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.