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Sadly, the C&M team’s DVD adventure had to come to an end sometime. Come along for the last leg of their journey from Norseman to Perth.

Words by John Rooth
Photography by Robb Cox

After a bit of lunch at the big BP roadhouse in Norseman we were ready to take the southern road towards Esperance. Personally there’s nothing I would have loved more than to stick around Norseman for a few days. Having spent (shouldn’t that be miss-spent?) a good proportion of my youth prospecting for opal and gold, the thought that we were driving right over the top of one of Australia’s richest gold reefs with no time to wet the pan or charge up the metal detector was pretty distracting.

Especially knowing that a mate had even found some seam opal here while looking for gold! Struth, the gently rolling hills of Norseman after all that flat country to the east must be sitting right over the top of some incredible geological formations – just the ticket to kick off a big find. But the only stop we made was a few miles out of town to photograph a huge train loaded with ore carriages running alongside the road. If I’d been a tad fitter I could have just about caught the bloody thing – pan in hand!

Talking panhandling, I’d always thought Norseman was named after one of those Swedes or Danes who’ve been tromping the mining hot spots of the outback since the first gold rushes. I’ve met heaps of them around the fields over the years and worked with a few too. Usually they’re rough, wild eyed Vikings who obviously wouldn’t have a hope of surviving in the cradle to grave environment of their own countries yet they adapt to our solitary bush with ease. But after a chat at the garage I was surprised to find that the town’s name came from a horse called Hardy Norseman who pawed at the ground one day over a 100 years ago and turned up a large gold nugget. I bet he copped an extra dose of oats for his troubles!

Heading south the country was certainly an improvement to the desolate stuff we’d passed through over the Nullarbor but anyone more used to the greenery of the east coast would still find it sparse. It was a pleasant surprise to roll over the last few kilometres into Esperance and find that the coast was completely different again.

Esperance is right on one of the most scenic parts of the southern coast and as such is a very popular holiday spot for West Aussies as well as boasting a growing retiree population too. It’s also known for its safe harbour and rail links to the inland and the port’s been handling grain and minerals there for a hundred years. The town itself is very modern with every sort of facility and with a population of over 8600 it was also the biggest place we’d seen since Port Augusta.

The road from Norseman drops in to the eastern side of the bay and it wasn’t long before we were right on the esplanade itself. Right on the intersection was the Esperance Seafront Caravan Park so we swung left and through the gates. It was mid afternoon and the park was in full glory as the sun lit up the greenery. This would have to be one of the best parks I’ve stayed in with all the sites located on terraces that rise up from the beachfront. Most of them have beach views and the sea breeze just made us even hungrier!

No worries, certainly not with Editor Gil sniffing the air.

“Fellas, I reckon there’ll be some crash hot seafood somewhere in this town. Let’s set up camp and then go take a look eh?” I reckon those corner stabilisers on the Jaycos are probably still spinning…

With Pete and Robb busily filming a few segments and grabbing the stills we needed I figured it was time for some exercise. I don’t know about you but as much as I love driving long distances the sheer lack of physical activity can feel more tiring than a day’s hard work! So I hooked on some shorts and joined the throng marching up and down the Esplanade for one of the prettiest walks in the country.

On the way back I saw Gil and the lads on the old Tanker Jetty that struts out into the bay less than half a kilometre from the park. Gil was heavily into discussing the local fishing with a couple of newfound mates and the lads were busy grabbing shots of the seals frolicking under the jetty itself. Wow, talk about a contrast from our days spent travelling the Nullarbor!

You can bet it was fish and chips all round that night! After a few beers we were ready to call it a day – the bunks beckoned and by now I guess we had a fair bit of cumulative tiredness to deal with too. Next morning I cooked a damper in the Jayco’s gas stove and with lashings of butter and golden syrup we got our energy levels right back where they should be. Let’s not mention cholesterol or fat or any of those other nasties though OK? I’m on holiday…

From Esperance we drove due west to Ravensthorpe. For the first few kilometres the highway hugs the coast and it’s a delightfully wild coast at that. Then it swings inland and the country flattens out again although there was another change before Ravensthorpe with paddocks full of wildflowers on both sides of the road.

At Ravensthorpe we fuelled up and Gil called for another conference. In three days we had to be in Perth to drop off the vehicles and vans and hop on a bomber back to the east coast. Our original plan had been to stick to the coast, heading down to Albany and up through Manjimup to Bunbury and Perth. While we could have made it the demands for filming along the way would have really pushed us to the limit.

Gil had another card up his sleeve though. Long ago he’d eaten some of the best crabs in the world at Mandurah. The recollection of a sleepy little fishing village on a beautiful stretch of coast and all less than a couple of hours from Perth was too much to resist.

About 75km later we got to Lake King, only to find it was a giant salt lake in the middle of huge expanses of flat wheat country. If you’ve ever wondered about the effects of desalination there’s plenty of parts of the country around here that have been seriously knocked around. But despite that there’s no getting over the sheer prosperity of these little wheat towns in the midst of so much good growing country.

After stopping for some more photography around the salt lake we drove on due west, running through Newdegate, Lake Grace and Kukerin. Gentle rolling hills and a few patches of scrub break up the endless wheat paddocks and the road surface was about as good as it gets – wide, clearly marked and well sealed. We thought we were making good time but all the stops had taken their toll and the sun was down before we pulled in to Wagin.

Following the signs to the caravan park on the edge of town we were blown away by the lack of gates! It’s that increasingly rare find for us travellers, an un-manned council caravan park in superb condition! The amenities block was immaculately clean, the hot showers were gas fired and there was even a laundry available too. To top it off there was an honesty box for travellers who wanted to leave before they’d had a chance to pay their fees.

Hospitality doesn’t come much better than this. It’s as if the whole community is silently welcoming travellers and bidding them a good night’s sleep. I remember thinking ‘gee I like this place’. It’s the sort of town that obviously has plenty of pride. Next morning the rest of Wagin proved as clean and well maintained as that park itself. We filmed a segment under the Giant Ram, symbol of the surrounding sheep industry, and marvelled at the lovely community these Waginites had built for themselves.

We’re not the only people they welcome though. Apparently Wagin hosts the annual Woolorama Festival, a two day extravaganza combining agricultural trade shows with displays and competitions from sheep dog trials to art and photography. Each year up to 30,000 people converge on Wagin for Woolorama and most don’t leave without visiting the Historical Village, a collection of 24 buildings housing the largest social history museum in Western Australia.

Not us though, we had deadlines to meet and vehicles to fuel up. While pumping diesel at the Mobil Garage I turned to the lady attendant and told her I reckoned Wagin was one of the nicest towns I’d seen. She looked almost vicious for a second and then said:

“It’s pronounced ‘Way-jin’ not ‘Waggin’. I should know. I’ve lived here all my life!”

Right, time to leave then lads? Armed with ice creams – Gil’s non-seafood alternative – we drove west past Mount Latham and joined the southern highway north to Perth. The lads in the camera car sped off to get some footage of the countryside as we passed through and that’s when things began to go wrong.

The plan had been to take the turn west at Williams and cut down through the hills to Pinjarra. That’s what we did and assumed our camera crew were somewhere up ahead. They weren’t, they were sitting a few kilometres north of Williams waiting for us!

And that’s why we missed filming some of the most glorious back road country I’ve ever travelled through. Although the road was narrow it was well sealed and there was hardly any traffic. Fortunately the lads realised what we’d done and hooked back to join us just before Dwellingup, about 20km from Pinjarra. Their Subaru Outback, travelling solo, made light work of the twisty rolling road which had knocked our towing speeds down to a 70km/h average.

Pinjarra with its old railway stock and pubs was on us about the same time we were thinking of lunch. We pulled in to the historic Pinjarra Hotel on the road in to town and ordered counter meals all around. The photos on the wall spoke of the pub’s place in the racing and sporting heritage of the town and the food was excellent.

“No worries,” said Gil, as he sorted the bill. “We’re only 18km from Mandurah now so we’ll be there with plenty of time to relax and enjoy some of those crabs!”

And we would have been too except that somehow we left town on the wrong road and found ourselves heading south to Waroona. Figuring all we had to do to get back on track was take one of the side roads to the coast we did exactly that – and found ourselves meandering around a dozen or so un-signposted farm access roads somewhere between the coast road and the inland route.

Now anybody who’s been in that situation knows what it’s like to be hopelessly lost with a convoy of vehicles that aren’t exactly easy to spin around. Eventually a bloke on a water truck gave us some directions and we made it to the highway well south of Mandurah.

With Gil’s ‘beaut little fishing village’ comments in mind I was surprised to find that the highway south of Mandurah turned to double lanes and there were suburbs crowding in on both sides of the road long before we got there. Shades of the Gold Coast I thought at about the same time Gil came on radio and announced rather quietly that this place had sure changed since he’d seen it last!

Bummer. It was only mid-afternoon but the traffic was congested and it seemed doubly so for blokes who’d spent most of the last fortnight with only ourselves for company. We followed the signs into Mandurah itself and were lucky enough to grab a parking bay big enough for the vans right outside a very flash looking tourist office. There was development everywhere, new houses and blocks of flats and roads with freshly concreted gutters. All this way just to land back in the middle of suburbia about a day early than we’d expected. I think the rest of the crew were as disappointed as me.

But a very friendly chap in the tourist office made a few phone calls and booked us into the Eco Park a few miles north at Melros. He gave us a map and we backtracked to Melros as Gil turned off to check on a sign that said ‘Crabs for sale’.

Expecting outrageous rates to stay in a packed out park we couldn’t have been more surprised by what we found. At the end of a suburban street was a tight little park just as we’d expected. But it opened up and spread across the top of the rise and there, across the sand dunes, was the Indian Ocean in all its glory. Better still our sites were on top of the rise and there wasn’t anyone else camped there to spoil the view. Paradise might have been lost on the run in to Mandurah but we’d found it again!

And things only got better when Gil showed up with a parcel full of fresh blue swimmer crabs, or in the local lingo, blue manna. Manna from heaven I reckon, especially when Gil’s in charge of cleaning them. Sitting on a picnic bench watching the sun set over the ocean and munching on fresh crab sandwiches washed down with cold beer was about as perfect as the travelling life gets.

It was also the perfect end to our Nullarbor crossing, even if we still had next morning’s drive to Perth. That night as we sat around shooting the breeze the general opinion was one of sheer wonderment at the adventure we’d just had. We’d been working so hard to get across the country on time that I think the trip itself had become one big blurred memory but that night, as each of us ran through our own list of highlights, the details came back in to focus.

Wow, what a time we’d had. Cross the Nullarbor again tomorrow? Hey, I know at least six blokes who’d willingly come along for the ride…

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