Posted: November 16, 2015 | Author: Nina Williams | Filed under: Australia, Camping, Iconic Australian images, QLD, WA | Tags: Australia, Cairns, Cooktown, roadtrip |
The road from Cooktown to Cairns through the Daintree and Cape Tribulation
30 days of rain when your home is made of canvas requires becoming at one with perpetual damp. The irony of recently arriving from weeks of skin blistering heat, unfeasibly mobile dust, and sticky, biting, flies was not lost on me. The car smelt of a wet dog we did not own. Our bed was damp right through the mattress, towels reminiscent of forgotten washed laundry sitting in your washing machine after three hot summer days, the knives and forks grew rust, and our backsides sprouted algae from the winning camp chairs that attract and retain the tiniest molecule of moisture from the air.
Damp squib. So wet right now.
The rain joined us the moment we reached Cooktown, chased us down the East Coast of Queensland, and did not let up until we cried ‘Enough!’ one especially wet evening at the tiny EJ Fahey Park, as rain blew sideways under our groundsheet cable-tied to the trees, and the fire limped through dinner. Blinking at each other through the mist we wordlessly agreed to drive 5000 km back to the West, to spend our last two weeks on the sparkly, turquoise, pretty-fish-filled Ningaloo Reef.
Osprey Bay, Cape Range National Park
We have one week left of four months on the road and sitting at our camp, overlooking Osprey Bay in Cape Range National Park, time has accelerated and each day seems to last only 12 hours. We have driven 22,000 km in an overlapping circle and W is cleaning the Weber Baby Q, an annual activity, confirming that indeed, all things end eventually.
Cooktown is a beautiful spot at the base of Cape York (the pointy bit on the top right corner of Australia). Access is 4WD, and parts of it, fairly intrepid. Cape York was one of the few must-do’s on this trip, but our timing was a little off, and we reluctantly agreed the journey may spell the end of the camper trailer, so had got to Cooktown to at least put a virtual stake in the ground for when we would return.
Armageddon. Thousands of fruit bats leave the gorge for their nightly feed.
The anchor of James Cook’s Endeavour sits in the Information Centre at Cooktown. I love looking at collections of relics from past times, specifically home and personal items, but the actual anchor of a ship I heard tales of as a child thrilled me far more than I expected. It must have been a really weird experience for both Cook’s mariners and the local Aboriginal people seeing each other for the first time. Quotes and writing from both perspectives at the time makes compelling reading.
Theres a croc in there disguised as a waterlily.
At the watery inlets and outlets around Cooktown Achtung!* signs abound, as do water lilies and lush rainforest. There is something oddly humorous about a crocodile sitting just under the surface with a water lily on his head.
From Cooktown we took the coastal 4WD road bound for Cairns. The trailer seemed to enjoy the bounce from steep inclines and declines as we roared south. The road took us through the Daintree, tropical growth fresh and happy in the rain. Greenery is so restful on your eyes when you have squinted your way through the Top End, carving deep furrows in your forehead. The contrast is so stark, in a relatively short distance, that I am reminded again how incredible Australia is. We didn’t stay in the Daintree or Port Douglas, as we have been to both before, and the damp was beginning to seep in. At this stage we didn’t know the rain would become a lasting signature of our East Coast experience.
View from the cocktail deck at Cairns Salt House
The Great Barrier Reef could be accessed from Cairns, so we booked the last two seats on a boat going out the next day, and reclined on a large day bed for a few cocktails at the marina. W had wandered off to make some calls, leaving me to the charming attentions of a short, older, gentleman in a genuinely antique Hawaiian shirt, who sidled onto the long day bed. We both inched left, a fraction at a time, until I was cornered. With nowhere to go, I made a bid for freedom over the side, sacrificing my Margarita in the process. Walking home via the Cairns Night Markets, I managed to avoid buying dream-catchers and multi-coloured beach cover-alls, but the cocktails I’d had managed to purchase a pair of two-tone gold UGG boots, the last pair, a half size too small, but at 70% off, impossible to resist.
Rough day out on the Great Barrier Reef
We embarked the boat, and just when we thought legal capacity had been superceded, another 30 people got on. It was a rough day out on the water, with five metre swells, and we hadn’t read the bit in the brochure about the two-hour trip to the reef, followed by another hour to another reef, and back again. Around 65% of those on board had failed to bring their sea-legs, and while many proceeded to the open and fresh rear of the vessel as instructed, a stubborn few stayed amongst the rest of us inside, and shared their recycled muffin. As a person who just needs to think about vomit to start gagging, I stared resolutely through the window to the front of the vessel just in time to see a guy plastered to the exterior of the window clutching a sick-bag like it was his first born. A position he maintained for 7 hours.
Make it stop
Unfortunately, the popularity and fame of the Great Barrier means mainstream reef trips are worse than 30-hour flight on a no-frills airline to a small crowded atoll where the fish look rented. Staff flatly roll out the same jokes and routine every day, and flirt with each other to break the tedium. By the end of the trip, the Kiwi extravert guy had made solid headway with the Swedish lunch prep girl.
Queensland coast – a little windy, a little murky
We set the TomTom for south, clinging to the coast in search of sparkling beaches, and richochet-ing in and out of small, beach-style towns until we reached Mission Beach. We had hoped to find somewhere to swim since the threat of crocodiles was no longer present, but the murky grey water and persistent rain was uninviting and a faint ache in my tooth nagged. By the time we neared Townsville, I had decided a tooth was attempting to grow sideways out of my gum, so I called Townsville’s 1300 Smile and managed to drive straight to an appointment. 48 minutes later, I left 1300 Smile relieved of one tooth, a gaping hole in my mouth, and a legitimate member of the Collingwood Football Club**.
I will continue this tale from Townsville, QLD, to Exmouth, WA, in my next instalment – Things That Make You Go EEK – where I have regular and uninvited encounters with a range of scream-worthy creatures.
Mice-fetti. What is left when you chew your way through a red plastic lid.
*Crocodile warning signs read ‘Achtung! Warning! Crocodiles inhabit this area.’
**Collingwood Aussie Rules Football Club members are popularly described as being short of teeth and long of mullet.
Posted: November 7, 2015 | Author: Nina Williams | Filed under: Australia, Camping, Iconic Australian images, Landscapes, QLD | Tags: Australia, Mt Surprise, NT, roadtrip, Timber creek, WA |
Timber Creek is a small town in the Northern Territory with the three most common remote town signs; to the roadhouse, police station and medical centre or hospital. The roadhouse is typical, providing all manner of services including bar, bottle-store, restaurant, service station, and caravan park to locals and travellers alike.
We arrived on Saturday, and the roadhouse was doing a roaring trade in beer destined for a party up the road. Carloads of locals drove up, piled into the bar, emerged with slabs of beer, and yelled to other carloads of locals doing the same. The Eftpos machine sat silently trapped in a cage at the front door, and a cheery bunch of international staff buzzed about.
Travellers under 30 years of age to Australia can extend their tourist visa by one year, if they work for three months in a remote area. This means you can generally guarantee the people serving you in many small town pubs and roadhouses are a cheerful array of intrepid young people with exotic accents, seemingly well out of context, yet curiously at home.
The caravan park behind the roadhouse offered the twin attractions of crocodile and bird feeding. At 5pm, an eager bunch of kids, a couple of elderly folks, a handful of freshwater crocodiles, a varied flock of airborne raptors, and W and I excitedly gathered for feeding time. When the English girl from the pub dangled raw pieces of meat in the creek, the crocodiles looked a bit bored, but the birds were somewhat theatrical, and the kids and I were thrilled.
Croc feeding – a little mangy looking and a little less enthusiastic
A whiteboard on the wall in the bar listed names of people banned from the bar, and the date they were allowed back in. Every now and then, a whiteboard person wandered in and attempted a purchase, or sat at the bar and charmingly argued why they should stay. Both the Chilean and the Kiwi behind the bar were barely 25, yet managed to deliver the bad news, wave farewell to the banned, and order a Barra and Chips at the same time with a smile. I wanted to suggest the publican run a detox program for city adolescents, currently gaining life skills from a screen, but he didn’t appear to possess the same charm as the gals.
Local Wyndham artwork in the salt-pan
We had left Kununurra at the break of day, and foiled the guy with the wheel covers, awning OCD, and dawn leaf-blower routine next door, determined to wake us. I like to ensure we have plundered the depths of local attractions, squeezing in The Mini Bungles and Kelly’s Knob at sunset the night before, and planning to swim at Valentine Springs, Black Rock, Marley Billabong and a handful of other watery delights on our way east. Alas, the swimming holes were in varying states of dehydration, but the backpackers were up for it, shrieking and smoking while splashing about the murky green water. We ventured to Wyndham where local artists had crafted an alien message into the saltpan, looked at another grey harbour, and deemed our work done.
Our search for fresh caught local fish takes us to all sorts of retail outlets
From Timber Creek we drove straight through Katherine and north to Nitmulik National Park, a gorgeous park full of gorges and swimming holes just 30km from town, managed jointly by traditional owners and Department of Parks and Wildlife. Edith Falls is one of the beautiful camp areas within the park, offering shade, and , watered grass, wildlife (both two and four-legged), and a swimming hole replete with fish eager to nibble off your callouses. I am never at ease in fresh water, but became excited at the prospect of a pedicure of sorts. I watched the cute little fish dart about my legs until one took a wee chunk of my thigh.
Achtung! The crocs at Flora River National Park say ‘come on in, the waters fine.’
Nitmulik is atypical for National Parks, with quirky personal touches. Edith Falls greets you with quirky quotes on a sandwich board, and the main caravan park features a rockstar-style lagoon pool, and resident 4 metre python (harmless but freaky all the same), that hung out at the pool in daylight, and on the path to the toilets at night. Moving to the main camp, we set up with haste, eager to make it in time for our Gorge Dinner Cruise, the only tour with vacancies. Waiting under the trees for our cruise to depart, a man approached enthusiastically and said “Saw you at the camp ground. You’re next to us. In the camper trailer. We’re in the Winnebago.” Pausing to reflect, I couldn’t remember anything about our fellow campers except the fact I thought there was no-one around as I changed into my bikini beside the car.
Edith Falls Camp sunset
Edith Falls camp – sandwich boards, tibetan flags, sprinklers and marsupials
Sunrise walk to another swimming hole – in the far distance a bearded nude man bathed.
Fly blown bush camping at its best
Boat ramp in the Flora River National Park.
Our next destination was Karumba. The promise of abundant fresh fish and prawns, a fantastic azure vista, and location bang in the middle of the Gulf of Carpentaria took on a spiritual quality, and got me through two bush camps. To be clear, bush camp means off-the-grid, no loo in any form, no water, coverage or rubbish bins. Of course, a sweet little shower faucet in a box, some cigarette lighter power, and a bucket of pre-boiled water convinces you temporarily you need never live a civilised life again. Until you see yourself in a roadhouse bathroom, and realise your husband is not a details guy, and you need an intervention.
A fire makes it all worthwhile, even if it is 37 degrees.
Karumba is all about fishing, just like the rest of the north. You cannot swim because of the crocs, it is hot as all get out, and the Barra run freely. At night the sunset pub hosts thousands of hermit crabs as they march about, pile up, then march again. At every point the road or a boat campmates the water you see signs warning of croc activity. They read “Achtung! Attention! Crocodile activity in this area”, and show a no-swimming icon. After a while we simply referred to these river crossings as Achtungs. Australia’s largest saltwater crocodile, ‘Krys the Savannah King’ met an untimely end at nearby Archer’s Creek in 1957, but the legend lives on in a life-size replica, over 8 metres long, in the main street of Normanton, where people take photos of their babies in its mouth.
Road to Karumba on the Gulf Savannah. March of the Termites
Karumba’s Hotel offered two kinds of experience; the open air Animal Bar and air-conditioned Suave Bar. Alone in the Suave Bar, we were schooled by Maddie and Tae on the Country Music Channel, on being a ‘Girl in a Country Song’, which seemed to prescribe smiling over speaking, daisy dukes and cowboy boots, and a lot of admirable hair.
The best of Karumba camp, awash with fishing boats, dust, and a camp host on a quad bike keeping on top of campsite boundary infractions.
We had to stop at Mt Surprise for name alone. This is another small town with a tiny local population, residing in fields rich in ancient history and semi-precious gems. We made sure the pub could receive the AFL Grand Final transmission, then settled into the caravan park with resident Johnny Cash, miniature ponies, exotic birds, an emu, and another resort style pool. Always a fan of a gem, I convinced W to grab a prospector’s license, treasure map, and shovel from the gem store and we set out for the field of dreams. Before we left, I had probed the expert for tips, amongst which was the theory that good things lay two metres down. When I said we could easily dig that far, I saw a flash of focused attention pass across the eyes. It’s a look I have only seen in opal fields, carried by people living in corrugated iron lean-to’s for decades and in possession of an unshakeable belief that tomorrow they will find the mother lode. Three hours later, having dug over the well ground in the allowed areas other tourists has already toiled over, bitten by March flies, and with dust in very crevice, we departed in possession of a few small pieces of Topaz, unsurprised by the appraisal they were too small to do anything with.
The crowd goes wild for AFL at Mt Surprise
NRL at Mt Surprise. The joint was going off.
Mt Surprise souvenir – XXXX enamelled gifted by the publican
Hanging up our prospecting boots, we investigated a once vast farming property owned by the entrepreneurial Collins family, the first white settlers in the Gulf Savannah, and who have owned the property since the 1860’s. Featuring caves formed by ancient lava tubes, and numerous unique geological features, the family decided to partner with National Parks to create the Undara Volcanic National Park, and developed a slick tourism venture on the property, called The Undara Experience, which thrives today. Of course the only way you get to see them is to take the tour. W and I spend a lot of time in each others company, so whenever we go on a tour I am freshly reminded that we walk at twice the pace of anyone else, and how I need to develop a more Buddhist outlook when it comes to that person in every crowd that dawdles at the back with their camera/eternally fusses in their back pack/stares into the distance/is last on the bus.
Swimming at the lush spring fed gorges! Anyone?
The next day we eyed Cooktown, at the base of the Cape York Peninsula, a new corner of Australia for us.
Posted: August 22, 2012 | Author: Nina Williams | Filed under: Australia, Camping, QLD | Tags: Australia, camp sky, Camping, Food, night photos, outback, QLD, Renner Springs, Roadtrips, Trees, trees |
Boulder Opal, Lightning Ridge
Reaching the Barkly highway, we were out of opal and gems and into copper/zinc-lead-silver mining country, headed for Mt Isa where Rotary invented the Southern Hemispheres largest rodeo. Offering a side of Mardi Gras and ute muster with your bull riders, I was disappointed we would miss such heady goings-on. Fighting the urge to pick up a couple of R.M. Williams longhorn seat covers, I sought out coffee at a gorgeous restored building. Packed to the ceiling with horse, outback, and mining paraphernalia, warm scones on offer to the refrains of ‘A pub with no beer’ performed live out the back, a genuine Cobb & Co mail-coach, and stabled horses drew me out. The barista had stepped out for lunch, taking with her all knowledge of coffee production. Itineraries and spreadsheets wait for no barista to return, so W set his jaw, and we rolled on.
It was 5pm. Marvelling at the diminishing light falling on Gregory National Park, my driver had the crazed stare one gets after 900km of white lines, and around eight hours of talking-book about time travel and Highlanders in the 1700s. The Widower’s words came back to us as we flew by a sign mentioning a dam. Constructed in 1959, Corella Dam supplied water to the Mary Kathleen Uranium mine. Now decommissioned, it allegedly has a hole in the wall which means it never fills. A largely unoccupied park, free campers spaced themselves 500m from each other, and we felt most when we snagged a spot near the water with a ready-made rock fireplace. “I cannot believe this spot is free!”, I exclaimed excitedly. As the arctic gale blew down the small valley through our campsite toward the water, my chicken dance against flying ember ignition in the parched grass surrounding us, kept me warm. From the house bus perched on the Ridge, Johnny Cash warned of a burning Ring of Fire, and two hardy souls hunkered down in sleeping bags, next to their fishing rods, leaned into the blast that threatened to transform their protective tarp into a magic carpet. I imagined fish caught here would prompt a geiger counter to play Verdi’s Requiem, Dies Irae, but presumably that was the least of their worries.
5am could not arrive sooner. The flappity flap of unsecured tent bits deprived all but the permanently rested of slumber. Alessi came through with a single origin colombian heart starter, and we got the hell out of Dodge.
Out the window: Barkly Highway at 115km
1/125th, F16, ISO 200, 70mm
Renner Springs presented itself in the manner of all roadhouses, at about the time when you have truly reached the limit of your ability to sit contained in a sardine tin, no music in your 1200 strong playlist hits the right note, and crumbed potato and cheese mash with gravy sounds like a well-rounded end to the day. Warmly welcomed at the Roadhouse, we threw up the Taj on the banks of an ornamental pond, eschewing pesky pegs, and paused briefly to admire the craftily silent flotilla of geese. We longed for someone to cook us a meal, and the pub, lined with caps and other clothing items fresh from years of unwashed love, looked like it would make an honest fist of a steak. When the meals arrived, they looked frightened. The seven chips on my plate attempted to conceal themselves under the small grey wedge of barramundi impersonating a jandel*. The slice of tomato, carrot shred, and tablespoon of lettuce spelt a story of eviction from their happy place at the back of the freezer. While these kitchen antics ensued, it was clear W’s steak had been stewing itself silly incorrectly sensing reprieve. It was another beautiful clear night in the Outback.
Renner Springs Roadhouse ornamental lake
* also known as thong or flip flop
Posted: August 21, 2012 | Author: Nina Williams | Filed under: Australia, QLD | Tags: Australia, Camping, capricorn highway, dinosaur fossils, grey nomads, palms and cycads, QLD, Roadtrips, travel, Travel, vacation |
Tyler decided a little side boob would not stop him wearing his favourite singlet.
Two days of unrelenting rain taught us many new things about the camper trailer, and how folded bits of canvas are actually flexible swimming pools, overflowing at the precise moment your neckline presents a waterfall opportunity.
In Carnarvon Gorge National Park campground, ‘Van owners toiled without merit at the most popular and time-consuming daytime van-owner activity: Cleaning the Van. Brows furrowed at the campfire over the misleading advice that they would easily enter the park without 4WD capabilities, and plans made to leave just as soon as Brian finished cleaning the spare tyre with a toothbrush, so that they may bask once again in the blinding white exterior of their mobile home.
A pre-breakfast wander up the Rock Pool made me appreciate afresh the abundance of palms and cycads, and a desire to create all manner of craft out of the beautifully textured palm leaf casings that littered the forest floor.
Carnarvon Gorge Rock Pool Walk
Leaving Carnarvon, we made our way up to Emerald and joined the Capricorn Highway, so named for it follows the Tropic of Capricorn. Excited by campfire tips exchanged with a ten year old girl tenaciously seeking a spark among the rain soaked ashes, I planned to be driving when we passed Australia’s largest collection of dinosaur fossils at the Australian Age of Dinosaurs. It wasn’t to be. Rustic gem shops and attractions flew by as W fixed his steely gaze on the odometer and wordlessly expressed a mandate that given my ambitious list of target destinations filling my master excel spreadsheet, there would be no spontaneous stopovers for anything bling-related.
I had read about a riverside ‘free-camp’ in the town of Jericho, and the Grey Nomads forum was all over it. Finding a spot right on river, late afternoon, I was delirious in sunshine. The adjacent Nomad collective invited us to their campfire, and light banter about fishing and fire-making ability ensued. After a spell, a man travelling on his own with an immaculate car and ‘van, systems, levers, and pulleys for everything, and an aged dog invited himself to join our lively throng. Within twenty minutes he managed to insert references to ‘the Vietcong, Abbos, Swamp Arabs, refugees, how the Krauts have ruined free camping for everyone, French backpackers called Mr Zippy, and a great free camp up the line we should stop at’. Being guilty of over-zealous tent zipping action myself I fell silent, pondering the Pauline Hanson factor and how it seemed endemic to campgrounds Australia-wide. He didn’t say, but I think the man was a widower, possibly widowed within the last year, and I felt compassion for him. I surmised his trip has started with his wife, and he was now very lonely, with fearful and angry views that may find favour with some, but would alienate many. As the thrum of generators lulled us to sleep, I concluded sadly that he would never change.
Posted: August 12, 2012 | Author: Nina Williams | Filed under: Australia, QLD | Tags: Australia, Palms, QLD, Roadtrips, Trees |
Clapping eyes on our camper trailer for the first time since W bought it over the phone a couple of months earlier from ebay, we were thrilled! A briefing, a hook up, and we were off, Perth bound, via Kakadu. Four or so weeks of camping ahead, and around 14000km.
Navigating Brisbane to find an outdoor shop, organic store, grass-fed ruminant butcher, and supermarket where you can actually park a car and trailer provided greater challenge than what lay beyond the city bounds. Exhausted by it all, we decided a rest in Noosa would be good use of our first day. A trip to the outdoor store two more times had the trailer fitted out with the first of many improvements to come.
Turns out Noosa camp grounds are in high demand, and wedging ourselves into the last spot at a caravan park some km’s down the road, plugged in the trailer to fire up the fridge and freezer Engels, and headed to the happening end of Noosa town. The quaint little cafes and bars I recall from a trip a few years ago were gone, a row of chain stores in their place. Ending up at the potentially fabulous sounding tapas bar down the road, surrounded by 20 year olds, we gave thought to our itinerary. A jug of sangria meant we got as far as deciding to stay one more night in outer Noosa. We were off to a flying start.
The caravan park palm trees alone were worth staying for.
Posted: September 16, 2011 | Author: Nina Williams | Filed under: Australia, QLD | Tags: Australia, Cane toads, cane toads, Hayman Island, night photos, palms, QLD |
The Hayman trip netted a couple more images, and my usually eventful experience obtaining them.
3am. Rustling about in the underbrush of the gorgeous tropical plants that are a foreign notion in the frosty clime of my backyard, I was leapt on by an unattractive toad of the cane variety. As my eyes adjusted to the light I became aware of its many friends including some that were piggy-backing each other. Ironically when all of this dawned on me, I found myself leaping aside, toad-like, to avoid testing the crush power of my jandal.
Finding a hole in the conspiracy of dense vegetation that stretches skyward, I spy Orion’s belt (the pot), just before the recycled water system gives me a thorough dosing. A vision of the island’s water treatment station flashes into mind, eclipsing my cane toad issues.
The pictures I’ve got from this trip have a 70’s quality to me, reminding me of those outdoor scenes you could wallpaper your living room wall with, or 70’s nightclubs in L.A. Perhaps it is the colours? The cheesy quality? Perhaps it’s just the palms.
Posted: September 1, 2011 | Author: Nina Williams | Filed under: Australia, Landscapes, QLD | Tags: Australia, Hayman Island, landscapes, night photos, palms, QLD, Trees, trees |
Hayman Island seems to favour the wind powered sports. A roaring gale from sun-up mixed with the low tide estuary-style beach has me re-experiencing my Canterbury University days windsurfing on the Estuary near Sumner in Christchurch. The wind makes for a lot of movement in the foliage over my long night exposures, and it is lovely to be taking photos of a very different kind of vegetation to my usual. I am amazed at how green the results are – no freaky colours like other times.
Another sawn-off branch – like the one in Daylesford! Love the mix of soft movement in the light foliage, and sharpness in the more rigid trunks.