Week 18 wild west on the Gibb

I tweaked my back paddling on the Fitzroy River last week. Our packraft is technically a one-person craft, and when I’m in it I sit up front, a little too hunched. I think that’s what did it. This week I’m nursing the pain, remembering to engage my core and brace whenever lifting, carrying, or hitching the trailer.

It’s another busy week exploring the next stretch of the Gibb. Hard to believe I once considered starting post-grad study this year — perhaps a masters — imagining I’d have time to read, think, and write. Not a chance. It’s been difficult to find even a moment for reading for pleasure. Most nights I manage a page or two before sleep, which comes early, especially now as the weather cools with the setting sun.

We’re also conscious the trip’s end is near. The Gibb is one of our final big destinations. Apart from a commitment to be home by August 6, the Gibb and Purnululu are the last planned stops. It feels like such a gift to be here, far from home and responsibilities, relishing each day outdoors. Work waits for me at home, though I’m not yet sure what that looks like. It’s both daunting and exciting.

Mount Barnett is our next stop, via the beautiful Adcock Gorge, another green, cascading waterfall. The colour here is different from the south and the ocean, thanks to the depth of the pools, the nature of the rock, and particles suspended in the water. We swim to cool off in the 30-degree heat.

At Mount Barnett, after paying over $100 for ten items of basic food (think Black & Gold raw sugar, half a red cabbage, an iceberg lettuce, long-life milk), we’re told to ‘camp anywhere.’ We drive seven kilometres to the campground to find it packed. ‘Anywhere’ is nowhere. It’s chaotic, unlike the more orderly setups at AWC, Lennard River and Iminitji.

We eventually squeeze into a tight spot, feeling like we’ve pitched in someone’s driveway. Oh well. We shrug, apologise to the neighbours and make a fire. The next morning, two campers leave, freeing a better spot at the edge of the grounds. We claim it quickly, grateful for the extra space.

Later we hike to Manning Gorge, starting with a swim across the Barnett River, floating our clothes and packs in halved 40-gallon drums. The five-kilometre return walk winds through stunning country: boabs, wattles, grevilleas, pink bachelor button flowers, and red rock. At the falls, the deep green waterhole is fed by a series of cascades. We sit behind the curtain of water on a narrow ledge, feeling its power and presence. Back at camp we light a fire, bake damper and focaccia, and enjoy a roast lamb dinner with veggies and gravy.

On the way to Mount Elizabeth Station, we stop at Galvin’s Gorge for another swim and waterfall. More wandjina rock art hides in the cliffs, tucked behind thick vegetation. Knowing this art belongs to an ancestral Creator Spirit unique to this region deepens my understanding of its significance.

At Mount Elizabeth, we put our overlanding skills to the test on the 4WD track to Wunnamurra Gorge, twelve kilometres of steep, rocky trail with rough water crossings. It’s enough to thrill any 4WD frother. We come across a decked-out 70 Series LandCruiser stuck on a rock, suspension hung up. Jeremy and another bloke, JB, help him out, though he drives off with barely a thank you, continuing recklessly down the rock steps. We decide to park and walk the rest. It’s too risky. We’re a long way from help.

Many stay at these stations, but with no services nearby, we’re all vulnerable. It feels like the wild west at times, especially seeing people speed down tracks and take needless risks.

At Wunnamurra, we swim and explore the falls, clambering behind a huge ficus root system concealing a cave. Further along the river, more wandjina art adorns the gorge walls. I feel a sadness knowing I can access this while the descendants of its makers are absent from the land.

It’s a complicated history, decades in the making, with successive pastoralists engaging with First Nations people as they see fit — or not. It’s not as simple as who owns what or giving land back. There are questions bouncing around in my head, still working themselves out.

Just another day on the Gibb.

It’s also our first real taste of cold, temperatures dropping to four degrees overnight, a novelty after nine months of endless summer.

One night, we like to think we helped save a man’s life. At dinner we hear a voice calling in the dark. We head to the main building to see what’s happening. A staff member says the police advised not to involve guests, but with headtorches, UHF radios and common sense, we reassure her we’ll be careful. More feet on the ground can only help. She’s already sent one hospo worker — a Danish guy who’s only been here a month.

One? In the dark bush? No training? Wild west indeed.

To his credit, he has a compass and knows how to use it, tracking our positions and keeping us together. The missing man, an older gent, had gone for a walk at 3:30 pm, losing the track within half an hour. We find him around 9:30 pm, in the pitch black of a moonless night.

It’s an eerie feeling, searching in the dark, all of us carrying dark thoughts as we crashed through bush, torches bobbing, making sure no one else gets lost. In the end, a faint coo-ee leads us to him.

Earlier, I’d asked Jeremy what you do if you’re lost in the bush at night with no food, water, or jacket. It was a very real question.

Our final stay on the Gibb (before meeting Brodie and John at El Questro) is at the Pentecost River. Nestled below the Cockburn Range, it’s known for barra fishing, saltwater crocs and marking the start of the bitumen. We camp by the river for a night, then move to a secluded hilltop overlooking the range, before heading to Kununurra for a tyre rotation and balance.

As I travel through these landscapes, I keep thinking about the privilege I carry. I have access to places that local Aboriginal people in Derby, Fitzroy Crossing and Mowanjum don’t. Me — and so many others, in big cars, caravans, boats and trailers. It feels surreal.