Um, think we'll stick to our van. There are many warnings on and about the road west to Kintore
At the end of our first week in Australia’s Red Centre, the spirit of the country starts to work its magic. The lush tropics of North Queensland are far behind. So, too, the dry and dusty Gulf country, which was seemingly empty of much but cattle and crocodiles.
This land, a hundred or so kilometres west of Alice Springs, is entirely different again. As we bump, shake and rattle along an hour after dawn, the colour of the sand that stretches before us is startling, then mesmerizing. Red, indeed. Of a hue so deep it immediately sears itself into a lifetime memory.
I turn my attention up. But what about that sky? Talk about blue.
“I’ve never seen sky so blue or light so bright as what I’ve seen in Australia,” my English grandmother, a landscape painter, once told me. It was challenging, she said, to mix her oils just right when trying to faithfully recapture an Aussie bush scene. This morning, I’m convinced her reference to “Australia” must have been inspired by its vivid, shimmering heart.
This particular red road runs from the Tanami Track to the Western Australian border and beyond. With its corrugations of fine, desert sand, it’s more forgiving than when we tried to skate across the hard patterns etched into the rocky floor of Western Queensland. Out here, if we ride the road without incident, it will take us hundreds of kilometres to a little-known and lesser-visited Aboriginal community named Kintore (Walungurru in the local Pintupi language).
We’re going to Kintore to fulfill a promise. Jodie, my best mate from high school, and her partner, Paul, have worked in remote Australian Aboriginal communities as nurses for the past 16 years. And nearly every one of those 16 years I’ve said to my dear friend, “I’m coming out there to visit you, to see it for myself.”
Melonie and I have driven 7000 kilometers from Melbourne to Alice Springs (lots of stops in between!) to make this dream real for all of us. Nonetheless, we've had several recent discussions about backing out of this last leg. First, there's the off-putting experiences on tracks in Queensland. Next, there are the stories — flooding, infrequent grading, single-vehicle rollovers, brumbies and camels darting out from nowhere. It gets us really thinking. Yes, our van is 4WD. But it’s heavy and has a long wheel base, and it doesn’t have good clearance or a proper bull bar, and well ... it’s a van. Not very Leyland Brothers.
“You know, we can just give it a try,” Melonie finally said to me after we'd analyzed the trip as if we were going to the moon.
“That’s true. We can turn back if it’s too much. No shame in that,” I agreed.
The night before we venture out, Paul, who’s driven the road at least 100 times, spends an hour on the phone downloading me with every major landmark and road condition he can remember.
“The worst part is the last 30, 40 Ks into Papunya,” he said, naming the first community we’ll hit after turning from the Tanami. “If you can get there, the rest is easy.”
His words had become our mantra. After 90 minutes, the odometer showed we’d nearly completed the test run.
“I’m so glad the road is like this!” Melonie dared, sighing with relief. “I mean, if he’s right that this is the worst of it, we’re going to get there.”
“I think so, too,” I said. And I did. Papunya was on the horizon. It was as good as a done deal.
Four and a half hours, we were staring at the Kintore Ranges through our windscreen.
“Oh, I’d like to try to climb that,” I said, mostly to myself. I was looking at the red and orange escarpment of a 600-metre high monolith. Although less than an amateur, (I mostly hike mountains, not climb them), I can’t help but trace the ridges and outcrops of anything that looms into view, seeing if, in theory, it’s climbable.
“Well, you’ll have to check with Paul,” Melonie cautioned. “Maybe you’re not allowed to.”
“Oh, you’re right. I’m sure it’s a Men’s Mountain,” I say. “And that...” I point to the less dramatic, softly curved range on the left. “That’s the Women’s Mountain.”
Jodie is as delighted as we are when we drop by the clinic to let her know we’ve made it.
I turn my attention up. But what about that sky? Talk about blue.
“Oh, I’d like to try to climb that,” I said, mostly to myself. I was looking at the red and orange escarpment of a 600-metre high monolith. Although less than an amateur, (I mostly hike mountains, not climb them), I can’t help but trace the ridges and outcrops of anything that looms into view, seeing if, in theory, it’s climbable.
Kintore, lying in the heart of Australia (from the top of Women's Mountain)
The author greets the full moon atop an ancient rock cluster significant to Pintupi women
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