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Geraldton to
Carnarvon
For 8 months I had Ross River Virus
and I hadn't exercised at all during that time but eventually
I started to get back into it. Before getting the virus I
had planned to paddle, cycle and backpack around the USA but
that was put on hold. It was in September 1996 that I decided
to attempt a smaller expedition to see how my body was going
to cope with the stresses and strains of pysical activity.
Walking the 200km Zuytdorp
Cliffs from Kalbarri to Steep Point. My dream was to paddle
the cliffs at a later time, which I did with John Dinucci
and Tel Williams in early 2002
This story starts at Steep Point. I
had just paddled 140kms from Geraldton to Kalbarri, walked
200km along the Zuytdorp Cliffs and now I was at Steep Point
where I would start 240km paddle to reach my destination Carnarvon.
This 580km expedition was small compared with the 14,500km
US expedition but it was a start......
The bay near Steep Point was fairly
calm in the morning, so it looked like my crossing to Dirk
Hartog Island was going to be easy. Ahead of me I had 240kms
of isolated paddling and a big 55 kilometre open sea crossing
to Carnarvon.
I cast off wondering if I had said everything to Judy and
Phil my support crew who had met me at Steep Point as I wouldn't
see them until I reached Carnarvon. As I paddled across to
the island I focussed on a wreck near Cape Ransonnet. There
were rumours that the boat had been transporting drugs when
it ran aground. Seemingly there is some justice in this world!
Reaching the southern point of Dirk Hartog Island, I was greeted
by two eagles perched on their nest and a little further,
on a small off-lying island, an eagle took to flight. Immediately
gulls moved in to pilfer the nest for eggs or chicks, but
the eagle continually swooped down to protect it.
The small cliff line now shielded the bay from the swell,
but a breeze coming from the southeast, gave me a lift up
the coast. The island's shore seemed to have more eagles and
cormorants on it than on my last visit. Reaching the homestead,
the only inhabited building on the island, I was greeted by
Kieran, the island manager, a young lady who was the cook
and a male work friend. Kieran told me that Jenny (my wife)
had rang so I immediately contacted her. She had bad news
for me, my good friend Tim, had died after being knocked off
his bike crossing Australia. The funeral was going to be in
Melbourne and a memorial service in Perth on Saturday. Tim
had been my support crew for one year on my Australian trip.
He had also supported me on several smaller trips and was
to go with me to the USA. Now he was gone. He was a great
person and loved to help anyone. Tim had just cycled across
USA an adventure he had always dreamt about and was cycling
across Australia at the time of his accident.
On my trip around Australia
I was cycling 220 kilometres or more and Tim was always there
at the end of the day to feed me with vege stew. Just about
every meal he cooked for me was vege stew, at least it was
healthy!
Tim and John Field at
camp on the Canning Stock Route. John was also part of my
support crew for half the journey. He was also on the trip
World Safari with Alby Mangles, although many young people
won't know the adventures of Alby Mangles. I walked 1600kms
along the Canning Stock route. It passes through the Great
Sandy Desert, the Little Sandy Desert and Gibson Desert
The cook had a fresh sandwich
and a cold coke waiting for me when I returned from the phone
call. I found myself with a big lump in my throat and holding
back tears as I told them the news. I was stunned and couldn't
really believe it.
I didn't fancy hanging around so after lunch I left the homestead
and continued my journey north heading for Carnarvon. Close
by, a small island nature reserve was packed with birds, cormorants,
pelicans and a lone Eagle flying overhead. A huge flock of
Cormorants were in a feeding frenzy further out. I paddled
towards them, tears rolling down my cheeks as memories of
Tim came flooding back to me.
Clear blue waters and
thousands of cormorants
I continued my journey
though filled with sadness, passing Notch Point and Quoin
Bluff South. I finished my paddling day at 5.30pm on a small
beach surrounded by cliffs, north of Herald Bay. It was an
unusually peaceful night with not a breath of wind. I sat
there staring into the ocean and night sky, recalling the
great times Tim and I had spent together.
I left on a morning high tide with a slight breeze blowing.
The water was a beautiful light blue and sheltered by cliff
line and sandy points. Eagles were still present and cormorants
flocked in their hundreds. I couldn't help but stop at a beautiful
shallow bay, where several ponds were protected by sand cays.
Close by, an eagle was perched on a stunning red cliff, which
dominated the shoreline. The sky was alive with masses of
brilliant white terns gracefully swooping and landing all
around the sand cays. Turtles, rays, small sharks and dolphins
floated close by in the warm water. It was as though I had
my very own aquarium.
What a beautiful place
to stay for a while
The cliffs decreased as my journey north
continued. The day had been perfect although I had several
sad moments when I thought of Tim. Near the most northerly
part of the island at the low sandy Cape Levillian I moved
around small surf breaks and the beautiful Turtle Bay came
into view. The bay arched around towards to the west to Cape
Inscription, as the dunes formed into sand cliffs which became
higher and higher, until vertical cliffs developed closer
to the most westerly point.
In the bay a lonely post indicated the position of an old
jetty. Above the post, on the high sand cliff, steel tracks,
from an old horse driven rail system sat weathering away.
It was here, in the early days when the lighthouse was manned,
that they brought stores ashore. I searched for a beach that
wouldn't be inundated by the high tide. I had little choice
but to make camp 100 metres west of the post, where a high
narrow strip of sand was guaranteed to stay above the high
water mark. With everything safely in place I climbed the
cliff and walked towards the cape. I had been here once before,
and like then, it was a sight to behold. As I looked down,
my boat was a mere spec on the beach. A few hundred metres
west of it, a shore reef covered by shallow water extended
around to the cape. Where the reef dropped off the potential
for diving looked magnificent. I continued my journey to the
light house, harassed by ravens. Here the high cliffs formed
shadows as the sun descended in the west.
I was at the spot where
the first Europeans set foot on Australia's West Coast on
the 25th October 1616. Little has changed here since then,
apart from the lighthouse being built, a derelict cottage
and a four wheel drive track. It's probably the most isolated
place of historical importance in Australia. I looked north
in search of the distant Dorre Island where I would be paddling
tomorrow. The island's cliffs some 26kms away reflected like
a beacon due to the brilliant sunset. By the time I had taken
photographs of history and beauty, clouds moved in at a rapid
pace and formed a mackerel sky.
The lighthouse and derelict
cottage at Cape Inscription.
Only Christmas, Cocos and Keeling Islands are any further
west in Australia than this point
I returned to camp with haste wanting
to erect my tent before darkness. After eating, I lounged
around on the high sand strip watching the surf lap up the
beach and listened to Ted Bull on ABC radio. Patricia Dicks,
David Dicks mum was telling Ted that David's yacht had completely
capsized in rough weather but had righted itself again. David
was sailing solo around the world and he was the youngest
person to do it at that time. For supper I had a mug of milo
and cheese and biscuits, one biscuit being chocolate. I felt
quite excited as the red mackerel sky faded, the clouds deepened
and when the clouds thinned a very bright moon filtered through.
Spots of rain dampened my camp just before retiring.
Taking a self timing
shot of my camp in Turtle Bay
The weather had deteriorated in the
night. Rain had developed sending downpours every so often.
The weather forecast was far from good, rain extending with
north-west winds. I tried to hurry my breakfast, so as to
cross the channel before the worst of the weather hit. I was
a little apprehensive as I ate my cereal. The weather was
worsening, my destination across an open sea to the next island
was 26 kms, and the mainland was 90 kms away. If anything
should go wrong on this crossing and I got separated from
my kayak, the mainland was a long way away.
Minutes out from the beach a pod of dolphins crossed my path.
I took this as a sign of luck and a fitting departure, but
the conditions beyond the shade of the bay looked very gloomy.
The wind from the NW soon picked up creating a rough and bouncy
sea. Paddling was sluggish, but my GPS indicated that I was
travelling at 4.5 km and hour, not the best but at least I
was making headway. It was such a lonely stretch of water
far from civilisation, far from land, but there is something
inside of me that thrives on hardship, challenges and difficult
experiences. I focussed on Dorre Island and the task of reaching
the calm waters behind it. Over to the east I caught glimpses
of water-spouts shooting above the waves. As I got closer
to the water-spouts two huge whale tails became visible as
they forged against the rough sea. They finally moved across
my stern like huge trucks. A few minutes later another whale
reared slapping and leaving a mass of whitewater in its wake.
It was not the time to collide with one of these giants.
From here the sea became
rougher and at the 21 km mark I could just pick up the cliff
top of Dorre Island, although it soon disappeared in the haze.
I noticed another whale but it too soon vanished. After checking
the GPS my speed was reduced to 4 km an hour, which was going
to make my journey one hour longer than I expected. The sea
continued to rage as rainstorms crossed my path cutting visibility
and any chance of seeing the island. As the rough conditions
continued, I started to feel a little sea sick and with the
swell and waves now breaking, I had to aim by boat slightly
out to sea to ensure I didn't get overturned.
At last, I bounced out of the rough conditions and into safer
calmer waters where two whales frolicked. The waters were
now shielded by the high cliffs of Cape St Cricq and by now
I was desperate to go to the toilet, so at the first opportunity
I paddled over a semi-exposed reef and onto a beach.
In the calm of Dorre
Island. Whales were active on the crossing between Dirk Hartog
and Dorre Island. Now the mainland coastline was about 80kms
away.
Once back in the water
I was completely relaxed, the worst was now behind me, the
sea was calm and the cliffs were a sight to see. They were
undercut and many were formed with honeycombed caves, stalactites
and columns so incredibly intricate that it was hard to believe
that they could have been formed by natural means. I was on
a high again. Even on days when you know your life is threatened,
they can turn into experiences and scenes that you can never
forget. Memories are such wonderful stress relievers.
Wading birds walked on the oyster ladened
reefs that stretched out from the cliffs. The water around
me was so clear I could see the bottom. Turtles were easy
to spot, even when they dived beneath me. I came across a
beautiful beach wedged between cliffs. A cave at the back
of the beach was riddled with sandstone columns and stalactites.
The cove was magnificent.
Caves and a beautiful
beach make it an interesting coastline on Dorre Island
I felt so happy and excited, the place
felt a little like paradise, although the cliff tops were
barren and dry. Yet only 30 minutes earlier I was fighting
to stay upright.
I left the scene and moved along the cliffs disturbing a huge
flock of cormorants perching on the rocks. The island is a
nature reserve, and by law you shouldn't land, but I had no
option to find a beach and camp. After having a strip wash
in hot water, a bite to eat, I walked across the island to
view the craggy cliff line on the seaward side. Here the sea
was more violent. I cooked tea under the light of the full
moon.
How special are these
cliffs
The coastline continued
to be interesting with beautiful beaches being sandwiched
between cliffs. In the water the odd dolphin appeared and
in the skies eagles still ruled the cliff tops. At 11.50 am
I landed and rigged up my flying doctor radio, but although
I made contact, I had limited success in getting a message
across. I must have talked over half an hour, yet very little
that I said was understood. I left at 1.30 pm passed Quoin
Bluff North and spotted Bernier Island, Cape Couture and Cape
Boullanger. The two islands were virtually joined together
by a rocky reef that was being beaten by huge surf from the
seaward side. The islands were narrow averaging 2kms and 3.9
kms at the widest point.
Before satellite phones
I carried a flying doctor radio to communicate with the outside
world. It need an aerial so I used some driftwood to try to
get it as high as possible
I landed on a scrubby beach, surrounded
by rocks and reef, 200 metres from the southern point of Bernier
Island. Here I changed footwear and scaled the sand cliff
for an exploration of the island's southern tip. The island
at that point was only several metres wide, with unstable
sandstone cliffs bordering the flat plateau and narrowing
to nothing at the southern point of the island. I descended
the plateau to the seaward side where a low rocky platform
extended some 50 metres west towards the sea. I moved south
treading carefully over all the boulders. Two eagle nests
intricately constructed on the larger boulders fronting the
channel lured me on. I moved past a nest as I made my way
to the most seaward point of the island. The ocean was pounding
the tips of both islands with undue care and ferocity. It
was a fascinating place, beautiful and remote. Suddenly a
huge rush of air bellowed from a rock hole behind me. For
a moment I thought that I was being attacked by something,
but my nerves soon calmed when I discovered it was only a
blow hole. I returned to my kayak, looking back to grab glimpses
of the beautiful scene.
Looking towards Dorre
Island from Bernier Island
Cliffs gave way to more beaches, which
lessened the wild beauty of the isolated island. I paddled
into a strange school of fish. They were about two feet long,
swimming very close and often on the surface of the water
with their large mouths widely agape. I tried getting closer
to study them but as soon as I neared, they dived. I paddled
on for half an hour before losing sight of them.
At the southern part of Red Cliff Point,
I focussed on a beach that was fronted partially by a reef,
50 metres out. I was undecided if to stop on this exposed
part of the coast or go around the point to find a sheltered,
less exposed beach. Persuaded by my general tiredness I decided
to stop, no tellings where the next beach would be.
As soon as my gear was hoisted far above the high tide mark,
I took off to climb Red Cliff Point. I looked out trying to
see the sights of Carnarvon about 55 kilometres away. I just
stared eastward into nothing but the grey - blueness of the
sea and sky and my biggest open sea crossing yet. On my return
to camp I picked wild flowers to make a wreath for Tim. It
was his memorial service the following day.
I washed, erected my tent, listened to the radio and started
weaving Tim's wreath. The weather report was important and
as I listened a newsflash came over the radio; - nine people
had been killed at Gracetown, in the south west, after a cliff
that people were sheltering under caved in. My worries of
doing the sea crossing now seemed insignificant. The cave-in
had buried adults and children watching a surfing competition.
Nine people died. I became even sadder as I finished my wreath.
As the full moon rose from the east
that evening, the clouds moved away bringing my camp the brightness
of the morning just before sunrise. That evening a huge number
of small white crabs emerged from holes along the beach. They
were great to watch and I had fun taking photographs and walking
with them along the beach.
My camp had become more exposed to the weather as the wind
in the night had moved to the east. I was hoping to leave
before sunrise, but it was still raining and a howling wind
was shaking my tent. It didn't look good outside, but the
weather report on the ABC said it would be fine with southerly
winds. I looked out a little later to find no change. The
decision to leave wasn't easy. I didn't really want to sit
and wait around on the day of Tim's memorial service. It would
be more special for me, and I would always remember the day,
if I paddled the big crossing. With time racing away I decided
to give it a go, the weather could be even worse tomorrow.
The reef that protected the shore the previous day was well
awash allowing large waves, created by the wind, to pound
my beach. It was less than a perfect start to my day as I
found it difficult to enter the kayak without being swamped
in the rough surf and howling wind. Nevertheless I managed
to paddle from the shore, move carefully through a small gap
in the reef and head east in the rain, wondering what the
day was going to bring.
I toiled against one the roughest seas of my journey so far
making less than 3 kilometres in the first hour. At the present
speed it would take me 18 hours to cross, I only had 12 hours
of daylight in the day. As the kayak leaped repeatedly from
the water, caused by the steep breaking waves, I prepared
myself for a paddle at night. For five hours, and with little
more than 5 minutes rest I cautiously battled on. It was just
before lunch when the wind started to swing to the south east
and gave me some relief as the sea settled a bit. I was no
longer punching straight into it and my speed increased giving
me some hope of reaching land before dark. I couldn't relax
though, much time was lost and the sea was still threatening.
At midday the sight of the coast was still hidden from my
view. I could neither see the mainland or Bernier Island from
where I had come. There were signs of nothing but the open
sea and the sky. My kayak the 'Mermaid' was a good stable,
seaworthy boat but it wasn't as fast as some of the more slimmer,
longer kayaks. It's times like this that the extra speed would
have been appreciated. As the hours passed I got my first
glimpse of the Carnarvon tracking station dish, however it
was soon lost in the haze. Later the dish appeared again and
this time it never left my sight. The dish seemed close, but
I was still 18 kms away, nearly four hours paddling. As the
hours ticked by several other Carnarvon features became clearer.
The wind had eased, but it and the tide was still strong enough
to make me drift and crab towards the coast.
I had increased my speed considerably in the afternoon, and
I was relieved to hit the coast just north of the jetty on
sunset. As I approached the long broken jetty the water started
to shallow. I passed it and headed towards the boat harbour,
which was further than I imagined. I could see no vehicle,
the swampy foreshore was deserted and I felt quite alone,
paddling the shallows in the first faze of darkness.
Three boats anchored out near the channel, I saw no one on
them. Had the world come to an end while I had been away?
The dark channel led me through a gap in some mangroves. Beyond
an array of lights and noise of engines lifted my spirit.
Mankind was still alive. I paddled between the mangroves around
the fishing boats anchored at the jetty and powered up a beach
near the boat ramp. I had made it, I had paddled 55 kilometres,
maybe more taking the wind and tide drift into account. I
had successfully completed yet another fascinating and challenging
trip. With the excitement of landing behind me, I realised
that apart from the flood lights and engines, there was no
movement in the harbour, and Phil and Judy were nowhere to
be seen. It was a weird atmosphere.
I felt weary, but not totally buggered.
Once out of the boat, the wind soon cooled my wet body and
as I dragged my kayak above the high water mark, mosquitoes
savaged me. I wasn't impressed. I called Jenny from a nearby
phone box, to tell her that I was safe and to get the number
of the caravan site that Judy and Phil were staying at. They
weren't there so I left a message. There was nothing more
I could do, but to change, walk 2kms into town, eat and keep
an eye out for the guys.
When I got to town, lots of people were eating and waiting
for the bus to Perth. I joined the ones eating, I had some
chips, walked a lap around town and returned to my boat in
the harbour. When I got back, for what I thought was going
to be a lonely night camped with the mosquitoes, Phil and
Judy drove up beside me. They were astonished to see me. "We
have been waiting for you all day, and when you hadn't arrived
by nightfall we thought you must not have attempted the crossing
because of the weather", Phil said. "Come on, let's
get your gear loaded. There's a hot shower and a chilled bottle
of champagne waiting for you at the caravan park". We
loaded my kayak and the rest of my gear and I turned to look
from where I had come, yes, I had done it, completed my expedition
and felt ready to tackle my next challenge…….America!
I couldn't be at Tim's
memorial service so I walked down the beach and tossed the
wreath I had made of wildflowers into ocean. I will never
forget that day.
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