Category: Adventures

Not every day you wake up to howling wind, spitting icicles and temperatures reflecting a permafrost. In Broken hill apparently you do. We packed up as quick as we could, noting that our neighbours had a grey water hose that was frozen causing no end of problems to the owners trying to curl it up into a bag.

Hitting the road about eight we traversed a town just starting to wake up. Kids walking to school had their heads draped in hoodies, hands in pockets demonstrating a gait that had little to do with enthusiasm and not a hint of a smile. How could we blame them? Learning in these conditions would be hell.

A quick call to Peter’s mum had us reassured that her trip to hospital last night was just precautionary and part of life for a 92-year-old. We did however contemplate the most direct route from Broken Hill to Roma, just in case.

We soon entered South Australia, took the obligatory photo at the border, and continued on. At the fruit fly inspection check point near the town of Oodla Wirra, G had to let go of her favourite tomatoes and a cucumber. Stricken with fruit loss grief we battled on. Coffee and a scrumptious toasted bacon and egg sandwich in Peterborough brought happy thoughts back to our world. It was not without its funny moments, however. We reckon the well-meaning lady in the café called us lovelies, pet, love, and darlings at least 367 times within half an hour. The first 200 were endearing; the rest………thank God Peter did not have his Glock handy!

Port Augusta came and went with only one half-hearted ooh and maybe an aah as we crossed the bridge. The KFC did bring back memories from about 2001, being the last time we saw it and ate our fill within. This time it remained the one G and Pete rejected.

The road to Wyalla was a battle with the wind and rain. Puma suffered as she did her best to drag Gstring through the inclement weather. An overtaking B-double was a Godsend enabling us to tuck in behind and take advantage of the wind break he provided.

Soon enough we arrived in Wyalla. Setting up in the van park by the sea was like trying to eat scrambled eggs in a wind tunnel. Stuff was flying everywhere, and our composure was less than elegant. G assured Peter it was nice and warm inside the van!

In an act of stupidity, we decided it was high time we went for a walk. The highlight was we didn’t get wet. The wind smashed us as we walked along the Wyalla foreshore towards the beautiful jetty. We both took note of a more than reasonable number of cars that arrived, parked for a short time next to another car, then drove off. Maybe it was the Wyalla way of greeting your neighbour because it’s too cold to get out of the car, but the sceptic in this duo thought maybe there was an exchange of goods going on. Probably the Wyalla barter system at work.

The jetty is a cracker. Not unreasonably long, it is dissected by a round lit section that sings in the wind. Today it sang a beautiful song as darkness descended upon us. We took some images, decided the icicles attached to our noses needed attention and head back to the van. On the way Peter noticed the occupants of two of the parked cars previously seen, were now in the back seat of one car. The Wyalla barter system at work no doubt! Dinner was an amazing soup concocted by G in short time.

With warm tummies we sat listening to the wind outside and finally realised bed was an attractive option.

Not often we have ever slept in past 7am. Today we did just that. Maybe it was a combination of the van being totally dark and the cold dictating being cuddled up under a doona. Whatever it was we were off to a very late start to the day.

Touching 11am we headed out to have a look at the Pro Hart gallery. Not being a paid member of the art appreciation society, we thought we may be swimming out of our lane. Nothing could be further from the truth. This bloke can actually paint! His art appears to have meaning, and it is completely entertaining to view and interpret. We reckon he might be famous one day.

Being in the same general area was the sculptures on the hill. Not sure this one has the same connection to our great country as did Pro Harts creations. If one was to be totally objective it appears someone got a government grant, paid a few stone hackers to chisel some sandstone and whacked them on top of a hill to create a tourist attraction where there was none. It worked. In a weird freezing cold, pelting rain sort of way, we enjoyed it. We met Bill and Bob (not their real names) atop the hill. They told us of all their African photographic adventures, not missing one we’re sure. Tired and beaten we headed back.

A visit to the information centre pointed us to Silverton. This place is a cracker. Full of galleries, old tumbled down buildings, Mad Max memorabilia and those sneaky individuals escaping life. The pub grub was outstanding. Being a true connoisseur of all things Parmigiana, Peter rated lunch as up there with the top few percent of that ever experienced. One escapee, full of local knowledge, told us that the pub does 400 meals every day of the year. Interesting where good money can be made.

The late afternoon was spent again freezing at the miner’s memorial atop the highest hill in Broken Hill. This is a sombre place made more so by the darkening clouds and spitting rain. The price paid in human life to reap the earths riches is difficult to comprehend.

Back at camp we flew through some housekeeping before Peter started some university work on human behaviour. Sleep came easily!

This morning was cold. Windy and cold. We packed early, having now gotten into a bit of a routine. Fairly straight forward with Peter rising early to make G a cup of tea in bed. Breakfast followed by a few checks, and we are off.

We knew today would be boring as the map showed but few corners in an otherwise straight few hundred ks to the mining giant of Broken Hill. As the kilometres wore on we discovered some beautiful little beast called fantails. Bright yellow with speckles of black resembling the letters of the alphabet upon their bodies, they were quite the site. Indeed, they were scrumptious. Thank God we got the big packet for they are definitely an endangered species.

Cold mornings bring on predictable bodily reactions. So, like it or not we had to call into the lovely roadside amenities about 50 km east of Wilcannia. Ominous was the wet paint sign, yet it did nothing to hide the hell hole within. It was a short stop that took our breath away for some hours afterward.

We stopped in Wilcannia for a coffee at the great little coffee house we had visited last time we were through. It was closed. On we went.

The artic wind was rising fast, becoming stronger as each kilometre passed. Puma was making really hard work of the trip and guzzling fuel like never before. We arrived in one piece at Broken Hill just on lunch time. Our plans to head into town for a lovely cup of Wilcannia coffee were put on hold as we again entered the ring with Telstra. This time it was a cage fight and G was in the cage. Oh, poor Telstra!

The afternoon was spent doing the things you just have to do on a trip. Things like tidying up around the van parked in the saddest spot in the Lakeview Caravan Park that is not within a year of a lake. We think it’s Landrover thing. Maybe we can add the letter ‘L’ to the list of those discriminated against and march upon parliament for no good reason.

With news of a cold front about to descend upon us over the next day or so, we are preparing to hunker down. Still, we will try and check out the Pro-Hart Gallery, Silverton, the big rocks on the hill and the mine lookout. Should be a treat in 70-km/h winds with rain added for effect.

Waking well before daylight we realised that Jobs Gate rest area was just as sparse in the morning as it was at night. Still, it had served a purpose and we were soon underway towards Bourke.

We noted that the road was straight, the cattle were fat, the goats were fat, and the roos were nowhere to be seen. We did however, come across one really big goat. As we slowed for a couple of cute little kids (goat kids, not human kids) checking out the centre of the road, a huge billy goat came over the horizon flat out. He was clearly not happy. Peter flashed his headlights to warn him that he was about to skittle two innocent kids, but to no avail. He ploughed on towards us, tempting doom.

In seconds the billy goat in his Landcruiser ute had passed. He missed us and the two littluns by mere inches. In fact, Peter was convinced it was just one inch, as G raised her finger to indicate same to billy goat as he flew by. Yes, goats are pests and a declared feral species. Billy’s deliberate attempt to kill them with his ute though was pure idiot, eroding our faith in decency. Perhaps he a member of the NSW Origin team.

Bourke was Bourke. We fuelled up and continued to Cobar.

This is one town that belies its reputation. Known for everything bad, it again impressed us with its services, cleanliness, and quaint persona. Whilst fuelling in Cobar, Peter noticed a bloke in a Ford Ranger towing a caravan. He was reefing his bull bar back and forth. It looked, let’s say, unstable. Peter jokingly offered him an Ocky strap to fix it. He turned and said in a very frustrated tone, “I can’t believe I just did that. I drove in here and drove straight into the post over there. I didn’t even see it. I’m going to Alice. I won’t %$%^& make it if I keep this up.” Peter made sure he laughed with his newfound mate, not at him. It was bloody funny!

Road works were the highlight of the afternoon. They were not fantastic roadworks; however, they broke the boredom of long straight roads as we headed towards Wilcannia with no intention of camping within 50 km of that inland icon. We set up shop at Baden Something rest area, settling in for a quite night among the short stubby trees just of the highway.

Puma had performed well today. She is pulling like a train on the hills and Gstring is tenaciously hanging on like; dare we say it, a Gstring. All is good in the mechanical world, yet not that good we don’t say a little Landrover prayer each night before hitting the hay.

Day Two: Chinchilla to Cunnamulla or thereabouts.

We woke following a fitful night’s sleep assisted from our slumber by the six o’clock workers heading out of town at about five. Our position, beside the stunning weir complete with its now nearly frozen old Pelicans coincided with the natural gear change from forth to fifth for a Landcruiser under hard acceleration.

Peter headed off to the weir again to take some more images, hoping the morning light may spin some magic. Try as he might, this icon of the outback kept her secrets well hidden amongst the pelican poo and rotting timber, lapped by smelly water.

At about eightish we clambered aboard Puma and headed southwest towards Meandarra. After a short while we pulled left, waited for a road train to pass, executed a U-turn, and headed back to the road that headed southwest towards Meandarra!

Nothing much eventuated that required us to rip out a post card and post it back home, although two roos sprinted across a little too close for comfort. As we drew breath and got back up to speed, their lone cousin, having seen the game, decided he would set the bar just that bit higher. He came from the right at ridiculous speed. He landed directly in front of the Landrover bonnet badge. Just when all reasonable assessment had him dead to rights, he lost footing, fell to his right side, and executed the most magnificent untouched slide into third base and headed for home.

St George appeared at about the time our bellies were screaming for lunch. We ate our fare beside the beautiful Ballone River adjacent to immaculately manicured park lands. We tried to contact Telstra……………..

Onwards we marched toward Cunnamulla. We had some thoughts of making good ground and getting to Barringun by days end. Reality was the kilometres worn on slowly. Roads were not conducive to good averages and the distant cousins to the earlier roos decided to come have a look at Puma and Gstring pass by. Not to be outdone, their mates from the coat of arms turned up in all their feathered glory to keep us on edge.

Ultimately, we ended the day intact at Jobs Gate rest area, a decent weeks walk south of Cunnamulla. We arrived late, ate early, and fought another twelve rounds with Telstra, losing on a technical knockout as one bar of coverage just didn’t cut it.

Some brief conversations with fellow travellers revealed most were Victorians. Collectively they were escaping, COVID, the cold and the mouse plague. We feigned a genuine look of understanding, but quietly chuckled within for who in their right mind would live down there? Things will be quiet for a couple of days now as we will be off grid till Broken Hill.

Friday, 4th June 2021. We always new the morning would be manic. Dog to the kennel, last minute pick ups, jab in the backside at the doctor, final packing and last minute checks.

The aspirational set off time of 10.30 was just that. 11 came and went. 20 past the hour seemed just right.

Puma turned right out of the drive and headed for adventure accompanied by her new partner Gstring. The adventures of Puma and Gstring were about to begin. Begin they did.

Arriving in Eumundi, all of 20km away, we noted that Puma was performing admirably with a full head of steam. We were mighty proud and just a little impressed. As we pulled over to cram a bit more air into the airbags to make the ride a bit nicer, Puma let us know she indeed did have a full head of steam.

The steam billowed out from under the bonnet in what resembled a new borns first magnificent vomit. Following the steam was a grizzly green fluid spewing onto the tarmac below. The incredible sight was only eclipsed by Peter’s utterings at peak volume. His beautiful girl had let him down again!

But no. Puma had simply, in the most indignant way, let Peter know that he had over filled the radiator fluid earlier and she needed to rid her full belly of the excess. We headed off north to Gympie for our first stop to get a new radiator tank cap; just in case. We didn’t need it, however the warm feeling of assurance is now present. Who knows, we may be able to help a stricken Toyota owner out with our spare part.

Wondai came and went with nought but a quick wee to spark our interest. We turned west at Tingoora and set sail for Chinchilla. We were now far later than anticipated so had to drive Puma a bit harder than normal to make up a bit of time.

Through the ever rotten rolling hills Puma truly felt the weight of her new boy. When Peter asked her to give a bit more she was reluctant. She simply stood with a bemused look on her face and said “have you ever tried to pull a fully loaded Gstring up a long hot bitumen hill?” Peter had to admit that he had not a good deal of experience in that endeavour, hence a truce was called and we toddled on at Puma’s happy pace.

Late afternoon we arrived at Chinchilla Weir prepared for all the beauty the iconic stop over promised. If two broken down old Pelicans, a pathetic puddle and a huge slab of concrete is your heart pounding thing, this place delivers in spades. For the rest of us, it was a passible place to camp, but thats about it.

As usual G delivered a truly splendid dinner of special rissoles and exquisite mixed vegetables that went down a treat. Internet fighting was the entertainment of the evening. We fought with Telstra for a full 12 rounds before finally getting a sceptical points win and a hint of a signal. The epic battle weakened us extensively, so bed looked the goods with sleep being a fitting reward for a long day.