as to be of little use, so we made for probably the best source in any small country town – the gas station. Because motorists generally fill up at every opportunity out here, almost any station in any town will have spoken to folk coming from far and wide. They are usually also the local shop, post office, communications HQ and whatever else you care to think of.

We did the routine van service, everything filled and checked, windows cleaned etc. The attendant was a big hairy man with a black singlet and a burning cigarette hanging from his lips. It is only petrol, after all. During general chit-chat, we learned that the nearby Lake Cargelligo was only 7% full, and has not been at the desired level for two years now. The four-thousand acre lake was essentially natural, but has been dammed to raise the level. It acts as an over-flow to collect water during better times, but also provides the tiny settlement for their needs. Unfortunately, for some time water has been directed via canal to the south for irrigating the huge expanses of thirsty cotton crops. While the town’s supply is assured, the main income from domestic tourism has been affected.

Water, next to beer and Aussie rules footy, is a regular conversational topic. In Britain they talk about the weather. In France they talk the cost of onions. Along our route so far, starting in the Blue Mountains and heading west, the situation has changed with every day. It has generally become much more arid, but opinions vary according to whom we speak. There is no doubt that Australia is suffering a serious and prolonged drought, and we will discover more on this when we end up in Queensland next month. Down here, folk from the small towns are generally comfortable with the situation; water has always been a commodity to treat with care, and much of theirs comes from reliable aquifer basins. For farmers of crops and livestock, the situation seems more serious. The storms currently roaming the region have given very localised refreshment to parched areas, while those on the outside can only hope the next will pass over them. Stock rates in the affected areas have had to be drastically reduced. From where I am writing this now, two thousand kilometres west, some cattle stations are down to an unbelievable one animal to six hundred acres. To put that in perspective; a productive European cattle farm will carry more than one animal to one acre.

We asked the man if he knew anything of the road conditions up to Ivanhoe, two hundred kilometres distant - “Gees mate, that roads’ rough as a dogs guts”. He added, “lat avit is bull-dust mate, turns to shit with the rain”. Bulldust is as fine as talcum powder and provides a good driving surface when dry. However, with a decent drop of rain the road quickly becomes impassable even to four-wheel drive. Our problem is the speed we have to travel to cover some distance, if we hit a wet area it would most likely be too late to turn around. There has been a few rogue storms roaming a large area of outback, some places remain dry while others get flash floods. Finding out which is which is our objective.

“Was up there for a footy game, anit rained during the match, me and the guys were stuck there a week before we could come home”. Bloody hell, I thought, how many weeks ago was this going on? ”Uh Strewth mate, must have been thirty years ago now, ain’t bin there since”! Oh right. Maybe we should go find someone who has left town this side of the new millennium. We took a calculated risk; the rain had been patchy, and so far we have seen a lot of recent improvement work on the roads. There is every chance that things have changed in thirty years.

Conscious that this was actually our first really big day on the road, we stuck with it and settled into a routine. We shared the driving, maintained a steady pace and stopped only for the most interesting bits. We were now into the real outback, in terms of the landscapes and increasing remoteness. Typically, distances between settlements are one to two hundred kilometres. The road did turn out to be better than expected and we made Ivanhoe at exactly the time predicted.

Along the way we marvelled at the vast open spaces that fill the gaps between towns. It may appear completely inhospitable, but signs of human inhabitation past and present are all around. We stopped to explore various derelict buildings or the occasional old farm truck, half buried in the dirt. Each location tells a story of more prosperous times and broken dreams. There is only two things that really go on out here; everything we saw was connected with farming or mining. Because of the arid climate, it is difficult to judge how old all this stuff is. A number of sites had the remains of an old windmill. Even with a few blades missing, some would break the eerie outback silence, propelled by a harsh furnace-like wind. There was no other sound, except maybe a gentle ghostly howl as the same wind played around the rusty metal structures. We often found piles of old-fashioned brown beer bottles, discarded by working men at the end of a day’s hard yakka. Kick around in the brittle earth and you might find rusty buckles from a Jackaroo’s saddle, or spent bullets from a drunken tin-can shooting match.

Following the Cobb highway, a famous old droving route known as The Long Paddock, we came across a long since abandoned farm that was enough to send a tingle down my spine. It felt more like Bosnia than Australia. Every surface of the building was riddled with bullet holes. Had somebody re-enacted Ned Kelly’s Last Stand? The smell of a rotting carcass hung heavy in the air, and the imagination ran riot. Some of the derelict properties along the Cobb Highway were road houses, placed to serve the stock drovers as they moved animals along its 600km lenght from Queensland to the Victorian markets. In Ivanhoe, the visitor can learn all about this fascinating route and the hardy men that kept it alive.

A long day of shared driving got us all the way into Broken Hill, a town of surprising size that by day would reveal itself as something of an oasis in the middle of nowhere.

Totally beaten up, we crashed for the night without even calling into a pub.

Gallery: Out there...

wanderyears — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 14:54:00 GMT

On a direct route west, things get more sparse

Shower Day

wanderyears — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 18:39:00 GMT

I really wanted to catch up with some writing tonight. We had just covered over 300km, much of which were on dirt. It was my turn to cook, so I simmered a simple Spaghetti Bolognaise while I took my first shower in four days. This is not any old shower, you’ll understand. It was a solar shower, a black plastic bag that had been hung over the rear door all day long. It had gained enough temperature to warrant a timely wash, in the car park next to Lake Cargelligo.

Ten litres of lukewarm water does not go too far, so this is not an occasion for lingering. More to the point, by bare ass was illuminated by a nearby street lamp, and I did not want another run-in with the law today. Did I forget to mention that? Well, first thing this morning in Bathurst, I hopped on the internet to upload our first blog. Exiting the shop into bright daylight (feeling very happy at purchasing a Guillemots CD, been after for ages), I came across a very glum looking travel buddy. The usual conversation ensued. "You want the good news or the bad"? he grumbled. I do not like these type of choices, and I sensed I was about to be disappointed in some way. "I’ll take the good first", as I usually do. Matt was ready with his reply, "There isn’t any", and I instantly regretted falling for this one, again. Things were about to get worse. "You have a parking ticket, $128 for being half in a taxi zone". To me, there are few worse feelings in the world than being visited upon by a parking inspector, especially first thing in the morning. I had parked next to a truck, and not noticed the microscopic sign that separated the parking from a taxi zone. We were half in, half out, and I instantly considered the possibility of getting some sort of discount. Looking around, this typically Australian street was wide and long, with enough room to park a million vehicles. In a town where everyone drives around in big Land Cruisers, I think it is fare to say that demand for taxi’s at this time of day is sparse. It is a blessing that the good-for-nothing inspector had moved on, because I very much wanted to explain this to him. Instead, we visited the council office and I put in an appeal. Sometimes, just sometimes, you can get away with these things under the title of "dumb tourist". I’ll let you know what happens.

Feeling much better after a shower, a feed and a few beers, I all too easily agreed to visit a nearby pub. The writing could be done later… hmm, yeah right! Spending some time in a bar in any outback town is an essential part of your travel experience in the country. I don’t mean the ones in Sydney, Brisbane or Melbourne; or even the up-market "outback experience" pubs in tourist areas. The genuine watering hole, often an old colonial era building, is a no-thrills affair in which men are men and women are absent. It is a shrine to all the bad habits a bloke is allowed to have, and the dress code is strictly work boots, stubby shorts and singlet. Mullet hair-cuts are de rigor.

The bar had guttering all the way around, to catch spilt beer. What a great idea!

Funny, despite all my recent travels across the globe, tonight felt as unique as any experience I have had anywhere. This is surprising from a country where English is the first language, and it is only Australia after all. I have fallen into the trap of thinking that there is nothing exotic about this country, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There is a very real culture and it is all around us. As we go deeper west, I know we will be writing a lot more about this.

With all our driving this afternoon, it was as if we had come so far as to almost be in a different country. Our new friends offered advice on the best route from here, and a map was produced to clarify things. This was an especially depressing moment – for according to this, we had only travelled about six inches, barely a stone’s throw away from Sydney in Australian terms. You’d have to be seriously short on general knowledge to not know that Australia is a big place, but heck, you really appreciate this when you try to get somewhere. As if things weren’t bad enough, a malicious rain cloud has been roving the state, causing all manner of troubles to people like us.

Our new Aboriginal friends, Mick and Robbo assured us our chosen route would be fine. They had been working on a shearing gang and had travelled down from Wilcannia in less than six hours. However, Barry the manager insisted the road would be washed out and nothing short of a nightmare to travel. They say you should always ask a local, but in this case, the advice, when mixed with too much beer, can be contradictory in the least. We have already scaled down this trip from "Where the F*** is Alice", a 6000km return to Uluru, and so it will take a lot more than this to deter us from reaching Lake Eyre.

Barry pulled down the black blinds to indicate the pub was closed, and then poured us both a schooner of Toohey’s on the house. We actually got offered a job on a shearing gang – and ever in the search of something interesting to write about, I begged Matt to agree. Quite rightly, he pointed out that we already have an elaborate mission and our time available would be better used achieving that. Fair point.

We retired to the van, see what morning will bring, apart from a hangover.

Bathurst - City of Speed

wanderyears — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 18:30:00 GMT

We had great plans for the day; the decision had been taken, we would definitely make for Lake Eyre, 2000km distant. It is quite an ambitious aim, and we are aware that there will be many distractions along the way. We just didn’t realise it would happen so soon.

The City of Bathurst (actually just a town of 28,000) lays on our route west. Matt had the helm which means I am automatically in charge of music and sleeping. As I browsed the Lonely Planet Australia, it became clear to me that this trip has already been hi-jacked. I know that Matt likes cars, engines, and anything with wheels. Bathurst, it turns out, is what Waterloo is to your average train spotter. So far today, we had covered only 150km – equivalent to popping down to the shops for a loaf of bread in Australia. I have done trips like this before; ambitious, badly planned and generally very much open to change. I learned one thing – what will be, will be. Matt had every reason to linger, and the pleasant surroundings made it hard for me to raise objection. In addition, being a university town, there was more pretty girls around than two guys like us could safely cope with.

Clearly Matt knew far more about this place than he was letting on. He informed me that Mount Panorama is a street race circuit on the southwest edge of the town. It’s beginnings go back to 1938, and to this day is the venue for many motor racing events, the most famous being the Bathurst 1000. The one thousand kilometre test of endurance attracts over 100,000 spectators each year. Motorcycle racing goes back even further than the current track. Events were held mostly on gravel roads, the only bitumen being a 100 yard section on the start line, which was actually part of the stock sale yards. Remember, these were, and still are, public roads – an imaginary line was drawn along the centre, one side for the racers, the other for public use!

This is the home of Australian motor racing, and a place of pilgrimage for all serious petrol-heads. Thankfully, there is an excellent information centre (which houses the famous 1909 model D28 Brush car, among the first in Bathurst), and better still, a motor museum next to Mount Panorama Circuit. I sent Matt off to get his fix while I got busy trying to work out all the equipment Nomads have given us to cover this trip.

Matt caught me drinking cups of tea and playing a cool game I found on this laptop – but I had managed to write a couple of paragraphs. Today’s circuit covers 6.2 km, is 870 metres above sea level, and is Australia’s only racing track that is also a public road. Matt was almost hyperventilating at the thought of driving around it, and with a strict 60 kph limit, I figured it would be a low risk photo opportunity for the Ambassador van. Even with a Kiwi driver.

When travelling, you know how in some towns everything is against you, and in others, everything seems to effortlessly work out? Bathurst was one of the latter. We easily found a nice camp next to a creek, only a short walk from the trotting track. With a nice Green Thai curry in our bellies (by yours truly), we strolled over for a look – I was curious to see what this peculiar sport is all about – by luck, Wednesday night is race night around these parts.

Trotting, or harness racing, is pretty big in Australia and New Zealand. Next to Wife Carrying (I’m not kidding, this is a legit sport), trotting, it seems to me, is one of the more eccentric equine pastimes. The nags are bred and skilfully trained to go as quickly as possible, but without breaking into a canter. Therefore, to achieve maximum velocity, they have to trot. Have you ever tried to get somewhere quickly without actually running? As if this is not absurd enough, they pull a flimsy buggy on two bicycle wheels, controlled by a small man wearing a crash helmet. We only caught the last couple of races, not nearly enough time for us to work out the betting procedure; with hindsight, probably a good thing. We did note that between each race, a vehicle drives around the roughly 1700 metre circuit towing a harrow to level the sand. In our search for the ultimate Ambassador moment, we did ask the organisers if we could use our van. With the race being transmitted live on sports channel, we figured it would be a bit of a scoop. Unfortunately, as you can probably imagine, they were not too keen. I guess we are just too dam cool.

The small floodlit venue had an intimate crowd, out for a mid-week social beer or two, and provided just the atmosphere we were looking for. Trotting, weird as it is, provides a quintessential view of genuine rural Australian life.

Tomorrow, we will try and cover some distance. Did I not write that somewhere before?