Barbara's Story

Lake Argyle is a vast body of water created, in the early 1970s, by damming the Ord River upstream of Kununurra. Its pinkish red cliffs glow as they drop into the deep sea of blue below, but there's something sterile and eerie about this landscape - unnaturally devoid of life except for the ceaseless throbbing of the frantically busy caravan park on its shores. 

The latter is testimony to great foresight and marketing and is an oasis for the hot and weary travellers who queue to claim a tiny plot which they can call "home" for a few nights. Endless opportunities are provided here to empty your wallet: experience a sun set lake tour,  a sun rise lake tour, a breakfast tour, a lunch tour, a bush safari tour, a meal at the bistro/bar, or any number of tourist souvenirs, books or DVDs. 

And yes, we succumbed! Wanting something "local" rather than purely scenic we opted for the bush safari tour with "Kiwi" Josh, a qualified zoologist who'd picked up a few other skills along the way and who ran a half day small group tour. His enthusiasm and knowledge were abundant but after the initial "historical" Durack Homestead stop I was filled with a sense that we'd fallen for just another tourist trap. 

I was still musing on the wasted time and money as we bumped along The Long Michael Plains track to Barbara's place, no doubt yet another "ho hum" stop.

A tall, lean, blonde woman of about 60 wearing a battered straw hat, denim shorts, a faded denim shirt and boots with gaiters greeted us - welcoming us in her Swiss accented voice, to "Roy's Retreat"! She didn't linger over the pleasantries but instead began her enthusiastic explanation of her goal and purpose in living in such an isolated and basic "camp". For that's what this place was - an old caravan for sleeping in, a few roughly made sheds in which to house Roy's horse memorabilia, a few animal enclosures and a bank of solar panels, all huddled beneath towering red cliffs and bougainvillea covered gums. It was a dusty, basic setup which lacked planning but worked surprisingly well on a practical level. And Barbara was practically distilled!

But for me the underlying question remained - who was Roy and what was his retreat? Wasn't that what we'd come to see?

By then Barbara had taken our group to stand before a pale timber box, keenly questioning to see if anyone knew what it was. "A sun oven" called out a voice from behind me. Yes, he had it right. This box was made from an outer timber case inside which was a separate  glass lid and the entire box was lined with metal. It was a Swiss design from long ago which was the equivalent of a modern day slow cooker, but run on unadulterated solar energy and used by Barbara to bake bread as well as cook meals.  

On we walked, meeting orphaned and endangered kangaroos before being introduced to the rescued dingo dog who wore an indentation in his forehead and wandered continually in circles, as proof of his previous maltreatment. But still no sign of Roy.

Then, without any connection to what we'd seen, Barbara launched into reverie. "I must tell you this story". And for the first time we heard the name Roy, but it was in the strangest manner.

She nonchalantly told the story of Roy's death and burial, which proved to be in her eyes both challenging and humorous in this isolated place. Unencumbered by emotion she described having to wait for a doctor to visit to pronounce Roy dead before she could proceed to put his rigor mortis stiffened body into a wheelbarrow and move him to his final resting place - a hand dug grave which she had made with the help of two friends. She described in great detail the physical difficulties and strangeness of the task, whilst we stood in awkward silence, trying to digest what we were hearing. 

Soon it was clear that this was no heartless tale, but rather one of deep love for her husband who'd died of cancer. She'd married the head stock man of Argyle Downs, 24 years her senior and gave up a successful and highly paid career in Switzerland as a professional photographer to be with him - but we only discovered this online, not from Barbara. She didn't speak at all of herself except in terms of carrying on Roy's projects.

Story complete, she asked us to follow her to Roy's Retreat. It was his burial place. A place where he'd loved to sit and contemplate, the place in which they'd been married and the place in which he'd asked to be buried.  

We entered through a tiny cave like opening to a truly magnificent natural rock "gorge". A place of stunning serene beauty, and its centrepiece was a beautifully carved Pegasus on a red and white rock tombstone, which marked Roy's grave. Barbara had carved it. Unexpectedly a recording of Roy, reading his own bush poems, came delicately drifting through the cool gorge. It was a touching moment not because the poems were particularly good, but because of the palpable love for this man you could feel from Barbara, standing there cradling a coffee mug and looking very tenderly at his grave. Ten years had not lessened their connection, though the separation was very real. 

The music backed poetry recording ceased, questions about Roy began, and this very strange tour continued.