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Published: November 5th 2013
Beccles, Suffolk, is not blog-inspiring; but as Ali earns us a crust, prior to our return to America (where it'll be my turn), I've been scanning some old photos into the computer. So doing, with previous travel diaries (and a beer) to hand, was just asking for trouble... Please forgive the photo quality: scanned from the efforts of a 1970s child's Kodak.
"Wittenoom: asbestos was once mined in the area, and some of the town’s streets were even surfaced with it. The dust from the crushed ore caused widespread lung cancer and, eventually, resulted in government compensation for workers and residents. It is claimed that a small health risk still exists, and to hasten its demise the embarrassment of a town is censored, its existence officially denied". Thursday 9th August 1990. “Miracle mile” day. National Geographic’s Harvey Arden stated “One of the greatest outings of my career”; whilst their Sam and Denise Abell said “if there is a better trip than the gorges and a better guide than Dave Doust then we have not taken that trip nor met that better guide”. Not much to live up to then. Ali and I
hadn’t been on that many tours, well…, any actually.
Ali awoke in a state of terror and almost decided not to go: this is, apparently, the scary one. Basically,
The Mile takes you down Hancock’s gorge, through Red, up and along Weano
to Knox and its water-slide
. It begins with a steep scree decent, leads you through the shallow pool-dotted Hancock’s until you reach an expanse of emerald green water. This is Hancock’s junction with Red gorge and has to be swum: with boots, clothes, and possessions held aloft. Once across and dry the climbing begins in earnest: edging along tiny pastel-coloured ledges within the golden-dark, chilly fissure, sometimes palming against the opposite wall, sometimes straddling the chasm on ancient ribs of strata, or, at its worst, clinging face to rock face, squeezed tight within a dizzying fault that soars hundreds of tapering feet above to reveal a slash of deep blue sky. Then you reach a waterfall, some 300ft or so, and, to Ali’s disbelief, are told that we’re climbing it… really. Obviously it isn’t that challenging – I’m sure ex-postman Dave has never lost anyone to it - but, to the pussy waterfall-climbing virgins that
were us, it was a big ask. The seven of us looked vertically up, somewhat daunted, and in Ali’s case somewhat nauseously. It has to be said that there were no ropes involved and that a slip was certain death, but with Dave’s sure and steady guidance, constant reassurance and often physical assistance, before you knew it we were all up. Respect to the Als because she was terrified. From here we headed towards Knox, enjoying a sunny, chill-banishing, shrubby basin reprise that soon had everyone feeling nonchalant once again. Slowly the gorge narrowed, we started to ascend a cusp, the ground dropped, the sun disappeared and we were swallowed, a stream now running beneath as the channel engulfed us. Again we advanced, braced against the opposing walls striped in blue-grey shale and orange sandstone. Quite suddenly the polished rock floor angled downwards and then, in the distance, disappeared. A waterfall pronounced Dave, only about 15ft, just drop into the flow and let yourself go over: it should be deep enough at this time of the year… Totally trusting Dave, one-by-one we risked it; I’m not sure who went first, but I (definitely not first) and a game German girl
went head-first. The receptive plunge was indeed very deep and cold, although just a few strokes brought you to its limits where the black water was trickling over the rim. This was one hell of a pool. Beyond the infinity ridge, sighted through a body-sized gap in the vertigous encircling jaws of the gorge, was a huge drop off and far below a stream embraced by another mighty brick-red canyon: truly spectacular, but, without abseiling gear, the end of the trail.
After hauling ourselves out of the pool via Dave’s improvised rope ladder, some retracing of our steps, a hike and then drive via various viewpoints, we arrived back at the hostel, tired but still full of nervous energy.
We bought some burgers from
Doc Holiday’s deli – the only shop in town – and then scrounged more ingredients to tart them up. Satiated, we sat around with our fellow hikers and a tinnie or two before adrenalin and alcohol forced us towards the pub. At the bar we were approached by two dust-covered mine workers and were duly invited to a birthday party: free booze, plus other extras. The only snag, the location: a mining camp some
80km away. Of course I was interested, but there was no way our hire car (already illegally above the 25
th parallel) would make the journey along the gravel, roo-infested, “roads” without serious damage. One of the German hostellers was also interested, but equally not keen on risking his car. A local guy sitting along the bar suddenly joined the conversation and said that we could all go in his truck if we chipped in for the petrol. Great, we thought: we’re going in a road train. He warned us that some of us would have to go in the back, but shit… surely we’d be safe in the back of a container truck… Wrong. His truck was a flat-bed and apart from a couple of girls in the cabin with him, the rest of us would have to perch on some tyres strapped on the back, along with a huge wire-netted chicken coop (fortunately empty).
So, we went in search of fellow revellers. A quick dash back to the hostel and our numbers were swelled to eight. Indeed, the three girls with us could all fit in the cabin with our intrepid driver; this left four of us clinging
on at the back. Off we set. It was now pitch black. Of course I thought it a good idea to stand up grasping the rail behind the cabin and follow proceedings. The headlights picked out two hazy circles of nothingness, nothingness that was regularly blurred with flashing images of huge flying beasts: roos, lots of roos, 200lb death-wish roos. I’d really believed he, our driver, was joking when he’d said that we’d have to clock at least 80km/hr to “minimise the bumps”. He obviously wasn’t; the gravel whipped up, the barren desert flew by and the monstrous chicken coop, not tied down, slid menacingly. There was no road; this was a totally blind pursuit. Suddenly a dull thump, we braked and juddered to a halt. A few seconds later a bloody and recently deceased roo joined us on the back: “chuck it in the coop” stated our driver, “chooks will love it in a few days”. We reasoned that at least it might act to anchor the lethal coop and happily dragged the beast inside.
Eventually, miraculously, we spotted some illuminated Bedouin-style tents and ground to a halt. We entered the largest from which Zeppelin’s
Kashmir throbbed: wow,
A picture that does them justice
Photographer as marked - image taken from webthis was like some kind of hippy festival tent; the drillers were totally wasted - but friendly. There was a huge keg of beer and a mountain of cans and we were invited to tuck in. Armed, we joined an extremely attractive young woman (the cook), John Lennon and the cookie-protector at a trestle table. John was so named because of an uncanny likeness, the cookie-protector because he was hugging a large jar of cookies to his chest. It seemed these were good cookies. He did put the jar down though, rapidly, when one of our number tried to stub a cigarette out in their bowl of “mull”. Sportingly, the perpetrator partook in a punishment bong-a-thon to free up an ashtray. Jugs were continually refilled and drained, spliffs and bongs passed. Somewhat later, around 3 Ali informed me, it became apparent that all of our hosts had crashed. There was still so much booze left and knowing they wouldn’t mind (the drilling company had provided all anyways), and with an 80km journey facing us, we commandeered 55 cans of export and 4 jugs of beer for the ride back. Our driver was not sober: not sober, not straight, and not
really able to stand. Predictably, a hairy journey ensued. Drinking straight from a 3-litre jug at speed over rough terrain is messy and teeth jarring. Dead roo number one was joined by two more. Sometime pre-dawn we arrived back and, following a head count, we congratulated ourselves on having lost no one. By five and first light we’d devoured the majority of our stash and the remaining standing retired.
We had experienced Aussie spontaneity.
As a footnote: the following is the last trace of Wittenoom's existence that I could find on the web, written by a
Rough Guide author, circa 2005.
"As the legend of the “Mile” grew, a men’s magazine included it in “The 100 Things a Man Must Do in his Life”. Irresponsible tour guides muscled in; rescues became more frequent; and warning signs appeared in the gorges. The writing was on the wall: “Do it before they ban it” I urged in the 2003 edition of the Rough Guide. A year later a rescuer was drowned saving a group from what locals considered a foreseeable flash flood; after which, a part of the Mile was ruled off-limits without the park ranger’s consent.
Long before that, official disapproval and unofficial dirty tricks had made life hard in Wittenoom. Dave moved on in the late 90s and others sold out to the government, which promptly razed their homes to stop reoccupation. The town’s population has now dwindled to a handful of die-hards, outnumbered nightly by the kangaroos coming in off the plains. One dogged campaigner for Wittenoom’s continued viability, Lorraine, runs the one remaining store and tourist info centre (selling the sticker “I’ve been to Wittenoom and lived”). Austrian-born Marco, a handyman with a touch of Tourette’s, takes the ancient fire engine out for a spin each Monday and checks the power station every Thursday. Paul, the former pastor, now runs a guesthouse from the old convent, and wires in a weather report to Canberra every six hours (though Wittenoom is, of course, never listed as the source). Once in a while headlines proclaim “End of the Line for Town of Death”, but for the moment Wittenoom clings on. Go there before they get it."
I fear that, by now, they have gotten it.....
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John and Sylvia
John Wallace & Sylvia Bowman Wallace
Beccles...
...may not be blog-inspiring to you but to me it is as exotic a location as Wittenoom was to you. Keep blogging wherever you are. I have enjoyed reading about your adventures. John