19 April 2011 - Nimmitabel Campground, Monaro Highway, New South Wales

Well here we are, back in New South Wales, after almost eleven months. Irrationally I find the concept of crossing borders quite exciting, which is something a New Zealander would not understand until they have lived or travelled in different states in Australia. It is quite amazing to discover how each state has its own government, rules and regulations, and really is like a different country.

So we left our lovely little roadside camp beside the Snowy River in the state of Victoria before 8 am, having woken early and watched the dawn arrive through the uncurtained riverside window. The kookaburras were in full swing and the commuters from Marlo were on the road soon after. We headed back toward the Princes Highway, driving through the town of Orbost, stunningly pretty in autumn colours but otherwise very quiet at this early hour.

Back on the main highway, and with the rain drizzling down, we headed on eastward, on through to Cann River, up and over many hills, most covered in forest. It was a beautiful drive, even with the ten kilometres of controlled burn being undertaken beside the road. Sometimes we drove through rain dampened smoke and sometimes just misty rain; both instances requiring headlights.

Arriving at Cann River, we found the council dump point which we used and then topped up with diesel. There was a bakery there too and so our good intentions of avoiding such places were abandoned. After all, breakfast had been very very early.

Here we turned north and followed the Cann River valley for some distance, up through pockets of farmland, but soon the road became steeper and the forest once more closed around us. The road was graded B but seemed more like a C road. There was little traffic and still we climbed up on to the Great Dividing Range. We crossed the border on the Razorback Range and pulled off the road for morning coffee and to record the mileage.

We had been one hundred and three days in Victoria and travelled 8,328 kilometres since crossing from South Australia at Nelson on the south coast. We could have stayed so much longer and done so much more, but we only have the rest of our lives. There are great expanses of this country untouched, and then all the spaces in-between. We actually would like to return to Victoria, but next time with bicycles and do some of the amazing rail trails that are on offer. I shall bring my Sarah Ulmer bike pants back with me when I next go to New Zealand.

Once in New South Wales, the road immediately became wider and better maintained, so very different to the Victorian roads we have travelled. On reaching the Monaro Plains, the road became more gently undulatingand degenerated into the same old roads we had travelled last year; full of potholes and with soft edges. Sometimes we had to drive slalom; it was that bad. After passing over the border, the sun had made an appearance and gave hope that the weather was lifting.

The Platypus Reserve

We turned on to the road toward Delegate just south of Bombola, following the Platypus Reserve signs. Just a kilometre or so on, we turned again on to a slippery dirt road, up toward the local racecourse. At the top, with the Bombala River still well below, I suggested we park and walk the rest of the distance, which we did. The flock of sheep in the paddock, well camouflaged by their dirty woollen coats, fled as we descended the track which was even steeper and muddier than the one we had driven up. The river was swollen, the flooding evidence of recent rain and the water seemed too murky and fast flowing to host platypus. It was also the wrong time of day; however Chris was happy to humour me. Perhaps there were some about because Bombola Country is Platypus Country. Perhaps the females were curled up in their burrows in the river bank (above the flood level), lying on their backs, incubating their eggs between their stomach and their tail. Or perhaps they were spending the afternoon just laxing out while their little puggles snuggled up feeding. Or perhaps they had all been swept away to sea in the flood! Reluctantly I gave up my search and we returned to the rig. Chris took great care driving back out the access route and re-joined the highway and proceeded to Bombola.

This town is surprisingly big; it had a population of 1,206 in the 2006 census. Interestingly it was proposed as the parliamentary capital in 1903 because it is halfway between the two cities of Sydney and Melbourne. Obviously this did not happen; Canberra was chosen as the site and the rest is history.

Today it is a rural service centre with a couple of small supermarkets, banks or banking agencies, a post office, cafes, and most of shops and services required. These are mostly located in old tired buildings, and yet the town does have a vibrancy despite its rather jaded appearance. Today the town relies on the grazing and timber industries, sheep being the most obvious of these. To celebrate the sheep farming in the area, a sculpture of a shearer in action stands beside the bridge over the Bombola River, in the style of that of the famed shearer, Fagen, in New Zealand’s Te Kuiti.

Bombola also holds the annual Bike Show where prizes are handed out for every category one could think of. The shop windows are decorated with photos of the prize winning motorbike from the last two years shows, and in the window of the soft furnishing shop sits a restored Triumph, up for raffle to be drawn at the next show this coming November. It is good to see a town promote itself with a popular annual exhibition or the like. A shame we will miss the excitement.

We set off after lunch for a walk about the town, but scurried back before too long, when the rain became heavier. We continued on our way across the plateau, through continuous farm land, much covered in tussock grass but as green as could be when the under growth was exposed to view. Had the day been clear, I believe we would have seen Mount Kosciuszko, Australia’s highest mountain, directly to the west. Coming upon the Bombola River yet again, but up river, there was still evidence of flooding and we hoped that the camp we were heading for would not be water logged.

Nimmitabel is a tiny town, with just 237 in 2006 and sits at an elevation of 1,075 metres above sea level. I have yet to get my tongue around the name, which means “the place where many waters start or divide” in the local Aboriginal language. This is because at the southern end, the water shed flows into the Snowy River system, and at the northern, runs into the Murrumbidgee River system. As we walked about the town, we noted it written, or coined, in a number of different ways including Nimmitybelle and just Nimmity. This latter is probably the colloquial use; it is so much easier to gets one’s tongue around.

A stone tower stands sentinel over the town and so had to be visited. In 1865 German born John Geldmacher commenced stockpiling building materials and over the next seven years, almost single-handedly built a stone tower windmill here in the town. Due to a lack of communication, he learned after his efforts that he had built his mill too close to the road and he was told that he could not complete it with windmill wings because they would cast their shadow onto the road, frightening horses. He used horses to work the mill instead of the wind, however it was never as successful as planned. By 1885 it was out of action and it was not until 1961 that the local council restored the tower as a tourist attraction. Perhaps as a belated apology?

Standing sentinel in Nimmity

The camp here at the northern end of town is a very simple affair. There are toilets as well as showers and a laundry which may be accessed with a key made available by the caretaker. He (or she) is supposed to come to collect the $20 fee, however has yet to show, and night is now well upon us. We spoke with another couple who arrived earlier than us who have used this camp from time to time over several years. About three years ago, the tariff was just $12 for a powered site, a very fair cost and one that would have warranted its entry in Camps 5, however over the intervening years, while there have been no improvements at all, the tariff has climbed to $15, and now $20. It is still far cheaper than the regular caravan parks however the facilities are very basic. Television reception is poor; we have just one channel, and internet is worse. My attempt to speak with my parents tonight on Skype was abysmal. But we do have power and water and a council blessed place to plant our wheels. That is worth something.