From the Gutter to the Stars (Lightning Ridge Part 3)

pic courtesy of Siding Spring Observatory

From the Gutter to the Stars

It was just after sunrise when I drove out of Lightning Ridge for last time. The last time ever, hopefully.

I've had some dodgy travel experiences in my time. I can't blame Jetstar for all of them, because many are due to my own poor life decisions.

I've been arrested for sleeping in my car. I've set my tent ablaze (twice), and even had a dreadlocked guitarist lace my food with LSD.

But this was the first time I'd ever been 'shooshed' by an angry Baby Boomer.

Let me explain.

Australia's shittest town?

I've written about Lightning Ridge in another blog post. To recap: in the space of a couple of hours, I was refused service at the local pub, had a run-in with the village idiot, and been unable to find anything that I would call edible.

After that ordeal, I set up camp, and got ready for what looked like being a food and alcohol-free evening.

There was plenty of room in the campground, so I picked a shady spot well away from the gaggle of Gonads who'd parked their caravans in a neat line right next to the bathroom facilities.

If you've read my travel rants before, you'll know that Gonad is shorthand for Grey Nomad -- the demographic of perpetual travellers who all seem to be called Brian and Jan, or Ken and Margaret.

I'd put a buffer of around 100 metres between my tent and the Gonad collective. I thought I'd be safe at that distance.

So I was a bit pissed off when an older couple arrived and decided to manoeuvre their mobile mansion into a spot right next to my tent.

It took a bit of guidance from Jan (left, right, no, back a bit, no you'll have to start again...) but eventually they sort of pulled it off.

I was heading out on the town, so I didn't say hello. Besides, there was tension in the air -- it seems this wasn't the first time Brian had struggled to park his caravan properly, and Jan was giving him a blow-by-blow critique of his many failings as a driver.

Hot and steamy

I was off to the hot bore baths, one of Lightning Ridge's main attractions. Apparently the artesian water is some 2 million years old; about the same age as the bathroom facilities.

The signs say the water is served at a pleasant 42 degrees, but they lie. Think Satan's furnace instead.
I spent about 30 minutes wallowing like a dugong, and although the heat was barely tolerable, I did feel more relaxed.

Then a group of old people rolled up in a minivan. I'd seen this lot earlier in the day smashing into the Prosecco, and sure enough, they were all hammered in a way people in their declining years shouldn't be.

They were getting frisky, too. They started daring each other to get some gear off, which meant it was time for me to leave.

'Shoosh'

It was just before 9pm when I arrived back at camp. I made a quick snack with the dregs of my food supplies, and was trying to make a quick phone call when I was 'shooshed' by Brian.

This involved Brian, resplendent in pyjamas and striped dressing gown, glaring at me from the steps of his behemoth, pointing at his phone, then tapping his watch and saying 'shoosh'. I was a bit taken aback -- I wasn't speaking loudly and it was hours before bedtime.

But these folks have a different body clock. It's lights out at 7pm, prayers, then fast asleep by 8pm. I'd probably shaken Brian's routine to the core.

He didn't back down. He kept glaring until I took my sinful phone back to my tent.

I thought I'd pack up and disappear early the next day, hoping to avoid my new neighbours, but I was shit out of luck. When I packed up before dawn, Brian and Jan sat silently not five metres away in their folding chairs, watching my every move.

Serenity & Schadenfreude

I spent the next couple of days bushwalking in the Warrumbungle National Park, around 500km west of Sydney. It's a glorious place -- stunning by day, but at night, it becomes truly spectacular.

I had the place to myself, probably because August temperatures can drop way below zero and there's a small camping fee which tends to keep Gonads away.

It's also home to the Siding Springs Observatory which I visited on my last morning.

It's a steep, winding drive up to the observatory, and about one kilometre before the final 20% pinch, there's a car park with a big sign that reads "NO CARAVANS OR MOTORHOMES BEYOND THIS POINT".

On my way back down, I stumbled across my old friends from Lightning Ridge.

Brian and Jan had ignored the sign (which measured about five metres across) and got themselves in a pickle.

Their 25-foot wheeled apartment hadn't quite made one of the turns, and Brian was trying to drag it clear of the rocks with his underpowered utility.

Jan was shouting encouragement from the roadside, but I could see this was never going to work.

There was just enough room for my Pajero to squeeze through on the outside of the turn, so I gave Brian and Jan a friendly wave, and made tracks to Coonabarabran, my next stop.

For all I know, they're still there.