Guys, I have a confession to make. This is where my travel blog takes a distinct left turn. When I was hiking the Pilbara, my plan was simple - arrive in Port Hedland, head down to Cuncudgerie, then follow an old prospecting track East and South to Lake Disappointment, then heading up the old Canning Stock Route. Pretty remote stuff. I mean Google Maps won't even plot you a route between Port Hedland and Lake Disappointment! Seriously, try it; I'll wait!
Thing is, I got to Cuncudgerie, and was tracking Northeast; getting up towards the trail I was going to be hiking for the next few days, and I had a brief stop planned. It was going to be a photo opportunity - some rich local colour, at a place called Dingo Falls. No idea where it got its name; no dingos, no falls.It's just a basin, with a small freshwater pool in the middle.
Plan was to check it out, grab some happy snaps for you lovely folk (and my snapchat if I could get any signal) then carry on to my intended campsite, some fifteen km on. But I fucked up.
Along one side of the basin, the rock formed an overhang, and underneath it was some Indigenous art, and some caves. Anyway, there was enough light to capture some photos of the art, but I decided to explore the caves, see if there was any more art in there; you know, maybe something that hasn't been witnessed in hundreds of years, that type of deal. Turns out though, these caves weren't very large...and had precipitous drops just past where the light fell. So I fell on my arse. And my ankle - not broken or anything, but bad enough that 15 more kilometres were not happening that day.
As I patted myself down, making sure there were no more injuries and no breakages, I realised I was lying, pretty uncomfortably, on what felt like a heap of sticks, and something else - a canvas bag. The bag seemed largely intact, so I threw its strap over my shoulder, grateful for the diversion it would hopefully represent. I turned on my phone's flashlight app; it was way too bright, always.
And was face to face with a row of skulls. Their condition varied, but they were all clearly human. Staring at me, like a jury weighing its judgement on me. A small one though - there were only five skulls. Even as my brain registered that the sticks were bones, I was scrambling out of the cave as fast as I could.
With my ankle fucked, I knew I was gonna have to camp at the basin. As far from that cave as I could manage. I set my tent up, and made a quick dinner of beans and tea, then set about investigating my find. The first thing I realised was that there were two matching holes through the front and back of the bag, one of which was darkly and ominously stained.
Inside the bag was a pair of notebooks, though one seemed to have been punctured at the same time as the bag and had the same staining. There was also a tin - that I assumed was full of tobacco, a matchbook for a bar, a scrap of paper with a red logo on it, like a crude eye, and an old green bottle, corked and still half full.
I popped the tin open first, and it was not what I expected. Instead of tobacco and papers, there were a couple of slim rocks and some short lengths of cord. (Much later, back in civilisation, I learned this was a flint&tinder box - an old school fire starter kit.)
The green bottle's cork was firmly wedged, so rather than forcing it, I gently cajoled it while checking out the notebooks. What follows is partly from the notebooks, and partly from what I've learnt subsequently from my own research.
Basically, I'd stumbled across the final resting place of the missing members of what is referred to as either the Elias Expedition or the L'Amour Affair, depending on where you're getting your information. I'm going to use the former, as by the time they reached Australia, Lily L'Amour (apparently a famous silent movie actress) was no longer part of the group.
As a quick side note - that's some seriously cool history - a silent movie actress from New York goes out Young Guns style in a shootout with the Police...in AFRICA! Crazy stuff...
Anyway, broader history lesson time: about a hundred years ago, Jackson Elias was an author who specialised in investigating cults. In January 1925, he was investigating a collection of cults around the world that he believed were connected, and that a bunch of people who'd gone missing in Kenya several years prior, were secretly controlling these cults.
He requested his friend, Miss Alice Spriggs - an investigative journalist of some repute, and the owner of the bag I found - meet him, together with some trusted friends. By the time this group reached the meeting, Elias had been brutally murdered and his killers were ransacking the place. The group both interrupted the murderers, and killed them, just as brutally. This kicked off the Elias Expedition.
Anyway, the Expedition went on a whirlwind World Tour, through England, Egypt, Kenya, and finally, Australia. By the time they arrived in Port Hedland, Spriggs was the only original member still with the group. She was accompanied by an English gentleman-adventurer named Rutland Smythe (seriously!), Peter Thornbury, a missionary who'd served in the Crimea, and a Kiwi Lawyer based out of Nairobi - though he joined the group last and there's little known about him.
As far as I can tell, they were in Australia because of a lecturer they spoke to in New York; something to do with the Great Sand Bat. I thought it sounded made up - fake indigenous history - but apparently in that area of the Pilbara it was totally a thing.
So Spriggs and co were investigating...something. Either a cult centred around the Great Sand Bat or some cave that contained ancient ruins. To be honest, reading Spriggs' scribbles, I don't think she knew. I don't think she was well - not sick, but disturbed. And the contents of her notebooks make madness seem pretty inevitable.
They had some well supplied trucks (that must've been stolen; there's no sign of them now) and a guide to navigate them to the Canning Stock Route, and from there onto a secret site. The notebook held the co-ordinates, but it wasn't clear if it was the ruins or something to do with a cult. Or both,
She didn't leave any notes about Dingo Falls though. I have no clue why they were here, other than the watering hole.
Feeling a little more ballsy, I went back to the cave, with my maglight this time, to get a better look. Grisly stuff - when I was planning my hike, at no point did I think I'd be checking out 90 year old skeletons. They were in really good condition; I'd guess it was down to the darkness and how cool and dry it was.
I wasn't going to go all CSI or anything, and while I wouldn't say I was superstitious, I wasn't going to disturb the bodies any more than I had to.
It turns out I didn't need any forensic wizardry though. Two of the five skulls had telltale holes in the back of them, gangland style. Another had its forehead caved in - whoever killed them wasn't messing around.
I wasn't going to get any more out of Dingo Falls, but I could check in on their destination. Their threats were 90 years ago; what could possibly be a threat there now?
Now, I am not quite as foolhardy as that may have sounded. On my way out of the Falls the following morning, I called in about my diversion, giving my bro the co-ordinates, in case of emergency. I am only alive to tell this story because I did.
It took two and a half days to reach the general area. There was a massive sandstone ridge dividing the land in two. My side, the West side, was the bottom. A tiny creek hid in the shade, giving rise to sparse shrubs and grasses. With no other options, I followed its course. After a few minutes, it disappeared into the ridge.
The entryway was maybe fifty centimetres tall, twice that across. Uncomfortable, but I'd spelunked smaller. I dropped down onto my belly and shimmied in. And fell.
Just inside, the waterway turned down at about a thirty degree angle. While the water wasn't any kind of torrent, it had left the rock slick, slippery and without purchase. Even as I frantically tried to find a handhold, I was sliding faster and faster, and then the ground was gone. I was tumbling blind in the darkness. On my way down, I cracked my forehead against the rocks and blacked out.
I came to, sprawled in a puddle, water drizzling on my broken head like a drum. Cautiously I stood, I was shaky, and bitterly cold and clammy. I probed my head wound with my finger and reeled from the explosion of pain.
I tried not to panic. It wasn't the first tight spot I've ever been in - though lost and injured in the bowels of the Earth was definitely up there. Deep breaths. Gingerly I raised my maglight and flicked it on. Its normally forceful illumination was dimmed and wavery. The plastic was cracked and it trembled as if water had got inside.
That was when I noticed the noise. At first, I'd assumed it was the running water, but there was definitely something else. Like breathy whispers in the darkness, bouncing off the caves.
Like I was not alone.
The chamber I was in had a little water run-off into an even smaller chute, but also a much larger, and mercifully drier tunnel. Given that I was not going to be climbing out the way I entered, I explored this new avenue.
The tunnel was low and twisting, and the whispers continued to echo around me, beckoning me onwards. I started to worry that I had hit my head worse than I thought - I kept getting glimpses of lights ahead of me. But they kept happening, even as I much torch flickered more wanly with each moment.
I decided to take the gamble, and turned my light off.
The tunnel was not well-lit, but there was a degree of light that was usable. It wasn't clear where it was coming from, but at this point, I was injured, shaking with cold, lost and staving off my own terror, so I did not really care. It was slightly more disconcerting when the area ahead got brighter, for moments at a time, as if there were another, better torch, teasing me onwards.
I don't know how long I walked the tunnel, staggering, leaning heavily on the walls. The only mercy was that the walking warmed me enough that I stopped shaking.
At some point, though, the illumination stopped. I did not walk past the lighted area; the lights simply winked out. I turned my torch back on, but its feeble glow was scant comfort now. There was a breeze coming from ahead, however. The thought of finding a way out quickened my pace and lifted my flagging spirits.
The tunnel turned sharply to the left, and as I rounded the corner, the right wall disappeared, fell away. I stood on some high path, open to a vast expanse. My torchlight barely made it ten metres across the void, lighting what I first took to be stalactites.
But they weren't.
Stalactites are not squared off, nor are they covered in some sort of runes or hieroglyphics. My dim light would not allow me to properly make them out, but they were definitely there, and regular. From my vantage, I couldn't see the top or the bottom of these pillars; they were lost to the darkness.
I'd be lying if I tried to pretend I was still calm at this point. I was freaking out, terrified that I was going to be lost underground in these chambers forever.
And that's when I realised the whispers were getting louder. Less whisper, more chant or dirge. A dread-filled litany building in intensity with each step. But I had nowhere to go. The breeze was ahead; hope was ahead.
I ran. Barely able to see by my feeble maglight, only really glancing around to make sure I wasn't about to step off the ledge, I ran. And as I did, the chanting became deafening, and the presence, like I was surrounded.
And I ran.
Eventually, the ledge formed a tunnel again. I stopped just inside the shelter, raggedly trying to catch my breath. I glanced back out and saw a much closer pillar, only this one was much less regular. It looked like it was covered in barnacles and blisters. Its entire exterior was bubbled and coarse and tapering. And then it moved, both upwards, and closer!
Without any further thought, I turned back to the tunnel and sprinted.
I don't really remember much else though.
I was found, delirious and bleeding, by the ridge, and will be forever grateful that I called in where I was going.
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