With Broome behind us, we were on our way. This was it. This was the part of this crazy nine week trip that I was the most excited about. Yes we ran the harbor bridge in Sydney, watched the sun set over Uluru, swam with 16 foot sharks, and sampled the finest of wines in one valley after another. Those were all fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but this trip across the Kimberly from Broome to Darwin was to be the piece de resistance of the trip. I had first heard about the trip from a friend at work in Townsville who had taken a 4WD from Townsville up to the remote jungles at the top of Cape York and referred to the Gibb River Road (GRR) as “one of the last great Australian adventures.” When an Aussie says something like that, you can't help but be hooked on the idea. When I proposed this to Lindsay, she informed me that she had already suggested it and that I had dismissed it as being too far of a drive. I couldn’t remember that conversation, so as far as I (and this blog) am concerned, the journey was my brainchild.
In a nutshell, the GRR is a remote, brick red, dusty, dirt track that leads 700km from Derby in the west to Kununurra in the east. It runs through the heart of the cattle station- and gorge-filled section of the outback known as the Kimberly and is only open about 4-6 months of the year. Just as in Townsville, there are two main seasons, The Wet (which runs from late November to Aprilish) and The Dry (the rest of the time). Even when the monsoons dissipate and The Wet is over, it takes a good month or two for the waters to recede enough to make the road passable. That is assuming that a late storm system or cyclone doesn’t make its way into WA. We had purposely left this part of the trip (and our time in the Northern Territories) last specifically due to this reason.
From Broome, we skirted the coast and made our way to the mudflat hamlet of Derby. Just outside of town we made a stop at an interesting historical marker, the Boab Prison Tree. The Boab (or Baobab in Africa) is a huge bulbous tree that grows to be very old and very big. Sometimes, as in this case, these trees end up being hollow on the inside with a cavity the size of Lindsay’s apartment in Boston. Apparently back in the day, the local white police used this specific hollow tree to house aboriginal prisoners prior to moving them to the town jail. After a quick stop there at the Boab tree we fueled up in Derby: one diesel gas tank (approx. 50L) and two 20L red petrol canisters for emergencies. We had stocked up food adequately before leaving Broome planning for 5-7 dinners, lunches and breakfasts. Although there were roadhouses along the road where we could pickup the occasional can of chili or overripe tomato, they were few and far between. One sign we saw along the road said “next service 250 km.” After an obligatory picture of the GRR sign, off we went.
Due to our less than prompt departure from Broome, we were a tad behind schedule. The first part of the road was actually a paved bitumen road, which has only one paved lane that both directions of traffic must share. After an hour of driving we hit the dirt running. After another 45 minutes, with the sun nearing the horizon, we arrived at our first nights camp at Windjana Gorge. It was an impressive site to see. Before us was a huge stone ridgeline, pink with the last rays of the sun. This rock ridge is actually the petrified remains of an ancient barrier reef rising hundreds of feet above the surrounding grassland. We pulled into our large shared campsite and got set up for the evening.
We were traveling in a 4WD pop-top camper van complete with fridge, which worked out perfectly for this section of the trip. Each evening we would arrive in camp, I would unhook the four side latches, and Lindsay would push up the top giving us enough space to walk around inside. Once she unfolded the bed, brought the folding chairs, table and stove outside by the fire, and “nested,” we were in business.
I made my way to the communal fire and started chatting with a few Aussie blokes who turned out to be from Queensland. Once they ribbed me for drinking VB (in Queensland where XXXX is king, VB only stands for Very Bad), we had a great time “taking the piss” out of each other. We were about to set up for dinner when one of the guys came up and said, “Seeing as its your first night out on the Gibb, why don’t you come over for a feed.” I glanced down at the can of chili in my hand and without a consult to the boss, graciously accepted his offer. We rocked over to their group of 4-5 couples who were traveling together for a month and proceeded to fill our plates with delicious sausages, rissoles, salads, and bread. A+ tucker. (I know I am going a bit over the top with my Australian colloquialisms, but if not now, when?) We had a great feed, a ton of laughs, and then it was time to hang out by the fire where I was forced to provide some musical entertainment. Soon it was getting late (9:00) and we hit the hay.
The next morning the birds of the bush woke us up. This was a pleasant trend that would continue for the remainder of our time in WA and the NT. After brekky we took a nice morning 7km hike through Windjana Gorge, spotting a colony of flying foxes and heaps of “freshies,” or fresh water crocs.
Throughout all of Northern Australia there are many crocs. After being decimated by hunting, sometime in the 70s they were given governmental protection and since then, their numbers have skyrocketed. There are two distinct types that we encountered on our travels. There are the relatively small, fish/bird/snake-eating “Freshies” that are skittish and live in fresh water streams throughout the region. It is safe to swim in streams inhabited by freshies except during mating season. The much larger, more aggressive “Salties” are actually estuarine crocs that live along coastal regions from Towsville, up all around the north, down to Broome. These are beasts that are not to be trifled with. Normally these baddies remain along the coast, but during the Wet, the small little streams become rivers and the rivers overflow creating swamps. It is during this time that the salties have a tendency to move inland.
We made a quick stop for a hike at another gorge along the road and then continued on to the turnoff to Bells Gorge. Here we encountered our first water obstacle. The road up to this point had underwhelmed me to say the least. Maybe it was because it was early in the season, but the ferocity of the corrugations and extreme roughness of the road we had read about had yet to materialize. But twenty kilometers off the Gibb heading to Bells Gorge the road dipped down into a murky stream and then let out the other side. We approached cautiously. Although I had no idea how deep the water was, the road was open and we were theoretically driving a vehicle capable of making it though…theoretically. We only had to wait about 2 minutes before some bogan appeared in a cloud of dust and slammed through the creek at about 40 km/hr spraying mud everywhere. Once I saw that, I figured we were good to go. Past the water, we continued on to Bells Gorge for a cool sunset swim.
Later we set up camp at Silent Grove campsite. That night we ran into our friends from the first night and again, like two scrawny dingos, we scavenged a bit of food. This time it was traditional Australian damper, which is a type of bread cooked in a dutch oven.
Later we set up camp at Silent Grove campsite. That night we ran into our friends from the first night and again, like two scrawny dingos, we scavenged a bit of food. This time it was traditional Australian damper, which is a type of bread cooked in a dutch oven.
The next morning Lindsay was behind the wheel for the first time in a LONG time. I had been driving long days for weeks on end and I needed a day off. She handled the Bell water crossing with ease and I could tell she really enjoyed driving that day. We started the day at Galvan’s Gorge, a little bit of paradise in the middle of the outback. It had everything: a large plunge pool, a multi-tier waterfall, aboriginal rock art, and even a rope swing.
Later we arrived at Manning Gorge for lunch and an afternoon hike though the bush. To this point, my wuss of a wife hadn’t swum in any of the gorges or streams due to her compete lack of thermoregulation. This hike, however, began with a mandatory swim across the river. The only alternative was an additional 45 minute hike around the river, which neither of us wanted to do. So in we went ferrying our things in polystyrene boxes to keep them dry. It was a beautiful hike through the scrub, sandstone and Eucalyptus, ending at majestic Manning Gorge, where we had lunch and I did a bit of cliff jumping while Lindsay took a siesta.
We hiked back to the river and again had to swim across. I went first with the gear and made it half way before an elderly lady sitting on a rock in front of me said, “did you see the croc over there?” I chuckled and looked over my shoulder only to see a freshwater crocodile basking on a rock downstream. This was awesome. At this point Lindsay hadn’t heard what we were talking about and she was up to her waist preparing to dive in. I could have said nothing and she would have swam across in peaceful oblivion, never knowing about the croc. That would have been soooooooo boring, so I said, “Hey babe, watch out for the croc over there.” She looked downstream, saw the reptile, and froze. After a moment of contemplation, she looked right in my eyes and screamed, “Honey! WAIT FOR ME,” and she dove in. In that 50 meters, she would have given Michael Phelps a run for his money. The elderly lady and her husband joined in and yelled to Lindsay as she swam for her life, “crocs a coming, better get a move on!” Needless to say we both made it to the other bank safe and sound.
Later we arrived at Manning Gorge for lunch and an afternoon hike though the bush. To this point, my wuss of a wife hadn’t swum in any of the gorges or streams due to her compete lack of thermoregulation. This hike, however, began with a mandatory swim across the river. The only alternative was an additional 45 minute hike around the river, which neither of us wanted to do. So in we went ferrying our things in polystyrene boxes to keep them dry. It was a beautiful hike through the scrub, sandstone and Eucalyptus, ending at majestic Manning Gorge, where we had lunch and I did a bit of cliff jumping while Lindsay took a siesta.
From there we proceeded to Mt. Elizabeth Cattle station, a working cattle station that allows for bush camping. I collected firewood while Lindsay freshened up. That night we had a great flame grilled steak and tater dinner while sitting around the fire talking to some nice folks from the Netherlands and a friendly Australian couple. In the morning we were surprised to see about 15 white and green peacocks pecking around the campsite. Lindsay and I then went out for a morning walk in the pasture and watched about 100 wallabies hop around and eat breakfast in the early morning light.
We left Mt. Elizabeth and had a leisurely morning moving west. As we moved down the road, the scenery became more and more familiar. As it turns out, this area of Australia has many similarities to home in the Southwest USA. In Australia this area is know for gorges, cattle stations, red rock and aboriginal culture. Arizona is known for canyons, ranches, red rock, and native American culture. At lunchtime we reached the Pentecost river, a croc-infested long stretch of water that must be crossed to continue forward.
We sat on the bank and had a bite for lunch, watching other groups cross the river. 4WD after 4WD made the crossing look easy. Just before we finished lunch, our confidence was raised as we watched an aboriginal dude cross the river in what appeared to be a station wagon from around 1973. Soon enough it was our turn and we crossed with no issues.
Forty five minutes later we arrived at our days resting stop, El Questro wilderness park. This ex-cattle station is a 500,000 km2 wilderness retreat that caters to everyone from the 5 star crowd to people like us. We arrived early enough to get one of the private campsites down by the upper Pentecost river, which we had heard was the way to go.
That afternoon we hiked up the amazing, monsoon forest-filled El Questro gorge, which required a couple of swims and hopping over and around gigantic boulders. By the time we finally got to our campsite we were exhausted from a long day, but thrilled to be where we were. Our site was nestled between large eucalyptus and boabs right down by the river, and there was no one else around. I collected wood and started a fire while Lindsay got out the brie and crackers. As the last rays of light filtered through the dust, we were serenaded by the howling of some nearby dingos. Pretty, pretty, pretty good.
We left Mt. Elizabeth and had a leisurely morning moving west. As we moved down the road, the scenery became more and more familiar. As it turns out, this area of Australia has many similarities to home in the Southwest USA. In Australia this area is know for gorges, cattle stations, red rock and aboriginal culture. Arizona is known for canyons, ranches, red rock, and native American culture. At lunchtime we reached the Pentecost river, a croc-infested long stretch of water that must be crossed to continue forward.
We sat on the bank and had a bite for lunch, watching other groups cross the river. 4WD after 4WD made the crossing look easy. Just before we finished lunch, our confidence was raised as we watched an aboriginal dude cross the river in what appeared to be a station wagon from around 1973. Soon enough it was our turn and we crossed with no issues.
Forty five minutes later we arrived at our days resting stop, El Questro wilderness park. This ex-cattle station is a 500,000 km2 wilderness retreat that caters to everyone from the 5 star crowd to people like us. We arrived early enough to get one of the private campsites down by the upper Pentecost river, which we had heard was the way to go.
That afternoon we hiked up the amazing, monsoon forest-filled El Questro gorge, which required a couple of swims and hopping over and around gigantic boulders. By the time we finally got to our campsite we were exhausted from a long day, but thrilled to be where we were. Our site was nestled between large eucalyptus and boabs right down by the river, and there was no one else around. I collected wood and started a fire while Lindsay got out the brie and crackers. As the last rays of light filtered through the dust, we were serenaded by the howling of some nearby dingos. Pretty, pretty, pretty good.
The next day we woke with the sun and headed to Zebedee Springs, or as Lindsay refers to it, “the most awesome place on the whole friggin' trip.” Why you ask? I am going to pause at this point in the blog to see if you can guess……
If you guessed that Zebedee Springs were geothermal hot springs, you would be correct. A short walk from the parking lot brought us to a tropical palm grove tucked away in a steep canyon. We could hear the waterfalls before we could see them. We arrived to find a large stream of water bubbling out from under a large boulder, and the water was not just tepid, it was warm. I can honestly say this was the first time in our relationship that I had to force Lindsay out of the water. She was in heaven.
From there we drove down the road to Emma Gorge and took a nice hike to the base of the falls. From there we took the truck on a 10 km off road track through the bush, checking out some smaller gorges and examples of local aboriginal rock art, listening to a little CCR on the way. By the time we finished we both were looking forward to a shower, so we returned to El Questro, cleaned up, and returned to our campsite.
From there we drove down the road to Emma Gorge and took a nice hike to the base of the falls. From there we took the truck on a 10 km off road track through the bush, checking out some smaller gorges and examples of local aboriginal rock art, listening to a little CCR on the way. By the time we finished we both were looking forward to a shower, so we returned to El Questro, cleaned up, and returned to our campsite.
I had other things in mind. I left her down by the river to go and get some pics in the afternoon Kimberly light. I drove around shooting random things for awhile, but as the sunset approached, I found a great, fat boab tree I had scoped out for a nice silhouette shot. When I arrived, there was a large herd of cows around the tree, which I thought might add to the shot. There was one large tan cow behind me so I honked the horn and it sped off to join its comrades. I sat down in the grass to set up my camera and get a good angle on the shot.
I was fiddling with this button and screwing with that lever and was lost in my own little world until my peripheral vision perceived some movement on my left. I looked up and no more than 20 feet away a medium sized bull with flared nostrils was charging straight toward me. If you have ever heard of the “fight or flight” response you can imagine my state of mind. I jumped to my feet and (I am not sure I had a choice in the matter) subconsciously chose flight. The flip flops on my feet may not have been the best choice in footwear for fleeing from a raging beast, but that is all I had. Luckily I wasn’t that far from the truck and after a short, awkward flip flop sprint, I had dashed around the other side while fumbling with the keys. I peeked up over the hood of the truck to find the bull standing just a few feet away, but at least he had stopped his stampede. Once my heart rate returned to the upper limits of normal, I started honking the horn and yelling at the beast. I wanted that shot of the boab sunset and no bovine was going to stand in my way. So there I was, out in the middle of the bush yelling and honking and beating my chest at this animal trying to get him to move. Despite these efforts, all of my noise did nothing to phase the bull. In fact, it had the opposite effect. As I peered past the primary offender, I noticed two very large bulls with much larger horns sauntering in my direction. The rest of the herd also seemed to have regained their confidence and started descending on me. Seeing as the “calf-ary” was on the way, I conceded defeat, got behind the wheel and sped off to find an alternate location for the shot. I ended up running down an embankment in the twilight looking for boabs. By this time, the sky had lit up in streaks crimson and orange and I knew I couldn’t be to picky. So I settled on a skinny little boab by the side of a creek and took a few pics.
This reminded me of that old adage, “it is better to take a second class photo of a skinny boab than be gorged by the horns of a crazed bull.” So true, so true. Later I returned to the campsite and relayed this harrowing tale to Lindsay who informed me I was an idiot. That night we again had a nice dinner around the fire and crashed.
The next morning we were out of El Questro and on the road early. During the evening we had made the executive decision not to visit the Bungle Bungles, a national park containing some odd rock formations 6 hours to the south of us. So by 10am, the road had returned to asphalt and by 11am we turned off the Gibb River Road. It was a fantastic trip across the Kimberly that exceeded all of our expectations.
During our extensive travels we have shared the roads, the pubs, and the caravan parks with many a Grey Nomad. These Australian retirees take their caravan/trailers all over the country moving from one watering hole to the next in an attempt to "see it all." On many a bumper or rear window of their wide variety of vehicles can be found their unifying motto, a mantra if you will: "Adventure (pronounced Adventcha) before Dementia." I personally think its a great motto to live by...if you can remember it. Well, after seeing this over and over again, I thought up a variation on the motto more fitting to Lindsay and I.
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