PORT HEDLAND – 80 MILE BEACH (15 MAY 2015)

As we were now well aware, Western Australia is a big state, and north of Port Hedland the highway traverses some of the longest stretches between major towns in the country. 

We had to reach Broome by 19 May to catch up with the Lorenzins, our good friends from Adelaide, but that is 600 kms from Port Hedland. We had no intention of travelling that far without an interim stop. Along this part of the coast three options present themselves....the De Grey River campsite, Pardoo Station and 80 Mile Beach caravan parks.

We had been told that the De Grey River camp is just delightful, but could be tight for rigs of our size. Pardoo Station had some appeal, but to reach it requires travelling over 13 kms of highly questionable dirt road. 80 Mile Beach is also well off the highway, but only 9 kms of unsealed road separate it from the black-top.  This was shaping as the sojourn of choice. 

Our friends from Bremer Bay and Esperance, Lesley and Bill Boyce, had strongly advocated we join them there for the few days we would have available.  The only real problem lay in the fact that this park does not allow dogs. “Leave that to me”, was Lesley’s comment. Sure enough, a text arrived later announcing that she had things sorted. We would be welcome to bring Max provided he stayed on our site and was on a lead. This is our standard operating procedure in any event....the choice was made....80 Mile Beach here we come.

As we left Port Hedland in the early morning sunshine, our road out to the Great Northern Highway took us past our final reminders of all that we had been seeing over the past few weeks, an empty iron ore train making its way back to Tom Price

and the massive Port Hedland salt mine stock pile.

We were not sorry to be on the road.  By now we had reached ‘Pilbara overload’.  Our heads were still swimming with the massive numbers associated with the mining, salt and gas industries and we had reached the point where the sight of another ore loader or material stockpile would definitely be one too many.

As we climbed over the railway bridge 

we took our last look at the empty wagons of the ore train,

before shortly reaching the highway sign which confirmed we were on our way.

As one of the many morning commuter jets made it final approach to the Port Headland airport runway, we were heading north to ‘holiday country’ and Broome, the town which has been on your scribe’s bucket list for years.

Once well out of Headland, the countryside opened up.

And then, as we passed a small range of jagged hills, dark and menacing looking in the shadow of the still low morning sun,

the highway in front of us was anything but ‘open’.  What is this monster bearing down on us? 

Two actually, huge pieces of mining equipment heading south, probably to be mothballed or sold. We headed for the hills and sat tight as they thundered past.  These road warriors do not take prisoners. Like massive ships in a restricted channel they hold their course no matter what, and in this case that involved a good part of what would normally be our side of the road. This is no time to rage about a fair share of the highway.....it’s very much a case of ‘might is right’.  We were more than happy to cower submissively!

But then they were past and it was all ours again. The highway took us over the drying expanses of the De Grey River

and past the last of the red Pilbara hills.

We were now well and truly into the undulating, low scrub country of the approach to the southern Kimberly.

The Pardoo Station Homestead sign waved its welcome, but this was not for us.

We did however pull into the not too distant Pardoo Roadhouse for a quick break and a nose about.

The day was now heating up rapidly. We were grateful to find a spot of shade in which to park.

The roadhouse caravan park looked more than fit for purpose with plenty of lawn and shade trees. This went straight into our book as a suitable overnight destination for future travel,

as did the roadhouse itself,

with its very clean and pleasant bar and dining area.

But for me, the standout at the Pardoo Roadhouse, smack in the middle of not very much at all, were the signs in the men’s heads.

Now what a contrasting social commentary this presented.  The sign above the hand towels requested that they not be used as toilet paper (where I wondered) and right next to the dispenser was a advertisement for the wine special in the diner. An unwooded 'chardy' no less at the not to be repeated prices of $6 per glass or $20 per bottle (it was actually a pretty good brand!)

Given what we had seen of the demeanour and general state of cleanliness of many of the clientele, our brothers and sisters of course, the hand towel request resonated as having been the product of long and unpleasant experience, but the ad for the wine in a toilet?.....now that was something different. Thanks all the same, but not at 9.30 in the morning!

As we pulled out of Pardoo we were soon reminded of many of the destinations which lay ahead of us over the coming weeks.....and the distances. 

This was all brand new country, and we were both feeling that old twinge of excitement which keeps us all doing these laps around Oz. I can recall in the planning stage of this trip looking at the maps of north-west WA and thinking just how remote this all looked.....remote bordering on somewhat daunting....but now we were here it was all a bit old hat really.






By now we were definelty into red sand country

and from here the highway stretched ahead for kilometre after kilometre through flat, open, pretty dreary country.












Even Max was becoming bored.  “Come on, are we there yet?”

“Nearly Max”. This was the sign we had been waiting for. Five hundred metres to the turn off.













And now the fun started as we crossed the 80 Mile Beach entrance road grid and hit the dirt.

Many to whom we had spoken quite recently had assured us that the road in was good. I’m not sure just where they spend much of their travelling time, but it was not where we had been....it was bloody awful.







On road like these things are never made easier by idiots towing small campers who insist on hurtling down them at warp speed doing their best to create a dust cloud which would rival a good old fashioned navy destroyer smoke screen.  This was one of the more considerate ones.





Some few kilometres in, as we crawled along over the increasingly bone shaking corrugations at a very modest 20 kph, I had a brainwave. I know that on roads such as these, the grass always looks greener on the other side, or to be more accurate, the road always looks smoother, in the mind if not in reality, as a change of course usually demonstrates.

But here I thought of what causes corrugations.....heavy traffic.  At this time of the year the road into 80 Mile Beach is busy, but 90 percent is on the 'in' track.  Everyone was coming in to stay for weeks and months....very few were leaving. Surely the ‘wrong' side of the road will not have become so rutted.

Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.....this was indeed the case. Consistent with my theory, we encountered no contra-flow and our remaining run in of 7 kilometres or so was completed on the opposite side of the road and was much smoother.

But there was no escaping the dust, and the end of the road was a very welcome sight indeed.

Over the last grid

a right turn, and we were on the final approach to the 80 Mile Beach caravan park office.






I dutifully came to a halt as the sign demanded, and as Liz toddled off to the office I realised that there it was, a teasing glimpse over the roofs of the park cabins....the sea, 

shimmering tantalizingly pale blue....within walking distant. This was looking much better.

As Liz wandered over the park office to check us in I recall sitting in the Cruiser wondering.....would 80 Mile meet our expectations? Could it possibly live up to all we had heard and read about it? Would this really be a wasted four days or will we leave with real regret and a vow to return?