Outward Bound

Think of, “The Outback.”
My picture would have painted a huge sky with a red sun, setting in the desert. There would be the figure of a lonesome cowboy, sitting on a log under a star filled sky, keeping company with a small flicker of a fire. Maybe I should throw in some cattle, a bottle of spirits and a few buzzing mosquito’s and the portrait becomes complete. My true interpretation wouldn’t be far off, only I failed to add the hundreds of marsupials and a few townships along the way that were so dull, they added another layer to my canvas.

It’s true, we didn’t get far out with only four days to make the trip, and we were more like in the “Out Backyard” of Brisbane, but I get the feeling that you don’t have to go far to experience life in a desolate place or to find the outback inside the country towns along the way. Simply step into a retired ranchers Pub for lunch, pick up one of Gerties homemade cakes while re-fuelling, or stop at a Homestead Bush festival to find one of the last crocheted appliance cozy’s, dutifully made by the ladies in the grange hall. In about a 700mile loop, we were still able to feel like the city was left to it’s commerce, and we were on the other side of it. The towering wall of mountains we crossed and left behind created the “Great Dividing Range” that separate Us from Them. Us, is the camping trio, Brian, Brenda and Greg (Greg is a mate we met while sailing [rather sinking] on the Nile in Egypt.) Them, are those who are left in the city with power, running water, restaurants, a roof, and bed to sleep in tonight.

The lush, green, tropical city of Brisbane was replaced with dry, brown, mouthfuls of dust and a straight open road leading to no where. However we have a destination today and it is a gorge cut into the desert floor. Isla gorge, located in the central part of Queensland and has deep valleys colored with resilient trees and hardy cactus. This desert floor is carpeted with fields of snake filled green grass indicating a natural spring deep below our feet. Jagged rock walls edge the gorge rim and make for a rock climbers paradise. We scale down the face and find hidden caves that bore through the mountain and others that are large enough to make camp. Searching for hieroglyphics left from the aboriginals, we were sure that this would have been their prime region to inhabit. No relics, or native hand prints were in sight but we must have spooked a troop of wallaby’s, for the hillside bounced upwards with a leaping agility we wished to harness in order to make the next climb up the steep face.

Tired hikers relax to a warm red sunset and nestle upon a log staring into a flickering fire listening for the sounds of nightfall. Even though we are camping alone in the gorge, this entire area feels strangely vacant. There isn’t a sound moving the trees, there isn’t a rustle in the brush, there isn’t a bat above, there isn’t even a mosquito buzzing. My outback experience is missing something. A night stroll searching for the missing wildlife leads us strait into a Blair Witch camp with stones and sticks tied together, pebbles aligned in strange patterns, and a burned crucifix the fire pit. I will assume the woven miniature twig hut and sacrificial bird feathers are left from previous campers playing pranks, but it seems to have done the trick running all other living things out of the area. Scampering back to my camp, I check carefully for snakes and spiders before lying on the open ground hoping for sweet dreams to get me through our first night ‘out under the stars.’ There is indeed life in this camp and it returns just before daybreak, in the form of a magpie screeching above my head and depositing poo on my pillow. I think this is supposed to bring good luck they say?

A trip into town for ice took us back to the 19th century. We settled into an outback saloon where the only lunch is served up at the Hotel/Pub and for a mere $6 you can get your fill of fish and chips and chase it with a 4x bitter beer. Pubs in the outback claim to have Bundeburg rum on tap and by the looks of the afternoon crowd, they wouldn’t need much of it, to take the stress out of these uneventful days. Balancing a stool that could have their name on it, the old timers set against a wall decorated with cattle gear and public notice boards and occasionally spring for a game of pool. Except for a younger couple chatting in monotone drinking sarsaparilla beer, the town of Miles seems to be full of retired men in old jeans and hats, sipping pints, schooners, jugs, pots, and pony’s of icy cool draft. The young bar maid serves up a smiling good bye as she retrieves a parting patrons’ bag of groceries from the back room. He staggers home in the heat of the day, but then again the town only has three streets for him to negotiate. Life is a little bit too slow and monotonous for my liking, but intriguing just the same. I wonder, why people live here?

Back on the road again, Daisy Van rattles us across the outback. Hot air blows through the windows offering little refreshment to a long dry day. Small watering holes spring from the ground and the cattle look cool and content, but the lake that we’re headed to is another four hours away. Most would get real bored with the repetition of this drive except that so much of the landscape is new to me. I don’t mind the open and desolate roadside picture show as it will change on occasion. In the distance you can see the approach of Baobab trees that stand like a giant carrots in the red soil. The aboriginals used to bore into these trees to find water during the driest seasons. Then there’s the rumble of coal carts clamoring alongside the road and the fields bursting with white puffy balls of cotton. I look for ranchers in the stockyards and watch for echidnas and wallaby’s along the road. With dusk coming upon quickly, we navigate from the main road swerving to miss kangaroo that are becoming active.

It’s time to find a camp site and get dinner on the fire. Tonight we have been warned of the betongs as they are abundant and can invade camps. What is a betong you ask? Me too. Betongs are small marsupials that resemble a rat and their homebase camp happens to be the ravine we are sleeping just above. My camping duo companions insist they are harmless and adorable simply because they hop, but I beg to differ. Yes, call me a freak because I’m mental over a rodent phobia, but I don’t get any warm fuzzy feelings for these things as they join us camp side for dinner along with their possum friend who acts as if he’d like to sit on Brian‘s shoulder. As my sleeping bag hits the open ground, terror rivets my body. With head buried deep into bag, and eyes forced shut, I still can hear Greg a few inches away, hissing back at one sniffing around our pillows. I imagine one chewing my ear and another jumping on my legs and lye frozen awake most the night. Pleading for light to end my nightmare, I celebrate the noisy parrots swooping our heads at daybreak. Everyday in this big wide world is therapy for Brenda.

Heading back onto the one lane and sometimes dirt highway, our curiosity peaks at the sight of hundreds of campers and cars lined up in fields near a historical homestead site. It seems to be a party of some sort and this we can’t miss. A trembling cackling voice carries across the field and a banjo fills in the missed notes. Scores of folks have fold up chairs lined under a canopy, enthralled by the worst musical presentation I’ve ever heard. The Homestead Bush Festival is a fund raising event benefiting the protection of the historical site. You can tour the homestead, look up old photos and recipes, and update your art collection with a masterpiece made by the local townsfolk. If you hurry you can enter the raffle to win a homemade pudding pie. If you miss the raffle, there are other tasty treats available from kangaroo stew to corned beef and pickle/relish sandwiches. Lean against the old wooden fence with a frosty one and take in the sea of kangaroo hats, boots, wrangler jeans and silk western blouses. The kids run barefoot in the dirt excited to be a part of the big town festival. Besides the continuous yodeling, bush poets and other guest appearances, there is the electric fence vendor who can show you 300 antique varieties of fence chargers. Several women have stalls peddling crochet Barbie TP covers, and casserole carriers in 3 different fabrics. A few homemade marmalade stands look worthy of purchase, and I resist the temptation to send our grandson Boulder a t-shirt lined in lace proclaiming his love for us stitched in shaky needlepoint. Back on stage, a captivating audience sways to the popular young gal singing her heart out, “Ple-ease, don’t let the bush ballads di-ie” (again I beg to differ.) We meander back to the car as the afternoon begins to swell in enthusiasm when the renowned bush poet takes the stage pleading in song not to be buried “Where the ding-go’s, and the cro-ow’s, won’t molest me.” “Did I hear that right,” I ask? Better planning next year and we might try to fit in the three day camping pass to include the Friday and Saturday night swinging, stomping, bush bash, hoedown showdown plus all night kangaroo feed…Or not. Some things are meant to remain, way-out-back. On the list of things to do before you die, rate this one at number 101, for pure entertainment and culture significance.

Out rattled, out cattled, out dried, out fried, run out of beer, and run out by marsupials, a few days later we cross the great dividing range welcoming the city back into sight.
The outback remains for those who wish to… “Sleep in the desert tonight, with billion stars (and hopping rats) …all around.”