Hell on Earth
Posted by Melissa on | July 20, 2008
As we approach Coober Pedy the already arid, bare landscape becomes pocked with mounds of earth dug up from the depths and dumped. Those piles become more frequent and closer together as the winds blows and we near our destination.
A huge mining truck with what looks like a drum on a metal pole attached to its back marks the turn-off to Coober Pedy, the world’s largest opal field. We turn right off the Stuart optimistically and head into what can only be described as the wild west.
The main street is all gritty shop fronts smothered in dust and heavy security bars, 4WD vehicles, and tough looking guys in work boots and shorts. A couple of skinny dogs lurk around hopefully. We see our first groups of locals (the outback has been a very white place to date).
We choose our home - the Oasis Tourist Park (which must have been named with tongue firmly in cheek) - where we are promised a protected site, which turns out to be a dusty corner of a fenced off yard. The wind hampers our attempts to pitch the tent, whipping sandy dust into eyes and tugging at guy ropes. Erected, our little canvas home heaves and strains as the winds increase and we flee to eat John’s pizza and drink a beer to ease the shock of arriving in this feral frontier.
We take shelter in the park’s television room and are visited by men in tracksuits who come to check the footy scores and ask us about ‘our team’. I am told I musn’t have a team - obvious because of my ‘accent’. My itchy dislike for this place increases.
We survive the night. Wake up coated in a fine film of red dust. And resolve to leave as soon as we can. Git while the goin’ is good. But first we will join a tour of the town, which redeems it a fair bit. Our chirpy tour guide Rudi is a nuggety old Italian (retired) miner who explains mining techniques and equipment, how the town sources its water supply, the art of living in underground dugouts and playing golf on a grassless course and more. Ok, so there is more to this place than dirt, dust and holes in the ground.
We go. North. To wherever there is less wind and more of the colour green. We find it at Marla at a road house where we book a hotel room, cook dinner in the trangia in the bathroom, watch Doctor Who and le Tour on the telly and go for a quiet wander in the still evening to look at the stars.
Getting to the next bit
Posted by Melissa on | July 19, 2008
We are keen to continue north along the dirt Oodnadatta Track and William Creek Road, but are advised that our friendly Corolla would not survive the experience. Our route is set south again to retrace our steps before heading north up the Stuart Highway - the road that connects north and south (approximately 4000 kilometres).
We drive in and out of the town of Hawker for the third time and head south-west to skirt around the outer suburbs of Port Augusta, passing fast food chains and a road train depot where the monsters of the roads begin and terminate their trips between north and south.
The country is flat and bare again and we spot plenty of wedgies picking at dead roos on the side of the very straight road (more cheers from the Corolla at the sight of these awesome birds).
Our trip takes us to Woomera - a colourless ‘town’ that betrays its origins as a federally funded centre in its uniform buildings and sombre lifeless streets. We circle, seeking the centre (and soul?) of this place and a place to stay.
At Hotel Eldo I survey the TV screens and pokies in the bar/lounge/dining room and ask my helpful barman if they are the only ‘pub’ in town and learn that there is, indeed, a club but that it closes on Fridays. He confirms that there is SBS reception and that we will be able to see a stage of the Tour de France, and talks enthusiastically about a drugs scandal that has erupted.
The next day, on our way out of the grey deserted streets of Woomera we stop at a park and read plaques and see planes on poles and space junk protected by cyclone fences - homage to the missile testing that went on there in the sixties, when the location of the town was a big secret (it only became a public town in the eighties). We decide not to drop in on the detention centre, depressed enough at this grey place.
We continue north up the Stuart Highway, buffeted by gusty side winds, our little car clinging to the road and grinding through a lot of extra petrol to Coober Pedy.
Central Flinders Ranges
Posted by Melissa on | July 18, 2008
Next stop Rawnsley Park Station where merinos are farmed and tourists are welcome. Cabins, trails and campsites crouch beneath the magnificent cliffs of Rawnsley Bluff at the southern end of Wilpena Pound.
Our first foray into Wilpena is to walk up to a lookout and survey the amazing Wilpena Pound. Named a pound because it was used to run animals. The landmark was formed when the rock in the centre of the range eroded leaving a circular bowl. Its named means “cupped hand”.
Our next visit takes us up the side of the Pound to its highest peak, St Mary Peak. On the way up we spot mountain goats and on the top a trio of wedge-tailed eagles rise from the valley in an ascending spiral. We look north to see the Flinders Rangers, which locals believe was formed by the Rainbow Serpent - parallel ridges seem to have been pushed aside by the path of a very large snake.
There are also mountain bike adventures along a section of the Mawson Trail and around the rocky boundaries of Rawnsley Park.
Northern Flinders Ranges
Posted by Melissa on | July 16, 2008
Good bye Rawnsley Park - we head south and then north again to a tiny town called Parachilna - listed on the tourist map by virtue of the fact that it is home to the famous historic Prairie Hotel, which no doubt features regularly in the pages of gourmet travel magazines. We decide to head east to nearby Angorichina Village to seek a sheltered campsite in this open, exposed, windy, dusty, vegetationless part of the world. The 17-kilometre drive is on dirt and passes through the Parachilna Gorge - paler rock (than the central ranges) that has been pushed skyward at a 30-degree angle. The scenery is all hardy trees and dry creek beds.
Camp struck, we head back to the three or four buildings that comprise Parachilna to sit on the wide verandah of the pub and watch an outback sunset over the railway line, while getting to know a duo of winemakers from McLaren Vale, who we have saved en route from a car suffering from three flat tyres.
For dinner we opt for the ‘feral feast’ - two courses of feral food (camel, roo, goat and crocodile) served as pate, sausages, kebabs and other such delights (sorry for the graphic description, vegos). It is more meat than we have consumed during the whole journey, as we are dining on trangia food - lots of lentils, curries and pasta.
Our day in the Northern Flinders is spent walking to the Blinman Pools - a 12-kilometre walk that follows the dry bed of Blinman Creek, which is surrounded by high gorge walls - and watching our tent bend and shudder in high winds overnight.
Remarkable Melrose
Posted by Melissa on | July 10, 2008
The rain lets up, so we set out, in thermals and beanies, for Alligator Gorge in the northern section of the Mt Remarkable National Park. It is doubtful that an alligator has ever been seen this far south, and helpful signs tell us that it is more likely that a stockman called ‘Ali’, who shepherded his sheep through the area, inspired the name.
The 30-foot walls of the rocky gorge are burnt orange in colour and dotted with optimistic sugar gums that grow out of cracks at awkward angles. We are probably walking along an ancient river bed - our path the once-submerged river rocks and boulders - that is little more than my arm-span wide at one point called The Narrows. Progress is slow, as we take the time to test out our fabulous new camera gear.
As well as unfamiliar scenery, we are introduced to a new animal - the strangely named Euro, who is a cousin of Skippy but has black paws, woollier fur and comic larger ears. We startle a small group of them on the drive out of the park, perhaps with our choice of music - the new Ween album (thanks Scott!).
Time to get my new mountain bike (purchased to replace my much-loved commuter hybrid bike that someone stole from outside of the NGV - curse ‘em) off the car roof and into the mud. I haven’t been this scared in a while - the trails are more tracks for mountain goats and I can’t get visions of me sliding down the muddy hillside out of my head. Ben, on the other hand, is a natural - he has that ability to turn off his brain and trust and so jumps logs and hurtles down gullies safely. Like skiing, mountain bike trails are graded and I am looking for green (easy) and just managing blue (intermediate) but giving a wide berth to black diamond (really really hard and scarey). Mountain biking trails also have curious names like Dodging Bullets, On a Bender, Textbook 10 per cent etc.
In search of a good coffee we head to the bike shop and get chatting to the owners - two young couples who have moved to the country in the last couple of years. They are enthusiastic riders, passionate about the town and the area and dreaming up new ideas for attracting funding, and preserving what few services are in town (having recently lost their kindergarten). They share tips about tracks and invite us to join them at the pub, where we hear travel stories about the places that we are going to see - nothing like some local knowledge!
Up the road to Melrose
Posted by Melissa on | July 7, 2008
We head north out of Clare, which could be mistaken for Country Clare in Ireland, after which it was named. Rolling green hills with old pale sandstone sheds stranded in manicured paddocks, saturated grey/green light, hardy sheep and torrential rain.
We aim for Melrose today - a huge 150 kilometres up the road - and somehow manage to make the trip last the best part of the day. We stop at Gladstone (home of an historic gaol and not much else) and then the well-kept secret that is the Stone Hut Bakery. Along the way we are surprised at the tiny country towns through which we pass - they are neat places where well-kept sandstone cottages look to the road. Perhaps for answers as to how to survive - most towns are in steady demise as businesses close and people move away.
Melrose, at the foot of Mt Remarkable in the Southern Flinders Ranges, is even more surprising. It is a rare mix of country hospitality and historic buildings, with great food and a dynamic and welcoming young local community. There’s a bike shop in town and a group of enthusiastic riders who are determined to put the town on the map for mountain biking. A network of trails has been created on private land between the town and the national park, and the annual Festival of Fat Tyres attracts people from around the world to circumnavigate the peak after which the town was named.
The weather hasn’t let up, infact it blows and the rain thuds through the night, so we decide to leave the tent in the car and move into cabin 3 in the caravan park - a standard hose-out set-up with a noisy heater (the choice is easy - have a conversation or be warm) and a television bolted high on the wall.
The best thing to do on a rainy blowy night is not to sit in a dim cabin, but to venture out to the pub. Especially in South Australia, where the pale ale is cheap and on tap (pity they don’t know what measure a pint is!). The North Star is a renovated old building that has a cellar door, gallery, expansive restaurant, bar with open fire and very friendly staff. It will be our second home during our stay, and is sister of the Prairie Hotel, about which we hear frequently and which we will visit at Parachilna in the Central Flinders Ranges.
On the Riesling Trail
Posted by Melissa on | July 7, 2008
Our new home is a farm just north of Clare. Mundawora Mews means ‘place of water’ - perhaps because of the high rainfall that we experience during our visit. We are staying in a converted stable located between the homestead and the chook shed and on the edge of an extensive vineyard.
We give the Corolla the day off and are taken for a walk around the back paddock by our friendly canine host - a brown border collie called Jackie - then climb onto the mountain bikes to investigate the famous Clare Valley Riesling trail. Once a railway line, this 25-kilometre trail is easy riding and passes soap factories, cellar doors, a Jesuit church, restaurants and cute B&B cottages. The valley was named by the Irish but it was Polish migrants who decided that vines should be planted to provide wine at communion. But it is not red wine but white - fabulous riesling - that they do best in the valley.
Over the next few days as the weather gets wetter and windier and I get a heavy head cold, we sample riesling at cellar doors and restaurants (including lunch at the highly-recommended Skillogalee) and in front of our cosy wood stove. The 2009 Tour de France is underway, so late-night vigils are organised to follow the progress of 190 bold men in lycra.
Parent update: After one litre of blood transfusions, Phil is discharged from the lovely Kununurra Hospital and flies to Darwin on the first leg of the journey home to Armidale.
Nhill to Clare
Posted by Melissa on | July 4, 2008
We made it to chilly Nhill last night and booked into a motel claiming to be the town’s quietest. Our host, who is wearing shorts, dropped in homemade muffins with thick icing to welcome us.
We wake up to the hum of trucks and don’t waste much time getting back onto what is a major transport artery between Melbourne and Adelaide - long freight trains race the road traffic, which is comprised of more trucks and caravans than cars. The vegetation changes - stubby scrubby brush and native grasses set in sandy pale soil - the road is flat and straight and passes through farmland.
Bordertown was once home to Bob Hawke, and is currently home to a really good bakery - a rare commodity in the bush - and to a mob of white roos. We skip the former PM’s house and opt for a great pastie and a look at the strange white skippys, who keep company with peacocks and grey roos behind a tall cyclone fence.
A quick stop at Murray Bridge, a small town set on the famous river, where we see pelicans and houseboats and then we miss our turn north and find ourselves whizzing towards Adelaide on the freeway. No matter, this road takes us through beautiful scenery and the northern suburbs of Adelaide (slowly) and eventually we are back on track bouncing up the B82 to the Clare Valley and Clare.
Along the way there have been updates from my parents - Phil has extremely low haemoglobin, which in turn caused angina; nothing a transfusion of blood flown up from Perth won’t remedy in the short term. We all feel relieved.
Leaving Melbourne
Posted by Melissa on | July 3, 2008
Melbourne farewells us with a grey rainy day - a convincing gesture for two about to embark on a glorious road trip. Our morning is taken up remembering things we have forgotten, finding or buying them, going out for breakfast and taking upsetting phone calls. My dad (Phil) has been hospitalised in Kununurra in Western Australia, disrupting my parents’ own adventure in the Kimberley region, and giving us all a bit of a scare.
At about 2pm, having shoe-horned all of our gear into the Tardis-like Corolla we are off, relieved to finally be underway on this much-anticipated adventure. We head west for Ballarat, then Ararat, then the South Australian border.
treaty to ban cluster bombs
Posted by Campbell on | May 27, 2008
From Avaaz.org
Final negotiations are underway right now in Dublin, Ireland on a treaty to ban cluster bombs.
Cluster munitions don’t just kill during war–they scatter small, unexploded “bomblets” on the ground. When children pick them up, they are often maimed or killed. Most governments agree that they should be banned–but many (including Australia) are now trying to weaken the proposed treaty with loopholes, exemptions, and delays.
Negotiations end this Thursday. If enough of us raise our voices, we can drown out the arms manufacturers and convince our governments to do the right thing. Click here to send a message to ask the federal government to do the right thing,