If Alexander McQueen designed a slug…
Posted: July 14, 2025 Filed under: Camping | Tags: nature, Photography, travel, wildlife 4 Comments
When you spend enough time dawdling about in the water, you start noticing things you shot right past before. Case in point, slugs. OK. Sea Cucumbers, or Sea Slugs to be precise. I’ve been swimming past these for years not giving them more than a “Ewww, slug” thought. Then I started actually looking at them and realised they are actually quite beautiful.
It all started when we befriended two really lovely young boys and their parents at the camp ground. The boys were dead keen on coming out snorkelling, regardless of swell, wind, grey skies, or tide, emerging every time visibly vibrating from cold but not admitting to it. One of the boys was desperate to see sharks, the other not at all keen to see sharks but studied the fish book and absorbed names and species at lightning pace. He was a clam fan. These boys had a really big impact on me, forever changing the way I looked at things.
These plain old sea cucumbers are everywhere, but looking with my new eyes, I saw a new decoration, and realised it was a tiny sea hare, around 2cm long. It is a kind of shell-less snail with black trim on the frilly sides, a bit like a flamenco dress. I’ve never seen one before, nor since.
Clams were something else I had also largely ignored, but once I started looking at them I noticed two things: Like fingerprints, no two are alike, but not only that, each one is completely different from the others. Some are like dark chocolate velvet. Others with chocolate and cream animal print, studded with turquoise. Genius.
Once I started looking at slow moving things, I also realised there were tiny landscapes everywhere, with multiple species of seaweed, soft corals, hard corals, and plant life, even within a two metre area. I am also very aware that it is so difficult to show scale in marine photos, so I’ll add in some dimensions.
Then of course, there’s sharks. I’ve been taking photos underwater whilst aloft the kayak on our sunset kayaks. Twice now, I’ve downloaded the pics to find sharks in the shot that I did not know were there. Just when you think you’re cool with them. I’ve found a spot where there are generally six at any time, and got some restless shark footage while snorkelling. But that deserves its own post.
In other camp news, a part of the deal when you try and stay in Cape Range for too long, you have to change campsites a bit. Keen to minimise pack up, Waz closes her down, dumps stuff on top and takes the kitchen mobile.
And of course, a post would not be complete without a photo of Waz.
Life imitating nature.
You need some interests, mate.
Posted: July 5, 2025 Filed under: Camping | Tags: family, fiction, hiking, travel, writing Leave a comment
When Waz told people he was retiring, the number one question was “What are you going to do?”, often spoken with a trace of projected fear. The second most asked question was “Hey Neen, now Waz is retiring, what are you going to do?”. This is curious to me because I just assumed I’d be doing what I usually do, but with a bonus minion to order around. He could finish repainting the house in a colour I’ve finally decided on, despite being painted two years ago, and me starting a repaint project just this year. I would have an intern that would undertake repetitive and uncreative tasks in my pottery studio.
Concerned acquaintances warned Waz that “since you’ve been a captain of industry, you’re going to need new projects, mate”. Meaning, Important Things to keep your (undeniably genius) brain from turning into a blob of misdirection and apathy. Well, FEAR NOT. Waz, as the very least concerned about #slayingretirement has found plenty to keep himself occupied.
Moments after we installed ourselves at our campsite, random interlopers dared to take a shortcut through the plants, eschewing the clearly designated paths and daring to roam up the private path to our site, then across the underbrush to the other side. Every now and then some Muppet actually walks through our site. This is a problem for a couple of reasons. The path they take is somewhat worn in by other short-cutters but is actually fenced off as native bushland trying to colonise a wee piece of the cape in between all the people. There are Let it Grow signs, in case anyone is confused. Inexplicably, they stamp past the Let it Grow sign and shave ten metres off their camp-to-water 70 metre journey.
Waz has made it his personal job to erect barriers to the shortcut, his eagle-like gaze scanning the landscape for boulders and clumps of dead plant to relocate. It is not uncommon for him to comment “That’s a good boulder” as we get about our day. It’s a triumph of landscaping that is effective to 90% of the time. The 10% get the following:
Waz: “Yeah, that’s not a path. You need to go back. Heh. Yeah, back there. No, not a path. Trying to grow stuff here.”
The response is always: “Oh, I didn’t know.”
Waz: “Yeah, we all need to learn sometimes.”
A reply once: “Oh, THANK YOU for teaching me.”
Waz has taken the fight to Yardie Creek such is his commitment.
I used to be the one raging at drones, and engaging in ‘discussions’ with escalating sarcasm, but it is SO nice to sit back and let Waz deal out the heat. Besides, I’ve bought a drone (that as the oldest child I’m a rule follower, and there’s a no drone rule in National Parks), so I’m conflicted, leading to inaction, unless there is one hovering ten metres above us as we do our sunset kayak, and I may be moved to gesture. Plus, a friend told me the horror story of her husband who had their drone ‘Follow Me’ as he swam in the ocean. It dive bombed said husband, requiring stitches in his face. I tell you, the machines are just biding their time before we are all in an episode of Black Mirror getting hunted by robotic dogs.
It is a definite ritual. At any time of the day, you scan campsites and men are moving solar panels, untying ropes, retying ropes, taking down or erecting awnings, doing something in the back of the car, looking mystified as they poke at stuff attached to their caravan. Relocating water jerries. Pumping water from one thing to another, poking at the Weber, carrying shade tents to the beach, or looking meaningfully at a tyre. A more solid case of purpose I’ve not witnessed.
The other thing that passes the day for Waz is multiple enquiries from strangers.
“Hi, do you have any fuses? Our Inverter just popped.”
“Hello! How did you put your pegs in? The ground is REALLY hard.”
“Hey, do you mind if we leave our SUP here?”.
“Hi, mate, how’s the new Prado? Heard the brakes before. REALLY loud.”
“You stay here? Anything to see?”
“Yeah, gidday, so how do we book this site?”
“Hi, yeah, South Australia. Who do you barrack for?”
“Knock, knock. Hi! We had an Aussie Swag too. Loved it. Started the forum on Facebook.” (Follows is much Aussie Swag camper trailer reminiscing.)
Our days kick off with a walk along the coast, on jagged exposed ocean floor rocks that range between thousands and millions of years old, dotted with ancient shells and marine life, and scalpel-sharp as a brand new Microplane grater. I learnt this the hard way last year, tripping on one of the many sharp bits, falling like a mighty, silent, oak and opening up a deep slash on my hand, leaving a crime scene in my wake. Because the Ningaloo reef is particularly fertile with living organisms, including necrotising fasciitis, my grated shins, arms, and the stitches in my hand needed two weeks to close up before I was allowed back in the water. Naturally, I tested the advice with ‘waterproof’ dressings and a thick rubber glove, but leakage and the threat of flesh eating organisms drove me back to shore. Excruciating time out.
After we walk, I head out for a snorkel to check out the bay status. Waz stays back on coffee alert. His wetsuit had grown a series of ladder-type holes in the rear as it struggled to contain his athletic form, and he generally froze whenever we went out. The water temp started out as 28 degrees but quickly plummeted to 21 which gets chilly when you are not smashing out a 3km freestyle open water swim. I have persevered, distracted by fish but unable to use my hands when I return.
Another important task for Waz is soldering my fairy lights, which fall apart every time it blows a gale. So, every day. By the fifth repair Waz got creative, repurposing some silicone that had gone hard and sculpting a supportive frame. And he claims he is not an artist.
And then there is power and water management, requiring systems of levers and pulleys to keep everything in order. Speaking of which, some of you will know Waz’s obsession with the Tesla battery at home, often calling me from the office in the middle of the day:
“Have you get the aircon/heater/oven/washing machine on? Turn it off, the prices are spiking.” At which point, I either say “OK. Guess you don’t want clean jocks”, or I engage Amp Draw Tinnitus. Well, big brother came on holiday and continues to monitor the home Tesla the minute we have a scrap of coverage.
The other thing that gives us great joy is camp kids and their lovely parents. The explosion of young families travelling OZ means there are generally one year olds amusing themselves in the dust, primary school kids running barefoot over stones, digging one metre holes in the sand, piling three at a time onto SUPs, riding bikes flat out without shoes or helmets, and doing circles of the campground well after dark. All of this without conspicuous parental oversight. We’ve met kids who are so resilient, funny, and confident you can’t help but want to give the parents all a high five for taking the leap as a family, and both kids and parents a massive hug for being so awesome. I have been so inspired by their questions and ideas that I’ve started an Instagram to post @_wild_australia life. The vids are too bandwidth heavy for email or Android text and I’m wayyyyy behind because I only have sufficient coverage about two hours a week. They will see the light of day, I promise!
Meanwhile, I’ve found my own obsession. Caravan brands. How do any of them make any money? Someone told me there are 80 brands of caravans based in Victoria alone. Across 44 sites in Osprey in a one week survey, I saw 54 different brands of caravan. I’m now weirdly listing every different brand I see. Why? Not sure. I can confirm the most popular are Jayco, Crusader and JB Caravans = Wonderland. Personally, I’d always go Jayco because owner Gerry Ryan funded the first international Australian Cycling team and continues to do so. Legend!
The road may be sealed, but it’s still remote bro.
Posted: June 28, 2025 Filed under: Camping | Tags: adventure, Camping, Cape Range, nature, ningaloo-backpacking, travel 13 Comments
Before there were roof tents and urban 4WDs with Lane Assist, backpacking Australia meant buying a Ford or Holden station wagon (are they even a thing anymore?), a single Primus burner, a frypan and a spatula/egg-flip, a 10L water bladder you stuck in the sun for showering, and perhaps a small tent if you didn’t sleep in your car. You drove to hot and red places and met the cast of Wolf Creek, people that strove to exist under the radar. You saw snakes on the road digesting whole kangaroos, and something ate through your plastic container of pancake mix. That’s the way my Kiwi cuzzies did it, and both of them ended up marrying the partners they travelled with. A better relationship tester I cannot think of.
Fast forward to 2025. You’re a 23 year old French couple, incredibly lean, light framed (would make great cyclists), deeply tanned, effortlessly beautiful, your standard response to most things is a je-ne-sais-pas shrug, and you are living your Aussie outback dream. But growing up in the arrondissements has not equipped you for this.
Your Range Rover is stuffed to the ceiling with everything from plastic beer tankards to a blue satin sleep mask, empty sunglasses cases, sundry plastic gadgets, empty two minute noodle containers and a hair bandana. And that’s just the front dash. You’ve populated two more car parks with your boogie board, plastic bins, ancient kite surfboard, water container and a Birkenstock. You’ve lost the ladder to your rooftop tent and the cover, so it appears to have collapsed in a heap on your roof and resembles a taco.
Yesterday you lost your only car key. Another key can only be made in the UK factory based on the engine VIN number and will take eight months. You spend two days on the beach waving a defective metal detector with a friend sifting the sand by hand in search of the car key where it probably, maybe, got dropped. Unsure.
Passing strangers show up and sift alongside you with no success. Your partner has to hitch a lift 20km to a spot with enough coverage to call the tow truck guy, then sit there for a call back to say that he was on his way, then get another 20km lift back to meet him. The towie had already been there the day before to break into your car, but only the driver’s door was able to be opened and you couldn’t get to all the stuff jammed in the back, including your food.
Waz and I joined the roll call of those determined to find the elusive key to your kingdom, but after reducing our nails to stubs and 10sqm of displaced sand later, we regrettably returned to our car, just as the towie arrived. Waz was dispatched to retrieve the treasure hunters from the dunes, and by the time they breathlessly returned, the towie had already backed up and told me a joke.
Towie: “Know why Range Rovers have heated back windows?
Me: “They do?”
Towie: “Yep. Keeps your hands warm while you’re pushing them. Hahaha”.
We chatted about how many calls he gets and Vehicles Most Likely to Fail, as you do, and then he predicted, “This car will end up at the wreckers. Had the same thing not long ago. Guy couldn’t get a key, had to trash his car.“
I see this scenario so often, I’ve invented a collective noun for it: A Debacle of Backpackers.
After 200000km around Oz, Waz and I are not eternally surprised when stuff happens. Like this. It was a boiling hot day. Waz had developed a very high temperature and because it wasn’t abating, spent a couple of days in Exmouth Hospital, while causes were unravelled. I was back at camp 80km away, without coverage and a free diary so thought I’d pop down the road for a snorkel at Oyster Stacks. I jumped in the car in bikini and towel, threw gear in the back and roared off. Three kilometres down the road the steering was off, so I stuck my head out of the window to hear a suboptimal sound and pulled over.
The rear drivers side tyre had disintegrated, frilling out decoratively around the rim. I had expected to avoid tyre changes for longer in a six week old vehicle.
First lesson: Tyres on new cars are special cheapo issue, with only half the tread of the type of tyre you’d actually want.
No worries, I’ll get the spare out, bingo, bango, bongo. With Waz away, I had taken the opportunity to empty the trailer of everything I deemed unnecessary without managerial oversight and into the car, a temporary Bin of Abandonment, not dissimilar to aforementioned backpacker vehicles. After 20 minutes, I had unearthed the jack, moved every random item out including the 80L Engel (fridge) but failed to locate the tyre toolkit. Sitting in the back feeling underdressed, with the door up and hazards on, reading a manual I never intended to, the March flies start biting.
As mentioned before, Waz had engaged a crowd in Adelaide to remove the third row of seats, and fit out the back with an extra battery, platform etc. Apparently, the tyre tools went the way of the third row. No worries, I’ll borrow someone else’s. The sparse passing vehicle traffic was driven by a mixture of no idea/infirm/hire vehicle/not getting involved, so I set off in my jandals, bikini and rashie to walk back to camp and hopefully borrow a tyre kit.
I found a guy in a Prado with three small overheated kids on a promise to go to Sandy Bay, who kindly loaned me his tools. I found a campers Starlink dish and may have aggressively texted Waz in ALL CAPS. The camp host drove me back to the car to give me a hand.
Lesson Two: Just because it’s a Prado, doesn’t mean the tyre kit is the same.
The spare is located under the vehicle with access via a flimsy plastic, very small, unnecessary channel, requiring a certain size tool. After a lot of heat, dust, flies and cries from me of, “Just break the bloody thing, I no longer care”, the tyre was liberated. But despite the collective efforts of the host (“It’s not safe to drive up onto the hard seal”), my new Swedish buddy, who had spent half a day combing sand for the French couple and would not leave until I was sorted, and his German friend (“No good. It is time for gin!”), the jack kept sinking in the sand.
Five hours had passed. Dusk was descending. All I needed was the kind of person towing a fishing boat who would have all the tools, break the rules.
“Gidday. How ya goin’?”. Two guys hauling a Jetski, driving home from surfing the reef, simply nod at my expression and calmly pull over. Ten minutes later, done. The sun sank, and everyone could go home.
Lesson Three: People are awesome.
When turtles think you’re a turtle
Posted: June 23, 2025 Filed under: Camping, roadtrip, WA | Tags: adventure, asia, nature, scuba-diving, travel 1 Comment
While Waz is putting finishing touches to the camp, I’m long gone, in the 29 degree water and looking for my old mates Cookie, Blondie, Bully, Kermit and Shark Bait. Right on cue, Kermit rounds up on me and swims right into my camera. Obviously the Rottnest Quokka Selfie phenomenon blowing up has reached Ningaloo and the turtles want Insta cred. I felt I was being given a personal welcome, and I wasn’t wrong. I saw 14 turtles in the space of 30 minutes and they were loving the camera. What they don’t love is moronic snorkellers chasing them with Go Pros on sticks, and hence the answer to the question “How come you see so many?”. I’ve perfected the turtle drift, so much so they regularly swim up beside me and look at me expectantly.
There are only seven species of Sea turtle in the world, and Ningaloo/Nyinggulu host five; Most commonly the Green (endangered), Hawksbill (critically endangered), and Loggerhead (vulnerable), and occasionally the Leatherback (vulnerable) and Flatback (insufficient data), leaving only Kemp’s Ridley, and Olive Ridley, found mainly in the Atlantic, Indian and Pacific oceans.
The Green Sea Turtle abounds in Osprey Bay and each year I see many of the same ones. Case in point, Cookie. So named because she is tough, and has been snacked on, probably by a Tiger Shark – turtles being their favourite food. I’m petrified of Tiger Sharks and the only bit of advice given to me by a boating local who told me that OF COURSE they are inside the reef was: “They eat turtles. Don’t swim like a turtle.”
Most mornings I head out for a bay reconnaissance after an early walk. If the tide is low, the walk gets shunted, and the only thing that would keep me out is if it’s high tide, blowing a gale and a massive swell to boot. Ok, well that wouldn’t actually put me off. More often than not I come back in unable to operate my fingers and looking like something the cat dragged in. Because I’m first out, I get to see all manner of species doing the stuff they do when no-one is looking, trying to touch them or chasing them. This includes all the skittish things like 3m cowtail rays and white tip reef sharks.
The first time I saw a black tip reef shark, we both levitated, then took off in opposite directions. My video kept running and documents me panting and effecting a record freestyle time as I swim to shore. Sitting in the shallows, a tiny 2cm Spanish Dancer swam up to my finger and sat on it. In 15 years, I have never seen another. My video of it is back in Adelaide so I will have to add that later. Point being, I probably see the most amazing things when I have stopped looking. Surely that’s a life lesson.
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Like Willie Nelson said.
Posted: May 17, 2025 Filed under: Camping, Iconic Australian images, roadtrip, SA | Tags: Australia, landscapes, nature, roadtrip, SA, travel Leave a comment
We’re on the road again! After Waz watching the countdown widget on his phone for a year, it finally said zero months/days/hours/minutes and he was officially retired. Naturally this needed a new retirement car. For a man who will wear shorts that were created in 1293 from burlap and stitched together with the hair of donkeys if it means he doesn’t have to shop, he created a time/space vacuum when he roared into Toyota, grabbed the next available, and redirected it to a 4WD outfitter in Adelaide for the works burger. It has more extras than a Lord of the Rings movie, and is constantly dinging him to ‘sit up!’ and for ‘driver inattention!’. Now there’s two of us in the car.
Our first stop was Lake Bumbunga, known for its pink colour caused by bacteria and algae that produce the magic colour. This location promises a spectacular photo were it not for the procession of travellers inexplicably trekking out to take photos of the man-crafted Loch Ness Monster embedded in the Lake.
Opposite the lake was Copper Coast Meats, a shop of doors and doors and cabinets of every meaty thing you can imagine. Odd location? Yep. Duck and fennel sausages? No worries.
Our first day destination was Coffin Bay for oysters, a more polarising snack I have not encountered. Parking was impossible, so I slowed to 40kph to let Waz roll out at the oyster vending machine and I drove on. After taking several turns I found myself at a single width, dead end, narrow road and proceeded to execute a 90 point u-turn with the ‘driver assist’ system screaming at every cm that I was about to collide with something. It was like having an ancient relative in the passenger seat that didn’t know I had a trailer behind me. The promise of Waz’s oysters with his own red wine vinaigrette at the National Park campground got me over the line without joining in on the screaming.
The next morning we ventured to the Discovery Park for a shower. We were hard pressed to decline the compelling range of goods, but the Nullarbor was calling and it was already 8am. Let’s go!
The Loaves and the Onions
Posted: December 30, 2018 Filed under: Australia, Camping, Iconic Australian images, roadtrip, SA | Tags: Lincoln National Park, Memory Cove Conservation Area 7 CommentsMemory Cove Wilderness Protection Area is a small bay within Lincoln National Park. It only has five camp spots, and access is via a key from the info centre and a skull rattling 4WD road in. Only 15 vehicles per day are permitted entry, in order to preserve the rare and endangered local flora and fauna, and naturally, fires are prohibited. Matthew Flinders named Memory Cove after eight of the ships company ‘unfortunately drowned near this place from being upset in a boat’. Flinder’s cat, Trim, made the right decision to remain on the barque Investigator, and continued on board for another year or two.
Memory Cove Conservation Area
In preparation, we conducted a round of all the local oyster fisheries in search of the mythical $10 dozen. The oyster folk were obviously out tending to their stacks as sheds stood open and unmanned. We then tried the local IGA chasing another long tale that they sold oysters for $11 a dozen. Crestfallen, we went to the only place open at that early hour – the local bakery – and consoled ourselves with a pie for breakfast. “Sauce?”, the ill-humoured woman behind the counter barked, wielding a large upended squeeze bottle with intent, “Um, yes, that would be great thanks!”, I stammered a little too eagerly trying to lift the mood, upon which the pie became mercilessly impaled on the bottle and about 300ml of sauce delivered into its meaty heart.
Finally. Memory Cove
Murphy’s Haystacks. It all began 1500 million years ago
The road from Smoky Bay to Port Lincoln follows the coast, but has just as picturesque vistas on the land side in the way of sweeping hectares of thriving agriculture. Every now and then brown signs signifying ‘photo opportunity’, ‘historical place’ or ‘point of interest’ will pop up and we randomly decide to check them out. Murphy’s Haystacks sounded like something worth a look, and the pink granite blobs formed 1500 million years ago were quite the oddity. They are on private land and entry is $2. A couple of caravans had camped overnight, owners and dogs emerging upon our arrival to leave a special kind of present for the next visitors. Which begs the question: Why do people choose free camps as an en plein air waste facility? Is this some kind of weird childhood rebellion?
Fresh Fish Cafe. If it swims, they’ll batter it.
By the time we reached Port Lincoln, the tomato sauce in pastry had faded from memory and seafood again burned in our brains. The Fresh Fish Place is a local art-meets-ocean-related homewares-meets 20 kinds of battered fish-café and supplier. I took my seat at one of the curiously baroque chairs paired with recycled boat wood tables and was immediately aware I was ruining the selfie for a couple seated across the cafe attempting to get a shot of themselves in the Italianate mirror behind me. They motioned for me to move and spent the next 20 minutes failing to nail the insta story. With about three kilos of smoked everything we could find, we made our way into the mythical Memory Cove, past large emu families and teams of boxing kangaroos.
Don’t care about the Duco
The only other people at the cove were a group of seven guys aged between 18 and 35 who covertly told Waz about the snakes around. They didn’t want to upset the little woman and besides, they had killed the snakes, so it was ok. National Parks camp sites are incredibly cheap, some as low as $6.50 per person a night, so what people do is book in one person and proceed to jam seven people on a site. But that doesn’t work, so they spill over into the Conservation area around their site, then come sunset, they light a fire.
Lucky to be here.
Early the next morning, a ute comes flying into the bay in the style of Dukes of Hazzard. It screams to a dusty halt at the edge of the boys’ camp site. Park Rangers emerge and a 30 minute discussion ensues. Somehow the boys had already dug in the fire and got away with it all, leaving soon after the Rangers. A woman soon arrives and sets up in their camp spot. She has come to Port Lincoln for a wedding and the bride-to-be handed her the keys to her 4WD, loaded up with a swag and camp supplies and pointed her to Memory Cove. Moments later she appears asking if we have any need for eight loaves of white bread liberated from their plastic bags, or ten kilos of onions. Or a bag to put them in. We spent the next 30 minutes adding egg shells and chocolate wrappers to the mix, digging bait bags out of the high tide mark and throwing 30 bait squid back into the ocean. I’m distracted by the big questions. Were the onions on special? Why don’t seagulls eat the bait?
The Loaves and Onions
I braved the extremely cool water in search of seahorses and weedy sea dragons. The weed was in beautiful shades of pink and green. A sea lion had popped up onto the rocks to check out Waz’s fishing results, so naturally I was expecting a Great White Shark to appear any moment. I stayed in until I went blue. It was time to head to Adelaide.
The Upside
Posted: December 11, 2018 Filed under: Australia, Camping, Iconic Australian images, roadtrip, SA, WA | Tags: #thisisWA #roadtripstate 10 CommentsSo how it is possible for an over-cleaning, hair curling/straightening, workout earring-wearing gal to contemplate any of this? It’s all about having the necessities – wine fridge, eqyptian cotton linen, and a Lagouile cutlery set. And a vehicle that can pull a camper trailer. Which is where Waz comes in. In the 14 days between Waz declaring we were to be on the road and departure, he avoided the distracting jobs like packing up and house maintenance, and applied himself instead to the purchase of a vehicle (bye-bye Telstra salary sacrifice and unlimited fuel).
Exmouth to Perth
Fearing death up Ship Creek, Waz made multiple trips to ARB, the mecca for 4WD enthusiasts needing gear ‘built for the harsh conditions of the Aussie outback’, and spent hours pouring over 4WD accessories from the eastern states. Faux necessities like a ‘snatch strap’ and random hitches were purchased, and a custom drawer/fridge slide fit-out ordered from Queensland. The vehicle was a no-brainer because it had a snorkel (what is it with guys and snorkels?) and UHF radio (listening to the truckie channel), cream sheepskin seat covers (already but a shadow of their original selves), dual batteries, rear coil airbags, one of those little mats on the dash, and a bull bar (OK, he had a point, that looks cool) with a rack of extra LED lights.
The heart of WOKA
From Exmouth we were headed East, via Perth, for installation of the custom drawers. These drawers are felt lined, lockable, come with a sneaky pull out table (that I cannot bring to use because it is the only thing not ruined by travelling so far), and a slide out thing for the fridge with renders access to the fridge only available to those over 180cm.
Dawn at Madura Lookout, Nullabor Plain
We like to do the 1300km trip in two days, usually 900km in the first and a fast run to Perth the next morning. Hours in the car are not spent in deep and meaningful dialogue, rather, we listen to true crime podcasts. I provide feedback to the podcast with things like “Why are you not checking under the swimming pool??!”, “Well, duh! Of course it was the husband!!”, and Waz says “SSSSShhhhh.”
Not just a roadside stop, outstanding floral diversity – Boorabin camp.
Driving into Perth after only a few weeks away seems a little weird. Familiar, yet not home. After 24 hours in the big Western smoke, a stellar install of said draws by the immensely practical Geoff, and we were on the road again, and dreaming about oysters at Ceduna. We dropped in for a cup of tea and sponge at the farm of some lovely people we met at the Landor races. He has a transport business, so when I said we were leaving Perth, he said “Righto, we’ll see you at 2pm then.” We got there at 1.54pm. He also suggested a great little free camp up the line at Boorabin. Never mind wikicamps, Truckies are your goldmine for road trip nuggets.
Boil the billy? That will take a massive fire. Madura Lookout, Nullabor Plain.
I’ve crossed the Nullabor seven times now, and it almost passes in a blur, except for the game of counting down to oysters. The other thing is that people tell me they imagine it is an arid desert scape. Not so! Vegetation and wildlife abounds, and free camps a plenty. We pulled in at dusk at Madura Lookout and after 30 minutes driving around and around, tempers fraying just a teeny bit at the edges, we gave in to the idea that stunning views were only possible with a night of flapping canvas.
Surely a home for teeny tiny people? I don’t understand. 100 extra points for the flag.
For all of my commentary on millennial backpackers, they have my respect. A very small 2WD car pulls up and four adults get out. They set about erecting a tent 1.5m x 1.5m suitable for five year olds camping out in the backyard. They then pull out two camp chairs and shelter from the relenting heat in a two square metre patch of shade. The others sit on the ground snacking on a bag of potato chips. At night they magically evaporate into thin air, then reappear in the morning. It is an eternal mystery to me. WHERE DO THEY SLEEP and WHERE ON EARTH DO THE COLD CORONAS COME FROM?
Queen size or I don’t leave home.
For those people who cannot conceive of a life without comforts, I’ll let you into a secret. It’s pretty comfy. Our home is an Aussie Swag Camper Trailer. They were the gold standard Aussie trailer, locally made and thoughtfully designed, until foreign imports forced them out of business in February 2018. Waz bought ours one week AFTER we did our last four month trip in 2015. I drove to Brisbane to pick it up and it only took 48 hours before I started talking out loud to myself.
Last week: “Why would we need a groundsheet?!!”, he asked. (Hello, car snorkel.) This week: “Can’t believe you took so long.”
The Swag has a 60 Litre fridge, queen sized bed, raised hard floor (try getting up there, snakes!!!), kitchen sink and four burner stove. It also features a massive pull-out draw under the bed for your clothes which I attack with a constantly critical Konmari eye. As the weeks go by, more and more clothes are relocated to a giant suitcase in the car – Items Not Suitable For Camp Life – and basic utilitarian kitchenware is replaced with beautiful (Waz: “It’s an egg flip. WHY do we need a different one?”) utilitarian kitchenware. A gas hot water system means I get a shower of sorts. We have our Alessi coffee pot, retro enamel cups. It’s not exactly roughing it.
Until I am beset with flies, mosquitoes, sandflies, midges, ticks, no aircon, defiant 37 degree heat, 40km winds, permanently damp clothes in 80% humidity, and feet that require a savage scrubbing daily. Then I remember, you don’t get our day-to-day from the comfort of home.
BONUS SEGMENT: Whats on the menu at WOKA?
Wazza’s Outback Kitchen Australia Presents Finger food: A foundation of pure beef – without added hormones – and hidden vegetable, layered with foraged spinach, roast beetroot, fresh grated parmesan, heirloom tomatoes, and finished with Nonna’s green tomato relish.
Gascoyne to the Gulf
Posted: November 5, 2018 Filed under: Australia, Camping, Iconic Australian images, Landscapes, roadtrip, WA, Wildflowers | Tags: Giralia Station, Minilya Roadhouse, Thorny Devil 14 CommentsWith all aspects of ourselves, equipment, and belongings freshly laundered, we headed north toward Exmouth and Cape Range National Park. I described Cape Range as “my favourite place in the world” to a man who said, “The world? The world is a big place.” Awkward silence as the gravity of that statement lingered in the air.
The road to Exmouth is paved with Wedge-tailed eagles snacking on deceased kangaroos, and roadhouses selling diesel at $1.90/litre and outrageously priced dim sims (according to RollinRob57 on Wikicamps).
But we only had eyes for the Minilya Roadhouse and its homemade sausage rolls. Talk of these sausage rolls began 250km before touchdown, so by the time we got there we were ready to eat every one they had. They sell around 60 per day and, it turns out, sell out by 11am. I must have looked suitably distraught as the lovely woman behind the counter fossicked in the freezer and nuked the last two in the building.
Oily homemade sauso roll goodness
We decided to make Giralia Station on the Exmouth Gulf our interim stop for a couple of days. Checking in and grabbing the required portable loo at the homestead we drove an hour into one of the beach camp sites. Essentially 4WD, it was slow, but roads like this tend to mean awesome sites are vacant on a drop-in basis.
We set up and the loo looked incomplete. It had been strapped to the trailer with the lid opening to the front, so, fed up with its role in life we surmised it had flown off. Waz drove back in the dark, happily engaging the extra LED lights (that came with the UHF radio, snorkel and other ‘necessities’). The forlorn lid was exactly where it had made a bid for freedom, an hour away at the gate to the homestead.
Meanwhile, back at base, I kept noticing specks of dirt appearing on my legs and arms that stung. I blamed the wind.
Waiting for Return of the Lid
Overnight, the black specks turned out to be microscopic midges that had bitten me on every exposed piece of skin. How something around 1mm in size can deliver such irritation defies logic. I couldn’t even run into the ocean for relief thanks to the ever present shark risk so I could only gaze out at the pods of dolphins chasing fish with ferocity, and lean into the wind thankful that midges appear to dislike wind as much as I.
More hunt than gather
The calm dawn inspired Waz to get the rod out and a while later returned with his catch; a small green turtle. To the collective trauma of Waz, myself and the turtle, she had inadvertently swum past the lure and hooked her shoulder. Do not despair! The lure was swiftly removed and as Waz carried the heavy wee turtle back to the water, she flapped her fins like she was swimming and took off without pause. Waz added fishing pliers to the list of things this Off Road Life required.
Although this beach was populated by five couples widely ranging age and origin, we were all very similar. Which explains why we were all headed to the same bay next.
Looking like we had a communicable disease and a nervous tick, we set the GPS for Exmouth and Cape Range National Park. We swung by the homestead to sign out, along with an earthy looking departing visitor (ignoring WA gun laws) who enquired as to where there may be goats he could shoot. “Side of the road anywhere?”.
What’s on the menu @WOKA* ?
Two minute organic eggs, levitating on a bed of soft herbs, wild pig, foraged fungi, and heirloom tomatoes
*Waz’s Outback Kitchen Australia
Thorny Devil (Moloch horridus), Giralia Station. This little character is around 10cm long.
Watheroo, wreaths & wandering around
Posted: October 4, 2018 Filed under: Camping, Goldfields, Iconic Australian images, roadtrip, WA, Wildflowers 26 Comments
Watheroo morning mist
Our first day was pretty short by usual standards. It was simply enough to be on the road, and having not made it to the supermarket we only had the remains from our home fridge with us; a jar of red cabbage sauerkraut, leftover jalapenos, two lemons, one orange devoid of skin (denuded for Waz’s gin), and half a packet of bacon. Like a vision, the welcoming Watheroo Station Tavern loomed in the dusk, offering free camping, hot showers and home cooked food! Bonus offer – the Watheroo National Park was just down the road. Yes, yes, and heck, yes.
Which brings me to my latest project: I’m going to visit every National Park in Australia. I thought it would be a great way to spend the four months. Then I discovered there were ‘over 500’. The husband of a friend said “But that will take ten years!”, which is probably on the money, but in my defence, I do my best work when there is a list to attack, and I do not like list items mocking me for too long.
Watheroo National Park, super-size-me mosquitoes
So to Watheroo National Park. An amazing array of wildflowers (in season), echidnas and rich wildlife, areas of water and walking tracks, it covers over 44,000 hectares and is home to Jingemia Cave, and the biggest mosquitoes I’ve had to take an entire palm to.
Teeny wildflowers in Watheroo National Park – the cluster is smaller than a 5c piece
Sporting around 50 bites despite industrial spray, I was ready for the Watheroo Station Tavern dining room for some excellent offerings from the kitchen ladies. Lamb shanks, fish in butter and caper sauce, salad and vege. Washed down with an $18 bottle of wine. A bargain night for $58. It’s a must stay!
The fabled wreath flower – not at all sad!
The next morning I had the wildflower trail maps open, with an eye out for the ‘extremely rare’ yet seemingly common wreath flower. Any local info/visitor centre is happy to hand draw specifics on a map : “They are near this cross road, before you get to the big tree, under the fenceline, and behind the bush…”. The rest of the morning was a a zig zag around taking in wildflower hot spots: Carnamah, Morewa, Three Springs, Mingenew, and winding up at Coalseam Conservation Park (surely this counts as a National Park?!).
Roadside wildflowers
While the East Coast may have the Big Pineapple, Western Australia’s wildflowers are the biggest collection on Earth – with over 12,000 species, 60% of which are found nowhere else. If it appeals, make a date to self-drive the many trails from July to November.
Coalseam Miners Camp
By this stage Waz had that strained look. He had gone above and beyond with the driving back down roads he had already been, and blood sugar was plummeting alongside his sense of humour. Picking up the pace we set up camp at Coalseam Miners Camp. The result of a spirited exchange in a radiant 36 degrees abuzz with clouds of flies about whether site nine was better than four, and where north was.
Next: Mt Augustus and dust. So. Much. Dust.
And so it begins: 2.0
Posted: October 1, 2018 Filed under: Australia, Camping, Iconic Australian images, Landscapes, roadtrip, WA 17 Comments
It’s Friday. Warren has taken voluntary redundancy from Telstra, and will be finishing in a week. He declares with enthusiasm that we are to hitch up the Aussie Swag camper trailer (creatively referred to as The Swag) and hit the road. For around four months. Leaving in two weeks. All that is required is to buy a suitable vehicle, pack a minimalist bag, slow to 40KPM for a quick food shop, and we would be off.
Alas, no. We have the ingenious idea of installing some people in our house while we are gone, and I am granted a revelation. Apparently the hours spent bingeing Netflix had robbed me of the truthful vision that my home held grime ransom in every crevice. The gloves, magic erasers, and a toothbrush that would deprive anyone of gum margin came out and I was off on a Konmari* extravaganza with laser focus.
Have you ever inspected your washing machine? The thing that cleans everything else, that never actually gets cleaned itself? A quick check on what it would cost to buy and simply replace the Fisher & Paykel manky bits had me head back to the garage for another solution. The steamer, the water blaster, a bladed scraper later, and good deal of muscle later (hooray for pre-dawn winter pool kilometres**), I stood back with satisfaction. [At this stage I must mention our laundry lives in the garage. It’s a matter of priorities. Namely Warren’s wine storage trumps boring laundry that Warren is still in a quandary over what it’s contribution to life quality is.]
Then I noticed the wall behind the washing machine. Having just reorganised the entire garage pre-departure, I knew exactly where the painting stuff was. No multiple trips to Bunnings here. Two hours later, two walls of the garage were freshly white. I’ll leave you to imagine how this played out in every corner, draw, and crevice of our house.
By the time our incredibly lovely new tenants knocked on the door last Sunday, 16 days post declaration, I was at the stage of dually cleaning the fridge and flinging indiscriminate matter into the trailer. A bag of dry goods, dirty runners, and clean linen vied for real estate on the back seat. I paused and took a moment to appreciate the immaculate cream sheepskin seat covers, champagne interior, and unmarked ‘Liquid Bronze’ exterior of our newly purchased car. It would never look this way again.
We headed out the drive and north. We hadn’t actually had time to discuss an itinerary, but a pie at the Bindoon Bakehaus would be a good start.
And so it begins.
*Marie Kondo is an organising expert who introduced the KonMari Method™ in her transformative best-selling book, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” She began tidying as a young girl and refers to “tidying adventures”, just like me apart from being half my size in every measure, gently spoken, and smiling serenely out from perfectly face framing sleek hair. Simply reading her book is an exercise is peaceful mindfulness. The approach is rooted in a single question: Does this item spark joy?
** Thanks Team Phoenix! xx
As I see it 