I am not sure which came first, the birds or the small children across the way, but the day started early for us and the rest of the camp.
We were out the gate before 8 am ready for our
expedition into the Karijini National Park ninety kilometres away. I drove the first one hundred kilometres, the
first time I have driven all year and more. It was certainly time I sat behind
the wheel because I know from past experience it is all too easy to lose one’s
confidence.
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| Views from the RIP rest area |
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| Pilbara Ring Tailed Dragon |
We arrived at the eastern entry station, satisfied with
our annual pass, thus avoiding the daily fee of $11 and headed for the Dales
Gorge section. There we undertook the Gorge Rim walk of a couple of kilometres, close to the rocky
ledge and through White Barked Snappy Gums, overlooking the Fortescue Falls, in
which a few hardy souls were swimming, the water apparently icy cold because it
rarely sees sunlight and up as far as the Circular Pool, an amazing semi-circle
carved by the flow of water over the millions of years. There were wonderful views
down into the gorge and down to the pools far below where more intrepid
travellers had headed. We decided to avoid the steep descents into the gorges,
wanting to save our energy for the many walks we expected ahead.
It was at this point Chris took the wheel again; his
back-seat driving is almost as bad as mine.
Just twelve kilometres back along the road is the
Karijini Visitor Centre which is relatively new, opened in 2001. The design of
the building, fashioned with high weathered steel walls mimicking the sheer
sided gorges that are the main feature of the park, represents a goanna moving
through the country and is symbolic to the local Bayjima Aboriginal people. The
tail represents their history, the head the future direction of the traditional
owners, and the centre, Aboriginal Law.
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| Along the Gorge Rim walk |
Amongst all the excellent displays and stories in
the Centre, there are displays and short videos of past station workers, including
memories of one woman who remembers mustering up to 29,000 sheep. She speaks
with fondness and pride of the work that she and her husband undertook on the
Hamersley Station, as do other elders whose stories share the space. But there
is also expression of anger and bitterness from the next generation, those of
our age, who understand how their parents and grandparents were used basically
as indentured labourers.
After the uprising on the Wave Hill Station in 1968
and the subsequent passing of Aboriginal Protection laws, many of the
aborigines were moved off the stations. These pastoral enterprises were simply
unable to support the payment of wages to the workers; a very sad fact both for
the existence of such uneconomic businesses and sad for those suddenly out of
work and without any income at all, even the modest rations that had been
handed out over the years in lieu of unpaid wages. The old ones had allowed their exploitation because
they saw it differently; an opportunity to remain on their own land and a way they
could continue in their roles as guardians of that land which they considered
their mother.
The excellent natural history section highlights the
pebble-mound mouse who constructs mounds of pebbles around their burrow, which
apparently plays an important role in their social life. Apart from the fact
that this curious little creature has its own Facebook page, I do not know what
social significance the boulders play.
Here too in the Centre I learned that cats had been
introduced to the Pilbara in an attempt to control the rabbit problem however
subsequent research, albeit rather cursory, gives no credence to this claim. I
accept that feral cats are a scourge on indigenous wildlife but will not, for
now, accept the suggestion that their introduction, en masse, took place or was
for that purpose.
I also learned the identity of the wonderful little iron
red brown lizards that scurried hither and thither along the pathway we took
across the gorge rim; they are the Pilbara Ring Tailed Dragons.
We had met up again with a couple encountered on the
top of Mt Nameless, at the Circular Pool lookout. They had left the caravan
park nearly an hour before us, entered through the western entry and visited
all the gorges by about 10.30 am. We thought that rather a shame because the
park is some distance back from Tom Price and there is an entry fee, all making
a good argument for taking one’s time to explore and enjoy this National Park
which in my husband’s opinion is the best we have visited. We asked Ray how
they had found the Visitor Centre which we understood to be new and very
interesting. They had driven in, seen the “gate house” which has an information
board, toilets and a few shaded picnic tables, and not even noticed the Centre
itself. Having now been there ourselves, we can understand how this might
happen; the rust coloured structure of the Centre blends into the landscape, a
perfect camouflage, easy to be missed by the unobservant. And alas, while we
had found these folk from New South Wales very warm and friendly, they obviously
do not share our desire for detail.
It was almost lunch time and I had seen that the next
gorge, the Kalamina, was promoted as being a good place to start one’s
exploration of the gorge system and more importantly a delightful picnic area.
We continued along the Banjima Drive, the road
through the park that runs like an alternative route to Karijini Drive, very
loosely parallel. The tar seal soon gave way to gravel and on we drove, turning
north off nineteen kilometres past the Visitor Centre, still on gravel but requiring
a little more attention. We came on down a gentle hill, round the corner and
heard the most horrendous noise. A blowout! Chris drove a little further to a
straighter part of the road and we commenced the tyre change, never a fun activity
and even less so on red dust.
The tyre was shredded, good for nothing, not even a
potato growing bed. I have never seen such a mess and I have seen a few munted
tyres in my life.
I insisted he have at least one sandwich and a good
swig from the water bottle before proceeding with the repair. I know that he is
nearly as bad as me when it comes to dealing with irritations and frustrations
when hungry and thirsty. (See comments about checking into camp yesterday!) With the boss topped up, we started to change
the heavy and very dirty wheel.
A ute came roaring down the hill and stopped after I
waved my arm to slow them down in an attempt to avoid the blinding clouds of
red dust. We thanked them for their offer of help and said we were under
control, however soon, when we tried to lift the replacement wheel on to the
bolts, we struggled. I had already suggested to Chris that we request help from
the next strong man who turned up, to lift the useless wheel up onto the roof.
We had no desire to put it in the back of the cruiser, as filthy as it was and
of course the back of our vehicle serves as storage for our life’s
paraphernalia.
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| A blowout on red dust |
Soon another vehicle did arrive, and the most
obliging chap helped with the heavy lifting that had I found beyond me. He and
his wife were travelling as we were, currently staying in their caravan at the simple
camp in the National Park. They were a delightful couple and I found much in
common with his wife. Sadly such a transient encounter, a brief relationship
doomed to go nowhere, the story of my gypsy life. We bid each other farewell
and drove on to the gorge as previously intended.
The rolling green hills stretching all the way to
the horizon, seemingly well suited to the pastoral industry, are slashed here
and there with deep red gorges, 100 metres chasms, like deep wounds, the sides
of which are sheer and plunge down to creeks and pools. These waterways can
rise almost without warning at the merest sniff of rain and for this reason,
some of the gorges had been closed yesterday after the previous day’s rain.
There are signs everywhere warning of the erratic behaviour of the river
streams and yet tourists still venture down into the beds, where they are
passable, sometimes to their ultimate demise.
After lunch we walked out to the lookout of this
first gorge, a disappointment after the spectacular Dales Gorge, but then we
had been warned. This was a “great introduction to the gorge system” and indeed
it was just so.
Back in the vehicle, we returned to Banjima Drive
for a further ten kilometres, then turning up to the Knox Gorge. Roads branched
off Banjima Drive to the Joffre Gorge in the same manner and then to the Weano
Gorge, where from the Oxer Lookout we had spectacular views of four converging
gorges; the Weano, Joffre, Hancock and Red. Banded iron rock formations tower
over these narrow valleys far below, and here too is a memorial to an SES
worker who lost his life attempting to save a foolish tourist.
It was here too that we came across the threesome of
young men who had offered prematurely to help us with the tyre. Two had been
down into the gorge for a walk, the third, the driver, had remained with the
ute, guardian of the alcohol on board. Obviously he thought he could look after
it best by consuming it internally and when we came upon him, he was lying comatose
in the sunshine on the edge of the car park. His mates were there trying to
rouse him which they finally did. He was totally wasted and uncooperative. They
managed to get his keys off him and to raise him on to his feet. Next I saw him
staggering over to a motorbike and get on. By this time I had made myself
scarce, not particularly impressed with the language being used. Chris was assisting
the two sober mates, to entice the drunk off the bike which was not his at all.
When we finally drove off, the drunk was being pushed into the back seat of the
ute.
Soon they overtook us, and hopefully headed for home
to deliver their burden to his accommodation, to sober up ready to perhaps
drive some technical machine in the mines? Scary for his co-workers!
About ten kilometres before leaving the western entrance
to the park, the road became sealed, we came into view of Mt Bruce and a
perfect rainbow spanned the landscape beside us. It was all quite beautiful.
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| Mt Bruce beyond the rainbow |
We carried on, closing in on Tom Price, this time
staying ahead and hoping that they arrived back at their home base safely.
Another scene of the evils of alcohol! Goodness me, there is nothing worse than
a reformed drinker, or at least a partly reformed one.
It was about 5 pm when we arrived back at camp
having covered 280 kilometres having had an interesting adventure and much of
it some of the best. The positives were enhanced when I switched this machine
on and received a Skype call from my parents, up very late for them and chatted
far into their night and up until Chris had dinner on the table. Yes, an
excellent day on the whole.
Tomorrow is Monday, we shall have to see about the
tyre. We also are booked to take the mine tour and had other plans for the afternoon
which would have wound up our exploration of Tom Price and surrounds. However
the purchase of a new tyre could prove to be problematic and we are not
prepared to leave and travel across the next expanse of remoteness ill equipped.
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