Advertisement
The Gibb River Road. An iconic 800ish km stretch of dirt, bumps, gravel, corrugations and river crossings that doubles as a highway lumbering through the heart of The Kimberley. Come in the wet season and it's a desert in disguise, for the most part impassable and off limits to the general public in vehicles.
The trick for us was to time it so as the road would be recently opened following the wet (this year's wettest for many a season) with plenty of greenery and waterfalls in full bloom.
We hit some pay dirt as the Gibb's gates were recently upped prior to our arrival but for the yin there is usually a yang. Some of the tributaries to a few of the big ticket items still had the shutters down and channeling us to a default option or two. You win some, you lose some.
The win some was sublime, the lose some can be testy.
YOU CANT SPELL GORGEOUS WITHOUT GORGE.
Low level ranges dot The Kimberley. Cleaved into these mountains are gorges that are one of the "raisons d'être" for travelling across The
Gibb. Vivid green foliage, cool, gin clear waterholes and waterfalls amalgamate seamlessly and are hemmed in by the red rock walls that are endemic to The Kimberley. How evocative are they? You can't spell gorgeous without gorge. That's ignoring the fact that crocodile warning signs can also provide the sinister ambience of an underground car park in a horror film. Cue the Jaws theme.
WHAT BUGS US
What bugs us? For one thing it's bugs. Over in the west it began around sundown. Mosquitos and any other six-legged critter with wings would roll up their sleeves with the fading light and prepare themselves to annoy humans. They are good at it. Following every locals sure-fire solution, we ransacked Bunnings and armed ourselves to the teeth. Citronella oil, sandalwood incence, rub-on and spray-on Bushmans, rub-on and spray-on Aeroguard, citronella/tea tree cream, insect fog and sandalwood mosquito coils. Before entering the sleeping quarters at evening's end we would spray the bejeezers out of the van with Pea Beu, shut the doors and let the carnage unfold.
These critters were a mere harbinger for the varments that awaited us the further east we travelled.
Australia's national bird The Fly came into its own from here on. They appeared to wallow in all our weapons we had been using. I swear Kimberley flies bathe and shower in Aeroguard. We were ready to call in Kim Jong Il and The Don to nuke these rascals but I reckon they could even survive that.
CHASING TAILS
Dust and dirt. We have been brow beaten by it. It starts out red and the further east you travel it becomes increasingly more stock standard garden variety brown. Regardless of the colour, it's so fine it can creep into anything that isn't hermetically sealed. It didn't matter if we drove 5kms or 305, everything would be coated in a film of Kimberley dirt. Whenever we pulled up the first 15 minutes were spent in a futile attempt to de-dust the insides of the car. It was a quintessential case scenario of chasing tails. We will be flushing dust from every known and a few unknown orifices of our bodies for weeks after we get home and we wonder if that lingering taste of dust will ever leave the palate.
MOVE ALONG,
NOTHING TO SEE HERE.
One more glorious twilight and Penny and I decided we'd wash the dust from our souls at a small waterhole up on Mitchll Plateau. T'was a mere 400 metre stroll back to the campsite. Take it away Penny;
"Do you think I could just carry my swimming costume back with me? No one should be able to tell I'm naked underneath with this dress I'm wearing".
"Sure. What could possibly go wrong"?
A few steps later at a small creek crossing where the slipperiness of the boulders made banana skins seem positively benign in comparison;
"Screeeeeeech".
It was an ever so ladylike tumble down into that creek whilst doing that Marylyn Monroe thing with the dress floating upward as down she went.
No physical injuries, just some bruised ego, although the 75ish year old guy coming the other way scored an eyeful of the best view he's had in a while. "Move along sir, nothing to see here".
Oh, the indignity of it all.
THE GOOD! THE BAD AND THE UGLY OF CAMPING
You are firmly ensconced in the camp
chair with a frosty one equally ensconced in your right hand. You have just returned from an evening dip in a postcard waterhole with a waterfall crashing in the background. The 1000 voices of a dozen species of birds overlay the silence with their discordant avian version of "Goodnight John Boy" as the light morphs from orange and yellow hues to a black darker than my ex-girlfriend's heart. A zillion stars come out to play as you ponder the vastness of the universe and the insignificant part we play in it. Life is good.
A half hour later and the gas cooker won't start and the pop top pops a bracket as you prepare the love shack. Here we are on the dark side of the moon about 350 corrugated kms from any skeletal services.
"Ah, Sweetness, I think sleeping and eating may have become an issue for the next couple of days".
In our camping pubescence, the air was thick with looming disasters
all along The Gibb. Plenty of ups but what goes up, must .........
SUCH A GREAT PLACE THEY NAMED IT TWICE
Following in the spirit of Wagga Wagga, Woy Woy and The Nulla Nulla, The Bungle Bungles are such a great place they had to name it twice. The brochures call these World Heritage formations beehive cones. From a personal perspective I reckon they look like striped camel humps up to 200 metres high. There are thousands of them.
And that's not the whole picture. Over on the other side of the escarpment, the range is redolent of Zion Canyon in Utah, a whole different beast and just as impressive as those other landscapes dominating the Bungles postcard racks. While you are at it, try and squeeze in, literally, the Echidna Chasm. It is so narrow at the end that if you really do like cake a bit too much then you just might not make it all the way. Time it late morning as for around a half hour, the sun's rays play lighting games with the wall's shapes.
The Bungles aren't actually part of The Gibb River Rd but if you find yourself in this corner of the globe then don't balk at the 400 or so km return detour, they justify
the diversion. If those clicks are a deterrent then there is always the tempting option of an aerial assault in a chopper or plane. It would only be a bungle to miss them.
YELLOW RIVER
I find it difficult to get through a full night without at least one visit to the gentlemans. This can be an issue in the campervan where number ones can be a convoluted process. Remove oneself from sleeping bag then sleeping bag liner. Climb down from mezzanine level. Get dressed. Squeeze out back door. Walk the 100 or so metres to ablutions block. Do the job then repeat the stages in reverse. Penny had the solution.
We purchased a bucket to be left downstairs for nature's calling during the vampire hours then surreptitiously empty and clean the rascal next morning. Pure genius. Problem is:
Look, when you relieve yourself in the porcelain bowl, the tide below never changes. You finish the job, wash hands and off you trot. In the bucket the tide starts out low but rises darn quick and it's amazing how much a human bladder can hold. "Hey Penny, we're
gunna need a bigger bucket".
ZEBEDEE DOO DAA ZEBEDEE AY ......
my oh my what a ? day. I'm trying to find an appropriate word to substitute "wonderful" to describe our morning at Zebedee Springs.
The springs are a "must do" according the El Questro promos. "A series of warm water thermal rock pools surrounded by exotic palms that cantilever down a tiny gorge nestled into a corner of El Questro's million acre of prime Kimberley country".
Can't argue with the brochure description, it is prime eye candy. The same brochure also advises to arrive early to avoid the rush.
Always one to toe the line with sage advice we rolled up a tick after the 7am opening time. Not early enough. Zebedee Springs is popular. Popular with whom you query? Well seeing as you asked.
I thought we were getting on in years but Zebedee Springs are a haven for those in their twilight years. Pasty, shrivelled-up prunes in skimpy swimsuits dotted virtually every tiny rock pool where I imagine arthritis and dementia are the medical conditions of choice. It resembled
a nursing home health spa with the walls removed. It was kind of amusing until a burst of self-realisation struck. This will probably be us at Woolooware Shores Retirement Village in 10 to 20 years time. That wiped the smile from my face.
Which brings a closure to The Kimberley. Chock full of highs and lows. The lows, however, will be those moments we know we shall laugh about later on and make for far more entertaining dinner conversation.
"The gorges were beautiful huh? Yawn. Show us the photo of Penny up to her neck in that rock pool crossing in her underwear holding up her clothes because she forgot her swimmers".
I'm giggling already.
Northern Territory, prepare yourself, we're on our way.
More images at
www.colvinyeates.zenfolio.com
Advertisement
Tot: 0.135s; Tpl: 0.021s; cc: 13; qc: 27; dbt: 0.1018s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
D MJ Binkley
Dave and Merry Jo Binkley
Great divide
One this one