Up The Track

Easter Sunday 1966, England and like most bank holidays it is cold, damp and miserable. Totally undaunted by this my dad thinks that it is an ideal opportunity to blow off the cobwebs and drag the family to the seaside for the day. Unfortunately for us it would seem that every dad in the East Midlands has had the same idea, for here we are stuck in a traffic jam on the A46, we haven’t moved an inch in the last 3 hours. Why does every council planning office in the land seem to think that bank holidays are the ideal time to begin major road works?

A ritual took place each Sunday morning in our street, but apart from Mr and Mrs Bishop it had nothing to do with church. Although by eleven o’clock every dad in the street would be out there religiously polishing their car, Austin 1100’s, Morris Minors, a Ford Zephyr and a Hillman Imp amongst others. The topic of conversation would invariably turn to holidays. “Did you go away this year Fred? Yes, took the caravan, spent two weeks by the side of the B605, what about you Harry? Yes took the wife and kids and had a lovely week on the A613, a couple of days on the A52. George? "Well we had a great stroke of luck, couldn’t get to Bognor due to the usual traffic snarl ups but managed to get in on a lay-by just off the B678, spent a week there, pub up the road, perfect."  

Halcyon days of British motoring, a time when Japanese cars and road rage was unheard of and a time when every major route in England seemed to go through a housing estate. We would often get lost so would have to stop and ask someone for directions, usually the same old bloke out walking his dog. “Excuse me mate, can you tell me the way to Wicksteed Park?” Oh it’s you again, let me see, turn left at Mrs Baker’s carry on a hundred yards, left at the Black Bull, they do a good pint, turn right just past Harold Coleman’s place, keep going for about 20 miles, if you see the Royal Oak, you’ve missed the turn. Thanks see you next year”

Motorways were still a novelty in those days and the service areas were a major tourist attraction. My Dad loved nothing more than to take us for a Sunday afternoon drive in his newly cleaned car to an M1 service station, Leicester Forest East Junction 21, Trowell junction 25, no problem. Hop in kids, let’s go and sit in a cafe above the motorway and watch traffic.
Forty years on and traffic congestion has become the norm, even with eight lane Motorways, traffic still comes to a standstill. The kids of today they don’t know they’re born, they can sit back and watch a DVD or play a computer game to help ease the boredom, all we had in our day were ISPY books and red telephone boxes to count.
Yesterday, so I’m told is another country, but I know it’s a place where the sun always shines and each day brings blue skies and fluffy white clouds, it never rained. I should know, because it’s a country that I journey to every time that I get a spare moment to myself, I’d emigrate tomorrow.

You may find this hard to believe but during part of our Easter trip this year we travelled 610km and only saw five other vehicles! There is surely no other track in Australia more famous and well known than the Birdsville track. It is a lonely, harsh and dusty road over 600 kilometres in length that eventually leads to the remote and lonely outpost it is named after. The Queensland town famous for its pub and the races that it hosts every September is located 1590 kilometres west of Brisbane on the edge of the Simpson Desert. The Dead heart of Australia as the Simpson is known covers over 500,000 hectares and is full of sand dunes. To cross the desert in a 4WD is a major achievement as you have to contend with over 1100 of them. The largest sand dune fondly known as Big Red is the final obstacle between you and the Birdsville hotel, where a few well earned beers no doubt await.
During the Birdsville races the population of the town increases from around 100 people to over 6000, and the tiny airstrip located right next to the pub is crammed to capacity with light aircraft, as hundreds of punters fly into town for the two day event. The Birdsville track begins (or ends) in the town of Marree, another famous old town of the Australian outback, famous for the old Ghan railway, which has long since disappeared. The Ghan was named after the Afghan cameleers who journeyed up and down the track with their camel trains, transporting vital supplies and mail to the town and stations along the way.

The track was established during the 1880’s, when it became the main stock route between Marree and Birdsville. It would take about a month before the cattle reached the railhead in Marree.
Last year, modern day City Slickers as typified in the Billy Crystal movie paid good money for an opportunity of a lifetime to travel down the track, camp out under the stars and crack the whip as once again cattle were droved down the track to Marree. Fittingly they used the old fashioned four legged mode of transport, backed up of course by modern Japanese four wheel drives.
After fifteen years of waiting and reading about the enigma that is the Birdsville track, our journey would soon begin. But I guess after waiting this long, what’s another half hour when morning tea and hot cross buns are on offer in Marree? Besides that people die on the track and this might be my last chance.

Finally filled with buns and tea, the English nurse, Banjo and I set off. Ernie has a full tank of diesel and as a precaution we carry extra jerry cans even though fuel is available at roughly the halfway point from Mungerranie station. We have food and water, cold beer and wine in the Engel, two spare wheels, UHF radio and a satellite phone courtesy of ebay. We find the track in reasonable condition, recently graded and not unlike that of a first day’s test wicket at Edgbaston. Brown clay, a few cracks and devoid of grass. There are worse roads in suburban Sydney and the track of today is nothing like the track that Tom Kruse the famous mailman of the 1950’s had to contend with, when heavy rain and flooding would leave him stranded for weeks on end.

The extreme summer temperatures still make it a dangerous journey for the ill prepared, and with that in mind we take time to stop and take heed of the warning signs that have been erected to remind the traveller that a very remote area lies ahead, and to my dismay that no English football results are unavailable for the next 2500km. About 30 kilometres into our journey we arrive at our first point of interest, Lake Harry homestead. The inhabitants have long departed from this earth and nothing remains except the ruins of an old stone house, the ruins of someone’s dreams.
Now everyone has to have their dreams otherwise life would be pretty dull, I dream of never having to work again and having enough money just to travel. It was someone else’s dream to build a date palm plantation, namely the government of South Australia. They thought that here in this hot, dry, dusty desolate area would be the ideal place, sadly it wasn’t to be. 

We leave Lake Harry behind and continue our journey north, crossing over the wild dog fence and to our next brief stop, Clayton’s waterhole. Unfortunately it was too early in the day to set up camp but what a great place to rest up and clean off the dust it would be. The owners of the nearby station have thoughtfully built a hot tub using the natural heat of the water from the Great Artesian basin. The Clayton bore is just one of the many that have been drilled at various places along the track. The water from the basin is the lifeblood of the track and the reason why people can live and work in one of the driest regions in Australia. Australia is full of bores; you only have to listen to talkback radio but that’s another story.  We are now entering the vast Cooper creek floodplain, 60km wide in places and the only way across after heavy rain is via the detour road to the ferry. The original ferry, the restored MV Brennan and not much bigger than a tinny sits by the side of the track, it is a memorial to the early settlers and transporters of the region. The floodwater from the Cooper flows into the vast salt lake that is Lake Eyre, it is here that Sir Donald Campbell set his land speed record in 1964.  

Once past the ferry road, we leave the gum lined creek behind and the landscape changes to yellow as we cross the area known as the Natterannie Sandhills. These are the sandhills that used to give Tom Kruse so much trouble on his mail run He could take all day to travel 12 kilometres. Ernie our Defender, due to superior Land Rover engineering didn’t even notice them, but actually it’s because they have been tamed by the modern road builder, flattened if you like. This area is famed for having Australia’s lowest annual rainfall and is where the Tirari, Strzelecki and Sturts stony desert meet. 

You don’t have to be mad to live in the outback, but being eccentric does help to relieve the boredom. This would explain the reason for the traffic light on the Birdsville track as we wait to turn left into Mungerannie by the sea, an oasis on the Derwent River, our resting place for the night. We gave up on the traffic light ever changing and ran a red light; luckily there were no policemen only two Brolgas on duty to witness our traffic violation. Parking meters outside the pub add to the eccentricity of the place. Mungerranie Station is a popular resting place on the track as it is roughly halfway between Marree and Birdsville. It boasts a pub, campsite, fuel, showers and an artesian hot tub, it really is an oasis and the wetlands are home to 147 species of bird’s and over ten million flies.  We shared our camping spot on the edge of the river with two of the species as over 300 roosting Corellas and Galahs decided to join us.

We had hoped to get away early next morning so we decided against pitching the tent and to try out our new swag, big mistake! Unfortunately it was very windy in the night and by morning it was full of dust. What with Banjo jumping on the swag, the dust and the noise from the birds, we had quite a restless night. After a quick breakfast I decided to go and have a look at the hot tub, it is more like a swimming pool.
 
 The only set of traffic lights on the Birdsville track.

To my astonishment fast asleep by the side of the pool was a Dingo, I thought at first that it was dead but when it opened its eyes and looked up at me I knew otherwise. I had never seen one so close up before and mentioned it to the owner of the station. He said “Did you shoot the bastard?” and went to have a look. The dingo this time was awake and made to run off as we approached, it was then that I saw the caked blood on its fur. Someone had obviously already tried to shoot it, but didn’t do a very good job. The owner went back to get his gun, we decided to continue onwards to Birdsville. I felt quite sad now and wished I hadn’t told anyone about the Dingo, I felt even worse when we saw its mate all alone waiting in vain.                                                                        

Back on the track it was shake rattle and roll as we travelled into gibber plains country, and towards Sturts Stony Desert. This is the roughest part of the track so far and the road littered with stones, it began to get quite windy. We are only in autumn and the outside temperature is 32 degrees centigrade, you can imagine the conditions in summer with furnace temperatures of 50 degrees or more, hot winds and sand storms, many people have perished throughout the years.
One such tragic event occurred during Christmas in 1963 when a family of five perished. They were the Page family originally from England who only came to live in Australia four years earlier in 1959. They too set out from Marree and were trying to get to Birdsville, but ran out of petrol and eventually perished in the heat. The track during the Christmas holidays would have been very quiet, with little chance of help and they had no means of communication. All five members of the family were buried in a makeshift grave and a simple cross marks the spot.   

The track during that time was not as clearly marked out as it is today, and there were sandhills to contend with.
It would have been quiet easy to get lost following another track, using up valuable fuel in the process. I don’t like to mention this to the English nurse, but I ‘m sure that I can feel the Defender pulling back as if there is the engine is being starved of fuel and are they really bleached white bones that I see at the side of the track? We ignore the turnoff for the inside track and leave the alternative route across Goyder Lagoon for the return journey home. In the distance we can see the Koonchera sandhill, a huge landmark that stretches north for miles; severe sandstorms are quite common in this area. The wind is blowing a gale and the drifting sand makes quite an eerie sight as it blows across our path reducing our visibility. Even Banjo who has travelled most of the way with his head out of the window decides that it is too much and takes cover inside. It is no wonder that people got lost and perished when the drifting sand would cover over the track of old, no worries we will soon be in Birdsville. It has been a lonely 282 kilometre journey from Mungerannie and we have only seen a handful of other vehicles. A shame then that it had to be spoilt by three idiots doing at least 120km an hour on a badly corrugated part of the track, leaving clouds of dust and stones in their wake and all over us as they beat us into town. I hope the pub's ran out of beer dickheads! No hang on I didn't mean to say that because after travelling a dusty track for the last couple of days the last thing that I want is a pub with no beer.

Here we are, Birdsville at last and different to what I expected. The roads aren't dirt but tarmac and the sports Oval is a lush green that would put the Sydney Cricket ground to shame, I was expecting a ram shackle town, a few houses and a pub complete with beer belly Queenslanders dressed in maroon shirts, stubbies and thongs, disappointed you bet. The hotel was instantly recognisable and right next to the airstrip. Park your plane and have a beer, but watch out for the air police random breath testing units hiding in the clouds at 20,000 feet.
We found a great camping spot by the banks of the Diamantina river, Banjo was glad to get out of the truck, have a run and a sniff. He impressed a few people on the campsite with his good looks. The tent is up, dinner is cooking and we have just watched the most beautiful sunset. Nothing beats a cold beer whilst watching a new moon rise over the river, I've never seen the moon so big you could almost reach out and touch it. Tomorrow we will have a look around the town and have a drive out to Big Red the large sandhill on the edge of the Simpson desert. No visit to Birdsville is complete without calling into the hotel for a beer, even if it is XXXX! Banjo is woken from his slumber, one eye open, one ear cocked as somewhere on the other side of the river a dingo howls, Banjo doesn't care because he's tired and full of dinner. He soon rolls over and goes back to sleep. He has the right idea as the English nurse and I are also quite tired and turn in for the night.
Sunday morning, and the Dingo that we heard howling last night must have been sniffing around as to Banjo's dismay his prize bone has gone missing!
We have a quick breakfast before the flies come out in force, pack up the tent and drive out to the edge of the Simpson desert to take a look at "Big Red". The roof top tent that we have is fantastic, but the only drawback is that everything has to be packed away if you want to go out exploring. Over the years it has become a sort of Mecca for 4WD owners, an obstacle that has to be overcome, a mount Everest if you like.
Standing atop of Big Red the views are fantastic and you can see for miles.
The red sand contrasts against the vivid     blue sky and yellow wildflowers. Out into the desert it is very arid and bare, one day and hopefully one day soon we aim to do a Simpson desert crossing. Now it is well known how city 4wd drive owners come out here just to play in the sand, their vehicles are equipped with every conceivable accessory known to man. Winches, snatch straps compressors, you name it they have it. Whilst taking in the view that leads back towards the direction of Birdsville, my attention was directed to a trail of dust rapidly approaching in our direction, it was if a charge had been set. The cause of the dust was a local of the town in his Ute complete with obligatorily dog tied to the back on his way across the Simpson. He roared up Big Red, his dog desperately hanging on in the back, he didn't even pause for breathe, there was no mucking about with tyre pressures, he was up, over, down the other side and gone, his dog swinging in mid air. I suppose that it was funny at the time but so very dangerous. If anyone was coming up in the opposite direction, I would haven't even bothered calling for the flying Doctor, but the local undertaker. Sadly our trip to Birdsville was drawing to a close and tomorrow we would make the long journey   home, but not before another beer or two in the Birdsville hotel. See you down the track.

 

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