Swag

Primary Colours 1 | Barquing

With an early start, and four more passengers on the bus, we leave Exmouth and head towards the Karajini National Park, where we are to spend three days exploring the red rock gorges and taking dips in the water holes which form in their bases.
The scenery is, to a fault, stunning. To the eye, the landscape is deceptive, it has the appearance of flat, continuous and familiar bush land, with more greenery than we have been used to so far – the hills here look almost softened by the foliage growing upon them.
But the gorges are spectacular, great cracks in the scenery – scars on the landscape. Narrow in breadth, sheer faces dropping downwards, the sun creeping down their length, making the parallel layers of angry red stone glow.
“God’s country.” Cleggy observes. “This is the oldest landscape in Australia, maybe the world.”
A veteran of the Alice Springs to Adelaide treks, he is more at home in the more arid parts of the country, and Karijini is clearly one of the jewels in Western Australia’s crown.
The water holes within the gorges range from bitterly cold to sun-kissed warm. They are deep and fresh, the water clear and clean. Around them, the rock faces stretch up to the sky, calloused red palms, cupping the pools of water.
Aboriginal legend says that the water holes were carved by great serpents who still reside there.
“Metaphorical serpents, right?” I ask, “Legends right?”
We have already taken eager dips in a handful of pools before learning of this story, and the idea that we might have been sharing the tranquil oases with snakes is a little unsettling.
Cleggy shrugs.
“Well sort of,” he concedes, “But most of these stories are based on observed facts, so yes there would be snakes taking dips in here.”
The final pool we visit is the coldest one, but the small, trickling waterfalls lining its far edge are warm, filtering sun-warmed water from higher up the valley.
We plunge in, wide-eyed and gasping, erroneously pretending to those hesitating on the rocky banks that the water is nothing like as cold as it looks. Clambering up the slippery stones around the waterfall, we realise finally that we are not alone.
Lying curled beneath the outcrop is a small red and brown snake, head resting on a stone lazily.
“That,” Cleggy says, with a nervous laugh, “Is a Pilbara death adder.”
We huddle beneath one of the waterfalls, eyeing it.
“Is it dangerous?”
Cleggy nodds.
“One of the top three dangerous snakes in the area.” He says with a grin. “If he nips you, we wouldn’t be able to get out of the valley in time. But he’s not going to bite you if you don’t go near him. He’s far too comfortable. He probably doesn’t even know we’re here.”
None the less, one by one we slip back into the pool and head back to the shore. Cleggy is the last to return.
“The only difference between cowardice and bravery,” he says, “Is the outcome. Showering with a Pilbara death adder is pretty brave.”
We look at each other, none looking particularly convinced – each half expecting Cleggy to produce the creature, finally proved to be made out of plastic, from his pocket - We pick our way back up the layered, ancient landscape to the bus.

We sleep not in tents but in swag bags, canvas sacks with mattresses sewn in. Room for a sleeping bag and an inhabitant but little else.
The nights are cold, stark contrast to the heat of the day, we pull on as many layers of clothes as we can and huddle deep into the swags, pulling the covers up over our heads should dingos interrupt us during the night.
I sleep comfortably, the stars of the southern hemisphere, a glorious nightlight, undisturbed by light pollution. The outback sky is a vast canvas, the stars rich with depth, contours and distance, the southern constellations unfamiliar, the northern ones in unfamiliar places (Orion on his side, the plough upside down).
Cleggy points out an Aboriginal constellation, made not of stars but of the black space between them: a huge, clear emu stretching from the Southern Cross down. Compared with the abstract nature of the constellations we are used to, the clarity of the shape is extraordinary.
We only spend one night in a genuine bush camp, with no facilities at all. The other campsites are quite comfortable, with toilet blocks and on one occasion a shower. Admittedly, one of the toilet blocks, a long-drop brush toilet located in an echoey tin shack, was the home of a sleeping red back spider hanging behind the toilet seat, but it did not move and we did not disturb it. The words courageous and stupid are probably irrelevant when comfortable defecation is at stake.

Our final night’s camping is at Eighty Mile Beach, now fully in the tropics, the heat is becoming more oppressive and uncomfortable, the air thicker. This is the beach which we were not recommended to swim from, and we venture down to it in the dark armed with a tarpaulin to sit on and torches to spot any wildlife. The following day, we meet another tour bus and discover that Cleggy has challenged them to a game of Frisbee on the beach before we set off.
The game is hectic and exhausting. It’s fun but we loose by a substantial amount.
Cleggy is unfazed.
“Great game.” He beams. The other tour-bus zooms out of the campsite, the driver flicking a “looser” sign at us: thumb and index finger outstretched. Unfortunately, he uses his left hand rather than his right and so the “L” is the wrong way round. This makes us feel a lot better for purely pedantic reasons.
We present Cleggy with a bottle of Jack Daniels as a thank you gift. He hefts it in his palm and that seismic grin cracks his face again.
“You guys rock.” He says.