3 May 2013 - Carnarvon Caravan Park, Carnarvon, Western Australia

When in Carnarvon, you might choose a day out driving if after getting here you have not driven far enough; perhaps a visit to the Kennedy Range National Park two hundred and thirty kilometres to the east where you  could see rugged gorges  and creeks and springs, the latter two being features not otherwise abundant in the area. Or if you are all gorged out, perhaps to continue on a further three hundred and twenty kilometres roughly in the same direction to see Western Australia’s own great monolithic rock. Actually Mt Augusta is the largest monocline, not monolith, in the world, rising 858 metres abruptly from the arid red scrubland all around. Here there are gorges, caves and Aboriginal art to be seen but would I want to travel that far out to see yet another big red rock? Well, we did travel massive distances to see Uluru and might regret not seeing Mt Augusta when it eventually becomes as famous as that in the Northern Territory. So be it.

Instead we chose today to go for a drive up the coast from Carnarvon which entailed travelling back up the road travelled a few days ago, then inland across the southern end of Lake MacLeod. I took the wheel for the first seventy five kilometres, and you may wonder why I even mention this, but remember, this blog is principally for my own record, a grand souvenir, which could be useful if I have to argue a point in the future and have these facts recorded. You know how it is?

Sea views from Point Quobba

The road across the arid land between the main road and the blowholes at Point Quobba is featureless and occupied by a small herd of goats and very little else. I did nearly wipe out a couple of birds doing what they ought not in the middle of the road. The phrase, “Get a room!” sprang to mind however I am pretty sure it was superfluous. There was a scatter of feathers visible in the rear view mirror. My first kill in Australia!

But for all that, the Blowholes alone are spectacular and numerous. Today the sea was fairly quiet, although not as it had been yesterday when apparently there was no action at all. Today the ocean swept in upon the very rugged coast and jets of water were forced up through the sea caves to the height of ten or fifteen metres. There are signs everywhere warning of the dangers; “King Waves Kill” being one that particularly caught my fancy. Fellow tourists were all being sensible and all very chatty as we passed the time waiting for the next spectacle. The bubbling and spouting reminded me of my mother’s delinquent pressure cooker when I was a child.

Point Quobba's quiet swimming beach

We drove the short distance to the quiet little beach a little to the south, well protected by a small rugged island. Here at 10.30 am there were already several folk in the water with their snorkels enjoying the coral and masses of colourful reef fish. We managed to convince each other that it would be a good idea to join them, even without the snorkelling paraphernalia. Chris assured me that one could see the undersea wonders by simply opening one’s eyes in the water, however I reminded him I did not even like my face splashed let alone putting my face under water without a mask. We edged our way into the Indian Ocean, colder than any of the swimming pools we have been wallowing in over the past few months, and moved around in the relatively shallow water and were able to see several varieties of gorgeous fish and the plainer clumps of coral from above the surface. A word of advice for would be travellers around this country: should you visit Carnarvon and choose to drive up the coast, make sure you have at least one snorkelling set. Sharing is good and there are absolutely no shops up there; nothing at all. Go prepared.

Here at Point Quobba, there is a large camping area, apparently costing just $5.50 (for each or per vehicle, I am not sure). There are very smart toilets of the eco type, rubbish bins, a dump station and an ocean full of water. Not really our sort of place, but many others do obviously like it. Two days would probably do me, hardly one for Chris, but then he is definitely not a beach person.

We decided to continue up the coast, from here on gravel road. Seven kilometres north we found the HMAS Sydney II Memorial, a simple cairn commemorating the battle between the Australian naval vessel of that name and the German raider, the HSK Kormoran, on 19^th November 1941. We have read about this elsewhere, particularly in the National War Museum in Canberra, however it was off this coast the battle took place and here that Australia suffered its greatest maritime loss of lives in the Second World War; the entire crew of 645 souls. Quobba Station, Red Bluff beach and 17 mile beach were the landing spot for two of the HSK Kormoran life boats with survivors on board. As Chris and I surveyed the coastline here and further north, we wondered what those German survivors thought when they dragged themselves ashore on this remote desolate land. It is worth noting here that of the German crew, 82 were killed and 317 were captured.

It was in the rather barren car park area that we decided hunger was greater than aesthetics, so dragged the eski into the front seat and dined a la picnic. Refuelled we pressed on about another thirty kilometres, looking for the road to Cape Cuvier. There was no signpost, however the distance looked about right and the track off to the west more substantial than the others we had seen, so we turned and crawled up over the rocks and sand, hoping we were not wrecking damage on our precious new tyres. As Chris said, these rough roads can prove very expensive.

The views from above the cliff top were well worth the drive and from here we undid the puzzle of the wide smooth mine haul road that had crossed our more rustic route. Below us, down on the point was a wharf and loading facility for the gypsum carted in from Lake McLeod. To the north we spotted a couple of 4WD vehicles that had taken a side route down toward the shore and their occupants, keen fishermen were out on the rocks, risking their lives for a fish.

The port at Pont Cuvier

Our map had suggested we could loop inland and travel back closer to the Lake’s shore, passing the actual mine site, however it was now evident that any other road along this coast was private and closed to the likes of us, so we headed back down the same road which we had come.

Soon we came over the brow of a rise and saw a land cruiser parked on the side of the road, and nearer us, a women of a similar age to us, hunting for something along the edge of the dusty route. We stopped and she explained they had lost several nuts off their wheel and she hoped to find them. In the meantime her husband was juggling those remaining to cover the short fall and they planned to limp quietly back to civilisation, hopefully without disaster. Unfortunately, wheel nuts are not something we carry, and had we offered some from our own wheels, we would have simply shifted the shortage from them to us. There was nothing we could do, and she assured us her husband was "mechanical”, probably more so than us, so we left them to it.

Blowholes

This coastal road comes up through the sand dunes, sparsely covered with low dry scrub. The fauna is almost non-existent except for lizards and most likely secretive snakes. We did see a scrawny feral black cat, perhaps scrawny for lack of prey. And much of this is through cattle stations confirmed by the existence of fences and cattle grids (or “cattle stops” as they are called where I come from). But there were no cattle in site; I suspect they all died off or the station owners gave them all away, and that is why some of them are instead operating “station stays” with tourist accommodation and a “real station experience”.

Speaking of “cattle grids”, we have frequently found as we have travelled along highways where cattle roam free and far, that the grids are simply white parallel lines painted on the road. This baffles us; are the cattle so stupid they cannot tell the difference? I would have thought not.

We stopped again at the blowholes; I wanted to see them from a slightly different angle and of course to take another twenty or so photos. The wind had come up a little and with it the ferocity of the waves, however in the big picture, Mother Nature was pretty subdued today. This would be amazing to see in the big seas, but also very treacherous.

From here it could have been a clear run home, however we decided to turn along westward on the northern bank of the Gascoigne River in the hope of seeing some of these many plantations. I do believe this word is used very loosely in the promotional literature, however we did see many plots and a great variety of fruit and vegetables being grown, including acres of outdoor tomatoes. We also noted that the stock and produce agents in town must do very well out of selling shade-cloth. There are acres of orchards and gardens under massive swathes of this beige screening.

We crossed the dry river bed on an alternative crossing, a low concrete bridge that seemed in places below the river level if ever there was water running. No doubt they close the crossing in such instances.

Back at camp I rinsed the sand from our togs and then set myself under the awning to write this up. It is such a long time since the temperature, the time and the absence of bugs have been in line to allow such a practice. A great flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos have just flown across the park, screeching the advent of sunset and Chris has just returned from paying for another night. We rather like Carnarvon.