Acacia Ridge - Photo: Otto O'Mallee

Dust was choking everything. Although no more but a fine, translucent veil, carelessly discarded by the wind, it held the country in an iron grip, firmly imposing a mood of its own. Right now the late afternoon sun should have painted the jagged mountain ridges and meandering creekbeds in vivid, emotional colours. Yet its magic had been broken, its rays rendered powerless by by a flexible, inescapable light mesh of dust.

How can plants survive this onslaught, I wondered? Surely, leaves must find it impossible to do a decent day’s work of food-production with their pores all clogged up and light all blocked out! And what would entice even a single flower bud to unfold its petals into an air thick with “flying sandpaper”?

Leafless Cherry Exocarpus aphyllus Photo: Otto OMallee

Sensing the powdery dust on my lips and feeling its grains in eyes, ears and nose I considered my project. During the coming five weeks I was to study plants in South-Australia’s best spot, the Arkaroola-Mt.-Painter-Wilderness-Area. Notes and photographs had to be taken, drawings to be made. Considerable effort had been put into preparing the trip and only the flexibility of my employer combined with the significant contributions of four major sponsors, Singapore Airlines, Australian Geographic, Arkaroola Pty. Ltd., Flair Travel Ltd, had actually made it possible. But now, wiping the dust off my lips, I pondered whether all this effort had been a futile exercise, falling victim to the random nature of Australia’s semi-arid weather patterns.

“We had a few drops of rain last night, and more persistent rain has been forecast for the next few days. That should wash this dust away!” Raelene seemed to have read my thoughts. The forever cheerful and helpful manageress of Arkaroola Resort and Wilderness Sanctuary knew how to lift my spirits quickly. “Just wait and see. The dust will wash off and everything will spring to life, no worries!”

How right she was. I awoke in the middle of the night to the drumming of heavy raindrops on the corrugated iron roof. What a welcome tune this was! Change would not happen overnight, but it would happen!

AWI – IRTANHA THE MISTLETOE EATER

“A long time ago there lived a bird called Awi – Irtanha. One day he went out looking for tucker to eat. He looked all over the place but at first he couldn’t find anything. Then he found a tree loaded with juicy mistletoe berries. so he started eating them.
Awi – Irtanha’s wife, who had children with her, looked up towards the west and saw a big shower of rain coming up over Wayanha. She called out to her husband: ‘Vurlka! Vurlka! There’s a big shower of rain on, its way over the hill! Quickly! Bring a skin blanket! The kids might get wet!”
Awi – Irtanha called back:’Hang on a minute! I’m going to have a feed of vartapi first!’ Now this made her really angry, so she picked up a mun-guwirri and ran towards him. With a single blow she cracked him hard on the skull. You should have seen the blood pouring down his chest! It just came flooding down!
This is why today Awi – Irtanha has a red chest, but his wife has not.”
Tunbridge, D., “Flinders Dreaming”, p. 17
The bird with such an unfortunate family history is the Mistletoe Bird (Dicaeum hirundinaceum), although today its name is applied to the Red Capped Robin, as well. Vartapi, its food, is the Harlequin Mistletoe (Lysiana exocarpi ), an edible mistletoe and therefore food for the Adnyamathanha people, too. The weapon mun-guwirri is a wooden waddy with one side sharpened (ibid,p. 17).

Unfortunately I failed to spot the red-breasted evidence of such vicious domestic attack of long ago. Half an hour later, I reached the Arkaroola turnoff near the Balcanoona National Park Headquarters.

From now on I would be on the one and only road to Arkaroola and since I had encountered a few surprise meetings further south, where there was a network of many roads, I was bound to meet someone on this last stretch. This however was not to be, until surprise popped up from a totally unexpected angle: the air! Just as I was approaching the Arkaroola airstrip, 15 km outside the village, a low-flying plane skilfully chased a couple of kangaroos off the runway, circled once more, ‘waved’ his wings at the odd pedal-propelled contraption on the ground and then landed. Bob Rowe, a pilot from Leigh Creek, had just arrived for tonight’s party and, within no time, was picked up and driven to the village. We had a great laugh as his pick-up-vehicle passed by but little did I know that the news of my imminent arrival would spread through the village at great speed. My idea of quietly parking the bicycle and then walking into the bar was killed instantly by Bob Rowe’s alerting of the mob.

Quite merry after a couple of hours of pre-party partying, they put on a real show for me. I could hear them singing from about a mile away. Approaching the last creekbed, one that could be full of devious boulders, perfectly concealed by spreading darkness, the atmosphere was in no way different to the finish line of a real cycle race. Even down to the fine touch of a white ribbon across the road, made up on the spot by a roll or two of toilet paper. Having no immediate competitors in hot pursuit, I cycled through this banner first and comfortably ‘won’ this race of one. However, what I had considered to be the end, was only the beginning. As I was about to get off the bike and say hello, some hands grabbed the bike at either side while others pushed me on uphill. The idea behind this revealed itself as soon as I got to the top: miraculously, the door to reception opened, and, to the utmost surprise of some stunned tourists, simply receiving the keys to their motel rooms, I pedalled past reception and straight to the bar. Accompanied by the loud cheers of everyone, and while I was still sitting on my saddle, the barman Trevor handed me a cool can of beer, piling up a few more on the counter, wearing a big smile on his face.

I do not know how many beers I had before the party even started, but I still can remember Ian, the party man, continuously shaking his head in utter disbelieve at the sight of a bicycle in what had been ‘his’ bar for so many years. Only when I repeated to him the words of the postmaster in Melrose that someone had to be as determined as the Germans and as foolish as the Irish, did the movement of his head change course to a distinct nod. – Well, from now on the night was his and, after a shower, I was ready to join the beginning celebrations. Tonight was party-night!

Tomorrow I would get my walking boots and compass out, pack note pad and notebooks into my day-pack and explore the secrets of Arkaroola’s-600- square kilometres. From tomorrow on I would be ready to absorb, again, the wild landscape of Arkaroola, a landscape for which the following words by Doris Lessing, although said on Africa, were not only equally true but some of the finest words capturing the magic of the place:

“… That is not a place to visit unless one chooses to be an exile ever afterwards from an inexplicable majestic silence lying just over the border of memory or thought. A. … gives you the knowledge that man is a small creature, among other creatures, in a large landscape. ”
Lessing, D., “Collected African Stories”, Triad Grafton, Vol. I, p. 10

Miraculously, the door to reception opened, and, to the utmost surprise of some stunned tourists, simply receiving the keys to their motel rooms, I pedalled past reception and straight to the bar.

Some of my friends in Ireland and Germany do argue that I should have read the above words before my first trip and taken them as a warning. As it happened, I only read them on the occasion of my first visit in 1987 and I have found them to be absolutely right. Tonight, I was going to arrive at Arkaroola for the 4th re-visit since 1987. On all those occasions, Ian, the longtime manager of the small tourist resort had been only too helpful. Although known as temperamental, I had only experienced his best side. Many longer bushwalks would have been far more difficult without the loan of his old and battered four-wheel-drive or other practical assistance in whatever way. Thus it was only right that I should put in a good day’s effort to arrive at his farewell party in time. And some effort it was going to be!

“To the newly arriving traveller, the region’s immediate scenic impact is one of exhilaration. During World War II, a … pilot ferrying in Premier Sir Thomas Playford, Professor Sir Marcus Oliphant and other V.I.P.’s summed up these impressions most vividly. You could never miss the place. Coming after the ordered, sinuous structure of the central Flinders Ranges, Arkaroola – Mount Painter offers contrasting, stark, rocky chaos, and chiselled alpine confusion. Its red rocks and serrated peaks somehow just stand up and go crazy.”
ibid, p. 7

Right now, still more than 100 km away, it was just me standing up and going crazy. I had left Copley at 6.30 a.m., the road being still invisible in the darkness, except for the small patch of light sent out by a humble bicycle lamp. Instead of being able to enjoy the approaching sunrise, I had to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the ground. During recent rains, cars had rutted the track deeply. Going uphill at slow speed, spokes, handlebars, pannier bags and my tired head were ruthlessly thrown about in a maze of crisscrossing ruts which were ‘somehow just standing up and going crazy as the all of the mountains around them. Deep potholes, sprinkled in generously, provided for continuous shake- ups and the provision of patches of loose gravel ensured further exhilaration through ‘road-surfing’. “Cavan County Council, those bumpy Irish midlands roads, all is forgiven!”

Leaving Copley, the road climbs steadily for quite some time, and during the first two hours I made little progress, to say the least. 18km in all, was the distance covered, only 112 more to go. If I continued at this rate, I would have to celebrate my own little party somewhere down the creekbed! However, gradually the road improved and shortly after Angepena Homestead I heard the welcome roar of a road grader restoring the rutted track to a comfortable dirtroad. Hopeful that the remainder of the journey was going to be somewhat easier, l turned towards the creek at the foot of Mount Mc Kinlay for lunch.

I was now sitting on Nepabunna Aboriginal Land close to the Aboriginal settlement of Nepabunna. In 1930, pastor Wiltshire had secured an agreement with Mr. Ray Thomas, owner of Balcanoona station, whereby 2 square miles of the Balcanoona property were handed over to the mission as a home for Aborigines. Preceding this settlement, there had been problems with the lease holder of an adjacent property who did not want Aborigines camping at waterholes, thus keeping stock away from what he perceived as his waters near Mount Serle. Today, Nepabunna is a small Aboriginal settlement and the former Balcanoona homestead has been turned into National Park Headquarters since the establishment of the Gammon Ranges National Park.

Having passed Nepabunna some time later, the uncommon sight of two spoked wheels moving along without any sound of an engine startled a herd of about 30 feral horses which galloped away from the road at great speed, but, their curiosity finally winning over the first attack of panic, they turned their track into a sweeping circle and proudly followed the “treadly”, until I stopped to have a closer look at them. As I continued again, they followed, and as I stopped again, they stopped, too, their heads high in the air, eager to sus me out. We played this game for a little while until they lost interest and, at high speed, galloped back towards Nepabunna.

“Private Brumby’s horses were the first to run wild, and his name is still used to describe them. Private James Brumby came to Sydney with the New South Wales Corps about 1794 and later settled on a land-grant near Windsor, where he bred horses. In 1804 he went with … Patterson’s colonising expedition to the Tamer Valley in Tasmania and his stock had to be abandoned.”
Rolls, E.C., “They All Ran Wild”, p. 435

Since this incident in 1804, many horses have either been abandoned or have escaped, building up a population which by now occurs over about half of Australia.

“When present in large numbers, the Brumby can be a pastoral pest, destroying fences, fouling watering points, and consuming pasture. Many are shot in the course of organised control measures and utilised as pet meat. It appears that such killing constitutes selection which has led to biological improvement of the surviving stock.”
Strahan, R. (Ed.), “The Complete book of Australian mammals”, p. 491

About two and a half hours later I passed through Italowie Gap and then enjoyed a rewarding freewheel towards Italowie Creek.

In July of 1990 things were different. It was late in the afternoon and I could not stay. Well, now, what to do now??? Hawker was 50 km to the south (going back in other words), but Copley lay another 70 km to the north. The day was nearly over, I had cycled quite a bit today, and I was tired. I disputed this with myself over a sandwich and a coke and made my mind up to give the long, straight road to Copley a go. A phone call confirmed a vacant on-site van at its caravan park and at 5 o’clock I was heading north on a virtually straight road. The country to the left of the road was as flat as a table and upon this table the sun was about to set, flooding the now lower mountains to my right with spectacular light. There was hardly a car on the road, so l had ample time and peace to follow the intense light show. However, when the glowing red ball had nearly vanished, a totally unforeseen interruption came along.

I had just greeted the one and only car overtaking me within the last 3/4 hours when the yellow ute came to a dusty halt on the side of the road. It then reversed, stopped, and two people got out, one of them shouting:”Horst, if this is you, I’m going to have a fit!” By now I was sure that I was hallucinating. Just as well, I was not suffering from a persecution complex! Within five days this was the third time that I met friends on the road. It just couldn’t be true! I couldn’t believe it! But true enough it was. An employee who worked at the Port Augusta office of Stateliner, the bus company that runs a twice weekly service to Arkaroola, had heard from passengers that I was on my way from Adelaide to Arkaroola, by bike. Right now, herself and a friend were going up to Arkaroola for a kind of a “dress-rehearsal” of a big party that was to happen tomorrow. I was as speechless as I had been a few hours ago. Despite the distance still ahead of me, this asked for another can of beer and I just hoped that I would be on my own tomorrow, or else I would end up drunk on the roadside. When Jenny and her friend left – I had sternly refused a lift – it was time to pull the bike lamps out and put them on. After that followed a solitary, monotonous 3 hour cycle into quickly growing darkness.

Judging by the looks thrown at me upon my arrival at Copley’s caravan park, I must have looked even weirder than the cyclist in Max Mannix’ painting “Here he comes”. I couldn’t have cared less, for I was too happy that I had made it without any problems and I was determined I would make it tomorrow. After a quick sandwich and a couple of beers at Copley’s pub I went to bed early, tired enough to turn a blind eye to the fact that the caravan, still months away from the tourist Season, had not undergone the spring-cleaning session.

“Blinman tuned out to be 200 yards of bitumen on what was otherwise a dirtroad. “
Jacobson, “In the land of Oz”, p. 224

Although factually correct, Jacobson could have described the remote, small township somewhat nicer. I agreed with him however in my surprise at the size of the dining room in the Blinman Hotel. Beyond the walls of a small, quaint bar, stretched a dining room of which the far wall appeared to be nonexistent to the shortsighted. Why such a vast space? Blinman’s population of 100 would easily fit into one corner! And Hawker’s 350 inhabitant’s were more than 100 km to the south while Leigh Creek’s 1000 were more than 100 km to the north. Tourist business must be big business ere at times. Presumably bus load after bus load tracks up here from Wilpena to investigate Blinman’s mining history.

Shepherd Thomas Blinman, looking after sheep on the Angorichina station, had discovered copper around here in 1859. During the second half of the last century, many small mines were established in the northern section of the Flinders Ranges, with copper being one of the main ores. However, individual copper deposits were small and cost of transport high.

“even the most productive mine, the Blinman, from 1862 – 1907 was worked by a succession of companies but never profitable. Costs of transport, first by bullock dray to Port Augusta, a distance of two hundred kilometres, and from 1882 by horse teams to the western plain for railing from Parachilna, absorbed most of the profits. ”
Mincham, et al, “The Flinders Ranges – A Portrait”, p. 26

Seemingly, even the ingenious invention of the Railway which G. BIainey had so praised as an instrument that opened up the continent, had not worked out in favour of the mining companies in the harsh environment of the Flinders.

Parachilna Gorge, for which I as heading now, not only marks approximately the northern end of the Heysen Range, but, according to the ordnance survey map, it is also the dividing line between the South Flinders Ranges and the North Flinders Ranges. A number of creeks on the eastern side of the range unite here to make their westward way through the gorge and then spread out, in a delta-like fashion, towards the saltpan of Lake Torrens. About ten kilometres from the western end of the gorge lies Parachilna, consisting of a couple of houses on the railway line to Leigh Creek ( pre – 1956 to Alice Springs). I had planned to stay at the Parachilna Hotel for the night – - – little did I know!!! Fate had a few surprises in store for me!

The first one came while I was still forced to “wash” my feet about once every kilometre. Merging creekbeds from the northeast and southeast gradually increased the amount of water hurrying towards Lake Torrens. Even the first creek crossings, usually jammed between a steeply descending and ascending road, had to be approached fairly carefully. The water was flowing fast and its uneven surface successfully camouflaged bigger boulders. I had been alright on my first and second crossing, but from there on I never failed to hit big, unmovable rock with either the front wheel or one of the pedals, bringing the bike to a sudden halt, and balance out of control. My shoes received a good wash every time, but with the water warm enough for shorts I had nothing to complain about, except for the ungainly sight of a bike tilting and its owner desperately trying to find a foothold on rather wobbly pebbles of all sizes. While approaching one of those dodgy crossings, I was more than mildly surprised when two doors flung open and two voices burst out simultaneously:”Hi!” For a moment I thought I was dreaming. But there, right in front of me stood Annie, Arkaroola’s chef and Brentan, One of Arkaroola’s tour drivers. After everyone of Arkaroola’s staff members had declared my idea of cycling up from Adelaide as total madness, it now seemed as if they were all checking up on me.

Just as in Quorn, only a few days ago, this was a totally coincidental bumping into each other. A few days later, once again, I happened to bump into friends. Naturally, I accepted a cold can of a famous Australian brewery. After a chat and “one for the road” I manoeuvred myself across the creek and, with slightly weakened legs, climbed uphill again.

“… vision of the Australian landscape as awe-inspiring and noble: he saw the great trees as the true inhabitants, with man only tolerated.”
Bruce / Splatt, ” 100 Masterpieces of Australian Landscape Painting”, p. 148

Hans Heysen was born in Hamburg, Germany, in 1877 and came to South Australia at the age of six. After school he worked at a hardware store and, at the same time, studied at the James Ashton School of Art in Adelaide. In 1899, four South Australian businessmen sponsored a trip to London, where Heysen was awarded gold and bronze medals by the Royal Drawing Society. In 1900, he began studies in Paris, one year later he spent some time in Florence, then returned to Paris for a further exhibition of his works. After finally returning to South Australia, he lived at Hahndorf in the Mount Lofty Ranges outside Adelaide. From his home in the middle of relatively lush vegetation, he undertook many journeys into the semi-arid regions of the Flinders Ranges.

As the oil-painting “In the Flinders – The Far North” had matched the early morning mood of today, so did the watercolour “Guardians of Brachina Gorge” (1937) strike a chord with light and scenery at midday.

“A great arid mountain in an arid land is dramatised to play an active role in a world that has not changed in centuries. Heysen is both observer and participant in these dreams. He … becomes one with the huge landscape, terrible because of its size and disinterest. Only the patterned sand tells that at times the river has flowing water in it; the dead trees tell us how rarely this happens. Tufts of dead grass in the foreground hint at the hope of good seasons again. No photograph could spell out the implications of such scenes, but with each brush stroke Heysen interprets them for us.”
ibid,p. 172

The above quote spells out exactly, why I have always been drawn towards Heysen’s paintings. Being totally and utterly unable to paint or draw, I had, in Heysen, discovered someone who had translated the fascination I feel for the Flinders Ranges, into paintings. Enjoying the day so far, I had reckoned that it had been a rather apt decision to name this section of the Flinders Ranges the ‘Heysen Range’. No other stretch could have been better.

Yesterday, the track at the beginning of my ascend to St. Mary’s Peak had run parallel with the ‘Heysen Trail’, a long-distance walking trail. Starting about 150 km south of Adelaide, running first through the Mount Lofty Ranges, then through the Flinders Ranges towards their northern end, the trail constitutes a link between the southern, lusher parts of the state where Heysen lived, and the northern, more arid parts, from where he drew the inspiration for so many paintings. Altogether, it must be roughly 900 km long and seemingly finishes north of Arkaroola (“South Australia’s Midnorth – Visitor’s Guide”, p.33), but I do believe that during the hot summer months the most northern section of the trail is closed, since heat and lack of water would turn walking into a safety hazard.

Along the meandering lines of the creekbeds which I had to cross all day, stood massive eucalypts. Those trees had been the subject of Heysen’s paintings for nearly his entire life. “Like other painters his devotion to a subject has identified him: his name has become linked with paintings of gums.” (Splatt/Bruce, p. 170). Seeing the “great trees as the true inhabitants”, Heysen reduces man to a small creature within the larger context of nature.

“…whether we like it or not. Man can plan in a most elaborate way, but nature, if it feels inclined to do so, can overthrow all his best-laid plans in a few seconds. The balance in nature – which we are doing our best to upset, although we haven’t quite succeeded yet – is something that not the highest human intelligence can create or wholly understand. ‘ ”
ibid, p. 170

Hans Heysen (Wikipedia)

Passing the camping ground around half past seven on my way towards St. Mary’s Peak, l failed to witness any .”earliest risers returning from their tree-hacking expeditions with armloads of firewood …” (ibid,p. 220). The absence of such crude behaviour could have been due to a combination of the frost and the early morning hour, but it was actually due to a strict, and relatively new, regulation on the camping grounds. While campfires are still legal between 1st May and l4th November (from mid-November to April the risk of accidental bush fires is too high), the wood for such campfires can no longer be freely collected in the surrounding bush. It has to be bought. This total stop on “psychomotor axemen’s activities” has a very simple reason: mass tourism. Due to the large number of tourists visiting Wilpena Pound annually, the uncontrolled continuation of previous  activities would eventually strip the ground bare of any leaves, sticks and dead branches, thus depriving many species of natural wildlife of their deserved, traditional home. Of course, an unthinkable process in a National Park! Maybe it is only a question of time, before all Australian national parks have to adopt a policy of actually restricting the number of tourists coming in each day. Uluru, Ayers Rock, seems to be suffering from an increasing number of tourists, and Hinchinbrook Island in Queensland already has implemented a policy of controlling the numbers of tourists visiting the National Park.

Freed from infamous tree-hackers, the Wilpena Pound had regained not only a better ecological balance, but also its peaceful morning atmosphere. A thick cover of eucalypts, melaleuca and acacia still protected me from the cold morning wind whose steady rustling through the hard eucalypt leaves was about the only sound I could hear. Not too long after I had left the pleasant cover of trees and bushes, had the sun risen high enough to provide gentle warmth. Eventually, just under Tandera Saddle, I found a sheltered spot, from where I enjoyed a stunning view towards the east. Suddenly, from somewhere down below in the creek bed, a pair of eagles rose. Initially, they were well below me. Circling continuously, they gradually climbed higher and higher until eventually they were well clear of St. Mary’s Peak and disappeared across the mountain ridge towards the southwest, flying either into the Pound or crossing it towards the Elder Range.

With a wingspan of up to 2,5 m, the wedge-tailed eagle (Aquila audax ) is Australia’s largest bird of prey. Since the introduction of the infamous rabbit to the continent, that animal seems to score favourite marks on the eagles menu. Having caused the extinction of many smaller mammals on which eagle’s preyed previously, and despite the horrendous damage that rabbits caused and still cause all over Australia, white man’s introduction of the rabbit to Australia seems to score highly on the eagle’s menu. This will be partly due to dramatic changes on that menu following the extinction of many of the smaller mammals. Although I do not necessarily want to save the rabbit, I wonder whether anybody has studied the possible effects on the population of eagles, if one were to succeed in ridding Australia of the rabbit problem altogether. Have enough small mammals survived and are their numbers big enough to sustain their own species’ and the eagle’s survival, too? These are mere questions, of course and should in no way be understood as a suggestion that rabbits should be left on their own!

Nowadays it appears to be generally accepted that eagles do not prey on sheep or lamb, unless an animal were sick or disabled. However, I have often heard people discuss, whether Australian eagles actually attack large animals.

“Most of the ‘Aquila’ eagles prey on species very much smaller than themselves, so in taking very large prey, the Australian eagle is an exception. … While studying the behaviour of yellow-footed rock wallabies at my Research Unit in the North Flinders Ranges, I frequently saw them being attacked by wedge tailed eagles. At the same time, the eagles were faring much better with far bigger prey, in the form of euros and kangaroos. ”
Hornsby, P. “Eagle Eyes and Brownies’ Toes”, p. 1

While, so far, I have not witnessed any of such attacks myself, one thing, stuns me every time I observe it: an eagle being harassed by crows. Not an uncommon sight, yet so strange to watch a jumbo of a bird being pestered by a couple of little, shrieking black crows. The Adnyamathanha people have this to say about the reason for the crows’ behaviour:

THE EAGLE AND THE CROWS

“A long time ago there lived an eagle called Wildu who had two nephews called Wakarla. Wildu was always telling the Wakarla what they could do and could not do, and they did not like it. He told them which tucker they could eat, and which tucker only the elders could eat. For instance, they were not allowed to eat goanna tail or emu fat, but instead were given only the really tough meat to eat. …
These two nephews were angry with there uncle because he had wives who were both Ararru, like himself, and this was against tribal law. The Wakarla nephews, on the other hand, were Mathari, and according to the law they were to have Ararru wives. They had their eyes on Wildu’s wives, but they could not have wives yet….”(Tunbridge,”Flinders Dreaming, p. 24)

“Then Wildu got a big fire going in the cave. It was such a big fire that those rocks are still black today. The two wives escaped, and so did the animals, but the rest of the birds were trapped.
The first birds to get out of the caves were the cockatoos. They were able to keep away from the smoke, so they are still white. … A long time after the big fire and smoke, the crows got out. They were black all over. Before all this happened, they were white.
You can see that big cave there today. It is called Wakarla Adpaindanha, which means ‘the painting of the crows’. …
After this the eagle flew off by himself. … He kept muttering that he would eat all old women and children up in the pine trees. This is why no one trusts the eagle, and when he flies over, children must be hidden. Nor do the crows trust the eagle; they go around with him to make sure he kills only in order to eat.”
ibid, pp. 28-29

In another story, the eagle is held responsible for taking away the spirits of children thereby causing illness and death, unless the individual spirit is regained by a Wilyaru, a fully initiated man. Despite my respect for and possible fear of the majestic wedge-tailed eagle, I think the bird deserves a more positive image than the one portrayed in those stories. Nevertheless, the pair that I had been watching this morning, had obviously been “allowed” to rise in the wind and fly over St. Mary’s Peak without any suspicious crows spying on them.

Although the very last section of the track to St. Mary’s Peak is a real scramble, I regard it as an absolute must for anybody only half as fit as myself. Apart from actually flying over the pound, it is only from this magnificent peak that one can fully comprehend the vastness of the crater-like oval. To the east, and presumably all around, the outside walls of the pound drop sharply towards the surrounding, much flatter country. In some places, they appear to be cut vertically by a giant’s knife and very often one can witness the layers and layers of sediments, all tilting inwards towards the middle of the ‘bowl’, from where they presumably rise again to form the opposite rim. In sharp contrast to the steep, vertical drops along the outer edge of the pound, the inside presents gentle downhill slopes which gradually even out into a huge, horizontal, flat bottom of the dish. On the outside, precarious ledges provide tiny homes to individual grasstrees and small bushes. On the inside, the slopes are covered in thick spinifex (Trioda  sp.), acacias, cassias and, along the lines of creekbeds, eucalyptus trees. Much of the inside is open country, once the grazing grounds of cattle. Wilpena Homestead inside the pound was abandoned when the only road into the pound was washed away in a flood.

Immediately underneath me, a very green Wilcolo Creek followed the outer rim of the pound northwestwards and, near Mt. Abrupt, turned abruptly at a 90-degree-angle, to follow a section of the ranges, bearing the name ‘Heysen Range’. To the west, the country was flat, revealing a slim, white line at the horizon, the salt pan of Lake Torrens.

“I have seen it <the desert> on calm days of crystalline purity when the eye could trace, as it were, to the end of the world, bringing with it that wonderful sense of infinity that a land of moist atmosphere could never give.”
Painter Hans Heysen, in: Lyon, E., “The Australian Landscape and its Artists”,  p. 80

It had been worthwhile to leave the hotel early for I had ample time to take in that “crystalline purity” and “wonderful sense of infinity” on my own. I was well on my descend into the pound, when I met the first couple of people coming up. Later on, while strolling comfortably along the easy path right through the pound, returning to the motel via a ring-route, I met the occasional group of people, but quite clearly, this time of the year was the quiet season. Unfortunately, many people seemed to be satisfied observing the pound from a lookout spot close to the motel. This, I thought was a shame, for the sense of wonder increases with the height to which one scrambles.

Wilpena Pound’s crater-like appearance had mislead some of the early explorer’s into believing that they were looking at the remains of a once massive volcano. Well trained geological eyes of today should be able to make out quickly that there is no question of volcanic origin but a lay person like myself will be forgiven, I hope, for first thinking “crater”.

The most stunning aerial view of the pound I have ever seen can be found in the departure lounge of Adelaide’s international airport. Right beside a relatively small window, a wall-mounted, mural-like, gigantic photograph not only dwarfs everyone, it also speaks a powerful language: “Do not leave! Australia is full of wonder and magic and Wilpena Pound is one of them. So, do not leave!” Well, I had ignored that message twice before, but now I was not going to make the same mistake again! At long last, I was able to pay heed to the compelling message of that photograph as well as to follow the advice of geologist E.H.Hargraves,

“Every traveller to the North <of South Australia> should see this wonderful work of his Creator”
Domin, E. “The Flinders Ranges – A Portrait”, p. 30

This morning while I was making slow, and I dare say, impatient progress along the bitumen towards Wilpena Chalet, the words of another geologist, Alfred Selwyn, the first one to compile a geological report on the ranges, came to my mind; words which emotionally speak the same language as Hargraves, while at the same time coming forward with a rather profane, neutral, scientific explanation for “the work of his Creator”.

“Its singularly grand and picturesque appearance far surpassed anything else I had seen in Australia… The Pound is not a volcanic crater nor in any way due to volcanic action but simply due to an undulation of the sandstones that form the summits of all the higher peaks from Mt. Remarkable upwards.”
ibid, p. 29

Having left behind me the curving Elder Range and the narrow Chace Range, both the result of the same process of creation, and slowly turning north to find the ‘entrance’ to the pound, I felt that Selwyn’s explanations were nothing but a let down, nearly an insult. Of course, he was right in that about 500 million years ago movements within the earth’s crust had begun to unsettle the edges of a huge depression covered by the sea, the so-called Adelaide Geosyncline. This in turn had tilted, pushed and shoved upwards the numerous layers of mud, shale, sandstone etc. from the bottom of the Palaeozoic sea. Combined with erosion, this had created todays wriggly line of mountain ranges. Despite that very straightforward, unromantic, scientific explanation, I was determined to view the impressive landform as something more than a “simple undulation of sandstone”. And anyway, what is so “simple” about tilting and bending even just one kilometre of sediments, let alone 60 -80 km?
There is, of course, another explanation for the shape of the pound. The indigenous people have this to say in what, by our standards, would probably be called a story.

YURLU’ NGUKANDANHA

The kingfisher (Halycon pyrrhopygia), called Yurlu by the Adnyamathanha people, had set out to join a ceremony at Ikara (Wilpena Pound). On his way down he lit fires to create smoke in order to signal that he was on his way. Today’s coal fields at Leigh Creek and other places are the spots where Yurlu lit fires.

“As Yurlu was travelling, there were two big Akurras (Dreamtime Serpents) also going south towards Ikara. … You can see those two Akurras near the beginning of their journey just outside Copley. The male Akurra, whose name is Ngarnangarrinha, is the small hill to the west, and the female, Wartawinha, is the big hill to the east.
Yurlu went down the valley … a little north of Varatynha (Brachina), Yurlu saw the two Akurras being covered over by two Murrandyarli lizards. Here Yurlu crawled along really low so the Akurras could not see him. Today there is a rounded hill there, with a spring on top, formed when the lizards covered up the two serpents. It is called Wabma Nambaindanha (meaning ‘covering of the snakes’). … The two serpents went on down towards Ikara. They entered the Pound through Vira Warldu (Edeowie Gap), and camped there at a large waterhole. The highest mountain on the western range casts a shadow very early in the afternoon at the place where they were camped. The male serpent said to the female: ‘Wildya ngulhiinda’. It’s getting dark. That is why that big hill is called Wildya Ngulhiindanha (Pompey Pillar) …
The female serpent told the male serpent to make some steps, which he did very early the next morning before daylight. These are the hills on the northwestern end of the range. They climbed up the steps to see what was going on. When the people in the Pound looked up into the sky at the stars to see if it was time to start the ceremony, they saw some big stars rising, and took this as a sign to start. Their minds were turned in some way, and they did not realise they were looking west instead of east. The stars were actually the big ‘minaaka’, (eyes) of the two Akurras looking down at them!
The male Akurra told his mate to go to the southwest while he went to the northeast. Their idea was to surround the people.
Yurlu came on down, and when he got to Mount Abrupt, he stopped and looked into the Pound. (Mount Abrupt is Yurlu looking towards the Pound.) … Yurlu sneaked on down and saw that the ceremony was well under way,…. Yurlu was just in time to snatch the firestick from Walha the turkey and throw it up in the air. This stick turned into the red stir, Wildu (Mars). …
Walha and Yurlu flew off to the south, still fighting. When they got as far as Yurlurlu (Oolooloo), Walha hunted Yurlu back up north, saying he was going to stay down south and have nothing more to do with Turin’s ceremonies up north. (That’s why those people in the south did not have Vardnapa ceremonies.)
The two initiates fled eastwards, watched by the two Akurras. Ngari Mudlanha, St. Mary’s Peak, is the head of the male Akurra, and Wilhanlanha, Beatrice Hill, is the head of the female serpent, both watching the night of the initiates. Their bodies form the two sides of the Pound. …
After everything was over, the two serpents headed east towards Lake Frome.

Yurlu nugukanda
Wirdawirdaindha
Yurlu-tyi nugukanda
Wirdawirdaindha.
Yurlu is going along
Making a smoke
Yurlu is going along
Making a smoke.”
Tunbridge, D. “Flinders Ranges Dreaming”, pp. 141-44

Well, this was certainly a more dramatic account of events and, despite its cruelty, far more to my liking. However, I readily admit that I do find it more than difficult to grasp the concept of Aboriginal “Dreaming” or “Dreamtime”. I will always be in danger of regarding accounts like the above one as mere stories and nothing more, which of course, is not the fairest way of treating such an account. However, of some help was a brief description I had picked up years ago, while visiting Uluru, Ayers Rock.

” The traditional owners of ‘Uluru’ call themselves ‘Anangu’. The most profound and essential aspect of their culture they call ‘Tjukurpa’. The words ‘dreaming’ or ‘dreamtime’ are inadequate translations of this word. ‘Tjukurpa’ does not refer to dreaming in a conventional western sense of things imagined in sleep. Nor is it merely a collection of enchanting stories like Aesop’s fables, … It does not refer only to a past long gone. ‘Tjukurpa’ is existence itself in the past, presence and future. It is also the explanation of existence. And it is law which governs behaviour. “
Mutitjulu Community, “Welcome to Aboriginal Land – Tjukurpa”, p. 1

Dorothy Tunbridge, after years of work and research with the Adnyamathanha people of the Flinders Ranges, uses the term ‘story’ when talking about particular accounts of the dreaming, but she specifies that the term ‘story’ means an expression of Aboriginal belief which once held ritual and totemic associations. She explains that using the term ‘myths’ is not appropriate and rejected by some people because of its connotation of fiction. The term ‘history’ is equally difficult because, in our understanding, it does not normally have a spiritual dimension. (Tunbridge, D., “Flinders Ranges Dreaming”, pp xii-xiii)

Understanding a story in its entirety may quite often be impossible. Linguistic and cultural knowledge are required to understand allusions and often some allusions are obvious only to the initiated. Some stories are sacred and are not to be told to the uninitiated. In “Yurlu Ngukandanha”, for instance, only those puts of the story which are not sacred have been told. “We leave the events of Ikara itself where they belong – in the domain of the sacred with the elders.” (ibid, p. 141). Nevertheless, those sections which have been told show how stories of the dreaming may serve various functions.

“This is a powerful story in which that great theme of the Dreaming, creation, overlays a hidden theme not revealed to the uninitiated. The creation of coal, and &e origin of the two fascinating mesas of Jurassic sandstone at Copley … of the spectacular walls of Wilpena Pound and several other important elevations are overtly accounted for. The story also seems to account for the southernmost range of the Kingfisher (Halycon pyrrhopygia) whose migration south coincides with the season for the ceremony. The turkey is the Australian Bustard (Ardeotis australis), and the story is a sad reminder of its earlier wide range. “
ibid, p. 141

Thus, this story accounts for the origins of some places, it provides a map, it contains environmental and seasonal knowledge and it associates geological formations with certain Dreamtime Spirits. Other spirits are associated with other formations, for instance Marnbi, the pigeon with gold and the goanna with sandy outcrops. Overall, dreamtime ‘stories’ were extremely important elements in Aboriginal life.

“In the language Yura Ngawarla, ‘telling (someone) a story’… means simply ‘telling (someone) the land or linking (that someone to the land’. … The land is seen as the outward expression of the spiritual dimension. The evidence for the existence of that dimension is there in concrete form, and it is the mythology which interprets those forms to the people. It puts them in touch with that dimension which provides the naming of existence. “
ibid, p.xxxv

Well, having grown up in a totally different environment, I have no hope and no chance of getting in touch with that dimension. Reading the story ‘Yurlu Ngukandanha’ had provided me merely with a glimpse of a very complex subject matter. Nevertheless, approaching Ikara, Wilpena Pound, this “simple undulation of sandstone”, I was glad that I was able to make out not just the summit of Pompey Pillar, but Wildya Ngulhiindanha, not just the highest mountain in the Flinders Ranges, St. Mary’s Peak, but Ngari Mudlanha, the head of the male serpent.

Only a few years before these words had to be chiselled into a big slab of Scottish granite weighing about one and a half tons, had Hugh Proby arrived in the growing colony of South Australia.
“The earliest records show that the first Pastoral Lease of Kanyaka was to Hugh Proby on 1st of July 1851, although he could have held it under an Occupational Licence as early as 1849. When the leases were granted in 1851, they were declared to be stocked with 1200 cattle. Two of the leases, totalling 101 square miles, were the beginning of Kanyaka. “
Schmidt,R.H., “Kanyaka”, District Council of Kanyaka, 1988, p. 7

Kanyaka Station was situated about halfway between Quorn and Hawker and, not having experienced those years of drought which were to ruin many settlers a few years later, the Kanyaka Run thrived. Fate however had sadder events in store for its first owner. In August 1852, a thunderstorm caused a herd of cattle to break into a stampede. In the middle of the night, Hugh Proby and a native stockman tried to rescue the cattle. Misjudging the power of the heavily flowing Willochra Creek, Hugh Proby was swept away and drowned. About six years later, the heavy granite-tablet was shipped to Port Augusta and then hauled overland by bullock-teams to the site of the accident.

“That a monument from his native land marks, and forms part of, his resting place half a world away is certainly unique, and, in view of all the circumstances, this grave probably has no parallel in Australia. “
ibid, p. 5

Not far beyond the grave, I had to cross a now subdued Willochra Creek, only a foot deep but still quite forceful. The climb out of the deeply cut creek bed led me towards a small number of totally dilapidated ruins, the last sad remains of what had been planned as a town on the scale of Adelaide: Simmonston, the centre of the envisaged wheatbelt. With “wheat dreams” shattered in a series of droughts, the only remaining residents in the spot were lizards and wildflowers.

Later on, l passed the ruins of the old Kanyaka Homestead, the place which could have been the long-term home of Hugh Proby. With many buildings having been constructed by Proby’s successor, today’s ruins still reveal clearly what a busy place Kanyaka had been. One of the more unique features surrounding the homestead are the stonewalls. About three feet high and two feet thick, they were built for a length of about 30 miles and much of that laborious construction seems to be still intact. Rocky ground, too hard to dig post-holes, high cost of fencing wire and transport, and the availability of cheap labour were the main factors for creating a bit of “Connemara in the desert”.

Proby’s death was not the only catastrophe to hit Kanyaka Homestead. In the mid-1860′s, drought reduced the number of sheep from 41.000 to 10.000, furthermore, the brother of Proby’s successor perished in the desert, later, an itinerant hawker, Thomas Smythe Holyoake, was murdered there and a young boy, aged two years and ten months, James Bole, was lost in the hills and died. Well, to add to that, the naming of the name of the place is linked to a big rock close by which, according to one interpretation is a place where natives “… when at the point of death, were brought … and laid down to die…” (ibid, p.6). Dear me, I had had enough of mortality for the moment and hastily made my way to Hawker.

Those skills unfortunately did not safe the animals from being hunted and shot in huge numbers around the turn of the century. Killing was motivated by the interest of the fur trade and aided by the fact that rock-wallabies are a rather gregarious species, living together in colonies. Their skins fetched prizes around one and fourpence each on the London-market and apparently hundreds of skins were transported annually from Adelaide to London.

“There is no doubt that this wholesale slaughter of the wallabies before and after the turn of the century greatly contributed to the rapid depletion of their numbers.”
Tunbridge, “Flinders Ranges Mammals”, p. 63

” … was told by his father that a colony of rock-wallabies in good numbers before the turn of the century on the Druid Range . .. east of Hawker, and that were not subject to human predation, disappeared from the site completely soon after the arrival of the Fox. …
Prior to European settlement, people and rock-wallabies had co-existed. Rock-wallabies are prey to eagles, but this has always been so.”
ibid, p. 63

Since its protection in 1912, the animal has continued to exist in isolated pockets throughout the northern Flinders Ranges, but, as far as I understand the matter, its survival is by no means certain.

To the indigenous Adnyamathanha people the Yellow-footed Rockwallaby had been an important source of meat. Apart from food, it had supplied them with rugs for keeping warm during the bitterly cold winter nights as well as hags for carrying water, both made from the skin, while the tail sinew had been utilised for sewing, tying, making nets. Since nets were used as part of a trap for hunting wallabies, the tail sinews of some animal probably ended up as part of an ingenious trap to catch others. Another form of wallaby hunting was by sneaking up to the animal and hitting it over the head with a wally. The meat was cooked in a ground oven.

“One person told me about an occasion in the late 1940′s when her brothers and husband caught a rock-wallaby and brought it home to be eaten. Her father wanted to cook it as he said it had to be done in a special way. He singed the fur off it first, and scraped it clean. He then slit the front and cleaned out the gut, leaving the liver, kidneys and fat inside. He then sewed it up with a skewer ‘nindilparli’ in the same way kangaroos were prepared for cooking. What was different, however, was that he twisted the legs backwards and secured them, then placed the wallabies in the ashes. Others confirm that this was the correct way to cook wallaby.”
ibid, p. 64

Preparing the animal for cooking, then cooking it and finally cutting up cooked wallaby is governed by an apparently strong Aboriginal law: only a fully initiated man, a ‘Wilyaru’ is allowed to perform those tasks. While the law appears to have been broken occasionally, it remains as a powerful regulation even to those who do not observe Aboriginal law any longer.

“Cliff Wilton said that … he simply could not bring himself to kill and eat an ‘andu’ as that law is so strong on me’ … others said that even when they have eaten it recently, they have felt guilty because they are braking traditional law.”
ibid, p. 63

Since initiation ceremonies stopped around the middle of this century there will be no new ‘Wilyarus’ among the Adnyamathanha people and today only one ‘Wilyaru’ remains. The combination of these factors, according to Dorothy Tunbridge, is directly responsible for the cessation of the wallaby hunt by Adnyamathanha people.

In any case, traditional hunting for food by Aborigines was most certainly not a factor which had forced the number of rockwallabies down dramatically over the last 150 years. I believe a number of people are studying the animal’s behaviour, its habitat and possible threats to its survival and I am carefully optimistic, that for a long time to come high up in rocky gorges new colonies will establish themselves and grow, that little joeys will continue to hop into their ‘Kindergarten’ while mummy makes her dangerous journey down to the creek and its waterhole, and that those ‘Kindergarten-joeys’ will continue to happily drink water from their mother’s mouth after her return, indifferent to science and its very slow progress in trying to understand the mechanics of this technique.

This morning, at windswept Warren Gorge and Buckaringa Gorge, none of the few residential Yellowfoots dared to show up. Having survived a cold winter they seemed to be determined not to venture far outside until, in a few weeks, the bright yellow of cassia-flowers presented good food again.