8 August 2013 - Outside the gates to Head of Bight, east of Nullarbor Roadhouse, South Australia

The last thirty or so kilometres short of Eucla followed on down over the Roe Plains, with the unbroken escarpment to the north, and then suddenly, just as the road had come down at Madura, we ascended through the Eucla Pass to the roadhouse of the same name.

Tee-ing off at Eucla

We decided to play our hole before any sightseeing and were soon directed out to the golf course along a bumpy dusty gravel road, a ten minute trip during which Chris grizzled and grumped about having been given incorrect information. At Kalgoorlie, he had specifically asked if the Links holes were all near the highway as he did not like taking the caravan onto unsealed road. We were assured this was the case although I have to say that to people who live in this environment, ten minutes on a dusty gravel road doesn’t even register. We passed the rubbish tip which suggested there was more than just a roadhouse at Eucla, and arrived at the sports grounds, which were covered in broken trash. Obviously rubbish blows from the tip and a mower minces it all up when the grounds are occasionally mown.

Eucla's Iconic Telegraph Station

Apart from working through the fragmented debris, the course was without event, and we returned to the roadhouse at Eucla, before descending from the escarpment once more, but this time down an old road to the coast. Here we found the Old Telegraph Station, another icon of Australia, nowadays almost buried beneath the sand dunes. This was part of the welcomed communication across from East to West of the country, when in 1877, the first message was sent:”Eucla line opened. Hurrah.”

It was here that we got caught up with some folk travelling toward Western Australia and they were glad to take my jar of honey that would otherwise have to be surrendered at the quarantine post.

The Hole near the State Border

Driving back up to the top we passed a man of a certain age whom is better not seen without a shirt, although no one has ever told him so. Labels come to mind like the very rude “Wanker” and such like, however on acquaintance at the top near a memorial to Eyre who passed this way so very long ago, we found this narcissistic chap a fascinating mine of information and tales of the Nullarbor. He had worked for the equivalent of Social Welfare in Aboriginal Settlements for some years and was currently filling in some time at the WA Quarantine station. He told us about a certain young highly educated woman with some aboriginal blood who put in an official claim on behalf of her tribe for a great swathe of land almost from one end of the Bight to the other. It came to the ear of the elders of another mob, who said the land was theirs, and should she set foot on their land, she would be speared (in the leg, as is tradition for any punitive action, even in these very sophisticated times). She hurried back to the city, ne’er to be seen again. There were other stories but many far too depressing to grace these pages. There is enough in the courts and the newspapers to suffice.

We pressed on the last twelve kilometres to the border, driving straight on through, the searches limited to those traveling in the opposite direction. Immediately after the border, after adjusting our watches for a further three quarters of an hour, we played the short hole tucked in beside a rather kitsch plaster kangaroo. Here Chris lost his fifth ball.

A further one hundred and eighty two kilometres we arrived at the Nullarbor Roadhouse. About a kilometres back on the road we saw a sign that stated that this was the real beginning of the treeless plains, and indeed, the trees had suddenly disappeared and we could believe that we had finally arrived at the Nullarbor.

The course was behind the caravan park and was a wretched one to say the least. The flies hung about my face and I assure you it is hard to play golf when you are switching flies away with one hand. To top it off, I lost one golf ball down a large wombat hole, and Chris lost yet another in the mulga.  At one point a crow went marching over to my resting ball and I had to chase him with my club. Yes, it was a wretched hole. And to top it off, we ran into a chap on our way back through the caravan park who had played the hole earlier. When I told him I had scored 30, he nearly choked, told me that it was golf, not table tennis, and that if he were me, he would have given up long ago. He had hit 8. Well, bully for him!

Our camp at the gates

It was here that we were told by fellow travellers that we must not miss “Head of Bight”, that it is only $15 ($12 for seniors) and you just have to go. It was already 4.15 pm and we knew it closed at 5 pm. Someone suggested there was a space down the access road. We would give it a go and decide on the spur of the moment.

And so we have. The ranger came at 5.05 pm to lock the entrance gate and did not blink an eye at our presence. We should be right.

There have continued to be a stream of traffic across this highway, as many caravans as road trains, and today we have seen quite a few lizards and one snake, playing chicken crossing the road. The snake was very long and it was touch and go attempting to miss him, but I think we did. He was doing no harm and deserved to live.