Express Tourism

Russell was no longer the black sheep of the flock, this new crowd accepted him unconditionally.

Lake Mungo has been on my hit list for a while. Arriving at 3 In the afternoon, I was short of time to explore, so decided to drive the 100 km off road to the info centre at the heart of it to plot my approach for  the next day. Upon discovery a 70 km loop that took in all the sights I thought I would drive to the first one which was only a few km out. I was…kinda disappointed. Expectation is a crafty temptress. wandering about I found myself thinking about where the best place would be for sunset shots and drove madly off to the next attraction. The dunes at sunset beckoned. Arriving at the dunes as the sun disappeared, I ran the 1km from the carpark to the highest part of the dunes, past families and couples descending having finished enjoying the sunset and determined to  reach the car before pitch blackness. It was me and a Spanish couple, well settled in with a cheeky Rioja housed in cardboard, left on the peak, picnic rug and socks on their hands for warmth. Engaging my infrared vision I picked my way back to the car and as I was over half way on the Mungo loop decided to finish the challenge  and then worry about where I was going to catch a few z’s after the 100km dirt road back to Mildura. Burra won.

Broken Hill presented me with some choices. Once again, arriving at sunset I drove madly to the sculptures on the hill for the last few minutes of golden light before choosing between the ‘Priscilla Queen of the Desert’ location hotel and another, allegedly frequented by K Rudd and other luminaries. All I can wonder is whether the previous inhabitants felt compelled, as I did, by a surfeit of grime, to wrap everything in paper towels. When dawn came I was desperate for a real coffee, having sampled the offering at the fantastic info centre overlooking the town the day before, but had to content myself with doing main-ies (watch Angry Boys) until the first cafe opened. It was all too much for my phone. Free falling from the rubbery grip I had trapped it in, it connected spectacularly with the road, smashing its face to bits.

Bourkes main street was eerily deserted. A vision of roller-doored shop fronts, and abandonment. Paying an eye-watering amount of money to stay in the last room in town, I received my keys along with a cloud of air be-fumed with sherry and the grudging offer to dry my laundry in the managers own dryer once I had washed it in their coin operated machine. Exiting town with still wet washing, the offer forgotten, I fell upon a vast and modern complex; the Back-o-Bourke info centre, and wondered who had decided the centre of Bourke was now 5km out of town. Warm fig, almond, and chocolate cake with cream called me.

Double Happy

Sweeping through Ceduna I was elated to find the Oyster Bar, a portable building on the side of the road with seating on the roof and freshly shucked oysters on demand. It was only 10am, but I was up for a round of au naturel. The bitter zephyr that threatened to blow me from my chair on top of the portable as I enjoyed the estuarine vista only added to the fresh goodness. My talent for excess and the view “If something is good, more is better” was again proven to be faulty, when I went the Kilpatrick.

I had dashed through the Gawler Ranges , north west of Port Augusta, with C in January and thought a mission into the remote Mt Ive homestead would be worthwhile. Three hours later I had walked all the walks, brewed a coffee at the Pinnacles, and considered eating lunch from the film crew table at the homestead, and ask for a job holding the reflector. I elected to return to sealed roads for a night at Minnipa, and more lively conversation with retired gentlemen or GG’s, (so a van – road jive for a caravan – alerted me with a sign written ‘Grey Gonads’ on the back).

Resplendent with orange groves weighed down by fruit, and an organic market brimming with character Mildura was crying out for a digital memory. I paused alongside a gorgeous citrus grove. Emerging from the rows, the owner stopped his tractor to pluck warm fresh mandarines and oranges from the trees, escort me to his Korean pickers, and discuss the relative benefits of a roof mounted tent versus a camper trailer. Such warm hospitality found its full stop when his wife appeared to check “on the blonde he was talking to”.

Concerned about border patrol seizing my contraband, I became a whizz at one handed mandarin de-housing and like a two-pack-a-dayer, as soon as one was finished, lit up my mouth with another.

Double rainbows drew me eastward and past halfway.

Null-a-bore

The Nullabor is long, flat, straight-ish, and short on verdant growth, but I have never found it boring. Punctuated every 200-odd km by roadhouses offering everything from fresh egg sandwiches and home-made baked goods, to what appears to be thrice-fried dim-sum, and a rotating population of itinerant and international staff (one sporting a bonzer hickey), I drop into each one just to see what treasure lies within. And perhaps to stop my mind wandering to such gripping topics as “why does every t-shirt I own have a hole in it just above the hemline and to the right of centre?”. At Balladonia, I grabbed a talking book, and the lovely man presented me with a souvenir pair of undies for my travel wine glass. Forging on, rainbow upon rainbow appeared through Simpsons clouds and I looked for the unicorn that would gallop alongside my vehicle at any moment.

Stopping for the night, I dutifully produced photo ID in the event I would ‘trash my room’, and repaired to my lodgings for the evening. As the sun set through the silicone holding my window together, I swear I heard my little wine glass whisper thanks for the modesty garment.

Alone time

When W found the camper trailer of his dreams, I had not a whit of surprise when he casually mentioned that it was in Brisbane. Without looking at a map, I concluded that this was possibly the furthermost point of Australia from Perth, and that I would be the one popping down the road to pick it up. W would drop in at Brisbane and we would drive in the direction of the Top End and the actual road trip we had planned. Some alone time I thought! How rare and precious. 5522 kilometres later I can report that the novelty wore off about 8 hours into the drive, but am awakened to the magnetism I possess when it comes to men in the sunset of their sixties.

Denied a rear view by everything one imagines one needs for camping and five weeks on the road, there was room left for one small Chihuahua (no turning circle), as I left Perth and headed East.

TomTom assured me it was around 750km to Fraser Station, so I sat back, educational podcasts running, and settled in for a 4:30pm arrival.

As the appointed km mark, dusk descended, TomTom threw his virtual arms in the air and claimed that was all he had. According to him, we were there. Still driving a tense 130km later, I spotted a small sign in the darkness. Glad to avoid a roadside sleepover or the desolate town of Norseman (where a certain petrol station has magic pumps that charge you for more fuel than your petrol tank actually holds) I got to enjoy the fantastic facilities at Fraser Range, and met the first of what would be a clutch of newly retired (and I suspect newly single) men on epic solo cycling journeys from one side of country to the other.