Plague after Plague

Eucla Telegraph Ruins, Old Eucla WA

 The Plague of Eucla

The town of Eucla is set about four kilometers off the coast, but this wasn't always the case. Now a roadhouse, caravan park and hotel stop for Nullarbor travelers, it was once a telegraph station and a port for supplies coming from the sea. The town thrived for a few decades, until the plague took its toll.

With all of Australia's venomous spiders, poisonous snakes and strange animals likely to kill you; it was a hoard of feral rabbits that undid the seaside town. Rabbits aren't native to Australia. They arrived with the European settlers as food, as pets and as sport. With the release of twenty or so bunnies for hunting, Australia's feral rabbit population began its march. The rabbits did what rabbits do and before long they were a pest. They were devastating for the town of Eucla.

Eucla sat in a particularly barren part of Australia. The Nullarbor's name literally means no trees in Latin. The ground was dry and sandy with rough and patchy vegetation, and the rabbits got hungry. They nibbled here and there until they cleared the dune grass. As the top cover disappeared, the dunes took flight and slowly buried the town. Defeated by a plague of rabbits, the town was abandoned and rebuilt four kilometers inland where Eucla sits today.

Head of Bight in Grey Skies, South Australia

We stayed in Eucla for a night, as most travelers do; then crossed back into South Australia the next morning - one state closer to home. While the Nullarbor Plains are known for their heat, we made our crossing under a grey sky blanket.


The Plague of Smoky Bay

We reached a point on our trip when we both said, "That's it. We're done with tents." You might have thought we reached that point when we were camping on diesel. Or it might have happened on the night that Craig had us sleeping in the truck. But no... We managed to keep our spirits high. We managed to enjoy tent camping ...until the plague of Smoky Bay.

I grew up in a small farming community in central Illinois. Our little village was surrounded by corn fields; the old school building that they tore down was infested by field mice. I'm not squeamish about seeing a mouse or two, but Smoky Bay was something all together different.

It was mid-afternoon when the first mouse hobbled by our tent. He was in rotten shape. His side was torn and bleeding. We actually felt bad for the little fella. Craig scooped him up and moved him along the best we could. The next mouse popped up on the jetty. He was a bit of a novelty running around about half a kilometer off the shore. Then his mates appeared making a fast feed of our fishing bait. I can handle a mouse, but there's an immediate repulsion when you see four mice feasting on a bit of raw squid meat. I had flashbacks to the pet albino mice that my cousins and I kept in the seventies - my early lesson in cannibalism.

Imaginations run wild before bed. As we closed the zips on our sleeping bags, Craig and I had the same thought.  "That mouse? the one with the bite on his side? The one wandering around is a half-comatose stupor?  Do you think a snake did that?"  We turned off the light and laid down to rest with our eyes half open.  We listened to the rustling leaves, worring about venomous snakes.

I managed a few hours of sleep as Craig listened to the leaves growing louder and louder. Laying in the tent, he looked over his shoulder. In the glow of the caravan park light, he watched dejectedly as mice scampered up the side of our tent. They had made it inside the fly. Each time they'd reach one of the clear screens, he'd carefully flick them off. Ever the gentlemen, he left me to sleep. I'm not sure why we stayed a second night, but on that second evening I witnessed the midnight mouse run for myself.

We'd later be told that we were lucky. Until you've driven over a moving carpet of mice, you really haven't experienced an Eyre Peninsula plague. We packed up our tent and moved along.

Cummings Lookout, Eyre Peninsula, South Australia

A Night in Coffin Bay

We moved on the mouse town, driving a few hours south to visit Coffin Bay. If you're a oyster eater, you'll recognize the haunting name as home to some of Australia's best oysters. They are perfect fresh with a hint of lemon or you can pop around to 1802 and order a mixed platter. Go to 1802. Get the mixed platter. You won't regret it.

After the mice, we should have given ourselves a tenting break. Knowing it couldn't get much worse, we stuck it out. We called into a local caravan park and plopped down payment for three nights on a tent site. The ground was rock hard though, and after forty-five minutes we'd only managed to get three pegs in.  We tried another site. We had the same problem again. The tent thing just wasn't going to happen. [Spoiler alert: We put a deposit on a caravan last weekend. Our next trip will be done in comfort.]

We looked at each other helplessly, headed back into the park office and took a cabin for the night.

"Don't look, Amy",  Craig called out at about 7am. He'd woken up before I had and thought he'd make us some tea. He saw a few sugar ants running around the kettle and decided to give it a quick rinse. As the kettle hit the water, they dashed out by the hundreds. Nature en masse had struck us once again. By this point we were over it, but there was a lot of highway between us and home.

The Tumby Bay Jetty

The Happy Plague of Tumby Bay

On the heels of feral rabbits and tent-climbing mice, we arrived in Tumby Bay. As I usually do in small towns, I picked up the local newsletter and started have a read. As I was skimming the headlines, one grabbed my attention. Tumby Bay had been inundated. Politicians had been notified. State agencies and ministers were being called to act. I panicked. I wasn't sure that I could take much more. There was a problem in Tumby Bay. Residents needed answers. Tumby Bay was being overrun. Overrun by galahs.

Finally a plague that we could get behind! For those who don't know, galahs are a pink and grey cockatoo that stands about a foot tall. A plague of parrots was attacking the town. Craig and I fancy a bit of birdwatching now and then; this was a treat for us.

Sometimes it only takes one town to set things right again. Tumby Bay was that place for us. We lucked into the tiny caravan park hosted by the CWA. Situated right across from the beach, we had picturesque sunrises and an amazing view of the menacing galahs resting in the trees. There was a nice long jetty and for the first time since learning the skill, I caught a squid by myself.

And the town's residents proved to be even more inviting than the beach and the jetty. In one night at the pub, we'd had three different folks offer us a guest room. Maybe they felt bad about our run-in with mice and morning of ants, but I suspect it's just their nature. It's a kindhearted town with a lot of local pride. I asked them about the galahs; what could be so bad? Apparently they are loud and crash into your windshield. I can see how that would be upsetting.

We didn't want to leave Tumby Bay, but our holiday time was nearing an end...

This is part 9 of our Nullarbor crossing camping trip. In part 10 we visit old town Australia.