A man’s not a camel ya know!

Trip 13: Perth to Mount Musgrave (Chalice)

Purpose: Targetted flora and fauna survey

Total Distance Traveled: 2, 978 km

Distance Traveled Year to Date:  45, 307 km

Long way from home

That roadhouse!

I know a couple that once owned a roadhouse in a little tin-pot town way out back of beyond (yes, that is, or was it in the picture - now it is a town icon covered in number plates!?!). I shan’t mention whom and I shan’t mention where, because it has tax implications and I most certainly don’t want to set the ATO onto these lovely people some 30 odd years after the fact. Though I am sure even the ATO have a statute of limitation on tax infringements. Actually, I doubt they do, so for now let us just refer to them and Mr and Mrs X from a little town called ‘Y’.

I don’t know exactly what took them to ‘Y’ in the first place, but what I do know is that in a few short years they made a small fortune and the vast majority of their transactions were ‘cashies’.  Only the minority of their earnings were legitimate: from the fuel that flowed far from freely from their pumps. The real money came from all the extra-over-and-aboves. Suffice is to say that there were more than enough ‘opportunities’ to scrape some cream off the bump and grind of everyday life bent over the till or sweating over the grill.

Basically, if you were caught short of fuel and it was after closing you payed a premium to unlock the pumps. It wasn’t much; it was a fair price to pay given the remoteness. I don’t know about you but if I rolled into one-horse town at the witching hour and had to drag someone out of bed to pump gas I’d be more than willing to pay an extra ‘fiver’ as recompense. Well this happened often and those ‘fivers’ added up. On top of the after-hours openings were the basic ‘get you back on the road’ repairs and these were literally worth their weight in gold.

In the past I have giggled like a child as Mr X has regaled me with his adventures as a roadhouse proprietor in that little town called ‘Y’, but I wasn’t laughing the other day when the boot was firmly planted on the other foot.

I had left Laverton heading to Warburton and, knowing that I still had a few towns to pass, I had not yet filled all my water Gerry cans for our pending three-day remote camp out near the Musgrave Ranges on the border of W.A. and S.A.

I pulled into this isolated, yet quaint little roadhouse well short of Warburton, but way past the Black Stump. The pumps were closed as the fuel truck was late. I didn’t need to purchase fuel, but I would have if I could have. Their store was open, so I was quite keen to get a feed; it was a tidy little roadhouse, it must be said. Not at all what I was expecting that far out. In fact, one of the grounds-people were Karcher cleaning the entire front veranda, spraying the concrete, the furniture, the balustrade and pretty much anything else that needed a wash down.

I asked the proprietor if I could fill my three Gerry cans. His response? ‘That’ll be $10 per Gerry’ (in monotone grunts). Yes….$10 per Gerry. Their rationale: They have to turn on the bore and that takes time and costs money!!! Really? Reeeallly?? I could not help but wonder if that was a different bore that feeds the hose that is connected to the Karcher that is blasting a gigalitre of liquid gold across their veranda not 20 paces from where I was standing with my jaw on the ground.

Obviously, these roadhouse proprietors were already planning their trip to the Bahamas and they just needed a few more desperate travelers to get that premium hotel upgrade.