One of our guidebooks says "Lucky Bay has been voted the Whitest Beach in Australia". Oh. please! This is the type of thing that marketers say that is pretty much pure crap, but it sounds good. First of all, voting is a popularity contest and not science, Secondly, who voted for this and what were their other choices? I'm guessing that it's something like Australia Beach Magazine's sub-editorial staff picking from other well-known beaches. Or perhaps it was a straw poll of the five people at the Experience Esperance guide that were in the office that day. At any rate, my lone anecdote is that it seems like the whitest beach I have seen in a good long while, which does indeed make it quite pleasant to behold.
We really wanted to get on that beach and scramble around on the big rocks. After a thorough scan with the binoculars, we found a relatively smooth looking spot at the far windward end and decided to have a go at landing there. To save my back, which still wasn't back to 100% yet, Maryanne offered to row over there and see what she could see. She didn't take the motor out of concern that it might be damaged landing in the surf.
She hadn't made it more than a Begonia-length ahead when she gave up, reporting that it was too hard to fight the wind and chop. She reluctantly conceded to joining me in looking wistfully out the windows at that amazing beach.
The wind forecast called for lighter winds first thing in the morning, which we were hoping would correlate with easier conditions for going ashore. I was up in the pre-dawn darkness making coffee in anticipation. The wind did not seem to be any lighter. Our wind turbine only needed to work about a third of the time to keep Begonia's batteries at 100%. As soon as it got light enough to see, it was obvious the surf was much bigger, There would be no way we could get through it. Without any obvious lull predicted, we decided to move on to our next anchorage. First, on the way out, we would go to the other side of the beach by the caravan park and just see what it looks like over there.
Initially, it didn't look good. Surf toward that end of the beach seemed to be just as big. Closer in, however, we could see that the rocks at the edge were acting like a breakwater protecting a calm little cove behind. The water there is shallow and clearly mostly weed, so we opted to head for a large area of sand just outside in the smooth swell to seaward of the breakers. We could then take the dinghy into the smooth water of the little cove to make our landing.
Once we had the anchor set, we both decided we didn't like it. The waves were starting to break just outside our swinging circle and the spot where we would have to take the dinghy was far enough away that we would need the motor, which always complicates things with a beach landing. We decided Plan B would be to go back to the smooth cove and try to get our anchor down on one of the tiny spots that isn't covered in weed. With Maryanne giving directions from the bow, I maneuvered us until she had the bow roller centered on a patch of sand two meters in diameter. She dropped the anchor right on her chosen spot and reported she could even see a cloud kicked up as it hit. We both liked the new spot much better. The water was almost flat and getting to the beach would only be a short row. Plus, the rocks in the foreground make for some nice scenery.
Once everything was secured, we dropped the dinghy and headed to the beach. As we got to the depth where the oars started to hit the bottom, I was surprised to hit a hard surface instead of soft sand. When I climbed out, It was like stepping onto a sidewalk. The surface turned out not to be a thin layer of sand over rock, but just really hard sand. It was also VERY squeaky. This stuff was ten times louder than any other squeaky sand we have seen at those very special places in Australia that have it. When we pulled the dinghy out of the water, the noise of the little stern wheels rolling over the sand transmitted to the hull, which focused and amplified it like the bell of a big speaker. What came forth was a horrible grinding noise that brought to mind a seized bearing on something big, like a tractor, in the last few seconds of its life. The anchor took some took some wraggling to bury and as we walked away, we noticed that we left only the barest shadows of footprints.
At a signboard at the caravan park, we learned a few things: Firstly, I was wrong about the marketing people, although they still wrote the misleading headline. Lucky Bay beach was determined to be probably the whitest beach in Australia by an organization of scientists. The board didn't say which one, but hinted heavily that they were geologists. Then it explained the reason why:
The sand is not made up of a variety of ground rock fragments or pulverized seashell, as in most other places. Here, it consists almost entirely of tiny quartz crystals. Not only that, but almost all of these are the high-temperature beta crystals, which are six-sided, versus the much more typical three sided ones. Microscopically, these crystals can combine to make snowflake-like structures. Both ice and this type of quartz are clear, but the structure of the crystal diffuses any light striking them in all directions, making both Lucky Bay beach and freshly fallen snow appear to be white for the same reason. This crystal structure also explains why both things are squeaky when a force is applied to them and why the sand surface is so hard: the interlocking crystals are reluctant to change orientation. For this reason, it is possible to make a ball out of a handful of Lucky Bay sand. We saw one woman who had made a little mini sand man. Interestingly. If you stand in the sand when it is mixed with water, the structure is slightly more fluid. The sand still feels hard initially, but then softens up, so you gradually start sinking. I'm hoping the anchor did that when we set it and is now virtually locked in place by the crystals.
Lucky Bay wildlife
Plenty of beautiful walks, and a cafe on the beach to recover after the fact!
We left the sand on the Cape le Grand Trail towards Thistle Cove. The addition of every little bit of height improved the view as the horizon receded. Where the water covered bare sand, the light reflected was the inviting, impossible blue of glossy magazine photos of tropical atolls or Greek Islands. Above the beach we passed through zones of rock colored gray, yellow, orange and red. The contrast with the gleaming dunes below was striking.
As we climbed, we entered a giant garden, sculpted by erosion. Bald rock faces were pockmarked with caves and crisscrossed with crevices. Stains left on them by black or orange algae mark the course of draining water. Smooth granite boulders stood perched end-on, sometimes only supported by contact with one or two smaller stones. They stand as improbably oriented sentinels above the soil that has eroded away from them over eons. Filling in the gaps between bare rock was a carpet of olive green shrubs, most of which on closer inspection revealed a variety of tiny flowers in all colors and shapes. Occasionally, a Nuytsia Floribunda would burst through the low canopy, adding a splash of bright orange. These are known locally as Christmas trees, because that's when they bloom.
Although we'd missed the spring flower season, the trails were still providing plenty of flowers to discover
As we crested the ridge, the views just kept getting better and better. We were able to see almost the whole Recherche Archipelago in the distance. We descended to Thistle Cove, taking the long route that passed over and under giant slabs of granite that looked like they were one big storm from sliding into the sea.
My back was getting a little sore by then, so I found myself a perfect little armchair-sized depression in which to rest while Maryanne walked to the far end of the beach. As she receded, I watched her slowly change from a woman to a person to a dot. Below me, on the beach, families were doing typical beach things. As I was scanning the bay, I would occasionally hear chirping and would instinctively look for the bird that must be the source. It turned out to be a family playing cricket. The chirping was the sound of their bare feet on the sand as they changed directions, like rubber soles on a basketball court, only much louder.
When Maryanne's dot reached the far end of the beach, I decided I had had enough rest and so set off to intercept her on her return. Thistle Cove is like a mini Lucky Bay. The stretch of sand is shorter, but the rock formations buttressing each end are more dramatic.
We squeaked together at the bay's mid-point, where we took a side trip away from the shore into the dunes, towering above us and being held together by tufts of grass and Nuytsia Floribundas.
The walk home was even more dramatic than the walk out. The sky had cleared significantly. The direct sunlight gave all of the previous scenery an extra kiss of color that made us gasp anew at the whole spectacle. We were pretty weary by the time we finally stepped back onto the beach at Lucky Bay. Waiting for us, poking through the newly landed sea grass for fresh shoots, were an adorable kangaroo and her half-scale joey.
Once they were spotted by other beach-goers, a small group arrived to snap photos. The larger one seemed completely nonplussed by the attention. For some reason, as Maryanne was snapping photos of the joey, it bounded straight over to her, passing several nearer humans. It got so close that Maryanne could no longer focus. I thought it would jump into her lap for a scratch. That's when Maryanne looked at me and said, “Honey, take a picture!”
Oh, yeah! I had been having so much fun watching the two of them that I completely forgot that I could be taking pictures, too. Once the pair had tired of us, it only took them a few leaps and they were well out of range. No wonder the indigenous people invented the boomerang. There would be NO way to chase one down.
The wind was starting to pick up by then, which made getting back upwind to Begonia in indirect affair. We skirted the shore as long as we could while we were in the calm of the headland, taking care to stay just out of casting range of the anglers on the rocks. Then we burst into the swell for what was now the crosswind trip to the boat. With quite a large crab angle, I was able to just get us to grabbing range before the wind blew us past. Just getting aboard and getting the dinghy hoisted left us both soaked. We spent the balance of the afternoon watching the anglers not catch fish whilst, in the other direction an endless procession of utes paraded up and down the beach. Driving is allowed on Lucky Bay's mile-and-a-half long beach. The surface is better than asphalt for it, so most people seem to get to the other end in the comfort of their vehicles.
We were up with the sun the next morning in the hopes of spotting more 'roos before the traffic drove them away. It was still windy and just after thirty minutes of rain had finished. It did not seem like a nice time to be going out. As I lowered the dinghy, shivering, I kept reminding myself that yesterday had also started like this and ended up being beautiful.
We found no kangaroos. Perhaps they also didn't want to stir until it brightened up a bit. We walked all of the way to the far end of the beach. The whole time, apart from one determined runner going both directions, we saw no one else. There, we rejoined the Cape le Grand Trail in the opposite direction from the day before. Again, since our tracks were clearly the first of the day, we hoped to spot a few 'roos out for their morning munch. Again, we were foiled. Instead, we just had to content ourselves with the amazing scenery, which is dominated by the smooth granite mound of Mississippi Hill. I remarked to Maryanne that I thought it was a strange name for something whose summit must surely be higher than the highest point in what is mostly a flat state. She explained that the name was second-generation. Mississippi Hill was named after a whaler called the Mississippi. The whaler was named after the state. That makes more sense. There are a lot of non-native place names around here that are taken from ships.
My intent was to only go as far on the trail as the first crest, for the high vantage point of the bay. Once we were there, though, it crossed a big plateau covered with interesting-looking flora growing out of multi-colored sands. We decided to continue to the next corner, then turn around. There, we decided to reverse course at the next ridge. After doing this six or seven times, we finally came upon an expanse of bare rock. In wet depressions, thick, black moss had taken hold. The more mature of these also sported grasses and little flowers like little terrariums growing in their finite universes. We decided to leave the trail here, which seemed set to do the ridge/corner thing for some time longer, and headed off cross country on a shortcut toward the sea.
As we crested the last rise, the whole archipelago came into view. We went a little further until we could finally see an isolated white-sand beach below, being pummeled by surf. We tried our best to relax and take it in while we ate a snack of granola bars and water. We could see bands of rain approaching over the islands, so we decided to cut our break short and get to the leeward side of the ridge, where it would likely be much drier.
The plan worked. We only got splattered by a few drops before the sky started to clear. By the time we had rejoined the beach, the scene there was much different. Dozens of vehicles were parked, mostly facing the sea, as if they were waiting for a drive-in movie to start. The second most popular variant was to face the vehicle the other way and sit on the open tailgate.
I must say, turning the beach into a parking lot really detracts from its natural beauty. It's undoubtedly a beautiful place to take the truck, but the truck really clutters the beach. I suppose it depends on whether you are looking out or looking in. Plus, vehicles mean the beach has now become a 'road'. We are expected to spend a good part of our pleasant amble making sure we are not obstructing the vehicles, with their comfortably seated occupants. Thus, the first thing we did when leaving the trail, was to take a left turn over the rocks to the inaccessible-to-vehicles part of the bay, where we had originally anchored Begonia after the passage.
We had loads of fun alternating between squeaky patches of sand and scrambling over red and orange rocks along with the handful of other visitors who had left their utes behind. When we got to where we could go no further without committing to an off-trail summit of another big hill, then we turned for the long walk home. It was getting pretty blustery by then and I noticed one other thing about Lucky Bay's special sand: Since it sticks so well to itself, it doesn't get picked up the wind. We didnt't have to protect ourselves against the blast of stinging grains. That may explain why the beach's lone mobile culinary establishment, Lucky Bean Cafe, can position themselves so that their order/pickup window faces into the wind, where the staff can also enjoy the view. We each ordered hot drinks and a little snack in order to refortify ourselves for the dinghy ride home. It was nice to be able to sit there in one of their beach chairs and enjoy my toasted sandwich without having to pretend to ignore the crunchy beach texture.
In our absence, the wind and chop had uprooted large amounts of the sea grass in the area where Begonia was lying at anchor. It had blown ashore and blocked in the dinghy from the sea with a ridge of weed as high as the gunwales. It was now at the bottom of a weedy crater. There was no way we could keep from bringing it aboard on our legs and feet as we boarded. Rowing back, we looked like we had bought the special, Lucky Bay High-vis/Camo version of the Pudgy.
For all of the time that we have been here, Begonia has been the only boat in the bay. Looking at all of the caravans parked next to each other in their campsites, only a few of which have a view of the sea, it was hard not to think we had by far the very best spot. We indeed do feel very lucky.
It was almost exactly the same spot used by Matthew Flinders to anchor the HMS Investigator 219 years and five days earlier while exploring this coast. Usually, due to the dangers of shore, he chose to go to sea and spend the nights there in the safety of deep water. On this particular afternoon, though, he realized he didn't have time to make it all of the way through the intervening islands and started looking for an anchorage. He spotted the bay, entered, and Investigator dropped anchor at 1900hrs, less than ten minutes before dusk. He thereupon dubbed it 'Lucky Bay' for their good fortune in finding it just in time.
Incidentally, Thistle Cove was named after Ship's Master John Thistle. Forty-two days after Investigator anchored here, the ship was charting the coast near Port Lincoln in present-day South Australia. Thistle was returning to Investigator just before dusk with a shore party of seven others in choppy seas when the launch capsized and all were lost. The bodies were never recovered. Flinders then named the adjacent headland, 'Cape Catastrophe' and the nearest island was also named Thistle Island.
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