NORMANTON (20 - 28 JUNE)

Karumba, the only port town on the southern Gulf with direct access to the sea, is situated on the mouth of the Norman River, which, from here, snakes its way inland to Normanton itself.

Karumba, home of the southern Gulf fishing fleet and the export dock for the products of the nearby Centry Zinc Mine.

Karumba, the winter season destination of hundreds of Victorians (and others..but not many of them) who descend on this so called fishing paradise in their hoards to inundate the three caravan parks and to rape and pillage the Gulf and Norman River from a fleet of tinnies which can only be described as breathtaking in number.

We had heard many cautionary tales of this tiny Gulf town, all of which related to the manner in which our Victorian cousins effect an annual exclusionary takeover.  A number of these tales of woe came from Victorian themselves.  More of this later, but suffice it to say at this point that our two visits to this so called 'idyll' confirmed for us the wisdom of our decision to base in Normanton.

The road to Karumba traverses two very distinct topographies.  The initial part of the 72 kms trip passes through typical savannah country, complete with grasses, low scrub and termite mounds.  From the 'Maggieville  Station' bend where the road swings west to the coast the ground is given over in the main to the barren salt pan and tidal flats of the wet, now demonstrably dry.

Karumba is a town divided into two distict areas.  The main section houses all the expected services, the main shopping area and the port facitities on the banks of the Norman River.  It also hosts one of the three caravan parks in the town.

The other two are located at Karumba Point.  Here one will also find the Sunset Hotel, numerous holiday units of varying quality and the prerequisite cafes and small kiosk type shops.

Drinks at the front of the hotel here, sitting in the shade and taking in the delights of the wide mouth of the Norman River and the Gulf beyond, is to be recommended, although Liz and I did not indulge personally.

For us southerners, the warmth of the air and water presents an almost irresistable urge to plunge into the briny.  This desire is rapidly quashed by the many signs which abound in the area.

Whilst I have never had a problem conceiving of large and unfriendly 'snappy toms' in the northern rivers and streams, it always seems to me to be quite unfair that these monsters can lurk in what would otherwise be maginificent swimming waters (sorry...forget the stingers as well).  Ah, well, one cannot have everything!

At least one can fish from the water's edge.  Sadly my efforts were in vain, but then I could take comfort from the fact that I was one amongst at least twenty hopefuls on this particular morning who left equally unrequited.  We have learnt that this season has been especially poor from a piscatorial perspective.  Something to do with unseasonally cold water, I am told. 

I must confess that, notwithstanding the apparent relaxed attitude of my fellow fishers, I had one eye on my rod tip and another sweeping the ocean surface for the tell tale signs of prehistoric monsters.  At one stage a feeding dolphin, which created a surface disturbance of some significance, took my mind off all but self preservation!

As I have previously mentioned, Karumba in the dry becomes the home to hundreds of visitors, most of whom take up residence for three months or so.  So to the tale of the caravan parks and life in Karumba in the dry.

In short, the three parks, whilst providing shade, are dry, dusty, overcrowded homes to massive numbers of Victorians who organize themselves into various unwelcoming cliques.  I have attempted to capture the manner in which the organization of the parks gives a new meaning to the term 'cheek by jowl' with only limited success. (sometimes words do say more than pictures)  The only apparent aim in life of these southern visitors is to take as much fish as possible from the surrounding waters and to eschew all but thir immediate mates. I know this sounds dire and the possible snipe of an outsider. Let me provide some examples to support my claims.         

A chap I ran into in Cloncurry (a Victorian himself) who described how he had been ensconsed in Karumba for a few days during which he watched the arrival of his new neighbour with astonishment.  He detailed how, after the van and annex had been set and erected (not before he had been asked..unnecessarily....to move his vehicle) the freezer, fridge, washing machine and tinnie all apeared out of the blue to be duly installed in the annex and on any spare square inch of the site. (this solved the mystery as to why there is a very large, modern self-storage facility in town). 

More was to come.  The next afternoon my confident took down his awning etc preparatory to a departure the next morning.  His newly arrived neighbour then confronted him to suggest that he might care to ensure that he left early.  When asked why, he was duly informed that the site he occupied "actually belonged to friends" of the neighbour who were a little late in arrivng this year.  He went on to say that they were due on the morrow, and moreover, liked to get in early.  To that end it was suggested to my informant, apparently in no uncertain terms, that he should ensure an early departure so as not to inconvience the newcomers.  To my delight he informed me that he developed an unexpected mechanical problem overnight and could not manage a departure until early afternoon. My man!

The second tale of woe concerns a washing machine.  (from yet another informant who was factionaly unaligned).

On a particular Tuesday morning (this is significant) she took her washing to the laundry and loaded an unoccupied machine, one of ten or more available, as the only person laundering at the time.  Shortly thereafter she was confronted by what can only be described as a 'blousy' type in a state of high dudgeon.  The conversation apparently went as follows:

"What are you doing with that machine?"
"My washing."
"You can't use that one.  That's Joan's machine.  She reserves that one every Tuesday for her washing."
"Where is Joan?"
"She'll be here soon.  You have to move to a different machine."
"I don't think so!"

Needless to say, the machine in question completed its alloted task, but not, apparently without a continuing tirade for some time about the cheek of the interloper.  Oddly enough, 'Joan' did not appear during the entire saga!

Another interesting and significant snippet about life in the Karumba parks came from yet a third source.  This chap described how, when he was about to leave his site to move on, four other vehicles had to be shifted to allow his egress.

These three tales are but the more extreme of many we have heard throughout our travels.  Suffice it to say, they provided oral support for our observations of the place and the relief we felt in not having pursued the acquisition of a site in the town with vigour.

But still they come.  We passed van after van on both our return trips to Normanton. The following is a photo of the 'overflow' section of the park in the main township.  No power, no water, no ambience, no Marshies!

And this is the view across the road of the boat yards and industrial slipways etc of Karumba.  No thanks.

Perhaps we are being a bit harsh, but I get grumpy when I hear that a local lass has developed a thriving business supplying the visitors with foam packages in which they can ship frozen fillets back to Melbourne throughout their three month stay (for personal use only, of course...and if you believe that you would believe anything).  What draws the Vics in such numbers remains a mystery.  Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Karumba is the northern end of the 'Matilda Highway' a route which wends it way north across the country from the Victorian town of Jerilderie, who knows?

As with the crowded caravan parks, it was very difficult to capture pictorally the incredible numbers of tinnie trailers which surround the town and Point boat ramps.   I have been around a few boat ramps in my time and have never seen anything its equal.

This shot shows about a third of the assembled fleet at the Point ramp, generally well parked, but with some of the latecomers displaying scant regard for others whom they block in.  I did a count out of interest.  There were just over 130 boat trailers here and another 60 or so in the streets surrounding the town ramp.  On that count alone, it is evident that at any one time there  is a fleet of some 200 boats (I've not included the serious trailers or those of the locals) plundering the Norman River and the nearby Gulf.  Extraordinary!

Well, so much for our impressions of Karumba.

Let me turn now to another of our local adventures, this time out some 40 kms west along the Savannah Highway towards Burketown to the site of the Burke and Wills camp 119.  This was the point from which, on Sunday 10 February 1861, B & W struck out with three horses to reach the northern waters of Australia.  As we know (and I have probably related somewhat ad nausem) their quest was stymied by the vast flooded saltpans and swamps which typify these coasts during the wet season.  As Burke wrote, "It would be well to say that we reached the sea, but we could not obtain a view of the open ocean, although we made every endeavour to do so."

Little remains of the site save for a number of 'blaze' trees, all but a few of which can barely be recognized.

A camp site board provides details of the various blazes used by the explorers of the time. A nearby muddy billabong and the desiccated carcass of a dead frog lying on the barren earth served in a strange way to give some sense of the isolation and hardship these men endured.  When one thinks that they often navigated no more than twenty paces or so at a time through the denser bush so as to maintain a true bearing, suffered from extremes of weather, insect bites, and the deprevations of poor (and eventually none) rations and questionable water supplies, the feats of these early explorers are truly humbling.  Knowing the fate of Burke and Wills, I felt something at Camp 119 I find hard to put into words.

And so our time in Normanton is almost at an end.  In addition of all we have seen, we have had the good fortune over the past two days to have had neighbours with whom we found we got on famously.  Brad Dunn, a retired Regimental Sgt Major in the Armoured Corps, and his wife Maria, were just great fun.  We shared common interests, good food and plenty of liquid refreshments.  After all my negative comments about Karumba, one positive is the availablity of Gulf prawns at reasonable prices.  It was a pleasure to share a meal of these with Maria and Brad.  Here you see Chef Pierre in full formal kitchen attire preparing the little devils for crumbing.

Like us, Maria and Brad are gypsies.  We hope to run across them again in our travels.  On the same subject, we have also had a couple of great happy hours with Rhonda and John Vogt, a couple we first met at Burke and Wills Roadhouse a fortnight ago and whose paths crossed ours again here in Normanton. 

Our current plan is to leave Normanton on Saturday morning, overnight at the Burke and Wills Roadhouse, and thence make our way back to Cloncurry (and Mount Isa as a side trip) before heading through Richmond, Hughenden and Charters Towers to Townsville, where we are booked in for ten days (which will include four on Magnetic Island as the guests of Jenny and Steve Lyneham).  Annoyingly, hooting south-easterly winds on the nose await us if the forecast is accurate, but this time we have little choice.  Our fuel bill will be horrific. 

I do not anticipate having the time to post again for at least a week, so dear readers....patience till then!

NORMANTON (19 - 24 JUNE)

After a drive of some 200 kms through the savannah grazing plains of the southern Gulf region, a topography which in parts reminded us both of much that we had seen from the Ghan last September, we arrived in Normanton planning to spend a week here with possibility of a few days on the Gulf itself in Karumba, some 70 kms further to the north-west.  This was to be contingent on two things...site availability and a recce.  A day trip to this so called fishing Mecca of the southern Gulf saw off any need to check for a possible spot in one of the three caravan parks it boasts (a word not used lightly).  But more of this later. 

We had chosen to stay in Normanton for a couple of reasons.   Firstly, the park we selected is complete with a hot, artesian spa and a 25 metre pool (significantly less hot as it transpired...Liz has managed only her big toe to date) in a quasi 'resort' setting which we decided would adequately cater for a few days of self-indulgence, sunning and some swimming, a much needed antidote to days spent behind the wheel followed by 'happy hour'.  If fact, the pool is the original 'town pool', around which the park was constructed when the new, larger pool was built.  What a good idea!

We were a little disappointed in the lack of grass (never trust the brochures) but then discovered to our amazement that the town is currently subject to water restrictions.  Given that for the past two wet seasons, Normanton's location atop an ironstone ridge in the midst of savannah salt pans, tidal flats and marshlands, has been the only thing which has saved it from complete inundation, this struck us as paradoxical, to say the least. 

We later discovered that the current town supply is piped from a dam constructed on a grazing property nearby.  The owner of this land has placed an embargo on the height of the dam wall to restrict the amount of land he has lost to the retained water.  So, in this land of extreme wet seaons' rainfall, the problem is one of infrastructure not the provisions of nature.  Odd, and annoying to all the locals.  In fact, in the photos of the town to follow, you will note the barren median strips, which, if green, would transform the entire feel of the town.  We are actually contemplating a trip here at the end of 'the wet' at some stage, just to see the difference. 

Co-incidentally, the town water supply was, for many years, provided from an artesian bore which is located in the very caravan park in which we are domicile.

Once settled in our site, which is roomy, if dry, the Information Centre and a quick town orientation beckoned. Both achieved, the nearby 'Purple Pub' sang its Siren song. What choice did we have. Neither of us were tied to a mast! (a small test of your Greek mythology knowledge) The subsequent arrival of our park next door neighbours saw a 'couple of beers' extended to several (many really) and we now have a new contact in Gilgandara!

The Purple Pub is something different, not only for its colour scheme, but for an equally distinctive interior, and, as we discovered, a very novel approach to meals service. 

Liz and I attempted to treat ourselves to a night out a few evenings later at this same inn.  When our meals arrived at the table, a straight forward order of crumbed barramundi and crumbed prawns, both with salad and chips, had morphed into lemon grilled barra and a small serve of garlic prawns on rice.  Needless to say, questions were asked.  Our waitress, a charming Irish backpacker, (we had noticed that almost all outback establishments are staffed by young overseas travellers at this time of the year) repaired post haste to the kitchen to return with news that the crumbs had run out and the chef (the woman who also owns the place) had made the unilateral decision to serve us something alternative.  Once we had recovered our equilibrium I politely suggested that this was not quite good enough (really...I was too stunned to be cross).  Interestingly, and I suspect, significantly, we were offered a refund almost before I had finished speaking.  I can only surmise that this is not the first occasion on which the owner has hoped that dining guests will be too stonkered, tired or ambivalent to protest when presented with a meal other than that ordered. 

Enquiries with the park owners indicate that the management of this particular pub is novel to say the least.  This experience, combined with the fact that a Kiwi table companion on the night reported that his steak was the toughest he had ever had (and watching him battle it with his steak knife we needed no convincing), has resulted in The Albion becoming our  local watering hole of choice. 

Apart from the fact that it boasts a lovely, shaded rear deck, provides very good meals, is run by friendly and informative locals, and runs Friday night raffles, this hotel has a very interesting history.  The building was originally located in Croydon, a gold rush town 140 kms to the south-east of Normanton (much more of this later) where, astonishingly, it was one of 35 pubs catering to the demands of thirsty miners during Croydon's halcyon days. With the demise of the gold mining, it  was trans located to Normanton where it has catered to the needs of locals and visitors ever since. (waste not, want not!) 

It has to be said that for a town of a mere 1,100 souls,Normanton is well served in the hotel department.  The third, The Central, is located on the main street, within a stone's throw of The Albion.  In fact, all three pubs are no more than 300 metres distant from each other.  One can 'pub crawl' in Normanton literally!

As can be seen, The Central is a quite different style of building, typical of many in outback Australia. The high gables and wide verandahs provided the climate control of the day.  This is the 'meals' pub of the town, something we plan to explore before we leave.

Believe it or not, there is more to Normanton than pubs.  I just thought to deal with a more important aspect of town life first!

Normanton was established in the late 1800's as a port on the wide, tidal Norman River, primarily  to service the Croydon goldfields.  A small, disused portion of the original docks is all that remains.

A railway line between the two towns (which still carries the famed 'Gulflander' rail car service...more of this later) provided an export route for the gold and a return freight service to Croydon and the other small towns dotted in the area.  The trading company Burns Philp and Company saw the potential of the infant port town and established a thriving business which included local trade and shipping supplies to the nearby Gulf Islands.  This firm went on to become one of Queensland's biggest in its field and was housed in a magnificent building which is now the town information centre and library.

Government and other services were established and housed in style.

Long after the commercial demands of the gold rush had passed, and the coastal freight services were transferred to the port of Karumba, on the mouth of the Norman River, these have remained.  Normanton is now the local government hub of the Carpentaria Shire which extends well up the western side of Cape York, and, in addition to housing a number of Government health and welfare services, remains almost entirely reliant on tourism for its continued existence.

To this they cater well.  Buildings of historical significance have been very well maintained. The Westpac Bank building, which is the only remaining bank of the many which were spawned by the gold rush, is an example.

Boards dotted throughout the town provide interesting descriptions of places and events. Here is one for all you trivia buffs!

It must be said that Normanton is nothing if not colourful.  In addition to the garish Purple Pub, one of the two local butchers is keen on green, whilst the shop next door has adopted a different, but equally noticeable colour scheme.

I mentioned previously that the town was, very wisely, established on an ironstone ridge which rises out of the surrounding flood plains.  This has served to ensure that it usually remains high and dry during the wet, albeit completely cut off on more than one occasion.  The ire of locals in relation to a bureaucratic decision to declare beer a 'non-essential item' during the airborne re-provisioning of the town on once such occasion still rankles.

Despite the sagacity of the town planners, the wet has had its victories. 

Liz is pictured here providing perspective to the marker on the wall of the shire building which records the high water mark of the flood of 1974. 

Many towns boast 'Big Things' and Normanton's is very big indeed.


Let us introduce you to 'Krys' the croc, a life size replica of one shot on the banks of the Norman River in July 1957 by Krystina Pawlowski, a local professional crocodile hunter (you didn't mess with either Krys!). This monster measures 8.63 metres (28 feet 4 inches) in length and was estimated to weigh in at just over 2 tons. Not surprisingly, this remains the largest crocodile ever shot in the world and it serves to provide a salutary reminder of the dangers lurking in the rivers and streams of this part of the country. It really is huge!

Another of Normanton's fine old buildings is the railway station.

This was our point of embarkation for our trip to Croydon on the renown 'Gulflander' which I have mentioned previously.  Let me quote from the official brochure,

"Affectionately said to go from 'nowhere to nowhere', the Normanton to Croydon line was never connected to the state rail network.  This isolated railway is heritage listed and is the only line in Queensland still measured [officially] in miles.  [It] was laid in a fashion not found anywhere else in the world.  With an innovative sleeper design, seasonal flood waters flow over the line to lessen flood damage.  Testament to the ingenuity of this design is [the fact] that today much of the line is still the original rail and sleepers laid between 1888 and 1891"

Of course what the blurb does not tell you is that the fact that these 'U' shaped sleepers, which are embedded directly into the ground surface rather than supported on the normal railway ballast, result in train travel which could be described as unique, but more accurately as bone shaking. Life is a constant compromise!




The 'Gulflander' itself is similarly unique (pictured here in the Normanton station).

A motor rail car of some antiquity, it has often been described as a truck engine in a railway body.  This, as our driver was quick to point out, is inaccurate.  Whilst the 130 hp diesel engine is connected to the rear drive wheels through a crash, four speed gear box similar to the trucks of old, the changing of which requires the use of that long lost practice of double de-clutching, the vehicle was purpose built.  On the day of our journey it happily also pulled the two carriages which had been attached to cater for the large patronage.

Nonetheless, its design does make for an interesting driving station.  The clutch and gear lever can be seen immediately in front of the left hand side of the driver's seat.  Throughout the trip I struggled to come to terms with watching gears being manipulated in the complete absence of a steering wheel.





The line was originally designed to be part of a larger system connecting the Gulf country to Cloncurry. The demise of the goldfields at Croydon, and the politics of the day, meant that only the current 'nowhere to nowhere' section was built.  Despite its inherently 'tourist' nature, the service is still formally recognised by Queensland Rail, and must run out of Normanton each Wednesday, returning from Croydon the following day, irrespective of the number of booked passengers (apparently an empty train is not totally unknown).  A mail service to cattle stations which embrace the line continues and, despite a number of calls for its closure, the provision of these local services (often when road transport is severely compromised during the wet) and the uniqueness of the line itself  means that its future looks secure. 

Our 94 mile journey to Croydon took just over five hours. After descending the ridge, the track crosses the floodplains below the town and thence climbs onto the savannah plains for the remainder of the trip.  'Smoko' was provided at the 'Blackbull' siding, so named after a famous rogue bull of the area which apparently played havoc with the local graziers' stud breeding programmes for the many years he successfully eluded capture. (what a life!) 

The large iron water tank shown in this photo is the last remaining relic of the days of steam on the line.

Throughout the trip our driver, who proved to be a man of many talents, provided one of the most interesting commentaries we have ever heard.  His knowledge of local history, flora, fauna and characters was encyclopedic.  Notwithstanding the demands of some pretty constant gear changing, he maintained his chat for almost the entire five hours.  Much to my delight, he was as dry as a lime-kilner's boot, and had a wonderfully colourful turn of phrase.  He made the trip worth every cent of its not inconsiderable fare.

Croydon.  What a little jewel!  The gold may have run out (although recent renewed interest is creating some local excitement) but the town has recognised the value of the tourist dollar and responded accordingly.  Beautifully maintained historical buildings include the old council chambers

and the courthouse

the interior of which hosts a series of wooden cutout figure, who, on the press of a button regale visitors with a re-enactment of the 1902 trial of one Mrs Brown on a charge of public drunkenness. (that's not Mrs Brown pictured trying to abscond)  On the basis of the transcript presented it can definitely be said that Mrs Brown Snr did not  'have a lovely daughter!' (think about it)

A delightful park graces the centre of the township.  Free BBQ,s, a notice that liquor may be consumed until 10.00pm, toilet and washing facilities and a playground all indicate that it is well patronised.  This is obviously another town which has realised truth of the saying, 'diversify or die'.  

In the heady days of the gold rush, when mines in this area were amongst Australia's richest producers, the town boasted 35 pubs (I may have mentioned this previously). Only one remains, but it is a cracker, complete with swimming pool, separate games room and all sorts of various novelties to entice the weary traveller into an unplanned parting with coin of the realm. 

Our return to Normanton, courtesy of a speedy little coaster, was much more comfortable and considerably quicker that the outward journey, but exponentially less entertaining. 

No visit to this area would be complete without a trip to Karumba, the only township on the southern Gulf of Carpentaria where one can access the sea directly rather than having to traverse massive tidal flats and coastal swampland, the topographical nemesis of poor old Burke and Wills.

More of this in the next episode.

LONGREACH TO NORMANTON (14 - 18 JUNE)

Next stop Winton, where this relatively short leg of our travels along the Landsborough Highway (otherwise known as the Matilda Highway) took us through the open downs country of the cattle stations of central outback Queensland.  Ever since our arrival in Longreach we had retained the sense that we were at last traversing the 'real article' on one edge of the 'channel country'. What did confound us, however, was the height and density of the grass which stretched for what seemed to be endless kilometres to all horizons.  It is easy to understand how the early explorers, in the good years, could be forgiven for their glowing reports about a country which in no time at all could be wasted by drought.

We set up camp in our pre-booked site in the Matilda Caravan Park (two away from the Eleftherious) and, after a quick orientation trip around the town in the tug, set off on foot to take in all that Winton had to offer....which is not a great deal, despite the hype of some of the blurb.  This personal observation may be judged by some to be a little harsh.  The main street is indeed attractive with its trees and gardens, some interesting statues (predominately lauding AB Patterson and Waltzing Matilda), and a smattering of interesting buildings, including the art deco North Gregory Hotel, the far more rustic Tattersalls Hotel, the typically verandahed (a new word, perhaps) Australian Hotel and, my favourite, Searles Menswear shop. 

The seemingly innocuous street frontage hid a veritable Aladdin's cave within.  Neither of us have ever encountered such a seemingly shambolic and disorganised store.

and yet, amazingly, the proprietor, a stunningly 'in character' tall, drawling, laconic bloke, could tell us where every single item was located.  I walked out shaking my head but none the less clutching a new pair of thongs and the best (bamboo fibre) short socks I have ever come across.

The renowned North Gregory Hotel, this art deco oddity amongst the other buildings of the main street, is indeed a splendid edifice.  It boasts a free campsite at the back, something about which we had previously read in the caravan mags, and on which I had set my sights until told (erroneously as it happened) by a fellow traveller that it had been closed.  It is not often I am glad to have been mislead.  This vaunted paradise of conviviality and good cheer was, in fact, a dusty, overcrowded place, with very little to recommend it other than its proximity to the beer garden.  The greed exhibited by some on site in respect of the amount of space they had taken up would have also undoubtedly aroused my ire. (You will, by now, have realised I have learnt a new editorial trick...text alongside the photo...happened by complete chance...hope I can repeat later).  This was yet another experience to sharpen my burgeoning scepticism relating to articles in caravan and similar magazines and tourist brochures.

Notwithstanding the shortcomings of the rear van park, the interior of this hotel is just delightful.  The art deco theme has been wonderfully maintained throughout, complete with doors decorated with glass etchings of scenes depicting Waltzing Matilda (and the beer was cold).

Whilst on that subject, a spot of trivia for those so inclined (in which category I am obviously to be found).  The origin of 'matilda' apparently stems from a name given to camp followers attached to the German army during the 30 years' war.  With their subsequent banishment from the ranks, the warmth (in more ways than one) provided by these good souls to the soldiers at night was replaced by the use of army issue greatcoats, which assumed the same name.  These were rolled and carried across the back of the men during their daytime marches.  It seems that the swags carried by the Aussie bushmen adopted the same name.  As to the 'waltzing' bit, this is also of German origin (so we are told).  It is an adaptation of the name given to the practice of young German apprentices of the days of yore, who would travel from town to town with their masters learning their various trades.  Hence anyone travelling across Australia with a swag was said to be 'waltzing matilda'.  We can but take all this on trust, as the citizens of Winton obviously have.

My earlier comments about Winton really relate to the town beyond the main street where the (expected) wide streets are lined with shabby wooden houses, none of which, apart from two notable exceptions, boast a garden or anything green.  It was all rather dreary and depressing, and this, after a good two years.  As we have noted elsewhere, I think it is a matter of attitude and effort rather than a lack of natural resources.

With every rule, however, there is the exception.  We came across a very neat and tidy Catholic school in one of the back streets.  It was not so much this that  initially caught our eye, but rather the sign which adorned the front gate.

To continue the theme of the cocky's vernacular, how good is this?  It would appear that a sense of humour and perspective is alive in the Winton catholic community.

Happy hour in 'The Shed' with the Elefth's was followed by the pre-ordered soup and roast meal for which this park is known.  As our English friends would say, "there was lashings of grub".  Better was to come.  Another reason we had booked this particular park was the promise of an evening's entertainment by two lasses who take up residence during 'the season' each year.  A clip of their offerings, which we had seen in Adelaide, had thoroughly whetted our appetites.   

Mel and Sue proved to be as good as we had hoped.  (that's Liz in the blue top just to the left of the centre of the photo).  Yarns true and tall, poetry funny and moving and an Elvis impersonation of some quality (given that this task fell to Sue) rounded out a memorable evening.  We could have taken in a repeat performance the following night, but decided we did not want to risk tarnishing the presently held memory, especially in light of the fact that Mel made a special mention of Max, whom she had seen during the day.  I am not sure if he can really live up to her description of the "Black Panther"!

Of course, as if one could not tell, given the rubbish bins which adorn the main street, Winton is the epicentre of the  Australian 'dinosaur trail'. 

Our mission of the following day was to visit the Australian Age of Dinosaurs Museum and laboratory which is located atop a 'Jump Up' some 30 kms from Winton.  There are several of these mesa like hills around Winton which 'jump up' from the plains. I am not entirely sure if the name derives from this phenomenon or if it relates to a description of the rock formations which abound on them. 

 

In any event, they are spectacular geological formations well befitting a location for the museum which is itself a rather special building, clearly designed to suit the landscape.  The approach to the building is guarded by 'Banjo', a lifesize replica of the largest and most feared raptor Australia can currently boast. 

It is believed that it was such a beast which brought on the famed 'dinosaur stampede', the fossilised footprints of which were found in surface rock at Lark Quarry, some 100 kms to the west.

Having later seen his actual claws and teeth which are on display in the museum section of the complex (as opposed to the mandatory cafe and souvenir shop), I would need no convincing that a speedy exit was a sound strategy if I had been a less equipped dinosaur of the time.

Our tour began with a 500 metre walk along the cliff top to the laboratory.  This in itself was interesting in the views it presented.

Signs along the trail identified and provided descriptions of the various species of flora, which does not sound terribly exciting but was fascinating.  The route was marked on each edge with strategically placed dead tree branches, a very clever and unobtrusive way of keeping us on the straight and narrow.

 

The tour of the lab was conducted by a young lass who is the daughter of the local station owner who made the first discovery of a fossilised bone on his property whilst mustering.  We were shown the manner in which the bones are managed after discovery, when they are wrapped in wet papers and hessian and then coated in plaster in the same way a broken arm would be set.  This preserves the bone pieces until they can be later chipped away from the rock in which they are bound, a painstaking task (pictured) which I have to say would not be for me.  I make that comment on the basis of the fact that the chap nearest the camera is a volunteer...one of several...who spend anything up to two to three months at a time 'chipping away' with their special, miniature pneumatic drills.  I think one would have to be of a certain personality type to enjoy this.  Then come the task of piecing things together.

I have to concede that the skill exhibited by those engaged in this task (generally qualified paleontologists) is extraordinary.  How on earth they can eventually piece together quite large bone structures from the tiny fragments you can see in this photo is staggering, but they manage.  I felt a little better when our young guide told of one specimen at which they had all stared for three months, unable to fit the bits together.  Imagine how they all must have felt when her mother walked in, sat for three hours, and then blithely announced she knew where they fitted.....and was right.  An interesting game indeed.  Giant jigsaw puzzles with no photos on the lid, no straight edge pieces and absolutely no idea as to what section of a possibly huge bone one is dealing with, or for that matter, from what animal.  Mind numbing!

We later toured the museum section which houses the only genuine collection of actual bones on public display in Australia .  As mentioned earlier, these include the fearsome armoury of 'Banjo' and the massive bones of 'Matilda', a sauropod some forty metres long which weighed in at a colossal 35 tonnes.

I left the Australian Age of Dinosaurs with a new found respect for those involved in this fascinating work.  Just incidentally, they are no slouches in the academic world either.  In fact, the scientific paper released by some of their number in which three new species were named and described at the same time, has not been emulated anywhere in the world, nor, apparently, is it likely to be in the future.  By all accounts, our American cousins in the same game were less than impressed. Go Oz!

A quiet afternoon, limited happy hour drinks, and an early night completed our Winton experience or should I say, our 'Pelican Waters' experience.  This was the name first given to the town based on the prolific pelican numbers which were to be found in the area's limited wetlands.  Demonstrating a pragmatism which evokes admiration, the local postmaster, who became fed up with having to overwrite all the stamps of the time with this long town title, arranged to have to have it changed to the much shorter 'Winton'.  I like his style. 

So, off towards Cloncurry.  We had arranged to travel in company with the Lyn and Steve and had jointly decided to break our trip at the little town of McKinlay, home of the Walkabout Creek Hotel of Crocodile Dundee fame. It always pays to have a plan 'B'!  Liz toddled off on our arrival to arrange our site behind what turned out to be a most unremarkable pub, only to return a few minutes later somewhat grim faced.  "They don't take pets". 

Given that our bible of free or unusual camp sites was quite specific in its notation that this was not so, I duly confronted the chap behind the bar with this information (and the book).  His reply, "I don't write that bloody thing...nothing to do with me..I told your missus, no pets...haven't had them here for three years since a dog bit someone". 

Now I have to concede I was a touch tired and in no mood for a change of plans, particularly since I knew that our alternative destination had to be Cloncurry, where we had not booked, and which was hosting its annual show on that particular weekend.  As you may have surmised, the pinched and grumpy little twerp behind the bar and I then engaged in what would be termed, in diplomatic circles, a 'frank exchange of views'.  I knew that I would not prevail, but it just made me feel better.  Having been inside what turned out to be a bare, soulless barn of a pub with absolutely nothing to actually connect it with its (over-rated) fame and which was hosting no-one but a few local yobbos at the time (one of whom rather foolishly suggested I have a nice day...he declined my invitation to join me outside), we decided that fate may have intervened in our favour. 

As it was, our friends pulled in shorty thereafter and we collectively decided to try Wals Camp, a so called free campsite just south of Cloncurry, a decision which turned out to be very much like the Curate's egg...good in parts!

Wals Camp is different.  Apart from the fact that the folk managing the place on a temporary basis had no idea how to properly arrange vans in an open park, its facilities were rustic, to say the least.

The 'compact' toilet block toilet block in which men and women sat on the throne separated only by a thin particle board wall, with feet (and lowered apparel) in full view of any approaching the facility (the entrance doors did not shut), and where showering modesty could only be maintained by dressing and undressing in the shower cubicle itself, could best be described as challenging.

As can be seen, however, 'the heads' were a paragon of camping excellence compared to the camp kitchen.

Despite these inadequacies of infrastructure, and the outrageous charge of $15 for an un-powered, non-water site, we corralled the vans and did enjoy an evening of good cheer.  One highlight of this entire experience was the 'professional' manner in which I managed to manoeuvre our van into a very tight spot.  It is not often my parking draws the acclamation of those watching.  Sadly, and often embarrassingly, the converse is usually the case, but on this occasion I nailed it!

We did enjoy our last night of conviviality with Lyn and Steve, a highlight of which was a totally unexpected and magnificent fireworks display obviously set off to mark the end of the local show.  To what I considered to be the unwarranted and cruel derision of my fellow campers, I held to the view that the organizers had received reports of my van parking efforts! 

The trusty portable BBQ came into its own (light, you bugger!), the wine flowed,  and it was with a slightly sore head that your scribe bade  the Elefth's farewell the following morning.  They were off to Mount Isa...Liz and I were heading further north.




After a spectacular sunrise

we hitched up again, refuelled in Cloncurry itself and set out for the Burke and Wills Roadhouse, some 180 kms to the north on the Matilda Highway.  We were aware that the sites at the rear of this highway oasis were 'first come, best dressed' and we were keen to beat the possible rush.

As it was, we arrived in time to take our pick of the unoccupied spaces, and after the slight challenge of levelling the van on the uneven ground, settled back to enjoy what Burke and Wills had to offer. 

This roadhouse, situated 200 kms south of Normanton, really is in the middle of nowhere. The highway we had travelled to get here traverses open, scrubby country, all of which is given over to cattle grazing on huge stations.  Road kill was prevalent along the way, as were numbers of large bovines which had managed to escape the confines of their fencelines.  Fortunately their massive size is matched by an attitude of benign indifference to passing traffic (unlike emus!) and the most movement we have seen from any of these as we approach and pass is a somewhat imperious raising of the head accompanied by a baleful stare.  Nevertheless, whilst keen to cover the distance, we drove with eyes peeled.

Burke and Wills has a charm of its own.  The pictured sign will hopefully preclude the need for further words.

At mid-day it becomes 'caravan central'.  We counted twelve rigs on the large approach apron on our arrival, a number which remained relatively consistent for the next hour or so until the travelling hoard of the day has moved on towards their various destinations.  Huge cattle road trains are a constant.  We did spend a very pleasant afternoon sitting on the front verandah sipping cold beers and watching the comings and goings of a mixed throng.  We suspect many were returning home after the Cloncurry show, and as you would suspect, a number of the young men passing through were in a state of some disrepair.

A late afternoon arrival was a Hilux Duel Cab Ute, the tray of which was overflowing with rolled up swags and other camping paraphernalia.  We watched with astonishment as this vehicle then disgorged five husky young fellows and a lass (who was the driver and clearly the boss...well for the time being at least).  The scene was completed for us with the emergence of a small cattle dog sporting a set of very strangely crossed ears.  We later discovered that he had fallen victim to tetanus, a side effect of which is the ear malformation.  He had only just survived by all accounts, and was obviously a real favourite amongst the crew, at whose backgrounds we could only guess. From snippets overheard (quite accidentally, of course) we concluded that all were jackeroos returning to a nearby (95 kms away) station after a weekend in Cloncurry.  We also concluded that they were a mix of bush bred lads and a couple who were city boys on their outback adventure.  In any event, as they were rounded up by 'she who was clearly to obeyed' and, together with the dog and a recently acquired half a dozen boxes of beer, all poured back into what clearly must have been the 'Tardis', we decided that all was well in outback Oz, and with us.

Our advice that the meals at Burke and Wills were of a size to daunt all but the heartiest of appetites, with an equal standard of quality, proved correct.  A night of dreamless sleep beckoned and, indeed, was being achieved until, at just after midnight, the outback silence was broken by a banshee of a noise, the source of which could not be immediately determined.  To my intense displeasure it continued unabated until sunup when my curiosity got the better of me.  I dragged on my trusty trackies and set forth on a mission of discovery and vengeance.

A large bitumen tanker proved to be the culprit.  I took perverse delight in the fact that I managed to scare the driver witless when I confronted him in the gloom.  He responded to my rather curt enquires with abject apologies for the disturbance he had created and the explanation that the source of the noise had been the large gas burners which had to remain alight at all times to keep the bitumen in a liquid form until it was poured onto the road surface.  He further explained that he always tried to find an overnight site far from anyone else, but had run out of hours on this occasion whilst en-route to roadworks on the road to Lawn Hill, just beyond 'Gregory Downs' some 150 kms distant.

Placated somewhat by the apology, and frankly, fascinated by having learnt something about which I had never paid any previous attention, I wandered back to the van and later basked somewhat in my ability to explain to our fellow camp site sufferers the precise cause of our mutual discomfort.

The road ahead to Normanton awaited us and it was here we were to have our first experience of the dreaded outback single lane of sealed surface which must be shared by all in both directions.

The foreground of this shot shows the roadway extended somewhat as it traverses a floodway.  It is just wide enough for two caravans to pass.  Beyond that it reverts to the single lane as can been seen.  Passing on these stretches demands that both oncoming vehicles pull over onto the shoulder and ease by each other, unless, of course, one of these is a road train, when the rule of 'might is right' definitely prevails.  All the literature advises that in these circumstances one pulls off as far as it possible and sits tight while the approaching behemoth thunders past at unabated speed.  Sage words and true! 

Fortunately we had only one encounter with one of these monsters of the road at a time we just happened to be in a layover.  Luck indeed.  We did, however, pass numerous vans headed south, and by the time we reached Normanton I had become quite adept at avoiding any physical engagements with our fellow travellers.

Normanton....the Gulf country.  We were here at last!  More of our local adventures in the next blog.