You are currently browsing jhalbrook's articles.
The morning of our return flight from Exmouth to Perth, I got a text message followed by a call on my mobile (cell phone). The departure was going to be delayed by four hours. We had planned to arrive at Perth airport at 3:30 in the afternoon, allowing us enough time to pick up our rental car and drive to Margaret River before dark.
When we drove past the airport on our way into Exmouth to gas up, I saw the plane on the tarmac. There had been no explanation for the delay, but I would not be surprised if it had something to do with a certain offshore oil rig. I phoned the owner of the B&B in Margaret River and the car rental company about the delay, but when we finally arrived in Perth, the Thrifty agent had disappeared. It took a good half hour to round her up. It was nearly dark when we started driving toward Margaret River, and we finally pulled into Rosewood Guest House about 11 PM.
Our host had been diligent, however, and the keys were waiting. A breakfast menu had been left out and we could even select what we wished to have in the morning. This was my kind of place. If you get a breakfast “down under,” it tends to be British– fried eggs and bacon or sausage, baked tomatoes or beans and toast, spaghetti with tomato sauce. We had stayed in only one B&B that offered more than this, and several that offered less. One had a shiny cappuccino machine sitting on the kitchen counter, but we were treated to instant coffee from a jar with powdered milk.
The siren call of Margaret River are the vineyards. The wine business has exploded in recent years, bringing the total up to an impressive 125 wineries. We were less than assiduous in our tourist duties, dropping in on exactly one, Voyager Estate. The grounds were gorgeous, based on a South African approach to landscaping and architecture. The weather and topography are not dissimilar, and Margaret River does very well with white wines and Cabernet blends, exporting much of the output world-wide.
The other main attractions are large limestone caves, fabulous surfing, fine breweries and high quality arts and crafts. Academic demands required my wife to spend more time at the internet cafe than I would have liked, but we did squeeze in a bike ride to the beach, a visit to a gift shop with beautiful, hand-made furniture, a tour of the Cape Leeuwin lighthouse, and a long walk among the towering trees near the town of Pemberton.
We managed to rendezvous for lunch and dinner with Graham Reeks and his lovely wife, Ella. Graham is a fellow expat scribbler I met in Melbourne who is on a long driveabout. His blog is called ofnofixedabode, and he has just written a wonderful post about the western woods. Check it out with the link I have to his site.
Thanks to our hosts at the B&B, we began each day with a fine breakfast and plenty of good coffee. For me, all’s well that begins with a good breakfast. Buttermilk waffles or blueberry blintzes are perfect, but something other than English fare is just fine by me. Thanksgiving in Australia, reason to celebrate.
When we booked our flight to Exmouth, I assumed we would be boarding a small plane. I was hoping the aircraft would be post WW II, and that the pilot wouldn’t have to start the engine by spinning the propeller. My error was in assuming that tourists would make up the majority of the passengers. It turned out the SkyWest flight was a shuttle service for off-shore oil workers. In the two hours it took our packed plane to reach its destination, I learned more about tools for oil rig work than I ever wished to know. The airport for the town is located 37 kms south of town, which makes the drive south to Coral Bay a reasonable two hour run.
I was dismayed to discover that I would have return the car with something approaching a full tank of petrol. This meant driving back past the airport and on into Exmouth before dropping off the rental car at the airport. Between the tarmac and Coral Bay, there are thousands of termite mounds and some cattle with precious little shade. The Cape Range separates the road from the ocean, hiding some rugged and forbidding-looking terrain.
The Ningaloo Reef extends about 260 kilometers (163 miles) from North West Cape (north of Exmouth) to Amherst Point, south of Coral Bay. Unlike the Great Barrier Reef on the other side of Australia, this fringing reef starts only 100 meters off shore. There are over 500 species of fish, 250 species of corals and 600 species of molluscs. It is a snorkeler’s paradise.
Coral Bay (population 160) hosts thousands of divers and snorkelers every year, particularly when the giant whale sharks are in the area– March through mid June. Whale sharks are the largest fish in the ocean and the largest cold blooded animals on earth. They are filter feeders, so swimmers can have a close encounter with ten-ton creatures without getting stepped on or eaten. In the pictures I’ve seen, they are beautiful.
Thanks to a very early flight, we arrived at our hacienda in Coral Bay in plenty of time to kick back and wait for the room to be made ready. Our hostess made it clear that we had arrived too early and shouldn’t expect miracles from her staff. The sun was already hot and the flies were already out in full force. At least there were comfortable chairs and good coffee available.
We didn’t realize until later that the Melbourne Cup, “the race that stops the nation,” had followed us across the continent. The three minute race for three year-olds would require the entire population of Coral Bay to dress up in fashionable hats and begin their serious drinking before noon. Everyone was coming to the Ningaloo Reef Resort to celebrate. On top of the 5 AM wake-up call to catch our flight, we would have to put up with the post-race revelry until way past our bedtime.
But the next day was perfect, as it tends to be in Coral Bay. We had signed on for a snorkel cruise with Ningaloo Experience, an outfit that has actually been eco-certified. Peter Shaw, the owner/operator who pioneered the business in the area, limits his groups to 12 and tries to do a little fish education on the side. The word eco is now used very loosely, but “Pedro” takes it seriously. I was dismayed to see the word “Eco” plastered on a fleet of ATV vehicles, tempting lazy tourists to go out and find turtles hatching without having to walk.
The outer reef provides sanctuary for whale sharks, turtles, dolphins, dugongs and manta rays. We were after the rays, those cloaked and elusive creatures of silent movies, sensuously propelling themselves along the sea floor. We were soon treading water furiously in an attempt to keep up with their effortless pace. Later, there would be time for the little fish and the corals, for a more relaxing time in the giant aquarium we had crossed a country to see.
Our brief stay up north had been dictated by the availability of seats on SkyWest, by the schedule of oil workers. On both evenings in Coral Bay, our walks took us only a few hundred yards from the resort to Fins Cafe and back. The setting sun (rising Earth) offered us a stunning, ever changing kaleidoscope, appearing as liquid and colorful as the coral reef itself. It was a little bit of paradise a long way from home.
The notion of returning to Western Australia one month after my trip to the Kimberly seemed crazy on the face of it, but my wife had vacation time coming and she had been impressed by my enthusiasm for W.A., as it is called here. She was keen to see the Margaret River area just south of Perth, the state capital. It is renowned for its wineries, tall trees and a spectacular coastline.
When I began putting the trip together, we toyed with several side trips, narrowing it down in the end to Perth, Margaret River and the Ningaloo Reef up north. We would fly to Perth, stay a couple of days, then catch a local airline up to Exmouth to snorkel in the Indian Ocean at a place called Coral Bay. A mid afternoon flight back to Perth would give us just enough time to drive down to Margaret River before it got dark. That was the idea, anyway. Nothing ever goes as planned.
Looking out over the Swan River from the plateau of King’s Park in Perth, it is hard to imagine the Dutch and French discovering this place and then sailing on. But the French were interested in exploring the area for its scientific curiosities and the Dutch were looking for trade goods. Neither had positive things to say about the area. It would have created a mess if the French had settled here with the British colony already established in Sydney. That is still causing trouble in Quebec after 350 years.
On 25 April 1829, Captain Fremantle arrived in the ship HMS Challenger to make preparations for the Swan River Colony. On 2 May 1829, he formally took possession of the entire west coast of New Holland on behalf of King George IV. A few days later, a camp was set up in a bay just south of the head, and the town of Fremantle was established. It has been occupied ever since. Two more towns were soon created upriver, Perth and Guildford.
Australians insist on abbreviating any words longer than one syllable, so it is understandable that they have shortened Western Australia and the name of the port of Fremantle, although how they came up with Freo is a mystery. The Swan River colony grew very slowly until about 1850, when convicts were brought in to alleviate the labor shortage. Many of the public buildings in Perth and Fremantle were constructed with convict labor. The discovery of gold in the 1880’s finally got things rolling for the new settlements. Mineral wealth continues to drive the economy.
The highlights of our quick visit were quite a contrast– King’s Park in Perth (which rivals Central Park in New York in size and variety and outdoes it in beauty) and Fremantle Prison. Within walking distance of the business district, the park is on a bluff overlooking the Swan River. It has the botanic gardens, of course, an excellent restaurant, a lovely cafe and great gift shop, graceful trees of all kinds and the wildflowers for which Western Australia is known throughout the world.
Fremantle Prison existed in my imagination long before our visit. I had been taken there on a sea of words when we were living in Washington DC. Donal O’Kelly’s one-man play “The Catalpa” is based on the true story of the daring rescue of six Irish political prisoners in 1875. It is a bit of “Moby Dick” followed by “The Great Escape” capped by “Gone With the Wind,” literally. From New Bedford, Massachusetts to Fremantle, Australia, across the high seas on the whaling ship Catalpa. It culminates with the first ever ticker-tape parade in New York City.
The romance of theater hardly prepares you for the claustrophobic cells and the scary reality of the hanging room. The prison was cut from local limestone and built by convicts over an eight-year period in the 1850’s. It remained in operation until 1991. Our guide made a distinction between convicts and prisoners which is worth bearing in mind in Australia. Roughly ten thousand convicts were transported to Western Australia, but transport ceased in 1868. By the end of the 19th Century, Fremantle Prison was for the incarceration of prisoners.
Our guide, who must have been a former guard, seemed to take a perverse delight in letting us know exactly how miserable the conditions were. For years, there was no shade in the exercise yards. There was no heat in winter or fans in summer. There were no toilets in the cell blocks. There was one bucket in each cell. Two men to a cell. There were no liberal notions of rehabilitation in the air. This was a place of punishment.
We had made our way from Perth down to Fremantle by ferry, but we were relieved to be able to walk out through the front gates and catch a train back to the City. It was a quick and easy escape. One day of “doing time” in Fremantle Prison was time enough for me.
The Great Northern Highway is the longest road in Australia. It extends from the small port of Wyndham (now eclipsed by Kununurra) in a westerly direction to Broome, then south all the way to Perth, a distance of 3200 kilometers (1990 miles.) The Gibb River Road intersects the highway about 60 kms south of Wyndham. The Gibb began life as a route to drive cattle into the port town of Derby. Today, cattle are loaded on road trains, giant trucks with double trailers that can top out at 200 tons. The cattle are driven to Broome for shipping to markets in Asia.
After a two-hour, bone-jarring trip from the heart of the Bungle Bungles, we reconnect with the Great Northern highway for our long journey back to Broome, the end of a 2500 km loop. We are still roughly 700 kms (437 miles) away and there are only two towns of any size along the way– Halls Creek and Fitzroy Crossing. Both towns may have a combined population of 3,000 people on a good day.
The bitumen (asphalt) is bliss, and Anthony takes the opportunity to pop a movie into the DVD player and turn on the neglected LCD. We have time to see “Australia” in its entirety. It is my second viewing of the blockbuster, and my perception has been altered by an appreciation for the landscape around me.
In the film, the cattle station of Faraway Downs is supposed to be located in the Kimberley, so much of the footage was shot in this spectacular country. It was a plagued and expensive shoot; the principal photography alone took nine months. The plot has bits and pieces of nearly every genre film in the history of Hollywood, (with the persecution of Aboriginals and the “stolen generations” thrown in), but I’m glad I got the chance to see it with new eyes.
Halls Creek was initially a gold mining town, named after Charles Hall who found the alluvial gold that led to the Kimberley gold rush in 1885. The gold never amounted to much and it petered out fairly quickly. Today, the town is little more than a support center for remote cattle stations. We have a brief stop, but our destination for the evening is Fitzroy Crossing.
Our timing at the end of the dry season allows us to use the old crossing, which has been replaced by a new bridge. The old concrete has been inundated by up to 13 meters (42 feet) of water on occasion, so the new bridge was more than welcome. During the rainy season, the Fitzroy is a powerful river that can swell over its banks, with more than 98 million cubic meters of water flowing past the town each hour. With that much water, you could fill Sydney Harbour in five hours.
Our last treat on the trip is a boat tour on the river itself– up through Geikie Gorge, soon to be renamed Darngku Gorge. Its high, limestone cliffs are part of an ancient Devonian reef, identical to the Napier Range. Our journey has taken us back to an area not far from where we had our first walk among the rocks– at Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek. As the ocean floor slowly subsided over the 50 million years of the Devonian period, the reef-building organisms built up and up until, in places, the reef became more than two kilometers thick. The high water mark is visible in the photo below.
Our stop at the Willare Bridge Roadhouse on the way to Broome seems anticlimactic. What seemed interesting and uniquely “outback” a mere eight days ago now seems shabby. Man’s architectural offering in this landscape is sad when measured against the beauty we have seen on our tour through the Kimberley.
But there is ice cream, and we all enjoy it very much. Our eight-day trip has been too short to get more than a cursory view of this fragile part of our planet. I would love to see it during the “wet.” I could easily spend a month or more under the spectacular canopy of stars, wandering into ancient stone gorges, swimming under rock precipices, feeling very small. I am grateful to have shared the experience with a dozen generous strangers. I’m glad that they were predominately Australians.
It will soon be time for quick good-byes and the long trip back home.
Given the size and significance of the Bungle Bungles, it is astonishing that this prehistoric formation was not on anyone’s radar screen until it was rediscovered from the air in 1983. The Kimberley is large and desolate, so perhaps it is not too surprising that the beautiful mountains got lost for awhile. There are plenty of other attractions in the area– Lake Argyle, the largest man-made lake in Australia, and the Argyle Diamond Mine, the largest diamond mine in the world.
The mountains are only 56 kms (35 miles) from the Great Northern Highway, but the road is difficult, and the journey takes two hours. The Bungle Bungles are in what is now called Purnululu National Park. It is remote and still inaccessible to anything but 4 wheel drive vehicles, small airplanes and helicopters.
Prospectors probably discovered the Bungle Bungles in the 1880’s, but they passed on through.
Due to sheer good luck, our visit coincides with some renovations to the campground ordinarily allocated to the likes of us by APT, the upscale outfit that maintains two camps here. We have been invited to stay in their main facility, and roughing it is not on the agenda. We check into semi-permanent tents with beds, lighting and ensuite baths with showers. Breakfast and dinner are sit down affairs, cooked and catered by the staff. Anthony, our driver/guide, cook, repository of local information, photographer, joke teller, nurse and bottle washer, hardly knows what to do with himself.
The strange name of the range is mired in mystery. Purnululu is the Aboriginal word for sandstone. The beehive domes are all that remain of a large sedimentary rock mass laid down 360 million years ago. The domes were created by uplift, then erosion– over 20 million years of sculpting by rivers and wind. This is a World Heritage site, and the “beehive” domes are regarded as the world’s most exceptional examples of cone karst formation in sandstone.
We are in a land of spirits, immense and intimate at once. The ancient river beds formed layers of sandstone, some with enough clay content to support cyanobacteria. The bacteria grows on the sandstone bands and holds moisture. The layers with less clay are more porous, oxidizing to reveal a rusty orange color. Silica adds white to the mix.
Our sojourn among the Bungles includes a visit to Echidna Chasm, Cathedral Gorge, and a walk among the domes at Piccanniny Creek. For those who are able and willing to spend the extra funds for a helicopter ride, there is an eagle’s view of the great domed massif. It is my second time in a chopper, and I am nervous, to say the least. There aren’t any doors and the pilot looks hardly old enough to drive. Despite my trepidation, our airborne journey passes safely, and I’m glad that images from the flight have been captured on pixels, at least.
To the south of the Bungles is the great Tanami Desert. This is a semi-arid region, with a short, wet summer followed by a long, winter. The gorges protect the most southerly patches of rainforest found in the Kimberly, but it is an arid and fragile landscape. Its beauty is serene, seeming to emanate from the ancient rock. I can’t help thinking that it is fortunate to have been neglected for such a long time. May its remoteness and its status as a World Heritage Site protect it in the future. I feel blessed to have been there, a pilgrim in the sands of time.
No one knows exactly how it got its name, but the Spanish sounding words hinting at “quest” put you in the right mood to enjoy the amenities of the million-acre (4000 square kilometer) former cattle station (ranch). El Questro is a Mecca to those traveling through the Kimberley.
There is a store, a well-equipped toilet block with hot showers and laundry facilities, an outdoor bar and even a restaurant. The youngsters who lead tours and take care of the place congregate at the bar in the evening. We are fortunate to be here at the end of the season. Our guide’s description of the bar at the height of the season beggars belief. People stacked up in unruly queues four or five deep like belligerent bees around fragrant flowers.
In the interests of maintaining its historical narrative as a Texas-size ranch, a handful of cows and other critters wander at will. There is a notice warning about a horse who seems to trouble campers from time to time. Those who can sleep through the raucous crows and corellas will have trouble dozing through the unmistakable, mournful bray of a donkey.
El Questro was established in its current form in 1991 by Will and Celia Burrell. There are five rivers flowing through the vast property, hot thermal springs, deep gorges, waterfalls and a wealth of rock art from the Wandjina period. In addition to the campgrounds, there are luxury accommodations that we are encouraged to try when we are feeling flush. Each night in one of the six rooms (all meals included) goes for $2,500. There is a minimum two-night stay.
Four of us sign up for the Chamberlain River cruise while the more ambitious members of the group head out for a gorge scramble. Two others elect to stay in camp and take it easy. We will dine at the Steak House this evening, so we have a lot to look forward to.
The river trip is exactly what the doctor ordered. The El Questro guide does his best to convince us that the people who stay in the five-star accommodations are ordinary folks, indulging themselves on that special occasion. Once we are on the boat, the sales pitch drops away and we listen to the river.
This is crocodile country, and we see a few “freshies” on the way, as well as birds and flying foxes. At the spot where the boat turns around the guide draws our attention to the water. Seven-spot Archer fish surround the boat. They live off airborne insects that they bring down to the water by ejecting a stream of water. The boat handlers bring pellets of food for them, so they soon begin spraying everything they can spot that is light and shiny– glasses, camera lenses, or, in my case, a bushy white beard.
The swarm of little fish soon attract larger fish and turtles. It isn’t long before the guide spots a barramundi cruising along the bottom. Except for the crocodiles, these fish are at the top of the food chain. While we feed the archer fish and indulge our childish delight in being sprayed in the face, the crew breaks open bottles of sparkling wine and fresh-cut fruit. We sing “Happy Birthday” to a 74 year-old man who looks like he may be a visitor from India.
On the return trip the guide regales us with tales of crocodiles. There have been a couple of close calls at the Park. The scariest story is about a couple who were out in a canoe. A saltwater crocodile followed them and as it approached the man attempted to give it a swat with his paddle. He missed the beast but overturned the canoe, dumping his wife and himself in the water. They both swam like crazy for the bank, certain they were going to feel the jaws at any moment. The thing that saved them was their lunch, which spilled out of the canoe in a separate bag, right in front of the snout of the crocodile.
At dinner that evening, we tell stories of close calls with animals and strangers. Kylie tells us one frightening tale involving a hippo in Africa. I am reminded that despite our fears of things that eat us– animals such as crocodiles, bears, sharks, and hippos, we are rarely at risk from these creatures. That may be why we watch horror movies and leap out of airplanes. We are at the top of the food chain. Barramundi is on the menu and I am absolutely delighted.
On the evening of the second day, Anthony tells us that the hike to Manning Gorge will not be on the group itinerary. He doesn’t think it worth the effort at the end of the dry season, and if we leave by 9 AM we can make it to El Questro before dark. We are welcome to do the hike if we want to, but he wants us back by 9.
“Nine to five” takes on a whole new meaning when you are on an extended camping trip, especially when you are sleeping out under the stars. Most of us are in bed by nine and up by five, when the birds began to squawk. It starts to get hot well before seven.
The hike itself begins with a swim across the river. Styrofoam boxes are stacked by the bank, essential if you want to keep your boots and clothes dry for the crossing. There are four of us who decide to go for a hike about the same time, not really caring if we arrive at the gorge, simply wanting some exercise before the bus ride. One by one, we slip into the water like beavers, pushing our precious cargo through the placid water to the other side.
We dress quickly and head down the trail, which seems to be nearly all rock, and would be impossible to follow without the numerous markers that guide the way. We should be able to reach the gorge and get back in time, so long as we don’t dawdle. Brian, Kylie, Lynne and I come across Bronwyn on her way back from the gorge and she confirms our estimate.
There is no shade, and the sun is already high enough to feel hot. Perhaps we are going a little quicker than I am comfortable with. Searching for clues in retrospect is foolish, but it is difficult to resist the impulse. Two weeks earlier, I had my second cataract operation. The second lens has a different focal length than the first and this may have thrown off my depth perception. At Bell’s Gorge I tried to reach the bottom by swimming down from the surface and came up with a punctured ear drum for my trouble. I may be 64, but like most men, I can behave like a teenager at times.
We finally reach a ridge and the pool in the gorge spreads out beneath us. We sip some water and start down. That is when I miss a step and do a somersault among the rocks. Ten minutes earlier I had tucked my camera into its protective pouch. Now I’m flat on my back looking up at my concerned companions. My mind goes elsewhere for a long moment.
I take stock of my body. It seems to be intact. Nothing is broken. I am sore and winded, but my awareness returns after the odd absence when I seem to have been in another place. Brian, Kylie and Lynne help me to my feet and take my pack. We rest awhile, before continuing the descent, more slowly. I am grateful to be alive.
I don’t realize until I get back to the bus that my arm is bleeding. By then, the puncture has swelled to something the size of a small egg. Accidental falls are the number one cause of death in the wilderness. I have been very fortunate, missing several large rocks and landing on my backside, not my head. For the remainder of the trip I’ll be nursing a sore bum, arm and fingers. My buttocks will be black and blue for a week or two, but I’ll live to tell the tale. For that I will always be grateful.
Our route through this parched region seems to lead us from gorge to gorge, pool to pool. In reality, these oases would be far apart without a vehicle. This is a frighteningly inhospitable land, plagued by extreme heat during the dry season and downpours during the “wet” that fill the rivers and flood vast areas, rendering the Gibb River Road and even the sealed (paved) Great Northern Highway impassable in places.
There are lightning storms and cyclones, wild asses and rogue bulls. If you were trapped out here without shade and water during the dry season you would die in a day or two. It is not a comforting thought. There is safety in numbers for those of us who are ill-equipped to survive in the outback. It helps to have a well maintained 4 wheel drive vehicle as well as an experienced guide with a SAT phone. The aboriginals survived for thousands of years without any of what we consider the “essentials,” but they have 40,000 years of inherited experience at living on the land.
The unforgiving landscape nudges my mind hack to my childhood in Montana, with its endless vistas of cattle and sagebrush, rattlesnakes and gopher holes, but the similarities are deceptive. This country is dotted with spinifex, not harmless sagebrush, and the snakes in the Kimberley make rattlers seem like amateurs in the art of self defense.
Unlike Montana, this is an ancient land, unchanged by volcanic activity since the ocean began to recede. Its scale challenges all sense of perspective. How does one imagine the towering cliffs of the Napier Range as a vast reef under the ocean that covered this part of the continent? How does one picture a cattle muster, where the livestock are spread out over a million acres?
It is reassuring to be with a congenial group. We are homogeneous in many respects, but mixed in age, ranging from eleven to sixty-four. I can’t claim much wisdom, but I am the elder in the group. Bronwyn, Lynne and Brooke are all teachers from various Melbourne suburbs. I will not take the liberty of guessing their ages, but Brooke is the baby by far, still heading off on early morning runs and scrambling over rocks like a mountain goat.
Brian and Kylie hail from Adelaide, with successful careers in the postal service and pharmaceuticals, respectively. Dave and Kerri have brought along their two daughters, which elicits a certain amount of good-natured grumbling from time to time on both sides of the parental divide. It is to be expected. And last, but not least, our Lithuanian sisters, Margarita and Regina. Both are doctors with different specialties, and they seem to have seen a great deal of the world already.
Our destination for the day is Bell Gorge, one of the largest and most beautiful swimming holes in the Kimberley. It is a popular place. Fortunately, its size easily accommodates the numbers of people who find their way here at this time of year. We shed our clothes and dive in. Who can resist a pocket of paradise, an oasis in a dry land.
My pickup for the eight-day Kimberley Wild loop trip was intended to be early, before eight, so I dropped my motel key in the box outside the office and ambled out to the main road to await the vehicle. A call on my mobile phone came about half an hour later. I was beginning to wonder if I had misunderstood the pickup time.
There would be a short delay. It wasn’t short, as it turned out, but I wasn’t in any hurry. Our frazzled guide and driver pulled up about an hour late. He had made his first (and only) mistake of the trip. He had forgotten to close the back door 0f the monster bus and knocked it off its hinges. After a few more pickups, we were on our way.
There were a baker’s dozen of us, including Anthony, our guide, driver, cook and mentor for the journey. There were ten Australians, two Lithuanians, and me. The big bus could pack in 20 passengers, but I suspect most of us were grateful we had come at the tail end of the tourist season. We could spread out, put most of the backpacks on the back seats, and relax. Our destination for the day was the 350 million year-old Napier Range, once a Devonian reef, out along the Gibb River Road.
The western end of the Gibb River Road starts in the town of Derby, but it doesn’t really hit its stride until the macadam disappears. When the bone rattling begins, you pull out your map and realize that you have another 600 kilometers to go. The vast expanse on either side is the proverbial Outback. It is barren cattle country, punctuated by giant termite mounds and swollen Boab trees.
Along the way, our guide begins a history lesson on the life and times of an aboriginal named Jandamarra. This extraordinary man was a member of the local Bunuba tribe. As a young man, his skill with horses earned him a good reputation on cattle stations in the region, eventually bringing him to the attention of the police, who hired him as a bounty hunter.
When he was engaged to capture and imprison a large number of elders, including his revered uncle, Jandamarra’s tribal loyalties came to the fore. He killed a policeman named Richardson, stole guns, and set his prisoners free. It was the beginning of “The Bunuba War,” one of the few organised armed insurrections against European settlement.
Jandamarra used the gorges and tunnels through the Napier range to escape the police raids time and again. Even after a posse attacked his followers in Windjana Gorge and shot him, he escaped and survived. The brutal, three year war was eventually brought to a close through the talents of another blacktracker brought in by the police. Micki tracked his prey to the mouth of Tunnel Creek and killed him. Exalted by their victory, the white troopers cut off Jandamarra’s head and sent it to England. ” First Australians” tells the tragic tale in the excellent series–http://www.sbs.com.au/firstaustralians/index/index/epid/5
Our visit into Tunnel Creek is peaceful and beautiful. There are bats hanging overhead in the hundreds, but no crocs to worry about. We make our way slowly through the cavern with the help of torches (flashlights), wading through the shallow water. A collapsed roof lets in the light, revealing a cathedral of limestone.
We wind up our first day in the campground at Windjana Gorge. The Gorge is beautiful, but in my haste to change shoes I have forgotten my camera. Freshwater crocodiles enjoy the last warmth from the setting sun. Back in camp, Anthony starts throwing down tents and swags (sleeping rolls), and setting up camp. It will be dark soon and dinner will be very welcome.
Cape Leveque is at the northwest tip of the Dampier Peninsula, about 195 kms due north of Broome. To reach the Cape, one must endure a very long stretch of red dirt road before hitting pavement. You would expect the macadam to start in Broome and deteriorate further along. In fact, the opposite happens. By the end of the dry season, the hard dirt has been beaten into a rigid washboard dictated by the size of tires.
Our host for the day with Chomley Tours is the knowledgeable driver/guide Clive Johnson. An avid historian, Clive gives us a non-stop commentary on the region, its aboriginal inhabitants, the European explorers and the missionaries. Cape Leveque was named for a hydrographer attached to a French expedition led by Nicholas Baudin in 1801. The peninsula itself was named for William Dampier, a British buccaneer, sea captain, accomplished author and naturalist, the first man to circumnavigate the globe three times.
Our first stop is the Aboriginal community of Beagle Bay. Since its founding as a mission in 1892 by Trappist Fathers, the church has been led by a number of different religious orders. German missionaries have had the longest-lasting influence, and were largely responsible for the stunning church we see today.
“With the destruction of the old church by a cyclone, the practical German missionaries wanted to build a solid church made of brick. To achieve this goal, the missionaries experimented with different clay mixtures before achieving the correct proportion of white clay and black mud that had the right consistency for baking. A kiln was constructed to bake the bricks and burn shells for the lime mortar. … To develop the mortar, lime was extracted from seashells.
“To gather large quantities of shells, the people in the community went out along the beaches gathering shells in bullock carts. All these shells were brought back and fired up in the kiln. Oyster shells were knocked off the rocks with mattocks, loaded onto carts drawn by teams of bullocks. The shells were placed in the kiln along with layers of wood in alternative layers. It was this method that was used to produce lime from burnt lime. The missionaries were unable to obtain cement, so lime was used both for mortar and for plastering the walls. “ [Frank Birrell's History of Sacred Heart Church]
Our second stop is something I’m not sure I’m prepared for– mud crabbing. We pull off the main road and head into the bush at one of the tracks that seems to lead nowhere. Clive engages the four-wheel drive and we bump down the tracks toward a mangrove swamp on Cygnet Bay. Two local men and a boy are there to greet us and guide us toward our targets. Fortunately, they have already been out crabbing earlier, so we will have some for lunch. Even armed with rubber boots and the appropriate metal hooks, we are hopeless at it.
After a leisurely lunch (mostly chicken), we head for another church located between the towns of Djarindjin and Lombadina.
Our destination for the day is the beach at Cape Leveque (Kooljaman). Here is a successful Aboriginal enterprise, a resort with various levels of accommodation and its own airstrip. The red rocks fringing the beaches are beautiful. On one side is the Indian Ocean, on the other King Sound. We change into our swim suits and join the other adventurers who have come here to enjoy this special spot at the end of the long track. The water is wonderful, softening us up for the long journey back to Broome.
