Shaken, Not Stirred
It feels like mere days that I last updated the blog; yet here we are, already at the end of week two on the road to grow. It has been a week of stressors, adventures and recuperation, but we are well and truly in the swing of things now. Let’s get started.
We left Monkey Mia in the early morning, plugging as many electronics into the dash as it could handle, taking advantage of the drive to come. We were excited to find an echidna just off the road; and somewhat less excited to find out it was dead, and had become the new home of a few thousand ants, who were industriously hollowing it out. We parked up at Eagle Bluff Point to soak in the spectacular view of sheer cliffs that dropped away into the ocean far below; and took a break again to scrunch our way across Shell Beach - an enormous expanse of coast, its white ‘sand’ formed, upon close inspection, of uncountable small shells. The very limestone rock making up this section of coast was formed of these shells, eroded and changed with time and rainwater.
We pulled in at the Overlander to stock up, and I had my first coffee in a week (which was an absolute delight). Fueled up (in every sense of the word), we made our way towards our overnight stop at Gladstone Bay campground. First, however, a test. We had done our research beforehand, and were informed by Wikicamps that Gladstone Bay was 2WD accessible. What Wikicamps did not mention, however, was that this accessibility was only possible if you were willing to be shaken like a cocktail over five kilometers of corrugated gravel road. And shaken we were. Pumbaa creaked and groaned and clattered his way forward, and we were forced to slow to a snail’s pace as doors and cabinets swung open, spilling their contents across the floor. We were dead silent for five kilometers, praying, holding our breath. I looked over at Alessandra to find her rigid with focus, her arm muscles taut, hands clenched in a tight, vice-like grip against the wheel. Finally, we rattled our way into the open camp ground, which sits at the edge of an enclosed beach. Alessandra turned to me and said, with the quiet, perfect calm of someone who is not okay, ‘I do not want to do that ever again.’ Ignoring the fact that we would have to get back to the road tomorrow, I agreed, and set about putting my various internal organs back in their natural places.
The location was magnificent, and, at least in some small way, made up for the path that led there. We got out the standup paddle board, and Alessandra and Sabre paddled out into the clear, serene water. I saw a notice which had indicated someone lost wedding ring somewhere along the beach, so I took my little handheld underwater metal detector and began a stooped walk along the shoreline, finding only a handful or metal rubbish and an ache in my back. Later, we got up onto the roof deck - me with my sketchbook, Alessandra with her book - and enjoyed a beer under a blanket as we watched the sun set slowly over the ocean.
Magic Hour
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The next day was a drive day, back along the road-that-shall-not-be-named and up toward Carnarvon; encountering, along the way, the entire world’s supply of goats. At least they had the good sense to chill by the side of the road; then again, they may have just been the sentries, stood to keep watch over the roads as the rest plot their takeover of the outlying towns. In Carnarvon, we stopped to eat fried egg and avocado along the river, found our campsite, and kicked back for the rest of the afternoon.
Know thine enemy
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We left Carnarvon the following morning, picking up a brekkie burger at the petrol station and heading out for the Blowholes, an hour or so north. We walked across orange rock, interspersed with white, crunchy salt deposits, and stood to watch the majestic - if vaguely suggestive - display. Then it was a short drive down the road to our camp spot along the coast, next to a place that locals call The Aquarium: a beautiful enclosed reef, teeming with life. I got out the standup paddle board and lugged it several hundred meters to the beach and up the shore, Alessandra by my side, similarly weighed down with beach gear. We brought Sabre along, but too many other people were neglecting to heed the ‘dogs must be on leads’ signs that surrounded the beach. As such, I took Sabre all the way back to the bus, set him up with water and fans, and trekked back up to the beach.
I got stuck into snorkelling right away, and marvelled at the underwater world that opened up underneath me. Electric blue fish, each the size of a thumb; rainbow fish with neon-purple streaks across their bodies, large as a forearm; live clams as big as two cupped hands and black-and-blue seaslugs; enormous coral formations in the shape of brains or clouds or antlers. It seemed the entire panoply of WA marine life gathered here in the reef to live, side by side. I swam up to a small island just offshore, which played home to hundreds of seagulls, both plain-white and blue-crested. I sat in the surf, kicking up the sand to the delight of a group of little yellow fish, who began foraging in the disturbance. Alessandra called me over at one point, and indicated a coral mass, out from which peeked out a huge, red octopus, tentacles writhing between the rocks.
We returned to Pumbaa, and I set the drone out to capture the coast, drenched as it was in the light of the late afternoon sun.
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The next day, with all the excitement and energy of the day before, we were exhausted; so, when we got to Lyndon River Rest Area, we pulled up and rested. Alessandra and I enjoyed a peaceful afternoon reading, followed by a simple meal of calamari and broccoli. That night, Alessandra fell asleep in my arms.
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Morning again, and we packed up at our own pace without a checkout time, cruising up to Coral Bay. We were greeted by crystal clear beaches, with water azure and aquamarine - and a whole lot of caravan parks. We stopped for breakfast at a local cafe; and browsed a boutique shop, run by an old surfer, who displayed delicate and fine jewelery he had spun from metal and shell. Sabre was unusually patient as he waited for us in the bus. Next stop was a little further inland: our resting place for several days before our swim at Ningaloo with the whale sharks; Bullara Station.
When we arrived, we were direct to a welcome area, where a cheerful old station hand on a pushbike greeted us and guided us to our spot. We set up our awning and went for a wander, during which we met a small group of goats - scouts, no doubt. Back in Pumbaa, I cooked a simple pesto pasta with garlic bread, and we had our first game of chess in some time. There was an open-air shower, too - the ‘lava tree’ - and we went to enjoy it under the stars…but the hot water had run out. I jumped in anyway.
The Road North
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Our first full day at Bullara began with getting Sabre out for a walk around the dusty, winding trails that fringed the station. We took the ‘Windmill Walk,’ and captured some beautiful pictures with the atmosphere provided by the cloudy and overcast morning. It was a chore day, with all the unromantic goings-on that underpin any good adventure. In our case, it took the form of washing pillowcases, refilling Pumbaa’s oil, and organising photos. It was lovely, in a quiet kind of way. At 5:00pm, there was a communal damper tasting at an old tree strung with all manner of liquor and beer bottles, which clinked and swayed in the breeze. This turned out to be a bit of an event, with an amiable old Englishman taking the role of Master of Ceremonies, metal cup of wine in-hand as he made introductions and held court in the clearing. The damper was warm, with a crisp outer shell and soft centre. Not long after, we joined the communal dinner, where camp residents all took seats in the large dining area and mingled. We were invited to sit with three older travellers from Sydney, whom we had met at the damper tasting, and happily joined. We were, in turn, joined by a couple from the Netherlands, and we seven stayed long after dinner had ended and every other guest had left, sipping wine and talking of adventures to Las Vegas, and the wonders and hidden dangers of the American national parks.
Wandering the Station
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The following morning, we decided to use the day for a supply run to Exmouth, about an hour’s drive away. We loaded up with groceries, fuel and a cask of wine; and trundled off to a local dog beach, where I took drone footage of Alessandra and Sabre as they drifted out to sea on the S.U.P. Sabre’s really starting to relax on the board, and he handled the small waves like a born sailor-pup.
When we got back, evening was already creeping in, and we hadn’t had a bite since breakfast. We fell on a simple meal of turkish bread, cheese; sliced meats and salad. Happy and full, we tried the ‘lava tree’ again (merely lukewarm this time), before settling in and kindling a fire in the firepit by our campsite. When the fire was crackling away merrily, we toasted giant marshmallows and made smores, sandwiching the gooey, sticky marshmallow between salted crackers and chocolate.
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Week two has come and gone, then, and it’s time to reflect on what we have learned in the second week of our adventure:
2WD accessible does not mean ‘easily accessible’
Sunsets are best enjoyed with a beer
Goats will take over the world, given enough time and sufficient inattention on our part
Snorkelling is as delightful as it is subtly exhausting
Sabre can be patient when he wants to be
When travelling in the outback, red rock dust will go everywhere
A medium-sized dog can hold a surprising amount of red rock dust
Most people, when guided past the introduction phase, love connecting with others
There are still many adventures in the world - and not all are found in the wilderness
There’s magic in consciously indulging in little pleasures
Smores are delicious, but the resultant mess will not come off your hands, and could be used as superglue in a pinch
