12 minute read
Terror Australis
“TURN AROUND,”yelled the motorcyclist on the rust-red outback trail. We were in the southwest corner of Australia’s Northern Territory, one of the most remote parts of the world’s most deserted continent. He was riding toward us on a big performance dirt bike, the sort you see in the Paris-Dakar desert race, and his leather overalls and Darth Vader helmet were covered in dust.
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At our Mini.
Turning around was unthinkable. Forty-four years after the first east-west crossing through the center of this massive country by car, there’s still no paved road through the middle that connects the east and west coasts. The only paved roads that link the two coasts are far to the north or way to the south. Both involve diversions of well over 1000 miles. There was, for us, no alternative.
Why were we driving a Mini when we could have easily chosen a more sensible vehicle? Well, one of the four adventurers on that first-ever east-west crossing of Australia in 1965 was my dad. And he did it in a Mini. We were also commemorating the most extraordinary journey ever undertaken by the world’s most iconic small car, on the Mini’s 50th birthday.
My dad’s journey was not without mishap. The Mini’s front suspension collapsed on Western Australia’s rough desert tracks, and to prop up the car’s front end, they used pieces of wooden fence posts grabbed en route. The little car bounced across much of Western Australia without any effective front suspension.
Our journey promised to be easier. More than two-thirds of our route would be on proper roads, many sealed since my dad’s travails. But that still left more than 1000 miles of gravel, dirt, deep sand, rocks, and ruts. The latest Mini is no more suitable for these than Gucci loafers are for desert trekking. Our Mini Cooper was standard apart from a steel sump guard (to protect the motor and other vital mechanicals from rocks). The rear seat had been removed to make it easier to carry two spare tires and two fivegallon fuel containers (the fuel supply on outback roads is at best inconsistent and in many places nonexistent).
A backup vehicle was essential. A BMW X3 would carry two more spare tires for the Mini, more fuel cans, other spare parts. Behind the wheel of the X3 was BMW engineer Darryl Cook, responsible for maintaining our Mini. A satellite phone ensured we could ring for help even in the most isolated part of this huge unpopulated country.
Tires were a worry. I wanted all-terrain “rally” tires, but the Mini’s unusual run-flat rims would not accept those. The BMW/Mini engineers insisted the strong sidewalls of the standard “run flat” tires would cope with the rough roads and sharp rocks. They could give no reassurance on ride comfort on the corrugated tracks.
On a cool fall morning in Sydney, we set off across the Harbour Bridge, passing the Opera House, just visible in the gray dawn light. Our destination, Perth, capital of Western Australia, was 4000 miles away. The plan was to replicate my dad’s original east-west journey where possible. This meant heading north from Sydney to the Tropic of Capricorn—that took two days—and following that latitude west for much of the way, until veering southwest for Perth.
The first half of our 10-day crossing was largely incident-free. We averaged 500 miles a day, the road was sealed and in mostly good condition, traffic was light to nonexistent, and the only hazards were the gray kangaroos that reached plague proportions at dusk—and which regularly bounded in front of our Mini. If we had hit a ’roo, it would have been the end of our Mini adventure and very likely of us.
The major concern was the locals. Though universally intrigued (and amused) by our choice of car, they all warned that our journey was doomed. A “proper car” in this part of the world is typically a big 4x4 Toyota—pickup or SUV—with a ’roo protection bar the size of a palace gate, tractorlike tires, and enough ground clearance to vault a small sedan.
The most characterful naysayer—we met him on day three— was the owner of the Middleton Hotel in western Queensland, one of the world’s most isolated pubs. (The nearest hotel is 150 miles away.) When we pulled up, Lester Cain came out to greet us, in well-worn outback hat, scruffy shirt, shorts, and bare feet. “G’day,” he said in that time-honored Aussie outback greeting. “Where ya headin’?”
His eyes narrowed when we told him. “What?” he asked, nodding to the Mini. “In that?” He scratched his chin stubble, and his face broke out into a half smile, half laugh. “Whaddya gonna do. Carry it?”
Our first serious setback happened soon after meeting Lester. The unsealed road that would take us on a two-day, 500-mile drive from Queensland into the Northern Territory—the euphemistically named Donohue “Highway”—was closed to all but high-clearance 4x4s. Recent rain had cut up the rough road surface. We debated the merits of “giving it a go.” But capitulated. Fortunately, there was a diversion, a loop north on sealed roads, before our halfway destination of Alice Springs. It added 400 miles to our journey.
After Alice Springs, in Australia’s geographic hub, we sped on to Uluru (Ayers Rock), the world’s biggest rock, and watched it majestically change color from the parched terracotta red of late afternoon to the rich orange of sunset. We enjoyed the luxury of a hotel bed and proper meal for the last time in three days. We’d be camping until Perth.
The road after Uluru, was sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy, never smooth, but the Mini scooted along well enough. Rich, red sandhills grew between clumps of hardy acacia and eucalyptus. Weird rock formations and giant termite mounds bordered the road, so did large majestic gum trees. We were entering Australia’s Great Sandy Desert, one of the driest areas of the world’s driest continent. It was over 100 degrees F. The sun was now hot and strong, standing smugly over one of its greatest conquests.
Then we saw the motorcyclist heading our way, gesticulating wildly. Turn around, he said. We’d been told this section of the sandy gravel road—from Uluru to the Western Australian border—would be the toughest test. We ignored the biker’s warning and continued.
In six miles, we hit sand. Big ruts, cut deep by previous vehicles, scarred the soft road. We hit the sand fast, trying to use our momentum to skim over the loose surface. Initially, we slowed as the nose dug deep into the rough, and the Mini very nearly ground to a halt as it hit that wall of sand. I turned the traction control off, to get the front wheels to spin, and we broke loose. The engine revved with newfound freedom, and we magically gained speed.
Perth h Uluru
Sydney PASSING Sydney, with its lovely Opera House, to cross beneath the Harbour Bridge. (Clockwise from center left) Evan Green's Mini during the historic record-breaking event 44 years ago; author Green, photog Bramley, and engineer Cook take a break; at speed on the rich, red highway; checking out the Mini's condition to tackle the day's adventures.
The combination of light weight, wide tires, and high entry speed meant the little Mini kept surfing over the sand. Cook, following in the X3, reckoned it looked like a little radio-controlled toy car skipping over a beach.
We swept past a deserted SUV stuck in the sand, then, soon after, on the other side of the road, a stricken road train (150-foot-long, 150-ton truck). About 20 miles later—or just under 30 minutes of intense driving—the sand thinned and a solid gravel surface gave the car’s tires solid purchase.
DETAILS
GAVIN GREEN’S DRIVING DISTANCE was 4130 miles—the equivalent of driving from New York to Los Angeles and halfway back again. AUSTRALIA’S LAND AREA is 2,967,908 square miles, slightly smaller than the USA minus Alaska and Hawaii. AUSTRALIA’S POPULATION density is seven people per square mile, compared with the USA’s (including Alaska) 86. Canada’s is nine. Apart from Mongolia, it is the least densely populated country on earth. WESTERN AUSTRALIA, the state that makes up the western third of the country, has a population density of 2.2 people per square mile (and three-quarters of them live in one city, Perth). Take away Perth, and Western Australia has half the population density of Alaska. NOT CONTENT with “just” an east-west crossing in his Mini back in 1965, Evan Green (Gavin’s dad) then proceeded to do a north-south crossing of Australia as well. His total mileage for the “fi gure of 8” journey was 12,000. EVAN GREEN’S TRIP wasn’t merely the fi rst east-west crossing of Australia through the center by car. It was the fi rst east-west crossing, through the middle, by land, by any form of transport. A special Great Explorers map was produced to commemorate the trip. TRAVEL THROUGH much of outback Western Australia requires Aboriginal permits, issued mostly by the native tribes (Gavin Green needed two separate permits for his journey). THERE IS SUCH A PROBLEM with gasoline sniffi ng, among the indigenous Aboriginal communities, that normal unleaded fuel is banned in much of the Western Australian outback. Instead, cars must run on something called Opal fuel, an aroma-free gasoline developed by BP. THE MAIN DIRECT ROUTE from Sydney to Perth, which runs mostly along the south coast, is sealed the whole way. Total journey distance is about 2500 miles. The only other sealed road, from the east to west coasts, goes far to the north and is about 4500 miles. EVAN GREEN WROTE A BOOK of his trip—“Journeys with Gelignite Jack”—and a fi lm was also made called “Crossroads Alice.” SIX OF THE 10 DEADLIEST SNAKES in the world live in Australia. THERE ARE AN ESTIMATED 40 MILLION kangaroos— double the number of people who live in Australia. But a lot fewer than the total number of sheep (140 million).
So we crossed the Northern Territory/Western Australian border, just as rain started pelting our windscreen. That night, we camped near the small settlement of Warakurna, almost a third of the way across the dirt road—the Great Central Road—that cuts through central Western Australia. It rained hard. Not the sort of camping we’d expected in an Australian desert. A storm destroyed our temporary roof, made of a groundsheet tethered to the BMW and some small mallee trees.
Next morning, the sky was a deep blue and the light was achingly bright. The road was well graded and smooth and wide for much of the way. Occasionally the iron-rich red soil of the road was replaced by white-gray limestone. Rocky patches caused us to slow, and I frequently feared for the tires. The rocks and stones attacked the belly of the car like a fusillade of machine-gun fire.
We saw another car—invariably a big SUV—every three hours or so. Of the many attractions of the outback, surely the greatest is its emptiness. In an overcrowded world, there is nothing more appealing than space. Occasionally, we’d pull over to the roadside, cut the engine, and simply enjoy the quiet and solitude. Sometimes, road trains coming the other way forced us to pull off the road and give the giant vehicles, which weighed 100 times as much as our Mini, as much space as possible. We saw herds of feral camels, descendants of the beasts imported to help build the telegraph lines and railways over 100 years ago. Every time we stopped, flies attached us. The dreaded insects may not be the most dangerous creatures in the outback, but they are the most annoying.
The stars, astonishingly vivid in that ink-black sky, entertained us, as we drifted off to sleep. Next morning, two emus wandered into our campsite and tried to steal our breakfast. These indigenous ostrich-like birds are as tall as men, and their big claws and sharp beaks are specially menacing.
As we prepared to leave, with the sun just starting to paint the sky a bright azure blue, a truck driver told us the road ahead was muddy and storms were expected. We headed off, seeking to average 50-60 mph. Occasionally, the deep corrugations made such speeds impossible, but normally the Mini skipped over the bumps like a surfboard skimming the waves. Soon after, the sky darkened to the color of coal and rain fell, hard. River crossings, usually bone dry, gushed with muddy water. Nearing Laverton, where the sealed road to Perth began, the road was impassable because of a deep flowing creek. A simple yet rough diversion routed us around the water and back onto the main track. Finally, we reached Laverton, and the smooth hum of tarmac under-tire replaced the thump of rocky gravel and the swoosh of sand.
On the final run on good roads to Perth via the gold-mining town of Kalgoorlie, we had more heavy rain. We crossed the hills that form Perth’s eastern border, and below us, twinkling prosperously, was the capital of Australia’s mineral-rich west. It was 6.50 p.m. on day 10 of our crossing.
So our journey ended. We had covered 4130 miles, had no punctures, were never stuck, and the car had suffered no mechanical problem apart from a rattling hatch, a dashboard squeak, and a brake warning light illuminated on the fascia (dust had affected a sensor, reckoned engineer Cook).
We put the car on a hoist and inspected its belly. The sumpguard was battle-scarred but unbroken. The standard plastic shroud that protects the fuel tank was ripped, but the plastic tank itself was intact.
Unlike my dad, 44 years before, we had achieved nothing of historical importance. Except that, in all likelihood, we had completed the second-ever crossing of Australia through the center by Mini. ■
MORE THAN TWO-THIR RDS S O OF OU O R ROUTE W WOULD BE ON PROPER ROADS. BUT THAT STILL LEFT MORE THAN 1000 MILES OF GRAVEL, DIRT, DEEP SAND, ROCKS, AND RUTS.
ULURU, Ayers Rock (above), in the center of Australia, is the world's biggest rock. Destination reached: capital city of Perth lies beneath frothy clouds.
