9/9/21 West to the Wild: Cloncurry to Barkley Roadhouse

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Today was the day of the inaugural border crossing for our intrepid explorers, and the western wilds of the Northern Territory beckoned beguilingly. Despite waking with the babbling birds and next door's bawling baby, they still found time for a poignant perambulation around Cloncurry, finishing of the vital viewing of their happy haunts from yesteryear.

The twee two in front of the singular site of their first happy home together: Cloncurry Single Men's Quarters. 

The Bio Cafe, where they went for marvelous outdoor movies and fabulous fish'n'chips every Friday night.  Alas, it is no more.

Actually, always obey obvious serious signage.

Cloncurry, nestled neatly between the rambling river and the rugged ranges.

Vivid views from the lovely look-out.

A swooping swerve through the stupendous Selwyn Ranges.


The rambling road to magnificent Mount Isa was much improved since their last daring drive-by. The scenic Selwyn ranges, pimpled with Spinifex, provided a beautiful background for the day's drive. Mount Isa was much the same-same, aside a lovely lick of paint; the smoggy smokestacks continued to dutifully do their dirty duty on the edge of town.


Signature smoke-stack over Mount Isa's main street.

Last stop before the border was the happy hamlet of Camooweal, where our daring duo ate their last lunch (nay, meal of any description) as quirky Queenslanders. They noshed their last Nutella cracker and happily headed into the wilderness, the border post blooming out of the milky mirage before them.  

Lucky last lunch.

Childishly checking and re-checking their precious permits, they apprehensively approached the border barriers...

T'was all a bit of an actual anticlimax in the end: a polite policeman pulled them over and asked probing personal questions before prompting them to proceed, approved, into the Never-Never.


"Go forth to the North!" pronounced the personable policeman, as he unctuously ushered them through.  A whooshing water-truck ensured no dirt or dust to distract them, merely masses of mushy mud.

Forthwith they flew drove...

... into the tedious traveling that awaited.

They finished the day at the bodalicious Barkley Homestead in company with a merry multitude of garrulous grey nomads, a clutch of fishermen with dirty dinghies, and an old man who slept on a bed built from milk crates.

Bed time came early: they were driven there by malicious mosquitoes and were deeply disappointed that the promise of stunning stars was marred by the liberal light pollution from all the cosy caravans.
 
Humble home for the next night: Barkley Homestead, Barkley Highway.

 

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