by David Mason
Patrick also said that there were two Afghan graves on the station, the men buried with gold sovereigns in their mouths. ‘That’s the way they did it back then,’ said Patrick, ‘and we’ve left them in peace and intend to do so. They are part of the history of the land now.’ The Afghan men worked the camels that carried fencing equipment, food and people to outlying parts. Patrick had taken me to one of the sheds where he showed me the old camel gear, still in good condition.
On the track next day we met Wendy Penn, from Mount Gould Station, who told me how delighted she was to see the camels. Her grandfather had a station to the north and used to run camels to Meekatharra. She told me she loved to open the photo album to images of her grandfather breaking in young camels.
That night, with the brew mug in my hand, I spilt a little of the precious liquid onto the sand. I watched the liquid spread through the grains and understood that I did not want to mark the land, blemish or stain it with anything other than my sweat and blood. I knew the only stain, mark or brand that would take place was deep inside me. Perhaps that was something we learn when we are truly part of the country. You don’t need to wear it; it is part of you and you can never forget it. Your country is as indelible a part of you as hope, fear and laughter.
We lunched at Milly Milly Station, passed through Byro Station and camped at Ballythanna. Crossing the dry bed of the westerly trending Murchison River I saw a metal plaque planted on the south bank, barely visible through the leaves. It marked the general location of camp l8 of John Forrest’s l874 expedition. The plaque was erected by the Geraldton Historical Society, a group of people who liked to mark and name things. I remembered that the expedition was Forrest’s third major expedition and he was not yet 30 years of age. He led the expedition from Geraldton on the coast to the Overland Telegraph Line just south of Alice Springs. From what I knew, his expedition was a close-run thing though he did, once and for all, kill off the notion that there was an inland sea.
Lying back on the swag I felt my bones melting through my back. In a tree not 20 metres away a small falcon was watching me. I could see its head swivelling, its bright dark eyes locked on mine. I could feel its power and I was so weak. I could not even remember the name of the next station when I must have looked at it 10 times.
When I looked up to the sky I saw the moon in its half phase. If all went well this would be the last time I would see it like that, and I was sure I would miss it. Only another l7 days or so till the end.
At Ballythanna Station, where we camped not far from the main house, I got to talking with Bill, the maintenance man. Bill let me use the station telephone to call Paul and Pam Dickenson, the rangers at Steep Point. In his British accent Paul told me that from the Useless Loop turnoff it was 78 kilometres to Steep Point. The first 50 kilometres were okay, the last 28 very sandy. No good for cattle trucks. Paul told me that once I got to the most westerly point I would have to walk the camels back to where they could be loaded onto a truck.
A plan had been forming in my mind. It was to truck the camels from near Steep Point to a station that would keep them until I could find a better solution. In order to keep them from filling cans of dog food I would even give them to people who would work them free of charge. The bottom line was that I wanted someone who would look after them and give them a good home. After all they had done for me it was the least I could do for them.
According to Paul and Pam, there were camels on the road to Steep Point and I would need a rifle. Apparently these camels were the descendants of those of early last century that worked on Hamelin Station. As to the rifle, I had sent it back to Canberra from Wiluna, little knowing I might need it again.
In the early afternoon next day the temperature was over l00 degrees in the old Fahrenheit scale. My body was screaming for water and I even had Kabul hoosh down so I could access one of the jerry cans of water at 4 in the afternoon. It was November at last, perhaps the last month of the great expedition. If we did not finish soon it would be too hot for me to walk during the middle of the day.
The heat outside was nothing compared to what was happening inside me. I felt myself wanting to cry again. Whenever I thought of a song, or a special moment, tears flowed. I was clearly in an emotionally fragile state. Not angry or sad but a combination of a very deep tiredness and a pleasant sensation of giving way to quiet sobs followed by tears. I was close to breaking point and I knew it.
We camped about eight kilometres short of the Princes Highway and a few kilometres along the track from old Woodleigh Station homestead. I took the camels in to the station bore to give them a drink. It was not long before I began to doubt my judgment. Loose tin flapped like the wings of ancient birds, fences were down, a windmill squealed, and wire lay loose on the ground to catch camel legs. The camels went to the water through a narrow passage next to a water tank, the yards shaded by large trees. They bolted the last 10 metres. After they had drunk the water I found I could not turn or have them out the same way.
Camels become tense then frightened. Dalhousie caught the general feeling and ran through one fence that had some strands missing. After an unsuccessful attempt at getting Kashgar along the passage I decided to take the fence down. In the meantime there was much concern at being fenced in. There was snorting, bellowing and flapping of ears at the squeak of the mill and the squeals of the selfish little camel on the other side of the fence. Kashgar bolted for the fence and to my horror was trapped. She screamed and writhed and after a few heart-stopping moments for me managed to free herself of the wire. Other than a couple of shallow cuts to her chest there appeared to be no other damage. Just two red stripes across her golden coat.
I brought the wire down and as quickly and calmly as I could I walked the camels through the fence, past the disused tennis court, the homestead with its dirty dusty windows and silver satellite dish, the meathouse, and more shaded ways till we got to the entrance to old Woodleigh Station and then to the Woodleigh – Byro road.
As we moved away I wondered about the tennis parties that once might have taken place there. I could almost hear the rustle of tennis skirts and rattle of ice in tall glasses of gin and tonic. We continued to the sea.
9 To the Sea
– 3 November 1998
It is always our own self that we find at the end of the journey. The sooner we face that self, the better.
Ella Maillart
I sat in the Overlander Roadhouse on Highway 1, the highway that circumnavigates Australia. A fine patina of grease coated the windows so the world outside look blurred and out of focus. Inside was all gritty white laminate with hints of vehicle exhaust fumes, diesel and chicken fat.
For the last few kilometres we had followed a track left by the laying of the optical fibre cable. It was very reassuring to be away from the road, trucks and grids. One thing that struck me was the number of goats. We walked up to groups of them from downwind so we got their scent; a rank, too long wet, warm, woollen blanket smell.
We camped a few hundred metres from the roadhouse, not far from the road turnoff to Monkey Mia where the dolphin watchers went. I had set up camp when a white Toyota pulled over and I met Brian Wake and Kelly his dog. Brian had Hamelin Station and invited me to stop over at his place.
Before walking to Hamelin Station, I spent the day telephoning across Australia. I spoke with Amber, with potential camel owners, with work and with the bank. I was broke and I was told I needed to get back to work as soon as I could to pay off bills. The people watching me feed money into the phone must have been amused. ‘Legislation, litigation and lawyers,’ must have sounded incongruous coming from someone who looked like me. Almost back to that other world I knew, away from blue and red and olive sepia and warm frank smiles.
Early next morning we loaded up once again and moved off on the southern side of the tarred road that headed west. It was quiet in the morning and I looked behind me to the interior of Australia. I could see the darkness of the dust low in the sky and could feel
the dryness, the warmth and the comfort of being so close to the land.
Around 11 a.m., we crested a small rise. I dropped to my knees. I gulped the air, thicker, heavier and elastic with moisture. My lungs would not expand and my heart was frozen. The light! The sea! Where there had been red and grey green, there was glassy blue.
What had been nothing more than a hope or a dream was now before me. A journey and an end to it that were creations of my imagination were tangible. The knowledge of owning them struck me to my knees. I do not know how long I remained like that, the heels of my boots against my bones, looking through tear-filled eyes and trying to breathe. I was insensible to the world around me, but Kabul reminded me there were still things to do. I felt his nose press against my back. When I did not move he pushed me forward so I lay slumped on the ground, a weak and senseless thing of skin, bone, sinew and gristle. My mind was swimming with emotion and my eyes swollen with tears. I was unable to speak or think. Kabul nuzzled me, murmured his deep throaty murmur, and I smelt his sweet breath and felt his soft whiskers against my wet cheeks.
I struggled to my feet, dusted the red from my chest and legs, and looked to my friends. They stood in line abreast, nostrils flaring, eyes bright with the understanding that this was something they had never seen before. I dropped Kabul’s lead rope, walked to the front of the four and spread my arms. ‘Behold, the sea,’ I said, in the most authoritative voice I could muster. But it was little more than a wet sob. And then I said, ‘Thankyou,’ and touched, caressed and kissed each camel on the nose. Chloe did not even snap or gape at me. Maybe she was a little overwhelmed by the ocean.
We headed down the gentle slope and at last to Hamelin Station where I stayed in the governess’s quarters. It was windy from the west, with the sound of the corrugated-iron roofing straining against nails. I could smell the salt in the air and when I opened my mouth and swallowed I could taste it. The Wakes were gentle with their voices and their care. Along with mutton curry, they showed me old photos of people working the place with camels, talked about how to best use the goat population, fencing and the pastoral lease expiring in 20l5. Brian went off to Geraldton at 4.30 a.m. to sell stock, just as the mail truck arrived.
After breakfast Mary Wake showed me her children’s schoolroom, gave me some mutton chops for dinner that night, and with her sons Thomas and Christopher showed me the way to Hamelin post office. As we arrived at the post office people came over to me and the camels and asked to have their photo taken with us in front of the old camel depot. I was keen to move off and toward the track toward Useless Loop, a closed company town since 1968 where workers harvested salt. According to some it was amongst the purest crystals in the world.
We moved along the beach where the reflection bit at the back of my eyes and the camels sniffed at the sand and the water of the ocean. I tied the camels to a bush and walked on a boardwalk over ancient stromatolites, just covered by the warm waters of Hamelin Pool.
The track to Useless Loop was surfaced with crushed white shell, a whiteness that even with sunglasses was a hammer at the back of my eyes. The days were getting very hot and squintingly bright, but after 2 p.m. a strong breeze took up from the south-west. According to Darren and Liz, workers from Tamala sheep station who pulled up later in the afternoon on their way into town, this breeze sprang up every day.
We camped about eight kilometres from Tamala, in a gully runoff where I found an old camel footprint. For a reason known only to her, Kashgar started bellowing not long after we stopped. I checked her, the ropes and her immediate environment and could not find anything wrong with her. The other camels were seemingly relaxed in the recumbent position and Dalhousie lay on his side having a snooze. I had a horrible moment when I thought I heard a bellowed response, but it was a Japanese motorbike rider coming back from Steep Point. Those Japanese guys got everywhere.
We walked into Tamala around l2.30 p.m.. The owners, Bruce and Alison, welcomed me with smiles and ice-cool drinks. They took me for a drive out to the Zuytdorp Cliffs and told me about the shipwreck that gave the cliffs their name. Tamala had been run since the l860s, initially as part of Murchison House, a station to the south. According to Bruce, the station was overgrazed but to my eye did not look anywhere near as bad as the mulga country around Charleville.
I used the station phone to speak with Brian Wake. He confirmed a conversation we had a few days before. He would take the camels back to Hamelin Station from near Steep Point until a permanent home could be found for them. ‘Mate, it’s a pleasure,’ he said. I could not begin to tell him how grateful to him I was.
We camped at a well due west across the bay from Carrarang Station. The sunrise across the Freycinet Estuary was watched by at least four camels and a human. Because of the geography of the place, it was our first view of a day rising over an ocean and the camels appeared intrigued, interrupting browsing and chewing the cud as the sun’s rays broke over the water. Carrarang was only a few kilometres away.
At the gate to Carrarang Station was a sign: ‘No Entry. Private Property’. I left the camels astride the front track. From the gate I watched someone windsurfing on the summer blue of the bay. I climbed the fence and walked to the house. Lorraine Millar, the windsurfer’s wife and co-manager of the station, reckoned the sign had been there for years and was thinking of taking it down. Apparently it did not keep out the people they really wanted out, like drunken fishermen and shooters. Tony breezed in from windsurfing with wet hair and a kiss for his daughters, Eadie and Winnie.
At Hamelin Pool, looking west across the stromatolites at Shark Bay.
Early next morning Tony rode by on a motorbike. Pausing for a moment, the bike burbling in its exhaust, he said he hoped to see us the next day around the Crayfish Bay Well area. Without his local knowledge steering me in the right direction, the route would have been longer. We were 40 kilometres from Steep Point, camped on a ridge at the most southerly point of the saltwater pond that fed down to Useless Loop and the evaporation ponds. From the west came the sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs.
Tony said that the previous day was over 40 degrees Celsius. I knew it was hot; I drank three litres before 5 p.m. and was still very dehydrated. I pinched the skin of the top of my hands and the ridges took too long to settle flat. My brain was not working very well either. I had to concentrate every time I wanted to do something that involved making a decision. A cold, sweet lemonade would have been just the thing. But it had to wait. We were getting so close!
That night I watched Kabul. After he sat down he made a noise I had never heard before. A sad, resigned, very tired whimper. I looked him in his big brown eyes and tears coursed down my cheeks. I hated it that he was tired and wanted only that he have a long healthy life. I sat down with him and thanks to Lorraine shared an apple with him. He nuzzled my chest, sighed and rested his heavy woollen head on my skinny lap. I told him we were very close to the end.
Kashgar - close to Steep Point.
The following day we camped among the heather behind the Dickensons’ house, just seven kilometres from Steep Point. We arrived at the ranger’s house after a six-kilometre walk from a causeway along a narrow path bordered by dense ti tree and a stroll along the beach where Kabul and Chloe sipped at the salt water and Kashgar sat down. Dalhousie, not so little any more, cantered and threw his head about in glee.
Paul wore a silver moustache and a northern England accent. Pam was suntanned and in her wraps of tropical colours recently stepped from a painting by Gauguin. Paul offered to water the camels, so one at a time I brought them down to the house and filled up a small drum from which they could suck up the water. Paul, Pam and I hunkered down to watch the camels drink. In the course of three presentations of water we reckon Kabul drank more than 60 litres.
We left Paul and Pam late the next morning. Walking along the sandy track I kept thinking we were about to reach the point. A number of coloured exclamation marks gave away the spot. Helium-filled balloons wit
h garfish bait on long lines to catch marlin were set by fishermen overlooking the ocean.
In a swale directly to the north of the lighthouse, just 400 metres short of the cliff, I unhooked the camels, tied them off and set up camp. When I was done I walked down to the edge of the cliff. I was happy and tears filled my eyes, something I had become used to recently. For long minutes I sobbed, deep long wrenching sobs of released tension, of tiredness and pain. I thought of Amber and wished she were there to hold me. I sat for a while on the edge of the cliff to the sea and thought of the wonderful things and people I had seen and met. And some of the not so good.
Just east of Steep Point, tasting the sea water.
Two hundred and thirty-six days. I had walked more than 5500 kilometres, more than six and a half million paces. Four pairs of boots. I lost 22 kilograms, a quarter of my body weight. I spent hundreds of nights in my swag. One hundred days hot under an unforgiving sun. One hundred nights cold. Days being wet and too many days with tendons torn and headache from a sun that bit the back of my eyes and sucked the moisture from my body.
And the people I had met. Thousands of them. With exceptions I could count on one hand they had all been helpful. They gave of their time, food, accommodation or even just a smile. Black or white, they all reminded me that to attempt something was a good thing in itself. Even more, to attempt to touch your country, to try to understand it, had a purpose and a meaning that transcended difference in people, language or culture.
As I sat on the rocks overlooking the sea, I reflected on the past and the future and thought that even if I had failed I would have tried. The feeling I had, of quiet exultation, of tears, a beating heart, and lungs that did not want to work properly, came because I tried to do something I had so much wanted to do. The first view of the sea as I crested the rise was priceless and something I would carry with me forever. It was a reminder that dreams, even dreams that people tell you are not possible, even dreams that may have no apparent value in themselves, are in fact worth a great deal. These dreams have an enormous power to motivate and to drive. The willingness to act and give life to these dreams will shape and determine our lives. To deny a dream was to deny a part of ourselves. I knew that there is something greater in life than the embrace and experience of the city, or of money, position and power; there is a manhood in testing the self that can never be taken away or compromised. For this, a man can give everything.