Come with me from Carnarvon to Meekatharra
An adventure into the Australian Outback
I’m in Carnarvon, Western Australia, and it’s six a.m. Slowly changing billows of mist begin to unfold the secrets of a new day. A fresh sea breeze lifts heart and spirit; brings life to hands and feet.
I’m heading east from the Indian Ocean to Meekatharra, across desert and bush. Is it a quest for adventure, curiosity, passion, loneliness, nature?
But it’s a thousand kilometers through what is really no-man’s land; off the beaten track. It’s no walkover, especially with an ordinary saloon car.
Not that I am an adventurer or daredevil. More the opposite, in fact. I’m still hoping I’ve weighed up the risks, ready to take it to the limits, using loneliness as a drug. Insurance, checking road maintenance, any floods, petrol, water, roadblocks on the way. Two cards, one answer. The radio gives it: drive on, but take care.
Water and rations for three days in the trunk. Three chances to tank up along the way. Let’s go!
Fifteen kilometers of sealed road pass by until the turn-off, the last moments of comfort rush past. The tires hum on the smoldering bitumen. Now it will be water instead of champagne; sandwiches instead of steak. From the velvet cushions on to the bed of nails.
First stop is Gascoyne Junction: 176 kilometers of gravel road. The metal road-sign whispers in the morning breeze. Road open! Road closed! The arrow can’t make up its mind.
The tracks of tires; signs of life reaching to the horizon. An oasis of trees in the outback. Parrots and cockatoos are screeching, croaking. Crickets chirp in the long grass. Eight o’clock news on the car radio — I’m not alone.
The car races smoothly along the track, bringing back memories of boat journeys in my stomach. The speedometer needle swings between 60 and 70 — an outback race track. The wheels turn the red sand on the track into a dust cloud, a smokescreen reaching to eternity.
Doorawarrah, Mooka, Jimba Jimba: names on the map. Abandoned cattle stations; ghost towns; aboriginal sacred sites? Who can tell?
Here we are in Gascoyne Junction: on the map, it’s the center of the world. In reality, it’s a shop, a pub, a petrol station, and a house — all in one.
“Sorry, we’re out of petrol. You can wait three days or try at Cobra Station, 250 kilometers down the track. They sell some of theirs.”
“How many spare tires you got?” I’m asked. Sticking out my left thumb boldly, I give a sympathetic smile in return. Everyone who comes through here has three spares. Should I turn back? Then I realize there are at least two vehicles a day on this road .. let’s get going!
The needle on the petrol gauge gives me a kind of skeptical optimism, but I can’t say the same for the road. The car forces itself reluctantly along the gravel track; large stones run rhythmically against the floor. Smaller stones thrown out by the wheels screech past. I begin to hum a tune.
Nameless rivers are marked by numbers on the map. Bridges? No way, not out here! Luckily, it’s the dry season. The car lurches down the bank of river number 31. Pools of water try to block the way. Where’s the ford? The overpowering smell of gumtrees shows me the way.
Cobra Station: say 10 hours for 250 kilometers. Teas, sandwiches, the laughter of children, and a visitor’s book. It’s been eight days since the last entry. There’s petrol from their private supply, a hand pump, and my tankful is measured with a long dipstick.
Then, two hours more to a bed at Mount Augustus. The tire tracks are tangled out of all recognition. Darkness takes over from daylight. Wildlife begins to come out. In the short period of dusk, kangaroos and emus appear.
Mount Augustus Station: white sheets in a tin hut. Steak, chips, beer, and a 14-day old newspaper. Dull lamps, driven by a generator, show the way to the latrine. What will tomorrow bring?
The roar of a giant lawn-mower wakes me from my sleep; it’s five a.m. The generators are switched on and running.
Mount Augustus Station is one million acres of land with tens of thousands of cattle. It takes two months to do the mustering, with helicopter, motorbikes, Landrover, horses, ducks, and stockmen. An image of sunburnt, weather-beaten skin around bright, glowing eyes. Men out of cigarette commercials.
“G’day, mate!”
“How’s it goin’ mate?”
(Greetings here in the bush are more than just a formality)
“Safe journey, mate. Take care.”
Mount Augustus, the mountain in the endless expanse of Western Australia, stifles the eye and the senses.
On again, eastward. The sun’s rays bore into my skin through the untinted windscreen. White heat makes the landscape and my thoughts flicker and dance. Only the cooling airflow over the wipers stops them from melting. Red sand and dust enclose the car in camouflage, pouring through every crack; getting in my hair; settling on my clothes; blocking my nose, mouth, and ears; burning my eyes.
Red sand-dunes slip past the window. The carcasses of cattle litter the slopes. The road surface gets harder. The regular rattling becomes a stutter.
The stony, corrugated road takes its toll — the back, off-side tire bursts, I’m 250 kilometers from Meekatharra. The endless sound of the engine gives way to quiet. There is an anxious calm. A brown-yellow snake glides over my tire tracks, into the bush — for a second, the grass rustles in the stillness. Cracks in the dusty red earth form contours, maps, fantasy images, fairy-tale pictures, magic. The familiar becomes strange. Even ordinary stones become monuments, silent companions of the past, the present and the future. Moments of tension and relief; colors; calm; smells; wide-open spaces. Fantasy takes wing.
With no spare-wheel and still eight hours from my destination, is fantasy turning to fear!
The sand-cloud on the horizon gives notice of someone approaching. There’s an exchange of tips and tea, and then, “Take care, mate.”
Lost hours become an eternity. Day becomes night. The dust-coated headlights feel their way through the darkness. Mosquitoes massacre themselves on the windscreen. Caution advances now instead of driving.
Suddenly the meeting of two different worlds: the dirty track meets up with the bitumen road. Civilization shows — it’s only 75 kilometers to Meekatharra.
