CLERMONT - LAKE TINAROO (21 - 25 MAY 2013)

I must be getting old!  That's when the memory starts to play annoying tricks, is it not?  How could I have forgotten to  include the tale of our contretemps in the Emerald caravan park before moving on?

 

I have to say at this point it is the first time in all our travels we have had a real stoush with a fellow camper.  On the morning of our second day in Emerald, Liz and Max were happily taking the morning sun on the slab when they were invaded by a yappy little Jack Russell, which was hurling himself around the park intent on annoying anything and anyone it could, dragging his lead with him, a lead which was missing a critical ingredient at its free end...an owner. 

 

As you can imagine, Max had a minor conniption, did his best to puff up to three times his size (I do have to say he has a most impressive tail when in this state...he would put a squirrel to shame), and made an equally impressive fighting withdrawal to the safety of the van.  Shortly thereafter, as Liz was restraining the bloody dog, its owner, who was sited two from us, puffed onto the scene.  I have to concede I was not privy to the ensuing conversation, but I suspect Liz was somewhat more accommodating in her discussions than I would have been.  For a start, this park is one which demands a $50 refundable pet bond...the last thing I wanted was to be involved in a scrap about that through absolutely no fault of ours.

 

As I am sure you have now guessed, this was not the end of the matter.  Come mid afternoon and Max was happily sleeping off his late lunch (if it could be called that....he grazes constantly) as I was sitting at the table doing photos.....when all hell broke loose.  The damn dog was back, but this time he was totally unencumbered and the little bugger was on a real mission.  He skidded to halt at our screen door and let fly, teeth bared and hackles up.  Now for a cat which will allow itself to be intimidated by Minor birds and Willy Wagtails one would think that the Black Panther would have scurried off to the darkest corner of the van in the face of this assault. 

 

Not so, bless him.  In an almost instantaneous reaction he flew off his bed on the seat opposite me and landed on the floor at the door, an absolute picture of feline fury.  I remain convinced he skidded to a halt on his bared claws which had been extended as he launched.  The spiting, hissing and snarling which followed left me breathless.....how could such a sound come from this sooky little chap...his lungs must be like the Tardis..massively bigger on the inside!  And not a backward step.  How the soft fly screen survived a shredding from both sides remains a testament to the speed of my own reaction once I had realised what was happening.

 

The wretched Jacky did concede defeat as I stormed out of the van (quietly of course)  and scuttled off to the sanctuary of its own site, with Marshie in hot and indignant pursuit.  And from there it just got worse.  When I confronted its owner and, as gently and logically as my mood allowed, explained what had occurred and pointed out that it is a cardinal sin in parks to allow dogs to roam free, his response was to whine that the dog had managed to escape from the vehicle in which they had just returned from a shopping trip before he could control it.  I viewed this as a marginally acceptable explanation, and stood waiting for the expected apology...and that's when things went downhill at a rapid rate.

 

His next utterance was in the order of, "Well it really doesn't matter...I have been talking to your wife and she tells me that the cat would win the fight."  Given that my heart rate was still something over 150, I suspect you may be able to guess the rest.  Not only had we avoided the trouble and expense of potentially replacing the door screen, and even assuming there had been a one on one, from which Max, on previous experience, would have emerged victorious, there is no doubt he would have then scarpered off in post victory panic to God know where.  It just didn't bear thinking about, and there I was confronted by this ignorant, pompous idiot, who instead of doing the right thing, was attempting to justify his irresponsibility.

 

I probably need not add anything further other than to say we came to a rapid and positive understanding about what would happen if there were a repetition.  I returned chez Marshies with the complete certainty I had made myself amply clear.  In fact, I was still so angry about this numpty's attitude I took the unprecedented step as we departed the following day of lodging a complaint with the office staff, notwithstanding Liz's concerns that we may run into him again.  It's a big country...little chance, was my rejoinder.

 

Yes, there is a postscript...you are just that one step ahead aren't you!  After settling into our site at Charters Towers two days later, whose rig should we spot...and a short time later Dopey and dog paraded past our site.  Liz was circumspect enough to pretend she hadn't seen him, and, interestingly enough, we saw nothing more of him or his bloody hound for the remainder of our stay.   We are pretty recognisable...the kayak is very blue.  I adopted an instant position of self-righteousness! 

 

But back to Clermont and our journey northwards.  In our brief sojourn we found that Clermont, which exists primarily to support the local coal mining industry, was a pretty and welcoming spot.  A delightful town lagoon, of no mean size, meanders beside a park and walking trail at one edge of the small town.  A disproportionally large police complex bore testament to the need to maintain order when 'the miners come to town on a Friday night'.  

 

My suspicions that mining had recently been significantly revived in the area, which had been initially raised when we saw the number of recently installed cabins in the caravan park (this we have learnt is a dead giveaway)

 

 

 

were given more impetuous when we discovered a very new hotel/motel nearby.  This is a very small town, remember.

 

During our pre-dinner drinks at the 'old pub' (the treasurer had decreed we could afford a night out!), our yarn with the barmaid about the most impressive range of spirits and liqueurs we have ever seen in a country pub, led to confirmation that the 'weekend Clermont' could be somewhat more lively than the town we were seeing and that coal mining was again being undertaken locally in a big way. 

 

The huge heaps of discarded overburden we saw on the road out of Clermont the following day did not, therefore, surprise us in terms of their existence.  Their mass, however, most assuredly did. (and again, this photo does not do real justice to the expanse of this heap)

 

 

as did the length of a covered coal conveyor belt we noticed as we drove along another section of the highway.

 

 

 

At a rough estimate, this belt lay alongside the road for at least five kilometres before veering off in the direction of mine workings we could see in the far distance. 

 

We really did enjoy our short stay in Clermont, but before we finally break off contact, another quick local yarn.  As we had walked past the new hotel to have a drink or two at the old, I noted the dinner menu sign which invited patrons to enjoy the special....corned beef and white sauce....and this, my one night out for the week....there is a God!

 

And so, an hour or so later, having duly ordered, engaged in a lively chat with the soon-to-be hotel chef, who thoroughly approved of our wine selection and who also undertook to correct the spelling on the menu (a meal not for the 'feint hearted' is but one example we noted), our 'you meal is ready electronic buzzer' attempted to buzz and squirm its way off our table and we made our way to the counter. 

 

And here things became a little surreal for one brought up on the concept that corned beef and white sauce should present as a predominately red and white combination accompanied by mash, cabbage and carrots.  

 

The very friendly serving lass handed me a plate on which I saw three circular slabs which had a decidedly 'battered' look over which there was indeed a white coloured sauce...and chips. 

 

"I'm sorry, love, I ordered the corned beef." 

"That is the corned beef."

"Where?"

"There on your plate, sir."

"But it looks as if it is cooked in batter."

"That's how we always do it.  Haven't you had it like that before?"

 

Undaunted, I wandered back to our table, scraped off all the batter to reveal the beautifully moist rounds of silverside beneath, discarded the (annoyingly excellent) chips, repaired to the superbly presented veggie buffet where cabbage and more appropriate spuds were on offer, and, as the English say, 'made an excellent supper'.

 

Only in Queensland, eh?

So with another travel gem under our belts we hooked up bright and early the next morning and again headed north along the Gregory Development Road, destination Charters Towers.  I had not been looking forward to this leg of the trip.  The forecast of rain, heavy at times, and strengthening northerly winds, would, I knew,  take a toll of both my concentration and our fuel.  Well, we did get the wind, and I did nurse the rig along to conserve as much fuel as we could (I have now learnt how to use the gearing much more effectively in these conditions), but fortunately the rain did not materialise at all.

The coal mining country soon gave way to broad grazing lands on the 170 km stretch to the interesting outpost of Belyando Crossing, the only service stop in the entire 360 kms between Clermont and Charters Towers. 

 

It was more than time for break when we pulled in to this outpost in the bush. 











And we had plenty of company.  Whilst we did not go into the small, but obviously popular roadhouse, I suspect the food must be of the first order.  It seemed that every truckie on the road pulled in here, usually a very good sign, or alternatively the cynic might suggest that out here beggars can't be choosers!

We thought a rest stop should also include Max, who has been of improving travelling temperament as our journey has progressed, and he did indeed welcome the respite from the confines of his cage.

 

On to the long haul to CT.  My next rest stop at a lay-by on top of a rise gives some idea of the type of country through which we were now making our way. 

It must be said that until we were on the approaches to CT, progress had become somewhat mundane, until, that is, we passed a large sign warning of cattle on the road.   Minutes passed.  Where were they?  No sign.  Then, irrefutable road surface evidence of a recent passing, in more than once sense of the word!   And there they were, all 880 head of them (we didn't actually count them, we had a brief conversation with one of the drovers) plodding their stoic way along the 'long paddock'.

 

 

Seven drovers on horseback, two of whom could have been barely older than their early teens, one on a trail bike, and a support horse float driver made up the droving team.  Despite their constant efforts to keep these wandering bovines to one side of the carriageway, the sheer mass of animals meant that we crawled through them at walking pace, as did those sharing the road with us.

 

 

And, as with cattle, no matter how much control is applied, there is always one!

 

 

 

We could have reached out and touched many of the cattle as we inched through their ranks.  I was a bit concerned that anything spooking them might have some serious consequences on the side of the van, but we made it though unscathed.

 

With this fascinating touch of country Australia behind us, Charters Towers soon loomed large in our windscreen, and I for one, was more than happy to see it.

 

 

We made relatively sort work of mooring at the Dalrymple Caravan Park, one we had not tried previously in CT, but which left us more than favourably impressed with the sites, the lawns and gardens and the friendly staff. (you are going to owe me one, Neil!)
 

  

The music from the nearby camp kitchen at happy hour time was irresistibly inviting, as were a few drinks after a hard day. We enjoyed several hours with two older (don't even think it!) couples who invited themselves to our table and proved to be entertaining and knowledgeable company.  Our quest to rid ourselves of a couple of well travelled bottles which were becoming an irritation to herself proved less than advantageous to the eventual well being of your correspondent, who now admits to having had a marvellous evening but a very slow following day.  Having spent time in CT last year, I felt no urgency to be on the sightseeing trail, which candour demands I confess was just as well, because I wasn't!

An afternoon rally, a haircut, a walk around a beautiful nearby park, which was drowning in rain on our previous visit, an early night, a rejuvenating sleep and an early morning departure, found us on the longest leg of our trip north, the 400 or so kms to Innisfail.

As I have mentioned before, I do not intend to cover old ground in this blog, and our route into Townsville and on up the Bruce Highway mirrored what we had done last year.  So with no further ado, fast forward to our camp at the August Moon Caravan Park, Innisfail, where the most obliging Gretta directed us to an enormous, heavily grassed, drive-though site set amidst the impressive South African Rain trees for which this park is known.  How we would have liked to have seen it before cyclone Larry destroyed over 60% of what had been there.   

Here we again caught up with the Vogts who had made their way north via different stop-overs and whose van can be seen at the right of this shot. 

 

A comparison of recent travelling notes was, of course, mandatory, as is always the case in these circumstances, and as you would expect this cannot be reasonably achieved without the appropriate lubrication.






It took only a quick look around this park to recognise that once again we were back in cane country.  As is common in this part of the world, the cane fields are grown right up to the boundaries of domestic properties, as can be seen here where the cabins on the northern perimeter of the park immediately abut the cane.  Given that cane burning was conducted prior to hand cutting in the days of yore to rid it of snakes and rats, I'm not too sure these cabins would be my idea of a safe domicile.
 
And just to demonstrate that life on the road can bring out the romantic in even the hardest of us, the rising full moon shining through the rain trees was too much to resist.  Again, on occasions like these, I become sorely tempted to learn real photographic skills.

The only drawback in this otherwise lovely park was the fact that it is on 'the Bruce', and more significantly, in the 80 km section on the approaches to Innisfail.  If one were in any doubt that the Bruce carries a deal of heavy traffic 24 hours per day, a night at the August Moon will soon dispel that notion.  Once again, the need for compromise in a life on the road became a reality.

A heavy overnight dew saw us slogging about in very wet grass as we pulled down to leave the next morning.  I was particularly glad that we had been able to remain hitched.  And so we were off to the Atherton Tableland and Lake Tinaroo where my fisherman's dreams were to be answered ('in you dreams' was more the fact of the matter as we later discovered!).

As we drove through the familiar streets of Innisfail, I was again reminded of just how much we like this quaint, art deco town.  As well as cane, this is banana country, an industry devastated by Larry.  Who will forget prices of $12-14 a kilo in Adelaide?  It was wonderful to see all the plantations thick with large healthy plants, in a surround, which, because we are here a couple of months earlier than last year, is so magnificently green. (even in the tropics things do dry out in late winter, appropriately known as 'the dry')

My upbeat mood was soon tempered as we hauled out of Innisfail onto the Palmerston Highway and upwards, ever upwards.  If we had any doubt that Atherton does lie on a high tableland, this was quickly dispelled as we slogged up many very steep sections of the highway in 2nd gear, for what on occasions, seemed interminable periods before the relief of the crest was reached.  Not that the equally precipitous descents were much easier.  A total weight of nearly 7 tonnes can quickly develop a mind of its own if given its head downhill.  God bless diesel engine braking compression and to hell with the impatient car drivers behind us, one of whom did express his frustration with a ludicrous overtaking manoeuvre on a double line.  Idiot!  But it was a Saturday...boys and their toys!

A couple of hours of serious concentration, and there we were...Atherton.  And a few kilometres beyond, through the quaint little townships of Tolga (great pub...later story) and Kairi (great eggs..another story), with only the odd clipped discussion between driver and navigator, we had arrived at the Discovery Park at Lake Tinaroo.

At this point, dear readers, I intend to crave you indulgence.  We have now been here for four days during which the wretchedly crappy wet and windy weather (reality again!) has allowed me to catch up on our adventures to date.  Whilst we have done one trip around the Lake (it is massive), and completed our initial recce of Atherton (shopping etc), things have been too bleak for photos, and, frankly, I need a bit of a blogging  break.  Apart from that, John and I have some serious fishing to attempt, and the need to launch the Hurricane is becoming ever pressing (wind speeds below 'fresh' would be good....no immediate prospect).  I hope to resume at the keyboard in a week or so, and therefore, as the French so aptly put it, this is not farewell but merely "adieu".







 


 

EMERALD TO CLERMONT (19 - 21 MAY 2013)

As I have mentioned previously, blogging does take time.  Free time can become an item which is in short supply when pushing to cover considerable distances (by my 'old fart' standards at least), particularly when overnight stops are limited to one or two nights in any one place.  So it has been from the time we left Injune. 

 

But we have finally arrived at Lake Tinaroo on the Atherton Tableland, our new home for two weeks.  We have now travelled over 3,500 kms to get here.

 

For the first time since leaving home the Weber Baby Q has emerged from under the bed and has been connected to the van gas supply, the large table is set under the awning, the Waco is gurgling away on a corner of the slab and we are enjoying the relative luxury of waking each morning knowing that there will be no packing and moving (other than sightseeing, that is) for some days. 

 

And with the onset of the forecast drizzle, low overcast skies the and south-easterly wind which is driving all this moisture up onto the tableland from the coast, the kayak will remain where it is and the aquatic creatures of Lake Tinaroo continue to be safe from my predation(for the moment at least).  This morning has dawned as the perfect day to appease my writer's conscience, which has been an increasingly strident little voice in my head, and regale you with the tale of our travels north from Injune.

 

An author's note at this point.....my photographic efforts have been somewhat restricted during this period, and, in those cases where we have rested in an area previously visited and reported on last year (e.g. Charters Towers), I have taken the view that there is no point in repeating myself, other than if we make a new discovery which we think may be of interest or of which we want a record.  So, to any who are new to the readership, let me invite you to scroll back to last year if you so desire.

 

Our trip into Emerald was uneventful and our site in the Emerald Cabin and Caravan Village (just for you, Neil) was functional if nothing else.  The large, drive-though sites in this park are definitely of the 'cheek by jowl' variety with a set up which means each van's awning area directly overlooks the neighbour's vehicle.  As I said....functional, and frankly, that was all we wanted.  In fairness, however, most of the rest of the park is delightfully green and shaded.

We did note with interest that the park was home to a significant number of large mobile homes and a number of vans all of which bore the signage of 'Ausjet'.  When my curiosity finally got the better of me I discovered that these were home to a group of pilots and engineers who were engaged in aerial mapping of the vegetation in the Emerald area.  What a life, operating two Cessna 206's on what seemed to be a very easy schedule.  In fact, one of the engineers was a bit peeved he had actually had to put in two hours on the day I spoke to him!  We estimated that the company had invested over half a million dollars in this accommodation, but given that the mapping programme will take the group all over the country, where motel and similar accommodation would otherwise be needed, this struck us as a very good scheme, particularly in light of the good resale market for caravans and mobile homes.

I have often thought that Sunday is a very good day on which to visit a country town from a photographic perspective.  A lack of traffic is a dual boon.....little to dodge and little in the way.  Mind you, my efforts in Emerald were a little thin because we spent much of our limited time engaged in a recce of other nearby places of interest.  But I did prowl the heart of the town for an hour or so, which I have to say featured lovely street gardens and trees.

Unlike many towns in which the central clock tower is a war memorial, this in Emerald was erected by one of the local gentry in memory of his wife.  Expansive, I thought.

The performing arts centre and gallery stands opposite the clock tower, whilst the local war memorial and town hall are features of the next intersection.

As I noted previously, this central area of Emerald does boast wide streets and inviting gardens,

but it was evident to us that this part of town is under severe commercial pressure.  Our approach into Emerald from the south had taken us past a number of very large commercial development areas replete with all the usual suspects.....Harvey Norman, Bunnings, Woolworths etc, etc.  It was clear that Emerald is expanding rapidly and I was keen to discover what it was that was driving this business development.

This brought a surprise, and another lesson in the dangers of supposition.  Given that the town is located in an area noted for its gem production (more of Rubyvale and Sapphire later) one would be forgiven for the assumption that Emerald's name was gem related, as I had, for some time.  Not so.  The town, which was established in 1879 as a base for the construction of a westward reaching railway, was named after a nearby hill which was covered with lush, emerald coloured vegetation.  So there...what is in a name...traps for young players often.

The town remains a hub for several major rail networks.  It houses a major airport (and it is large), a hospital and a number of varied educational institutions in additional to all the business which support the varied primary industries which take advantage of the rich soil of the area.  Indeed the area is a veritable agricultural cornucopia.  The mining of coal, sapphires and other gems has now become secondary to the production of cotton, maize, cereal crops, sorghum, sunflower, fruits, peanuts, native flowers and beef.  Unlike the town's name, this information came as no surprise.  We had noted the vast fields of sunflower and sorghum, in particular, as we drove in.



The importance of the sunflower industry to Emerald has been recognised with the erection of the world's largest reproduction of Van Gogh's famous painting in Morton Park.  For the record, this oddity (to us at least, but not an opinion we voiced I have to add) stands 25 metres high and certainly commands attention.




There is little doubt that Emerald's growth from a small, regional railway and mining base to the somewhat sprawling, but clearly flourishing centre it now is, was due primarily to the decision taken by the British Food Corporation in 1948 to grow sorghum in the area. 


The nearby Fairbairn dam, with its storage capacity of nearly 1.5 million megalitres now supports this and other agricultural ventures in the Emerald area.  This photo does little to capture the vast expanse of the retained water, known as Lake Maraboon, on which all manner of aquatic activities are conducted including skiing, fishing and sailing.




We had previously heard much of the caravan park situated on the shores of Lake Maraboon, and our recce certainly supported the good things we had heard.  Unfortunately it is not pet friendly, but our enquiries with the office staff (together with our polite, but firm admonitions about this management position) left us hopeful that this embargo may be reversed in the foreseeable future.  We hope so.  A stay of a month at least was our agreed position if this becomes a reality.

In the course of our somewhat frantic scurry through the surrounds of Emerald, we visited the nearby gem towns of Sapphire and Rubyvale where, quite unlike their larger cousin, these two mining and fossicking hamlets presented exactly as we had expected.  In fact, there were real similarities to the sights around Coober Pedy in this area.  Rusted, discarded mining equipment, mullock heaps, open cut workings and accommodation of vastly varying standards of domestic convenience, dotted the landscape.  Both townships (Rubyvale more-so) bristled with gem shops of a singularly quaint appearance and the expected 'come and see us...we won't be beaten' signage, and both contained a number of most acceptable caravan parks, pubs and general stores, notable amongst which was a liquor bottle shop located, according to its advertising sign, as being sited directed on the Tropic of Capricorn.  My scepticism was later blunted when a close look at the map confirmed that this was most probably so!  

Our time constraints prompted me to leave the camera firmly in the glove-box. I knew once I started we would be there for hours that we did not have.  This area is also firmly on our 'General MacArthur' list.

Back in Emerald I was keen to snap the local railway station, a building of real charm which reflects the importance of the railway to the early life of the town.

And just as we were doing so, another treat.  We had spent a number of periods during our stay in Longreach last year looking for a glimpse of the 'Spirit of the Outback', a 'Ghan' equivalent, which runs between Brisbane and Longreach twice a week.  We had no luck in Longreach, but lo and behold, the very train lumbered out of the station as we watched.  Yes, I know, a train is a train...and indeed you are right...but it closed a travelling loop for us!

Before we leave Emerald, let me introduce a note of caravaning controversy, or at least, show a prime example of why we have adopted our stance in relation to  the practice of 'free camping'.  This is a subject which can arouse considerable passion, on both sides of the debate.

Our view is simple...whilst we are more than adequately equipped to do so, our idea of sitting at a free campsite is to do so if the site offers views and tranquillity not otherwise locally available, or is in some way, unique.  Many others, however, take up the free camping  option as a matter of economic necessity, or are just niggards.  And they often pay a penalty in terms of noise and crowding, as the free camp on the entrance road to Emerald  demonstrates.

In this (obviously) late afternoon shot you can see vans clustered together on a bitumen car park which otherwise serves patrons of the adjacent botanic gardens, and a couple of others on the nearby grassed slopes.  Unfortunately I was unable to get into a position to adequately show the crowding in the park area, and the extraordinary tilts some of those on the slopes were prepared to endure (it is very important for van fridge operation that vans are level), but believe me, in the later afternoon, when the 'freebie seekers' flock in to roost, this is a place of chaos and discomfort.  And this is without the noise coming from the nearby highway bridge into town, one which carries constant traffic.  No power or water, plenty of crowding and noise, and all for the sake of a saving of $28.00.  Why would you?

I have read articles in which the advocates of this form of nomadic life argue that without the availability of such sites, they could not afford to travel, and indeed some boast of never staying in caravan parks.  Our view is simple.....if this is a travel necessity, you can't afford to be doing it.

And so, with this small spot of scorn, we leave Emerald for the short hop of just over 100 kms to Clermont, where we decided to break the otherwise very long haul from Emerald to Charters Towers.

Our pre-booked site in the only caravan park in the small, but pretty town, provided a mooring challenge or two, but, as with every challenge comes an opportunity, and Liz and I took this to practice what has now become our parking norm......she drives whilst I direct.

We have found this to be the system, of the several options available, which works very well for us.  Liz is adept at looking straight ahead (this sounds odd, but is critical) whilst moving either back or forward and turning the steering wheel precisely as I direct, and, with all due humility, I can report that over the years I have developed a reasonable skill in giving these directions. 

We were heartened as we came to a final stop in Clermont to be approached by a nearby permanent resident who had been watching our efforts with barely disguised interest (I think I have mentioned before, casting a critical eye over the mooring efforts of new arrivals is a universal sport in caravan parks).  She knew our site was difficult, particularly for a van of our length (in fact we fitted lengthways with less than a foot at either end) and was lavish in her praise.  What a nice way to begin our short stay in Clermont.!  



 

INJUNE (18 MAY 2013)

I mentioned at the close of my last post that Injune, our overnight stop north of Roma, was a real surprise, and this it was in a number of ways.

Our trip took us through the expansive grazing lands which take over from the cotton and other agriculture north of St George, through Roma,

and into the rolling hills and much more heavily timbered country beyond.  We were getting ever closer to the Queensland Central Highlands.




We were a little concerned as to just what we would find in Injune.  I had read somewhere that the caravan park fee was $40 per night, an exorbitant sum for this part of the world, but we had no choice if we were to the keep the Waco running overnight and its store of very promising St George meat appropriately frozen.  We had to have power.

What wasted energy that concern was.  The Injune Caravan Park set us back a princely $28 with the added bonus that we could pick whichever of the grassy, large sites we wanted.  We did just that (that's us beyond the cabins and the angled parked white twin cab)

This park is interesting to say the least.  Our preliminary scout around it revealed only about ten available sites. 

The rest was given over to what appeared to be pretty permanent van set ups and a very large complex of single room transportable blocks, including a kitchen, dining room and large outdoor eating and entertainment area.  What is going on here we wondered?

We estimated that the dormitory complex and other cabins could house in the order of

one hundred and fifty or so, and as we later learnt, that is exactly the case.  The accommodation has been established on a five year lease arrangement with the local council, the park owners.  It is being used to house road workers, Santos coal seam gas field employees and those engaged in laying the substantial gas pipeline from the Injune fields to the coast at Gladstone, some 400 kms to the east.

According to locals to whom we chatted in the pub, and both the site manager (whom we also met in the pub) and the lass at the Information Centre (who was an ex-South Australian...we had a big yarn), there was initially quite considerable local angst about all this, but it is apparent that the penny has now dropped as to the various benefits to be gained.  Not only does this system mean that otherwise flyin/flyout workers are contributing to the local economy, for the short term at least, the council will retain ownership of the not inconsiderable infrastructure which was required to establish the camp.  And from what we saw of those domicile there, they were a tidy and polite bunch.  As Mike (the camp boss) noted, they work such long, hard shifts all they really are good for when they return each day is a scrub, a feed and a long sleep.  That notwithstanding, I suspect the two lasses who own the local pub are rubbing their hands together.

Our site was right on the opposite side of the park, and until quite late that afternoon when two other vans pulled in, we had that patch to ourselves. 




So with the cat fed and settled into his post journey recovery snooze, it was off to see what Injune had to offer.  Not the least of the items on our agenda was to discover the origin of its most peculiar name. 

The Information Centre was the obvious first port of call, where, as I mentioned earlier, the lass on duty was from SA, and more than that, had lived in at least two towns where Liz had spent some of her childhood.  Amid the reminiscing, we were able to determine that the origin of the name remains something of a mystery.



Four alternatives are canvassed by the pundits.  The first is that the explorer Ludwig Leichhardt passed this way in June along Horse Creek.  Some rather obscure tree blazes indicate his passage, but not the year.  Theory two has it that the town was named by the Railways Department after the Parish of Injune.  The third suggestion is somewhat more obtuse.  Its supporters argue that varying notations on local maps in 1864 and 1879 gave rise to Injune as a result of misspellings (this explanation really was obscure!) and finally, there is a very limited school of thought that the name is a derivation of the aboriginal word 'ingon' the name given to the local sugar glider.  

The screed on the matter draws the inescapable, if disturbingly non-specific, conclusion that as far as the name goes 'WHATEVER IT MAY BE - IT IS....'  Now that's one for the philosophers amongst you!

The particularly wide streets of Injune gave rise to the surmise that it began life during the days of the bullock teams, but this is not so.  In fact, like many parts of Kangaroo Island, for example, Injune was established as a 'Soldier Settlement' immediately following the end of WW1, so, in comparison to many of its neighbouring rural centres, it is a relative pup.  Mind you, whatever prompted the decision on the street layout, it is a boon for the incredible amount of road-train traffic now using the area. (This was a quiet time).

The need to provide potable water, fuel and other materials to the road work sites, the nearby gas fields and those laying the pipeline, and to remove the inevitable waste (of all types...you'll have to use your imagination from here on) has meant that there is a constant stream of heavy truck traffic in and out of Injune.  In fact, whilst we were nosing around the area of the roadhouse, a pipe carrying truck steamed in onto a nearby dirt parking area.

 



 
 Now you don't see it........







  
 

and, bingo, now you do!  (you can imagine how I was ducking for cover until things settled).  My enquiries with the very cheerful driver confirmed that these are the pipes which are being used for the line, which could take up to another four to five years to complete.

Our main street wanderings then took us to a remarkable display and another 'colourful' local story, one which typifies the community spirit which is so demonstrably alive and well in Injune.
 

 

This is the original Injune railway station which served the ill fated line between here and Roma, a line which began its life  on June 30, 1920.  The settlers in the area had developed varied primary industries.  The trains were used to haul a mixed cargo including cattle, sheep, wool, timber, cream, grapes, pumpkins and other seasonal produce over the 53 bridges and 6 road crossings in the 51/2 hour journey to Roma, and of course, passengers, who travelled for a fare of nine shillings each way (originally).  A developing road transport industry and a rapidly diminishing use of the rail service spelt its inevitable demise on December 31, 1966.

 

None of that seems too remarkable, I hear you sniff.  But there is more.  The station building, pictured here (including the ghost of the photographer) in its heyday, was sold off

 

 

to a local farmer, who for many years thereafter used it as storage shed for his pig fodder.  This was eventually too much for many of the local luminaries who banded together, bought back the building and then painstakingly moved it back to its original site in the town on the back of a (seriously big) low-loader.  One of the last of the extremely efficient and powerful C17 steam locomotives (they were still in service on the QLD narrow gauge lines until the mid 60's when diesel took over) completes the scene.  The station building now houses many photos and other written details of the area's history and development.  What an effort for a town of a total population of less than 500.

 

Injune is said to be particularly representative of the change of industry focus which has occurred in many small QLD towns.  The original agricultural industries have now given way to mining, coal seam gas production and a cypress pine harvesting area of note..it is the biggest in Australia.  About 40,000 cubic metres of this native, termite resistant timber is taken each year and processed through the two high tech sawmills which operate locally.  The Information Centre (pictured earlier) and the Youth Centre (patience!) are both made from this timber.

 

 

 

 

Another interesting example of changes which have taken place in Injune, include what was the old theatre hall (don't the front roof lines just give these away...everywhere) which has now been internally remodelled by a local builder as his home.  It still includes a projection room and small theatre!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The spanking new motel, which sits just across the road from the hall, is another example of the progressive changes taking place in Injune, all of which are driven by the mining and gas developments and the money they bring.

 

  

But that is not to say that some of the original buildings are not holding their own in the streetscape as this old livery stable (and not a tumble weed or ten gallon hat in sight) demonstrates.

  

   

The local church is a small, basic building, clearly not modern.  Indeed we had all but dismissed it as relatively unremarkable in the general scheme of things in Injune, until

 

 

we spotted this sign in the front approaches.

 

 

  

From all we could gather, this is a typically pragmatic and community minded approach to life by the good citizen of Injune, in this case by those requiring spiritual solace from time to time. 

  

Our next surprise was to discover that a township of this limited size would boast not one, but two, quite different, but equally charming community parks.

 

Hendrix Park is quite formally laid out,















with a small stream bridge, stone work and an almost 'Japanese garden' feel to it,

whilst immediately across the road one can wander through a much more expansive sward which houses the swimming complex, the bowling club and, no,
 

I did not forget, the Youth Complex.  Another 'Injune surprise' lies in the fact that the town supports a very active youth arts group.  We were disappointed that the large exhibition of the works of these youngsters which is on display in the Youth Centre was not open over the weekend (we were there on a Saturday) 

We decided that a walk around the billabong, which is situated at the far end of the caravan park, would be the ideal way to complete our pedestrian tour of downtown Injune before we headed off to the pub for the requisite fluid replacement programme (this sightseeing can be very thirsty work)

 

I guess the word 'billabong' can be used to describe a multitude of water holes of disparate beauty and volume, providing they are located in Australia, and it was with that thought uppermost tried we convinced ourselves that our jaunt was taking us around a place of country riparian splendour.  We remained unconvinced, but at least there were the odd spots along what was, in reality, a series of very muddy pools, which did look vaguely inviting.

 

This short jaunt at the bottom of the caravan park did, however, reveal yet another small gem of Injune creativity, a series of public exercise stations, located in a wooded paddock of all places.  The last thing one would expect to find!

 

 

But now, off to the pub.  We always approach these visits with two thoughts in mind...apart from the obvious of course, a beer or two, there is the constant hope that we'll rub shoulders with interesting and informative locals.  Mission accomplished in Injune!

 



 

 Even the obligatory licensee notice over the entrance door demonstrated promise.

 

 

The interior of the pub was as 'country quirky' as we had hoped, and the locals were both highly forthcoming and friendly.  We learnt a great deal about Injune's history during a very well spent hour or so.  And, of course, it was just the place we expected to find a surf lifesaving patrol cap hanging on the wall!

 

The grey haired chap on the right of the shot is Mike, the caravan park camp manager, from whom we got all the gen on the development of the accommodation infrastructure.  He expected that it would take three of the five years they were to be in situ to recover the capital cost.  Beyond that, an operating profit and the bonus of having a fully transportable asset completely paid for. 

In the course of our chat he told us that his company had chosen Injune for a number of reasons.  One was that Santos, the company operating the coal seam gas field, had recognised the cost benefits of outsourcing their worker accommodation and messing operation, and the other was the practical, mutually beneficial relationship established with the local council.  We were stunned to learn that, for a similar operation in Roma, the esteemed burghers of that town were slugging (there can be no other way of looking at it) the company involved $2 million per year for the privilege.  Now that's 'gouging' taken to a new level!

So it was that after having spent one of the most interesting 24 hours of our trip to date, we rubbed shoulders with one of the big boys at the fuel stop

and set our sights on Emerald, where we planned to spend two nights. 

The trip of just over 300 kms took us up into the central highlands of the Great Dividing Range where the hitherto relatively flat countryside gave way to

a topography featuring mountain bluffs
 

 






and some challenging driving up and down a number of very steep sections of the highway (this photo does not actually do justice to the drop....we came down this stretch in 2nd gear)

 

 

Then, surprisingly, once over the main ridge, we were again traversing relatively flat country.  The mountains in the distance are home to the Canarvon National Park and its famous gorge, but, as with most national parks, animals are not permitted entry.  It was with some disappointment we drove on as we have had this place recommended to us by many.

 

On through the small towns of Rolleston and the delightful Springsure (one we shall definitely visit again for a few days) and into Emerald, a town which, in its approach and departure sprawl, reminded us a deal of Roma.