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East of the Ranges
Helen Ransom
Courtesy Dean Ransom
This story was written by Helen Ransom who was partial blind, a defect she had since birth. Notwithstanding this problem, Helen developed into quite an excellent artist. She also had dreams of becoming a journalist and perhaps an author. However, these dreams were cut short in 1965 when she suffered a stroke at the age of 30.
Only this embryo work survives, scribbled in pencil in an old school-book and a spiralbound pad.
In her narrative, it is obvious that she was captivated by the scenery of the Flinders. she had not been there before and, at that stage, had not seen any of the Outback. With her artist's eye, she struggled to put into words the vivid scenes before her. In later years, she was able to paint them with remarkable success.
The story also shows that it can be done in any type of car, even a small one. No 4WD is needed. This then is her story, copied from her diaries by Neil Ransom.
After many hours of careful planning and preparations, the morning of October the 13th, 1956 came clear and hot. We were heading north for the Flinders Ranges but, as our itinerary included long stretches of infrequently travelled tracks, the preparations had necessarily to be more extensive and careful to the smallest detail. A miscalculation of petrol or a mechanical fault could strand us miles from the nearest Station and lack of water could become a serious situation.
The party consisted of two couples in two cars, a Mini Minor and a baby Austin, and as both were small vehicles and the country through which we were to pass would call for all the engine power of which they were capable, weight, which consisted of bedding, food, petrol and water, had to be carefully considered. Careful planning had been necessary to draw up the itinerary; maps of the area, the Eastern Flinders and country towards Lake Frome, were not very explicit, nor could their accuracy be solely relied upon.
Balcanoona Station
After writing to the manager of Balcanoona Station and the Post Mistress at Blinman and getting their opinion of the track and the availability of water and petrol, we could then map out our route, which was limited to the supply of petrol we could take.
Travelling light, clothes and gear were kept to a minimum. We slept on the ground with a single mattress underneath and blankets covered by a tarpaulin on top. On the coldest nights, with the canvas pulled right up, we were quite snug. The cooking gear consisted of several "billies", one frying pan and a gallon paint tin with lid, which proved invaluable for stewing kangaroo tail. With continual use over an open fire place, they were soon black on the outside. Clothes consisted (for both men and women) of pants, heavy shoes or boots, check shirts and large hats as protection against the sun and rain as we were soon to discover.
Food, nearly all tinned goods, was the heaviest item and water-tight petrol and water drums had to be packed where the weight would have least effect. This at first was trial and error, but before long, we found the best method and packed the same way each morning. We left Adelaide and by 12 noon had left Clare behind. This was the least interesting part of the entire journey as the country and colours were familiar.
However, the other side of Clare proved more colourful as an obnoxious weed known as Cape Tulip, a pinkish orange shade, carpeted mile upon mile of hillside. As far as the horizon the pink paddocks were broken by the green clumps of gum, patches of green grass and, here and there, the purple of Salvation Jane.
The crest of the hill brought a sudden change of scenery from the colourful pink and purple to dull bare brown pasture land stretching over the low hills to the blue misty ranges on the skyline. Just past Gulnare, where Mount Remarkable appeared as a sharp blue peak, the Crystal Brook turn-off was marked by a cairn. It was in memory of Horrocks, who explored the country years ago and named Gulnare Plain after a favourite dog.
Through Gladstone, a hot dry town monopolized by the large railway yards, to Laura, 130 miles from Adelaide - centre of a large fax industry, where we bought petrol. At Murray Town, Mount Remarkable, five miles away, started to show detail and the country takes on the typical Flinders look; the big creeks appear marked by the beautiful gums.
Commercial Hotel Gladstone.
Further on, the road takes a sharp turn left and heads directly for the Mount Melrose, tucked almost beneath the brow of the hill, has a complete hill-bounded horizon. Turning once again, the road skirts the Mount, running its length to Wilmington. Rising abruptly from the flat ground, the thickly wooded spur we followed slowly sloped down and merged again with the foothills. The purple of Salvation Jane, which we were to see percolate the length of the whole trip, was colourful just here in our first close look at the Flinders.
Turning off the bitumen the rough track to Alligator Gorge climbed up and down steep hills following the ridge up from the main road. After traversing half of the 12 miles to the Gorge, we stopped to allow the radiator to cool and took the opportunity to study the plains stretched out below for miles towards Peterborough.
As we climbed still higher over heavily wooded hills another view, this time in the opposite direction, showed us the sea and the other side of Spencer Gulf. At the end of the road there was no sign of the Gorge, only a sign-post pointing the way down steep stone steps, man made but blending naturally with the scenery.
It was late in the afternoon and, as the Gorge runs roughly north and south, the sun was well down behind the hill but we decided to investigate nevertheless. As the next morning was completely overcast and drizzling with rain, we made a lucky decision.
At the end of the steps, portion of the Gorge showed as huge angles of rock breaking through the tree-tops and forming the skyline above.
At the base of the rocks, a creek trickling out of the stones made the air deliciously cool after the previous heat of driving. As we walked up the Gorge to the Hieroglyphic Rocks, we found wild flowers and noticed large trees growing out at odd angles to the cliff face.
A large wall of burnt orange rock, bare of all vegetation, marked with what resembled Egyptian carvings, rose shadow, perpendicularly over us. The Gorge is so narrow that the sun would only light the rocks for a few hours in the middle of the day. In some places, where it is only a deep slit, the light never penetrates.
Back down the Gorge, past the steps the rock walls narrowed until the creek lapped both walls forming a deep, dank pool preventing us from walking through to the other side of the mountain. The sun was nearly gone and the rocks were dark with water oozing between them, making the air cold.
The campsite was still in sunlight as we started to make camp. After a hot tea, we settled down for our first night sleeping on the ground. The mildest night we were to have for over a week helped us to sleep soundly. The birds at first light had us up and before long we had all the enjoyed bacon and coffee, eaten in the brisk morning air perfumed with the appetizing scent of burnt gum leaves.
The weather had become overcast and before long a steady drizzle was falling setting the pattern for several days to come. At 7.00am we were ready to start. The engines of both cars had been running for at least 15 minutes while we were packing and the Morris, the smaller of the two cars, tried to climb the hill. A very steep grade with no room to make an approach was too much for the little car and it got no more than halfway up.
No amount of persuasion in either bottom gear or reverse gear would induce it to get toward the top. Fine rain had set in as the two amateur mechanics started to work. After an hour spent on the engine, we surmounted the hill with nothing to spare. As we left the gorge, we obtained just one glimpse of the red rocks through the rain.
On the track back to Wilmington, the distant views were obscured by the weather, but there was plenty of interest in things close at hand. A rabbit, the first wildlife we had seen, and then a euro, a small gray stubby member of the kangaroo family, hopped unconcernedly across the track. At 8.30am on a Sunday morning, Wilmington was deserted. Close under the Ranges it forms one angle of a triangle, 25 miles to Quorn and 25 to Port Augusta.
The wheat paddocks were left behind and dry sheep country took its place. The grass, which had turned yellow as it dried, offered a sharp contrast to the purple Salvation Jane growing along the fences and bordering the road on both sides. The first of seven creeks between Wilmington and Quorn was crossed on a concrete ford, an unsuitable construction. When the water comes down in the winter it makes them difficult to cross.
Quorn, a good place to stay.
The creeks at the time however were dry and several concrete bridges had been completed, while others were in the course of construction. Owing to increasing numbers of tourists to the Flinders the roads were being improved throughout.
Looking for the road to Warren Gorge we spent some time driving around Quorn. After inquiring the way, we headed out on a well graded road which wound its way between jagged hills.
Following a strip map provided by the RAA, we turned onto a mere track and after travelling for some time we realized we had misread it. Back on the road, we found a map unnecessary as signs clearly marked the way. At the Gorge the road takes to the creek bed, which enables it to pass through the actual Gorge which is only a few yards long.
Sharp angular rocks rose from the grassy soil dotted with the lacy pattern of the mature native pines. The rocks were typical of the Flinders, brightly coloured red and orange and black. The great slabs were sandwiched together overhanging the creek. The road continued out of the creek and then wandered around a flat park-like plateau from which the outcrops of brightly hued rock could be seen in all the surrounding hills.
Near the entrance to the Gorge a mighty hill sloped up abruptly from the flat ground and, topped by bare buttresses and red rock, left one with a startling impression of might.
On the way back to Quorn we once again obscured the ever-changing pattern of sharp hills and rolling pasture still covered with Salvation Jane and yellow mustard weed.
The road to Hawker was very greasy with pools of water and miniature rivers, which caused the cars to slide sideways. A wide road, it is left to the individual to find the easiest track to drive on.
At times, this was on the extreme right of the road and for miles we broke the law by not keeping as near as practicable to the left-hand side.
Willochra Plains
Rain still obscured the distant views, which left the Willochra Plain flat and uninteresting. At one time prosperous wheat-land, a series of bad seasons had driven the farmers out and now only sheep graze.
At the Boolcunda Creek, gaunt dead gums (termed by some as "flapper" trees because of their bare arms), killed by an excess of salt in the earth, guard the ruins of an old homestead left in despair by some pioneer family. Throughout all of the Flinders Ranges the ruined homesteads stand as a monument to the many people who settled there in good years and were finally driven out by drought and the failing of their crops. This season however had been good and the tall grass and mustard weed bordering the road had not had time to dry off completely.
Gordon and Wilson, shown on the map as towns, are occupied by only one or two families who work on the railway line. From then on crossing creeks became commonplace. With or without water, they were all below the level of the plain and from a distance were marked only by the big gums and other trees growing up their steep banks. The road of necessity sloped sharply into the creek-bed which was traversed on a loose foundation of sharp stones placed to form a rough ford.
If the creek was running care was needed, not only in going through the water but also in climbing the opposite bank, as mud made the roads slippery and to become stuck on the incline was not desirable. Just before Hawker the road wanders into the hills which we had glimpsed from Quorn on the other side of the plain. Hawker itself appeared quite suddenly and as it was raining hard we lunched under the grandstand at the Show-ground.
At 2.15, after filling up with petrol and water, we headed for Wilpena just as the weather broke. Patches of blue sky appeared with white clouds scudding along pushed by a stiff breeze. The lightened sky brought the hills into view and we approached Arkaba Hill sloping up from the flat ground on the left in a solid blue mass devoid of surface detail.
In this portion of the Ranges the hills never fail to enchant with their amazing variety and originality. They each rise sharply from the flat plain in proud isolation so that the road winds between them, never having to climb.
The fact that this was sheep country was brought home to us by a large mob stretched across the road blocking our way. It is not unusual for a traveller to pass through many miles of this beautiful country, which comprises some of the richest stations in Australia, and never see a single sheep. Looking at this mob it was easy to see one reason why this occurs. Through continual contact with the dry earth their coats had taken on the same reddish tinge which would act as a very efficient camouflage. A more typical Australian scene would be hard to imagine.
The moving backs of the mob of sheep with the drover and his dogs following behind, a small fire on the edge of the road around which the other drovers were seated on saddles while their hobbled horses grazed contentedly. And behind it all the unsurpassable backdrop of the Ranges with red tops jutting into the blue sky and the green foothills covered with purple Salvation Jane.
The wet road caused a slight delay when the Morris, after slithering from side to side, finally came to rest in the deep mud on the right-hand bank. All of us had very muddy shoes before we were on the way again. For a brief moment the sun shone on the Chase Range, the long range to the right, and then, on the left, we saw Rawnsley's Bluff.
Salvation Jane colours the whole land, from the hop bushes right on the verge of the road, as far away as the eye can see, interspersed with yellow bushes of large flowers and patches of red brown earth and green grass. The sun shone in patches and picked up the colours in some of the far ranges.
The Great Wall of China showed as layers of burnt orange rock forced up between the trees. We got one view of Rawnsley's Bluff and the eastern lip of the Wilpena Range with the rest of the ranges folding back, black and jagged. The road skirts the Bluff, which was shrouded with clouds.
Leaving the road, we camped well back amongst the native pines in a very park-like setting at 4 p.m. The weather looked foreboding so we set up camp and a tarpaulin for protection over our beds. We cooked tea in the dry creek bed and had just finished when it started to rain. We thought at first it was only a shower but we saw it had set in and, within minutes, the ground was saturated; the tarp over the beds started to leak and the creek started to run. Within an hour we were flooded out, the creek was running steadily in a wide stream and the bedding was floating.
The cars had had trouble getting down there and the wetter it became the less chance there was of getting back to the road. After some trouble with the Austin, we had to go out in the pouring rain and mud to push the Morris up out of the creek bed. The canvas was saturated and the bedding was getting wet. As the rain did not look like easing, we grabbed the bedding into the cars and decided to head for Wilpena Homestead and some shelter. Everybody was wet through and muddy and when we got back to the main road we had to push each car through the mud. The road was a sheet of water and the creeks were all running swiftly. The road in more than one spot was underwater and looked like a creek.
We got through better than we expected and in the dark, turned off for Wilpena Pound. This track was even wetter than the others had been and the cars got wet in the engine and stalled several times. It meant walking through inches of water to wipe the plugs and get moving again. At 8.10pm, we arrived at the homestead and saw George Hunt who loaned us a shearers hut for our use; a two-room hut made from slabs of wood and roughly mortared. We settled in for the night with two in each bed; single iron bedsteads with a big bow in the middle.
We had a reasonable sleep and as the weather did not look like fining up, we settled in the hut for at least two days as the roads would be impassable. We stayed in bed until late, worked on the cars, tidied up the shack and cooked dinner and tea. We were quite snug and got our clothes dry.
In the afternoon, the weather became patchy and the hills around the Pound showed for the first time. The sun shone periodically and we could see the coloured rocks and beautiful scenery. All around the house the impression was of a park-like nature with large gums and the ground covered by Salvation Jane, a beautiful setting. Later in the afternoon, we went for a drive into the Gorge and saw Bonds Chalet in a marvelous setting of high hills, red rock and tall pines and more park-like ground. It was a charming place for a Chalet. The colour was the main attraction.
It was still showery and back at camp we had hot tea and another night of snug comfort of wire beds and warm fires. Next morning, the weather had started to clear with a cold wind and scudding clouds, but no rain. We went back to where we had left the tarps in the creek. The road had dried out and the creeks were not running so much. The sun was shining on the Wilpena Range with clouds lying down over the tops. These clouds kept changing, ever varying the scene.
The road, which the night before last had been running like a creek, was now a reasonably graded road running through the most beautiful country we had yet seen. It was at the peak of its season, with the grass still green and the Salvation Jane and Other wildflowers lending cover. The native pines were growing in thick groves with the ranges rising sheer and gaunt behind them. Here there are two kinds of ranges; one low and sloping covered with medium trees and then the huge, rocky, broken cliffs of the mountains.
We found the canvas still as we had left it and the creek was back to a few stationary pools. We collected the gear and then returned to Wilpena, then climbed a hill to get a grandstand view of the gorge into the Pound, but St. Mary's Peak was obscured by cloud. In the large Wilpena Creek, Galahs (gray and pink) and Corellas (white and yellow) flew busily around and two fell victims of the rifle.
The Morris was playing up again, this time the starter motor, and back by our hut the mechanics got busy. After lunch we again left the Pound and returned to the main road, this time heading north. We travelled about five miles to the turn off to Bunyeroo Gorge. Fourteen miles of winding track led through the prettiest country we have seen, travelling roughly across Aroona Valley (known as the Valley of a Thousand Hills) and continually up and down over the everchanging hills dotted once again with Salvation Jane and native pines. As we climbed to the top of the range and followed it down, the magnificent view of the Valley stretching away to the towering Wilpena Range, has views equal to any in the State.
It was getting towards evening and we made many stops to watch kangaroos, a dingo and rabbits. We shot a Euro and later made kangaroo tail soup. All the animals in the area are very tame and come quite close to the car unafraid. Abundant in wildlife, colour and grandeur, the country was appealing. We got to within two miles of the Gorge and could not drive any further because the road took to the creek-bed and as the creek was flowing, it was impassable.
The sun set on the return drive and for the first time the cloud lifted from St. Mary's Peak and we could see the range unobscured. Austin was now having piston trouble and a trip back to Hawker was planned for Wednesday. Tea was at 8.00pm and, after making lists for shopping in Hawker, it was 10 o'clock before we went to bed.
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Helen Ransom Courtesy Dean Ransom |
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This story was written by Helen Ransom who was partial blind, a defect she had since birth. Notwithstanding this problem, Helen developed into quite an excellent artist. She also had dreams of becoming a journalist and perhaps an author. However, these dreams were cut short in 1965 when she suffered a stroke at the age of 30.
Only this embryo work survives, scribbled in pencil in an old school-book and a spiralbound pad. In her narrative, it is obvious that she was captivated by the scenery of the Flinders. she had not been there before and, at that stage, had not seen any of the Outback. With her artist's eye, she struggled to put into words the vivid scenes before her. In later years, she was able to paint them with remarkable success.
The story also shows that it can be done in any type of car, even a small one. No 4WD is needed. This then is her story, copied from her diaries by Neil Ransom.
After many hours of careful planning and preparations, the morning of October the 13th, 1956 came clear and hot. We were heading north for the Flinders Ranges but, as our itinerary included long stretches of infrequently travelled tracks, the preparations had necessarily to be more extensive and careful to the smallest detail. A miscalculation of petrol or a mechanical fault could strand us miles from the nearest Station and lack of water could become a serious situation.
The party consisted of two couples in two cars, a Mini Minor and a baby Austin, and as both were small vehicles and the country through which we were to pass would call for all the engine power of which they were capable, weight, which consisted of bedding, food, petrol and water, had to be carefully considered. Careful planning had been necessary to draw up the itinerary; maps of the area, the Eastern Flinders and country towards Lake Frome, were not very explicit, nor could their accuracy be solely relied upon.
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Balcanoona Station
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After writing to the manager of Balcanoona Station and the Post Mistress at Blinman and getting their opinion of the track and the availability of water and petrol, we could then map out our route, which was limited to the supply of petrol we could take.
Travelling light, clothes and gear were kept to a minimum. We slept on the ground with a single mattress underneath and blankets covered by a tarpaulin on top. On the coldest nights, with the canvas pulled right up, we were quite snug. The cooking gear consisted of several "billies", one frying pan and a gallon paint tin with lid, which proved invaluable for stewing kangaroo tail. With continual use over an open fire place, they were soon black on the outside. Clothes consisted (for both men and women) of pants, heavy shoes or boots, check shirts and large hats as protection against the sun and rain as we were soon to discover.
Food, nearly all tinned goods, was the heaviest item and water-tight petrol and water drums had to be packed where the weight would have least effect. This at first was trial and error, but before long, we found the best method and packed the same way each morning. We left Adelaide and by 12 noon had left Clare behind. This was the least interesting part of the entire journey as the country and colours were familiar.
However, the other side of Clare proved more colourful as an obnoxious weed known as Cape Tulip, a pinkish orange shade, carpeted mile upon mile of hillside. As far as the horizon the pink paddocks were broken by the green clumps of gum, patches of green grass and, here and there, the purple of Salvation Jane.
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The crest of the hill brought a sudden change of scenery from the colourful pink and purple to dull bare brown pasture land stretching over the low hills to the blue misty ranges on the skyline. Just past Gulnare, where Mount Remarkable appeared as a sharp blue peak, the Crystal Brook turn-off was marked by a cairn. It was in memory of Horrocks, who explored the country years ago and named Gulnare Plain after a favourite dog.
Through Gladstone, a hot dry town monopolized by the large railway yards, to Laura, 130 miles from Adelaide - centre of a large fax industry, where we bought petrol. At Murray Town, Mount Remarkable, five miles away, started to show detail and the country takes on the typical Flinders look; the big creeks appear marked by the beautiful gums.
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Commercial Hotel Gladstone.
Further on, the road takes a sharp turn left and heads directly for the Mount Melrose, tucked almost beneath the brow of the hill, has a complete hill-bounded horizon. Turning once again, the road skirts the Mount, running its length to Wilmington. Rising abruptly from the flat ground, the thickly wooded spur we followed slowly sloped down and merged again with the foothills. The purple of Salvation Jane, which we were to see percolate the length of the whole trip, was colourful just here in our first close look at the Flinders.
Turning off the bitumen the rough track to Alligator Gorge climbed up and down steep hills following the ridge up from the main road. After traversing half of the 12 miles to the Gorge, we stopped to allow the radiator to cool and took the opportunity to study the plains stretched out below for miles towards Peterborough.
As we climbed still higher over heavily wooded hills another view, this time in the opposite direction, showed us the sea and the other side of Spencer Gulf. At the end of the road there was no sign of the Gorge, only a sign-post pointing the way down steep stone steps, man made but blending naturally with the scenery.
It was late in the afternoon and, as the Gorge runs roughly north and south, the sun was well down behind the hill but we decided to investigate nevertheless. As the next morning was completely overcast and drizzling with rain, we made a lucky decision. At the end of the steps, portion of the Gorge showed as huge angles of rock breaking through the tree-tops and forming the skyline above.
At the base of the rocks, a creek trickling out of the stones made the air deliciously cool after the previous heat of driving. As we walked up the Gorge to the Hieroglyphic Rocks, we found wild flowers and noticed large trees growing out at odd angles to the cliff face.
A large wall of burnt orange rock, bare of all vegetation, marked with what resembled Egyptian carvings, rose shadow, perpendicularly over us. The Gorge is so narrow that the sun would only light the rocks for a few hours in the middle of the day. In some places, where it is only a deep slit, the light never penetrates.
Back down the Gorge, past the steps the rock walls narrowed until the creek lapped both walls forming a deep, dank pool preventing us from walking through to the other side of the mountain. The sun was nearly gone and the rocks were dark with water oozing between them, making the air cold.
The campsite was still in sunlight as we started to make camp. After a hot tea, we settled down for our first night sleeping on the ground. The mildest night we were to have for over a week helped us to sleep soundly. The birds at first light had us up and before long we had all the enjoyed bacon and coffee, eaten in the brisk morning air perfumed with the appetizing scent of burnt gum leaves.
The weather had become overcast and before long a steady drizzle was falling setting the pattern for several days to come. At 7.00am we were ready to start. The engines of both cars had been running for at least 15 minutes while we were packing and the Morris, the smaller of the two cars, tried to climb the hill. A very steep grade with no room to make an approach was too much for the little car and it got no more than halfway up.
No amount of persuasion in either bottom gear or reverse gear would induce it to get toward the top. Fine rain had set in as the two amateur mechanics started to work. After an hour spent on the engine, we surmounted the hill with nothing to spare. As we left the gorge, we obtained just one glimpse of the red rocks through the rain.
On the track back to Wilmington, the distant views were obscured by the weather, but there was plenty of interest in things close at hand. A rabbit, the first wildlife we had seen, and then a euro, a small gray stubby member of the kangaroo family, hopped unconcernedly across the track. At 8.30am on a Sunday morning, Wilmington was deserted. Close under the Ranges it forms one angle of a triangle, 25 miles to Quorn and 25 to Port Augusta.
The wheat paddocks were left behind and dry sheep country took its place. The grass, which had turned yellow as it dried, offered a sharp contrast to the purple Salvation Jane growing along the fences and bordering the road on both sides. The first of seven creeks between Wilmington and Quorn was crossed on a concrete ford, an unsuitable construction. When the water comes down in the winter it makes them difficult to cross.
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Quorn, a good place to stay.
The creeks at the time however were dry and several concrete bridges had been completed, while others were in the course of construction. Owing to increasing numbers of tourists to the Flinders the roads were being improved throughout. Looking for the road to Warren Gorge we spent some time driving around Quorn. After inquiring the way, we headed out on a well graded road which wound its way between jagged hills.
Following a strip map provided by the RAA, we turned onto a mere track and after travelling for some time we realized we had misread it. Back on the road, we found a map unnecessary as signs clearly marked the way. At the Gorge the road takes to the creek bed, which enables it to pass through the actual Gorge which is only a few yards long.
Sharp angular rocks rose from the grassy soil dotted with the lacy pattern of the mature native pines. The rocks were typical of the Flinders, brightly coloured red and orange and black. The great slabs were sandwiched together overhanging the creek. The road continued out of the creek and then wandered around a flat park-like plateau from which the outcrops of brightly hued rock could be seen in all the surrounding hills.
Near the entrance to the Gorge a mighty hill sloped up abruptly from the flat ground and, topped by bare buttresses and red rock, left one with a startling impression of might. On the way back to Quorn we once again obscured the ever-changing pattern of sharp hills and rolling pasture still covered with Salvation Jane and yellow mustard weed.
The road to Hawker was very greasy with pools of water and miniature rivers, which caused the cars to slide sideways. A wide road, it is left to the individual to find the easiest track to drive on. At times, this was on the extreme right of the road and for miles we broke the law by not keeping as near as practicable to the left-hand side.
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Willochra Plains
Rain still obscured the distant views, which left the Willochra Plain flat and uninteresting. At one time prosperous wheat-land, a series of bad seasons had driven the farmers out and now only sheep graze.
At the Boolcunda Creek, gaunt dead gums (termed by some as "flapper" trees because of their bare arms), killed by an excess of salt in the earth, guard the ruins of an old homestead left in despair by some pioneer family. Throughout all of the Flinders Ranges the ruined homesteads stand as a monument to the many people who settled there in good years and were finally driven out by drought and the failing of their crops. This season however had been good and the tall grass and mustard weed bordering the road had not had time to dry off completely.
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Gordon and Wilson, shown on the map as towns, are occupied by only one or two families who work on the railway line. From then on crossing creeks became commonplace. With or without water, they were all below the level of the plain and from a distance were marked only by the big gums and other trees growing up their steep banks. The road of necessity sloped sharply into the creek-bed which was traversed on a loose foundation of sharp stones placed to form a rough ford.
If the creek was running care was needed, not only in going through the water but also in climbing the opposite bank, as mud made the roads slippery and to become stuck on the incline was not desirable. Just before Hawker the road wanders into the hills which we had glimpsed from Quorn on the other side of the plain. Hawker itself appeared quite suddenly and as it was raining hard we lunched under the grandstand at the Show-ground.
At 2.15, after filling up with petrol and water, we headed for Wilpena just as the weather broke. Patches of blue sky appeared with white clouds scudding along pushed by a stiff breeze. The lightened sky brought the hills into view and we approached Arkaba Hill sloping up from the flat ground on the left in a solid blue mass devoid of surface detail.
In this portion of the Ranges the hills never fail to enchant with their amazing variety and originality. They each rise sharply from the flat plain in proud isolation so that the road winds between them, never having to climb.
The fact that this was sheep country was brought home to us by a large mob stretched across the road blocking our way. It is not unusual for a traveller to pass through many miles of this beautiful country, which comprises some of the richest stations in Australia, and never see a single sheep. Looking at this mob it was easy to see one reason why this occurs. Through continual contact with the dry earth their coats had taken on the same reddish tinge which would act as a very efficient camouflage. A more typical Australian scene would be hard to imagine.
The moving backs of the mob of sheep with the drover and his dogs following behind, a small fire on the edge of the road around which the other drovers were seated on saddles while their hobbled horses grazed contentedly. And behind it all the unsurpassable backdrop of the Ranges with red tops jutting into the blue sky and the green foothills covered with purple Salvation Jane.
The wet road caused a slight delay when the Morris, after slithering from side to side, finally came to rest in the deep mud on the right-hand bank. All of us had very muddy shoes before we were on the way again. For a brief moment the sun shone on the Chase Range, the long range to the right, and then, on the left, we saw Rawnsley's Bluff.
Salvation Jane colours the whole land, from the hop bushes right on the verge of the road, as far away as the eye can see, interspersed with yellow bushes of large flowers and patches of red brown earth and green grass. The sun shone in patches and picked up the colours in some of the far ranges.
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The Great Wall of China showed as layers of burnt orange rock forced up between the trees. We got one view of Rawnsley's Bluff and the eastern lip of the Wilpena Range with the rest of the ranges folding back, black and jagged. The road skirts the Bluff, which was shrouded with clouds.
Leaving the road, we camped well back amongst the native pines in a very park-like setting at 4 p.m. The weather looked foreboding so we set up camp and a tarpaulin for protection over our beds. We cooked tea in the dry creek bed and had just finished when it started to rain. We thought at first it was only a shower but we saw it had set in and, within minutes, the ground was saturated; the tarp over the beds started to leak and the creek started to run. Within an hour we were flooded out, the creek was running steadily in a wide stream and the bedding was floating.
The cars had had trouble getting down there and the wetter it became the less chance there was of getting back to the road. After some trouble with the Austin, we had to go out in the pouring rain and mud to push the Morris up out of the creek bed. The canvas was saturated and the bedding was getting wet. As the rain did not look like easing, we grabbed the bedding into the cars and decided to head for Wilpena Homestead and some shelter. Everybody was wet through and muddy and when we got back to the main road we had to push each car through the mud. The road was a sheet of water and the creeks were all running swiftly. The road in more than one spot was underwater and looked like a creek.
We got through better than we expected and in the dark, turned off for Wilpena Pound. This track was even wetter than the others had been and the cars got wet in the engine and stalled several times. It meant walking through inches of water to wipe the plugs and get moving again. At 8.10pm, we arrived at the homestead and saw George Hunt who loaned us a shearers hut for our use; a two-room hut made from slabs of wood and roughly mortared. We settled in for the night with two in each bed; single iron bedsteads with a big bow in the middle.
We had a reasonable sleep and as the weather did not look like fining up, we settled in the hut for at least two days as the roads would be impassable. We stayed in bed until late, worked on the cars, tidied up the shack and cooked dinner and tea. We were quite snug and got our clothes dry.
In the afternoon, the weather became patchy and the hills around the Pound showed for the first time. The sun shone periodically and we could see the coloured rocks and beautiful scenery. All around the house the impression was of a park-like nature with large gums and the ground covered by Salvation Jane, a beautiful setting. Later in the afternoon, we went for a drive into the Gorge and saw Bonds Chalet in a marvelous setting of high hills, red rock and tall pines and more park-like ground. It was a charming place for a Chalet. The colour was the main attraction.
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It was still showery and back at camp we had hot tea and another night of snug comfort of wire beds and warm fires. Next morning, the weather had started to clear with a cold wind and scudding clouds, but no rain. We went back to where we had left the tarps in the creek. The road had dried out and the creeks were not running so much. The sun was shining on the Wilpena Range with clouds lying down over the tops. These clouds kept changing, ever varying the scene.
The road, which the night before last had been running like a creek, was now a reasonably graded road running through the most beautiful country we had yet seen. It was at the peak of its season, with the grass still green and the Salvation Jane and Other wildflowers lending cover. The native pines were growing in thick groves with the ranges rising sheer and gaunt behind them. Here there are two kinds of ranges; one low and sloping covered with medium trees and then the huge, rocky, broken cliffs of the mountains.
We found the canvas still as we had left it and the creek was back to a few stationary pools. We collected the gear and then returned to Wilpena, then climbed a hill to get a grandstand view of the gorge into the Pound, but St. Mary's Peak was obscured by cloud. In the large Wilpena Creek, Galahs (gray and pink) and Corellas (white and yellow) flew busily around and two fell victims of the rifle.
The Morris was playing up again, this time the starter motor, and back by our hut the mechanics got busy. After lunch we again left the Pound and returned to the main road, this time heading north. We travelled about five miles to the turn off to Bunyeroo Gorge. Fourteen miles of winding track led through the prettiest country we have seen, travelling roughly across Aroona Valley (known as the Valley of a Thousand Hills) and continually up and down over the everchanging hills dotted once again with Salvation Jane and native pines. As we climbed to the top of the range and followed it down, the magnificent view of the Valley stretching away to the towering Wilpena Range, has views equal to any in the State.
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It was getting towards evening and we made many stops to watch kangaroos, a dingo and rabbits. We shot a Euro and later made kangaroo tail soup. All the animals in the area are very tame and come quite close to the car unafraid. Abundant in wildlife, colour and grandeur, the country was appealing. We got to within two miles of the Gorge and could not drive any further because the road took to the creek-bed and as the creek was flowing, it was impassable.
The sun set on the return drive and for the first time the cloud lifted from St. Mary's Peak and we could see the range unobscured. Austin was now having piston trouble and a trip back to Hawker was planned for Wednesday. Tea was at 8.00pm and, after making lists for shopping in Hawker, it was 10 o'clock before we went to bed.
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