Author: downunderdefender

The sun had barely poked its head up when Puma kicked into life. We idled out of the van park trying not to awaken our fellow travellers. We knew however, deep down they would have been gently shaken by the pure joy of hearing a Landrover heading out. They would lie there with just a hint of a smile on their faces before drifting off again.

Winton was just stirring as we drove through the town proper before heading towards Longreach. Arriving in the big town of the west, we noticed that almost all of Australia’s 26 million COVID escapees had also landed. The place was Monday morning manic. People everywhere, caravans galore and one prize idiot.

In the crowded main street where angle parking was at a premium, boofhead in his jacked up ‘tougher than you’ Landcruiser ute towing his van, parked parallel taking up about 26 car spaces. In a happening of biblical proportions the big fella upstairs delivered. He delivered a lovely policeman who took one look and wrote a ticket. No one in the street dared to jump and holler, but we bet each one was just a little bit chuffed at the result.

We dropped into the bakery for some breakfast. We turned and went up the street for potentially a better looking breakfast. We returned to the bakery for breakfast. Our bacon and egg toasted sandwiches came complete with mashed egg. No, not scrambled egg, mashed egg. By the taste, we figured it was something between powdered egg and offal. There was no way to take it into our bodies without the immediate desire to expel it with considerable force. It ranked as the worst meal of the trip by a long reach.

On we went. In short order we trudged through Ilfracombe noting that the magnificent display of old machinery was still growing, with some weird and whacky additions since last we visited.

Barcaldine came into view, as did the Tree of Knowledge. Legend has it under the tree was a meeting that started the Labour Party. The tree is now dead, propped up by nails and glue. We’re sure there is a joke in there somewhere!

Unable this time, to smell the historically disgusting water in Blackall, we settled in for lunch at one of the many ritzy little cafes propping up in the main street. It had potential, failing to realise it in a not dissimilar fashion to the Longreach Bakery. The question of how hard it is to make a toasted sandwich, kept coming back to be answered. Still the town is on the up and up with a distinct ‘we really care about our town’ feel to it.

We pushed on to Augathella via Tambo. Not before slamming the brakes, pulling hard left and screeching to a halt so G could buy a Tambo Teddy. With the teddy sitting proudly in the back seat we pushed on.

What a difference an attitude makes. Augathella has for ever been the small town in the middle of nothing looking to go nowhere. Not now. A gamble on a bit of infrastructure for caravaners has transformed the town. Along each bank of the Warrego River they have installed water outlets for vans to hook up to. Couple that with a flash as a pin set of toilets and showers on the town side, all for a donation of no more than $5, it’s a winner.

We set up camp, went for a walk into town, met Tambo the cattle dog pup on the way and had a yarn to his owner. The lady without a name and her daughter hanging onto the family naming tradition, were good for a yarn. We gave her about 45, maybe 43 in the shade, travelling with just her daughter and her dog. The hats off part was she was driving an old Greyhound coach. Peter was in awe when he asked her what motor the beast had in it. Without hesitation she told him it was a Detroit 8V 92. They then chatted about this iconic motor. How a two-stroke diesel could be such a powerhouse, leak so much oil, yet sound so pure. It was almost the longest meeting of the Augathella Dieselheads Association in history.

With only a few hundred ks to go Tuesday morning, we rose late. We decided we did not feel like cooking breakfast so drove across the bridge into town in search. We dropped in to the information centre to pay our donation fee and had yet another yarn. The info bloke told us the council had finally given in to the town and spent a few dollars to support visitors. He told us that it was the best thing the town had ever have happen to it as businesses were booming. He agree a café was needed so people could have breakfast.

Deciding we would like some succulent ham from a real butcher, we headed that way. Outside was a sign saying Meat Ant Butcher. Peter hesitated in wonder as to whether this bloke was a highly skilled knife man who butchered meat ants or whether the business simply played on the towns’ emblem.

Inside the shop was a time warp. Two old school butchers resided silently. One served us grabbing the calico wrapped ham from the fridge. He sliced it was precision not needing a machine to make the perfect cut. Behind him by a huge S shaped hook, hung a beast. His mate carefully cut a sizable hunk of the carcass. So fresh was it that we were sure we heard it say ‘ouch’ as the razor-sharp knife sliced through.

We headed back to the car but were interrupted by a voice yelling ‘did you get some ham’. A conversation ensued that carried on longer than intended. God’s gift to four-wheel driving told us of just how good he was, what he had done and how good he was, what tyre pressure he used and how good he was. By the end we were exhausted at just how good he was.

We choofed down to Morven for some breakfast at the ever-reliable roadhouse. As usual we had a bacon and egg delicious each, washed down with tea and coffee.

We are not sure which town it was. Probably Mungallala if we recall. As we trundled through gently we noticed a huge sign signifying the western edge of the Southern Queensland bible belt. It was a simple sign pronouncing ‘Prepare to meet your God’. Not three seconds after seeing it Peter burst into laughter for as he looked back to the road he realised the sign was placed not more than 100m prior to a rail crossing! We are sure no one meant for the message to have such impact but rest assured we both looked left, right, left again and a few more lefts before driving across that crossing.

We cruised though Mitchell still wondering from last visit how the Mitchell thermal springs can exist when they mascaraed as a heated swimming pool in the middle of town. Roma came into view as did our smiles. We had made it to Peter’s mums place to be with her on her 92^nd birthday. Before celebrating however, she had to go to the gym.

As we headed out of Roma in minus 4 degrees, following a couple of days relaxing and catching up on washing, we knew this was our last day of over seven weeks travel. It was a bitter sweet experience. We had loved most of it. Been challenged by some of it. Been blessed by all of it.

No trip is totally over until the last bakery has been visited. Our great friend Lynn had recommended the Blackbutt Bakery for a Bee Sting. The coffee was good, the tea OK but the bees had lost their sting today. We ate it anyway.

As we ambled up the David Low Way looking at the perfectly flat ocean lapping our stunning beaches, we could not help but think we had travelled a bloody long way to come home to the best place on earth.

As darkness fell on our last night Peter said a silent prayer to the Landrover gods. It simply said, ‘thank you for Puma not breaking down’.

A short trip into town led us to the Musical Fence café. Part of the big pub opposite the other pub, up the road from the third pub, it turned out to be a winner. Warm scones with cream and jam was the order of the morning, as we sat people watching for a while. It was brilliant to sit at a decent sized table, in a friendly café, just relaxing and chatting about not much at all.

After no lunch we headed the half hour out of town to the Age of Dinosaurs attraction on top of a giant mesa. Having been here before we gain enjoyed hearing and watching how bones are extracted from earth millions of years old, by incredibly patient people, with tiny dentists drills. We got the whole story, how they find bones, where they find them and how they name them. They even had one named Pete! Good folks.

Afternoon over, we headed back, hooked up the van ready for an early start Monday.

G and Peter set off a bit earlier today as they had a fair bit of stuff to do in Mt Isa. A quick stop in Camooweal about a kilometre from the camp had the car fuelled ready for another leg. With the scenery not changing much until about 50km from the big smoke, it dragged on a bit. We reminisced about the times we used to take the back road home to Doomadgee through Lawn Hill, but that was about it.

Mt Isa greeted us with its massive smoke stacks, industrial look and feel. It hadn’t changed. After a few chores we met up with our dear friend Adrian Cooney, owner of the Dajarra Roadhouse. Adrian was in town to pick up supplies for his business. He greeted us with a “time has not been too bad to any of us has it”. He looked fantastic. The western air had preserved him well. We chatted about all things Dajarra, enjoying a great catch up with that type of friend you don’t see for years, yet feel as though you spoke to them yesterday.

Groceries were next. A bit more fuel and we were off. The road between Mt Isa and Cloncurry is simply stunning. Winding through craggy, spinifex covered hills trying to be mountains. They are spectacular. Puma worked hard enjoying the challenge.

We arrived at Clem Walton Lake about half way between the two towns to be greeted by a dummy locked gate. We waited a bit for Trevor and Sue to come and lead the way as they had camped here before. Hidden from the highway, the lake is a real picture. Blue green algae and all. Surrounding the lake, hills and flats were covered with what is becoming a native animal in Australia……caravans. The place was covered. Peter counted 60 something just in one corner of the natural environment.

On we went the next day towards Winton. Trevor and Sue headed due east towards Townsville to visit family.

The road to Winton from Cloncurry is just slightly less interesting than watching the Broncos play. Nothing to report except a delicious bacon and egg sandwich at Kynuna roadhouse. If ever you come this way, a visit is a must. The comedy show between the matriarch in the kitchen and the hired help at the counter is epic. By the time we had taken a few bites we had come to realise the hired help’s name was ‘Dickhead’. She repeated it, he answered to it. You just don’t get entertainment like that in the big city.

We headed out again a few minutes after three double deck cattle road trains headed to Roma. We caught the first and rounded him up without drama. The second and third however sat at a very comfortable Puma pace. We followed them all the way to Winton.

In the town with the second most smelly water in the country, we found a new caravan park that was heavily booked. We set up in-between two travellers, went to town and had a look around, booking a dinosaur tour for tomorrow. A coffee was in order. G tried to order tea. She asked if they had Earl Grey. “No”. She asked if they had English Breakfast, “Yes”. She got a Bushells Blue Label tea bag. Peter asked for a caramel milkshake “We don’t do milkshakes”. Peter asked, what is the nearest thing you have to a milkshake. System overload! Consequently his Mocha was just slightly worse than a cold Blend 43.

Late afternoon one set of neighbours returned. Apparently we had parked too close to them for their liking. Old mate had a ‘spac attack’ going off his chops at Peter. Dismissed for the fool he was, we had a lovely chicken dinner and a good long sleep.

Sunday we crawled out of bed at a reasonable hour with thoughts that our trip was nearing its end. By Thursday next week we would be home. It was hard not to feel just a little bit deflated. In the meantime there was more to come.

We struggled out of a perfectly good bed this morning. Begrudgingly preparing ourselves for another few hundred ks of nothing much. We were so greeted upon hitting the bitumen.

The Avon Downs Police Station sign gained our interest as the border would be where our Queensland border passes would come into their own. We could flash them proudly and be waved on with confidence we were not the infectious type.

Up ahead we saw the gathering of cars, vans, trucks and people. This was the border moment coming to fruition. Upon it, we realised that it was only the NT police checking travellers headed west. No one acknowledged us. No one looked up with a ‘not another Queenslander’ scowl. Disappointment rained upon us.

A few ks later we turned off to the right toward a massive water hole complete with water and brolgas. Pretty nice in fact. But not before Mr and Mrs Baboon in their Ford Ranger pulled out from a side road hauling a huge van straight in front of us. We slowed to accommodate this primate’s weakened intelligence and sat behind as he accelerated to 55 km/h in the 130 km/h zone. They turned at our turn off in front of us then proceeded on the lovely dirt road at 15km/h where 70 was an option. Not often Peter gets so peeved with other drivers he takes action. Today was different. This bloke needed a good solid dusting. He got one. Puma wound up, pulled out, overtook and covered the Baboon clan to a point where only a satellite could see them. Peter breathed a job well done sigh.

We set up camp, looked at the brolgas, and ate a home-made bacon and egg sandwich for lunch, before excelling at doing nothing. We reckon with practice we are getting better at this.

The old dog with the historic limp crept across the van park in the early morning. She sought a like soul to be around as she had done the day before upon greeting us. Today she found a mid to late fifties backpacker in her Jucy Van, who had slid into the park late night, used the facilities, then moved out to the service station picnic tables before opening, so she didn’t have to pay. As they sat together, content in the early morning sun, it was difficult to figure who had washed their hair most recently. Peter’s dollar was on the dog, as it surely would have been caught in the last rain event in September 2019.

Underway reasonably early we punched south toward Elliott. Here Sue’s sister was working, however had a 10am appointment, so we had to be there in time to say hello, give her some Dunmarra vanilla slice, have coffee and let her go. Mission accomplished we fuelled a couple of hundred ks south at the Three Ways before flicking left onto the Barkly Highway. Notorious for its headwinds, today it was merciful. We skipped along without drama until Mr and Mrs Boxhead in their Hyundai Excel overtook us then decided within 200m to go to the wrong side of the road, head on towards a triple road train. We hammered the brakes; the truckie did his best to get his 60m long, 100-ton beast left whilst the Boxhead family ventured at their own pace back to the left and continued on oblivious to just how close they came to going home in a ‘box’.

The road was straight and straight with no other decerning features. Occasionally, we would capture a glimpse of two blades of grass having a punch up over a droplet of water, but other than that, nothing. We did note however, that the amazing distribution of bright purple rubbish bins we had seen across the Northern Territory continued. They were at every stop. Lines of them. Most lined with bags; awesome.

This realisation led to a discussion comparing states we had visited. NSW didn’t come into it as we scooted through early on with COVID chasing us. SA had great rest stops, a decent amount of dump points and an adequate number of roadside bins. WA, unbelievable rest stops. It had heaps of them, most complete with dump points and toilets, but try and find a rubbish bin. Consequently the black and gold state looks like a bush camp with rubbish strewn the length of any roadside. NT appeared to be the poor cousin with just the lovely purple bins in the budget.

We stopped at a Wikicamps recommended camp spot then continued on. It got four stars for a camp that was literally in the middle of a paddock. No trees, no anything. With the sun still belting down, it was stinking hot. We knew the flies would carry us away. We continued east.

At about that much past 4pm we pulled into a great roadside camp with a few trees and interesting bits. We had a yarn to the couple from Ballina who asked about our van as they had been eyeing one off for a while. We convinced them to buy.

Our afternoon conversation centred around the number of vans on the road, the brands and their good and bad attributes. When Peter asked the group if they had seen the fully camouflaged van behind the big Toyota coming toward them, G pounced and said “No”. We laughed a great long belly laugh as we all realised the paint job on the behemoth had done its job. It was indeed a huge van painted in bush camouflage colours. It looked hideous to those of us who could see it.

The 170ks from our bush camp to Dunmara was always meant to be easy. Now on the Buchanan Highway, we were set for a quick couple of hours, a fuel fill, then a day of lazing about the camp site having a rest.

With not much to see other than bush covered in red dust, we were again greeted with millions of corrugations. Only in patches this time but enough to bring tears to the eyes of any hardened traveller. We decided to ignore it and plough on.

In reading Wikicamps reviews on Dunmarra, G encountered a particularly nasty one that was so funny it entertained Peter for a good 50ks. It simply read ‘the woman behind the counter had a slap arsed face and the manners of a goat’. The picture that promoted in Peter’s mind was just too much bare. It was wrong in all regards, but just so so funny!

We came upon Dunmarra in due course. We can absolutely report that the woman behind the counter was the opposite of the Wikicamps review. She was a decent lovely lady who made the best vanilla slice and an equally nice pie. Legend in our book.

We set up camp, did some vehicle checks, patted a stray dog, had a yarn to Bill and Betty from SA (that’s not their real names), asked the bloke trying to fix his van if he needed a hand, patted a stray dog again and did pretty much nothing for the remainder of the day.

Tomorrow we head south

Today began with some humour. As we took off from our spectacular camp, G announced that the station track we were on was a good road. Indeed it was, if it had been a station track and not the main highway. It appears her internal GPS had malfunctioned and she had little idea of where she was. It was the Duncan Road.

It’s a great pity G was not right with her road description. Almost from the get-go we hit corrugations like we had not seen in a very long time. This time they were to last for 170km. There was no escape. They covered the road, rarely letting up. Peter pointed out an entire family camping in the bottom of one; or so it seemed.

We swore words we didn’t even know we had inside us. We repeated them. We repeated them softly, loudly, often and with gusto. Puma hated every minute of it. She rattled from head to toe, making a racquet neither of us had ever heard. Our ears hurt. The concentration required to drive the road meant there was little chit chat for the duration. On we went sometimes choosing to ride the steep bank on the left as it was less painful than the designated surface.

Only necessary stops were undertaken as the desire to get off this nightmare road was incredibly intense. As we crossed out of WA into the NT we took the mandatory pic opportunity on the grid that separates the two states. COVID border checks in this location were not on the cards. We hoped with all hope that the new state would bring a new road surface and free us. We drove onto the Buntine Highway and it got worse!! We were belted from pillar to post. No speed was satisfactory. No prayer worked.

We finally came upon Wave Hill, being the first town in NT across this way. As we entered we noted the electronic COVID signs that said, ‘Please report to the Wave Hill Police Station’. We didn’t, as an earlier phone call to the police let us know that the signs we just left up from last time the world had a COVID panic. They were not checking anyone, but if we felt like visiting we could drop in.

Our intended stop at Wave Hill was longer then anticipated. Puma and G-String had a few loose things that needed tightening. Trevor and Sue’s rig required the same attention. The road had taken its toll.

In a move of ultimate stupidity, Peter ventured over to the indigenous art gallery to have a look. Even more stupidly he let G know just how nice some of the art was. Within half an hour she had walked out with a genuine piece, having spoken to the artist and all. Bugger! Apparently it would go well with the Jabiru we picked up in Broome. Peter wondered if he need to put Puma into neutral on the down hills to save fuel, as he doubted at this rate if he would have enough money to get home.

Leaving Wave Hill we were greeted with a couple of hundred ks of bitumen. We got excited, then we got a reality check. For the most part the road was so old the road trains had dug two furrows into the surface making the trip a fight at the wheel like no other. It was almost ‘bring back the corrugations’.

We rolled into Top Springs late afternoon for a fuel splash and dash. At 2 dollars per litre we filled the least we needed before continuing on 30 odd ks to a lovely fly filled camp spot near a dry creek.

All in all as days go, today was high on the crap scale. After a relax and dinner under the stars we realised the crap scale had no bearing out here. We were blessed to be here with many others praying for the opportunity to swear at corrugations. We were now on the Buchanan Highway.