We left Gladstone Bay with a bit of a heavy heart this morning. It’s hard to pull yourself away from a place that offers up a sunrise like the one we had for our final pack-up. The sky turned a shade of orange that looked more like molten gold than a bit of morning light, and for a few minutes, we just stood there with our mugs of tea, soaking in the silence of the coast.
The camp itself was looking a treat in that soft, early light. We’ve really enjoyed the rough-and-ready feel of Gladstone; there’s something about the way the scrub meets the sand that feels properly Western Australian.
Once we hit the road and started heading inland, the scenery did that magic trick it always does—shifting from the coastal blues to that deep, rich iron-ore red. We stopped for a quick bit of lunch at the Lyndon rest area, just to stretch the legs and listen to the wind through the trees. I’ve always had a soft spot for the ghost gums out here. The way those white trunks stand out against the red earth and the dry grass is just iconic.
The drive towards Onslow felt like we were heading into the heart of the country. The clouds were hanging low and heavy, casting big shadows over the breakaways and the red hills. It makes the landscape look even more rugged when the sun isn't washing everything out.
We eventually pulled into a parking area near Quartz Hill, about 15 kilometres outside of Onslow, to set up for the night. It’s a wide-open stretch of red gravel and dust, but it’s got a grand view of the hills. We weren't the only ones with the same idea, but there’s plenty of room for everyone to find a bit of peace.
Lisa was feeling a bit restless after the drive, so she and Sandy decided to tackle the hill itself. I watched them from camp as they scrambled up the rocky outcrop. Lisa looked like she was in her element, standing up there on the red rocks with the sun starting to dip low and the sky turning those incredible shades of pink and blue. She’s always been the more adventurous one when it comes to a climb.
While they were playing mountain goat, I got stuck into the important business of the evening: the fire. There’s nothing quite like a campfire in the outback to make a patch of dirt feel like home. I pulled out the reciprocating saw to make short work of some of the fallen timber I’d found. It beats a hand saw any day, especially when the light is fading and you’ve got a hunger on.
By the time the sun was properly kissing the horizon, we had a cracking little fire going. The sky was doing its absolute best to outdo the morning’s performance. Everything around us—the ground, the truck, the van—was bathed in this warm, glowing light. It’s the kind of moment that makes all the kilometres worthwhile.
As we sat there, we watched the big mining trucks rolling down the road in the distance. Seeing those massive road trains silhouetted against the orange glow of the sunset is a real reminder of where we are. It’s a hard-working part of the world, but it sure is beautiful when the day finally decides to call it quits.
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