Leaving the coast behind us, we journeyed west into the hinterland of the Capricorn Coast. The further we traveled inland, the more dry and arid the landscape became. Fields of orange and brown stretched across the plains in all directions, and the twisted and skeletal form of the eucalypts that formed a barrier between the long stretch of highway and the cattle ranches beyond combined to form an image of a land that was desolate and unforgiving. Despite this, there was something captivating and awe-inspiring about this rugged frontier that made it impossible to not appreciate its natural beauty.
The few small towns that dotted the highway justified their existence by providing the sole service of supplying petrol to the smattering of commuters that passed through. In a landscape bleached by sun and enshrouded in whisps of dust continuously kicked up from beneath the wheels of passing trucks and cars, it could be argued that the residents of these isolated outposts lived out their lives in relative seclusion from the outside world, their survival an even greater mystery considering the absence of grocery stores and other seemingly necessary amenities. Indeed, the small communities that had once been important mining hubs seemed like the kinds of places that would be ideal for someone trying to escape a past they’d prefer to leave behind.
Our long drive inland led us just west of the town of Dingo, home of the World Championship Dingo Trap Throwing and Picnic Races (which are held each July for those interested). As we turned off the highway and onto the dusty road that snaked its way along the plain and up into the immense escarpment that comprises Blackdown Tableland National Park, we were met with the most ominous of signs: the rotting carcasses of eight foxes strung up along a pole by the base of a gnarled and dying tree. The stench was overpowering, and in my desire to snap as many shots I could of the grotesque and macabre display, I was ravaged by an onslaught of big, angry flies excited by the prospect of dining on fresh meat. The message was evident: I, nor anything living (apart from the flies), was wanted here. Best to move on.
We pulled into our campsite in the early afternoon, set up the tent, and marveled at the absolute serenity of the place. It being the off-season, we were the only campers there, and as a result, the only people for miles around. After a short hike along one of the nearby trails (which offered us a glimpse of some Aboriginal rock painting), we began preparations for Laura’s birthday dinner. Since we had no stove, nor were we allowed to light a fire, dinner consisted of deluxe salami and cheese sandwiches, along with a bag of cheese-flavoured Twisties and some Cooper’s Pale Ale.
No sooner had we broken out the food, however, than we suddenly found ourselves as the reluctant principals in Hitchcock’s unplanned sequel to ‘The Birds.’ One by one, and in what seemed to be a coordinated infiltration, every bird in the immediate vicinity descended upon our small camp, each positioning itself strategically to claim first dibs on anything of ours that might be left carelessly unguarded. The birds’ silence would occasionally be interrupted by staccato birdcalls, that would in turn be answered by other birds hidden amongst the dense foliage, or sometimes by a small squadron flying above. With each call and answer, another bird would appear, and then another until we were completely surrounded. Each bird seemed poised and prepared to assume its role in the ensuing drama that reached its anticlimactic peak as soon as the food was stored away.
As night approached and darkness descended, it was impossible not to feel as if we had ventured into some primordial world as strange and unfamiliar sounds from deep within the unknown burst forth to play havoc on our imaginations and basest fears. Uncanny bird calls, the scuttering of feet in the underbrush, the darkness, the silence – never had I realized how much we depend on the mere presence of others to create a sense of security and comfort. Just knowing that there was at least one other camper within shouting distance would have eased our nerves ever so slightly, but in the absence of such comfort came paranoia and anxiety. As a result, a simple task such as going to the toilet became a quick and hasty affair, followed by an intense scramble to return to the perceived safety of the tent. There was no doubt in my mind that the land possessed an incredible power over us mere humans, a fact that the Aborignals who had lived off it for thousands of years before I ever set foot on it understood all too well, and its core purpose, as was made perfectly clear, was to scare the living shit out of you.
The next morning we set off on a couple of hikes throughout the park to gain a closer appreciation for the beauty of the land, and of course, our own mortality.
During our second hike of the morning, I had stopped to take a few photos, which Laura can attest takes longer than it really should sometimes. As a result, she continued on, assuming that I would make the effort to quickly catch up to her. However, as I continued along the path and past the dense trees, dried-up rivers beds and steep ravines that gave shape and form to the summit of the escarpment, Laura was not to be found. Pissed off that she’d trudged ahead without thinking to stop and wait, especially considering that we were the only two people around, I continued forward, quietly cursing underneath my breath as I did so. Until, that is, I reached the end of the trail, which was marked by a wooden railing followed by a steep, 600 metre drop into the gulley below.
My immediate reaction was to become more pissed off than I already was. Why wouldn’t she have the sense to just stay put at a logical place for me to follow? Considering that this was the end of the official track, and considering that I hadn’t passed her along the way, why had she ventured somewhere off into the bush? How did she expect me to find her? And then it hit me. Since I hadn’t passed her on the track, meaning that she hadn’t come back in my direction, there was only one place for her to go: down.
Panic and worry began to sink in as I contemplated the worst. In hopes that I might find some sign of her, I braved what could have been mistaken for a path that led further away from the track, but which ultimately ended in a drop off the edge of the cliff. My mind began racing with thoughts of search and rescue, what I’d tell Laura’s parents, how I’d manage to ship the coffin home, and whether or not work would give me some reasonable time off with pay to sort out the messy details (which I’m positive they wouldn’t).
No sooner had I made my way back to the lookout point at the end of the track, than Laura appeared. Tears streaming down her face, she explained how she’d missed the posted sign that had marked this part of the trail, and had wandered a ways down the rocky, dried-up river bed, thinking that it was still part of the track. She had stopped to wait for me, but after I’d failed to show for some time, had come back, once again missing the sign and the track altogether, and instead followed the riverbed for some time before realizing that she was completely lost. She’d retraced her steps, and luckily found her way to the right trail, which in turn led to me.
Relieved and happy to leave the outback behind, we hopped back in the car and drove east and back to the coast. After picking up a few groceries for the following few days, we settled at a campsite adjacent to the beach. As night descended, we set up a blanket and prepared for a beach picnic in the dark. There we sat, admiring the southern constellations with nothing more than the waves as our soundtrack and a rotisserie chicken and some Cooper’s to fill our bellies.
Look closely and you might spot a kangaroo or two!
Next: Reef Madness!
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