Day 23: Flinders Ranges

December 7, 2010

Shortly after we pitched camp at the Merna Mora station campground I decide it’s time to wash my dirty hair. I’m perched on a camp stool, leaning over between my two knees, my head full of willowy white shampoo when a motorcycle purrs in the distance. I pour cupfuls of water from a bucket over my head and apply the second wash as the sound gets closer and then idles. My eyes are squeezed tight to keep out the stinging soap but I can hear Johan talking to a man, presumably on the motorbike. I have just enough water to get most of the soap out, then I fling back my dripping hair, wipe my eyes with a washcloth and turn around to see what’s going on.

 Hair washing hour

A ruddy-faced man, young by our standards, dressed in a blue worker’s jumpsuit sits on his bike with a black and burnt orange sheepdog straddled on his lap. He points at various spots on the horizon, all which contain menacing grey and black clouds. He stops and stares dumbly at the disheveled woman, rivulets of water trickling from her hair and chin, walking towards him. Eventually I gather my wits enough to smile and say hi. His blank expression turns friendly, even relieved as he smiles a greeting in return.

We’re not camped in the river bed this night, but apparently, when the river runs high, it can swoop over the section we’re in and the station owner is concerned about the advancing storms. He points to a section fifty meters away and tells us we’d be safe over there. He says the river can start running with little warning, but if we hear a rumble coming through the ground, it’s likely the water pushing a wall of debris ahead of it. We have less than five minutes to act, he says, casting a pessimistic eye over our set up. But it’s up to us what we want to do. He’s got to be off rounding up his stray sheep before the storm sets in.

I brace myself for another round of indecision about what to do. But Johan’s not convinced, dismissing the warning as just an overzealous farmer. Indeed the section our camp’s in has rock campfire rings and decent sized shrubs, none of which looks like it’s suffered a flood passing over it very recently. We decide to stay put.

 Clean hair and cocktail hour

Pending storms overhead (no pun intended...)

The rain starts somewhere in the night and keeps up till dawn. A warm wind sets in by the time we emerge from the tent and there’s little evidence of the rainstorm except a few puddles in the riverbed.

We attempt another side track into the west side of the Flinders, but here the rain’s influence is evident. Sloppy red mud and pebbles splashes up on the windscreen and we hit muddy bogs not too far in. Too bad because the track cuts off about 75kms of driving to our destination: Wilpena Pound in the centre of the Flinders National Park.

We head south to the v-intersection in Hawker that leads back north into the park. It’s actually nice to see the ranges from several angles and we tarry at various look-out spots.

The word “resort” always rings alarm bells in me when we travel, but the Wilpena Resort is low-key and surprisingly attractive. Much of it is a rustic campground meandering up through the bush and after finding a pleasant spot overlooking a reedy creek with giant striated river gums as our view, we decide to stay for the night.

It’s still early, time enough for a walk into Wilpena Pound. From the air, the pound looks like a volcanic crater or the site of a meteorite implosion. But the interior of the bowl-shaped landscape is the remnant of a valley between two mountain ridges. Over the past 200 million years the towering 3000 meter high mountains have eroded away to their present 1100 meter height – another startling example of the ancient architecture of this continent. The walk through the only gap into the pound is lush and beautiful with its huge craggy river gums and near-full creek.

Three kms up is the Hill’s homestead. The Hill family had a pastoral lease in the pound in the late 19^th and early 20^th century. It looks a beautiful place to live, but as Johan says later, it’s easy to get romantic about such things. Life was probably hard and often miserable. The Wangarra lookout is another 600 meters up a steep rocky climb. It offers spectacular views of the pound. My appetite is whetted for further walks to the distant peaks, but it’s nearly five and another hour walk back to camp. I turn around.

 Hill's homestead

360 degree view of Wilpena Pound

View of river gums from camp

A soaring flock of white cockatoos looked beautiful from up on the lookout, their reflective white wingspans glittering against the green land. But down below, back at camp, they’re a bunch of loud-mouthed cacklers, squawking a cacophony of disruption until well after sundown.

Another hot night that threatens rain. I’m just falling asleep with a cooling wet cloth draped across me when a whoooosh drives up the canyon. The wind brings popping flashes of lightning – one every second – that lights up the campground like a flickering fluorescent tube. It rains all night, but this time we’re well above creek line and we sleep comfortably.

We have a guest for dinner