Last weekend, I convinced Fred that it was a good idea to get up at 6am to meet a convoy going bush at 8am, and drive for 11 hours for the sheer enjoyment of it. This was last Sunday's big day out.
We don't normally set off for such long journeys for fun. Our usual jaunt to shake off remote cabin fever would be about 3 or 4 hours (max) - sometimes it's just up the road to 'Singing Rocks', so named because the stunning tumbling of rocks are not only artfully designed but also tunefully amusing. With a high iron density (or something like that), when you tap them with a smaller stone, the rocks of different sizes give off lovely notes of earthy musicality. It's the local tourist stop for a trip to Blackstone, and within 15k of town, it makes an easy trip out.
 |
| View from east of Gill's Pinnacle |
By contrast, this was a bush adventure of another order. Inspired by the enthusiasm of the Warakurna coppers, we hoped on board and made the extra two hours of early morning travel to meet them on the road. On arrival at the turnoff, beautifully timed with 3 minutes to spare, we found the Blackstone nurse and her partner also waiting. When the convoy arrived shortly after, we were 7 vehicles in all.
The first stop was Gill's Pinnacle. A short distance away, a rocky entry, and a stunning view. The near permanent waterhole must have been a welcome rest point for the locals not so long ago. As always happens on these outings, my mind ticks over relentlessly, trying to imagine what life must have been like back then. Wandering through the bush from rockhole to rockhole, sheltering in caves or holes dug into the sand dunes in extreme heat or the summer storms. Following the ebb and flow of seasonal produce, meeting small groups and moving on, coming together for large ceremonies of real significance before bursting back into the quiet rhythms of family life. I know I romanticise, but from the little I've read of traditional times, there is a deep simplicity and connection to country in their lives then that is missing from all our lives now, to differing degrees.
 |
| Winding through in convoy |
From Gill's Pinnacle, we set off in earnest. While Warakurna was a mere 50k to the west, we turned east and committed to the road ahead. 250k in total. Normally, this trip would take about 3 hours. On gravel roads regularly graded and maintained. The back road we took, once we left Tjukurla, was so overgrown as to almost disappear at one point. This was proved when we found ourselves winding in convoy through a densely overgrown area looking for anything resembling a track. The convoy slowed and parked in confused directions, waiting for our leaders to right us again. In that case, we had unwittingly veered onto an overgrown airstrip, with its faint raised edges (enough to give a suggestion of a road), and an old windsock pole (minus a windsock that would have helpfully identified it as an airstrip). This particular strip must have been made more than 20 years ago, probably for mining exploration, and was now so covered in low shrubs and bushes as to have effectively disappeared. If Fred had not identified the windsock pole, I'm sure we would have wandered out of there, like a disjointed caterpillar, none the wiser.
The stark beauty of the landscape, with its subtle variations, makes a long slow trip like this worthwhile. The hours flew by as we wove through the sand dunes, past groves of desert oaks, and into waves of spinifex. Small purple wildflowers, set in their foil of grey green foliage, break away along the edges of the road. Knarly trees brushing against the car doors, knocking flat side mirrors as if to assert their natural right to rule. The vehicles heave and jolt, like land-locked boats in the desert, pressing ever forward with the strange fervour of all battles.
 |
| Desert oaks in artful formation |
And after we pass, the quiet returns. The animal rumble of mechanical beasts fades. The strange Sunday vacationers, with their packed lunches and spare matches are like a momentary vision of madness, and peace returns again. The twitter of little birds, the soft scurry of goannas as they scoot from bush to shrub, the quiet persistence of a waiting thorny devil, poised for action as ants make their last fatal journey past his flickering tongue. The faint memory of a road cleaved through virgin bush, slowly but steadily, reclaimed again.
