The destination and the journey

Ursula le Guin said something to the effect that the destination is not as important as the journey itself.  I have always thought it sounded a bit airy-fairy, a poetic way of justifying a crappy time at the destination, but not wanting to feel the trip was worthless.  Yeah, yeah, I know she wasn’t talking literal travels.

     When we set off from Cairns on 6 April our destination, Hinemoa was absolutely the most important thing and the journey was simply the route to get us there.  There would be little chance for any family bonding experiences since we were racing the clock.

     Hinemoa is a cattle property 35 km from Baralaba where we were to meet Pam and her kids (husband Mabs had to stay and work in Brisbane).  Pam grew up on Hinemoa and her parents, Bruce and Gail still live there.  

     I vistied Hinemoa a few times at uni and remember the first visit well, 1988.  Pam headed out a week before me then I caught the Greyhound bus from Brisbane.  It sped through the night on deserted country roads.  I saw little except the odd roo bounding off in the beam of the headlights and the names of the towns, black letters on white sign posts Dalby, Chinchilla, Miles, Taroom, Theodore, Moura as they whizzed into view and then disappeared.  The arrangement was Pam and Bruce would meet the bus at Moura at 2 am.

     Except they weren’t there.  I stood with my duffel bag in the dust (it was mid-drought) on the side of the road as passengers were greeted by family and friend.  I didn’t even have a torch.  One man in a Jaguar had collected another man.  They waited until I was the only one left.  One of the men asked whether I was being picked up and I said, not at all concerned, my friend and her father would be arriving soon. 

     ‘Would you like to wait in the car with us?’

     ‘Sure, that’d be great,’ I said.  ‘It’s bloody cold out here.’

     I was warmed by the sheepskin seats and the heater and we made polite conversation until 20 minutes later when headlights appeared in the night.  Sure enough, it was Pam and Bruce and I was safe, never for a minute thinking there was a problem getting into a car with two men in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.

     This time we arrived in Baralaba on a Tuesday at a respectable 2 pm.

     ‘Why was the place closed up during the week?’ Sutchy later asked Pam.

     ‘It wasn’t closed up,’ said Pam.  ‘Everything was open.’

     Everything was a police station, café, general store, post office, pub and hospital.       

     Baralaba is the Aboriginal word (can’t yet find information on the traditional owners) for ‘high mountain’ which is Mount Ramsay, part of the Dawson Ranges which run through Hinemoa.  The population is about 300 and the main source of employment, apart from farming is the coal mine.

     At the newsagent I got directions to a place we could fish in the river while we waited for Pam to arrive.  I asked what fish we’d be catching and I called out the names to Tony, Sutchy and Kibby waiting in the car.

     ‘You can catch saratoga, yellow belly and sleepy cod,’ I said cheerfully imagining a fish dinner.

     I was met with stony stares.

     ‘They’re shit fish,’ said Sutchy as we drove off.

     ‘Fresh water fish,’ said Tony.

     ‘Nogood fish,’ said Kibby.

     ‘Catch a few and I’ll salt and curry them.’  I was filled with holiday optimism.  ‘Bruce and Gail will love fish curry.’

     I fell in love with Baralaba, green from unseasonal rain.  We picnicked by the wide, sleepy, brown Dawson River, across from the golf course under trees dotted with corellas, their occasional screeching shattering the silence.  Kibby and Sutchy cast their lines, half-heartedly.

     Pam and Ruby, Joey, Archie and Daisy arrived an hour later and we drove to Hinemoa together.
      I lost my breath several times on the way, overwhelmed by the beauty of the dry forest and wide open spaces.

 The drive way.  Hinemoa is 11,000 acres, TI 865 acres.

The swamp where Tony, Sutchy, Kibby and Pam have spent most mornings.

     Bruce and Gail hadn’t changed.  The house hadn’t changed except for two things; there was  electricity so the giant wood stove had been replaced by microwave and convection ovens and there was a new dog Arthur, a black Kelpie cross.

     After dinner when the younger kids were in bed and the teenagers by the fire, Pam, Tony, Bruce, Gail and I sat around table on the veranda.  I realised Pam and I had reached the destination, Hinemoa, only this time we had seven kids between us (TK was studying madly in Townsville) and one husband (and another in Brisbane).  It was a Gestalt moment for me when I finally understood we'd both been on very significant journeys since 1988.