Galivanting across the Gibb
21.6.2023 - 6.7.2023
Dear reader,
I come to you, drenched and sodden, huddled in the back of the Troopy capturing stray water drips in a saucepan. I’m gazing out through the pouring, relentless rain at a donkey nibbling on some grass – apparently in the middle of a Kimberley dry season. But how did we get to this point?
Broome time had well and truly sucked us in, and before we knew it three weeks had passed. We shook ourselves out of our stupor, re-stocked the car for three weeks off grid, and said goodbye to the luxuries of an ensuite bathroom, espresso machine and Netflix we had been treated to at Prue’s.
Two hours in and Hat was already freaking out about the potential for needing more beers, so we made an emergency stop at Derby for another carton. I was technically on three months leave from my job and we were already two months into the trip – I felt we had barely scratched the surface. After some back and forth discussing options with work over the past few days, and trying to predict our future plans, I made the decision to dis-employ myself and beamed off my resignation email just as we turned off the highway onto the Gibb River Road and our last bars of signal dropped away. If you’re reading this marine planning team, just know that me doing a complete desk clean out before leaving was totally a coincidence.
Late afternoon brought a hazy peach to the sky, bordering the boabs in a backdrop of pastels as the bitumen gave way to dirt. Our next leg had officially began. We found a free camp off a side road and Hat got our first fire going. With clouds in the air, the humidity lingered well into the evening and it was cloying inside the packed Troopy. We had gotten soft over the past few weeks of easy living, and simple tasks seemed suddenly mammoth and cumbersome – the rigmarole of setting up the cooker and prepping dinner, the annoyance of shifting our gear to set up our bed, then the knee breaking task of clamouring up over the fridge and cupboard in order to finally rest our weary heads and sleep – ears pricked for rangers or axe murderers who may spring us in our illegal camp spot.
Tunnel Creek and some random spots along the way.
Morning brought a fresh perspective, and the mood was much improved after I’d ground up some fresh coffee beans and made a brew. We headed to our first gorge spot (Windjana) which we were both looking forward to – only to be greeted with a road closed sign and a notice saying it was closed for the wet season. Slightly befuddled, because it was the middle of the dry season, and half assuming they just hadn’t taken the signs away yet, we thought we would just poke our head down the road because I wanted to suss out the campground for next time. Big mistake. There was a ranger down there and we copped an absolute spraying for entering unauthorised, with our number plate jotted down quicker than a snake strike. Lesson learned – observe those road closed signs or risk a $6000 fine (as the ranger told us). We played on and went to Tunnel Creek instead, a long cave system which you can traverse in the pitch black (including a section which you have to swim through – did I mention the place was littered with fresh water crocs?). It was all well and good on the way in as a bunch of people were in front of us swimming with bright torches, but on the way back we were on our own and one of our torches died – definitely much eerier. But it was lovely and cool in the cave, which was a welcome respite to the Kimberley sun. Some further exploring in the afternoon off the beaten track led us to arguably our best camp of the trip so far – a dry river bed guarded by boabs, well off the main drag. Champ spotted a black headed python which Matt subsequently played with.
Magnificent boab trees.
Champ enjoying the fire pit hole before getting booted out.
Matts new best mate.
Beautiful evening sky at our camp spot.
Dat fingernail moon giving me chills.
Our first stop the next morning was the Lennard River which we took the opportunity to freshen up in (i.e. have a full blown bath). We drove onwards and turned into Mt Hart station, which promised the nicest grass camp sites in the Kimberley (this piqued Matts interest - “no way it’s better than my lawn”). The 50 km track turned into a rattling hours drive, which was well worth it when we saw the beautiful set up, complete with bar and coffee machine. That was until we were informed it was strictly no dogs (this is what happens when you have no signal, don’t look things up beforehand, and just YOLO around. Would it have killed them to put “no dogs” on their entrance sign?!). It was not the news we wanted to hear at 4 pm when we were tired from a big days travelling. We debated whether to leave then come back the next day surreptitiously to do the gorges/hikes/tourist spots, but elected to do a quick whirlwind check out to see if it was worth coming back for. And am I glad we did! They were all a stones throw from each other and easy walks, so we managed to check everything out before sunset, then drove the hour back out to a poxy roadside stop where we shacked up for the evening. At least we could sleep easy knowing we weren’t aiding and abetting a fugitive (Champ). The step competition I was in with the girls (coming for you Kitty and Bear) saw me doing laps up and down a gravel spit at 9 pm by headtorch to reach my 10 K. Dogshit conditions.
Having a dip in the Lennard River.
Some big ass boab. An elongated me for scale (that 0.5x iPhone 14 cam setting knows no bounds).
We departed our roadside camp with haste the next morning and got about half an hour down the track when Hat looked in his side mirror and saw that the cap was missing off the 60 L water tank we have strapped to the side of the car, and we were haemorrhaging water fast. Losing the majority of our water supply this early on in our Gibb adventure when we planned to be off grid for most of the time was less than ideal. We bunged a U-banger and hastened back the way we had come, but I didn’t hold much hope for finding it (it was giving needle and haystack vibes). Then, after about 15 minutes driving, we spotted the cap lying smack bang in the middle of the road. I saw a car coming in the distance and yeeted myself out of our still moving vehicle, doing a Peter Bol quick as I could back to scoop the cap up before it got run over. I made it just in the nick of time. The water tank cap was miraculously undamaged and victory was ours – we celebrated by skulling some of that sweet nectar straight from the tap.
Miscellaneous snake picture just to break things up - sue me.
Our first official stop of the day was Bell Gorge, one of the most popular ones along the Gibb. It was beautiful, but crowded (what do you expect really). We swam through the main swimming hole and ventured further down into the gorge. After climbing down a small waterfall (slippery as hell), we continued around the bend and were rewarded with a big daddy waterfall plummeting into a massive waterhole below. Some chick was sitting in a small pool just above the main waterfall with the water flowing strongly against her, her feet propped up against a rock to stop her getting swept over the edge. Absolutely turned my stomach just looking at her, you wouldn’t catch me doing that.
Bell Gorge. Yes that waterfall pic is basically cropped down to it’s last pixel due to me needing to cut out the plethora of peeps milling about.
We bailed out of Bells Gorge and made tracks for Imintji Store, which according to our roadmap, looked to be the only store along the Gibb. We were hoping to find a water top up, a nice spot to camp for the night, and somewhere to make lunch – and failed on all three counts. The store did, however, randomly have a book swap – so I was able to pick up a couple more rom coms to keep me going . We consulted the map and decided to try for Charnley River – but when we reached the turn off, a sign told us it was closed for the season. Damn.
Champ continually finding his way onto my pillow and not giving a flying fig about it.
We nosed down a few more turn offs looking to snout a good camp spot, but nothing availed itself to us. Getting on for late arvo, we reached the turn off to Adcock Gorge and decided we may as well check that out. The track in was pretty rough, and about a kilometre before the gorge a few cars were parked up, which didn’t give me much hope for the track ahead. Sure enough, we came to a pretty sizeable water crossing but it was nothing the Troopy couldn’t handle. Beyond that though, the track degraded even further and was littered with huge boulders. We made it through that and finally emerged from the desert surroundings into a beautiful oasis – tall palms and ferns everywhere. Dying for a swim, we hastened down a shaded pandanus lined pathway that bordered a large freshwater pool with lillies (it was giving croc vibes – and we later saw a freshy sunbaking there on a rock). We rockhopped over some small waterfalls and eventually came to the main gorge – a lovely pool with a sheer rock wall and tiered waterfall. It was awesome. Refreshed, we headed back to the car to make a late lunch and get out of there – only to discover those rocks on the track had in fact claimed our first tyre of the trip, and we had a slow release puncture going on. We had no choice but to camp there for the night (convenient really). When we opened the back up to start setting up camp, we made the grim discovery that a carton of milk had been punctured by a nail we didn’t know was protruding out of the wall in our pantry, and spilt all through the cabinetry. Whoever coined the phrase “there’s no use crying over spilt milk” had obviously not seen it play out in these conditions. Everything had to be taken out of the pantry and wiped down, and I hastened off to the first set of waterfalls to collect some water for cleaning. Unfortunately, the majority had gone under the cabinetry across the floor and there was no way to get rid of that, so for the next week or so Matt and I were smelling rancid milk every time we drove. To this day I still don’t know where that full litre of spilt milk ended up. But I digress. The waterhole came alive at night time and there was a cacophony of sound going on by the freshwater pool. We decided to go for a night hunt for some snakes, but the Pandanus Pathway (as I named it) was littered with cane toads and we freaked ourselves out and retired back to the Troopy.
Croc on a rock at Adcock.
Man on a rock taking a pic of a croc at Adcock.
Our accidental premium private camp at Adcock Gorge.
We arose and I made us a lovely coffee which we took to the waterfall and enjoyed over a morning dip. Matt fixed the tyre whilst I made some deluxe oats with cacao nibs then washed our breakfast dishes in the waterfall. We traipsed back to the main gorge again and I had arguably the worlds best outdoor shower, even washing my hair (using enviro friendly wilderness wash of course). It was at this point we ran into a coupla dudes that told us: “you’ve heard about the bad weather coming in in two days right?” No, no we hadn’t – we’d been stranded in a gorge and had no signal for days. Apparently 100 ml of unseasonable rain was forecast, and they were planning on closing the whole of the Gibb River Road in two days time. Officials were urging everyone travelling to either yeet to Broome or Kunnuz ASAP, or be prepared to isolate for up to a week. The boys said they were making a move for Ellenbrae Station to be closer to the bitumen and better able to evacuate if need be. Armed with this new information, we cut our lazy morning short and hastily packed up the rig, then decided to hot foot it to Mt Barnett station where we wagered there’d be a bit more information, and we could top up our water supplies in case we needed to hunker down.
Shoutout to this waterfall for lending itself so perfectly to climbing.
View from the top of Adcock Gorge.
Best shower I’ve ever had - even if a few randoms were watching.
En route we checked out Galvins Gorge, which was spectacular. We met an uber cool daddy daughter duo from Esperance (shoutout Steve and Aidee) who were finding anything they could to jump off, and young Aidee was showing me up big time. Matt worked the courage up to do a huge cliff jump and was surreptitiously snapped by some random keen photographer, who offered to send us the pics He thus became known as “Galvins Gorge Guy” (still waiting on those pics by the way Simon if you’re reading this).
Aidee clambering up for a rock jump, and me taking the opportunity to pose.
We boosted onwards to Barnett Roadhouse in search of more information, and there was not a single conversation going on among punters that did not mention the rain. I’ve never heard the word “unseasonable” so much in my life. There was a certain air of gung-ho’edness among the staff, with remarks such as “yeh mate there may be a little drizzle, but are you really scared of getting a bit wet?”, “yeh there might be rain…how much and when, no one knows, so don’t bother asking,” and “there’s no way in hell there will be enough rain for it to be an issue for more than a day, so don’t even worry about it,” running rampant (as it turned out, that last comment did not age well…but we’ll get to that).
The only reliable piece of information we ascertained was that the Gibb would be officially closed on 27 June (which happened to be Hats birthday), and apparently if anyone was caught driving it that day you’d cop a $1000 fine per tyre. They were not mucking around with their road closures. Fair play though, because driving on the wet roads absolutely tears the surface up and it becomes an absolute menace to drive afterwards. We knew we still had Monday to explore and head for our “final” destination. After perusing our trusty road map we hatched a plan to take a risk and instead of bailing off the Gibb completely, we would lob up to Drysdale Station which is not on the Gibb itself, and therefore one could technically explore the whole of the Mitchell Plateau area (if the weather held of course). The catch was that if we made a wrong call about the rain we could be stuck at the station for at least a week. However, I remembered from many childhood visits en route to my Uncles remote Kimberely fishing camp that Drysdale was equipped with something very important that other stations may not be… a pub. This was enough to sway Matt’s decision, because he was fast running out of beer and if there was one thing that was utterly incomprehensible, it was not having a cold beer on his birthday.
It was getting on for late arvo so we camped at nearby Manning Gorge which was dog friendly and epic. We ran into some of the crew we had been on our horizontal falls tour with back in Broome, and after I showed them the latest weather update they very quickly decided to pull up stumps and leg it all the way back to Broome (a solid days drive). The caravaners weren’t fecking around.
We explored the gorge the next morning which was a 5 km round trip. To begin the walk you had to swim across the river and ferry your stuff over in buckets. Matt attempted to carry the bag on his head the whole way – way harder than it looks. We ran into Galvins Gorge Guy and his misso Carina, plus daddy daughter duo doing the walk at the same time. As was the question uppermost on anyone’s lips that day, “what are you guys planning to do with the rain” was asked. We told them our plan and Steve brought out the rain radar on his phone, which indicated that Drysdale Station may actually miss the worst of it. I espoused my reasons for figuring Drysdale would be the best place to hunker – signal, water, fuel, pub, hot chips, and if we were lucky – further exploration available up the plateau. This seemed to sway the crew and the others decided to lob up to Drysdale as well, and I secretly prayed I hadn’t made a hell bad call and persuaded our new mates to follow us to our demise. On our way back out of the gorge I narrowly avoided stepping right on a common tree snake, which proceeded to chow down on a frog right in front of our eyes (RIP Mr Ribbet).
Matt sizing up the jump at Manning Gorge.
The stroll to and from Manning Gorge, and a common tree snake snacking.
By the time we had finished the gorge and lobbed back up to Barnett Station to grab a quick snack for the road, the mood of the station staff had changed considerably since the day prior. Warning signs were now plastered all over the joint heeding travellers to get the cuss off the Gibb or risk being stranded by a week or more. There was a bit of an Armageddon vibe going down at the bowsers as lines of cars snaked all the way back to the main road turn off, waiting for fuel and water. The roadhouse was packed with people stripping the shelves of the meagre groceries on offer, groceries I’m fairly certain would have sat untouched on those shelves otherwise ($6 for a can of beans?!). I joined the throng and jostled my way to the front for a small chips, to be met with an incredulous “is that it? No fuel, supplies?” by the lady serving me. Shocked gasps could be heard from the crowd behind me as I merely nodded assuredly, and whispers of “who is this chip chick?”, “surely not”, “did you just hear, she ONLY ordered chips, unbelievable,” tittered among the shocked patrons. I accepted my salty prize to an awed round of applause, and graced the peasants with a regal bow as I wasted no time in devouring those succulent spuds. I have since heard unconfirmed reports that a shrine to the Chip Chick has been erected by the salt and vinegar station. True story.
We made it to Drysdale! Celebrating with a round of uno and a pint at the pub.
It was a relief to reach Drysdale in the arvo. Galvins Gorge Guy & Carina lobbed up not long after us and we set up camps next to each other. Classic me, always seeking privacy, elected to set up as far away from the other punters as possible before being told (after setting everything up, of course), by one of the station dudes that no one was set up there because it was the lowest point in the campground and the most likely area to flood and get your car bogged. Derp. In an effort to save dignity we pigheadedly went for a pint at the pub before shamefacedly relocating camp under the watchful eyes of a few stray grey nomadians. As dusk fell, the air grew leaden as the humidity spiked and rain clouds gathered overhead. But alas, relief was not forthcoming and we sweltered under the heavy sky for a few hours before the first drops of rain pitter pattered down. That was my cue to slink away from Carina and Simons camp who were happily plying Matt with a birthday eve rum, and I nestled in with my book and waited for the heavens to open in earnest. But, they never quite did. We awoke during the night to a bit of a heave ho, but by the morning there was only a light misty drizzle going on. I got busy making coffee and breakfast for my birthday boy, and then we dallied around camp for an hour or two waiting to see if she was going to pour or not.
The birthday boy requested I leave the bed in the AM so he could snuggle up to his true love Champ. Had to respect the request.
As mother nature remained undecided, daddy daughter duo were committing the pack up and mission up to Mitchell Falls. This got us envious, and pretty quickly the decision was made to follow suit. I went to the office and sorted us the necessary permits, and was assured by the main station dude that there was absolutely no way they would close Kalumburu Road. The 170 km drive up there took us over four hours, and that’s with the roads freshly graded. The track up there is breathtaking, with long, lanky palms lining the way (affectionately known as Truffula trees among my fam… skinny ass trunks supporting big heads). Now, usually we find somewhere subtle to camp with Champignon well away from a national park, or else make other arrangements. But no tracks were viable and by the time we actually rattled into Mitchell Falls to suss things out it was getting late. Exhausted, we elected to risk it and commit the campground, and thus the “arrangements” consisted of chucking a towel over Champs head, and our camp mates Si and Carina ingeniously renamed him to “Chad” so as not to arouse suspicion. Matt and I did a quick reccy down the first part of the walk track and made it to Mertens Falls where we had a much needed rinse off in a lovely plunge pool, and explored the underside of the waterfall which was laced with ferns and greenery. We ventured slightly further down the Mitchell Falls track as dusk well and truly settled in, and a couple of punters were coming the other way… “how’s the track?” I ask, to which the cowboy replies “piece of piss, you could totally knock it on the head now, go for it.” This was an 11-12 km hike by the way, and it was basically night time… yeh right mate.
The Troopy loving the road up to Mitchell Falls.
Underneath Little Merten Falls was a treasure trove to explore. I rate ferns hard.
Had it all to ourselves for a freshen up dip. Matt getting the spa bath treatment.
I cooked us up a Mexican fiesta to mark Mattys bday and then we wandered over to Carina and Simons camp where we were plied with Hot Toddys and given the royal treatment. Thanks guys! It was an early-ish night, as we all planned to get up early and commit the hike before it got too hot. Simon was even pre-making their coffee and putting it into yeti cups ready for the morning… that goes a step too far in my book and I was suitably outraged. Still shook at that behaviour to this day.
Our fugitive “Chad” and his disguise.
I got up before day break to take my pinglepot for an illicit piddle and strollington, all the while whip-cracking my neck around for the ranger. The sky was cloud covered, and a coolness had descended. Perfect conditions for a hike. Contrary to the cowboys words of advice from yesterday, the hike took about 5 hours all up and I don’t know where that dude learnt time management but his advice to do the track at night time is going down as some of the worst in history. Mitchell Falls was breathtaking, and what was the most amazing part was that the place was virtually deserted. Matt and I were the first ones there in the morning. The weather warnings had clearly caused a mass exodus from Mitchell Plateau. It was the middle of the dry season, and in other circumstances I have it on good authority the place would be crawling with tourists and you’d be taking turns to line up and get “that” shot. The only thing ruining the serenity were the helicopters alighting every 20 minutes or so dropping off punters that couldn’t be fecked with the hike. We got back to camp at midday.
Start of the Mitchell Falls hike.
Top two pics from Big Mertens falls, last from Mitchell Falls.
Thirsty after my big hike. This photo started a trend amongst other punters, wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a #guzzlethefalls hashtag that’s gone viral.
Various Mitchell Falls piccies.
Galvins Gorge Guy, Carina, Hatty and me - taking on the falls.
We had heard whispers that some more weather was going to hit on Friday, and that some rivers may be hard to cross on the Gibb. We decided to push on and explore all the way up to the lookout over Walsh Point, another hour and half ish drive. This section of the road was corrugated as all hell, and on our way back down disaster struck when our water pipe that was securely secured to the top of the Troopy had rattled off. The boom it made as it hit the road had me cowering in my seat, at first I thought a tree branch had snapped off and hit the car. Hat made the alarming realisation and spun a quick U turn, running back and making a gallant effort to hold the pipe up and salvage what water remained, but it was a hard job with a few cracks making themselves known. We had been tossing up whether to commit the drive back to Drysdale that arvo or camp out another night. The water pipe breaking off made that decision for us. I told Hat to let the water go, and we would head back and re-stock that evening. After securing the pipe onto the roofracks and starting the car, I happened to glance back over my shoulder and saw something glinting in the dirt – it was the actual tap itself that had ricocheted off in the mayhem. We had almost driven off without that crucial piece of infrastructure! Miraculously, it was still in one piece.
Water tank down.
Love these silly little trees.
The mood was sombre as we began what was now the seven hour trip back down the Mitchell Plateau towards Drysdale. It was a long, arduous, teeth rattling drive and fatigue set in as darkness fell and cane toads began littering the road. To pass the time, we asked each other what delicacy’s we were going to treat ourselves to at the pub that night (which reminds me – there was one vegan item on the menu, a vegan burger. Its ingredients were listed as: bun, tomato, lettuce, cucumber, lettuce, onion. The double lettuce mention had me shrieking). As we passed the “Drysdale – 5 km” sign we began rejoicing in earnest. We passed the next bend in the road…and were suddenly confronted with two cars pulled up on the side. My first thought was that there had been an accident. Matt was blinding the scene with his spottys, and refused to turn them off and tried plowing past (this speaks to how fatigued we were). As we crept forward, we saw another car, then another, pulled up on the side of the road. Then the river came into view. What had yesterday only been a foot high, 10 meter long crossing, had swollen to a 70 m long crossing, with the water flowing fast. We cut the engine and stumbled out to investigate. A group of about 10 or so were sitting around a campfire that was blazing cheerily in the middle of the road, and among them were some familiar faces – Steve and Aidee, the daddy daughter duo. Much back slapping and hugs all round ensued, and there was nothing for it but to pull up a pew around the fire and while the evening away. Some of the crew there had been stuck at the crossing since 3 am that morning. I brought out the guitar and immediately stole centre stage with a 5 part symphony concert orchestra archipelago rendition (as someone once told me – “lovely voice. Untrained maybe, but beautiful”. This was after a slightly piss-take rendition of Old Town Road. A bangers a banger).
Impromptu Drysdale River camp with some randoms - bloody good times all in all.
The next morning we inspected the river, and some of the young kiddies had very helpfully been measuring the receding waters progress with some aptly placed rocks. I attempted a walk across to check the current, and very nearly got swept off my feet it was that strong. It was definitely a no go. We were so close, and yet so far. The positive was that we managed to pick up 1 bar of signal, being so close to Drysdale Station. Every now and then someone from the station would rattle down in a ute to the other side of the river and measure the depth. It was a waiting game.
There was one thing I knew – the Drysdale pub opened at 11 am, and I was getting a hot chip come hell or high water (literally). We left Champ in the care of three little munchkins who had taken a shine to him and Matt and I got our bikes off the car and successfully crossed the river with them held overhead. We powered to the station and first and foremost asked for a weather update. It was not good news. More rain was forecast for the next day, which would guarantee the river crossing impassable for at least the next few days. And on top of that, the Gibb was still closed but they were allowing a 24 hour travel window as of the next day only, as an opportunity for people to get the cuss out of there or die trying. As we were debating what to do, Matt received a call from his contact at Toyota letting him know that the new Troopy he had ordered and waited almost two years for, had finally arrived. But there was a catch – he had to sign the paper work by end of financial year (which happened to be that very same afternoon). Serendipitous timing, given that at that point there was a chance we’d lose our current Troopy attempting the crossing. We managed to get the paper work printed and signed off on at Drysdale Station with the help of the staff (thankyou!), and then it was on to our next issue. How the hell were we going to cross this river in order to take advantage of the travel window and get the hell out of here? We did a lap of the campground and asked one of the dudes there if he would mind coming down to the other side of the river to standby and winch us out if we started drifting on the crossing. He was all for it, and a plan was hatched for him to come down in an hours time. No sooner had we gotten back on our bikes to begin the ride back then cars began streaming into the station… it was our fellow comrades who were stuck on the other side with us. Apparently some turbo had come down and blazed through without issue, so once the first person did it everyone committed (sheep vibes). We hastened back to the campground to let Jimbo know his winching services were no longer required, then peddled our hearts out back to the crossing. By this time, a serious crowd had gathered to watch each car cross (entertainment must be a bit lacking up in that region), and some old crone smoking a dart was loudly passing judgement on everyone’s techniques as they passed. We crossed the river by foot and did a hasty pack up, bundling Champ into the front seat. I swam back across to the other side so I could be the tourist that I am and film Matt attempting the crossing. We had been told by those that crossed before us to take it slow and steady, and ease across it. Matts brain wasn’t having it though and as soon as he hit the water for some reason he turned into Vin Diesl and gunned it – causing a huge bow wave to erupt and wash over the hoofs of everyone spectating on the other side. Rumour has it the video footage I subsequently sent to Warner Brothers is in the pipeline to become the inspiration behind Fast and Furious 13. The old crone with her dart started up her commentary again, “that was the worst crossing I’ve ever seen!”, to which I retorted, “got the job done though didn’t he.” Who did this old biddy think she was? She proceeded to ask Matt as he drove past if he’d “done much 4wld’ing before” to which he just raised his eyebrows in amusement and breezed on. Again, is this old biddy right? We’ve just been stranded on the side of the road for close to 24 hours, carried our bikes over our heads to get to the station for information, managed to sign on our (I mean, Matts) new car in the space of half an hour, then trekked all the way back to the river… we weren’t exactly in the mood for her destructive criticism. As I went down to the waters edge to collect my thongs I could hear her banging on to the next guy that crossed… “you should have seen the guy that just crossed before you! Absolute lunatic!” At this point I was sick of her shit and was about to lay into her and ask who the hell she thought she was, when all of a sudden she nimbly jumped up into a random ass tractor that was adjacent to the river and I realised she was the owner of the station. That’s who the hell she was. Lol. In regardless, work on your riverside-manner hon!
“Marine scientists on their way to work in the mornings” .
Our mates Carina and Simon hadn’t made it to the river crossing the night prior, and I was beginning to worry about their whereabouts. I beamed off a message to them to let them know it was now crossable, even though I was pretty sure they would have no signal. I hoped they would get the memo and make it down before the next lot of rain came in. Daddy-daughter duo decided they were going to stay put and hunker down at Drysdale Station for the next lot of rain, along with some of the others we were stuck at the river at. Our window of travel was closing, it was 2.30 pm and the roads were closing again at 6 pm. We were happy enough to try and make it to the bitumen which starts just on the other side of the Pentecost River – but it was the mighty Pentecost crossing that had us worried. If that was already impassable, we would be well and truly screwed. We inquired at the station and was informed that someone had radioed through to advise that the Pentecost was passable, and that was all we needed to hear. We filled up with water, said our last goodbyes to daddy daughter duo and began the five hour journey east. The roads were eerily quiet, and we only passed one car for the entire journey. It was another drive in the night, and fatigue once again started hitting as the hours wore on. Finally, we came to the Pentecost and surveyed the situation under full spottys. We couldn’t believe it, it was only about 20 cm deep! Lining the banks of the river on the otherside for as far as the eye could see were caravans, cars and tents…clearly everyone had the same goal – make it to the other side of the Pentecost. As we snouted our way through the crowd to find a spot, we passed one of our other stuck-at-the-river companions, and cheers’ed beers through the open window. We had made it! I tell you what, if the council wanted to come out and fine everyone for illegal camping – that would have been the night to do it.
The next morning we dragged our asses to El Questro, which was still accepting travellers. We knew the weather was due to hit that afternoon, so quickly got camp set up and got the lay of the land. As predicted, the weather well and truly came in in the arvo – it poured. Not only that, temperatures plummeted. Everything slowly but surely got well and truly soaked. The cold and wet creeped into the Troopy, dampening our mattress and sheets. Water started dripping from the roof. The floor became a muddy slick. Remember, dear reader, when I said at the beginning of the blog that I came to you drenched and sodden gazing out at a donkey nibbling on some grass? Well, that’s how we got here.
This donkey was not afraid to nibble the literal bark off a tree.
After three solid days the rain finally eased. If those few days taught me anything, its that it’s a pain in the ass to travel in wet weather, especially in our set up. And Matt wants to do another lap of Aus but in the wet season. We spent the day cleaning out the Troopy and finally got some washing done. We elected to leave El Questro campground and instead set up on the banks of the Pentecost again – privacy, space, and it was free. And did I mention there were some little shits at the campground that had whips and basically cracked them for hours and hours on end, day in day out? Get a real job brats.
It was a long few days stuck in the wet… cabin fever had set in.
Black headed pythons are so cute and cuddly. Prob my fav snake.
Our free Pentecost River camp - shits all over El Questro campgrounds (no offence).
Cockburn Ranges, and Champ stoked that the sun finally came back out.
Waited to the sun reappeared before taking the pre-requisite El-Q sign shot.
On our first good day of weather we hiked Amalia Gorge. The next day we did Zebedee Springs – it was packed to the hilt, and little kids were taking the liberty of zooming through my outstretched legs and shrieking and screaming all over the joint. Did I mention it was school holidays? Still, the beautiful palms, crystal clear warm water, and trickling mini waterfalls made up for it.
Amalia Gorge. Yes my hair is freshly washed and brushed - thanks for noticing.
Amalia Gorge.
Zebedee Springs - worth the hype.
Zebedee Springs - it really was drop dead stunning.
Miscellaneous pics from Zebedee Springs coz I just couldn’t get enough.
That afternoon we missioned to El Questro gorge. We were advised there was a one meter deep water crossing, and that most people were parking before it then swimming across the swollen river to reach the hike. After mastering the Drysdale River though, Matt was confident we could handle this one. We rocked up to the crossing, and once again the area was lined with spectators (what is with that?!). After clearing everything from our feet space we didn’t want to get wet – we committed. Halfway across our footwells started filling up with water, and the river was coming up over the bonnet. We made it through, and felt like rockstars as we passed all the plebs doing the extra 1.5 km walk to the beginning of the trail in the blazing heat.
Hello Sir, do you have a moment to talk about the Dark Lord?
El Questro hike and gorge was something else. Shaded the whole way, we picked oure way among rocks andd walk through the gorge all the way up to the main waterfall. The towering walls were lined with ferns, natures biggest hanging garden. At the beginning of the walk we passed a few people who let us know there was a huge olive python in a crack of a cliff up ahead. One guy claimed it was five meters, the next said it was three. Matt got indecently excited, and we spent ages trying to spot it. When we did, my eyes had trouble computing the sheer size of the serpent. It was coiled in on itself, and its body seemed to go on forever. It was, indeed, huge. After a time, it unfurled and attempted to slither into thick ferns. Matt was, of course, right by its side to observe. My mouth fell open in horror as the full scale and size of the creature was revealed – I would put him at four meters. Conservatively. As he slithered into the bush, Matt decided to pick up his tail for a cheeky feel. Now, my boyfriends biceps are nothing to sneeze at, but the girth on this snake made Hattys arms look like toothpicks. At this point I was horrified…this monster was simply HUGE. I definitely wanted it absolutely nowhere near me. My boy, the sicko that he is, was loving it – and got up close and personal to take some piccies of its “cute” little head poking out of the ferns. I was fairly certain it could choke Matt out with minimal effort if it wanted to. Honestly, this snake made Nagini look like a piddly legless lizard.
I can’t overstate how massive this olive python was at full stretch.
We played on, and it was a serious hike to get all the way to El Questro waterfall. Just as we neared the end point, some turbo came hooning down to advise us that there was a coastal taipan (only the third most toxic of all venomous snakes in the world) lazing about in the pool. Matt of course got excited and immediately tried seeking it out, and I hastily double checked I had packed our snake bandages. Upon inspection, Matt reckoned it was a greater black whipsnake, but I can’t say I got close enough to make the distinction. It def looked like bad news though.
El Questro Gorge.
Cooling off at the half way point, El Questro Gorge.
The end of El Questro Gorge.
Snakey snake and water fall.
Probably the most stunning scenery of the trip thus far - these ferns get me going.
Hiking back down El Questro Gorge.
That night we found another random river camp, and I looked out the window from our bed in the morning to see a freshwater croc lazily floating past our camp a stones throw away. We tackled the 10 km Champagne Springs hike, setting off at about 11 am (only the worst time for it). The Kimberely heat had certainly made a comeback, and I was minorly heat stroked by the time we completed the hike. A pint of ginger beer at the El Questro pub was a good restorative, after which we snouted out a free camp outside El Questro station.
The next morning we hiked the iconic Emma Gorge – once again, stunning scenes. A lovely café on site provided me with a scrumptious iced coffee and Hat tried his first croc burger. He wasn’t impressed, and started eyeing off my tofu wrap enviously. In the late afternoon we hit the track for the final time bearing east, and as the sun made its last dash towards the horizon we reached the T junction that marks the end of the might Gibb River Road. We had officially made it. For those playing along at home we learned the fate of our river crossing mates Carina and Simon who elected to hunker down – they got rained in and stranded on the Gibb for a further 12 days - they survived off a dwindling supply of two minute noodles and hot toddys.
Me getting that textbook hot gal shot at Emma Gorge.
The Gibb claimed one tyre, many gas struts, our water tank and all my dry clothes in an “unseasonable” rain event (buzz word of the trip). We got stranded at a river crossing, rattled around on a million corrys, saw a snake a day and found epic camp spots under boab trees and a sky full of stars. We hiked a million hikes, gorged on a million gorges, showered alongside freshwater crocs and made some great new acquaintances. Red dust found its way into every crack and crevice of the Troopy and I’m still cleaning it up, but it was worth it. And so, my deciduous dugong worshippers, our Galivanting across the Gibb has rattled to an end. Next, we set our sights on Kununurra, the Bungle Bungles, and the Northern Territory.
Until then my manatee wannabees.
Yours faithfully,
The Dugong.