Back in early October, I had the privilege of joining a band of merry folk on an expedition westward. One client, one director, one DOP, two talent, myself, and no reccy. A slight departure from the usual crew and a few, but we were more than happy to make it work for our longtime friends at Tourism & Events Queensland.
The group was leaner than a prized greyhound, but just as eager. And the mandate from Vulture Street was crystal, but equally menacing: “come back with gold or don’t come back at all”. This remark was particularly out of character for the usually affable James and Nancy. Although I did get a strong hunch they meant it – James’s distended forehead vein provided a good clue. Yep, I felt like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs before boarding the Rex flight to Roma.
We landed without a hitch, a sextuplet of ‘outfronters’, peeling themselves out of a sardine tin with wings before stepping into the last untamed land of this great state: Outback Queensland. Five days away, blessed in so many ways, because this place turned it on. The locals, the landscapes, life out there. Together, they kind of make you reassess your career choice. And what we would discover is that, like the campaign aptly declares, Outback Queensland is... to be revealed when the campaign drops in early 2026.
The laughs were as plentiful as the pub feeds, the stories as tall and refreshing as the beers, and the opportunities to bestraddle things rivalled both (as evidenced above). We were as full as a butcher’s dog and twice as happy, nourished by otherworldly backdrops, incredible experiences, encounters of the furred and feathered kind, and cuisine that didn’t give me heartburn – apologies to the readers who have stocks in Gaviscon.
Like any exercise into the unknown, we did pick up a few lessons along the way. We learnt that human crab pots exist and are necessary to mitigate the flies – and they be thick. How thick, you might ask? Simple Jack thick, I might add.
Another kernel that plopped into my expanding well of useless knowledge is that Bogan Flea isn’t an insect that enjoys doing sick burnouts. It’s much worse. It’s a plant that makes backyard bindis feel more akin to standing on lettuce. Locals reckon you’re better off chucking the clothing than trying to remove the burrs. Our faithful director found this out firsthand… or should I say, first sit. Could this be a golden opportunity for Rumble to get into the sock and/or pant game? Perhaps.
The days were full, like the abovementioned butcher’s dog, my circadian clock was bullied like a kid with a bum part and a briefcase, care of the consistent 4am starts, and, truth be told, there were a few hiccups (not from the food repeating on me, thankfully).
At a couple of locations, the sound equipment was playing silly buggers, dropping in and out like an overzealous waiter. This was especially persistent at the majestic Lake Bindegolly National Park, which we were later told may have been due to the higher iron content in the soil. Not being a geophysicist or acoustician to confirm, nor possessing the requisite skills to remedy, it meant I was given Zoom mic duties, which also meant I had to lie down next to the local ranger’s feet to capture his line, so as not to be in shot. In some rather cruel practical joke on nature’s behalf, as I lay prone in the damp and dirt of the lake’s foreshore, I spotted something – of course I f#%cking did. Inches from my money maker was a perfectly cylindrical burrow, about 40mm wide and as dark as the darkest black hole. But this black hole didn’t suck in all surrounding light, nope, just my rectal fortitude. Curiosity bested me, however, and I peered in, only to be met with a clutch of glossy eyes returning gaze, all seemingly affixed to my face. Well, the proverbial creek had arrived without that metaphorical paddle, so I put the old melon back down, raised my left hand as a feeble, fleshy barrier and closed my eyes – all the while thinking that each freckle was basically a dermatological bullseye for whatever nightmare resided in that void (probably a giant wolf spider, Ranger Greg nonchalantly declared). Fortunately, it didn’t breach its chamber, saving my fellow journey-peeps from the awkwardness of me bubble-snot crying as my face ballooned to comical proportions with the last skerrick of dignity oozing from the puncture marks.
There are so many stories from this adventure that I could turn them into a moderately priced paperback. But above all, it was an experience that was simply excellent, with a group of people of equal measure. From Cunnamulla to Eulo to Thargomindah to Quilpie to Eromanga back to Quilpie to Charleville, we covered much of this beautiful place, and I can confirm that what visitors will discover and what we brought back was, indeed, gold.
