On camping with diesel.

Obelisk at Robe

There are many kinds of campers in this world. Some are outdoor rugged mountaineers who trek everything in on their backs, pitch a tent on the side of a hill and melt snow to make their evening feed. We aren't those kind of campers.

On the other end of the scale are campers who drive up to a pre-pitched, less-than-eco-friendly tent that comes with a coffee machine and hairdryer in an oversized and overpriced campground. They sit on the deck complaining the air conditioning doesn't reach far enough as their kids frolic in the splashdown zone waiting for their turn on the adventure park slide. We aren't those kind of campers either.

At the moment we fall somewhere in the middle. We are keen to pitch a tent on a freecamp site with drop toilets and questionable showers, but we also enjoy a more groomed campground where we can nestle ourselves between grey nomad caravans and listen to them spin a yarn about their adventures around Australia. One unquestionable truth about camping is that you learn a lot from your neighbors.

Doorway Rock, Rose SA

As we set out on our big adventure across Australia, we needed to road test our camping gear and take stock of what we had. The Australian Nullarbor is an enormous drive with little in the way of supplies or support.

To ease into the trip, we decided to make our way to Robe, South Australia.  We've visited Robe before and knew there was a great cliff top caravan park that overlooked the gorgeous ocean. It was also a short saunter to a tasty cafe which meant we had a reliable fallback if our cooking gear failed.

The SeaVu Caravan Park is a cute, little, well-maintained park. The spaces are tight, but the neighbors are always friendly. We called up and booked the same space we used last March - a site which is set back a row or two from the ocean with a rock wall shelter to protect us from southerly winds.

When we arrived the park was bustling. It was just after Australia Day - the big families with the raucous kids had left to start the school year and the full-time travelers were rolling in to set down their caravans for weeks or months at a time. The skies were a bit grey and ominous as we parked our Ford Ranger next to our campsite.

I'm not sure how many of you have ever tried to park a caravan in a tiny spot on a tight road in a wee little caravan park; it's no easy feat. As tent campers, we are golden - we pull in, throw up a Coleman 14ft dome then chuck our tent underneath. Sure, it takes us an hour or two to get it up, but it's little work compared to the painful backing up and backing in that we see caravaners do. We watch and take notes knowing it will be us one day.

Just as we put our truck in our spot, the caravan across from us arrived. As is courtesy at a campground, we offered to move our things to make the parking process a little easier for our new friends. This was mistake number one. The skies were grey and turning greyer by the minute.

This fella parking his caravan there in Robe is not what I'd call an expert in parking. When this happens, the inexperienced caravaner suddenly becomes best mates with every man and his dog sitting nearby. They all get up and offer a bit of coaching - left-hand down, turn your wheels, a little to the side, back, back, back.  I had only one piece of advice.  STOP. There wasn't much else to say. Dude, you just ran over your mate.

Wildflowers, Robe SA

Ok... ran over isn't quite the right phrase... it was more like he was pinched between the back of the van and the fence. Thankfully the spare tire offered him just enough breathing space that he walked away with only a damaged leg.  Mental note: never stand directly behind a parking caravan.

With that turmoil settled, we thought we could pitch our tent. Another caravan arrived. By now the skies were beyond grey, and we had to get our dome up before the rain bucketed down. Caravaners laugh at our cover dome calling it the Taj Mahal. It is a bit large, but very practical.

As we were unloading the gear, both Craig and I noted a dark patch on the ground - water left behind as someone emptied their caravan. Normally we'd be quite diligent as we set up our tent, but after two false starts and the dude getting run over, we just wanted to get started. I guess this counts as mistake number two.

Warning, Robe SA

The tent we arrived in Robe with was a tent we both hated. Last year, not far from Robe, we found ourselves in the awkward position of having a tent that collapsed in the wind, the urgency to buy a new one and almost no choice in the nearest tent-selling town that was nearly an hour away. We found ourselves stuck with a piece of crap. We talked about replacing it, but felt guilty since it was so new. In any case, we hoisted it up, laid out our the sleeping bags, met the rest of our camping neighbors and thrust ourselves into bed as soon as the sun went down.

That first night was a bit uncomfortable. Someone around us was filling a generator or working on their boat. I could smell the petrol. Craig smelled it too. It was a distinctly pungent smell that we both grumbled about as we lay our heads down. By 1am I'd all but forgotten about the smell, when there was a van slamming its doors following by this horrific repetitive beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. I laid awake listening to it for about a quarter of an hour before I mustered the energy to get out of bed with a mind to chew out our new friends.

I immediately felt like I ass as I opened the tent and stepped outside. I saw an ambulance parked in front with our neighbor's wife being carted away. Beep. Beep. Beep. Monitors, of course. I don't often need a reminder to enjoy life, but the thought of this poor woman being taken to the hospital instead of enjoying their first night in their new caravan put my head in a spin.

Unsettled, I tried to lay back down. A completely restless night. I wouldn't call this a smooth start.

Obelisk, Robe SA

As the morning sun came up, I decided I would surrender to the cafe gods. Only a skim latte could ease the aches from the night before. My head and neck were still off from December's illness. I felt all sorts of unwell. The sign on the cafe read "Closed. Back next Wednesday."

It was about then that Craig and I noticed one leg of the tent had collapsed in the wind overnight. It wasn't a simple fix. The complex spider structure of the shitty tent we were forced to buy had given up the ghost. It was beyond repair, but we both agreed that we wouldn't be driving an hour to Mt Gambier to buy another crappy tent. We broke out the duct tape and did a little voodoo dance with little hope of appeasing the camping gods. Our 5000 kilometer camping journey was off to a crappy start.

Awkwardly Posed Photo, Robe SA - Better than our shitty tent.

As the sunset on night two of our adventure, the petrol smell in the tent grew stronger. Craig then said the dreaded words -- that water spill...  the one we set up on...  that's diesel, isn't it?   I put my nose to the ground sheet and the smell was unmistakable. We'd built our nest on dropped fuel. We'd been sleeping on top of it. The fumes had wafted through the base of the tent and made it's way into everything inside -- the air mats, the sleeping bags, the air we were breathing. Needless to say we beat ourselves up as we tried to work out what to do. The park office was closed. I called the emergency number, but the manager was confused and had little in the way of advice. She asked me why we spilled fuel. It wasn't us, I told her. I was too tired to cry.

By now, the wind was gusting to 45-50 km/hr. I was wandering through the campground in a pair of pajamas, and I was about to cancel our entire Nullabor journey. Our neighbors pitched in to help though -- the one whose wife was 45 minutes away at a hospital, the one who ran over his friend and the ones who sat watching with lamb roast as the parking drama unfolded. They all got up to offer a hand.

We moved the tent in one piece to a vacant campsite, perched well out on the cliff and quivering in the wind. Night fell as we climbed into shitty tent with its broken leg and diesel-infused aroma. Remind me again why I like camping?



This is part one of our dual Nullabor crossing and camping across Australia.