Of Bites and Nullarbor

The question of the Nullarbor was answered today, although perhaps a little confusingly. At Nullarbor, a town which seems to be no more than a roadhouse, a sign proclaims that the Nullarbor Plain stretches from the coast 200km inland and covers an area nearly the size of Victoria. At the SA Border you enter the Nullarbor National Park. Leaving the roadhouse which is about 200km into SA you pass a sign proclaiming the Western end of the treeless plain.  Then about 30km later a sign indicating the eastern end. Now last time I looked, Victoria was a little bigger than that, so I can only presume that the Nullarbor Plains contains a treeless plain. That much seems well defined, but the extents of the surrounding plains sharing the name remains a mystery.

Our campsite at Weebubbie Cave dawned misty and cool. It may well have been one of the coldest mornings of the trip, but the complete absence of any wind did not make it feel cool at all. Once the sun burnt off the mist, it was into shorts and entirely pleasant.

Heading towards the quarantine at Ceduna, we had some fruit to dispose of. So in what has become a bit of a tradition, a quarantine cake was called for. Fruit and vegetables being disallowed indicated a carrot and apple cake was in order. Added a few secret ingredients, and a bit of a stir-up to reignite last night’s fire and the result was not too shabby, even if I do say so myself.

We headed down to the old Eucla telegraph station and wandered over what remains of the old building still remaining above the sands. It seems to have become a bit of a tradition to vandalise it by carving names and dates into the stonework. Apparently the station was abandoned in the 1930s, and according to a tour guide in the area, the earliest graffiti is dated 1946, so it’s been going on a while.

The beach in that area was yet another of those stunning blue and white affairs seemingly most common down south. The jetty, also in ruins, served to supply the telegraph station as no roads came through the area until after WW2 had begun. I imagine life is fairly routine down there, as our photos of the beach and the birds on the jetty, looked pretty much exactly the same as the one in the guide book.

Being such a pretty spot, we spent all too long there, so by the time we called in at the Eucla International Airport for a look at a starling trap and we got from there to the border and lost another 45 minutes, it was basically lunch time. Eucla apparently used to be in SA, but a corrected survey moved the border and so the town effectively moved interstate. I don’t want to begin to think about what an administrative nightmare that would have created.

The Great Australian Bight continues with the great limestone cliffs of the greatest dry Karst system in the world. East of the border the coastal plain disappears and the Eucla escarpments moves to the coast, effectively becoming the cliffs which continue for some 200km. At 90m high (or so the warning signs go), the accessibility from the Eyre highway which for about 60km is no more than 10km from the coast, and often only 1km has meant that it is really fruitless to try and fence it. At the innumerable access roads warning signs tell you of the crumbly, undercut cliffs and the dangers of strong winds which could blow you off without warning. In the worst of the places some road closed signs discourage access, but really you get way too close for comfort if you want to. My children looked the first time and mostly passed after that.

The cliffs are truly dramatic. The day for us was fine and clear, with only a slight onshore wind so conditions really couldn’t be better. Recent rains had freshened up the wildflowers so it all looked pretty as a picture. Looking down though the waves crashing into the base of the cliffs reminded us of the perils of navigating in these waters. Not only were the rocks dangerous in themselves, but any survivors of a wreck on the coast would have met sheer cliffs at the waters edge with no hope of escape.

The continuous photo stops made us run late through the day. The Head of the Bight seems to have been put behind a tourist attraction. The sign at the highway just said admission fees apply, and our reading from an earlier roadhouse suggested it would be $45. At 4:45 we declined and so headed onwards trying to make camp before the sun set. On the way we stopped at the roadhouse recommended by our Norseman roadhouse operator. He said we would save 20c a litre by shopping there. It seemed sus at the time, but in fact we paid 41c a litre less than we would have if we had filled up at the previous stop only about 80km earlier. There is something odd going on there, but it was going our way, so I didn’t argue.

Tonight finds us near Fowler’s Bay. Not exactly sure where. Our target was a place called Mexican hat beach, but a combination of poor signage, the after dusk arrival and muddy tracks means we didn’t wind up there. Just where we are though we’ll find out in the morning. After having to dig a hole for Elliot last night, he wasn’t happy about staying somewhere “without felicities”, but I’m sure a good night’s sleep and the sight of a sand dune in the morning will cure all.

Could be a big day tomorrow. Must get to Port Augusta.