"WAITING UP ALL NIGHT FOR THIS BLANKY HOOKER TO COME IN."

The following entertaining article captures the Koombana era to perfection, halcyon days before the disaster, and when it was clearly a privilege to travel by this majestic flagship.

The Sun, Kalgoorlie, 26 June, 1910.

A TRIP FROM FREMANTLE TO BROOME. .

AMONG THE SQUATTERS AND PEARLERS.

By "VAGRANT"

THE Koombana is a smooth-running

ship. She is far and away the finest 

vessel in the 'Nor'-West trade, plying 

regularly between Fremantle and 

Wyndham, and capable of a speed

of 16 knots. Captain Rees, who has

had command since the boat was put in

to the West Australian service, enjoys an

immense popularity among the travelling

public. Previously the Koombana skipper 

was commodore of the big pearling fleet 

operating between Broome and Sharks 

Bay, so there is nobody better acquainted 

with the Nor-West coast than Captain 

Johnny Rees.

The crowd moving north was a mixed

sort, composed of squatters going home

to their runs, drummers on tour, pearlers 

returning to hunt again for the precious 

gems of the sea, and cattle-buyers

out to purchase stock for the markets.

There were also life assurance agents and

persons employed in the Customs 

Department. A callow youth was going to

Montebello Island to experiment in pearl-

breeding on a theory invented by some

old sea captain, Captain Irvine, Chief

Harbor Master, mingled with the throng,

and kept his weather-eye open for 

possible defects in the contour of the 

coastline.

A dreamy chap accompanying Colonial

Secretary Connolly was mistaken by one

Nor-Wester for the new lighthouse-keeper 

going to take charge of a desolate rock 

away from Broome:

"Poor cove, he'll have a lonely time of it."

murmured the Nor'-Wester  compassionately.

His disgust was deep on learning afterwards 

that the dreamy chap was no lighthouse-

keeper but merely the orthodox " West " 

reporter whom Dr. Hackett lets off the 

chain to accompany the touring Ministers 

on their travels.

Conspicuous among the squatter section

of the community aboard was Alex Edgar, 

part owner of De Grey Station, whose 

western border line starts some 60 miles 

from Port Hedland. The Edgars came nearly 

40 years ago from Victoria to develop the 

great pastoral resources of the Nor'-West, 

and with them arrived the Grants, one of 

whom is still a partner in the De Grey 

squattage and the holder of a fine run near 

Geraldton. Squatter Edgar is a fine type of 

the pioneer pastoralist— frank, open, and 

intrepid. His stories of the early struggles 

of the squatters in their work of opening 

up and turning to useful account the then 

almost unknown lands of the North 

Western Australia are full of charm and 

interest. The country swarmed with hostile 

blacks; dreadful droughts laid the skeleton 

herds of the squatters low. De Grey station 

today comprising about 650,000 acres is one

of the best in the State. Roaming over

its plains are 55,000 sheep and some 

15,000 cattle, supplying, some of the primest 

beef in the markets. Last season's wool-clip 

from De Grey amounted to just on 1100 bales, 

which at £12 a bale (to strike an average) 

mounts up to a solid sum. Recent heavy rains 

in the Nor'-West assure an increased output

for the coming season.

There is prosperity generally among the

North-West squatters. One time and only

a few years ago, the immense territory

held by the Bush's on the Gascoyne -it

aggregates about three million acres —

could have been had for the payment of

the mortgages upon it. But times have

changed. This year's wool-clip reached

3000 bales, and probably it would require 

the better part of a million sterling to buy 

out the Bush's to-day. Squatter Bush enjoys 

his wealth in England.

Shark's Bay, our first port of call,

provides an open anchorage, exposed to

gale and wind. and dangerous, low-lying

reefs impede the path of the navigator.

On Dirk Hartog Island and the mainland

however, are prosperous sheep stations.

The community consists of about a hundred 

souls (vide the local policeman, who

came aboard with a Japanese prisoner 

destined for the Carnarvon gaol). Besides

sheep-farming, pearling is also a considerable 

industry at Shark's Bay. A gruesome odor 

floating over the waters came from a pogey-

pot into which the fish cut away from the 

shell raised by the pearlers is thrown and 

boiled, the minute pearls characteristic of 

the bay sinking to the bottom during the 

stewing. The pogey is then emptied on the 

beach where it purifies, and throws off a 

stench, hateful and far-reaching. 

Subsequently it is disintegrated and examined 

for its gems by the pearlers, who seem to be 

doing very well, they lease banks from the 

Government up to 500 acres, and gather in 

shell all the year round, living contentedly 

with their wives and families in modest 

dwellings overlooking the bay. A quaint pub 

and a few quaint out buildings form 

the quaintest township in the Commonwealth. 

The chief joy of the inhabitants is a casual visit 

to the neighboring port of Carnarvon.

Steering steadily over the bounding

wave, the Koombana eventually arrived

at Carnarvon, and tied itself skilfully to

a long jetty extending a mile into the

sea (recently damaged by cyclone Seroja). 

Here the Gascoyne, having its source, some 

150 miles inland, discharges. During the 

passage of the tram to the township one 

noticed gangs of black prisoners at work 

on the roads near by, vigilantly guarded by 

officials of the gaol.

Carnarvon is a bright, refreshing town

giving unmistakable evidence of good

times. The stations back of it stretching 

away along the banks of the Gascoyne, 

are disgorging the results of beneficial

seasons. Piles of wool drawn by

bullocks, are coming in from the 

verdant pastures of the squatters; fat

stock is arriving almost daily for the

metropolis.  The inhabitant has the

flavour of cattle and sheep and hides

about him and his talk is of fencing,

windmills and things that belong to 

the great pastoral industry. It is the 

typical station town showing the saddle-

horse tied up to the pub post and the 

bush turn-out, which brought the whole

family in from some outlying homestead, 

waiting in front of the store. The ship's 

stay was too brief to get at the true 

inwardness of the Carnarvon resident in 

his lair.

Rounding the Nor'-West Cape approaching 

Onslow the old Mildura wrecked some few 

years ago, stood out boldly on the low-lying 

rocks bounding the coast. The vessel went 

ashore in a fog while conveying cattle to 

Fremantle, sustaining however, very little 

damage, but all attempts to refloat her have 

so far failed.

The harbor at Onslow is a hopeless one,

boats having to anchor a mile out in

the open roadstead. It costs you six

shillings return by boat from the 

anchorage to the jetty, which covers a 

distance of 400ft., and then you are toted

per horse-tram some miles to the township 

at a further cost of three shillings.

Onslow is a desolate, forlorn spot— the

last place God made, to quote a resident

who happened along with the parson and

other people prominent in the community. 

Dr. Keenan (erstwhile of Sandstone) 

officiates as R.M.O. and Resident

Magistrate at Onslow. There is plenty of

settlement behind the town along the

Ashburton, which, in wet season gathers 

great force and width for hundreds of

miles. In drought time, however, its

course is marked mostly by diminishing

lagoons. 

Arriving at and departing from Point

Sampson (the port of Cossack) at night,

there was no chance of observing any

thing except that a horse-tram (a pie stall

contrivance of limited accommodation)

carried passengers to the town of 

Roebourne some miles inland. The 

Koombana discharged a locomotive to

supersede the ancient horse, which had 

ambled to and fro since the inception 

of the service many, many years back.

"He's a marvel, that there old hoss"

said a Cossack citizen in tones of

reverence.

" He never jibbed once ter my 

knowledge, and I bin 'ere close on twenty

year.'' The Cossack man further signified

his approval by stroking the aged 

quadruped's mane, and calling him 

"good old Ginger." A query as to whether 

anybody lived at Cossack aroused the 

Cossack inhabitant's indignation. 

"Anybody live ere !" he exclaimed resentfully.

"My oath, there is ! Why, the place is

chockful o' people, but you don't expect

'em to be waiting up all night for this

blanky hooker to come in, do yer ?" Another 

Cossack inhabitant of  lean and hairy

exterior joined him as he bawled out from

the altitude of the jetty (we were on a receding 

tide), and they both glared ferociously into the

depths of the Koombana. By and by the twain

having feasted their eyes on the spectacle

of the unloading steamer, melted away

into the darkness of their revered village. 

Standing out to sea, we wended

our watery way to Port Hedland. 

At sunrise the white roofs of Port Hedland 

gleamed far up in the broken coastline. 

The houses are dumped on a sand-patch in 

perilous proximity to the open ocean, right 

at the mercy of the big waves that prophets 

say will some day lap the township into a 

watery grave.

Viewed from outside the inlet, on the

bank of which it stands, bedraggled and

forlorn, the sport of gale and wind, the

future of Hedland seems, indeed, precarious. 

Provision is made for the terrific blows 

that periodically sweep over the Nor'-West 

coast in the form of wire-ropes flung over 

the buildings and binding them to the sand. 

" But wait till a tidal wave comes !" 

murmured a croaker, " and then there will 

be no more Hedland !" Still there is comfort

in the reflection that the town has reached a 

mature age and yet the demolishing

waters have not engulfed it, nor will the

patriotic residents countenance the 

possibility of a catastrophe.

The Charon has just departed as we

came in, 

SS Charon - courtesy State Library of Western Australia.

but the Paroo lay at anchor

near the jetty. 

SS Paroo - courtesy Flotilla Australia

Port Hedland jetty - courtesy Weston Langford Railway photography.

Volumes of black smoke

arising from her funnel, the spasmodic

churning of her screw, the bustle on deck,

the casting off of lines, and the howling

of somebody aboard to the Koombana,

RMS Koombana - courtesy Trove

which was lying along on the rising

tide, to keep off and give them sea-room

indicated that she also was preparing to

get out.

" Ain't room for two cats to fight."

growled a weather-beaten salt. 

"They'll jamb or knock the jetty over as 

sure as Kerrist !" 

Crash !

The Paroo, squeezing through

without an inch to spare, fouled the

lamp-post at the end of the jetty and

bore it down with a grinding noise.

Fierce language floated towards the 

disturbing Koombana, which slipped 

serenely into the vacant berth after a 

vain attempt to get the vessel's nose to 

seaward.

An incident of the anchorage was the

hasty landing of an excise official, who

immediately beat his way un to the town-

ship at top-speed, followed precipitately

by a Hedland publican, to whom had

been whispered the information that 

"the bloke wot tests the grog was aboard."

It was an exciting struggle as the pair

booted it for the pub, the excise man's

coat-tails fluttering in the breeze as he

tore over the sand of Port -Hedland. The

officer won by a narrow margin and

managed to secure enough below-par

snake-juice to warrant a prosecution.

Valuable 'servant of the State', that excise

man ! '

" Port Hedland, sir, is a place of vast

potentialities," said a local politician,

who stood on the wharf, and discussed

the outlook. "We have broad stretches

of pastoral country out back; we have

mines at Marble Bar. Our resources are

illimitable !" he concluded, looking 

thirstily towards the nearest pub.

Touching on the pastoral industry,

there is abundant evidence of great pastoral 

wealth behind Hedland, where the

finest wool in the country— and grown

on spinifex too  — is being raised. The

De Grey Station, already alluded to, is

considered one of the finest squattages in

the West.

Long have the mines at Marble Bar

languished for want of a railway to convey 

machinery and fuel to the field, but

prosperity should come, provided the

shows are as good as their sponsors declare, 

when the line now going through is 

completed.

A run of 35 miles along the railway

with the Ministerial party gave some

idea of the land back of Port Hedland.

Great, treeless plains extend to the

horizon, but the herbage was abundant

and green from the recent rains. The feed

is mostly spinifex, not of the kind, how-

over, you see on the desert lands of the

eastern goldfields, but soft, bunchy 

fodder, upon which sheep thrive 

wonderfully. 

It is the railway that causes apprehension. 

The flood-waters have shown, in

the washaways, and the subsidences of

the line into the saturated soil under the

weight of trains, that the construction

needs to be far more substantial than it

is that, in fact, it will have to be solidly 

ballasted from end to end. Crossing

one creek we swished through a sheet of

water covering the wheels of the rolling

stock. In other places, as the procession

moved slowly on, the sinking ground was

perceptible, in the swaying motion of the

moving train. The line is out a distance

of 54 miles, but the contractors do not

deem it safe beyond the point which

terminated Colonial Secretary Connolly's

tour of inspection. The Hedland to

Marble Bar railway— a cheap line, 

figuring out at about £1600 a mile— is to

cover a distance of 115 miles. Probably

some £50,000 more than the estimate

will be required to make it a sound 

construction.

Besides its other resources, Port Hedland 

derives a big income from the pearlers, 

whose luggers are regularly moving

in and out of the harbour. Pearling has

proved so lucrative a business that almost 

everybody you meet has an idea of 

launching into the industry, as being

a swifter method of piling up wealth

than waiting about town for things to

turn up. 

Editor Barker, of Port Hedland " Advocate " 

and sometime of Leonora, is one whom 

ambition prompts to go raising shell. 

"The "Advocate" is all very well but there 

is a darned sight more money in battling 

for pearls than advertisements, and being 

called a rag after all your efforts to 

ventilate the grievances of the townspeople.

Propelling a newspaper in the Nor'West is a

cold, cheerless job, full of ingratitude."

At noon we moved away from Hedland

over the last lap of the journey to 

mysterious Broome. We raced the Charon 

at night until she faded astern, in the mist

and darkness, leaving us alone on the

highway (steamer track) that precedes 

the entrance to Roebuck Bay . There were 

luggers coming out to the pearling beds to work

—frail, cockleshell things beside the towering 

Koombana— casual schooners beating up 

against the breeze blowing southwards. Ahead 

was Broome, its white roofs showing out amidst 

a wealth of green foliage fringing the long, 

sweeping, beach from which the tide was fast 

flowing, leaving the lighter craft high and dry

within the bay.

courtesy Trove.