GLADSTONE HILL (23 APRIL 2015)

Gladstone Hill stands high over the Brand Highway, halfway between the Overlander and Wooramel Roadhouses, some 250 kms south of Carnarvon.  We had driven to the top of this hill when coming back from our wild flower jaunt last September (when we did not have the van in tow) and decided that we could haul 'the brick' up the narrow road to the top without too much difficulty.

"What a place from which to watch the sun set over Shark Bay.....we'll do this some time Lizzie."  Well, now that we were self-sufficient we could.

This was not to be a long day.  There was no need to be up at 'sparrows'.  We hitched up and made our way out of Denham quite late in the morning by our usual standards and retraced our inward journey back south past the wide expanses of low scrub on the Peron Peninsula.

Our last close look at the waters of Shark Bay came and went. We had seen and learnt much, and apart from the fact that none of the fishing spots recommended to your scribe had fired, it had been a very entertaining few days.

We were heading back into familiar territory again for what we thought would be the last time..how wrong we were as we later discovered.

Gladstone Hill is one of several which rise out of nowhere in the otherwise flat and barren landscape of this area. I recall being quite excited by this sight on our first run to Carnarvon in June of last year.

Now we were to climb to the top and spend the night, 

an ascent which demanded care and concentration to negotiate the narrow, steep access road.  Our fingers were tightly crossed that we would not meet anyone coming down at the same time. That would have been interesting!

But all went well, and the Mobile Marshies were soon king and queen of all they surveyed, not that our immediate surrounds were anything particularly special.

Our barren parking spot was of no consequence....we were here for the views. To the south the ribbon of the highway over which we had just travelled can just be seen almost on the horizon mid shot,

as could that we were to travel on to the north the following morning.

It was to the west that our real focus lay. Far on the distant horizon are the waters of Shark Bay,

seen better here in a close up shot over the shimmering salt pans still damp from previous recent rain.

The entire reason for this visit was to sit outside at dusk, watch the sun set, the moon rise and the stars sparkle in an otherwise totally unlit sky.  The chairs were placed outside in readiness.

There only remained one unanswered question.....could we cope with the flies, which had attacked me in their thousands as I was setting up. We were hoping against hope that the descending twilight would see them off. 







We were determined to try, no matter what but experienced enough by now to know that fly nets were as essential as shoes.

And the outcome.  I'll let You be the judge. Every one of the small black dots is a winged tormentor.

This may give a better idea.  








Liz bailed out. They were just too much.  I don't blame her. To add to our woes, there wasn't a single skein of cloud in the sky to provide a colourful sunset, but I was determined to make the most of things as they were.

In this somewhat feeble attempt at photographic artistry I managed to capture the glowing golden orb of the dying sun through one of the van windows (note the supervisor on the lens)












and as it dipped below the horizon some 10 kms away.

For me the best part of the entire evening was the point where the afterglow was still 

just painting the western sky as the crescent moon began to shine. Venus was gleaming and the rest of the stars were just beginning to assert themselves in the increasing blackness of the sky. The cool of the evening was descending like a friendly shroud, the flies had finally given up and the stillness bordered on eerie. For a few precious moments there was not even any distant traffic noise from the highway....we could have been the only people on the planet. This is what we had come to do.






The next morning, the opposite horizon came to life in the colours of dawn.  It was time to move on. 








As we made our way across the top of Gladstone Hill, it was obvious that we were not the only ones to have spent the night here. This very cheery cyclist stopped packing his tent to give an enthusiastic wave as we edged by him. We were more than happy to reciprocate, entirely happy in the knowledge that our night had been spent considerably more comfortably than his. These are hardy souls indeed.








So off Gladstone Hill we crawled. The Brand Highway awaited and our return to Carnarvon was imminent.






After the reported damage caused by Tropical Cyclone Olwyn some six weeks earlier, we were anxious to see what had become of our previous home of four months and to catch up with old mates. We both strongly felt as though this was a homecoming.