Beryl to Wonga Beach

We had so many things we wanted to do while at Beryl and it seemed that Nicholas and Broden (as you may recall, the sons of our wonderful hosts Ron and Rhonda) wanted likewise. Its a great life for young kids on a cattle property but as you can imagine, going to school by radio and being 16k's from their next door neighbour, they are a little short on playmates. We were surrogates.

Because we were leaving, Rhonda had declared that provided Broden did his scheduled half hour on the radio with his School of the Air teacher, the boys could have a school holiday. Anyway, while we were preparing to leave, there was a knock on the door.  Rob opened it and there was Broden with pannikin (enamelled metal tea mug) in hand. In it, half out of it, and crawling up his arm, were a half dozen or more tree frogs. He had just collected them from up the tree that we were parked under and wanted to show them to us. I noted a couple of muffled screams but I don't think Broden did, he was so excited as he sorted through them. Finally he found the one he was looking for and tried to hand it over for closer inspection. It had, he said, “particularly good colour”. There was, of course, no offer to take it from him but there were a number of unusual sounds supposedly, I think, representing a keen interest.

We finally dragged ourselves away. It wasn't very easy to do so especially when Rhonda gave us a call on the UHF radio as we were going out of the home yard to tell us that she had two crying little boys on her hands. We'll be back Ron/Rhonda, if you'll have us!

We made it to Winton early afternoon without any problems and got the opportunity of visiting two more cousins, my dad's sister's offspring.  One, Coral, I met a couple of times when I was working in Longreach in 1966 but had never met her brother Roy. A shame that first, I never met him before and second, I never knew that their sister lived in Sydney and died only a few months before we left.

Coral is very much into the cultural part of town having directed a number of plays with the Winton Little Theatre. She reminded me that Peter Bosley (now on Sydney radio), a couple of others and I had come to Winton in '66 representing Longreach in the Central Western Queensland Drama Festival that she was very heavily involved in organising. It was a sore point with her as she had also directed the Winton entry but we won the festival with the play, The Robe and the Thorn. Interestingly enough (for me anyway), when we went to Rockhampton for the Central Queensland Drama Festival we were criticised by a couple of the judges for presenting a play with religious overtones. (How else could they justify giving the gong to the local entry?)

We only did one other play and that was a grand affair in Longreach, presented on three nights. After our success at Winton we drew a packed house every night. Because I had the lead role, even Mum flew out from Brisbane to see it. We got great reviews in the local press but my boss at the bank brought me back to earth with his comment that it wouldn't have been half as funny with professional actors. I gave up little theatre a few weeks later when Bosley left his wife and child and the leading lady left her husband and they left town for a life together in NSW. (However I digress. )

Before his retirement, Roy owned a haulage company that ran 23 (I think he said) road-trains and was in partnership with his brother in another company that owned 10 tip trucks. I suspect he did very well when he sold to McIvors Transport. He now owns an industrial shed or two in Winton (leased), and “a bit of dirt” outside town where he runs “a few” cattle. To keep active he bought a front-end loader and does quite a bit of contract work in town including maintenance of the town Tip. He is working long and hard hours but says he has to keep it up for another four years to be eligible for a government grant of $45,000. Not too bad for a 72 year old.

Like many other towns in the Outback, Winton has developed a heritage centre to help keep its history alive (not to mention the towns themselves with the help of the tourist dollar). Everyone you talk to in these towns will ask, “Have you been to The Centre yet?” and if you answer “No.” you usually get an ear-full. I am a little ashamed to admit that we did not make it to Winton's Centre on this trip having become so enthralled looking through a couple of shops that are straight out of the Wild West.

When you go to Winton you must have a look at Searle's store. The sign on the outside says it all; it reads Books, Cards, Hats, Boots, Clothes, Radio's and Barber (Retired). We didn't see another barber shop in town so I don't know what the locals do now when its time for a haircut. The other store is the ladies fashion house. The owner is a 92 year old lady who has owned and operated it for as long as anyone can remember. Her young assistant is 65 and has worked there since she was 18.

After the excitement of these two stores we took off for Cloncurry (on Wednesday 22/8). Along the way we saw the Mackinlay pub, where they filmed Crocodile Dundee, and stopped off at the Blue Heeler pub at Kynuna for lunch and a beer. The walls there are covered in the signatures of people who have visited it. The bar is where the solicitor Banjo Patterson oversaw resolution of the 1894 shearer's strike. It was not until we got to Kynuna that we realised that there is a great deal of conflict between there and Winton as to exactly where Waltzing Matilda was penned. There does not seem to be any conflict as to the site of the billabong that the song refers to. It is just short of Kynuna off the Winton Road and has been made into a tourist point of interest.

We used Cloncurry as a stopping off point, not only for R and R but also as a base for travelling to Mt Isa for a look around.

Mt Isa is something else again. Immediately to the west of the CBD is a railway track and immediately west of that is the mine. No mining operations are allowed east of the railway which is not surprising when you consider that the shaft goes down 1.5kms (level 29) and branches off into 500kms of “roads”. On level 23 is the machinery workshop, which from all accounts, is massive. It would have to be to service the needs of all the underground vehicles and equipment, most of which, after being taken down, never again see the light of day. Processing of the ore has improved over the years.

We saw one massive mullock heap that had been sitting there for some years awaiting reprocessing “when smelting procedures improved”. It is believed about $3M worth of valuable metals remain in it. They now have the technology to do it; however, the mine now believes that the reprocessing process would cost about $4M so they have starting returning it underground - which they do with all the spoil.

The mine contracts out two tours - underground and surface. You need to book well in advance for an underground tour which has a strict limit on numbers and which only goes down 1km to level 18. We did not know when we would be in town and so did not book. Even so, we were a bit unlucky to miss out. I got a call on the mobile from the tour operators as we were doing the surface tour to say that vacancies had occurred for the Monday tour. As it was then only Friday and we wanted to be on our way we had to pass it up. Anyway, as the surface tour was conducted by a retired miner who had spent most of his working life mining and his last few years with the company training new machinery operators, we found it extremely interesting.

After the tour we returned to Cloncurry where we all met up with Fred Butt for a drink. Fred is a buddy of B1's, they having fought side by side in Vietnam. He owns a large haulage company as well as being the local agent for several commodity companies. He also owns a cattle property and while we were there he was negotiating to buy another. Now Fred is a pillar of society in the town (the retired Shire Chairman wandered into the pub for a drink and, seeing Fred, joined our party); however, it was not always so.

At the time of his conscription, Fred's mother, a widow, owned and operated the largest pub in town. The story goes that although she had banned him from the pub for unruly behaviour, he stocked up his car with enough alcohol to make it to Brisbane where he was to report for duty. Unfortunately, he ran out by the time he got to Winton and had to return home for more. His mother ended up calling the police to get him out of town. Fred is a great bloke and was upset that B1 had not let him know he was coming. Had he known, he said, he would have fixed up his boat and dropped it off at Karumba for us - over 400kms away.

The next day we took off for Karumba and our first view of the gulf savannah and the Gulf of Carpentaria. We took advice from Fred and gave the road trains a wide berth. Much of the road on this stretch was only a single lane strip of bitumen and, as Fred said, it was much easier for us to get our 8 wheels off the black stuff than for the truckies to get 64 off. Because the price of cattle has become so favourable to the growers following Europe's foot and mouth problems, anything that goes “moo” is being sent to the markets. He therefore suggested that if we came upon a road train carrying cattle we call up the driver on the UHF and find out how many of his mates were behind him. That way we would not be on tenterhooks wondering what was coming over the next rise or around the next bend.

The last 79kms of our journey were from Normanton to Karumba and along the way we passed through a cattle station owned by an aboriginal co-operative. To put it into perspective, if you took a parcel of land 6kms wide (just over an hour's walk for most of us) and stretching from Normanton to Brisbane (a 24 hour drive if you really, really hurried), you would have a property the size of this one. Big eh!

On the night we arrived the owners of the van park put on a bar-b-que reef fish and open fire, camp oven cooked, chip dinner for $3. 00 a head. It was great. Once everyone was fed they called for seconds. You could have as much as you could eat for the initial $3. 00. There is another van park in town (Barry and Lorraine's) that has a free bar-b-que fish night where you supply your own salad. It has been “the place to stay”. We intended staying there ourselves but a couple of people we met coming back from the Gulf when we were on the way up suggested we try this one. We are quite happy we did.

The Gulf is a massive body of water and Karumba is at the bottom right hand corner of it at the mouth of the Norman River. It is just like looking out to sea. At sunset you realise that there is something different about the place when you watch the sun go down into the water. On the second night we had Happy Hour at Sunset Point, a satellite suburb of Karumba - if you can imagine a tiny town having a suburb - and a popular spot for watching the Gulf's famous sunsets.

Karumba (as indeed is much of Queensland) is full of Viclanders and SoAuslanders as I would call them. Half of the year they spend in their homes in Victoria or South Australia and the rest of the time in Queensland. It is amazing also the number of people we have met who have sold up everything to go on the road. Not one of them would have it any other way. The ones that go to places such as Karumba are the mad fisherpersons. We were looked upon as something of an oddity when we turned up without a boat on the roof of our truck. Our next door neighbour in the park, a Viclander, had been there since early March and was leaving a few days after us. He had caught bountiful supplies of fish and mud crabs but with the season drawing to an end he said they were not nearly as plentiful.

Of the part-timers, some arrive as early as February (those who want to get into the fishing and mud crabbing before the hoards arrive) and leave as late as October. A majority arrive in March/April and leave in September. At any one time during the season, Karumba, which only has a permanent population numbering in the hundreds, would have a semi-permanent population of around 1,000 southerners.

An unusual aspect of the Gulf is that on most days there are only two tides as opposed to four in other places and if there is a strong southerly blowing, there is only one. The wind pushes the water back from the mouth of the gulf.

We had intended going on a fishing excursion while we were in Karumba but because it was very windy and it was the four-tide period when we were told, the fishing goes off, we decided it would be a waste of money. I picked up a conversation on the UHF between the skipper of the largest fishing charter vessel and his wife at home when he told her he was on his way back and that his group had only caught 2 fish between them.

We had three nights at Karumba before heading back to Normanton where we spent the night before catching the Gulflander to Croydon. B1 and Sherry had decided not to take the trip so B1 drove our car and van and Sherry took theirs and we met up again at the end of the train journey.

While at Normanton we did the self guided tour of the town. Of particular interest to us was a life size model of “Krys the Savannah King”, a 28'4” crocodile with a 13' girth.  He was shot in the Norman River in 1958 by a local lady croc shooter. (Since then, crocs have been protected and there are substantial fines for shooting them. ) I took a photo of Rob sitting comfortably in Krys's mouth. After that Rob and I went for a boat trip on the Norman with a Savannah Guide. We got to see two young crocs, not near the size of Krys.

The Gulflander, going as they say from nowhere to nowhere, is regarded by train enthusiasts as one of the great train journeys of the world. People apparently come from all over the world to travel on it.

Normanton, as the name implies, is on the Norman River which empties out at Karumba. Normanton was chosen as the Norman's port town for the export of timber cut in the area. In 1886 it was decided to build a railway line from Normanton to link up with the main train system at Cloncurry. However, they were only a few kms out of town when gold was discovered at Croydon that, with the gold rush, soon became the third largest town in NQ. It was therefore decided to divert the track to there to transport the gold for export.

The Normanton to Croydon (or as the Croydon people would have you believe, Croydon to Normanton) track is the only State operated railway line in Australia not connected to the main grid. A special steel sleeper was designed by a George Phillips to sit directly onto the land thus saving on the cost of having to cart bedding stones (ballast) into the area, to withstand attacks by termites and to be submersible during the floods that regularly cover the area. Most of them and the original rails (on which you can still read “West Cumberland Steel 1886”) remain in place and are used by the Gulflander today. I seem to recall that George was Sir Charles Kingsford-Smith's uncle.

Ken Millard, a man who would be in his early thirties, is the Officer in Charge of the line. He runs the Gulflander's operations with the full time help of a porter and 4 fettlers and the part time help of his wife. As OIC of this remote line, Ken's duties include repairing and maintaining the Gulflander (an old railmotor), selling tickets to the approximately 20,000 people who travel on it annually, driving the train and acting as tour conductor. He was up to midnight the night before our trip replacing a blown head gasket.

The train only does the 94 mile (5 hour - including a smoko stop at Blackbull siding) trip to Croydon once a week (on Tuesday) and returns the next day. On most other days of the year it goes out on shorter charter journeys.

Metrics has not yet reached the Gulflander. Everything continues to be measured in miles and chains. Sitting up beside the driver as we did for the second half of the trip made us acutely aware of why we only could do top speed of 30MPH (50KPH) for as very short time. The train does not have a speedo so the only way we could tell that it got up to 30MPH was by Ken giving us a yell when we passed one of the mile posts and everybody timing us to the next mile post. Most of the time we were doing much less as the rails wobbled all over the place.

B1 and Sherry had set up both vans in the van park by the time we arrived and were at the station with half the townfolk to greet us. In spite of the fact that the shire now only has a population of around 350, their park has been the best so far with new facilities, fully grassed sites, drains for emptying night buckets and satellite TV points to each site.

Speaking of the Night Bucket, I now refer to mine as my Chick Magnet. I don't know whether it is the shape, the colour or whatever (it's a squat, square, maroon job) but it's incredible how often I get accosted by women who want to chat when I am sneaking off to my reconnoitred dump spot.

From Croydon we headed towards the coast with an overnight stop in a rest area outside Ravenshoe, and then on to Atherton on the Atherton Tableland. (One of the travellers in the park at Atherton kept referring to it as Raven-shoe. I don't think he would have believed us had we told him it is Ravens-hoe.)

From there we did a couple of day trips. One was to the crater lakes - quite beautiful - and another big one to Chillagoe, an historic mining town about 230kms away. The trip took us on some of the worst roads I have ever encountered. In the middle of the worst stretch we came upon a town that, except for a patch of new grass recently laid in front of the School of Arts hall, would not have changed at all in the last 95 years. Irvinebank was a tin mining town established in 1882. Its last major development was in 1906 when the dam, still used today, was completed.

While we were there, we saw only two people. One was a young girl driving the most beaten up old car you might ever see and another was a guy walking down the main street cracking a stockwhip. We eventually concluded he was vainly trying to frighten off a massive colony of flying foxes that were hanging in the trees surrounding the town and waiting for dinner time and a feast on the mango trees planted down the main street. With every crack of the whip (that sounded like a rifle shot) the flying foxes would take to the air in one huge black cloud, do a bit of a circuit, then return to their roost. It was most unusual seeing them flying around in the middle of the day.

For such a nondescript place in the middle of nowhere, Irvinebank has apparently produced some colourful characters. They include “Red” Ted Theodore and Bill McCormack who both became Queensland Premiers. Theodore apparently went even further and became Federal Treasurer and Deputy Prime Minister. (Anything to get out of Irvinebank. )

They say that the hills around Chillagoe have more silver, lead, zinc and copper in them than in Mt Isa. It once was mined and had a reasonable sized processing plant. However, the owners were not as smart as those responsible for Mt Isa and it eventually closed. With Mt Isa now producing as much of these metals as is required and will continue to do so for at least the next 80 years, all that the few locals that are left can do is dream of what might have been.

Atherton was celebrating the Centenary of Federation while we were there and we went along for a look. They had a grand market day out beside the old railway station. This area has been cleaned up and redeveloped. It includes renovations/rebuilding of the old Chinese Buddest Temple (as in most parts of developing North Queensland there were very large colonies of Chinese who had come across seeking their fortunes in the newly discovered gold fields) and excavations to convert a part of the creek along the rail line to a lake as a home for platypus. We enjoyed a look through the temple, platypus spotting and a short ride on a steam train. Along with many of the old railway lines in country Australia, the Atherton line is now closed to commercial travel so a number of the locals have got together to rebuild the line and restore the steam loco and some very, very old open-sided carriages. The cost of the 10 minute joy ride was a gold coin donation.

From Atherton we travelled to a van park at Wonga Beach, which is just north of Port Douglas and south of the Daintree River. We took the opportunity of travelling to Cape Tribulation to the north of Daintree. The trip involves a crossing of the river by vehicular ferry, a wander through thick rainforests, past a tea plantation and up to a number of very beautiful beaches. It is a reasonable bitumen road and is the last half of the coast road back from Cooktown.

We also went down to Port Douglas to browse through the shops, laze on the beach and visit Noel, the owner of one of the units in our Sydney unit block. His day consists of going to the club in the morning to share three light beers with his mates, coming home and while listening to his classical music or watching his movies - he has an extensive library of both - devouring four, as he describes them, substantial scotches. The rest of his day I suspect would be a blur.

Rob and I wanted to have a look at Cooktown and as B1 and Sherry needed to get going, they took off south towards home and we went north.

Our visit to Cooktown was without the caravan, which we left at Wonga. We had heard that the inland road was pretty fair but we wanted to come back down the coast on the Bloomfield Track which, until it reaches Cape Tribulation, is mostly 4WD only.

The inland road turned out to be very good. It was much further for us to go than along the Bloomfield Track; however, it was worth it to see the diversity of scenery. Only 50kms of the approx. 230kms was dirt and even that was well maintained. On the bitumen, much of the journey had a 110kmp speed limit. The dirt started at Lakeland Downs where we stopped at the roadhouse for a cup of coffee made from beans grown locally on the property.

We had only one moment of concern on the way up when just before the end of the dirt we came upon a road train that, having just left the bitumen, was travelling towards us at a good rate of knots. I got well off to the side, stopped and prayed that there was no one behind us who might run into the back of us. With all the dust he kicked up it was impossible to see past the windscreen but it was only for a moment as it soon started to blow away and we were able to get going again.

A little further along we skirted the very eerie Black Mountain. Aborigines fear it and aeroplane pilots have reported their directional instruments going haywire as they flew over it. The entire mountain is comprised of large black boulders, some of which occasionally explode (through heat), thus adding to the mystique of the place.

Cooktown is a place steeped in history. We stayed in a Motel along the esplanade, directly adjacent to the spot where Captain Cook beached the Endeavour in 1770 after he had hit a nearby reef. It is difficult to describe the feeling walking on the same land he did and that was the site of the first European colony in Oz. He and his men camped there for 42 days while they repaired the boat and attempted to find a way back out to sea. We drove to the top of Grassy Hill where Cook and his 2IC Dr Banks climbed to look for a channel through the reef. Two things strike you get to the top (if you disregard the magnificent view of the Coral Sea to the east, the harbour and Endeavour River below and the foreboding yet beautiful surrounding mountains), the now disused lighthouse and the board on which are printed an extract from Cook's diary. They are his thoughts when he first set foot on the same spot. He was concerned at the extent of the reef and at how he might navigate his square rigged barque against the prevailing NE winds through the only visible channel. He was every bit the gentleman. I must admit that my first thought, knowing his predicament was, “Ooh f%#k!”

Back to the motel and a short walk towards the town centre we came across the Cook Memorial and Cannon. The cannon, which was forged in Scotland in 1803, arrived in Cooktown in 1885 and the memorial was built in 1887 to celebrate Cook's landing.

In 1885 the town council wrote to the Queensland Premier asking him to “supply arms, ammunition and competent officers to take charge against a threat of Russian invasion”. (I kid you not!) The Premier obviously agreed with their concern and, along with the cannon, sent 3 cannon balls, 2 rifles and 1 officer.

There are many other historical things to view but by far the most moving was our visit to the local cemetery, which all visitors are encouraged to do.

The graves and headstones tell very vividly of the glory days as well as the hard life faced by locals in the early years of the town's existence. Being an RC I was fascinated to know that at one time the town boasted its own Bishop. The first two Bishops are buried there. The harshness of life is portrayed by the very large number of children and young people's graves. In one plot were the mother and father, four infant children, a 17YO daughter and a 21YO daughter.

There are many other historical plots including that of the “Normandy Woman”, a white woman who refused to eat and subsequently died after she was “rescued” from a local aboriginal tribe. She was never identified and, after her death, her body could be viewed for a shilling a time. There is also the grave of Albert Hovell, the son of the co-discoverer of the Murray River (remember Hume and Hovell). Young Albert was apparently a bit of a rogue who was at one time sentenced to death for his part in slave trading. He was heavily involved in the kidnapping of Pacific Islanders (the Kanakas) and bringing them to NQ as slaves on the sugar plantations. The sentence was subsequently commuted to life imprisonment. He was eventually released and died and buried in Cooktown.

I don't mean to dwell; however the cemetery was just so interesting historically and I am greatly interested by local history. So I will continue.

As well as being divided into Catholic and Protestant sections as most of the old cemeteries are, there are also sections for Jews, Chinese and Aborigines. As in most country towns there were many Aboriginal and Chinese burials but it was not considered necessary to maintain records of them.

It was usual for relatives of the Chinese to, when they had saved enough money, have the remains of their loved ones exhumed and sent back to China. In memory of the large number of Chinese buried there, a large memorial has been built in a remote and thickly bushed area of the cemetery incorporating two big open cooking areas where food can be cooked as an offering for the deceased. I don't know what happens to the food eventually. I assume it is left for the wildlife to eat.

Visitors to Jewish graves customarily place pebbles on the headstone as a mark of respect. This is evident in the small Jewish section, which is also far away from the main part of the cemetery, in a remote and heavily wooded area.

What is particularly interesting is the fact although there is a very large aboriginal population in Cooktown, the marked aboriginal graves have only relatively recently begun to appear. Their section is in the same clearing, though removed from, the Jewish sites. There are only 3 or 4 marked graves and what I found particularly poignant was the fact that the aborigines appear to be following the Jewish tradition to some extent; but, instead of placing a pebble on the headstone, the aboriginal graves are adorned with grog bottles - stubbies, tallies, port, wine, etc. One grave, that of a young 21YO who apparently died in a car accident not too long ago has a particularly expensive looking headstone incorporating his photograph. Imbedded in the concrete are two full stubbies of beer.

After leaving the cemetery we went home to the Motel for Happy Hour which we spent on the veranda in front of our room watching the sun go down over the harbour and the mountains in the background. We then took off for the Bowlers Club where we were advised the meals were fantastic. I mention this only because it is the only place I have been to where they slice the steak to order and where I had the biggest plate of fresh caught local prawns that you could wish for. Maximum price was $16.00.

We only stayed the one night in Cooktown so the next morning we went down to the town wharf - about 100 meters from the Motel and watched the locals fishing for bait. Bob C would appreciate the fact that groups of people were fishing without bait and pulling in 15 to 20cm baitfish with every cast. From there we took a run north, about 30kms before we ran out of bitumen. Except for in the few towns, that was the last of the black stuff all the way to the pointy end. We then headed back along the Bloomfield Track. It was a great experience trying out our 4WD skills learnt on a course before we left Sydney. Rob and I both had a drive and enjoyed it immensely.

We had a couple more days of R and R at Wonga before heading for Cairns