Author: downunderdefender

The trip from William Creek to Mungeranie was just another scoot day. We drove the 200 or so kilometres to Maree in good time, stopping only to have a look over Lake Eyre South where it kisses the track momentarily. Stunning as it always is, with the salt surface mimicking water, we cruised on.

Maree is a must stop, if only for fuel, before typically taking on either the Birdsville Track to the north or the Strzelecki Track to the north east. Our previous experiences in Maree had been mixed. They had swayed between slightly bad and really rotten. Today however would be so very different.

Initially a bit standoffish, the lady serving us in the service station delivered arguably some of the best bacon and egg sandwiches any of us had ever eaten. None left but a single crumb on the plate. Maree had redeemed itself at the hands of one lovely lady who knew how to win us over.

Our progress to Mungeranie was predictable, if not exciting. Gravel road of varying surface, with ever changing countryside to admire. Flat top hills were common, as were lakes devoid of water. Interestingly though, some did have water this year. A rare event indeed.

We rolled in to the Mungeranie Hotel latish afternoon. Greeted warmly, we were told by the volunteer barman to camp anywhere and camping was free. We set up near the wetlands (read, smelly almost stagnant water hole) before heading to the bar to have a lovely aged Coke and a truly, awfully aged wine.

Our time at the bar was entertaining and educational. We learned that COVID could be sorted if we went to a herd mentality model, wipe out a couple of million and then have no unemployment. We had to agree the numbers added up.

Soon enough we headed off to bed as the thunder clouds gathered and let us know we were at the mercy of the ancestor yet again. G did not sleep this night. As it started to rain, she had fully awake nightmares of us being stranded again, but this time in Mungeranie, beside a smelly, almost stagnant waterhole with not a 38-degree thermal spring in sight.

Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, a full five days after arriving in Dalhousie Springs, we got the news from Graham that the roads were open in all directions. Given the time of day, the distance to Oodnadatta and the interesting environmental influences roaming at night, we decided to have one more swim in the warm spring and head off the next morning.

Wednesday blossomed almost cloudless. We wasted little time driving out of paradise into the unknown. We knew the roads would still be a bit wet here and there. We didn’t expect what we encountered. At first the track wound around a landscape of small dunes, significant vegetation and at Dalhousie ruins, massive palm trees.

The ruins were a history lesson. A picture of what life must have been like way back when. We assumed they decided to set up house in a  good season, for there was no good reason to exist our here at any other time. We discovered a sign telling us of a ‘deeply spiritual well’ nearby. Dutifully, we examined the well and learned it’s spirituality extended to a rotten hole in the ground covered by a steel grate and overgrown with reeds. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of such deep spirituality, the hair stood up on the back of our necks like ridgebacks at doggy day care!

We ventured on with a late morning tea planned for Oodnadatta. We soon realised that progress was slow with endless bog holes to negotiate. Morning tea would certainly be a latish lunch.

The vastness of the outback plays tricks on everyone after a while. Today was no different. In disbelief, we encountered a lovely new NO ENTRY sign on the right of the track. Beyond the sign was a freshly prepared dirt road leading to a small shelter of some kind. In any other part of the world you’d swear it was a bus stop. Perhaps it was a road crew’s way of having a bit of fun, but in any court, the sign had no place being there.

With Bernie and Annette in front, the big Toyota paused at the sign then elected to do the right thing and not enter past the sign. The alternative track however, had what seemed an innocuous section of mud to negotiate. The Toyota started well but then sank deep with all forward movement stopping instantly. We are sure someone was watching, chuckling, saying “got another one. That NO ENTRY sign is worth its weight in gold”. A quick tug from Puma and the beast was again free to roam the road south to the Pink Roadhouse.

The remainder of the trek to Oodnadatta was uneventful, save a few detours off the main track to self-made ones, avoiding deep mud. At about lunch time and a bit, we arrived at the iconic Pink Roadhouse. We ate good food, drank average tea and coffee and very nearly forgot to get gas refilled. As we left ,the owner approached Peter and G asking who owned Puma. When he learned it was us, he told us in true believer style, that he had never had a Landrover come to his garage for a breakdown yet had had very many Toyotas. Puma smiled a knowing smile and we were on our way.

On the famous Oodnadatta Track our speed picked up. A track it may have been a hundred years ago. Now it was a veritable highway, only undermined by occasional stretches of corrugations. We made good time, not stopping for much as we had been here a few times before. Still, the remnants of the Old Ghan rail line earnt an occasional stop and a more frequent slow down as we made good miles towards William Creek.

There are good businesspeople and there are really good businesspeople. We reckoned the bloke who now owns all of William Creek township is in the second category. In a location about 200 kilometres from the nearest anything, he has turned the pub into a ‘must stop’ location. It provides exceptional service, great food and an extremely welcoming atmosphere. Couple that with a really decent campground and amenities, a cracking air strip and you have a great business. Additionally, he runs flights over Lake Eyre. In the normal non-COVID year he employs 40 people. This year it is only eight.

We had driven hard today. We needed too, as yet again the rain ancestor was chasing us with predicted storms and rain threatening to cut off our progress. We needed to keep moving east.

Graham, the Dalhousie volunteer ranger, is a great man. A great man with continued bad news. Friday, he told us that if it did not rain, we may get out Sunday. Saturday, he told us that they would revaluate road conditions on Monday. We were at Dalhousie Springs for a fair stay.

All was not lost. We had toilets, rank as they were. We had a hot spring to bathe in each day; multiple times. We had fine weather and we had Adam.

Adam was the leader of a group of campers in a similar predicament to us. Arriving just ahead of us on Thursday, it was their tracks we had followed. Adam was a Queenslander, being the owner of an earthmoving business. He only drank rum, but brought some beer for Justin, as he called it. (Just in case).

Adam liked a chat. Adam loved a chat; with Adam doing the chatting. We learned of his busines, his life and a lot about his vehicles. He had a massively raised Jeep on this trip, a Toyota Tundra at home and five show level Harley’s.

He told us in detail of his Harleys. How the wheels were coated in rose gold, how they had been bobbed and raked and built. The detail was not skimped upon. Adam was a great bloke with a love of life.

Adam, his mates and all the other travellers stuck in this desert paradise, made the best of a bad situation. We were forced to relax and enjoy good old-fashioned conversation. Life was good.

Sunday, like the days prior, presented with a cold wind, but cloudless sky. Our hopes for escape rose considerably. Being ever the romantic, Bernie whipped out a stunning compliment to Annette to kick start her day. In his mind, the showerless days in the desert, combined with a daily dip in the hot spring had given her a radiance he had not recently seen. This, combined with the alluring wispiness of her unwashed hair, the likes Rod Stewart would pay thousands for, was obviously tickling his fancy. This was the foundation for lasting love.

Sunday turned to Monday, each day with the almost promise of the roads opening. Graham, the volunteer ranger, was a gent. He politely told us the bosses in Port Augusta had decided not to open the roads……again. We questioned the foolishness of this decision as the camp had now grown to over 50 people. Another week here and we collectively were going to be a big problem to the SA government.

Monday turned to Tuesday with the same news. Adams mob and another could bare it no longer. With no smokes or alcohol left, they decided it was a genuine emergency to leave. They did so via closed roads. Their fate is at this stage still unknown.

More swims in our very own heated spring followed. Yarns with other groups increased. Newcomers from the closed Oodnadatta end did us no favours by arriving via closed roads.

With clouds gathering heavily on Tuesday afternoon, nerves were getting on edge. We needed to get out before the roads got drenched again. Time was not on our side. Topping off confusion and poor management of the situation, a group came to camp saying they had left Mt Dare with not a road closed sign in sight and had been invited along the road by a grader driver working on it. Puma was starting to get a bit catty over the entire situation.

Lynnie Junction to Dalhousie.

The next morning was bitterly cold. We mean true cold. Not the Queenslander, I think it’s cold but really, it’s still 25 degrees cold. True cold. Stinging wind, spitting rain with drops the size buckets and skin shrunken to where wrinkles had vanished, amongst other things.

The cars dutifully started without complaint as we again prepared to head west. First ,we had to back track two kilometres, then head up the Coulson Track for 20 kilometres to meet the French Line. Accomplished in short time, we started to have good feelings about the day ahead, although the threat of bad rain remained.

Not that long after turning onto the French line and lunching at Purnie Bore, where again the going was slow with steep, twisty dunes being the order of the day, we heard another party on the CB headed toward us. After a good half an hour we came upon a trio of vehicles led by a VW Transporter van with road tyres and no suspension lift. The radio transmissions we had been hearing referring to taking the tops off dunes now became understandable. We are pretty sure the aspirations of this driver outweighed his yet to be realised reality. His scant mention of having fun in the mud if it rains fell on our deaf ears.

Just as we organised a passing spot and began a trackside yarn with the trio, it hailed. Not big hail mind, but hail, nonetheless. Today was beginning to turn to big dingo poo! We ventured on. The track, in lower spots, became wet. Wet then muddy. Wet then muddy then sloppy. Still we marched on in the bitter wind and almost sleet filled rain showers.

Dalhousie Springs was always our destination for today. The promise of a 38-degree bath in the spring after days of questionable hygiene in the desert, remained a strong determiner.

Cresting a small sand dune reality hit. We were faced with the first of what, we had no idea, were innumerable lakes as far as we could see. The road was defined by only a raised graded edge to the left. The massive rainstorm an hour earlier had changed the landscape for an indeterminable period. Decision time!

We considered heavily turning on our heel and going back the Rig Road, then down the K1 line to the Birdsville Track. This option, whilst possiblly the safest, also risked us running out of fuel. After some deep thought and a few plans of how to tackle it, we decided that ‘if its flooded forget it’, whilst a lovely, feel good message, is sometimes not applicable. Staying in the flooded desert for what would likely be many days, was not an option. We determined that the safety of Mt Dare was still our daily target.

Into the unknown. We travelled section by section. Once one vehicle had cleared the obstacle ahead, the second would come through. We followed where necessary, the fresh tracks of some vehicles ahead, although we had no sight of them. The cars pushed on. Often in deep mud with certainty that at any moment we would sink to an unrecoverable bog. Mostly we elected to stick to the road, reasoning that if it held water, the bottom was at least hard.

We are unsure of how many hours our ordeal went on. We approximate about 70 kilometres, but time and distance had no correlation this afternoon. Water continued to smash up over our bonnets as any thought of slowing out of the ideal rev range was folly and certain stoppage. We continued on; without any confidence at all.

As we finally saw an end near. We risked a joke that we had been sideways more than straight for the entire distance. Then it happened. In what can only be called dingo poo sized dumbass decision, Peter elected to take a side-track as it looked better than the now proven submerged main track. All was good until it wasn’t. Puma went down like a big cat on field mouse. She sat unable to move until the magic of snatch straps launched her back to dominance of her natural environment.

We sloshed our way into Dalhousie Springs, certain we only had 70 kilometres and a couple of hours to go to Mt Dare, a hot shower and a great pub feed. 

Pretty bright orange is not our favourite colour. Pretty it may be, but it dictates the colour of the little flags lined up on a string across the road accompanied by a road closed sign. Dalhousie was as far as we were going. We quickly learnt that the road from Mt Dare to Oodnadatta was closed and it is policy to close the Dalhousie to Mt Dare road in sympathy.

We set up camp, got bitterly cold again and suffered persistent rain all night. The campground was a quagmire. A trip to the toilets was…….bugger it, just cross your legs. All was not good in the world.

Back on the famous French Line, our morning progress slowed considerably. Not hard at all, but second gear was the order of the day as the dunes became steeper with switchbacks on the crests thrown in to keep us awake. Camel poo prevailed, but still no camels. We did consider whether our poo identification prowess was lacking and that maybe it was the creation of a dingo. Deciding that it would have to be one hell big of a dingo to leave deposits of such magnitude, we elected to go with our first view and continued the lookout for camels.

A couple of hours passed before we ventured upon the left turn to the Approdinna Attora Knolls, but a few short kilometres away. The ground hardened appreciably, white rocks strutted out of the surface and the world was a  different place to half an hour earlier.

The knolls are, well let’s face it, a pretty sad excuse for a broken-down hill of no magnificence. There is a couple of them so they don’t get lonely so far from civilisation, but wasting ink to mark off the bucket list is not advised. Still, a walk up revealed a good look at a nearby salt pan and let us see the build-up in the skies of what was to come. Before departing we read about how the rain ancestor hung out around these parts. Not out of bed today, we had no idea yet what a grudge this bloke could hold.

Heading south, we lunched at a wide part of the track, fixed a wiring connection on the Toyota and plodded ever so relentlessly to meet the Rig Road, before heading west again.

An hour or so more, but who’s counting in the desert, we came upon the Lone Gum. Not only does this single tree offer evidence of the ability of plants to survive where they shouldn’t, it marked the turn left to head south once again keeping true to the Rig Road. We noticed that the lovely purple flowers were no longer, clearly not liking this part of the desert. The white ones prevailed. A few yellow popped their heads up for effect.

Driving between the dunes, the going should have been easier. Who would have thought that corrugations would prevail to such an extent in a world full of soft sand? The dunes here were lower, with the track occasionally popping over one or two just for fun and often traversing the top of a dune for a kilometre or two.

As we once again turned west, we knew this day was going to be one to remember. The sky now was black. It came in dark black, dark blackish grey and jet black. There was no blue. The sun was yesterday’s news. We all knew that making a mile was priority one at this stage.

Initially our goal became traversing the long Rig Road, 48 kilometre straight, directly into steeper sand dunes to make it just on dark to the point where road again turns northish. With concerted effort we made it to that point, found a possible camp spot then realised that the lovely area protected from wind was a small clay pan. With rain a certainty and heavy rain a likelihood, playing in clay was about as uncool as we could get.

The environment, our safety and the warmth of our respective cars dictated we continued on to the supposed relative safety of Lynnie Junction where the Rig Road meets the WAA line. Every trip has at least one epic driving sequence. This was one. With spotlights turning night into day, we punched north with the wind howling and the rain ever more threatening. The night had an eerie feel. We individually and collectively felt just a little bit vulnerable as the endless corrugations shook any decency out of us.

Finally, the junction came. We grabbed a camp spot. Threw our tents up and cooked a dinner in quick time. Our tents had been set up to combat the south-westerly wind. Sometime around, I’m almost asleep but not quite’, it changed entirely and smashed us all night from the north east, in what was a night of wondering if we would do a Harry Potter and fly across the landscape ending up in Western Australia.

With no urgency required, the crew gathered slowly on a fairly mild morning to bid farewell to Birdsville. At about 9.30am we parked the three vehicles outside the Birdsville Pub for the iconic, if not, well overdone photo. Just as we thought how fantastic Puma and her mates looked, we were rightly outdone by a group of 1920’s Whippets that had travelled to Birdsville over the same roads we had.

With no way to match the achievements of the motoring relics, we headed for a scrumptious breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and quite decent coffee in the hotel dining room. We commented that the west has COVID sorted to a degree the coast could only hope too. Sign in before you enter, sanitise as you enter, sit apart from other groups; these businesses are taking it very seriously. Consequently, no COVID in Birdsville!

10.30am or so came and went as we finally left electricity, flushing toilets and phone coverage behind and headed west. About half an hour later we halted at the base of Little Red, dropped our tyre pressures a bit for the deep sand we would encounter, then headed up and over the first of nearly 1100 sand dunes to come. We elected to leave Big Red to those who needed to prove size matters.

A bit of past experience told us that the second sand dune in the desert, sometimes called ‘Nemesis’ is by far the most difficult to get over. Being long, soft and typically rutted deeply, it did not disappoint today. Each of us had to have more than one crack at it with the 130 dual cab needing a bit of a tug to make the monster. As the group negotiated the beast Peter had an extremely proud husband moment with G jumping in the drivers’ seat and making mincemeat of some difficult dunes.

We were blessed this year with the entire desert being covered with flowers. We had seen it bare bones, as a desert is usually imagined. We had seen water in Eyre Creek, but never had we seen floral coverage of this magnitude. Bright yellows, whites and purples adorned the entire landscape. Privileged, is the word that came to mind.

As we punted up and over a few more dunes we heard the fateful crackle of Sue’s voice on the CB. The words “we may have a problem’ sent shivers down out spines. We headed back to find that the 130 had lost all drive with a blown clutch. We rested to let it cool down in the lost hope that it would spring back into life and Trevor and the girls could continue with us. Half an hour passed before an official diagnosis revealed the clutch was best described as a cousin of Wallaby Ted – ‘Roo Ted’.

With nothing left to do but call Birdsville Garage for assistance, we settled in for the afternoon. If you have to break down, drinking wine, eating cheese and having a yarn is not a bad way to spend some hours. We elected to stay together as a group until rescue the next morning.

At about 8.30am the burble of the Birdsville Garage petrol Landcruiser ute was heard coming over the dunes. After a bit of a chat, followed by Stefan, the Birdsville Police Officer coming for a look, the 130 was hooked up and launched up and over the dunes, towed by the Landcruiser, off to the home of clutch rehabilitation.

With two vehicles now left in the party, Bernie, Annette, G and Peter headed west towards Poeppel Corner. Legend has it that the Simpson Desert is an unimaginably difficult 4wd drive adventure. Truth is it can be a bit boring. The repetition of toddle along the track, see sand dune, change to low range third, accelerate, crest and roll down the other side can become monotonous. Seasoned as we are, calls of ‘there’s dingo footprints’, or ‘that was camel poo, we must be close to seeing a camel’, can make the monotony disappear.

Soon enough we crested a dune to see the amazing vision of Lake Poeppel. Not a big lake by any measure of inland salt lakes in Australia, the crossing of this one is critical to any desert adventure. Not only does it take you to the bucket list visit to the pole indicating the meeting of Queensland, South Australia and Northern Territory, it dictates there is one track across. Wander left or right off the track and you are guaranteed to sink the car to the axles and be there for a very long time. The lake never really dries out, it just looks like it is.

With the visit to the meeting of the states done, including acknowledging the original point was incorrect due to a worn-out measuring chain, we headed into the desert again to seek out a camping spot.

In short term a cracker of a camp was found. Flat and protected, the Simpson had given us a gift for the toils of a long day driving. A fire, wine, stars and chocolate ended a great day.

Today was always planned. A rest day in Birdsville, chilling out, waiting for our friends Annnette and Bernie to arrive.

Instead, a long day was spent by Peter and Trevor fixing annoying niggles with the cars. Peter had packed his roof rack with too much rearward emphasis and Trevor could not for the life of him fix his rear lights.

The girls did a bit of housekeeping before the big Toyota split the air. Coffee, wine, munchies, dinner and sleep were next on the agenda.

Other that that the %%&^&$ Hema ran flat again and G and Peter visited the local police officer and his wife for a bit. Stephan and Sharon, as always were welcoming and filled us in on the Birdsville news.

No pictures today. As of tomorrow (Monday 3rd August) we will be off air for about 10 days or more as we enter the Simpson Desert. Will be back blogging as soon as we can.

Today was never going to be a hard one. Only 390 kilometres to travel, with a few good stops planned along the way.

Arriving at the local service station to fuel up and get a smashing bacon and egg toasted sandwich, we were met by a lovely lady. She dutifully took our money for fuel and our order for two b&e delights.

As we sat and shared our one bacon and egg sandwich; we contemplated the day ahead. More so, we contemplated Bernie and Annette having to drive from Caloundra to Quilpie in one hit. Shortly after, Annette rang to say they were already in Roma, at just on 9am. We commented that the new power mapping in the Toyota was obviously paying dividends.

Without a lot to comment on, we took the opportunity to stop at the sign that shows exactly where the hole in the hill is. We stopped to get a photo of Puma in the middle of nowhere. We figured if this one did not work out, there would be more such opportunities. We slowed for the ruins of the somethingorother hotel and kept relentlessly heading west.

Shortly prior to the toilet, prior the left turn towards Birdsville, we had a truckie call on the CB and refer to Puma as a Landcruiser! Poor old Puma momentarily lost power, shuddered slightly and coughed a COVID cough, at being so insulted. To his credit the author of such blasphemy immediately corrected himself and all was again good in the world.

We hit gravel not long after, admiring what a season of few travellers does for the road surface. Blasting along at 90 or better, we also got to appreciate the incredible suspension MR Automotive had fitted to Puma. Hitting a hidden canyon in the middle of a gully, the beast just soaked it up and whispered, “that all you got”.

Soon after we saw the unmistakable outline of a Defender cresting the horizon. She was white, pristine and looked so at home as dust bellowed from her wheels as she hurtled toward us. As we passed the CB lit up with “Hey Peter, how are you, Trevor is waiting for you in Birdsville.” We laughed hard, for the Defender owners are indeed a family.

Deon’s Lookout provided some respite, with its incredible views over a never-ending landscape. The lookout is a must for travellers. It is located atop a massive mesa, giving some degree of scale to the vastness of this barren landscape.

Betoota was the next point of interest. Now with its pub again operating, it is almost worth the 7-kilometre detour. Having seen television commentary on the re-birth of this outback icon, we had great hopes. From an infrastructure viewpoint, it excels. The new owner has added quality showers and amenities. Created fantastic outdoor communal areas and added vintage cars for effect. Unfortunately, the pub is not so loved. Day time food extends to just pies and sausage rolls, with the thought of a lovely Windorah style bacon and egg toasted being just that; a thought.

The couple of hundred kilometres to Birdsville passed without event. Puma kept purring. Finally, with some trepidation, we entered deep into snake country. Peter ate the red ones, with G favouring the yellow and green. Allens are the traveller’s friend, no doubt. We rolled into Birdsville to the news from Roma that Peter’s favourite coat had been located. Long story, but worth dancing a small jig anyway.