Author: downunderdefender

Today started off with a bang. We jumped out of bed to a morning that looked even more gloomy than yesterday. It had rained on and off during the night, but the wind saw us rocking like a drunken cowgirl on a mechanical bull.

The bang came at exactly 8.50am in the form of a Hyundai sedan deciding that ramming us in the rear of Puma was the WA sport for the day. They say other cars are Defender’s air bags. Well; it’s true! The Hyundai had a massive hole in its front courtesy of our towbar. It’s radiator was pushed back, and its bonnet stoved in considerably. Puma, ha, just a flesh wound. Not even a scratch on the tow ball cover could be seen. No injuries to anyone. We swapped names etc and headed off.

G was just on time for her hair appointment, whilst Peter returned to the van to do some study. About two hours later, G was set free from the blow drier and the day was ours. Her cut was exceptional. Even Peter could see this one was out of the box. He wondered the ongoing cost of G flying to WA every few weeks for a hair appointment though.

We dropped into the Esperance Information Centre for some information on the tourist drive we had heard so much about. The local lady with the strong American accent provided us with a map and comment on the much-anticipated Pink Lake. “When you get to here,” she drew on the map, “you might as well turn around and come back because the Pink Lake has not been pink for fifteen years. This other one over here is trying to be pink but isn’t.”

Peter was as flat as a cold pancake. His reason for visiting Esperance was to photograph the pink lake at sunset. The stunning image he envisioned would show a distinct line between the normal blue water and the algae coloured pink water meeting it. It would be a showstopper. All we could do was laugh.

We headed south along the coastline, directed by brown tourist signs pointing out each remarkable point of interest. Some were, some weren’t. The coastline however was beyond stunning. At each new bay the blistering wind and massive seas smashing against the headlands provided a show you’d pay good money for at the Brisbane Ekka. We just could not get enough of it. The bitter cold each time we got out of the car was worth every bit of discomfort. There is no way words or photos could do justice to our experience.

We motored on, deciding to do the whole tourist loop and not turn back prior to Pink Lake. We encountered point of interest number 14, or maybe it was 15, being a road leading up to a wind farm. With thoughts of our travelling friend Trevor, who desperately wants a wind turbine for his back yard, we admired the enormity of humankind’s engineering achievements towards building such a massive, overtly expensive, hard to dispose of, environmentally irresponsible thing to farm wind. After all, our experience showed Esperance had enough wind to last a lifetime. Why create a farm to make more?

We arrived shortly thereafter at Pink Lake. Immediately our attention was drawn to the sign the said, ‘Why is the Pink Lake not Pink’. We nearly rolled out of Puma laughing. This is the number one tourist attraction in Esperance. It has a road named after it. It has a caravan park named after it. But it doesn’t exist. The great train robbery had nothing on this heist!

After meeting the friendliest magpie we had ever encountered who hitched a ride on Puma’s bullbar, we plugged on to a glass recycling studio. In simple terms, a lady, whose name will one day be randomly remembered, grabs old bottles, torches them a bit till they melt, cuts the top off them, then charges heart attack prices for you to take them home and never use them. G bought one.

Back in town we decided a few hours at rest was a good way to spend the afternoon. Later we headed into town to the Fish Face restaurant. A quirky little place on a corner that doesn’t look much from the outside. On the inside, the outside is reflected. The food however is something else. As has been the norm for all of our trip in SA and WA, the fish was superb. It was however, soundly beaten by the sticky date pudding for dessert. No words, just no words. We devoured it like it was our last meal. Back at the van Peter studied for a few hours, now trying to work out how to change human behaviour through systems thinking, modelling and whatever else put him to sleep before he finished it.

Occasionally the weather bureau has a great day. All of the clouds, rain, hail and wind align to produce a carbon copy of their predictions. Today was such a day. We enjoyed a windy, rainy night to be greeted by a more windy, rainy morning, that was ice cold with some tiny hail thrown in. We were not deterred. We were going to enjoy Esperance no matter what.

Heading eastish, we pointed our noses towards Cape Le Grande National Park and Lucky Bay. Apparently these destinations are the very best Esperance has to offer. The run out flew by, with a stunning, English like countryside of green pasture, dotted with some of the cleanest sheep you would ever see.

A turn to the right had us on the Cape Le Grande Road. Things became slightly hilly, before huge little mountains started to emerge across the landscape. We entered the National Park after paying our fees at the personless pay station. Soon we turned left toward Lucky Bay, but first were presented with a magically view of Frenches Peak. This character filled mountain to our left, dominated the landscape. On a drier day we would definitely have taken the walk to its peak to lookout at the world through the huge hole in its southern face.

We headed further into the park following the signs to Rossiter Bay. That was until the road turned to sloppy wet gravel filled with bone jarring corrugations. We did not feel like being cold, wet and shaken today, so turned around.

Lucky Bay was………frankly there are few words to describe it. Perhaps the most beautiful bay we have ever seen. The foreground is occupied by a perfectly shaped, half moon bay, with beautiful blue water lapping pure white sand. The background is filled with multiple castaway islands completing a postcard view that would be difficult to beat anywhere.

Reluctantly leaving the bay we headed over to the other little bay that is near Lucky Bay. We were again left speechless as to the beauty of the area and the power of its violent sea smashing rocks. We got wet again.

The journey home was filled with conversation as to how beautiful the national park was, how lucky we were to be able to enjoy it in Australia, and how nice the tea would be back at the van.

We decided on a late lunch in town, but not before G visited a lovely little shop with a novelty feel in a weird little village setup just near the main street. She left with new boots and some whacky pants that look really nice. The lady serving us was a long-term resident who has worked with her husband on a grain farm until recently. Now the kids are gone she is enjoying a more creative outlet in her shop.

We eventually feasted on fresh roast chicken and even fresher bread for lunch back at the van. What a magnificent choice. Simple, cheap, warm and filling. Perfect.

Our afternoon was spent doing not much. We excelled at doing it as the wind and rain continued. Tomorrow we intend to go to the Pink Lake to see if it really is pink or just a pigment of our imagination.

The camp overnight was outstanding. As quiet as a mouse, with gentle rain on the van roof meant a sound and peaceful night sleep. Geneviève and her friend Annette phoned to discuss the ever-developing COVID situation, as Annette was wither husband Bernie in Broome. A few laughs at the inevitability of never seeing our loved ones again and being stuck as permanent residents of the west, set the day off to a good start. We were in no good hurry today as Annette had already looked at the BOM website and could tell us Esperance was probably going to flood like its sister Albany, with maybe some hail thrown in for good measure.

We imagined a holiday without drama. The holiday moments where things go pear shaped are the ones we talk about for years to come. What fun would a holiday without drama be?

We arrived in Esperance in good time to a dreary day. Completing a lap of the town, we eventually found our van park to the north of the town on the esplanade overlooking a lovely bay full of grain ships.

The afternoon was spent grocery shopping, lunching and finding a haircut for Peter. For his $28 Peter received far more than a haircut. He had lucked upon the town barber who had been in business in the same shop for more than 30 years. She was a fountain of knowledge about all things Esperance. Peter enjoyed the experience of not having to talk for 45 minutes. He listened intently, before deciding that Esperance was probably like any other small town with its characters, local influences and family histories.

At about 3.30pm the rain started and kept going. It shows no sign of stopping any time soon. Maybe a run for Kalgoorlie is on the cards?

We always intended to head off early this morning as we had well over 500km to travel. With all the times zones playing havoc with our phones, we think we hit the road at about 7am Western Australian time. It could, however, have been Western Australian border time, or South Australian time. Who knows, it was ridiculously cold, so we are favouring 7am.

Today was always going to be a bit boring. Not much other than the Madura Pass brought interest to our day. It was just set Puma on 90ish, watch for B-Triples mowing us down, letting them past and continuing on. But wait, there was the sign saying ‘90 mile straight’. Yes that’s right, 146 km without a corner. Thank God there were a hill or two! Actually, prior to this point we did comment about the amount of corners we had encountered. It is not a set and forget journey at all.

We stopped for lunch at Balladonia. The lovely gentleman behind the counter was fluent in seven languages. His eight was English. Standing back watching G order a Bacon and Egg sandwich, steak burger, coffee and tea was quite the comedy interlude. Funnily enough the bacon and egg was scrumptious, as was the burger. The tea was largely donated to thirsty ants.

Latte afternoon we rolled into Norseman being the official end of the Nullarbor. The Welcome to Norseman triangular arch at the entrance to the town did nothing for our expectations. It was faded beyond repair, covered in poor standard graffiti with the surrounds un-mown. The service-station was just one small step above the quality of the sign. Thankfully it was in stark contrast to the town centre that was green, beautifully manicured and just plain nice.

Our day ended at a camp beside the quarantined dam, 37km south of Norseman. Off the road, in a flat level camp area, it turned out to be a winner.  Tomorrow we head to Esperance for a few days rest. The weather radar tells us it might be a bit of an experience. The words, heavy rain and gale force winds were bolded.

With the possibility of stunning images of the cliffs to be had in early morning light, Peter crawled out of bed to learn a new level of cold. No wind was needed for effect. This was just pure cold. The stuff that’s gets in your toes, travels up your legs and infests every part of your body in less than five minutes. From then on its just miserable suffering.

As the sun tire to wake up so did the world in front of the lens. The cliffs set the backdrop but were by no means the stars they were anticipated to be. Instead the small green bushes clinging to a meagre existence on the ragged cliffs’ edge became the focus point. 50 minutes later Peter could no longer push the shutter. His hands were incredibly painful, and his photographic spirit beaten down by the elements.

The remainder of the troop poked their heads out much later to confirm what a beautiful day it was bathed in sunshine! Soon we were pointed west yet again on the Eyre Highway towards Border Village. Nothing much changed as it came to scenery. We dropped in on a few more cliffs, said our ooohs and aaahs and continued on. We noted a group of about ten vans clambered together atop a cliff at one point. We agreed it would have been a good camp spot, be reckoned ours the previous night made it look decidedly lame.

At border village we stopped at the Shell service station for a very good coffee, excellent raison toast and a yarn to the staff. It turns out the 30 something lady behind the counter was from Victoria (we prayed for her). She was travelling to WA with her mining partner but had to quarantine before she jumped the border. With not much to do in Border Village she took a job at the servo and intends to stay there. Similarly the managers are a young couple from Newcastle who took a year contract. They love it. In their words, we are making so much money it’s ridiculous!

Before moving the 50 m to the border we rid ourselves of honey, vegetables and most other things we humans eat. The crossing was seamless, if not thorough. We were COVID checked, fruit and veg checked, licensed checked. All of the checking staff were fantastic people wanting to have a yarn, to as they called it, decent people. We laughed that we had gotten into and out of entire countries with less formality. 

We arrived in Eucla not long afterward. We fuelled up at 18 cents per litre cheaper than the border servo, before driving and walking to the old Telegraph Station and jetty. We may have done a few more steps then necessary on the way back as the track was not at all easy to find.

Onwards we marched. The road now turned away from the coast. Actually the road was straight. It was the coastline that turned south making us appear to be further inland. Consequently, we had nothing to look at other than small stumpy trees and bushes. Occasionally, the advisory signs depicting the feral animals you will most likely hit on your journey appeared. The animals depicted changed with the environment. At some points we had camels, roos and emus. At others, roos, wombats, emus. And at one, roos, emus and the NSW origin team.

By later afternoon we had not made our intended destination of 47 km west of Madura. The going had been slow with a bit of a head wind and dwindling motivation. Just on dusk we swung into camp 24 just of the highway, made a fantastic fire, talked for hours and hit the hay.

Leaving one of the best camp spots so far, overlooking a green paddock with a stunning sun rise, we chugged back out to the Eyre Highway headed ever west.

After about a hundred kilometres or so we hooked left into Fowlers Bay. We knew with all knowing that this place was the jewel in the South Australian crown. U-Tube raved about it, tourist brochures said it was a ‘don’t miss’, grandmothers who had never been there had it on their bucket list and all roads led to it. Well glory be, Fowlers by name, totally fowl by nature. Collectively we could not come up with enough adjectives to describe this place. Almost completely devoid of humans. Had it never seen a broom or a face lift?. Even the town jetty was falling down.

Being committed to spending our dollars in struggling communities we braved the coffee shop. G and Sue went to the door that clearly had two horizontal arrows depicted upon it. They tried to slide it. Not a chance. They tried everything, calling on their experience in getting into dress shops with all manner of entrances. No hope. Just as they had given up a holler from within broke the days silence. “The knob, the knob” it shouted. The girls turned around to finally see hidden by stale plastic blinds, a doorknob that required turning. The arrows were just to tell you where the knob was. By now the girls were in fits, the owner of the voice was forever known as Mr Knob. The raison toast and coffee that followed were indeed very good. Mr Knob turned out to be a nice guy. Mrs Knob more so, exuding a pleasantry not often encountered these days.

We left Fowlers Bay traipsing our way across low lying areas filled mostly with still water and land for sale signs. It was actually pretty picturesque. G wanted a picture. Peter pulled Puma off to the left in what was for all intents and purposes a well-used pull off spot. As he turned he realise Puma had lost all steering. Her momentum suffered a similar blow. The mighty beats was sinking fast. A slap back to second gear and a boot full of throttle managed to get the unit back onto solid roadway moments before a fate worse than death; having to spend even longer in Fowlers Bay waiting to get pulled out of a bog.

Next stop along the Eyre Highway was the Head of Bight whale watching and interpretive centre. Our $16 per person entry fee allowed us to walk to the end of a grand wooden walkway in the hope of seeing a Southern Right Whale. Thankfully our gamble paid off and we saw about eight of them. It could have been two of them four times, who would know. We spend a fair amount of time at this spot as the whales are completely mesmerising.  The rugged coastline also added to the wonderful experience.

With the next major fuel stop over 200km away Peter decided to top up to be sure at the Nullarbor Roadhouse. We had heard this place was on the dear side for fuel. When everywhere else was hovering around the $1.40 mark, we expected this may be $1.50 or a bit better per litre. Peter and G are still recovering from acute onset of fuel price induced stroke. $1.97 was the going rate! We really did not expect this till the Great Central Road two weeks away. We put in just enough to get us through to Border Village tomorrow.

CB conversation led us to agree a good overnight camp would be the Bunda Cliffs. These are the ones you see in all the tourist brochures. Almost impossible to find, not being signposted, they are indeed fabulous. Their anonymity on the road map ensures that only those who have done their research know where they are. Thus, as little as six or so campers occupy a massive area right on top of those beautiful cliffs overlooking the Great Australian Bight. Just to top off the afternoon we arrived and saw up close a Southern Right Whale and calf. We didn’t have to pay $16 either.

Our intended afternoon drinks were interrupted by rain sending us scampering inside. We ate heartily tonight as tomorrow most of our vegetables have to be handed over to the WA authorities for it is not only COVID they panic about in the west.

Twenty to eight was the eyes open mark today after a long night of Peter being as sick as rabid dog and G trying her darndest to find a way to rid her life of rabid dogs.

Th weather was streaky as it appears to always be in Streaky Bay. One-minute lovely warmth filled sunshine, the next, Artic winds accompanied by pelting rain and misery. Off we headed about that o’clock towards Ceduna. The countryside was green, the sheep fat and the progress on par.

We dropped in to Perlubi Bay. It tried to live up to its incredible reputation for stunning beaches and quaint village feel but failed spectacularly. Reality was a small gathering of houses, with cranky locals (well they didn’t wave back did they) and scrubby beaches Qld would call Bribie Island.

Ceduna came into site. We all needed fuel so started on the lookout for a service station selling at a reasonable price. There were four such outlets. We noted three we completely unmanned, unwomaned, and unpersoned. We had to wonder what sort of town we had come to when even the servos aren’t game to open and say gidday.

Into town we went in search of cake. G found it in a bakery that had good reviews. Reality hit us in that the cake was awful. The quiche Lorraine and coffee were next level though. Served by fantastic staff, who only spilt one coffee, the service and food were all one could ask for in a town with no servos game to open!

We had a bit of a wander around, picked up some groceries at the very well stocked Foodland, dropped into the information centre for some local knowledge then wandered some more. We noticed that a long-abandoned car dealer still had a sign for GM being the long since buried original Holden business in Australia. General Motors Holden it appears is still part of our history even if it is in a town where its servos aren’t game to open.

Soon Trever and Sue headed west towards Cactus Beach where it was planned the evening would be spent. Peter and G lodged themselves on the foreshore as Peter endured yet another 90-minute mind drain doing human behaviour study online. The phone message from one of his fellow students depicting him holding a pair of scissors to his eye, said it all.

About 4pm we hit the road headed for Cactus Beach. We received a message from Sue to say Cactus Beach had lived up to its name and they were continuing on to a camp spot another 25 ks or so west. We plugged on limited to 80km/h, not by Puma’s immense power, but rather the longest roadworks we had ever seen.

We were blessed to see Koalas, Snakes and Windmills on this section. The windmills were part of the town of Panong’s tourist attraction leaving Ceduna and all it offered for dead. At about duskish we saw the camp spot a bit later than anticipated, however managed to exist stage right into the parking area in fourth gear at about 60km/h before finding a great camp just in front of Trever and Sue.

Wine, Milo and good company ensued as we discussed a revised trip plan that would see us having more time around the Great Central Road over the next couple of weeks as opposed to visiting the Margaret River area.

We look forward to tomorrow entering the Nullarbor proper.

The night was horrific. Rain belted Gstring from all angles, threatening to rip the paint off her sides. Wind was relentless, shaking the van worse than the keynote act at a Parkinsons convention.

For a brief period the day looked like it had promise. Then it rained again. About very late o’clock, we decided that come hell or high water we were going to see some seals and sea lions today. Soon we headed off to Point Labatt.

Upon arrival we were greeted with a short few moments of sunshine, a colony of sea lion and a few seals thrown in for effect. Not that any of them turned on a circus act or anything. Still, looking at an overgrown slug lie about almost motionless on the beach in the freezing wind has its alure. We were stunned by the magic of these creatures. Once they realised we were from Queensland, they began to interact. The big one taught a young one a few lessons in ‘don’t piss the old fella off’, whilst the seals went fishing all within 50 metres of our elevated position. This was special.

With seal and sea lion still pulsing through our veins we were attracted to Barid Bay where you are guaranteed to see seals. Baird Bay is a fraud. We got there, realised it was but a broken-down fishing village and saw the sign, ‘for seal tours drive up the beach 50 metres’. You heard it here first, Barid Bay has never seen a seal in its poor pathetic life. It is but a boat launching ramp to go around the headland to where we had seen them before! There was nothing left for us in Barid Bay save a visit to the toilet.

The afternoon was spent late lunching at Drift restaurant in Streaky Bay. Fantastic fish and calamari were the order of the day. A quick trip home to do some car and washing chores and that day was done.

The morning began with darkened skies. Black clouds filled all but a small corner of what was above. Our thoughts of going to see seals at Baird Bay dwindled quickly. The wind was up, and the day had little going for it.

Within half an hour the skies had cleared, the wind dropped, and the seals were odds on to get some visitors today. Within another 20 minutes the skies had changed to ink black. The wind made an instant return. The rain began to lash our vans and our hopes of seeing slippery little sea creatures vanished for the duration.

Peter and G braved the elements to head into town to pick up a few essentials and check out the bakery. The IGA was on par, the chemist just cleared the hurdle, the jetty was a cracker. A call to Trevor and Sue saw them join us in quick time for a pie and coffee at the bakery. The pie was a Broncos brand (you know, the one that tries hard but just isn’t up to first grade) washed down by some pretty decent coffee. Maybe a cake was in there somewhere as well given G was present.

G and Peter decided that no matter the weather they were seeing Streaky Bay. They headed off on one of two touristy loops. Puma hummed along, loving not having a Gstring attached, leading us to the whistling rocks and blow holes. The whistling rocks……no words! Given the weather, the sea was pounding the coastline. Tons of water smashed into small holes in the cliff face forcing air under extreme pressure up through cracks in the shelf above, causing a whistling sound, hence the name. We noted that the sound was particularly eerie. It was not a whistle as we know it, but rather that pshheeeewwtt sound a drunken aunty makes when she puts two fingers on her mouth to try to whistle at a wedding reception and the gathered crowd isn’t sure which end the noise emanated from.

We walked against gale force winds across the headland to the blow holes. We thought that today these attractions would be working some magic. Alas they would simply be known just as holes. There was no blow to be seen or heard.

On we choofed, dropping into every little track that led towards the sea. One such track took us to Cape Bauer. The bar jumped a notch or two here. We had seen heaps of high jagged cliffs by now, however this one was more stunning. With views of the violent ocean we chatted about the chances of survival if the cliff top was to collapse. None was the going bet for the day.

The Granites caught our eye. We wish they hadn’t. By the time we got out of the car, dropped down 20 odd stairs, asked ourselves ‘is that them,’ and returned, we were wet. Cold and wet. The remainder of the drive demonstrated that the countryside on the peninsular is quite stunning. Green pastures roll down steep inclines to meet the sea. At times there is no beach or sand dunes. Even the massive radio towers contrasting against the sky provided a quality backdrop to our adventures.

We arrived back late afternoon to endure an horrific night. The wind was howling all night. It rocked the van continuously only eclipsed by the rain seemingly stripping paint off Gstring.

Peter studied till stupid o’clock further convincing himself that full time behavioural science academics need a good camping holiday in the Simpson desert to grasp reality. There really is no good reason to create a theory for why some people are stupid. They just are!! We hope that tomorrow is fine and lovely. The weather radar would have us believe otherwise with the entire country clear except for Streaky Bay.

Peter was up early today for a bit of exercise on the gymnastic rings. As he began he managed to wake almost everyone in the conservation park as well. Noticeably no one raced out of their slumber to join him in an uplifting start to the morning.

Just before breakfast (about 9am) G and Peter went for a bit of a beach walk. They were gifted one of natures’ true joys. A pod of about 12 dolphins of all sizes swam the shoreline feeding on small fish. They danced, they surfed, they sped like lightning; entertaining us for about 20 minutes. We walked away a bit empty for they had filled those precious moments with incredible joy.

Back at camp, Henry was up and looking for a pat. He filled us with joy in his own way and is turning out to be the best little travelling companion.

We head out late morning to enjoy a few chosen stops on the coastline. First off was Woolshed Cave. Holy spectacular ocean cave Batman! Hidden underneath the car park, perched on the cliffs edge, was a massive cave. From within the world was framed by its roof line allowing a focused view of the stunning ocean beyond.

We roamed the cave, marvelled at the rock formations along the coast bringing brilliant colour to our day and wondered the powered of the ocean as it relentlessly pounded the cliffs.

We plugged on at Puma speed. We floated over corrugations with Gstring clinging on gamely. Port Kenny came into view. Within 3.61 seconds our assessment had Port Kenny leaving our view. We continued on.

A call on the radio from Sue, at a seemingly innocuous driveway on a backroad, had us turning into Murphy’s Haystacks.  Another wow moment. In the middle of a mundane paddock on a mundane hill in the middle of nowhere was a group of rocks. These were not your average ricks though. They were big buggers. Standing 10 or so metres above the earth they took on a multitude of colours, shapes and sizes. The story goes that a truck driver called Murphy saw them, so they became Murphy’s rocks. We reckon they were shrapnel from the Maralinga atomic bomb testings a few hundred k’s north in the 50s. Either way the area is now maintained by the property owners for the enjoyment of the public.

Late afternoon we rolled into the Islands Caravan Park 6ks north of Streaky Bay. Well my goodness. Imagine a van park with the toilets having your own little ensuite for each cubicle. That’s right, shower, toilet and basin in the one room. This place was next level. We spent the afternoon sitting in our chairs watching the sun set over a perfectly still ocean before enjoying a pretty fantastic apricot chicken for dinner.

Peter completed a uni assignment before falling sound asleep……….or was that the other way around?