The line ahead
It’s now more than a century since the first trans-Australian railway line was completed in 1917. The last stretch to be finished was that which linked Kalgoorlie and Port Augusta, spanning the inhospitable expanse of the Nullarbor Plain and incorporating what is still the world’s longest section of straight railway track: an audacious 478km ruler-mark across the wilderness.
But while it’s been 100 years since teams of sun-scorched labourers managed to create a coast-to-coast rail corridor, it was only in 1970 that it was possible to make the journey on a single train. Thanks to rather woolly-headed administration, the initial track made use of a variety of different gauges – or track widths – which meant that at one time passengers required six changes of train to cover the full east-west transcontinental breadth.
Today’s passengers have it easy, in more than one respect. The Indian Pacific is the only commercial train to serve the entire route, and it’s very much a pleasure ride. There’s no bog-standard, inter-city alternative. If you want to travel by rail from one side of Australia to the other, you do so with soft bedding, good food and a well-drilled phalanx of twinkle-eyed stewards. The train includes a few scheduled stops, too: chances for everyone to pile off and see the places they’re passing through in more detail.
You pay for all this, of course – but trust me when I say that even if you’re pining for a stripped-back experience, having cooked breakfasts and cold beer on demand doesn’t get tiresome. It is maybe best to see the journey as a treat rather than a rite of passage. And it’s some journey.
Leaving Perth, first up are the steep banks and waist-high grass of the Avon Valley, followed by the Darling Range, in November a scarp of yellowed slopes and spindly eucalypts. Within a few hours, the landscape opened. “Wheat country,” said the retired history lecturer I sat with over lunch. He prodded his knife at the broad tawny fields outside the window. “By tonight, we’ll be in gold country.”
On we rolled. He was right, although at dusk when we pulled in at Kalgoorlie, a desert town founded during the 1890s gold rush, a vicious storm had ripped through 24 hours earlier. All was eerie darkness. Roof sheets and fallen boughs strewed the roads. By contrast, the town’s so-called Super Pit – a gargantuan open-cut gold mine visible from space, and mesmerising to peer into – was lit up like a West End show. Trucks beetled up and down its huge sides. Even in the face of natural disaster, it seemed, gold wouldn’t wait.
As a feat of man versus nature, however, the pit was as nothing compared to the following day’s star turn, that six-hour, arrow-straight crossing of the empty Nullarbor Plain. The 19th-century explorer Edward John Eyre called the Nullarbor “a blot on the face of Nature, the sort of place one gets into in bad dreams” – although in his defence, he did have to walk across the thing. Its name comes from the Latin ‘nul arbor’, or ‘no trees’, and the plain itself is twice the size of England.
“The Nullarbor? You can’t miss it,” I overheard a steward patiently tell a passenger. “It’ll be outside all day.” I sat in the lounge car, the better to absorb the views on both sides, and stared. The horizon yawned off in every direction, limitless and almost perfectly flat, a pale green infinity under cavernous skies. Troops of tousled white cumulus looked down on us in the heat. Hours and the occasional stunted acacia floated by, but nothing changed.
Every so often we passed a scattering of sun-bleached animal bones. The train, which had seemed so big and emphatic in Perth, now felt tiny, a needle threading through the sweltering outback. Outside, you could almost see the curvature of the Earth. We stopped at Cook – population four – and gasped at the fierce temperature and the prospect of living somewhere so lonely, then re-boarded, humbled.
Improbably, there was wildlife astir. Eagles wheeled in the blue. The passage of the train sent a red kangaroo bounding off across the plain, and later I spotted two emus striding laconically south. But where they were heading to out there, in the place where Australia shimmers into nothingness, is anyone’s guess.