Here We Go Again - Chapter 43 - Karumba Day 3

The wind is still blowing its “freckle” off, as one might suggest. In conversations with locals we have heard this is not uncommon. The skipper of the charter boat we are to go out on tomorrow suggested that when he first came to the area to set up business the wind blew so hard and co consistently, his boat rarely got into the water in his first 6 months of operations. I think his actual words were something like the keel never got wet for the first year.

We need a plan for the day. There is a boardwalk from Karumba Point to Karumba which looks like being worth investigating. The land here is flat, the part of the boardwalk we have seen, adjacent to the boat ramp,  looks serviceable, and it may be a good interlude in the general scheme of the day. Its early, lets throw on a load of washing (the sheets need doing first and foremost), breakfast while the washing machine does its stuff, hang it all out and then do the walk. By the time we get back the washing should be dry, if not strewn all over the park by the wind.

.

It certainly knows how to blow here. It comes from the south, with the south being the land and screams out into the Gulf. The only thing it seems good for is a quick drying effect it might have on the washing. Its Sunday and we may as well do a wash. I strip the bed, grab the washing basket and Robyn and I head for the laundry.

Its only 8.00am but many other inhabitants of the van park have the same plan. Only one of the washing machines is vacant and it looks like line space will be of a premium when it is done. Thats a problem for ‘ron and we deposit our soiled stuff into the top loader, add some liquid detergent, deposit our coins in the receptacle and walk away to let the big white box, do its thing,

We have a washing machine in the van, but its only small and would accommodate only one sheet at a time, let alone the contents of the washing bag. The ones in the park are large enough to take both and the other items in the washing bag in one load.

Its Sunday, a day when we can take some time over breakfast. Bacon & eggs over toast sounds like a plan. We could grill some tomatoes but that is one step too far for this occasion.

It is soon grilling and spatting at us, and later consumed by us. Washing up is a combination of the breakfast things and those from the repast of last night. This all doine its back to the laundry to gather our now clean washing and peg it out. Luckily enough there is just enough space on the clothes lines left for ours and we multiply peg everything to ensure no rewashing is required on our return.

All the admin things done, now its time to walk. But wait, aren’t there markets on today?

Yes, just up the road in the grounds of the pub there are the weekly markets. They must be investigated prior to any major other expedition today. Robyn arms herself with a couple of business cards just in case there are some food vendors with stalls selling incorrectly labelled items and we start the walk. Its not far, and because there is a gate at the back end of the park, the walk is even quicker than if we had jumped in the Cruiser, driven to the other end of the park where the gate entrance is and then circled back around to the pub. In any event once we make the turn into the street of the market area, the futility of driving becomes self-evident.

Cars, cars and vans and all other manner of transportation are lined up in all directions with every possible parking spot as well as some manufactured by “necessity” are taken. There are not many stalls here, but they are well patronised and the quality of the merchandise reasonable. 

Music is playing. A performer is giving his best Glen Campbell impressions, and he is not bad either. His guitar case soon gets a contribution from us. Robyn has found a knick knack stall with hand made greeting cards and other things that will serve as gifts for those at home or for use in the van. 

For me there is a large stall of fishing gear. Everything you might want in gear for the monsters of the deep are here. Mind blowingly large prefabricated rigs, using hooks I would actually not fit in the bays in my tackle boxes are here. Kilometres of line with breaking strains that make my lines look like gossamer threads abound. I get to taking to the proprietor about this and that. He appears not that interested in actually selling me anything, just discussing fishing generally. Of course I leave with a fishing shirt (a bright red one so the fish can see me) and another must have tool for the tackle box.

We walk back to the van with more than we bargained for, but most happy we made the trip, for our purchases not only satisfied our wants but managed a meagre contribution to the local economy.

There is movement around the vans when we return, but not human. There is a growing lake developing around the Silver Leader van. In securing his mat Silver Leader has punctured the irrigation pipe that passes by his site and the result is now an ever growing lake. I bang on his door and quip something about trying to catch fish in his own impoundment, to which he laughs and heads off to management.

Forbsy too is up and about and I suggest to him we are about to head into Karumba via the walkway and would he like to join us. He agrees and suggests he will be ready after a caffeine injection (a course of action mirrored by my wife – but as tea). 

The three of us head off to the boat ramp, the apparent beginning of the walk. I say apparent because the next few moments are quite comical. There is a sign, there are signs everywhere, particularly bright yellow ones with “Achtung” remonstrating about the dangers of crocodiles in the area, but the one I’m talking about describes the walk between the settlements. This sign suggests its a 3.8 kilometre walk via the boardwalk. This will turn out to be incorrect on so many levels for us today and a source of much amusement when it comes time to contemplate our experience.

The offending sign is immediately adjacent to a wooden boardwalk. No problem, we head off. The wooden boardwalk ceases almost immediately and what we are left with is a track that appears to head in the direction of our destination. This track then turns back towards the caravan park and we have noticed people walking on it just over the back fence from our vans – it must be simply another way back to the park. From my previous days fishing expeditions down this way I know that the first major looking branch off in the direction of Karumba only leads to the water’s edge. 

A little further on a much more pronounced track heads the same way. We take this as it seems like the right thing to do. It is a wall that is easy enough. Forbsy wonders how we are going to get over the creek that separates the two settlements to which I suggest there must be a bridge. I was wrong. All of a sudden we are back on the water’s edge adjacent to some fisherman plying lures in the direction of the water.

We have been fooled. We laugh with them, suggesting we are lost. Their response is that they are getting exercise too, but certainly not by catching any fish.

A couple of thousand steps extra, this will be a big day for the pedometers if we make it to the planned destination at all. OK, so the track back around the back of the van park is the actual trip to make. We live and learn.

Back on the track we get to the point at the end of the park where the walkway is blocked to vehicular traffic by bollards. This must be the right way this time. A sign, exactly the same as the one at the boat ramp, with the same distance (3.8 kilometres) has been erected here. But we have already walked quite a distance, how can it still be 3.8 kilometres to our destination. Smacks of a “one job” moment, or perhaps they sell signs in bulk cheaper than individually. But wait there is more.

On the “right” track now we are filled with renewed vigour. Walking into the teeth of the wind saps that vigour quickly. There are markers along the track telling you from our direction, how far you are into the trek and similarly for the others returning. Their correlation does not make sense, and it makes Forbsy’s head hurt when I start pointing this out. 

Half of 3.8 is 1.9 last time I used the calculator, meaning that the 2 kilometre marker should be around half way you would think. To the uninitiated bush mathematician that would also mean the 2 kilometre signs in both directions should be no more than 200 metres apart. Not in Karumba. We pass the 2 kilometre sign of the returning trippers before we pass the 1.5 kilometre out bound one, meaning the break we thought we were having close to the half way point was apparently well short of the mark.

Again the “one job” effect.

We plough on into the wind, walking over large salt pans, noticing tyre marks in the hardened mud and seeing other intrepid travellers in both directions, some walking, some on bikes all doing the mad dog and Englishmen thing – walking in the midday sun. In the middle of one of the vast salt pans is, what seems to be an Indigenous person “cutting the corner” but I notice there is more to this lonely sight. They are looking for something across the area. Food morsels perhaps. In a big tide this area would be under water, perhaps now at low tide there are options for the dinner plate to be found here.

We walk on, oblivious to their wandering’s purpose.

There are plenty of stoops with seats for the weary. Robyn is feeling the effects of having to make more steps with her shorter gait and needs a moment at some of the seats. One in particular has signs discussing the water life of the area, a naming sign Pleurisy Plain and one that has lost its plate. We later see that this was one of the Achtung signs warning of crocodiles in the area.

The wind has not abated although in places the scrub gives a piece of tranquility. In an open area Forbsy sneezes violently and I quip someone in Weipa, a town quite some distance north of here, now has the flu, such is the ferocity of the breeze.

We get to the first of the bridges over the creek. The creek here is devoid of water, but not dry. There is a lining of thick mud here suggesting it may fill as the tide rises. Not much further on is another and this one has lots of water in it. It looks extremely fishy but any ability to toss a lure into is would be thwarted by the overhanging vegetation and that bloody cross wind. The Achtung signs warn against any ideas of getting closer to the water than the bridge itself leaving any would be fishing expoliots to meanderings of the mind only.

Not far from our destination now, we walk into an area, that if it wasn’t for the heat and the wind could quite easily be mistaken for the southern highlands of New South Wales in the autumn. The contrasts of red and oranges against the azure sky and the vivid greens of evergreens make for great photos. But this is man made. The reds and oranges are from dead trees, poisoned by humans to ensure the track remains without interference of the wildlife. If the crocodiles are not a worry enough, this part of Australia is also home to many of those venomous predators whose bite is far worse and just as deadly as any shark or crocodile attack.

One the basis of these threats alone, why would anyone want to live or even visit this area one thinks. Then you see the grandeur of a vista laying out in front of you, reminding you why you allow wanderlust and the inner urgings of walkabout to take over. 

The end justifies the means, sort of.

Now in Karumba we walk through Sunderland Park, a memorial tribute to one of the work horses of World War II, the Sunderland Flying Boat. As we wander along reading marker after marker, we see people sitting, just talking, others fishing from the rock wall (and apparently having the same luck as we had) and taking in the vista of the river, its walls of mangroves and boats, commercial and pleasure moored along both sides. If it weren’t for the wind….

Time for sustenance. We know there is a supermarket close by with an adjacent coffee shop. Although it is Sunday we make for it thinking it will be open. The coffee shop is but the supermarket isn’t. A-boards outside the shop suggest all sorts of delicacies await the weary traveller. Not so. The coffee machine is broken, there are no beef and gravy rolls or certain types of smoothies as the truck comes tomorrow and they have run out.

There is however, a lovely proprietor willing to do what she can to soothe the savage beast. She can boil some water and make a cup of tea for Robyn. The fridge still works and there are fizzy libations available as well as some premade sandwiches, which we purchase. Robyn unhungered by the walk settles for a chocolate chip cookie instead.

We asit and consume, contemplating the walk home. I suggest we see if we can contact Silver Leader looking to order a W-Uber (Wayne’s Uber) and the others laughingly agree. I send a message and it is returned with the option is available, if we so require. After a little more discussion the W-Uber option is preferred so I send the request.

Of course the intermittent internet interferes and our request is not received initially. We start to walk and I eventually send a message saying we are walking and to disregard the previous messages and to be ready, given we are walking with the wind to capture us as we fly past the park and be ready to capture the top of the tide for another foray into the fishing of the area. He will get the messages in bulk when the internet decides it wants to work again.

As we approach the entrance to the walk and the point of no return, my phone rings. Its a business colleague, yes they ring on Sundays, because that is when they believe they are free so I must be as well. The first kilometre of the return is taken up with the discussions on the ohne, making the trip seem to go quicker, not just the wind at our backs.

Forbsy diverts into the bush to “spend a penny” and scares a wedge-tailed eagle from its roost. The bird hovers above us momentarily and then with the slightest movement of a wing, allows the gusting wind to hurl it off away from us. By the time the call is done we are back at the creek. The water is much higher now as the tide comes in. A pipe that was well out of the water when last we were here, is now drooping close to the surface. The water and the target area are still not large enough to suggest any chance of hitting a “selected spot” with a lure still, with any hope of success.

We walk on.

At one of the distance markers, the ones that do Forbsy’s head in with their mathematical ineptitude, I video Robyn draped over it asking “are we there yet” for a laugh. The merriment is not lost one anyone.

With the end in sight we hasten slowly. We will not be walking all the way to the boat ramp this time. We will be using the closest possible point to re-enter the van park. We joke to some van park inhabitants as we walk past, suggesting their large table gathering may have others shortly. They laugh.

Back at the van there is no movement, No Silver Leader readying himself for another foray into the world of fishing. I knock on his door and I am greeted by a face covered in ice cream, smile from ear to ear and with no intention of venturing out into the afternoon sun, even if his man-made impoundment of this morning had dried up.

I relate this news to Forbsy and he, like me, is unperturbed by this news and makes himself ready as I grab the washing basket and head to the line to retrieve the now dry clothes. As luck would have it our extra pegging has ensured no rewashing is required, and save the odd grasshopper all is retrieved and I head back to Robyn who now has her feet up and ready for the cup of tea the kettle is presently warming its contents for.

I run the sheets around the bed because Robyn cant reach them easily and suggest we can do the rest of the putting away on my return. She agrees and has work to do in any event so the washing is low on her priority list now we are back. I suspect a nanna nap might be slightly higher than the sorting of washing as well.

Forbsy and I decide it will be a short expedition, even shorter if the fish are biting like they were yesterday. We head to the same spot to employ Einstein’s theory of madness, but with high hopes. We have procured some bait, pilchards and prawns and they are soon propelled into the water disguising hooks, both single and ganged ready for the slightest bite.

The hour we have set aside finishes in 40 minutes with nothing other than the first baits used diminishing our stocks. At one stage Forbsy suggests the only thing that will make us late for dinner will need to be more than a metre long. Needless to say we are back in the park with plenty of time to ready ourselves for dinner.

Silver Leader has reserved us a table at the local motel which is renowned for its Sunday tapas selections and the pizzas they serve. We are here at 4.30pm and the only table available is the one reserved for us. Nothing can simply be purchased here. You order and it is brought to the table. If I am going to wait for this type of service then I am going to have something special. A long island tea sounds the go. Whilst looking the colour of the drink after which it is named I assure you no tea is maimed or afflicted by the creation of such libations.

When the waitress comes to take our order we are dismayed to find they have no pizza bases so the majority of the menu is unavailable. As the rest are discussing alternative selections, the afternoon’s entertainment sets up immediately beside us and starts performing and just as I receive another work call.

Between the babble of the call and the musical entertainment, I notice everyone has left the table. I continue my call for some minutes before getting up and heading in the direction of the adjacent pub. Robyn and Rose are sitting at a table talking to a family and I join them. Evidently the decision was made to curtail our reservation because of the vast reduction imposed on the menu by the pizza base input (or lack of it). No worries, our present vantage point is just as impressive as the previous one where we were looking to take in one of Karumba’s notorious sunsets.

The youngest member of our new family is also doing a PHD. Hers is in biology looking at chimpanzees. We talk about her dreams and aspirations and relate what our astrophysicist daughter is doing now during her studies to sure up her end game. Sofie takes it all in whilst her mother and Robyn talk about other things of interest to them.

The lines for drinks and ordering food here are long. Forbsy and Silver Leader return with the first round and we sit as the sun begins to sink into the sea. 

Replace notorious with spectacular and you still do not give the sunset enough credit. There is just enough cloud out by the horizon to enhance the vista of the sun sinking into the sea. Not something you get to see on the east coast. The stark white of the sun gradually moves through the spectrum as the ever lengthening time the rays travel through the atmosphere towards ourvatage point change the apparent colours towards the dark oranges of the evening.

It takes a long time for the effects of the sun to fully succumb to the night, and with the right settings you can capture all sorts of shots. I get many, many shots, even to the point of darkness where the lights of the channel markers give the illusion of a lightshow, difficult to capture in their unisonic notification of the dangers of travel at night. 

The drinks line was long enough. Silver Leader and Forbsy are now in the food ordering line. Its my job, i.e. my shout, to ensure they do not die of thirst. I quickly pass them on the way to the line at the bar, confirm their orders and settle in, in a much shorter line, musing with other patrons about the cattle crush proportions of the experience. Covid safe we are not, but then we are a long way from “civilisation”. A false sense of security.

There are 4 tending bar, but as me and a new found friend get to the end of the line, all of them are off on “other duties”, leaving us to contemplate our navels so to speak. It doesn’t take long for one to return to serving. Why one could not have stayed is beyond me but such is life as Ned Kelly was supposedly heard to utter as his last words.

Dinner comes and it is pub food. Nothing of the tapas and pizza we were expecting but it fills us up. Talk turns to potential movement across state borders and what if any quarantine restrictions might be an impediment to our intended travels. Confusion runs supreme as the terms used in one state do not correlate to those of another and whether a “low risk” designation here is the same as some other designation there. For it is these designations that will mean the difference between continuing along our planned path or changing it for fear of the need for a statutory 14 day isolation period.

It does seem incongruous the way colonialism has put country like barriers between the states.

That aside, the walk back to the van opens our eyes to the stars. Those in the cities and towns see very little of what is on offer in the heavens on a cloudless night.  Not just general pollution but light pollution significantly reduce the numbers of stars visible to the naked eye.

I grab the tripod and wander into the darkness to take shots of the stars. I need the tripod because the aperture of the camera will stay open for up to 15 seconds in order to capture the view and any movement ruins the shots. I take a number of different angles and send the shots to the astrophysicist/astronomer daughter, who immediately texts back that she is in awe of our present location. She is observing via the Coonabarabran radio telescope tonight as part of her  PHD studies. She is locked in a room in isolation with 12 computer screens monitoring information as it is transmitted from the observatory. How she would love to be laying as I am under the stars and simply watching.

I wonder if this is how our forefathers took to attempting to understand existence and the stories the stars told them.