North by northwest

Large migrations are one of the spectacles of nature. Just picture those TV images of birds swarming in gracious patterns, of wildebeest thumping over dry savannah, of whales gathering in bays to feed and flap and soar into the sky as Attenborough calmly reassures us this is perfectly normal. In Western Australia, a migration of sorts northwards in June; ageing men in too short shorts and collared polo shirts hitch up thirty metre caravans to a white Hilux overflowing with fishing gear. Their partners, replete in grey slacks and pastel tops, with expensive designer rim glasses perched atop their nose, support the hitching process...left a bit, back, whoa, stop. They might add a boat to the top of the trailer, and affix the very necessary solar panels and satellite dish. And then they are on their way, clustering with others for months and months at prime camping positions up and up the west and north coast.  

 

They are generally amiable, and interesting to observe. And they are not alone, for other rarer creatures compete for space, curious to see what all the fuss is about. Backpackers from Europe, congregating in small clusters of battered vans and crammed cars and skimpy shorts. Surfers and beach bums sat on the sands plucking a guitar. Nice couples, often from overseas too, who are all rather nice and goody-goody. And us, somewhat misplaced and nonconformist, prolonging the opportunity to wear shorts and listen to Eurotrash music as we head north by northwest. 

 

It doesn’t take long upon leaving Perth to return to vast open spaces and infrequent settlements. It takes a lot longer for the weather to warm significantly and the water temperature to be more suitable however. A few hours north of the city sits Cervantes, and a return to camping after so much luxury. The attraction here is Nambung National Park and The Pinnacles Desert, which is truly a spectacle as the end of day light casts shadows and red and orange glows across the many jagged pillars littering the landscape. What is especially great is that you can walk among them, without barriers and too many authoritarian impositions.

 

From the Pinnacles it was a slow and steady drift up the coast, pausing at towns like Jurien Bay and Dongara and Geraldton, typically for coffee or beer or petrol or food. This was all en-route to Kalbarri, where a few days were well spent both working and sightseeing. Kalbarri is a lovely little spot, akin to some of the coastal towns of New South Wales and Victoria, with a few fine beaches, a snaking estuary and river, daggy looking shops and cafes and motels and pubs. There are fishing people and boat people and backpackers and grey nomads and us. There are seabirds and jetties and sunsets on the sands. It’s quite a treasured little spot.

 

 

Kalbarri is situated amongst some spectacular rugged scenery. Indeed, the coast around Kalbarri is full of dramatic bluffs and gorges and tumbling red rocks, plummeting down to a pounding, pristine Indian Ocean. It is ever-changing evidence of the battle between land and sea, as rock platforms emerge over millions of years and crumble away as they are gnawed at by the ebbs and flows of water, baked by the searing summer sun and pounded by winter storms. It is well worth migrating to.

 

The coastline is protected within the borders of Kalbarri National Park, which extends inland following the Murchison River and encompasses an increasingly rocky and arid landscape of gorges and cliffs. Work on the access road to the interior of the park meant that access was restricted, and could only be reached by participation on either an abseiling or canoeing tour. Gently paddling on still waters through a red rock gorge sounds much more appealing than jumping off a cliff, so a few hours on the water was as good a way as any to appreciate the surroundings and experience this special place.

 

Leaving Kalbarri the next stop on the migratory route is around Shark Bay, a World Heritage Area. It seems the name does not put anyone off and curiously it’s renowned for dolphins more than sharks. It also has living things older than sharks and dolphins and some of those grey nomads in too short shorts and Big W polo shirts. Stromatolites at Hamelin Pool, as memorably featured in a book by Bill Bryson, are the oldest living organisms on earth. I think they may have helped other life forms develop, by releasing small bubbles of oxygen into very salty water. As living creatures go, they are not quite as spectacular to look at as, say, a backpacker in skimpy shorts. But they are, in their own little way, quite amazing. (By the way, they are the things that look like rocks on the picture!)

Shells are pretty cool too, and there are many to see washed up along the bays and shores of this area. Most seem to occur at the inspirationally-named Shell Beach. In fact, the whole beach is made up of shells, all perfectly small and white and crunchy. Millions upon millions fringe the bay and they are quite mesmerising to lie in, run your hand through, throw in the air and crouch down in silly positions to get photos of.

Another cool thing around Shark Bay are dolphins, which generally hang out around Monkey Mia (which has no monkeys...that would be just too cool). An equally cool thing is the water in which you wade in to look at the dolphins on a grey, windy June day. It is no tropical paradise yet let me tell you. And as a park ranger rambles on with some interesting factoids and with each factoid you lose the feeling further up your legs, the only solace is the dolphin amiably milling about, probably smugly thinking I’m quite warm thanks, plus I am soon to eat some tasty fish, while for you, my Homo sapiens friend, the coffee shop is closed. Those clicky sounds are actually sniggers of laughter.

 

The dolphins don’t tend to migrate from here, but for our human friends the exodus rejoins the Northwest Coastal Highway and ploughs on into the town of Carnarvon. Here, palm trees and bananas greet you and it should be almost tropical but it is still a little cool. There is not a great deal to see, but a decent coffee and some very decent and reasonably priced fish and chips. It seems to be an enclave for some of those migrating nomads, who linger long over winter and happily mill about the caravan park in which swags are a rare curiosity.

Swags are much more at home just an hour north of Carnarvon around Quobba Station. This is a more rustic experience with ramshackle aluminium sheds and rusty gates, dusty earth and scraggly saltbush. It’s in a beautiful place, where the ocean can explode in fury at one spot and just a little further along shimmer sedately protected by rocks and reef. Shells and coral litter the shores, where the water is just that little bit warmer and reaching the okay to paddle threshold. It’s a bit off the beaten track, off the main road, and I kind of like it that way.

 

The northern end of Quobba Station borders Ningaloo Reef, a band of coral that extends north now fringing the coast all the way to Exmouth. Coral Bay is much more on the beaten track, a point at which road and campsite and fish and boat people meet the amazing turquoise waters, clear and silky in the shallows and dotted with darker clumps signifying coral. Huge snapper are happy to drift alongside legs and feet and snorkels, all in water that is again just that little bit warmer. It is idyllic in many ways and even the hustle and bustle of migratory visitors doesn’t afflict it too much. And besides, a bit of civilisation is good, for ice creams can be bought just a few metres from the water.

 

You can stay at Coral Bay in a campsite or two which has aimed to capture that genuine shanty town experience. They’ll probably charge you handsomely for it, and you can mingle with other big rigs and people wearing too short shorts. Or, like us, you can spend an hour to drive north and have a night at a delightful, genuine outback station. Bullara Station wasn’t flash nor obviously scenic but it was nonetheless full of charm and character. Friendliness abounds, from the family owners who welcome you to visit their place, to the characters camping and cooking and sharing damper around a communal fire. It’s a true blue, red earth kind of place, where you can buy some beef directly from the farm and have a hot shower in the open air (though thankfully within a closed corrugated perimeter). It was one of my favourite stops of the trip and the shower was heaven.

From the outback to the tropics, all within 30 minutes or so. Crossing the Tropic of Capricorn on the road to Exmouth, things weren’t that noticeably warmer or more tropical. Termite mounds pepper the arid landscape, and ranges rise to the west. It’s not until you once more glimpse the azure seas near Exmouth that you remember you are now in a tropical water world. And fleetingly passing through Exmouth for shopping, petrol and good coffee, you reach the end of the cape, but not the end of the road.

 

The western side of this tip of land is dominated by two very marvellous things – Ningaloo Reef, practically coming right next to the shore, and the marvellous Cape Range National Park. It is, as the tourist brochures boast, where the ranges meet the reef. It is immensely popular with migratory animals, including turtles and whale sharks and many, many grey nomads and backpackers. Camping in the national park, next to the reef, is practically off-limits as people who don’t usually bother staying in national parks decide they will park up and stay in their big rigs for two months. It seems a little unfair, but thankfully a decent campground outside the park offered a good base from which to explore.

Cape Range National Park was a delight, in particular the rugged gorges that cut through the red ridges, an archetypal elemental landscape of inland and northern Australia. Two walks at two separate gorges – Yardie and Mandu Mandu – were really enjoyable and offered a fine return to decent bushwalking. The first followed the only watercourse cutting through the range and sometimes spilling out into the ocean. Yardie Creek cut increasingly deeper into the red rocks, offering solace for snakes and lizards, rock wallabies and emus.

 

Mandu Mandu Gorge was altogether different, in that it was a dry creek almost all of the time, the residue of white and pink pebbles offering something of a track to follow, before clambering up above the creek bed for superlative views of the snake like gorge system. Beyond, not too far, the multifaceted blue colours of Ningaloo testament to the sloganeering of the range meeting the reef.

 

And what of this reef? A reef that compels you to take countless photos of clear water, shimmering on the sandy sea bed as it refracts the sun above, changing in colour to reflect the sea floor, from golden to white to turquoise to azure. It is, in the right spots, reasonably warm and embraces many species of coral and fish and crab and turtle. Turtles that occasionally peer out of the water, checking what is going on before drifting away like a clump of seaweed. Aptly named Turquoise Bay is the place to see all this and sit and stare and sleep and sunbathe and revel in this northward migration.

This is the end of this road, the northernmost point I would suspect, but I guess you never know. The migration for others continues to head north and east...Karratha, Port Hedland, the utopia that is supposedly Broome. Trailers and utes, big rigs and small vans will continue to bumble their way along. Amongst it all, a blue Subaru Outback with a chunky roof box will head one way or another, seeking out more red rocks and dust, outback vistas and dazzling sunsets, making its own course amongst the many as it veers around and back to Perth.