I leapt out of bed like a sprung sloth to head down to the lake and create a few iconic images. Truth was that the sunrise was a bit asthmatic and ochre cliffs were without colour. Returning half an hour later I realised G had taken herself to the showers for a long overdue hair wash and whatever else women do in there. After doing the same I still had no G back at the van.
Then out of the amenities block came my love. She was obviously not freshly showered with the only steam visible coming from her ears. A not happy G is a site to behold. Choosing listening as the appropriate communication strategy, I quickly learned that despite my piping hot shower, the same was ice cold on the opposite side of the wall, despite the same hot water system being utilised.
With duty calling, I entered the ladies showers, turned the mixer tap to the opposite side and was able to provide G with a steaming hot shower! Until it didn’t. Ice was the description. G came back a beaten woman, wondering just what she had to do to get a dribble of hot water. Apparently washing your hair in icy cold water is quote “as f&*^%d up as the Hema”. We did not discuss this matter further.
After a quick look around the lake CBD we choofed off towards Hillston. Well that is where the combination of Hema and Landrover mapping took us. Arriving in the hamlet via the Lachlan Valley Way, we fell in love instantly. What a special little place with quaint old shops, a charm that is hard to find and another lovely lady who struggled with the concept of making tea. She did however master producing cold raison toast!
On we went towards Booligal entering the flood plain area where wheat crops grew aplenty. We were on gravel road for the most part yet barely ran under 80km/h. Panther was in its element and G-string found her groove just nicely.
Booligal led us to Hay. Hay, known for its ferocious winds on the plains surrounding it was the epitome of a welcoming country town. Beautiful old buildings surrounded by magnificent gardens and some quirky elements thrown in. The food stood out with G’s caramel tart and fresh cream being top of the crop.
We had intended to camp somewhere within about 50 km of Mildura dependent upon how we were travelling in the late afternoon. I made a right knob of myself when I asked G what crop was growing on our left. She announced without hesitation it was Jojoba. Asking how in the world she knew that, thinking she had been taking horticulture classes behind my back, she announced, “I read the sign you dick”. I chose to wonder in silence at the remainder of the agricultural experiences for the rest of the day.
Offering remote camping beside the river just 20km out of Mildura, our chosen camp spot looked the goods. As we approached a potential turnoff guided by ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’, we looked left to see the beast had done it again. We were past the point before it appeared on the map. Our never turn back philosophy deployed. We continued on ultimately ending up in a second hand caravan park on the river at Mildura.
All in all not a bad day. We covered huge ks, were tired but satisfied we were breaking the back of the long journey towards the Eyre Peninsular.
Out at a reasonable time, we chose to pick our way around the tourist spots of this great town. An old phone box and a tumbling café later, we were off.
Within moments ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’ was on the field and making an impact. At one stage we had that beast, the car mapping system and Miss Google all arguing which way to go, spitting out directions like a drunken auctioneer.
We decided to follow the big green road sign that said Coonamble 83.
Arriving by some grace of god at Coonamble, we reckoned it was a really nice place with stunning old buildings, a convenient wee spot and a good feel. It rated just over halfway up the ‘would we come and visit again’ ladder.
Ploughing on to Warren (the town, not a bloke we know) we fuelled up at Uncle Somefellas servo before skipping over the river into town for a coffee.
The poor soul. She was still wearing the graduation robes from the South-Western NSW University of Useless Contributions to Society. She had flown through her classes leaving all others in her wake. Cup, tea bag, water; it’s not that hard. Oh yes it is!! We endured the worst tea and coffee of the new millennium.
Not to be outdone by her refreshment making skills, her advice that the amazing town gallery three doors up was a must visit, would have been brilliant…….had it been open. Her potential is unlimited.
We skulked out of Warren vowing only to return for funerals of close friends and weddings with a guaranteed good feed.
Rounding the right hand corner as we slowed into town it smacked us squarely in the face. Holy stunning silos Batman. This was the most outstanding piece of silo art we had ever seen. Positioned perfectly so it is the first thing you see entering Tottenham, there were not words. Depicting primarily a massive Goanna, the detail was so lifelike, we swore it had a heartbeat .
Having been traveling the Bogan highway to this point we wondered where they all were. Funny how a small town can serve up in bucket loads. Whilst eyeing the silo, I also spotted the allusive creature in all her worldly class posing in the main street. She looked so lonely I decided to give her a ride.
Scooting through Tullamore, sighing at yet more beautiful old buildings, we made haste to Condoblin as the day was drawing short. Condoblin is a smashing town. Kept to perfection by the local council and home to one of Australia’s biggest Ute Musters, it boasts a new multi-million dollar information centre soon to be opened, and a lovely tasteful memorial to fallen jockeys.
The real attraction however is the long line of holden utes decorated in a myriads of ways reflecting icons of the country. Condoblin is way up the ladder of re-visits.
With our friendly mapping device giving us one last bad piece of advice, we u-turned just out of Condoblin headed for Lake Cargelligo. This destination was a chance find. Planned originally just because the name sounded cool, it is a jewel in the west for NSW.
The natural lake is massive. As in really big massive. The town sits perched on its banks providing a truly idyllic setting rivalling anything in Warren for sure. We found the van park, walked the lake, relaxed and did not much.
I think tomorrow we may leave late and not go too hard. This holiday thing is starting to seem quite ok.
Oh my, how good is sleep when your head is not consumed with ‘what do I have to do at work next week?’. The night was cold, the doona was warm and the morning coffee just right. It might take a while for the internal alarm to reset though as we were wide awake to long before 5am!
First sign was a white flash in my right hand mirror. A sedan of minimalistic proportions had begun its overtaking manoeuvre. The chrome bulbar on the Kenworth towing a B-Triple trailer shone brightly with the afternoon sun reflecting magnificently, creating its own light. The outfit was a stunning site as it trundled towards us at a good clip.
No matter the two lane road, a B-Triple, Landrover towing a van and a tiny white car don’t fit. If something didn’t happen now, the Forensic Investigators would write; “White car on incorrect side of the road hit head on with Kenworth, being then driven backwards into a Black Landrover. Pick the number of dead!
As it happened the gods gave me just enough time to see the brain dead fool, jag left off the road and brake hard allowing the last ten inches of space he needed to splice the gap between the Kenworth and us.
Only once before have we come so close to not coming home under our own steam. Shaken but not stirred! I congratulated the truckie via CB on his efforts of avoidance, he returned the sentiment. We both thought the car driver was a dick. G described him more appropriately. I think he may have worked for Hema!
So the day ended poorly yet started quite nicely. We snuck out of Cooyar at about 8.30am trying not to wake the growing group of motorhome owners, all headed to the Dalby muster. As we left the town we noticed a massive horse event day in the making at the showgrounds. The population of Cooyar had multiplied. One suspected in good country style as the grog flowed into the following night, the population had again multiply with the worldwide shortage of swags taking hold.
As predicted ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’ lived up to its reputation. Working perfectly for the first hour or so, it then pulled Pilates move, pointed it’s butt to the sky and blew nothing but hot air. For a moment G decided it needed to go out the window. Thank god it was shut, and the box of death lived another day.
About Millmerran, ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’ jumped from the grave and put on a faultless performance for the rest of the day if you can excuse about four wrong turns into the middle of somewhere.
With a keen eye upon getting back into the car after a fuel stop, G announced she had seen a snake under her seat. She was reasonably sure it was a green tree snake. She was not sure though. Being the good husband, but completely inexperienced snake catcher, I launched into action. None of this long wire thing to twist the snake around. No, it was bare hands for this wildlife warrior.
Tension built; within but a few seconds I had eyed the culprit and with hands as swift as lighting, bagged the little beauty. He would never again terrorise the Landrover. He was yummy and just what I needed for a snack.
Goondiwindi came and went, as did lunch in a town that closes down on a Sunday. We entered NSW and promptly forgot all about day light saving time bouncing along in good time towards our goal.
We slid through Moree, Narrabri and ended up in the Pilliga Forest. Well almost. We realised our mate from the Hema camp had got it wrong again. Still, all the years my dear old dad spoke of the Pilliga Scrub now meant something despite it now having an evolved name moving form Scrub to Forest. It appeared to still be a large area of stunted trees desperate for a cup of water.
Biggest speed sign ever. Lucky we were 19 under
The last 60 odd kilometres were sprinkled with some good dirt road. We marvelled at the way Puma silenced the corrugations and just powered on until………..”Roos”. The call went out instantly making the speed drop until we entered the town of Pilliga.
The chicken Snitz and chips at the pub was….. Well we were pretty hungry so a toasted cheese on cardboard would have gone done OK.
We ate, said hello to ‘dog’ who had seen far too many litters, and retired to a cooling night. Tomorrow is another big day. The holiday will start soon.
Unready. Maybe not a word, yet as sure as I draw breath it is a situation, feeling, state of being, reality. We were as unready for this long overdue holiday as we were for a quick case of diarrhea and a slap across the head with a blunt fish. Unready just did not do it justice.
Still fashioning the rear window stone protector at 6am out of $10 Bunnings corflute because I’m a cheapskate and could not bring myself to cough up $400 for the same commercial offering, the day already sucked. Car packing. Car re-packing. Nothing seemed to be saying get in Panther and drive.
Finally a bit after lunch o’clock we settled in and headed out. Actually it was just a bit after o’clock, because we did not get a chance to have lunch. That would be had at the ever reliable Tilley’s Café at Moore.
Arriving at Landsborough, the home of G-String, we noted she had gathered a bit of dust since last we met. Still, we packed her with goodies for the trip, hooked up and motored out via Beerwah, Peachester and Kilcoy. Fuelled up, we could almost smell the world’s best chippies at Moore, bubbling away in piping hot oil, just waiting for us.
By now we were already deep into snake country, with some of Allen’s short red, green and yellow ones going down a treat. Not not sure if there was a hole in the packer but the snakes seemed to escape pretty quickly.
We slowed, we stopped, we gasped. Our beloved Tilley’s was ‘closed for renovation’. Despair hit hard. No chips. Is there no god? With rumbling bellies we motored on.
We noted that Panther was pulling like a train today. Probably due to cool weather and damp air, the nectar diesels thrive upon. Similarly G-String was hanging in after a few twitches yet seemed to have found her comfortable place for the journey. All was well.
The Bunya Nut Café in Blackbutt stood in for Tilley’s and did a fair job. The 13 year old boy running the place cooked a two point above average burger and for G a pretty decent bacon and egg delicious. There is at least three less pigs in Blackbutt tonight given the amount of bacon he served up.
The feeling of freedom was present fleetingly before we decided to try to operate our third generation expensive Hema navigation system. Having been bitten by this creature twice before with our first many years ago being named ‘that F$&*%$g Hema’, followed by ‘that F$&*%$g Hema Junior’, a few years later, it did not take long for this new model to be christened ‘that F$&*%$g Hema the third’. Logic is simply not in the box. It’s a moody bugger, so tomorrow we expect it will work fine…..until it doesn’t.
Arriving in Cooyar at the Swinging Bridge campground we realised rain had not visited for a good time. The area was dry to the bone with dust becoming our friend. Still our usual spot up the back beside the nesting parroty looking birds, was again all ours. We parked, realised our van level was not, so levelled some more. All in all a fair day for a first on a long trip. With both of feeling the effects of maddening lives leading up to this break, we set the town on fire and were in bed fast asleep by 8pm.
Crawling out of bed at some ungodly hour just to make the weekend happen, was no fun. Peter and G had planned to head off from the coast at just a bit after ‘I have to get my hair done’ o’clock, so that meant a very early start for work.
Still, as 12.30 rolled around, we were on the road to pick up G-String but a few minutes away. We hooked up, packed few things in the fridge and marvelled at our luck that all the electrics were working just fine.
With our plan of travelling up over the Peachester Range to have a bite to eat at the lovely little café perched atop the mountain, working just brilliantly, until the café was closed, we boxed on to Kilcoy where we rounded up a reasonable pie with an apple turnover as a takeaway.
Trying out Gregors Creek Road for the first time, we marvelled at not much as we dipped and turned through some semi-lovely countryside. Popping out on the Brisbane Valley Highway, before turning right at Toogoolawah and heading west. We were arguably on track, on time on budget as the saying goes.
The road west of what normally is a ‘burnt brown, wouldn’t feed a dry log’ area was deliciously green. Fat cattle everywhere. Our conversation turned to how genuinely picturesque it all was. Until…
Peter could not but chuckle. The moment he saw her he had visions of Chuppa Chupps. Wrong in every sense, but so eloquently descried, she stood alone on the side of the road with stumpy legs, a more than rotund middle and an ‘I’m not happy with you’ smile on her face. She held a stop sign for effect. We had pulled up at road works. Our new friend Chuppa marched over.
Introducing herself with the words, “Have you ever been here before”, we acknowledged we had been, however many years earlier. In the next couple of minutes we learned that we had not seen the sign at the highway and the top of the hill telling us the road was not suitable for Trucks, Trailers or Caravans. In the uncomfortable silence that followed Chuppa melted, called her buddy on the radio and we were off uphill, on a gravel road a fully loaded road train would have been proud to call its own.
Cresting the hill at an intersection, we were faced with a magnificent sign of more than generous proportions. It read ‘Not suitable for Trucks, Trailers or Caravans’. Well, what an intelligent assistant Chuppa had been. There was indeed a sign at the top of the hill, we just had not got to it yet!
After a 26.3 point turn we bumped along a road to the right that eventually took us completely around the mountain and into Crows Nest. After the obligatory scoot around the town, we found our way to the Crows Nest Caravan Park. As we pulled up we recognised the van in front was probably that of, as yet unmet, part of our week-end group, Neil and Jenny. And it was.
We found our spots, settled in and yarned for a fair bit before hitting the hay for a prefect sleep in even more perfect temperatures.
Friday woke up as Fridays do. By seven we knew today was going to be a scorcher. That feeling of ‘I’m not actually hot but I’m already sweating from the inside’ was growing by the minute. We needed to get stuff done soon before the news read, ‘Couple found shrivelled in Crows Nest National Park’.
The short drive to the National Park was uneventful. Thankfully we saw all of the signs and got there without drama. We jumped out of Panther, water bottles in hand and strode off into the depths of the bush.
First we came upon the somethingorother pool, resplendent in its stagnant waters and baking rocks. Not beaten, we picked our way along the well-kept path to the other waterhole equally resplendent and baked. Relatively experienced in bushwalking we had been keeping our eyes open to for animals and reptiles that on, any given day, could elect to snap at our heels and send us to the great National Park in the sky, but did not see ‘Gordon the Goanna’ till it was too late. Gordon had not recently served his time with Jenny Craig, as he had an enormous girth, backed by the length of an oversized baseball bat. He leapt out from the right, not more than a metre in front of us, scurrying up hill to hide amongst the rocks. We called it even, for Gordo was obviously as surprised as us with the encounter.
We then branched off towards the Koonin Lookout and falls. The track became a little more closed-in with hundreds of rocks steps to negotiate. Other than Gordo, we had not seen much wildlife thus far. Until…..a beast Peter had never before encountered flashed before his eyes. She leapt high with a speed impossible to imagine. Levitating momentarily, whilst uttering a cry previously un-heard in these parts. A piercingly loud “Fark, fk, fk, fk ,fk ,fk Fark” on repeat mode for at least five long minutes. Fearing certain death from this creature, Peter’s heart rate spiked to 257 before finally settling back at a calm 243, for this was an encounter of a lifetime. Where’s the camera was the predominant thought.
As time passed; at least two seconds, Peter realised the bush creature was just G having seen a snake. In her defence, the whopper flew out of the bush across the path giving G’s leg a kiss on the way through. Given G hate snakes with a passion, her reaction was understandable, if not memorable. Peter led the way from thereon.
The falls had apparently fallen many weeks earlier, for now they were but a tranquil trickle unable to be seen. They led however to a lovely pool 40 meters below that met a gorge headed to a distant Perseverance Dam. Quite a lovely setting on any day the mercury had not reach 40 plus degrees.
Parched by the time we got back to the car, we motored into town, there visiting the soft drink factory, IGA and the quaintest hardware store, before heading back to G-String for a well-earned rest.
We quickly noticed that Denise and Morto had arrived and apparently left for lunch in Toowoomba. A few minutes later Morto surfaced letting us know he was in residence despite not feeling well and the girls had headed south for a feed. He must not have been that poorly though as he had clearly spent quite a good deal of time leveling his caravan to within 3 degrees of horizontal!
As the afternoon lingered the rest of the troops arrived. By night fall we had about 14 of us eating, drinking and yarning about copious worldly issues including, China, Lithium Batteries, Russia, Caravans, and Destinations. Not much was left to chance. Dinner was followed by Chris delighting us with some old favourites on the guitar backed by a pretty decent voice. As the recital went on, the crowd became progressively involved, the lyrics became less accurate and indeed G could only remember ‘King of the road’ so tried desperately to fit that chorus into every song.
Saturday was a slow morning with scoot out to Perseverance Dam, followed by a trip to town so Morto could pay his dues to the local publican who had trusted him with a wine purchase the day before when her Eftpos machine had become suddenly ill. By his description, the publican showed considerable surprise he showed up at all. There are some genuinely good people in the world.
At a bit to one we frocked up and met our appointment with the Myrtille restaurant. From the moment we stepped inside this place was a winner. Understated, yet eloquently stylish, it was definitely the find of the weekend. With outstanding staff, exceptional service and unbelievably great; not just good, but great, food, we were left gobsmacked. It was so good there would never be an argument if it was suggested the chef had won a few Akubra hats. We will be back.
Saturday night followed Fridays events but with slightly less enthusiasm due to bloated stomachs and that ‘after a great meal’ lethargy. Again the night was perfectly cool, the company first class and sleep about as good as it gets.
Most of us were up reasonably early Sunday morning to be greeted by a very pretty fog on the lake behind our vans and the implied sadness of a weekend ending. We packed up, said our goodbyes and trapsed off to Hampton and down to Esk.
Esk is never Esk unless we drop into the bakery for a bacon and egg delicious. As usual it was exactly that. Lashings of local bacon with just slight runny eggs made for a brunch of champions.
Within a couple of hours we were home, unpacked and thinking about work on Monday. It rates as a pretty good weekend when that is your only negative thought for three full days.
Crows Nest, you are a winner. So much so Denise is already planning an annual event. Bring it on.
The weekend for four grew over time to be a weekend for nine. Through conversation over a couple of months the crew multiplied from Peter, G, Denise and Richard to also include Mark, Sonia, Sue, Trevor and Henry the travelling dog.
Memory can be a wonderful thing. It can bring to light past glories, adventures and places in vivid colour, sound and atmosphere. So it was that Peter decided the best way to head to Stanthorpe from the Sunshine Coast would be via Kilcoy, Esk and Gatton, followed by a scoot up through Heifer Creek, as it was surely less daunting than the Esk Range on Richard and Denise’s first outing in their new Sunland van.
We planned to meet at the Landsborough storage facility about 7am. True to form we all arrived a bit after 6.30 and set about hooking up our respective vans. Job done on the Zone, Peter and G headed over to help out our good friends.
With Richard at the helm, the car was positioned perfectly first time for an easy drop of the van onto the tow ball. One hit of the electronic jack was all that was required. Electronic dictates there needs to be electricity. There was none. The jack was as dead as a door nail.
With barley a flinch Richard set about accessing the manual winder to go old school with the job at hand. If only we could find it. Sunland security was outstanding. Hide the winder so no one can steal your van!
Not to be outdone, Peter ‘I know vans’ headed to the rear with Denise to check out the batteries. Voltmeter readings proved there was naught in the batteries. The entire system was as flat as a tac. We would not be using the electronic devices anytime soon.
In what was to be the theme of the weekend, Richard, ‘I’m buggered if I’m going to let this set me back’, remembered there was an old style jockey wheel stored under the firewood. A quick clamp on, wind down, and we were away, headed to Sunland for an on-the-fly electrical fix.
Kicking the Sunalnd people out of bed, we quickly learnt from the young guy that there was a trip switch on the rear battery panel, that if turned on, would suddenly bring the entire system back to life. Fixed in a jiffy. As if often the case a wise old owl pops up at an opportune moment. And so it was.
Looking like he may have been run over by more than the odd van, the old bloke randomly questioned Richard as to whether he knew the hot water heater drew 10 amps of current even when not turned on. Acknowledging he did not, old wise guy left Richard with newfound intellect surrounding where to turn the hot water heater off and indeed where and how to turn it back on. We were set.
Kilcoy came and went, but not Esk. A stop was necessary to grab a coffee and a bacon and egg delicious. And it was. We met Gatton before turning left to the stunning Heifer Creek.
Memory can be a bastard!! It can taint past glories, adventures and places in vivid colour, sound and atmosphere to such an extent they don’t remotely resemble reality. Peter had such a memory, for Heifer Creek was every nightmare a new caravan owner dreads. It was tight, narrow, tighter, narrower and just plain awful. And that was before the wide load met Richard and Denise on a hairpin corner. If nothing else, experience quickly came this day. We were sure we could hear utterances of profanity above the rumble of their Toyota V8.
Warwick was Warwick, being slightly greener than last time we were there. Applethorpe was still the coolest place in the state, and Stanthorpe was by-passed for our destination of Glen Aplin, a few ks further south.
We were met by a tight track leading down to a pristine camp site next to a beautiful lake complete with overly friendly ducks. Denise whisked the new van through a maze of trees with the skill of a seasoned, Jackie Howe singleted, pluggers wearing, truckie. Masterful to say the least!
Trever, Sue, Henry the travelling dog, Sonia and Mark were already in residence, set up enjoying a stunning vista. We unpacked and so began a diary of ‘let’s try again’ moments that will be the topic of conversation for yeast to come.
Peter set the scene by not chocking the inside wheel on the van when taking if off the car resulting in his beloved Zone heading for a swim, but thankfully not quite. The dumb act was almost doing it twice! Feeling out of the action, Richard took centre stage when he remember to turn the hot water back on but endured a cold shower because he forgot hot water needs gas to make it hot.
Ultimately we settled down to a stunning fire courtesy of Mark, amazing sunset and great company for a wonderfully relaxing evening.
The new day saw us trickling into Stanthorpe at comfortable o’clock for a walk and breakfast at the old rail station. Although the food was not bad at all, one hopes the management of the trains days past was better than that of the orders in the present. Potluck does not do it justice!!
None of this could eventuate however, until Richard’s car started. Which it didn’t. ARB had done half a job of installing the Anderson plug connecting the van for battery charging. Forgetting the cut out switch meant the car battery had been feeding the van all night and was now flat. A quick mess around led us to connect solar panels to the car battery hoping a few hours of sun would bring them back to life.
At just after lunch we headed to forgottonitsname (maybe Tobins) winery for an education, some tasting and some buying. Peter and Henry guarded the entrance as neither drank grape juice, favouring a sit on a bench and a nap over the evil contained in a bottle.
In the late afternoon we choofed off to dinner at the Balancing Heart winery. Met by a beautiful German Shepherd dog, we were welcome from the first moments. The staff were outstanding, the ambiance ridiculously good, and the company, that now included some additional friends from the area, exceptional. The crew ate pizza and drank grape juice aplenty.
Sunday was always a get up late and head off day. We got up early and were about to set off when Richard’s car rolled over and played dead again. RACQ was on the job in no time. We were away to Stanthorpe for a scrumptious breakfast at the unnamed café after our good-bye hugs and dog pats.
Heading home was relatively uneventful. We dropped into Denise’s parents for a quick hello and van display before heading off to get lost. A quick double back had us trickling down the Toowoomba Range headed towards Esk but not before another navigational error by Peter. We have always loved the back blocks of Gatton!
The trip home demonstrated just what a few hours of experience can bring. Richard and Denise’s travelling unit was being driven with a new confidence and authority. It appeared Peter’s rotten memory had worked a treat providing at least three year’s towing experience in but a few short days.
Reflection revealed this weekend was a damned good one. Great location, great food, great people, yet one day short. Next year will be four days at least.
Panther pounced out of bed already wearing her G-String, hitting the road at not much after 7.30am. Shooting out to the highway, headed north, all was running well with the big V6 making mincemeat of pulling a caravan.
Gympie came and went shortly before a left run saw us cross Bells Bridge and head into the Burnett Region. We had planned a breakfast at Kilkivan. This little gem did not disappoint. We stopped at Katie’s Café and partook of one of the best bacon and egg delicious we have ever eaten. Washed down with fantastic tea and a cracker coffee. We were set.
As we entered the café to order our fill, tears filled her eyes. From her spot in the kitchen Katie had seen G. Nothing but a bulldozer would have stopped her running to embrace her old friend. Katie, worked with us in Doomadgee almost 20 years ago. She was an outstanding police officer then and an even more outstanding person now. We spent quite a few precious minutes reminiscing about the good, bad and ugly of our time together in the north before we walked the short walk to the service station to have a similar catch up with Katie’s husband Rob who was also with us for the tropical adventure. Rob, like Katie exude a decency that is almost lost in this funny old world.
Time waits for no cat, so Panther set sail again for our scheduled meet up with Sue and Trevor at Ban Ban Springs. Over the Tansy Range we went, right onto the Something Highway and into the second hand siding known as Ban Ban Springs. The service station is the jewel in the crown of this spot. Actually it is the crown as it stands alone, save a smelly toilet block. Across the road however, is a real life spring, and a few thousand ducks making the fresh waters home. Using our vast knowledge of flying creatures we figured that they were in fact the, indigenous to Ban Ban Springs, Brown Duck.
No trip to the Burnett is complete without a stop at the Gayndah Big Orange. Peter was the model for the embarrassing, ‘here I am at the big orange’ picture as G found and scouted a nearby shop. In a travelling first her return to the car was one of empty hands. Apparently the souvenir Big Oranges did not take her fancy this day.
Soon enough Eidsvold, being our destination, popped up. We fuelled and flicked across the road to the campground of the RM Williams Learning Centre. Finding a camp in the far corner, we settled in. As is often the case, in a ground of at least 10 acres, Mr and Mrs Noidea trundled down our way and camped right beside us. If you ever thought humans were independent and capable of self-determination, just study a campground in the early afternoon. We chose to laugh.
Not long after a Landrover Discovery towing a Zone Caravan came into the area. They pulled up at a socially acceptable distance and promptly lifted their big hairy dog out of the car. We instantly reconned these were good people. Anyone who drives a Disco, tows a Zone and has a dog, is right up there in our book.
We yarned to Bron and …….. Bron’s husband, for quite a while. They were Sydneyites with he having retired as an airline pilot at the start of COVID. The Zone was their first van as they wanted to buy right once. It looked like they had done. Peter and Bron’s husband talked van weights for a bit, looked at nifty fixes for kitchen draws and got on like a house on fire. Half an hour passed, they left headed for Monto. We afternoon snacked.
As the time for the RM Williams night light show approached, G and Sue walked slowly towards the venue. But not before G spotted a 40 metre zip line and could not resist. Hearing the commotion from near the van, Peter sensed danger and began running as fast as his torn calf would allow. He barely touched the tips of the grass beneath his feet, moving with all the grace of a fat lady with a broken stiletto, for experience told him a trip for G in an Ambulance was nigh. As she let go and started to zip, Peter, now frantic, tried with all his trying might to remember the number for 000 emergency as he neared the scene of impending broken bones.
G zipped, took one hand of just for effect, slammed into the braking system at the other end and rebounded laughing her head off. No injury this time. Seeing how much fun it was the rest of had a go as well; enjoying reliving our kid years.
The light show was a stunner. Projected onto a series of metal walls, we learned a bit about RM’s life, work history and impact on the Australian culture. We heard from a few of his mates and a local singer whose fame is most probably limited to the light show.
We returned to the vans and snuggled in for the evening had become bitterly cold.
Day Two: Eidsvold to Cania Gorge:
Today followed last night, being bitterly cold. The 120m walk to the toilets was one of frozen toes, frozen thoughts and not much else. Still it looked as though the day was going to be just lovely from about 2pm onwards.
Peter headed out for an exploratory walk around town whilst Genevieve lay in bed. The town was still asleep at 6.30am with naught but the service station awake for business. Upon reaching the intersection of the highway and the steaming swimming pool, Peter had a decision to make. Straight ahead or right. Diagonally through the park it would be.
Having now reached the main street, Peter noticed a café on the corner, an Indigenous Centre, a Chemist and a second hand store. The later best described the main street. Eidsvold looked and felt like a town in pain. Where were the businesses looking like businesses. Yet with all the drear, the second hand store had left most of its goods outside on the street overnight, so crime must not feature highly.
Heading back Peter was approached by a bloke in a ute. Expecting a good old fashioned questioning as to what a stranger was doing in these parts, Peter braced himself for the inevitable onslaught. Not this time. It was a young fella who simply wanted to know where the RM Williams Centre was. “Well you’re in luck” was Peter’s reply. “It’s the only place in town I know. Turn right, then left, over the bridge and it’s on your right.” Clearly this young traveller recognised a knowledge base when he saw one, as He picked Peter out of a completely empty street as the one to ask.
A couple of hundred yards later Peter was again accosted. This time by the thundering hooves of a part grown Wolf Hound and his Kelpie mate. They pounced before Peter knew what hit him. With paw prints from head to toe the game went on till the smell of bandicoot poo proved a better offer and the pups headed on their way.
Breakfast vanished as did a good cup of coffee, followed by a drop-in to the RM Williams Centre proper. Sadly, the centre did not live up to the light show of the nigh prior or indeed to the campground. Not sure why, it just did not have that, ‘come and see me’ vibe.
After emptying the van toilets and filling tanks with fresh water we headed towards Monto. The trip, being uneventful ,led us to conclude the area had received far more than its fair share of rain in the recent past. Grass was green, cattle were fat, and creeks were running. Soon enough we ventured upon a set of painted silos. As Peter stepped into photo mode, G found a shop. Nestled within a farmers old trailer was more than 20 old eskys filled with all sorts of home made goods for sale. Demonstrating immaculate restraint G left with but a $10 packet of ANZAC biscuits at $2 per biscuit and a half share an $8 box of firwood. Not a piece of jewellery in sight.
Monto inspired to the same extent a good dose of COVID with not much to encourage us to search for local real estate for that rural lifestyle change. A few short ks later we turned right onto Cania Road set for Cania Gorge Tourist Retreat.
If Monto was a bit disappointing, the tourist park was the opposite. We settled into a fantastic spot at one end of the campground in a near perfect setting. Not overly populated, and meticulously kept, the camping experience was second to none. We afternoon snacked, gave Henry the travelling dog a walk and got comfortable with a simpler life.
Day Three: Cania Gorge:
Cold, misty and even a bit rainy, this morning was not inspiring the spirit of adventure. We elected to jump in the cars and take a trip to Cania Dam a few short ks up the road from our camp. We noted the area was immaculately kept by its Sunwater guardians, with mown lawns and enough ‘don’t go there or do this’ signs to keep even the best recalcitrant out.
A wander down to the waters edge revealed an interesting lake that obviously had not, in recent times, seen the amount of rain in the ranges that fed it the rest of the state had. It was not nearly full. Our views were supported by a sign that rambled on at length about the presence of Blue Green Algie. It proffered the folly of swimming in it, touching it, diving in it or indeed accidently drinking it. After we deliberately had a good long slurp from its depths we moved on.
The middle of the day was a drizzly loss. We occupied ourselves by gazing at the increasing number of vans coming into the park and the trying to imagine what legal or otherwise employment those who could afford them undertook. We concluded the world was full of drug dealers and people smugglers.
G and Peter headed off for a walk in the afternoon. The sign told us that the walk to the Ferntree Pool was 3.1km. Even with a broken calf, Peter thought it achievable if he limped and grimaced alternately. The track was not much to write home about as it undulated alongside a trickle trying to be a creek. Finally we happened upon a bathtub sized pool fed by a piddling dribble of milky water. We had arrived at Ferntree Pool. By now Peter’s calf was saying it was time to call it a day but the sign pointing up an almost vertical cliff said it was but 2.5 km to go. Ok now we got it, 3.1km was not for the circuit, it was only for the outward run. Bugger!
We trudged on, finally happening upon the Giant Chair Lookout, noticing it was now just the Giant Lookout as no chair was to be found. We stared into the thickening mist and decided in this weather it was just the Giant; no chair and no lookout!
Now pouring rain we descended the mountain before scurrying into the camp a site, a steaming hot shower and late afternoon snacks.
As the night worn on, we knew it was only going to get colder and wetter. Bed was the best option.
Day Four: To Boynedale Bush Camp:
We rose after a damp night to a campground filled with fog the likes of pea soup. Not quite the thick opaque pea soup grandma used to make but more like the one Aldi sells. A bit runny and you can still through it. Consequently, everything we touched was saturated and cold. Desperately, the sun tried to show, but failed badly till well after breakfast o’clock.
We packed slowly, realised a resettable fuse powering the van was not working properly and trudged out towards Biloela. We chose the bitumen as the shorter trip over the range to Boynedale Bush Camp meant hauling up and over what would be a very wet and slippery dirt rack. Just warmed up we encountered a short stint of unexpected roadworks that meant we hauled over a very wet and slippery dirt track causing our vans to go from pristine all English albino to West Indian brown in less than 23 seconds.
On we went.
Biloela was Biloela. We fuelled, ate truly terrible bakery food, failed to find a new resettable fuse, so headed off. The road towards Calliope before the turnoff to Boynedale was like the Oscars of roadworks. They had roadworks that were outstanding in their set up, roadworks that simply took too long in their acceptance speeches, roadworks that tried to be, but were just not funny and even ones where we felt like slapping someone. The right turn off the highway did not come soon enough.
Boynedale Bush Camp sits beside what will now be known as Boynedale Dam. It’s a camp beside a large body of water pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Upon arrival we quickly determined lots of other people had found the middle of nowhere just as we had. Fortunately we found a spot on the edge of nowhere to overlook the swamp fand listen to the symphony of frogs. Not a bd way to settle in for an afternoon.
We nibbled, chatted, snoozed and explored the many subjects you do when four people sit down in the middle of nowhere. Not long after dark we noticed a convoy of vehicles come into the campground. Led by a Suzuki Jimny, the convoy presented in order. Jimny, camper van, Jimny, camper van. We quickly determined they were travelling together and that each Jimny required an accompanying camper to sleep in. They stopped, looked and then moved on.
Within a quick 30 seconds another convoy arrived. Identical to the first. Jimny, Camper, Jimny, Camper. We all, but Sue in particular, figured out it was a Jimny club on an outing and that they had, with a bit of imagination, at least 20 of them in convoy all coming to stay with us this night. As tears welled, and bellies laughed deep laughs, we realised that the first four had just done a flying lap on the campground and arrived back to camp beside us. We had but two Jimny’s and two campers in our midst. Still, it was a bloody quick lap of the campground!
We stayed up late this night, not seeing sleep until at least 8pm.
Day Five, Six and a bit: Boynedale Bush Camp.
The next couple of days were spent relaxing. The odd yarn with the odd person broke up the daylight hours as did a bit of a walk to nowhere in particular.
We noted the big trees with the bean pods all looked dead, probably poisoned as they looked pestish at best. A glance up into the nearby living tree revealed an owl desperately trying to have a nap during the hottest part of the day. Again we used all of our flying thing knowledge to decide that this was in fact a cousin of the ducks at Ban Ban Springs. As such we jotted it down as the Brown Owl.
Campfires were a welcome offset to very cool afternoons and slightly warmer nights. Fog was an ever-present friend in the mornings till quite late, with perfect temperature days following. Other than that Boynedale Bush Camp was about a 5 out of 10 on the will I ever visit again scale.
Onwards from Boynedale
On day whateveritwas we packed up pretty early and scooted ever southish towards the city of Ubobo. To say the drive through the valley was stunning, amazing, beautiful, not bad at all, was the understatement of whatever day it was. What a cracker. Off the scale of the will I ever visit again scale.
Ubobo a distant memory, we came to Builyan (pronounced ‘bull yan’, spoken quickly). What a special spot this was. With nothing to write home about other than an old railway siding, a school, a hall and a coffee shop come gift shop, this little hamlet stole hour hearts.
The owner of the coffee shop was a 30ish lady who had started the shop seven years ago. It has gone so well she is now selling as it is getting too busy for her. Hats off, she took a big risk it has paid off handsomely. She was able to tell us the town had set up free camping areas near the rail sheds with hot showers just across the road at the hall. Additionally they had just finished the rail trail from Many Peaks to welcome mountain bikers and hikers to town. This place was pumping.
Before leaving we took a few pics and spotted the rare Builyan Wire Bird. So lovely were these almost extinct creatures G bought two as they would no doubt look lovely sitting on the mantelpiece in our new house sometime in the future.
We climbed out of Builyan up the range with the unknown name. Panther and to dig deep on this one. It was long and steep complete with an advisory sign that it was not suitable for caravans. Too late! The stunning beauty of the valley continued to make us smile. We were truly blessed today.
Soon enough we came to Many Peaks. Again we marvelled at the quaint splendour of the place as the multiple creek crossings added to the adventure and sense of calm only the bush can bring. We boxed on, stopping for photos and to ogle at the countryside as we headed towards Kalpowar.
About a half days walk from the town we turned left onto Kalpowar Road and sought out the Kalpowar State Forest camping area. Set off the main road this was an outstanding camping spot. We didn’t stay but noted we were coming back. Maybe with our friends Denise and Richard when they get their new van. We reckoned they’d love it.
Kalpowar Road from the camp to the Bruce Highway about 60 odd ks away, was a step up again. I hate the saying, but OMG!! We climbed ranges, crossed creeks, plunged into valleys and uttered more ‘holy shit that’s awesomes’ than ever before. It was gorgeous in every sense. With every mile Panther and G-String gained an ever increasing coat of dirt and mud. By the highway they looked like a couple of bushrangers emerging to see the big city for the first time.
Gin Gin was as good as Gin Gin gets. Although we did have the very best chicken burger we have ever eaten between Bundaberg and Miriam Vale. It was outstanding. We dropped into Bundaberg to stay with rellies for a couple of days in rainy weather before our week away ended.
All in all a cracker little break that whet the appetite for many more.
With our dear friends Sue and Trevor taking delivery of their shiny new Majestic van, we had the perfect excuse for a quick overnight getaway. We were off to Swinging Bridge campground at Cooyar again.
For perfect clarification, ‘Swinging Bridge’ is not a group of oldies trying to recapture their youth swapping partners under a bridge. It is a legitimate campground near a bridge that just so happens to swing from side to side as you walk across it. Are we clear?
Sue and Trevor, accompanied by Henry ‘the travelling dog’, headed up Friday afternoon in a shakedown trip that included but one instance of a semi driver running them off the road in a death wish overtaking manoeuvre. Alive but shaken, they settled in with a fire constructed from gifted wood. The previous owners now on the road again.
Early Sunday morning we hit the road for a quick flit to the van in storage at Landsborough. A snappy hook up, food in the fridge and a check of electrics had us on the road headed for a weekend of swinging (see above for explanation).
As much as we miss our Defender ‘Puma’, there is no doubt ‘Panther’, in all her black glory, is a far superior towing vehicle. She literally flung G-sting around like it was made of a new age elasticised, feather weight fibre. We roared towards Kilcoy, save the non-roaring bits where roadworks stretched for miles and we maxed out at 60km/h.
This Sunday we noted there was an horrendous amount of traffic on the D’Aguilar Highway headed west. So much so that as we hit the outskirts of Moore we felt the dire need to have yet another medium box of the world’s best chips from Tilley’s café. They didn’t disappoint.
Tilley’s was abuzz. There was us and at least three other people there. A highlight was a lady with her Dash Hound saying gidday to everyone. Well, the dog was. The lady not so much. A group of old cars caught our eye. There was a Valiant Hemi 245 ute, a restored LJ Torana and a couple of Fords. Each from an era when grease on your hands was a rite of passage and air conditioning was for the rich and famous. The bunch told us they were from Blackbutt and ventured down to Moore every weekend. Understandable with Blackbutt being widely known for its extensive list of things to do on a Sunday morning.
126 shared chips later, we hit the road again with Panther flying up the Blackbutt range, G-string cling desperately to her behind, and onto the town that shares its name. Yarraman came and went before we found ourselves following another van into Cooyar and the campground.
First to greet us was Henry with his tail wagging at exactly twice the frequency of his little bum. We had not seen the little fella for a while and the excitement was mutual. Trevor and Sue followed with not quite so much vigour, yet greeting our friends was indeed a treat.
The rest of the morning and afternoon was spent snacking, getting a fire going and catching up on the latest world news (gossip). Central to most conversation, followed by a personalised tour, was the inevitable inspection of Sue’s new van. And what a spanking van it is. Shiny, with all the new vehicle smells, it was definitively a great acquisition.
Late afternoon a ute pulled up. We naturally thought we were about to get a warning about our fire or some other minor infringement of the swinging rules. Not to be. It was Peter the local school bus driver, rubbish collector, power station electrician and who knows what else. Local Pete stayed for a good half an hour and gave us the Cooyar insider knowledge of who was who in the zoo, what the elephants had been doing this week and the how badly one particular baboon had behaved recently. Pete was a great bloke and a worthy bank of wisdom.
With dinner forgotten, only because I can’t remember what it was, we settled into a freezing night. We were cosy in the van as were Sue, Trevor and Henry in theirs. The morning revealed a good drizzling of frost across most of the landscape giving a magical vista as steam rose off the creek and paddocks nearby.
Henry headed over to have morning slurp from his water bowl but pulled up short when he realised the top 10 or so millimetres was frozen solid. Sue was able to extract a plate sized ice slab from the top, before Henry was yet again free to drink his fill.
With work beckoning Tuesday, G and Pete packed up just after lunch on Monday and headed home. Nothing eventful altered our plans other than a visit to the Blackbutt Bakery for a magnificent pie and vanilla slice. So magnificent, we ordered a couple of roadies for dinner that night.
Yes it was short. Just an overnighter. Yet this swinging visit was just what we needed. We’ll be back again.
Up early, sneaking around trying not to wake neighbours, we packed in preparation to head home. Try as we might, the science of metal on metal spun rapidly whilst winding caravan legs up, does not support silence. It was about time the neighbours got out of bed anyway.
Packed, sorted and motivated, we headed out of the van park with Warwick for breakfast on our minds. A quick Google made our bellies ache and empty ache. Nothing in Warwick, save a couple of servos, opened until at least 7.30am. If there is one thing worse than a good café not open, it’s waiting for a good café to open. We decided our time would be best spent motoring on to Gatton.
We turned at about Clifton after Allora towards Heifer Creek. The driving environment was perfect. Just on the cool side of comfortable. Panther rolled along; G-String clung on gamely. The tarmac squeezed in, became steep, then twisted tightly for a good half an hour. We recalled being stopped here at one of those pesky unattended red lights a few years ago. We prayed today we did not enjoy the same experience.
Parking in Gatton was a breeze. Just across the road from the Google recommend café of the now forgotten name. Peter walked in to have a menu gaze and was greeted by a smiling woman half his age desperately trying to get his attention. Fleetingly, despite being within touching distance of 60, he realised he still had what it took, and this poor darling was simply reacting to her natural instincts. Reality was she was a former work colleague from Mackay who genuinely wanted to say hello after all these years. A quick chat, a menu recommendation and breakfast was on its way.
Following a couple of plates of bacon and eggs, helped on their way by bitter coffee and fairly average tea bag tea, we headed for Kilcoy.
The Kilcoy showgrounds was the perfect spot to dump our dumplings and replace the now spotless toilet cassette back in the van. Next stop was the untried caravan and truck wash. Google took us the scenic route as is sometimes her wish. The wash was as good as a wash gets, with $20 lasting for a full wash of the van and the car with still more to go. We’ll try our luck with $10 next time as it did not look like shutting down anytime within this solar cycle.
Clean and smelling like roses we headed towards Landsborough to put the van in a new storage place. Red Hot storage is exactly what its name implies. We met Phil the owner. He guided us to the super convenient undercover van storage and had us on our way in no time. This was a god send as the existing storage required a reversing manoeuvre that Peter was dreading. Up a narrow lane way then kick at 45 degrees between two other vans with less than six inches either side to play with. Red Hot is our new favourite. And it’s far closer to home and cheaper.
Panther flew home now she was not wearing a G-String. It was as if she was sailing with extra wind in her skirt. Once home, reality hit. Unpacking, washing, preparing cricket gear and answering e-mails. Still it was a fantastic week away that will be followed by many more.
Another alarmless day greeted us as cool but cloudless. We drove the two kilometres into town, across the bridge and around the corner. Our planned morning walk was brisk to say the least. When the sun shone without wind, it was tantalisingly lovely. In the shade it was desperately cold. We dodged the shadows as best we could. G sank shoe deep in mud.
After forty or so minutes enjoying the beautiful creekside walk where we stood in wonder at white galahs hanging upside down twisting small branches to breaking point, we headed south for exactly nine minutes to meet a friend of G’s.
We chatted, laughed and passed the time eating arguably the best scones we have ever eaten at Jamworks. After an hour or so we decided this was a must see if visiting Stanthorpe. We visited next a couple of wineries including Tobin Wines where we learnt a fair amount about making good wine. We followed this with a quick drop-in to Symphony Hill to keep the economy alive. Wined up, we headed into town for lunch at the place that made the very best pies we had eaten for a very long time.
The day done, we crawled back to G-String. We packed up ready for an early start tomorrow and chatted to the people next to us.
As our fleeting visit winds down we pretty much agreed we would be back to Stanthorpe to experience all it has to offer.
