Balanggarra man Ronnie Morgan wants to share his country by charting the first road through some of the most remote and rugged terrain imaginable to the spectacular King George Falls in north-west WA.
Ronnie Morgan's eyes glint in the early-morning sun as he surveys the revving engines that may deliver his dream.
"I'm a realist," he chuckles.
"We might not make it to the waterfalls but we're going to give it a bloody good crack."
The 39-year-old Balanggarra man is embarking on a gruelling 10-day odyssey from Wyndham in north-west WA through some of Australia's most remote terrain.
He is literally chasing a waterfall — or to be precise, chasing the creation of a road that will open up land access to the heart-stoppingly beautiful King George Falls.
It is a rare example of what was once common on the Australian continent — an attempt to push outside the ever-expanding spider web of roads and mobile phone towers.
"This kind of journey changes people; they start out as one thing and come back as another," Ronnie says.
A high-stakes quest
It is Ronnie's third attempt to carve out a road to the 100-metre-high King George Falls, which local people call Oomree Falls.
The waterfalls shimmer like a mirage in his mind; tantalisingly close but inaccessible to both his people and his tourism business.
The spectacular twin falls sit high on Balanggarra country but for decades have been the exclusive domain of wealthy tourists who visit by helicopter or cruise boat.
Ronnie wants to change that and establish a road that will expand his family's tag-along four-wheel drive business and open up access for Balanggarra people.
To do so, he assembles a crack team of veteran four-wheel drivers to assist with the final 17 kilometres of rocky ridges and treacherous creek crossings leading up to the falls.
Among them is Adam Craze, who's been involved in the four-wheel drive industry for years and has brought an arsenal of high-tech gear to help.
"We've all known Ronnie and the family for years, and when we heard about this mission we were very happy to jump in.
"It's a hell of a challenge but I'm hoping we'll make it. We've got to."
As departure day dawns, the four rigs are fuelled to the brim and bristle with snorkels, GPS tracking devices and radio receivers.
Ronnie looks tense as he farewells wife Coralie and their five kids and climbs into his gun-metal-grey LandCruiser.
"I want to do this for my family and for my people," he says.
"If we can get through, we can set up an eco camp out there and we can really get things going.
"Our people have been depressed and oppressed — tourism is a way for us to get out of that, to get back out on country and get some opportunities for the next generation."
The engines roar into gear and the convoy is on its way.
A musical road trip
In glossy car ads, 4WD adventures look glamorously muddy but ultimately safe. Shiny tanks pick their way through rocky outcrops, lurching and tilting in the outback sun as strapped-in children gasp in excitement.
The marketing has helped fuel a boom in the four-wheel drive scene in recent years, with more and more people embarking on well-trodden routes like the Gibb River Road.
But the reality of trips like the waterfalls mission is grittier and grungier, and there is no guarantee of a safe return.
Ronnie and the team will be pushing outside the physical and psychological comfort zone of roads and mobile phone coverage, and things can derail quickly — a flood surge, a rogue bull, a broken chassis.
"OK you mob, have we got everyone on comms?" Ronnie demands on the crackling two-way radio.
There is a chorus of replies.
"If we've got everyone, then it's time for a song."
After some boppy tunes, a melancholic country and western song starts to play. It's a Red Sovine ballad about the ghost of a truck driver who died after swerving to avoid a school bus of children.
I was out on the west coast trying to make a buck,
And things didn't work out, I was down on my luck …
"This one makes me a bit emotional," Ronnie chuckles.
"I play a mix of music while I'm driving, but I do love country music."
The third night I got stranded, way out of town,
At a cold, lonely crossroads, rain was pourin' down …
Ronnie's beloved retired touring cars are kept on the family’s block near Wynhdam. (ABC: Erin Parke)
The music mirrors some of the more melancholic undercurrents of Ronnie's life.
His family has faced dislocation and disruption — their home community of Oombulgurri was forcibly closed by the WA government, and as a child, his mother Maria donated the kidney that saved his life.
Ronnie reckons he's embraced the second crack at living with gusto, holding Coralie and the kids close and tight.
"Ronnie is a special person and I'm really proud of him," his mum, Maria, says.
"He always tries to do the right thing by people.
"And it's a dream job for him, because he's in touch with his culture and creating opportunity for his own kids and getting them out on country.
"When the country has visitors from its own mob, it comes alive and the ancestors are happy."
Ronnie's parents Maria and Colin started the tourism business in 1994 as a way to generate income and spend more time on their traditional homelands.
Each year Colin and Ronnie escort hundreds of vehicles and travellers on the gruelling 10-day loop of the Carson River Track.
The notoriously rugged route, known locally as the Oomby Track, arches about 400km across Balanggarra country.
The business is steeped in a deeply held belief about tourism as a form of reconciliation — an opportunity to explain culture, exchange knowledge and answer questions under the liberating starry sky of the remote Kimberley.
"We have all sorts of people come along, and some of them arrive with different views or ideas," Ronnie explains.
"Some of the questions they ask are a bit offensive, but I don't take offence because these guys really want to learn and you just have to laugh sometimes.
"The stuff they learn here about history and culture they weren't taught in school, and it's right in front of them — the remnants of the settlements and the places where my people were massacred."
WARNING: The following paragraphs contain graphic descriptions some readers may find distressing.
In 1926, Balanggarra people were murdered by white settlers in a series of confrontations close to the Oomby Track.
Survivors reported people being herded off a cliff and others shot; a subsequent royal commission was told bodies were burnt in makeshift ground ovens.
Ronnie says sometimes guests feel pangs of guilt, responsibility or remorse when they learn of the track's dark past, but he urges them not to.
"It's not about that; no-one should feel guilty," he says.
"It's history, it's in the past. But, and this is important, by knowing our past we can know where to go in the future."
A mechanical crisis
The early progress is good and the convoy rumbles forward. It is too early in the year for tourists and the bush tracks are deserted.
Timing is everything on a trip like this.
Earlier attempts to reach the waterfalls failed due to weather and mechanical failures.
This third push is being squeezed within the final fortnight of April, when wet-season waters have subsided sufficiently to cross but a couple of weeks before Ronnie's dry-season tours kick off.
The group pulls up at Pentecost River, which looks alarmingly deep and fast-flowing.
But one by one the cars glide through, with water washing up across the bonnets and spraying the cheering children.
But not long after the river crossing, things derail. Ronnie detects a grinding noise and the convoy pulls up sharp.
The men assemble at the side of the car and begin to poke and prod the wounded patient like doctors performing outback surgery.
The prognosis is not good.
A collapsed bearing has left the wheel running raw on the rear axle, which has cracked under the pressure.
For hours they toil in a sliver of shade, as oil drips like blood onto the dry dirt.
Miraculously, the matrix of tools and spare parts is assembled and a new axle installed — the journey can resume.
Ronnie is relieved but grim-faced. His business can't function without the vehicle and a full autopsy won't be done until they return home.
"It's not until you come out here that you realise how rough and how hardcore the track really is," he says.
"You can do damage to your car fast; it's just the nature of the beast."
Challenging, rugged terrain
After a couple of days, the group is in a rhythm.
Hours of slow, gruelling driving punctuated by shady lunch stops, then scouring the bush for a flat, dry space to set up camp.
There is non-stop banter across the two-way radios and exclamations of surprise about the shifting landscape.
But progress is frustratingly slow.
We're the first travellers to navigate the roads since the wet season, and bucketing rain has left massive washouts and sections of collapsing ground.
By day four, there is quiet concern being expressed around the campfire.
The convoy is several days behind schedule and running out of time to carve out the new track.
The clock is ticking for Ronnie to get back home to prepare for his first commercial tour of the year.
A spooky discovery
Early the next morning, the group is bouncing along the Oomby Track when an eerie sight emerges on the horizon.
It is a bogged and abandoned car, sitting caked in mud like a harbinger of what is to come.
The children poke around it, casting nervous glances into the bush as if the mystery driver might still be lurking.
Ronnie reckons it belongs to a local who misjudged the wet-season rains and will likely be back soon to try to retrieve the shell of a ute.
Outback graveyard of cars
Northern and Central Australia is dotted with the corpses of cars that didn't make it.
And there's evidence an increasing number of Australians are getting into vehicular strife in remote areas for two main reasons.
First, inexperienced drivers are heading bush without the skills to do a quick fix on basic mechanical problems.
Second, four-wheel drives are increasingly built on digital systems that can't be repaired manually — even by the most experienced bush mechanic.
It is a change that 4WD pioneer Ron Moon has observed firsthand.
He and his wife, Val, have written 20 guidebooks during several decades spent crisscrossing the globe on off-road tracks.
"I started driving four-wheel drives in the Army back in 1965, and I've been driving them ever since — enough to make a living out of it for the past 35 years," Ron says.
And the biggest change? He says it's the surge in outback travellers with "all the gear but no idea".
"The biggest thing is probably the sheer number of people wandering around, especially since the COVID pandemic.
"There are a lot of positives, and I've always encouraged people to get out and see this big and magnificent country.
"But they can get into trouble pretty quickly because they don't realise what the situation is out there in the outback."
There is a more fundamental change occurring.
Veterans like Ron Moon believe authentic, old-fashioned outback experiences are harder to find, as bitumen burnishes the road network and mobile phone reception seeps across the landscape.
"Obviously the spread of mobile phone technology across Australia has just been incredible, and it's been a game-changer," he reflects.
"When we started out, HF radio was the only means of long-distance communication.
"I think it's changed the mindset of travellers and reduced the feeling of isolation and remoteness in many parts of Australia."
Every year, state and federal governments spend money sealing sections of outback roads to improve safety for residents who rely on them for supplies and school runs.
A third of the Gibb River Road in the central Kimberley is now sealed, as is about half of the gruelling route to Cape York in northern Queensland.
"The excitement and challenge of some of those tracks are way less than they used to be, but that said, there are still lots of places for people to go," Ron says.
"There's a lot of Aboriginal land throughout Australia, and I love seeing Aboriginal people leading tourism and trips."
His main advice for people wanting to dabble in outback adventure: Join a four-wheel drive club or a tag-along tour to learn safety and etiquette.
An expensive vehicle is no substitute for common sense and experience, Ron says, especially when help is far away and the stakes are high.
A deadly river crossing
By the eighth day, it is looking increasingly unlikely the team will make the waterfall.
The breakdowns cost time and the group hasn't even started the hard-yakka push through the bush to make the new road.
And then comes the vast waterway that finally decides it.
As the group moves slowly towards the Drysdale River valley, the water looms large and fast.
It is immediately apparent the river is too high and deep to cross safely, especially with children in the group.
A team meeting is called. Sitting in a circle, Ronnie explains that, despite their best efforts, it's time to pull the pin.
They gave it a good crack and he's proud of how far they made it, he explains, but no waterfall is worth the risk now facing them.
"I think if we'd attempted anything today, we'd all have been washed down the river," he says later that night.
"It is a bit disheartening to have to make that call, but safety always, always has to come first."
The mood is one of acceptance with a dash of relief.
The group will now set up camp for a 24-hour rest on the stony banks of the Drysdale, with time to wash underwear and cook up the last remaining fresh veggies before turning back for home.
Some washing and a rest day by the Drysdale River. (ABC: Erin Parke)
But around the campfire, a plan is being hatched.
While Ronnie must head back to town, four of the group have volunteered to press on and try to complete the journey to the waterfalls.
Ronnie gratefully accepts the offer.
"I'm disappointed I'm not with them, but it's the way it's got to be," he reflects.
"I reckon they'll make it.
"They've got the right sense of adventure — it's really old-style, even though they're doing it with modern technology."
And so the group splits into two — one destined for the air con and ice creams of town, the other inching forward into the unmarked scrub.
Waterfall triumph
Two weeks later comes a triumphant phone call from a scratchy satellite phone.
The group made it through, using drones and quad bikes to pick out a path to the top cliffs of the vast waterfalls.
Ronnie is elated.
Within a few weeks, a makeshift campsite has been carved out close to the enormous gash in the landscape, and the Morgan family is able to visit for the first time.
"They've done a bloody excellent job getting through," Ronnie says.
"It was an incredible feeling travelling up that track for the first time."
As a result, the family has been able to unveil its new tour itinerary — the first ever overnight camp at the dizzying heights of King George Falls.
It is a unique offering and one entirely within Balanggarra hands.
"It is an old-fashioned type of adventure, which is pretty rare now with all this technology around," Ronnie says.
"And I'm just so proud to take people out on our country.
"My main drive is to get my people back on country and allow them to make a buck on top of it, because we're the ones that have the knowledge, you know?"
Credits
- Reporting: Erin Parke
- Video & photography: Erin Parke. Drone footage supplied by Top of Down Under
- Digital production: Kerri Kapernick
