Monday 1st October...the beginning of our big adventure in the West. And what a day it turned out to be. As I mentioned in my last, the cruiser was loaded to the gunwales with all the kit we had needed for our stay in Adelaide, including some extra items we had bought. To say I was somewhat daunted as I surveyed it all in Linda's carport is an understatement, but it did all fit...just....all around Max's cage, for one thing.
Max was not a happy camper. He had been 'in jail' at a local cattery for the term of our visit and a day on the road surrounded by bits and pieces was the final indignity for the ship's cat.
Did he express his displeasure?....you betcha! It had been many, many travelling days since the Black Panther had been so put out. In one fit of pique in his early days on the road he actually bit at the cage so hard he broke off the bottom of his right front fang. We were afraid that a repetition was in the offing, but with some concerted pandering by the navigator, Max did settle after a half an hour or so. (there aren't too many cats which can snarl...there is no end to Max's talents)
And from my perspective that was just as well as I shall explain. As we hauled out north, we called in to visit my good friend and erstwhile work colleague Mark, his lovely wife Sue and their very bright young son, Mitchell, all of whom live at Globe Derby Park where Mark trains trotters as a hobby. (for those who follow this closely, Mark is the ex-Tennant Creek police sergeant) During a cuppa and cake and a great 'catch up', the weather was becoming more and more threatening. A strong northerly had been forecast and the skies were becoming increasingly black. The last thing I needed from that point on was a grizzling cat in the back.
As we left to resume our trip north the wind was just beginning to flick around with disconcerting menace. By the time we had cleared the city outskirts and were well onto the Port Wakefield road past Two Wells, I thought the kayak was going to be ripped off its rack. We were pushing into a howling northerly gale, which seemed to be increasing in ferocity with each minute that passed.
By the time we had pulled into Port Clinton to pick up the van, all hell had been unleashed. A whipping rain was now an unwelcome addition to the gale force winds. Things were so bad that we decided it was not possible to transfer all our gear from the cruiser to the van and we sat it out for a while with the thought that we may have to spend that night in the small Port Clinton caravan park.
But, in what turned out to be a perfidious move, the weather gods relented....temporarily. We took the punt and headed off.....into the maelstrom as it turned out. Whilst not yet at banshee levels, the returning wind was sufficiently strong to prompt me to take the back road north through Bute en route to the Main North Road at Snowtown. I knew that we could not travel at any more than 80 kph at most, and took the view that the back roads would present much less traffic and the roadside scrub would provide some shelter, and this was the case.
Despite the weather we did find it interesting and a little odd to be travelling through green and lush grain and grazing fields after so long in the barren wilds of the outback.
But this was but a minor consolation as we finally joined the highway at Snowtown. I didn't think the wind could get any stronger, but it did. By the time we pulled into the roadhouse at Redhill for a breather and a snack, I estimated some gusts to be no less than 40 knots. Even with our combined weight of nearly seven tonnes, the cruiser and the van were both rocking about with a frightening ferocity.
And it was then that I came to an understanding of what drives spawning salmon to battle their way upstream against what appear to be overwhelming physical odds. We really should have just propped somewhere, but our desire to 'be on our way again' was so strong we pushed on......at the snail's pace of 70 kph! This meant, of course, that in addition to fighting to keep us on the road, I had to also pull off at every possible opportunity to give the traffic less afflicted by the wind than we were every reasonable opportunity to be on their way past us.
I thought Port Augusta had been a welcoming sight as we pulled in from the north a week previously. That paled into total insignificance as the power station again hove into view, but this time, of course, from the opposite direction. As we finally drove down the roadway to our chosen caravan park, The Shoreline, with its view across the upper reaches of Spencer Gulf over the rail yards to the Flinders Ranges beyond (this photo was taken the next day)
and in through the entrance, we both agreed that this had been the worst day we had ever had on the road since we began this caravanning caper over six years ago.
But it was not yet over! We were allocated a drive through site with a slab under two large trees. What's the problem with that I hear you ask? The problem was the huge bank of glowering cloud marshalling in the north-western sky. The weather gods were still not done with us. And then it hit. As the screaming gusts clouded the park in swirling dust and flying shell grit, the trees above us were being flung about in all directions. Time to move, and move fast. The last thing we needed was a branch to come crashing down on either the van or the truck.
We also knew that we needed to have the cruiser in the shelter of the van to enable us to unload, so off to a nearby vacant site it was. Boring but safe!
This shot, again taken the following day, shows our original site on the left containing the small yellow van and us, further back in open space. The storm was howling in from the other side of the van. By tucking the cruiser hard against the door side (facing us) Liz could just manage to transfer the essentials whilst I bashed around in the dust and grit attaching water hoses and electric cables.
This final onslaught lasted for about thirty minutes before an eerie calm descended over the park. What could be next? Mind you by this time were were tucked up with everything shut down and didn't really care, but to top off this day we then had a thunder storm of some note and accompanying rain which lasted for most of the night. At least it settled the dust!
What a day. One which provides bragging rights for weeks. In fact we later ran into folk on our trip west who had also been caught in this system in different parts of the State. We all mutually commiserated and dined out on our survival skills. Liz and I decided that nothing could get worse on our way to Perth, and to date this has been absolutely so.
The Shoreline is an interesting park. A number of the sites back onto the waters of the upper reaches of Spencer Gulf.
I had always envisaged this area to be muddy, mangrove country, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the shore is shellgrit and sand and that the whole area is very pleasant indeed. As could be expected in this funnel of water, the tide rises and falls rapidly but the whole area is sheltered and provides great opportunities for boating and shore fishing.
Security is another feature of this park. The boundary fenceline near our site was impressive (the barbed wire top strands do not stand out in this shot) and the fact that the main entrance gates are shut between 2100 hours and 0800 hours is a sad testament to the continuing problems being experienced in Port Augusta.
But having said that, it is clear that much has and is continuing to be done to improve the facilities and the amenity of the town. The foreshore developments and restoration work being done in the main CBD is impressive. We intend to return and spend some time in Port Augusta and hence did not spend time with a detailed look around and photos. We were in transit!
After a particularly necessary 'lay day' when we finally restored the van to some semblance of order and restocked with food, we were off to Streaky Bay. Before we left, however, I did spot a fellow traveller with a sense of humour clearly expressed in some of the many stickers which adorned his rig.
These are but two examples. This one in particular struck a chord....we would be driving through Cocklebiddy in a few day's time. A close eye on the weather and travel timing would be of the essence if we were not to have a repetition of the alarming movement of the fuel gauge towards 'empty' such as we did getting to Port Augusta.
But for now the storms had passed, our enthusiasm was restored, and it was off on the next leg of our journey to the West.
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