 Enjoy the colours of the country as we leave Mount Isa - it gets rather less so on this trip and tomorrow:  John Flynn Place in Cloncurry:     The country is f_l_a_t and the roads straight, all the way from just out of Cloncurry to Winton:   The small town of McKinlay:         Wow! Not flat! If you look carefully there is a small range to the right of the horizon:  But still basically f_l_a_t!  Winton:  |
Mount Isa to Winton
We’d slept well and woke to the customary dawn chorus. We organised
ourselves quickly, though I’d had much mirth watching a still-sleepy spouse
haplessly knocking his head against the overhanging cupboards. He doesn’t
function well first thing in the morning. Watching him unmake the van bed,
a complex process at the best of times, had been hilarious. I regretted I
could not make a video for ‘Funniest Home Videos’ as he struggled with foam
mattresses, recalcitrant doonas and cupboard doors which wouldn’t shut
properly. But eventually we said farewell to ‘Argylla’ and Mount Isa, and
with me at the wheel again, retraced our drive to Cloncurry. Since first
passing through so dejectedly, I had read a little about it and now wanted
to have a closer look as it has considerable historical significance.
The morning, fresh and beautiful, added further power and glory to the
surrounding red hills. The good condition of the winding Barkly Highway and
freshness of mind and body had me in a mood so exultant I could have burst
into song, though that would have been unnoticed over the roar of the engine
and the rattle of the doors. But, truly, Mount Isa had been the highlight of
my holiday experience, powerful, exciting, almost overwhelming in its
significance. The rest would have a hard time matching that.
Reaching Cloncurry and filling up with diesel, we drove around the block to
the John Flynn Museum and Fred Mackay Art Gallery, all in one large, modern
building. As we are both retired Uniting Church ministers, and as Bruce had
known Fred Mackay personally, this was a particularly significant visit. As
we walked around the photos and various artefacts of the early days of the
Royal Flying Doctor Service and read the stories that went with them, I was
taken straight back to my Presbyterian Sunday School days in the ‘40’s and
‘50’s when this service was frequently talked about with pride. I felt much
at home here. Next we toured the art gallery and read about Fred Mackay.
I’d heard him speak at a church gathering some years ago without fully
grasping the import of his work. I was now sad that I had been so ignorant
at the time.
Before pushing on to our destination, Winton, we stopped in the wide main
street of ‘The Curry’ sipping drinks and absorbing the intense dry heat, the
relative emptiness of the street and the atmosphere smelling of cattle and
dust. I felt an unaccustomed affection for all of it.
With Bruce at the wheel, I sat roasting in the mid-day heat. We had been
flying along at high speed over incredibly long, straight stretches of
highway through flat, grass covered plains all the way from Curry.
Desperately hungry and thirsty by now, at 2.50 p.m. we stopped at the only
place of obvious civilisation, McKinlay, parking the van under a ‘Crocodile
Dundee’ sign and heading for the roadhouse. As we sat, Bruce eating, myself
only drinking, several truckies, all wearing the same orange uniform jackets
and all drivers of road trains, entered the café. One of them was huge,
towering over the rest of us, making me feel as insignificant as an ant. But
there was nothing aggressive about him at all. I wondered what the life of a
road-train truckie must be like. Knowing now how challenging miles of
empty, flat road can be, I could only speculate. . .
We continued on for many, many more kms of this flat, golden-grass covered
country, stopping only once more at an even smaller hamlet, Kyuna, where I
could make a sandwich for myself as I had not bothered with food earlier.
At 4.30 p.m. with great relief, we reached Winton.
Winton was, of all our stopping places, the dustiest. Even placing my clean
black shoe covered feet carefully onto the ground was to have them
immediately covered with dust. There were no bitumen lanes around the
caravan park, which on this Saturday evening, was full, and vans and
trailers being driven around the park only kicked up more little dust
clouds.
But our attention was already attracted by the delicious aroma of roast
beef. It was, after all, cattle country. What else would be cooking? The
receptionist had already told us we could book in for the evening buffet
roast dinner, but please bring our own chairs, plates and cutlery. After
settling in for the evening, having a drink and relaxing before dinner, we
walked along the dusty paths to the large, open but covered dining area.
Many were already there listening to country and western songs by local
performers. These would go on for hours, we were to discover. Patrons would
soon be joining in cheerfully and the concert would close late in the night
to the strains of ‘Waltzing Matilda,’ a very relevant and significant song
for this place as legend has it, the ‘billabong’ is somewhere near Winton.
The roast dinner was delicious and quite enough for us to call it a day. We
didn’t stay for ‘afters’ and I had a shower and headed gratefully for bed.