I am sitting in an Adelaide boardroom listening to colleague, Lisa talk of a forthcoming trip along the Strzelecki and Birdsville Tracks, to Innamincka, Birdsville, Mungeranie and Maree. I have my ears pricked attentively as she talks of her recent appointment as Regional Tourism Manager and of a need to make contact with some of her more distant ‘operators’, to say g’day and get a feel for the lay of the land in the distant, north-east corner of South Australia.
A priority task for me next morning is to check the diary and make some fast calls; which appointments can be postponed, which can be brought forward. An hour later I was on the phone to Lisa pressing my claim for a seat on the trip. A couple of “yeps” later and I was on the phone to colleagues explaining a pressing and unavoidable engagement.
We rendezvous at Quorn on Friday afternoon. A few hundred dollars later, Woolies has the car full of the necessities for life – some really smelly camembert, a stilton, roll mops, lumpfish roe, tinned dolmades, pate, a bottle of Johnny Red, another of Bombay Sapphire, tonic, an assortment of bread, biscuits, a yard of cabanossi (to munch as we travel), cashews, a couple of tubes of Pringles and ah, what else? Oh yer, some healthy vegetables, water, coffee beans and smokes, a carton of tailor-mades for Lisa and two rollies, for me.
Dinner at the pub gives us a chance to go over the trip, to check off lists of to-dos – extra fuel, water, food, booze, smokes. “I reckon it’s just ‘bout all done” she says as I order another couple of beers. I ask Bruce the barman about the weather forecast for the next few days and “… wouldn’t have a clue, Mate”, was the informative response.
I am up a tad before ‘sparrows and a first smoke and I meet under a clear, innocent sky. It is chilly but offers the promise of hot, dry warmth to come. The Southern Cross is standing on its head, the night shift finishing as Venus tries to outshine the approaching light. I roll another smoke and contemplate the Morning Star, that potent Arnhem Land night watchman and referee, the boss dictating an end to nighttime Bungal.
An off-stage, orange fireball is approaching from the East, silhouetting in absolute blackness, distant hills. Pastel colours move in, some pinky-yellow washes and my reverie is broken with the thwack of the screen door slamming. “How’d ya sleep? Jees this coffee hits the spot!” as we sit companionably broaching the new day.
We throw the swags and bags into the back of the 4WD, load boxes of tucker and check that the Engel is working! How did I survive 25 years in the Territory without one of these marvels – a car fridge! I remember tinned Frey Bentos pies, tinned stews, vegetables, warm beers and mouldy bread.
It is at Parachilna, as we pull into the Prairie Hotel that we remember the 2 empty water tanks! We fill them and accept the offer of coffee and cake. Publican Jane also shows us the walls of the interior where inadvertently stones containing the oldest known fossilised lifeforms were used in construction. Ediacaran fossils, dated about 550 million years old, where discovered here in the 1940s. I also realised that this was the area that supplied the slate floors for our Darwin house, 30 years earlier.
There are a few young backpackers mooching around the hotel. I wondered why they were there and Lisa explains the growing significance of the northern Flinders Ranges for young international travellers.
They look decidedly out of place – sunburnt and red, shorts, thongs, new akubras and some with flynets. One youngster strums a guitar and a bevy of buxom, scantily clad young things lounge nearby. While we sip lattes, a friendly Kelpie saunters up, sniffs to ensure our cake is OK, lifts a leg on the nearby verandah post and leaves. A flock of red-tailed cockatoos squabble in a gum across the roadway.
The road north passes through Leigh Creek – that oft mentioned spot in the weather report. I belatedly take on the realisation that this place is a mine – we stop and look through a high wire fence encircling a huge hole in the ground, a long conveyor belt that is responsible for towering mountains of coal, trundling Wabco trucks, and an industrial tangle. I don’t think I ever made the connection of this to “…hot, dry, 33 degrees at Leigh Creek.”
The bitumen abandons us as a family of emus scoot across the track in front of us. Lisa is driving and swerves around the last chick. “Jees, that was close, and with all of this country – ya gotta wonder why this moment was chosen to cross the bloody road!” She is a little shaken and reaches for a B&H to steady her nerves.
We munch on a length of cabanossi as the rough gravel stretches out before us. Talk turns to the hassles of Local Government and their difficult relationship with tourism. “I had a meeting with Joy the other day to explore funding subsidies in the next budget. Her only issue is the cost of maintaining the public dunnies in Port Augusta.” “Yer, I used to get similar responses from some of my Councils, too” I offered in support.
A billowing cloud of ochre can be seen in the distance. A yellow blob at its centre starts to take shape and in the next minute or so evolves into a thundering road train, 50 metres of steel and rubber desperately trying to outrun its dusty veil. “Ya know they have 72 tyres on the road and about 6 spares” was gratuitously offered and met with “Yer. Da ya wanna drive?” “OK”
The country was changing. Low mulga was giving way to cassia, spinifex and saltbush, small spindly gums and sand dunes paralleling the road in a north south companionship. The soil had changed colour too – from a dusty orange to somewhere between Gold Oxide and Burnt Sienna. There had been recent rains and I think I remembered hearing “…patchy rain for Leigh Creek…” not long ago.
We stopped to boil the billy beside a long water-filled ‘borrow-pit’ – the scrapes created by road maintenance crews when they needed surface fill. There was a flock of ducks loudly protesting our arrival. “Ya gotta wonder about ducks in the desert, eh! I mean, are they lost or sum’ent?” We chuckle, smoke and settle with strong black tea.
I was reminded of another time, maybe 25 years earlier when I was living at a small community on the WA/NT border, out from Uluru. I was driving the community ute, loaded with 6 or 7 old Pitjantatjara men. My lead man was old Lungkata and we were travelling out to his country around Lake Mackay. It was late October and as hot as hell. I thought we were vaguely following a sand dune-restricted, westerly direction. Not so, as Lungkata tells me to turn very precisely in between a narrow opening in the towering dunes. On resuming our course we abruptly came upon a small rocky outcrop, a crop of reeds and what I suspect is some water. A thump on the cab roof told me to stop the car.
Lungkata led a low chant, quickly picked up by the others as everyone leaves the Toyota, with thigh slapping and hesitant steps towards the outcrop. Before being told to withdraw back through the break in the dunes and camp, I saw a mob of ducks flying up from the grubby pool.
“We’d better keep moving or we won’t make Innamincka before dark,” Lisa breaks into my reverie.
We kick the fire out and get back on the track. There is a lot more sand drifts across the road, a couple more trucks and we see in the distance a complex of white tanks, pipes, dereks, low buildings and a sign advising us to Stay Out. “Cooper Basin oil and gas complex” advises Lisa.
I was seeing a new side to South Australia that I had only vaguely been aware – here amongst the redness was a sizeable industrial richness. We pass a couple of more mining sites as we move steadily north towards the Queensland border. Twenty minutes south of Innamincka we come across another one, this one immediately adjacent to the track.
We learn later that night at the pub from workers that this complex reflects a Japanese consortium seeking to harness “hot rock” energy sources. Apparently the earth’s crust is quite shallow at this point and they are drilling a 12” diameter hole 7,000 metres down to tap into the 270degree temperatures. The intention is to force water into the hole, generate super-heated steam that will be directed into a second, nearby hole that has been equipped with an electrical turbine. The guys told us that the hole is now so deep, and the temperatures so hot that they can only drill for about 30 minutes before the drill bit melts – necessitating spending 48 hours lifting the rods and replacing the bits!
We had made camp beside a long waterhole, Cullymurra, part of the Cooper Creek system about 2 kms east of town. A fire was pulled together as dolmades, olives, scotch and water appear. I had earlier marinated fillet steak and as it hit the griddle, the garlic, soy, Dijon and cold-pressed oil quickly brought taste-buds to the fore.
A quick couple of beers at the Innamincka pub brought the long day to a close. Swags were rolled and Lisa’s gentle snores from across the fire lent a gentle domesticity to the camp. I too drift off, a satellite blinking overhead and a couple of long, shooting streaks rushing to the horizon register in a rapidly slowing mind.
“Jees, didja see that dingo last night? It was into the griddle with a vengeance” I admit to a deep, unbroken sleep as I stir the mulga coals into action and get my old black billy on for coffee. “Wherdja get that Billy?” asks Lisa of my spouted veteran. “I reckon it might have been from the store at Yuendumu, out west of Alice. Years ago.” Spouted billy cans were always popular and practical. Campfires and billies – mmm as the words of Dick Diamond’s 1950 musical form in my head. I start to hum and then sing:
I’ve humped my bluey, thru all the states
My old black billy the best of mates
For years I’ve tramped and toiled and camped
Though the road was rough and hilly
With me plain and sensible, indispensable
Old black billy
It’s a lazy day spent mostly doing bugger all. A bit of reading, yarning, interspersed with some historical sightseeing. Here we were at the site of one of Australia’s most celebrated cock-ups – the ill-fated conclusion to Robert O’Hara Bourke’s continental crossing. I had just finished reading Susan Murgatroyd’s novel, Burke and Wills and we’re here!
We drove east beside the waterhole for about 20kms crossing briefly into Queensland and back again into SA to stand at The Dig Tree, that infamous tree inscribed by their back up team, instructing Burke and his party to dig for residual supplies. The irony, of course was the fact that the support team had left only a few hours before Bourke, et al actually returned from their trip to the Gulf of Carpentaria.
We visited the site of Bourke’s and subsequently Will’s death and later that afternoon joined a small group of travellers on a punt that quietly motored down the Cooper to the spot where the only surviving member of the trio, John King was eventually found, in the care of the local Bardi people.
Innamincka, so small and dusty yet so sought after. There’s the pub, a focal point for the many thirsty travellers, a small general store, a few corrugated shanties and the old Australian Inland Mission hospital, now hosting National Parks and an interpretation of the natural, cultural and historical significance of the area.
We spend another evening at the pub and try not to overhear too much of the traveller’s banter. Like so much of Australia’s inland regions, the area is being over-run with a steady stream of four-wheel adventurers. They arrive in all shapes and sizes, both the vehicles and the travellers. Vehicles are decked out with myriad bits of essential kit – wallaby jacks, pvc water tanks, shovels, extra jerry cans of fuel, vhf radios and tall aerials. The drivers are here to escape winter chills, to try their hand at off-road adventure. They breast the bar with fly nets jauntily pushed back off dusty headgear, livid sunburnt right arms poking out from T shirts emblazoned with I’ve been to Birdsville and survived decals.
We move on, across the Cooper Creek towards Mungarannie, about 500kms further west, on the Maree to Birdsville Track. A missed turn adds an extra 100kms to the day and raises fuel anxieties. The recent rains have left the two-wheel ruts boggy and a tad slippery until, of a sudden we literally turn a corner and from low acacia scrub, we are confronted with an unending dry gibber plain stretching to sunset.
This is Sturts Stoney Desert. There is a burnt sienna, high sand dune to our right, on the left, the gibbers. It is startlingly dramatic. Such a sudden contrast and to absorb the change we stop, boil the billy and open a can of dolmades! G&Ts also seemed appropriate but bugger, we were bereft of a slice of lime so had to do without. Such decadence sets the tone for the remainder of the day and primes us nicely for our late afternoon arrival at Mungerannie – the pub, not the station homestead.
Lisa is expected and welcomed with hugs and kisses. There was a round of introductions as I meet the locals “G’day howsyagoinmate – thisis Chris” and we again find ourselves breasting a bar. A long, whispy salt and peppered beard has the name John – the publican. He has a glint in his eye as he knowingly throws the cork from a fresh bottle of Bundy.
Word spreads that Lisa is back in town and the local blacksmith, a couple of ringers, John’s missus Shirl and a few others blow in. The CD-player is cranked back to the 70s and the talk turns to The Drive, last year’s tourist extravaganza, the Outback Cattle Drive that first brought Lisa to these parts. The Drive attracted thousands (if you believe the subsequent reports) from SA’s main domestic and international markets, for a dude-cattle drive, sectioned into two and three night parcels between Birdsville and Maree.
As the rum flows, the Drive is on again. Somebody has got a stock whip and nimbly misses the assembled crowd, demonstrates the finer points of the “Double Cracker”. Tables and chairs are pushed to the far wall, later removed altogether and the party gets serious. At some point biker mates of Johnnos appear at the door on their Harleys and decide the overnight dew might damage the chrome. The bikes quickly replace lost chairs and one by one the boys decide to wheel stand the front wheels onto the bar! As the rum flows, someone suggests burning rear tyres into the floorboards and down to the joists!
I remember staggering through acrid smoke and mayhem, mumbling something to somebody and falling off the front verandah. Oblivion.
A couple of crows are perching somewhere above me – I wonder how they got into my room? The guys were right about the dew – my bed is soaked and come to think of it, the mattress is bloody lumpy, too!
I prize open an eye and stare into the questioning gaze of a mongrel bloody dog. God my head hurts as I stumble up from the garden bed, picking a couple of forlorn Dissy Lizzys from my shirt. I look around in case of witnesses – the coast is clear and I head for the kitchen to get coffee on the go!
I nurse a head. Lisa appears an hour or so later and I hear Johnno and the bikers in the bar – hacking coughs, the cha ching of a bottle top hitting the barroom floor. “Wanna Bundy , whatsyaname?” I shuffle on and inspect the deep burn marks in the floor.
Lisa agrees to beat a retreat. We stop 50kms down the road and cook up some greasy snags to quell delicate stomachs. Strong black tea and a few Asprin help to pretend sobriety as we drop in to a few more properties enroute down the Birdsville to Maree. Lisa is mostly pensive, quiet and I suspect feeling as seedy as I.
A 100kms out from Quorn we spot a big Grey kangaroo on the side of road. She’s recently tangled with a vehicle and not dead. We stop and I walk back. I hate this bit as I raise a stick and put her out of her pain. There is a little joey anxiously hovering. I kneel down and he hops over and head first straight into the neck of my jumper! I estimate he is about 6 months old, fully furred and standing about 25 cms.
I’ve been adopted and I thank heaven that an immediate decision has been taken out of my hands. Lisa knows of an animal refuge in Quorn, hoping that the little guy survives the trauma of his predicament. We phone ahead as we near town and they suggest we bring him over in the morning. He sleeps that night in a pillowslip, snuggled up against my warmth.
Its Friday again, pre dawn and the stars are at it again. A roster sounds a call somewhere and I contemplate the trip. It has been an exhilarating week, a vast emptiness on the map now populated with new country, new faces, places and experiences. I was surprised at the extent of the mining activity, the changing landscapes, flood outs, semi-permanent creek systems, sandy and gibber expanses and the chance to yarn with and learn from the locals.
Back to the office and a mountain of dross awaits, next week!