Heavenly Beverley : No Thunder... Just Days Of Wonder

"Days Of Thunder" was a run-of-the-mill 1990 movie, featuring a shortish Tom Cruise and a tallish Nicole Kidman. Described as not entirely terrible, this marked the beginning of the Cruise/Kidman relationship (yawn), which had been preceded by the Cruise/Rogers marriage and was then eclipsed by the Cruise/Holmes saga.

Unlike "Days Of Thunder", the last five or so days have been anything but forgettable. We travelled into parts of the North-West neither of us had previously seen. Nullagine had seduced us with its stunning location and laidback caravan park, ably managed by Tracy, with assistance from her partner John. We watched people come and go and wondered why...

After three delightful nights, we farewelled Nullagine and drove onto Skull Springs Road. We had already driven about thirty kilometres on it and had been impressed by the relative smoothness of the surface. The seemingly predictable road continued to soothe us into a false sense of security. We should have known better... Once again, the road deteriorated to less than ideal. Mid-afternoon, we finally spotted the turn-off to Running Waters.

We had decided to spend a night there due to its promise of a permanent spring fed by the union of the Davis and Oakover Rivers. The track into the campsite - just over three kilometres was brutal and unrelenting. If I had experienced tit cha cha cha on the Skull Springs Road, I now endured the demolition derby of the bobbing boob quickstep.

Unfortunately, the sites closest to the spring were taken, naturally by a crowd of families that included Beverley/Quairading local Phil Veitch with his wife Carly and kids. Doesn't everybody travel to the Pilbara and meet neighbours from over a thousand kilometres south?

So we camped high above the spring on a ridge watching the sunset. A recent fire had decimated as far as the eye could see, however, the resulting stark and barren landscape had a mesmerising and unsettling beauty. The combination of the rocky slopes, the surrounding mesa-like hills and the hardy shoots thumbing their collective noses at the past annihilation made for an intoxicating mix. This extraordinary place shouted with defiance of resurrection against the odds.

Next morning, we moved onto Carawine Gorge. Only thirty kilometres away, Skull Springs Road improved to bitumen at the Woodie Woodie turn off, but the last thirteen kilometres was another jolting Highway To Hell. We just hung on, but as we were approaching the gorge, we forgot the incessant corrugations in awe of the height of the sheer walls of the gorge soaring above the Oakover River.

Carawine Gorge is close to the Little Sandy Desert to the east, just a hop, step and a jump. Who would have thought that those seasonal rivers such as the Nullagine, the Davis and the Oakover would have permanent water all year round - sustaining diverse ecosystems of birds, animals and plants?

Do not travel to Carawine if dust is not to your liking. The wind blows and the dust flies. All creatures, great and small are adorned with the red of the Pilbara.

We lost track, lost stress, lost ourselves, swallowed by the rhythm of the days and the gorge. The big white trunked eucalypts were complemented by other trees and surprisingly varied scrub. The most numerous inhabitants were the noisy and social corellas, along with black swans, a multitude of different waterbirds and pelicans skimming along the surface of the water, in an effortless display of grace.

We had no power, no phone reception and no internet. I engaged in longhand writing. Michael took out his painting of Lake Ballard and played some more, whilst sitting with a glorious backdrop to view. Young Ferdinand the Bull mosied into the frame, snacking on the sweet grass close to us and the water's edge.

We immediately became part of a temporary quirky community. Nobody comes to Carawine unintentionally. We shared the shoreline with every conceivable van, camper and tent. There were couples, families, knitting nannas, grandbabies, kids and dogs galore.

People would walk around and just say hello. Our neighbours were taking their six-year-old granddaughter on her first bush camping trip. She rapidly adjusted and became Canoe Captain on the river and chief collector of skimming rocks, when she was not drawing or playing with beads.

Then there was the couple who had rescued a ten-week-old corgi puppy from the Cue tip, promptly named him Monty and then have given him the best life ever. Another couple graciously pointed out a far superior entry to the water in front of their van after I had been unceremonially dumped in the mud on my bum.

The lazy days passed according to the height of the sun and the length of the shadows. Visitors came and went. Campers would begin to collect firewood in the latish afternoon. There was plenty to do or nothing to do.

We would definitely have stayed longer if we hadn't run out of our tank water. Note to self - fill extra washing up water containers to allow for a lengthier time at Carawine Gorge.

We will be back.