You Call That a Knife?!

*My apologies in advance for the quality of this blog, it seems the unremitting heat has turned my brain to mush…don’t judge!

November 1^st, here we are; halfway around the country, and not quite halfway through the trip! Today we head towards Darwin, and hope that we don’t melt into puddles before we get there. Many miles to go folks, so stay tuned for more of our zany adventures. Allow me to fill you in on the past few days…

We left Exmouth in good spirits, and did a little backtracking to visit Coral Bay. Rolling down the highway, we were impressed by the copious amounts of termite mounds dotting the landscape. The drive under the Australian sun was difficult to say the least. Being under the windshield is like being under a microscope. 

When we made it to our destination, we immediately strapped on our snorkel gear and swam about 50m offshore. The visibility wasn’t as remarkable as Turquoise Bay, and as we got out we looked over our shoulders to the white sand, blue skies and decided that we are spoiled. Seeing so many beautiful beaches and wondrous coral formations in the last week has somewhat desensitized us to the sights right in front of our eyes. Luckily, we usually are able to remind each other and reign ourselves in.

Something else that was remarkable, only in a bad way, was the smell coming from the fridge. I was all too quick to blame the boys and their berley/bait adventures (sometimes keeping it in the mini-freezer). I cleaned it out, only to realize once we were settled in Coral Bay,that the rancid smell was still there. We decided that the fridge, which intermittently cools and stops, must have leaked something which had seeped into some crevices – we drew up a plan of attack. However, all problems were sorted that night as we pulled out the steaks for dinner; the meat was green. Tim and Steve blew backwards as they opened the cling wrap and immediately threw them in the bin. We got fish from the local fish n’ chip shop that night, and the smell in the fridge was never more!

After one night in CB it was pretty clear that there wasn’t too much to do besides snorkel and relax. We had heard great things about Karijini National Park so we moved on. As we pushed even farther North, the sweat started to pour. By the time we set up camp in an overnight free camping spot, we were all soaked to the knickers and frazzled. The only consolation was the wild horses that were also camping at our site. The 5 of them, and their 2 foals steered pretty clear of us, but it was a beautiful sight to see amidst the dried up river and the gum trees. That night, another bug infestation hit hard – it left us taping up the windows and devising ‘catchers’ with duct tape. We narrowly survived this encounter, and sped off early in the morning for Karijini.

The park was beautiful. We decided to explore the Dale Gorge area, strapped on our hiking gear, and peanut-butter-n-jelly sandwiches in tow, descended the gorge switchback walls to the ‘Circular Pool.’ At the bottom, in a small clearing there was a clear green pool, to which you could see all the way to the bed.  No fish, no crocs, no sharks, no salt. Yippee! You can believe that there were a few cannonball competitions on the boys’ part, and a lot of floating around on mine.

Having our fill there, we gleefully sought out the Fortescue Falls, and dove right on in there as well. This one, quite obviously from the name, had a waterfall that we climbed up and sat under and let the cool fresh water invigorate us again. Time always ticks on so we hopped back into our toaster-oven on wheels and made tracks for Broome.

That afternoon was one of the hottest of my lifetime. I was caged in the back, with both windows open and sat in the roaring wind which only slightly helped my situation. It seemed that I had drunken litres of water, yet never had to pee. Licking my lips, there was salt. My hair was wet. My clothes were damp. The boys were the same. Pushing right through the mining country and Port Hedland, we eventually ran out of steam and pulled over at the De Grey River overnight camp. After a short sing-along with the ukulele, we ate our chicken curry (bad choice in the heat!) and attempted sleep. Sleep, which now holds new meaning = to lay down and sweat with your eyes closed. The nights here aren’t much better!

At the first ray of sun we were jumping out of our beds to escape the impending heat and get to Broome. No coffees or teas in the mornings these days, the milk in our cereals is barely cold!  5 ½ hours later, we squeaked into Broome’s i-site and reveled in the air conditioning. Sizing up our options, we thought a wee while longer in the Macca’s across the street, absorbing their air conditioning and 30 cent cones (that’s right, 30 cents!) Finally, our brains came back to us and decisions were made. We rocked up to the Cable Beach Caravan Park and wasted no time hopping into the pool. We stayed in until we were pruny, but eventually had to get out because Steve and I had a date.

A date with a camel on Cable Beach! We had booked our sunset walk with one of the local companies and promptly arrived at 4:20 as asked. Immediatley, a guide took us to meet a camel; sitting down, they didn’t look that big, and we patted one named Kadesh. When it came time to mount the coarse golden haired chariots, it became clear just how big they really are! With their legs running the length of my body, they are quite intimidating and wonderful standing at full height.

Mounting them is another story completely! Camels stand up with their rear legs first, and heave themselves into the air, to pin themselves on their gangly legs against the sand. We were besotted to a beast named Jarndah, which nobly means “owner of the earth.”  One of the guides filled us in that Jarndah was like a cheeky school boy and was a camel that always liked to untie his ropes. He pretty much ignored us the whole time until the end, when he allowed me finally to take his picture – I suspect only because he knew he was going to get a carrot at the end of it all.

The walk down the beach was lovely, and we watched one of our last sea-set sunsets atop a camel, lopping along the coast. I dare say it was romantic, but it was definitely a neat thing to experience. Of course, you may be thinking that something doesn’t add up here – camels, in Australia? Ah, yes my friends. Australia is home to the biggest wild camel population in the world! All that desert in the Outback, is ridden with those humpies! The owner of the company we went with actually rescues camels that have been caught on large stations in the country before they become dog food and trains them up.

Segueing into talking about the real wild animals though – yesterday was Halloween. A much loved North American tradition that we couldn’t help but partake in. We hummed and haw-ed about a good trio costume, and eventually found the best one of all; a trio costume that unites the tradition of Canada with the stereotypes of Australia. Can you guess what we were???

Crocodile Dundee and his crocodile friends, of course! The costumes were a hit, although Tim and I were cursing the choice since our onesies were fleecy – a material that is NOT sympathetic to Broome’s humid weather.  The funniest part of the night was, after drinking all afternoon at the campervan, we headed to the bar Oasis as it got dark. The tavern was eerily quiet for being such a recommended hotspot. We asked the bartender what time it was – 7:15pm! We were shocked! Looking around, people were still eating dinner while the three of us, in costume, were standing drunk and dumbfounded in the middle of it all. We spent the next 4 hours trying to maintain a buzz without going overboard until the place ramped up. And oh, it did. We had way too much fun dancing with crocodile tails and Steve with his “knife,” so much so that today, it hurts so good. 

Meet Fang

Well folks, the shark fishing frenzy didn’t die off. Not at all. In fact, it snowballed into a determination that consumed all of us. Steve’s half fear-half passion for sharks was the catalyst for our group and eventually, we whipped ourselves into a fury in hopes of achieving our goal. The all-nighter at Eagle Bluff left us empty handed and heavy hearted, and we hauled our gear up the rock face just in time to find Ranger Mat pulling up to our camper. Apparently, we didn’t see the sign for ‘no camping’ in the general area, but since Mat was a fisherman himself, he took pity on us and sent us off with a warning and some fishing advice. The day was anew and we travelled into Monkey Mia with bleary eyes, yet not wanting to miss the treasure at this special place; wild dolphins swim up to the shore every morning and can be hand fed.

As we approached the beach, we could already see the stormy-coloured fins cruising in the shadows, and many more family and friends of theirs just a little further out. We were right on time. With the biologist’s permission, our group of ~20 daintily stepped into the shallow water. He paced back and forth, talking about the magic of Monkey Mia. 

Ever since the 80’s, friendly dolphins have been coming in to score a treat or two off of the local fisherman. Eventually it became well known for the interactions, and people came from all over to feed the animals. Of course, the darker side of human nature prevailed and the porpoises eventually were getting over-fed and abused. Thankfully, research teams and the Department of Conservation have laid heavy restrictions and rationed the fish; now the dolphins are happy as are the tourists. Only 6 people got to feed a dolphin. Steve was the lucky choice of one volunteer and I was allowed to enter the slightly deeper water as well. It was over before it started, as Steve gently slipped the fish into the dolphins grin. Once the dolphins gobbled their last fish, they swam back out to sea to nurse their calves and hunt in the wild. I say hesitantly that this experience was extraordinary, since everyone seems to sway to the charms of dolphins, but it definitely was intriguing and unique, as the dolphins are undomesticated. We decided to stay the night, and buoyed the van amongst roving and cheeky emus in the caravan park.

The rest of the day we all spent lazing about; swimming, napping, reading. Steve and I took a walk and (surprise, surprise) ended up chatting up a lady fishing off the point. We gained some valuable bait information from her that we utilized the next day when Tim pursued his exotic dream to work on a pearl farm.

While he was out to sea, Steve and I dug for cockles in the sand with our feet while the tide was out, and broke them open with our hands. It felt like real natural living, like people must have used to behave in the not-so-distant past. This trip has recently really been reminding me about getting back to the simplicities of life and how beautiful nature can be. No-one is keeping up with the Jones’ out here; people have their tent and a radio and a cold beer and it brings them satisfaction – as it should. It’s nice to be removed from all of the wants and relish the needs for once. Anyway, Steve caught a small whiting and another fish we have yet to identify. As he was filleting them at the beach fish cleaning station, he went to throw the salivating pelicans some scraps, and a bandit seagull swooped in and stole our whiting fillets! Needless to say, we didn’t dine on fish that evening, but it was a fun day all the same.

When Tim returned from the pearl farm, full of more facts than interest for it, we packed it in and drove towards Carnavron. As the sun unhurriedly sunk down, Steve and I perfected a dual-wave to passing tourist vans and marveled at the abundant feral goats munching their dinner at the side of the road. Eventually, the goats became a point of anxiety, as do the kangaroos as soon as dusk approaches. We weren’t going to make it to Carnavron, but we found a quaint stop-over campsite chalk full of Europeans in campers akin to ours.

We had decided earlier on in the trip that after a few bevies, even simple games of cards went astray as we couldn’t remember whose turn it was, or who-laid-what. In a stroke of genius, I had found a knock-off version of Jenga in a Target in Perth – the perfect dim-witted game for nights like these. We lit a candle and drank wine and port, savouring a several-course meal and playing ‘Jumbling Towers,’ until I lost too many times for it to be fun.

The next day’s journey landed us in beloved Exmouth. Ever since our whale shark adventure back in May, Steve and I have held fond feelings for the small town. We were happy to return and show Tim around. Steve was keyed up knowing that the Ningaloo Reef resides on the outskirts, making it a prime fishing area, as well as being known for West coast shark varieties. Last visit, we had met some fishermen who raved about the sharks who stole their catches, and would have invited us onto their boat had we had any extra vacation days. We pondered: maybe we needed a boat to catch our shark?

While driving the dusty red roads into town, we passed several  4WD’s hauling boats adorned with rod-holders like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Much to Tim’s chagrin, we hung up a sign in on our window, “Honk if you will take us fishing!” in hopes someone with some extra room in their vessel would adopt us for the day. It was worth a shot, but in the end it didn’t get us any closer to getting on a boat, so that night, as we dined on quesadillas at the Big 4, we decided to see what we could scare up at the local Potshot pub.

As it was a Thursday, we didn’t end up finding too many serious fisher-guys to schmooze with, but we met a lovely couple from Port Hedland, a raucous group of burly men in the annual billfish tournament, and some hipsters playing a game of giant Jenga! With our newfound expertise, we joined in the games and had generous offer from Tom, a local spear-fishing hipster, to take us out on his tinny on Saturday. We skipped back to the caravan park and made lime and cracked black pepper popcorn on the mini-stove before falling into a buttery sleep, while visions of fins danced in our heads.

The next morning we went to the local tackle shop and stripped the boys there for information. They gave us some well-known spots for catching sharks and some other tips – like taking a gander at the marina’s fish-cleaning stations to score some berley/offal and some bait. We headed to Learmonth Jetty with dreams as big as Steve’s oversized flip-flops. Before we started into the big mission, Tim and I ventured out on to some smaller reef sites around the jetty to do some Hawaiian sling fishing while Steve, dead set on his shark, chewed the fat with others on the jetty who had lines in. Tim and I were sorely unsuccessful, but the visibility wasn’t great and the fish were too fast so we didn’t mind. Once we dried off, the fish-off began.

The guys put their lines into the water, and started catching small fish lingering around the shade of the jetty for bait. I even indulged in a little hand-lining myself and was rewarded with a small prize for our bait bucket. As the day drew to a close, the other fisherman threw in the towel and went home to hot dinners, while we were just getting started. Darkness arrived and the boys chucked in our set-up as well as fish remains to attract the fins.

Despite some close calls, our bait always returned intact, and the only fins we ended up seeing where those of dolphins. Only this time, we didn’t welcome the dolphins half as much as we did in Monkey Mia, knowing that the lot of them were probably scaring away the sharks in the area. Throughout the long night, the ocean recompensed us with many wondrous creatures and sights. Phosphorescents, glowing intermittently in luminous green sparks covered the surface. The Indian Ocean revealed her crabs, squid, turtles, and gigantic manta rays to us as the clocked ticked on towards the AM. 

The most exceptional event of the night happened while Tim was taking a nap shift and Steve and I made slow conversation by the light of the lantern. We heard the sharp and wet sound of a dolphin clearing his blowhole in close proximity to the jetty. With nothing else to do but wait, we were ecstatic to find the fins of a few doing some nighttime feeding beneath our feet! With our sense of sight almost unfeasible, our ears sharpened and located the dolphins when they surfaced to breathe. The phosphorescent in the water alighted their lean bodies as they soared through the water chasing after small fish. In one instance, Steve and I leaned over to witness 3 or 4 dolphins dash past us in a tornado of bubbles, flaming in neon green, drawing streaks on the surface like sparklers do in the night. This rare sight is so hard to explain, but it really touched us in a place where the best memories lay.

 The morning came, as it insistently does, and nature’s last spectacle exposed humpback whales breeching in the far off distance, sending up sprays of sea water into the sunrise. Once again, we were groggy, disheveled, and sharkless. In our near-drunken state of sleep deprivation, we haunted the tackle shop. The employees were shocked that we hadn’t reeled in a toothy new mate overnight. They shrugged their shoulders, not offering too much more advice – the sharks should come to us, they are basically a nuisance in the area instead of a goal for anglers.

In an attempt to not let our vacation get carried away solely by fishing expeditions, we laid plans for another night of shark-ing, but spent the day seeing some of the other sights Exmouth has to offer. Actually, we almost got ourselves and our van into another pickle, as we attempted to enter Cape Range National Park

via Charles Knife Road; not marked as a 4WD road, yet it should have been. As our great-white-van humped itself up gravelly hills in a mountain range, we all wondered if we were on the right track. Consulting the map (as should have been our first point of business) we realized we were on a ~10km dirt road of off-roading quality. We bridled our panic and turned around, arriving safely back at sea level on the paved main road. We then proceeded to take the long way around to the park, and arrived at the Yardie Creek Gorge Walk. Here’s a tip: never do a desert-hike at high noon. Trying, yet worthwhile, we climbed to the height of the gorge and the boys tried to hit the fish shadows below with pebbles. Boys will be boys.

Descending, we cooled off by doing a drift snorkel at Turquoise Bay. We strapped on our fins and masks and allowed the current to carry us across the reef. The visibility was crystal, and the reef rivaled the Great Barrier, on a smaller scale. We saw heaps of fish, and on our second run, we were enchanted by a black tipped reef shark.  (Obsessed, much?!)

Finally, the day shortened and it was time for round two. So far, the sharks were ahead of our game. We drove to the Mildura Cattle Ship Wreck in hopes this new spot would prove more lucrative for our efforts. Steve and Tim’s balloon-baits were quickly snagged on coral and as the precious light dwindled, we made a difficult game time decision: we would go back to Learmonth Jetty, braving kamikaze kangaroos during the twilight drive and praying a second visit would make the local advice true.  The boys anxious waded into the shallow water to save their bait, and we sped away (stopping at the local beer store for a quick top-up of course!)

Rolling up to the jetty a second time felt like coming home. Expertly, the boys set up their intricate system of balloons, hooks, metal line, scales, blood and zip ties and got their bait out to sea. Then, we waited. A local couple joined us on the jetty later on, fishing for squid. We entered some nonchalant friendly conversation with them, which ended up to be quite vital. Jared boosted our confidence saying that he’d caught sharks off of the jetty many a time and analyzed our rigging. He laughed when he saw our giant fish heads, their eyes boorishly poked out and zip tied onto massive hooks – what were we trying to catch, a 14 meter Tiger Shark? Being fresh-water kids from Canada, we had no idea of the meal portions of sharks, so we had gone big instead of going home. Jared brought us to the light. Steve deftly cut a small strip off of the frame of a massive Spanish mackerel and threaded it onto his hook.

We ate dinner in anticipation and I went to do the dishes after we supped, the boys doggedly manning their post. I washed up and returned to the end of the jetty, and immediately set into shock! Steve was adorned in the gundle, rod bent in exertion, the line peeling out into the night. Fish on! The boys worked in a synchronous manner, Steve guiding the shark towards shore, while Tim lighted the way. The 6 foot beast appeared under the circle of our torches and we spotlighted it as Steve balanced along the rocks, trying to beach it.

Can you spot the 'fangs?'

It became clear that they needed to get into the water, into the home of the enemy. The water was shallow, but the mood was hectic as they splashed down into the sand, guiding the fin into shore. I ran around the long way and met them at the waterline. With a warrior heave, Steve pulled the shark onto the sand and him and Tim leaped up in an ecstatic bro-hug. Our quest was over, our trophy was thrashing its gleaming body in the moonlight as we whooped our triumph. The agitated beast smoldered with rage in the surf as the bros tried to unhook the line, two fangs seeming to hiss at me while I aimed the camera. Meet Fang, our 6 foot Tawny Nurse shark.

After a few (safe) photo opportunities, we sent Fang back out to sea, watching her writhe powerfully over the shallow beach, and then smoothly fly into the darkness to hunt another day. Big hugs and beers were cracked in celebration. The moon unsheathed itself from behind the clouds, looking uncannily like the slice of an orange. We spent some more of the late evening fishing, but the ocean went eerily quiet. It seemed as if Mother Nature had conceded with our prize Fang, but she yielded no more. One mustn’t get too greedy regarding the balance of the natural world. We were able to sleep that night, in peace.

It seems that the spell is over, Fang released us from its clutches (thank God!) We left Exmouth feeling satisfied, and read to embark on new adventures – ones that don’t have anything to do with fishing!

Fish Fever

By now you’re probably quite over my long winded descriptions of life on the road, since the daily cycle goes a little something like: waking up-eating-exploring/beaching/fishing-eating-driving-chilling-eating-sleeping. Fortunately, we’re settling into this new circadian rhythm of life quite comfortably. Sure, we go to bed with the senior citizens, but we rise with the roosters. It actually allows us to utilize the precious minutes of sunshine we have each day, because there really isn’t much to do in a camper when the sun goes down!

Let’s talk about Margaret River. This area is renowned for its wineries, but unfortunately we were quite disinterested with ‘wine-touring’ after our lengthy episode in Denmark. We rocked up into town and quickly sussed that there wasn’t too much to do besides wine tasting. (Twist my arm!) We stayed at the Riverview Holiday Park, indulging in showers, tacos and laundry. 

The next day was when we really discovered the gems in MR. Strolling through town and fiend-ing for a coffee, we found a little café simply titled “The Bakery.” The quaint cottage-y/vintage/hipster/jolly-old-England vibe immediately reminded me of my sister Riley. She’s an aspiring baker with dreams bigger than the meringues down here, jostling around the decision between an English degree and nurturing sugary carby delights into the world. Quite simply, I don’t think she would have left the place had she been there with us. Steve had a salted caramel sugar doughnut while I sipped on some Chai tea out of a delicate purple teacup.  The time did come where we had to give up our table and hit the road – one pot of tea only lasts so long. Luckily memories last forever.

 Steve was itching to visit a liquor distillery in the area so we headed up into the hills to taste some of their goods. The Grove is a neat little place that produces their own liqueurs, spirits, ports and beers. Steven, being a collector of bottles from around the world (in hopes of stocking a bar that looks like the UN one day), was keen to find a unique flavor. After many tastings, including: coconut-white chocolate-cream, macadamia nut-coffee-cream,  limecello with ginger beer, and chili-vodka with coke, he finally settled on Turkish Delight liqueur.

The drinking didn’t end there I’m afraid. Tim, reading in the van this whole time, was keen to see that we overindulge, so he turned right into the next venue with tastings – Knotting Hill winery. Steve and I went through the whole song-and-dance and ended up buying a delicious bottle of chilled Shiraz. Just on our way out, we looked over the deck to the lake and noticed Silver Perch swimming around. The owner kindly asked if we had a fishing rod with us (OMG, if he only knew!), and said we had free reign of the lake. He even brought us local bait! We thought a catch was a shoe-in, so the boys put in a few hours of casting before we got discouraged. We had been eager to catch something since the Australian Salmon, but apparently our luck had run out.  We drove away with our heads hanging low and pouting for fish.

We ended up at a beachside café in Yallingup. We arrived near sunset and took a looooooong walk down the beach in search of seals, but only found gnarly surfers shredding some huge barrels.  Our walkabout took some time, so when we got back to the café, we called it a night and packed it in. Tim, frustrated with the angling from earlier, set out to cast under the moonlight while Steve and I had a little jam with the ukulele. Y’all should know that Steve played his first song - “In the Jungle!” Surprise, surprise, Tim returned with no fish and we just ended the day right then and there.

When the sun rose, Timmy was on a mission. He had had it with his score count in the fishing world. At the crack of dawn, we pulled out of the lot and beelined it for the Busstleton Jetty, a spot some locals had suggested. Being the longest pier in the Southern Hemisphere, its picket-white-fence-like posts extend something like 3km off the shoreline.  The fish gods did not hear his prayer however, as time and time again, his hook revealed itself empty. Steve actually made away with a small squid! The slimy thing shimmered and changed colours on the jetty, its eyes like giant marbles on the sides of its head. The fish-famine was temporarily over – Steve ate calamari on a bun that morning for breakfast!

After our shenanigans at the jetty, it was time to head into the metropolis that is Perth – the most isolated capital city in the world.   Of course, we would have stopped here anyway, but the whole visit was made much more enjoyable due to the fact that we were visiting some newly made friends. Steve and I had met a great bunch of people when we went Whale Shark diving in Exmouth a while back. They had insisted we stay with them on our giant roadie, and true to their promise, we did! We spent that afternoon shopping and exploring Freemantle, home of the Dockers before we sidled up to our host Arthur’s house. That night, we dined on $15 steak and a pint meal at the kids’ local hangout and said our goodnight’s only just a little later than we usually do. Friday was for the merrymaking. (Some people in this world still have to work!)

If I wrote down everything that happened on Friday night, someone would turn it into Hangover IV or a Saturday Night Live skit. The drunken escapades that occurred were many and completed with high spirits. The short breakdown goes like this: the afternoon was dedicated to finding a trio-type Halloween costume (which we did) and lunch at our first sushi train. We then met up with Arthur for drinks at The Gentleman’s Squire, a business hangout that we were all underdressed for and way over-drank at. Obviously the next logical thing to do is go shopping, so we dipped into a charming, yet pricey little place called Pigeonhole. Arthur got himself a wallet, Steve did some Christmas shopping, and Tim shuffled around in a onesie (part of the top secret Halloween costume) that made the salesgirl laugh.  We trained it back to Arthur’s neighbourhood and met up with the others for pizza, beer pong, and flip cup. Somehow, we ended up at a girl named Stacey’s (…yes, we did sing her a few renditions of Stacey’s Mom…) Asian-themed party. The night ended by christening Arthur and his flatmates’ pool, making old fashioned popcorn on the stove, and sitting like 60’s children on a shaggy rug passing around a bottle of wine.

The morning after a night like that one calls for a serious brunch. My friend Courtney had just moved from Melbourne to Perth, so she joined our sordid crew for a feed at Ciopolata? Breakfast seemed to help somewhat, but after we hugged our hugs, said our thanks and drove away, my tummy decided to rebel. I hung onto the dashboard as we drove the endless highway towards Lancelin. Our aim was to go sand dune-boarding there, but as we all weren’t feeling up to par, we passed through the town to find a camping spot. It started to rain, and I was in a bad way, so when we saw a pull-over spot with a view we decided to check it out. Well, if it wasn’t called Hangover Bay! Seeing it as a sign, we found a spot and parked it. Moments later, I was running to the toilet, spilling my brunch. (Boo!) Thankfully, a piece of toast and a tea brought me back to life enough to do the ritual shotgun with the boys.

That night it rained upon rain, but Mother Nature seemed to get it all out of her system because when we woke up the next day the sun was shining bright. Stoutly heading North, Steve and I recognized a sign advertising for “the Pinnacles.” We turned off and paid the $12 entry fee. Tim, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with the experience and read War and Peace in the back of the van the entire time. (He did sneak a few peeks.) The Pinnacles were pretty spectacular for such a touristy thing to do – thousands of small pyramids dotted the landscape to the horizon. After we got our fill of “Ooh-ing” and “Ah-ing” at rocks, we headed further to Kalbarri in hopes of doing some sand dune boarding.

We struck out with the dune boarding as the man who runs the tours was taking some holidays and the locals said the easy to reach spots aren’t really anything to write home about. While obtaining this information, we also bought bait and the boys inquired about fishing in the area. To their delight, we discovered a man who would take us across to a small island on his boat for $5. Inspired, we pre-cooked dinner and hatched a plan to camp on the island for the night. As the sun sank, we were being carried across in a small tinny to a patch of land being smashed by waves.

I’m not talking the kind of waves you see pro-surfers leap onto, I’m talking about the kind of blustery, murderous power that only the ocean has, the kind seen in the Deadliest Catch. We found a spot, and pitched our tent for the first time on the trip. Neighbouring kangaroos spied on us from the dunes. I sorted out logistics of dinner, etc, while the boys set up their line for sharks.  We fished into the night. We fished into the wind. Tim almost got swallowed by a pseudo-tsunami trying to cast the large surf casting rod out with all of its rigging of fish and weights and metal line.

The very first bite was the closest we came to reeling in a shark. The rod screaming and bending, while I held onto the back of Steve’s sweater so he didn’t get pulled in, only resulted in a sad case of the one that got away. All of the rest of our futile attempts resulted in tangled line, and  getting caught up in the rocks. We patiently sipped on our Wignall’s port while we watched the tiny bell against a backdrop of stars as the moon rose, heavily full over the sand dunes. Alas, we called it a night.

Probably the most comical part of the evening was when we all laid down to sleep. Immediately, we all looked at each other on a severe incline, sand hard packed against our backs, and Tim proclaimed, “This is going to be a bad sleep.” And it was. The next morning we rubbed the crust from our swollen eyes and trucked across the island to ring the bell to get picked up. The attendee was over in a matter of minutes, and we wearily admitted to our lack of a trophy. We didn’t stay in town long after that, moving onwards as we always do.

With Tim and Stevie in the front, we pulled over and stopped at a few sights along the way. One of them was Shell Beach – a beach that was literally strewn with cockle shells, in layers upon layers until they were ground into sand by their own weight.  We also happened upon Eagle Bluff – a stunning view of the turquoise coastline. From the lookout, we spotted some rays and many a shark. 

Of course, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum couldn’t resist a chance at scoring a Bronzie or another of its toothy cousins. We set up shop for the night, the boys scaling the cliff and digging out a protective barrier to keep out any potential snakes. The relentless wind and the treacherous descent to the water pretty much

made the decision for us – we would bring down the tent for warmth and shelter. Those two stayed up all night, waiting for the scream of the reel, while I rested peacefully in the sanctuary of the flapping walls. At dawn, we gave up all hopes of netting a beast. I really admire the dogged determination and thoughtful planning that the boys exhibit while on this hunt for a shark to call their very own. I’m just hoping they catch one soon so their fish-fever might subside and we can do some other activities!

Being Thankful

Dropping Johnny off at the airport was bittersweet – we were losing a valuable companion but gaining back some space. It was nice to have a quartet for a while; having company in the back of the van while the bros drove onwards was nice. We even started a band, “The 2 Beanie Crew,” and we performed our debut single Somewhere Over the Rainbow on the beach in Port Lincoln. Alas, all good things come to an end and we shipped J-Dawg back to Victoria.  Like all long road trips, we wanted to catch up some time after spending a few days in Port Lincoln. We jockeyed the camper Westward and made it to Drystone Walling to pack it in for the night. When we slid open the side door, we were immediately swarmed by flies – and that was the least of our troubles.

As the blanket of night curled around us, the biters came out to haunt us. Luckily, Tim had packed a mosquito net in his suitcase, so we were able to perform our routine shotgun without getting nibbled on. But things just kept getting worse. Winged devils of all shapes and species were pawing the windows for us to let them in. We realized we were in big trouble when we started to sweat inside the van, and only two of the windows had screens on them. While I made dinner, Tim and Steve went about cutting the mosquito net out in shapes of the defenseless windows and fitted them over top with electrical tape. 

We thought we would be safe, but we were still getting swarmed!! Horrified, Steve discovered that some bugs were so thirsty for our blood that they were squeezing through the screens! All hands on deck were called, and a mad double-screening and mass murder of anything that had infiltrated our defences ensued. After the massacre, we ate our dinner with beads of sweat rolling off our foreheads and set up the beds. We were hesitant to give ourselves to sleep that night, our imaginations running wild with what was wiggling through the netting and feasting on us while we lay unknowing. Go figure – kids can swim with Great Whites but we can’t handle bugs…In any case, we’ve now enforced our barricades so that they will keep us from our flying friends for the rest of the trip. The next day we rose early and left fast to escape them. Plus, we had ground to cover – all the way to WA!

The drive to Western Australia was long and outback-like. Many features of the landscape reminded me of the Riley/Kacy/Heather trip in July. The earth was red, the bushes were short and windswept, and the land was flat, flat, flat in all directions. We stopped along the way to see the Haystacks – a random outcropping of massive boulders that were dropped into the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t too much to see, so we continued forward, knowing the South-West held all the gems.

Crossing the border threw a monkey wrench into the plans. We rolled past many quarantine signs, warning that any fruit, vegetables, and honey products would be confiscated or ensue heavy fines. We were pretty nonchalant about the whole thing until we approached the barricades. Just like crossing from Niagara to Buffalo, there were booths with officers to man the stations. Our sensible side decided we’d better come clean. Easing up to the window, we started our declarations, and immediately the lady started the reaping. In the end, we only lost a bag of potatoes, a bag of apples, some bananas, and a jar of honey. The matron saint at the border tipped us off that a lot of “salads” go across – many people in WA apparently like their onions quartered and placed around the outskirts of their salads with only a small dribble of dressing in the corner – strange, hmm? We pulled over to a picnic table and massacred all our taboo vegetables into a makeshift salad in order to pass the border police. In the end, it worked and we were separating our veg as soon as you could say “WA.”  That night, we only continued a little passed the border to a free site and camped in the estranged outback, with unknown bones outlining our desolate campsite.

The next day we drove into the town of Esperance – the first actual city we’d come across in many miles. As soon as we drove in, we realized we were going to be S.O.L. for free-camping. “Welcome to Esperance,  Camping Permitted Only in Designated Areas,” read the intro sign. Hmmm. Taking a short tour around the place, we discovered that Esperance had been there, done that, given the ticket before. Free campers were fined up to $100 for posting up in a site that wasn’t a designated campground. The cheap-o’s that we are, we circled around, trying to justify random sleeping places – the most likely, parking directly in front of a campervan rental agency with the other display models, to fit in for the night. In the end, our judgment got the better of us and we ended up paying to $40 it was to camp at a real powered site with toilets and showers.  It was the right thing to do after all, and we had a great campsite to look forward to the next day – Lucky Bay.

Lucky Bay ended up staying true to its name – it was a seriously auspicious spot for us. Aside from us being so ‘lucky’ to camp on such a beautiful and untouched beach, it was also the site of our first major crisis on the road trip that we narrowly averted. The beautiful day was spent in the sunshine on the pristine white sands, frolicking in the icy surf and playing paddle-ball at a semi-competitive level. There was quite an irritating wind blowing through, but it could hardly ruin the spectacular scenery. Realizing that many 4 wheel drives stationed themselves on the beach, we enquired about the tide.  Even though our van wasn’t a 4 wheel drive, we had enough time to enjoy a beach dinner before advising her safely off onto dry land. (I’m sure you can all see where this is heading – pity, we didn’t.)

The afternoon was lovely.  Coffees and chats in the shelter of the van, with the best of views. Around dinnertime, we realized that every single soul was evacuating – probably  a sign that we should be on our way – and we did heed this tentative warning, that is, until we spotted a tourist’s dream; a kangaroo on the beach. Right at the exit from the beach to the mainland, Steve spotted her. Knowing how rare of a sight this was, the 3 of us jumped from the van, and breathlessly approached the wild animal. For a fleeting second I said, “I feel like we should move the van off of the sand...,” but the miracle sighting could be gone any second, so we had to be quick. Big White was left 100 metres from safety. 

And oh, what a miraculous sight it was! The mama ‘roo was actually nursing her baby, and let us approach quite near to them.  The special moment was only heightened by the spotting of wild dolphins cruising in from off-shore. Tim ran willy-nilly down the beach to frolic with the porpoises, as Steve and I hugged and looked upon paradise. We turned around to the van and I queried, “Is it just the angle we’re on, or is our van sinking?” Nonchalantly we walked up to the white cubicle and quickly realized, that we were indeed sinking. And we didn’t have the keys. Moods changed instantly.

Suddenly I was running down the beach screaming “Tim, do you have the keys, the van is sinking!” He didn’t have them, I turned on my heel and sprinted back to the area with the kangaroos, remembering that my shallow pockets held the keys not too long ago.  I scoured the ground and spotted the blue tags fortunately sitting on the sand in plain view. Snatching them up, I relayed them back to Steve. By this time, Tim had made his way back to us and we spun our wheels frantically in hopes we would slip by this mishap. We all had a sinking feeling that we weren’t getting out of this one easily. Our eyes shot panic like lightning bolts between each other. Tim and I ran up to the campsites in hopes of finding saviors. Steve and a passing Asian tourist tried to think of how to approach the situation. I felt like I was in a novel or a bad daytime television series. I ran into the clearing, barefoot and beachy, breathlessly shouting at anyone who would listen “Does anyone have a 4 wheel drive? We’re stuck in the sand and we’re sinking!” Some people looked away. Some did not. I was driven back to the beach by a gentleman in his big 4 wheel drive, with him chuckling assurances that this rescue was routine - but even he grew serious when he realized we had nothing to hook the straps to. Our van kept sinking. In order to strap on to our van successfully without breaking anything, we needed a hook.

The boys and our new recruit, along with the Asian tourist started to dig under the wheels. I set out yet again to find a “D-shackle.” Again, I flew with anxiety through the campsite. I knocked on the doors of couples peacefully eating their dinners and interrupting them with our drama. Nearly everyone I came across went down to the beach to lend a helping hand. It never ceases to amaze me how, when you really need it, the human condition is recognized by all and people step up to the plate. With all the help of more than a dozen people, it was finally a Freemantle supporter with a “ball bag” who saved our bacon. We put the bag under the van, and hooked up the tube to the exhaust pipe. Slowly, our hopes began to rise, as the wheels rose from the sand. Seaweed was being shoved under the wheels along with the wooden boards that make our bed at night. When it was quite possible that we were going to get out of this unscathed, I managed to snap these 2 photos.  Hearts racing, the van rose from the swamp of the beach, and we literally jumped for joy. Everyone involved got stinky hugs from all of us, as we had nothing else to offer them in appreciation. The next two days, the three of us quietly reflected on how lucky we were and also how stupid we were, and how thankful we are to the people who helped us.  

In our daze of almost losing our live-in vehicle, we left Lucky Beach and ended up in the woods at Torbay Head. The moment we pulled up we were questioning our decision as there was a group of strange looking teenagers camping on the Saturday night. The sun was ripe to set though, so we decided they were probably harmless and went about our business. It wouldn’t have been so awkward except for the fact that the campsite was so small and we were basically beside the wayward youths. We definitely weren’t going to be hypocritical of their partying, but we wanted a quiet night. We stuck to ourselves and tucked in early – only to listen to the ranting and moaning of the adolescents all night long. When morning arrived, I exclaimed, “we made it!”

After two nights of (very unusual) stressful experiences, we exhaled a sigh of relief when arriving in Denmark and peeing in their exemplary public toilets at the i-site. After being saturated with information about things to do, we set off into the hills of the town, on a wine tour. *(Actually, before we even left Albany, our path fatefully crossed with Wignall’s winery! Unfortunately, no Wignalls were on site, but I went in and tasted their wares, and left with a bottle of Port, like any true Wiggy would.) 

 Tim and I mercilessly indulged in a full day of wine tasting while Steven took one for the team and chauffeured us around. At the end of the fun and games, we tottered into Shelly Beach campsite. The men strung up their fishing lines while I cooked up dinner and we ate it under the brilliance of the moon, watching the fluorescent glow stick bob with the aggressive waves. Nothing was biting, so we called it a night and had a serene sleep listening to the waves call in.

Our troupe woke up and started our day with fishing off of the Mcgreary rocks and phoning home to wish the fam a happy Thanksgiving. (Unfortunately, our dreams of having a Thanksgiving meal just like home was thrown to the dogs as we realized we had sausages to eat in the fridge, and had jambalaya instead.) Once again, no fish wanted anything to do with us so we moved on to something we knew we would enjoy. Denmark’s Elephant Rocks and Green Pools.

The scenery was spectacular and fortuitously the sun was shining. I spent the better part of the day reading some good old fashioned literature and making friends with crabs while the boys did boyish things like snorkel and swim and fish. That night, we rested our bones in the beautiful forests of the Mt. Burnside rest area; eating our jambalaya and doing shots of gin from seashells we collected from the beach.

Although it wasn’t a real Thanksgiving meal, I feel that all of us are fully aware of how thankful we are for our luck thus far on the trip, but also that we have lives and families that allow us to indulge in a massive responsibility-free journey. So although we don’t have turkey and we don’t have our families and friends close to us, we are fully aware of how much we have to be thankful for. 

A Road Less Travelled

Excited to set off!

Thus far, the road trip is going more or less how I’d expected it; spectacular scenery, lots of laughs, camping in the middle of nowhere; the easy lifestyle of a travelling gypsy. Rather unfortunately for me, Steve and Heather’s ‘shotgun’ tradition from the last trip has carried on to this one; each time a new camp site is reached, there is a communal poking-and-chugging of beer. It’s a rather celebrational tradition which has the best of intentions – but so far on this trip we’ve had a new campsite every night. (Stay tuned for the highlights reel.)

The minute we left the big smoke, the clouds were angry and shouting rain. It lasted like this for 3-4 days, the storm whipping up some gnarly waves along the Great Ocean Road. We struck out from Melbourne and landed pretty close to home – Apollo Bay. According to tradition, we all pow-pow-pow’ed and nestled in for the night to our humble dinner of liver pate and red wine, listening to 15ft waves sledgehammer the shore and the rain knock on our rooftop.

We moved on the next day and roamed into Cape Otway to show Tim the wild koalas. We spotted them in their usual spots (including Lady Gaga herself, at her same address) but it was too blustery to make a hobby out of it. We missioned onward, winding down muddy pathways in native forest, passing sopping wallabies and koalas in fetal position. Once at our destination, Blanket Bay, the rain eased up and we were freed from our white cage on wheels. Of course, Steve was itching to get his line wet, and luckily we ran into some vacationing blokes who lent us some of their bait and advice. We didn’t end up catching anything but the view was stunning. That night, Dick and Trav cooked us a mean dinner of their specialty sausage dish and we star gazed for the Southern Cross and roving  satellites before we hit the pillows.

Pushing through the bullying wind, we safely made it to Pinks Beach the following eve. I can’t really say much about Pinks Beach besides they had lots of seaweed on their shore and bugs in their toilets, but it was free and had a beautiful sunset. Tim made a delicious pasta and meatball dish for tea while we chilled out to some CCR like the hippies of another time.

The next day we nicked through Adelaide to pick up our good friend Johnny from the airport. Once we grabbed him, it was already dark, but we were eager to put some distance between us and the city. We ventured through the early part of the evening and arrived in Port Parham to sleep. The next morning we awoke to see that the ocean had peeled itself back from the shore. 500m off, people with rakes were dotted across the horizon. After making some enquiries, we discovered that they were hunting for Blue Swimmer Crabs. Not the kind of people to pass up a challenge, the four of us kicked off our ‘thongs’ and scampered out through the weed in search of some gourmet crustaceans,  armed with a plastic bag and a butter knife. Once we had waded what seemed like miles out in the calf-deep water, we stopped to talk to an old man who had a bucket full of the buggers. He started to laugh at us and pointed at his wellies, explaining that the crabs we were looking for were nestled like land mines in the sand right under our naked feet! He wished us luck and we continued much more cautiously – until the tables turned and the crabs started to hunt us! Johnny got bitten first, and mid-commotion Steve got bitten as well! We had two crabs on our inexperienced hands! Both were quickly captured and held prisoner.

Everyone was on high alert as we cautiously poked and prodded the ocean floor. The boys also discovered, and “spear-hunted” a puffer fish! We left that poisonous little beauty where it was though, knowing full well we couldn’t eat it. Once we had 4 unlucky crawlers we headed apprehensively back to shore, and cooked them right up on our camper stove. Although they didn’t heed much meat, they were delicious and as fresh as you can get!

Lowly Point in Whyalla is where we ended up the next day for camp. Unfortunately this beautiful spot was cursed with relentless flies so we didn’t spend too much time outside, save for our group shotgun and some handstands and rock-skipping on the beach.  

The next day it was a short jaunt to Port Lincoln – what we’ve found to be the friendliest city in Australia so far. Every single person we came into contact with went above and beyond their care of duty to help us out. Even 16-year-old boys loitering at the gas station went so far as to find us a map and follow us to our destination to make sure we arrived safely when we asked for directions.( I may come back here to mother my children one day in hopes these manners rub off.)

A short story that further epitomizes the friendliness of Port Lincoln involves a man named Michael. Once we arrived and parked, Steve got out to ask the i-site for camping information and the rest of us waited at the van. A man was passing by with a bucket and some fishing rods and Johnny asked, “You have any luck out there?” At this, he immediately turned 90 degrees and bee-lined it over to us. After about an hour long chat with Michael, we knew his life story and the gossip of the town. The retiree with back problems donated about 6 King George whiting and 1 squid to our crew which we filleted, battered and BBQ’d at Billy Light Boat Ramp. That night we didn’t indulge in many bevies as the next day, we all had pins and needles for Great White Shark cage diving.

October 6^th was like living a day in a National Geographic. Steve, Johnny, Tim and I rose with dawn to join other thrill-addicts on the Calypso Star II. Everyone’s eyes were filled with a quiet excitement knowing that in a matter of hours we would all be submerged into 16 degree sea water filled with chum, and look right into the peppercorn eyes of a Great White.

Holding in my cookies

The morning started out fine – coffee and croissants, tutting out of the bay; but soon things turned rough as we passed the shelter of land and headed out into the deep blue. 4-5 meter swells rose up to greet us, and although I popped some Gravol, it was too late. I spent the entire 3 hour ride clinging to the railing and keeping a death-glare on the horizon. Steve stayed with me during the entire traumatic experience, rubbing my back and keeping me company. Finally, the torture was over as we sidled up to the Neptune Islands and anchored. (Past this point, the next land is Antarctica!) As a climax to the seasickness, I gracefully spewed my breakfast into the appointed bag and was done with the illness for the rest of the day. (Thank goodness!)

As soon as we had anchored, the teenage crew started hucking carcasses of Tuna into the ocean. They were attached by rope and each had its own white bobber which dipped and dobbed cheerily with the sea. Fish guts and blood spewed from the side of the boat in voluntary spurts, laying a trail of breadcrumbs for the beasts. It didn’t take long for them to sniff out an easy snack. The massive steel cage was lowered behind the boat and group 1 suited up. We all watched on as the iconic fin rose from obscurity, a dark grey shadow beneath it; the shark would break the surface, cruising for the tuna. At the last minute, the deckhands would yank the bait out of the way, so the sharks would once again circle around for a mouthful.

We were group 3. By this time we had seen 2 groups go in and return unscathed. To be honest, I wasn’t scared at all. I don’t think anyone was. You can choose to believe this or not, but I don’t think any of us held any terror in our hearts as we stretched into our wetsuits. We were full of nervous excitement, awe and disbelief – but we knew we were far from any situation that played out in Jaws. (Although Jaws was filmed at the same location!)

One by one, we lowered ourselves into the cage, regulator in mouth. With gumption, I set out down the ladder quickly, only to be astonished once the water hit me. Freezing doesn’t begin to describe it! It was actually hard to catch my breath with the shock of the cold, combined with the steady pump of adrenaline in my blood. I ascended the ladder a little and held on with my mask in the water as I practiced a few breaths and let my body temperature regulate. Once I was breathing normally, I slid to the bottom of the cage with the others.

It didn’t take 5 minutes to see our first shark. In fact, we had a total of 7 sharks cruising around our boat the entire day. On our personal dive, we were privy to 3. One 4 meter one with spots on his tail, a smaller one, and a massive 5 meter brute with scars and battle markings all over his body. These three put on a humbling show for us, striking the tuna bait and sashaying past us, sometimes close enough to touch. Like the horror movies, the monsters would materialize out of the grainy blue, approaching with their famous ‘wiggle.’

Once the 45 minutes were up, we scaled the walls of the cage and back onto the boat. Paralyzed with cold, and mind reeling with the recent showing, none of us could utter a proper sentence. It was only after we indulged in a hot shower, bringing the blood back to our cheeks that we reveled in the experience. The rest of the day we spent watching the rest of the groups go and return as we did, with the same vigour and speechlessness that we had had. We looked on as the creatures visited port and starboard; leaping, sweeping past, snapping and splashing as nature built them to behave. We never tired of the magnificent sight.

The day was a long one; trying to get his money’s worth, Tim managed to slurp back 7 coffees by the time we arrived back to dock in the evening. We were barely able to drink a West End and watch the footage from the day before our heavy eyelids surrendered, and we slipped away safely in our bunks at the YHA in Port Lincoln.

Everyone was in a funny mood the day after the cage diving; quiet, tired, contemplative. We drove out to Coffin Bay National Park mostly in silence. We munched a tuna sandwich sitting on the edge of some cliffs overlooking a beautiful turquoise seascape. When we arrived at the chosen campsite, it wasn’t much too look at so we decided to explore the park in hopes of finding a better beach. We definitely found one in Avoid Bay. Down a road that was dimpled with stones and potholes, we gently urged the van. When we reached the bottom, the journey still wasn’t over; we climbed over massive sand dunes, following a small path which opened up to a massive expanse of smooth sand and rolling ocean with layers of blue leading out to the sky. We decided to make that our home for the evening.

Actually, this particular evening held more action than usual for our troupe. Nobody really woke up until we all had a round of coffees at 6pm. Steve and Johnny were compelled to hook into a shark and had it in their minds that this beach was going to deliver. Tim and I brought dinner down to the shore and watched those two fish-crazy brethren scramble to set up lines and berley bags and hooks and leaders and rod holders.  The sun slid out of the sky and was replaced by a sliver of a moon.

It didn’t take long before the small silver bell on the tip of the rod started ringing to warn of the fish on the other end of the line. In the semi-blackness, under the Milky Way, Steve reeled in a 10lb Australian Salmon! We were all leaping around in excitement at the big catch. We released the fish back into the great beyond and started the perilous trek back to the van with our flashlights aimed strictly on the narrow trail in front of us.

The next morning after some less eventful fishing and a round-robin tournament of com-cean paddle ball, we lumbered back up the dusty unkempt trail to the main road. It certainly isn’t a road that’s travelled much, and that’s probably what makes it so great. Maybe great things that aren’t discovered by many are treasured by all.