The other Queensland

Not ready to release my grip on the coast, I lobbied for a night at a town renamed in 1970 to a number (once known as Round Hill), to commemorate the second landing by James Cook on the HM Bark Endeavour.  Queensland Roads has clearly struggled with references to the tiny coastal village of 1770, variously referring to it as Seventeen Seventy and The Town of 1770, to distinguish its name from the distance it will take to get there. With 300 days of  sunshine a year, and proximity to the Great Barrier Reef, I marvelled that this relaxed gem of a swimming, fishing, crabbing spot had not yet been plunged into the shadow of a multi-story development. At sunset, people march fitfully down to the beach with their camping chairs and stubbies to witness the earths rotation away from the sun. Armed with a chilly beverage, I elected to enjoy the moment from the perfectly unassuming beachside restaurant deck, and conclude enthusiastically to strangers that this was precisely the kind of deck I always wanted.

We often get our best itinerary inspiration via strangers extolling virtues, or more often grim commentary, or one place or another. Carnarvon Gorge had various warnings about some road closures, as a result of the Queensland floods, but claimed 2WD and caravans could get in, so we would romp in. The mud bath of a road, grey skies and damp surroundings evaporated as soon as a wee echidna crossed our path. A local ranger gathered campers each night around a huge fire, for a chat about the place, its heritage, 20,000 year old Aboriginal rock art, giant ferns (Angiopteris) and tiny orchids. Most of the gorges and spots to walk to lead off from a 22 km return walk up the riverbed with multiple river crossings. The ranger cautioned against doing them all in one day, or even tackling the increasingly trickier rock hopping. I had looked at a 5 day tour (often a good way to plan your own trip). As the words left his mouth, I somehow knew the Team Expresso Tour would knock the lot off by afternoon tea the next day.

I lasted about 34 minutes before the first foot went in the drink. By noon, the meagre provisions had halved to one piece of chocolate and a mandarin, but the magical, other worldly, ancient places we got to see were worth every step Sherpa Tense-ing dragged my tripod, and multiple heavy lenses. By 3pm, we were back at the info centre with plummeting good humour along with our blood sugar, and unspoken expectation that there better be some photography magic in that 25 kilo backpack. Flat light all day told me it would be magical in our minds alone.

Moss Garden magic at Carnarvon National Park

Vegas bound

I am 9 days on the road, a day away from my target, and the sciatica plaguing my right butt cheek to back of knee is threatening to lure me from my active driving position to stop at every roadside lay-by and channel Annie, my physio, who would optimistically encourage me to engage those muscles that have lain fallow for almost 48 years.

The road from Lightning Ridge to BrisVegas is paved with many roadworks, diluting my goal to reach ‘Vegas by sundown, and compelling the selection of a suitable roadside sleeping point. Moonie Crossroads called me. From the care in selection of signwriting font, to accuracy of grammar, and claim to clean loos, I was easily drawn in.

Laying claim to Australia’s Largest Wild Pig Display, I was simultaneously horrified and fascinated by the people who sought and killed said animals. Booking a room in the single bed wing, I circumnavigated the caravan park/accommodation area 4 times, watched by two guys on the verandah of their unit – clutching tinnies, craning their necks, and offering no assistance – then grid-searched the staff quarters around a pile of retired highway signage, reconsulted the mud map roadsign, and finally gave in, returning to the servo to query the harried, but terribly pleasant, young man at the till. Moments later found me starfished, all four extremities of my person hanging over the bed, laid out by a takeaway pudding from Lightning Ridge, and a ‘Yoga Tea’ sachet from a half price box I purchased in Renmark, Victoria, bestowing longevity and overall wellbeing on those who drank it. Om.

In the morning, as I sped away from the triumph of taxidermy Moonie Crossroads represented, I decided my last day of solitude would make the most of listening to stuff W wouldn’t sit through, and the eternal educational improvement of my unworthy and easily-led-into-temptation soul. Terrifying myself with podcasts on industrial seed-oils, grain misdemeanours, and sugar, the evil clothed in white, a colour one equates with all that is pure and good, I feared I needed something truly frivolous lest I confirm life without bubbly wine and lemon meringue pie was simply without value. I had never seen fields of cotton until I neared Brisbane, and I couldn’t help stopping to examine it, feel it, and consider the implication of the lives lived in the US South, snatching me back from the precipice of being the shallow twat I was. My gratitude journal flamed.

Striking

Lightning Ridge is quite different from Coober Pedy. I wrongly assumed the singular pursuit of opal would render them similar, and indeed the fever is the same, but Lightning Ridge feels different. As in any small town, locals are entirely up to date on each others movements and motivations, yet if you were to ask where one would find so-and-so, nobody has seen or heard of them.

Many people live in ‘camps’, on pieces of land they pay an annual lease for, are entitled to mine, but not erect permanent buildings upon. This results in the creation of  living quarters gaining sophistication with the years that pass under the leasees habitation. The resulting structures, made of local stone and second-hand materials, are stripped of the superfluous and sparely beautiful. Every wall, cup, and mat has been made, gained or bartered for with purpose, earnt its place, and speaks to the spirit of those that live there.

There are, of course, a myriad of tours and attractions for the visitor and I was lucky enough to be superbly hosted by generous long-term residents I & S, who ferried me from one to the next and rounded out the experience with a gastronomic tour of the eateries. I cannot imagine ever finding a better affogato or lemon meringue pie or a bar filled with as interesting faces and stories.

The attractions have a character all their own. Ranging subjects and hosts from the early 20th century to current day, you cannot leave without an indelible impression. The bottle house, of german design, is crammed to the rafters with nostalgia for anyone born in the last century, and manned by the gentleman who built, and once upon a time, resided there.

The ‘Chamber of Hands’ is a curiosity of carvings by one man, using the walls of an old mine, that inexplicably weaves from the Simpsons and Spiderman, through various animala, to the egyptian tombs.

In stark contrast to most of the lodgings I have endured on my trip, the accommodation was not only cheaper than Bourke and Broken Hill, it felt like you were staying at someone’s house – safe, comfortable, thoughtfully put together, and super clean. Survival tip: make sure you park like the locals – angle parked and reversed in. A lovely octogenarian parked next to me alerted me to the fact I was both flouting street rules, AND positioned too close to him. I enquired as to why everyone had to park reverse angled and he replied sagely “because that’s how we’ve always done it”.

Love it or hate it, if Lightning Ridge doesn’t strikes a chord with you, you are surely made of stone.

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.