becoming clear that the Gibb was
geared for a certain sort of traveller.
We laughed.
Despite what we’d heard the road
was remarkably good; hard packed
gravel, loose stones occasionally
‘pinged’ against the sump guard. The
riding was smooth and relaxed, a
pleasure, at a pace that allowed for
the views absorbed.
“No, no,” someone blurted out.
The camp at Ellenbrae Station had a
handful of travellers; beaten up old
Toyota Landcruisers dewharfed by
gigantic caravans towed by equally as
large four wheel drives.
“You need to have the pressures as
high as you can go. The harder the
tyre the less chance of puncture.”
What the hell were they talking
about? We agreed it was pointless to
voice our opinions. We laughed.
Ellenbrae had been another oa-
sis in the harsh Kimberley, an eye
opener to station life and how a
young family gets by under tough
conditions; constantly hot, dry for six
months of the year, wet for the other
half. We moved on, the road still
good.
In a scene from the Dakar, behe-
moth trucks converted to transport
tourists, all four wheel drives, arrived
in massive plumes of dust and sand.
TRAVERSE 87
Many bounced over the corrugations
and sand drifts at frightening speeds,
their occupants oblivious to the envi-
ronment around them.
“A few bumps in that road,” one
tourist remarked over a fully pre-
pared salad and cold drinks. We ate
from a tuna tin and drank weather
warmed water. We looked at each
other acknowledging that we wouldn’t
follow the busses up the sandy road
towards Drysdale River and the
Mitchell Plateau.
“It looks a bit commercial,” I sug-
gested. We’d continue on along the
Gibb. We laughed.
The true heart of the Gibb River