Tuesday, 5 September 2017

We didn’t start the fire. It was always burning since the World’s been turning.

Writing the past few posts has been hard work as everything has been brilliant. This means I spend most of my time trying to think of small things that rankled me, and finding different synonyms for beautiful. However, this is not going to be an issue with this post, because we had an engine fire. Yep, we had a fire in our FUCKING ENGINE BAY‼ And this happened while we were at Mitchell River NP, over 500km from Kununurra and 190km from the nearest homestead, but we’ll get to that later.

We left Kununurra stocked with fuel and supplies and headed for the start of the infamous Gibb River road. It is thought of as a real 4wd adventure, through some proper wilderness and we had prepared for this accordingly. Things have changed somewhat, as we had read that over the past ten years tourism has flourished in the Kimberleys, and the now large number of tourists and tour buses mean it can feel like a highway during peak season. It is also mostly private land, meaning that many homesteads have started charging entry fees to visit the gorges and waterfalls on their land along the way, including the money making machine of El Questro. This was already a bit of a disappointment for both of us. Our socialist ideals mean we feel that nature should be for the people, not private business, even if the fees are inexpensive (most homesteads charge around $20 for a pass). We don’t mind paying to camp on private ground, if facilities are provided, but places of natural beauty should be for everyone, not just the capitalist pig landowners, who stole the land in the first place anyway. Mark my words; those muthafuckers will be first against the wall when the revolution comes. Now, I just need to take a quick break, as my chardonnay is getting warm.

As we started along the Gibb we were pleasantly surprised to find it was in good shape. We giggled at how lucky we were to have such an easy drive. The first hundred km was great, an easy drive with some outstanding backdrops.

This is how the kids are wearing their pants, right?
We found a nice creek crossing to stop for lunch, and Becky made her famous cheese and tomato sandwiches that I washed down with a gold… fine dining for a bushman!

Gordon Ramsey can get fucked.
As we were parked, a family pulled into the same small spot we had found. The Dad got out and asked us if the track we were on went any further, we replied it didn’t, so he parked up 10 metres from us and set up for lunch. The mother apologised for ruining our tranquil spot with two young kids… what’s the point apologising for something you had total control over? We finished up quickly and left the fuckers to enjoy the spot they had stolen from us. I wasn’t too bitter, as there was evidence that people had camped there that night, and taken a dump near the creek (they hadn’t buried their toilet paper, another bugbear of mine, BUT I DON’T HAVE TIME TO DISCUSS THIS, I HAVE TO GET TO THE ENGINE FIRE), so we left them, letting their kids catch E.coli from the creek.

Our first main target was Mitchel River NP, but on these roads you don’t want to be driving much over 70km, even when the roads are in good shape, as tyre punctures are a common thing when combined with driving at normal highway speed. Becky had read about a small homestead called Ellenbrae that had advertised freshly baked scones, and that was reason enough for us to take a break. It was a nice place, and the scones were great. The best part was the small flock of double-barred finches that were feeding around us.
 
OK, you've convinced us to stay.
This was enough to convince us that this was a great place to spend the night. Their campground only had two other campers set up, so we found a small spot the perfect distance from the rustic (and quite cool) facilities. We went for a swim at a swimming spot, enjoying the red-tailed cockatoos and blue-winged kookaburras also frequenting the creek. 

What no waterfall?
We even had some crimson finches pose for us as we sat by the creek bank.

Thanks for staying
By the time we got back to the campsite quite a few more people had come. The site was quite big, regardless they’d all set up near us, which at the time we found frustrating, but now seems petty as at least OUR ENGINE DIDN’T HAVE A FIRE IN IT. It was a quiet spot, and apart from the cows that walked through the site, a pretty uneventful evening. 

The next morning we packed up quickly, pausing only to watch the rainbow bee-eaters flying around the campsite. One stopped to do something in the dust, and I took some photos. What wonderful, innocent times they were.

A bee-eater dusting its butt
We’d been told that the road thus far had recently been graded, and once we past the grader things would start to get worse. With this in mind we enjoyed a smooth ride all the way to Drysdale River Station, passing the grader shortly before reaching the homestead. After a short break to fuel up, we set out for the last stretch of the day to King Edward River campground, 110km away. The smooth ride was over and this section of road was in a terrible state. (I went for a lower pitched voice this time, as this was no laughing matter).


The corrugations were deeper and wider than normal and the drive was horrendous. We were very pleased to reach the campground, where we found a great camp spot close to the river. There was even a ladder into the river, so old people with bad hips could ease themselves in…old people like me.

Gracefully in, and gracefully out
That night we cooked chicken satay on a fire that I meant to start and we wanted, and all was well with the world.

We awoke to a cold morning air. The temperature had dropped over the past few days, making the days more bearable, but the nights noticeably colder. By the time we’d packed up, it’d warmed up enough to take the hoodies off, and we set off on the last 80km to Mitchell Falls. I think this is possibly the worst road I have ever driven on, or been driven on and I include Kenya, India and the UK on that list. Only 100m after leaving the King Edward camp we came across a trailer for a tour company, that carries their clients camp gear and food, sitting on the road with the back axel totally detached and two blokes standing staring at it. 

This was a smaller road than the day before and the corrugations were worse, with the added bonus of occasional large rocks and stones imbedded in the road keeping us on our toes. We felt every. fucking. bump. As insanity started to engulf us, I noticed that the oil pressure gauge had dropped to zero. I quickly stopped the car and turned the engine off. If you think this is the fire bit…. WRONG. I checked the oil level and everything seemed fine. After ten minutes of me staring at the motor, pretending I knew what anything did, another car approached. We flagged them down, and low and behold, it was the two mechanics we’d passed working on the trailer. What jolly good luck! They quickly found that the wire to the oil pressure sensor had come out, did a bush fix and went on their jolly way. They even gave us a roll of electrical tape, in case their fix came loose. And with that we started back on the road from hell, thinking our day had been saved by these kind souls... little did we know this was only the beginning. 

Several bumpy, stressful hours later we reached Mitchell Falls. As we approached the self-registration point for the campsite everything in the car started to cut out, then start up again straight away. I told Becky that we’d register, and once at the site I have a look and to see if anything else had come loose, but we never got the chance. Just past the registration station the car completely died and smoke began pouring from the engine... dirty black smoke. WE HAD A FUCKING FIRE UNDER THE BONNET.

If you’d have asked me how'd I'd have thought I’d respond in a situation like this I’d have probably said “shit myself and scream”. But oddly, I didn’t. I popped the bonnet, grabbed the best $20 I'd ever spent (a fire extinguisher I’d installed next to the drivers seat) and leapt into action. Lifting up the bonnet we could see actual, real fire flames around the main battery, the lovely new battery we bought in Darwin. After what felt like 10mins trying to get the pin out of the extinguisher, but in reality was more like 5secs, I aimed the extinguisher, and PWSCHOOSH. I can now add bush-fireman to my repertoire. However, the danger wasn't over yet as the battery bracket that’d wobbled loose on the drive and started the fire, was still shorting the battery. Again, my instinctive catastrophe management response was better than I'd have expected, as I grabbed a cloth from the front of the car and used it to yank the bracket out. Fire risk dealt with!

As we both stood there shocked, staring at the smouldering battery, we had our second bit of tur i oturen (luck in the unlucky) and our next saviour stepped out of the shadows. While all this was going on, a retired couple had witnessed the whole thing and had come over to help. While the lady, Nan, calmed Becky, the bloke, Kris, helped me inspect the damage. Despite the melted plastic, none of the wiring had been that badly damaged. The worst part was the huge hole that had melted through the top of the battery. In fact, despite how bad it all looked, we managed to get the car started. Kris suggested I crawl into camp to clean and tape up the exposed wires, then come find him and he’d help me fix up the now broken bracket and cover the exposed battery.

After I’d taped up the exposed wires, using the electrical tape the other mechanics had given us, we started to fix what remained of the bracket and battery. We (I’m using the pronoun “we”, but it really should be Kris. I just held things he asked me to hold and got in the way) bush-fixed the battery bracket, and covered the exposed battery with tape and some waterproofing sealant, that we hoped would limit the battery acid leakage on the way out. For the second time that day, we’d been saved by the kindness of strangers. They were a lovely couple and we chatted with them for a while before heading back to the camp to try and mentally process what had happened.

As we sat in our chairs, unable to muster the energy to put the tent up, Becky leapt out of her chair and shouted, “SNAKE” (sorry, no video this time). I looked over as a ~1.5m brown snake (I think it was a king brown, dark brown on top and cream underneath) slithered towards us. I looked the snake in the eye, and it turned and went back into the bush. I grabbed my camera, and moved cautiously to look for it, but saw nothing. It was then I realised how many ant nests covered the campground. The little red fuckers would bite the shit out of you if you stood anywhere near their nests, and they fucking hurt too.

I sat back in my chair; ant bites on my leg, a burnt battery in my car, no picture of the snake, and worst of all, I hadn't restocked the fridge, so no cold happy juice to pick me up. It was then Becky mentioned that she thought the exhaust looked a little odd. I took a look to find that it had broken off the rear bracket… Of course it fucking had.

2 comments:

  1. Yikes yikes yikes!!!
    Guardian angels watching out for you. Hugs!
    Liking the maps a lot. Thanks Tom.

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  2. OMG OMG what a story. Didn't think I'd be seeing pictures of your bottom though!!! LL M xx

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