The Coorong & Eyre Peninsula
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After another trip on the good old Spirit of Tasmania, we dock in Port Melbourne and set off towards Adelaide. There we pick up my mate Ryan Kovacs (chef at Bertha’s Meats, back in Bowral) from the airport and do a quick re-pack of the Discovery, tying everything down and filling all the jerry cans – there are some pretty long stretches in the Outback where there’s nowhere to get fuel or water.

Days 15–16
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Reedy Creek: growing native plants

Our first port of call is Reedy Creek, about 250 kilometres south of Adelaide. I’ve always wanted to visit Outback Pride, where Mike and Gayle Quarmby pioneered the propagation of indigenous plant species, and have recently handed over the reigns to Kelly and Triscilla of Bushlolly.

Mike and Gayle welcome us with open arms, and we talk about what led them to start Outback Pride. It all began with the loss of their son, Daniel, and the process of healing through others. Listening to their family’s story, I’m reminded of how important it is to follow your own path, to find a reason to get up each day, and somehow push on. They talk movingly about life in Alice Springs, where Gayle grew up, as well as in other communities they have forged relationships with over the years, and what they see as the right way forward. Mike takes us through the polytunnels to look at what’s growing: saltbush, perilla, muntries, seaspray, lemon aspen. Down the back, we see muntries trees in flower and learn that these are the source of the fresh muntries I’ve been buying at Biota for years.

Iceplant at Reedy Creek.

Our visit is brief. Like us, Gayle and Mike are bound for the bush, with their trailer packed. They are about to head north into the indigenous communities where they have spent so much time. I get the feeling that travelling through remote Australia is something they long for, something they relish. For me, it’s only just begun – but after talking with them, I’m ready for my next challenge, ready to listen to my heart. Maybe the land itself, this country, will help me with that, who knows...

Gayle and Mike Quarmby of Outback Pride, and Kelly Grady and Triscilla Holborow of Bushlolly.

Dusk is falling as we head west towards the Coorong, a vast sweep of sand that extends for some 130 kilometres to the mouth of the Murray River. I’ve been there once before, when I went fishing for Coorong mullet with Glenn and Tracey Hill, of Coorong Wild Seafood; however, this time I’m interested in the Goolwa pipis that are harvested by foot on the ocean side of the estuary.

We arrive at Olaf Hanson’s house, on Hindmarsh Island. Olaf is a local food hero – he was the chef at Bombora, in Goolwa, for many years – and I’ll never forget his generosity that night. He offered us a spot for our swags in his studio, safe from the cold, and greeted us with a warming stew, along with some epic reds, while we talked about food and wine and the region we were in. Unwinding and laughing with newfound friends was very welcome, but we knew we had to be at the wharf before sunrise next day, so we hit the hay early.

Day 17
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Goolwa and the Mount Lofty Ranges: pipis and a last deer hunt

We awake to a panoramic view of the mouth of the Murray River dotted with paddle steamers – and across the way we can see Goolwa. I’m really looking forward to spending the day with Alistair Scott-Young, of the Goolwa Pipi Company.

We jump in the car and roll onto the barge, which only fits one vehicle. We’re loaded up with more than 400 kilos of gear. It feels bloody sketchy, and all I can think about is the phone call I’ll need to make to Jaguar Land Rover, explaining that I’ve accidentally put a new Discovery at the bottom of the sea. But before we know it, the barge gathers speed and we’re flying across the Coorong. With the sun coming up and the birds chasing us, it’s stunning, something I’ll always remember.

When we drive the car off the barge, the Goolwa Pipis team are waiting – these seadogs spend long days in icy-cold waters. This is hard-core. Scattered along the rugged, untamed coastline are small groups harvesting pipis, and we head down to the water’s edge to learn how it’s being done. The guys are barefoot, with big nets in their hands, and they are shuffling their feet as the waves wash in and out over the sand. When a wave recedes, it exposes the pipis and they catch them in the net. The only piece of machinery in this whole operation is for grading: small pipis go back into the water and larger ones go on to the truck. Ryan and I are fascinated to learn that the pipis are harvested this way in all weathers.

In the dunes that back the beach, Al points out some Aboriginal middens (off-limits to visitors, as they are sacred sites) and explains that the whole coastline here supports a plethora of edible plants, fish and birds. He gives us some raw pipis straight off the beach to try – sashimi pipis, if you like – and their salinity and texture are sensational.

We ate these pipis raw on the beach – a memory I will have forever.

The word Coorong is generally accepted to be a corruption of the local Aboriginal word kurangh, meaning ‘neck’. Before we continue our journey north, I want to talk with some of the indigenous people here, who have timeless connections with the lower Murray, its lakes and the Coorong. Arthur Walker and Brian Kropinyeri, of Ngopamuldi Aboriginal Corporation, tell me stories of these waters, their hunting and gathering traditions, and what the Coorong means to them – a place of wind, water and vast skies, sandhills, tussock-fringed lagoons and waterweeds.

It’s almost afternoon by now, and we need to get on the road before we lose the light. Back in Goolwa, the priority is food and drink. Adam gets moody when he hasn’t eaten, and Ryan wants a beer, so we head down to the Goolwa Hotel for a few frothies – and yep, you guessed it, a schnitty. A smile lights up Adam’s face and later the local bar girl comes out to offer her phone number to him. Must be those bald patches, or maybe the glow in his eyes from the schnitty!

Alistair has hooked us up with a mate of his, Tom Carr, who has a property a short drive north, near Ashbourne. The plan is to spend the night there and have another go at a deer hunt – it’s probably the last time we’ll see deer on the trip, plus we need some meat to stock up the fridge before we keep going north. When we arrive, we settle in for a beer and a chat with Tom and his partner Laura O’Donnell. Tom is in a wheelchair from an accident, but he has a shooting rest and the perfect little set-up on his own back deck, where he shoots foxes and other vermin and also does target practice. I could have stayed here all arvo on the tins with him, and I know Ryan definitely would have.

Eventually, we head uphill and pitch camp for the night. I go and set up a hide and wait for the rest of the arvo. Around dusk we see a few little fallow deer with the binos, but they are too far away for a clean and humane shot so I watch and wait. Nothing eventuates, but that’s all part of the hunt. Sometimes it’s meant to be, and sometimes you come up empty. I guess this teaches us that wild food has no price tag, but is special and when harvested should be respected to the full.

The road to Whyalla.

Days 18-19
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Whyalla and Streaky Bay:
sea salt and razorfish

The next morning, we set off at sunrise for the five-hour drive northwest to Whyalla. After going over the Adelaide Hills and down into Adelaide, we feel some relief at getting out onto the open road again. Pulling off the freeway into a small town called Snowtown, I can’t resist asking the boys if they fancy rolling out the swags here for the night. When we realise Ryan doesn’t know about the Snowtown murders, we Google the story and read it out to him as we’re driving through town, and he’s absolutely wigging out. We’re suggesting we stop, telling him it’ll be a barrel of laughs. Obviously, we don’t end up stopping, but Ryan wants his photo taken in front of the bank – with a tinny in hand, of course.

As we get closer to Whyalla, the landscape becomes more desolate, all red soil and heat beating off the tarmac. We begin to realise that we’ve way underestimated the distances in South Australia, and we really need to make sure we hit the dirt tracks before the Wet is in full swing – one downpour and the roads become more like river systems. As it is, we’re cutting it fine by travelling in the Gulf region during October and November, which is well into the unpredictable weather.

We arrive in Whyalla in the late afternoon, to be greeted by Alex Olsson, of Olsson’s Sea Salt, a family-run company that has been in business since 1888. Interestingly, part of the Olsson property was purchased from a former steel refinery – the industry Whyalla is best known for – and we pass through a steel mill to get to the salt flats. Salt-water pumps are used in the process of steel-making, so it all comes together. Alex and I have met before (we use Olsson’s salt in all our restaurants) and so we head straight onto the salt flats to make a camp and get cooking. After a long and dusty day on the road, a seafood feast on the coast is just what we all need. We haven’t had much time to gather ingredients, but we do have some Goolwa pipis and Leap Farm goat meat in the cooler in the car, and Alex has some whiting and snapper fresh from the Spencer Gulf.

Ryan and I get to work. I go for a wander and find saltbush, samphire and seablite growing everywhere. We make a little coastal herb butter to go with the whiting, then wrap the fish in wet bark from a paperbark tree. Next we dig a pit in the sand, drop in some hot coals from the fire and add the whiting, covering it with more sand and leaving it to cook. The snapper is cooked whole on a bed of samphire, almost steamed, then we just scrape off the skin and eat the soft white flesh. For the pipis we make a saltbush and garlic butter – we always carry garlic! – and simply eat them out of the shell.

Catching up with Alex and sharing a bottle of vino (except for Ryan the Rhino, who’s on the beer again) is perfect. We even make some samphire-infused cocktails.

Discussing salt pans with Alex, and how they’re harvested.

The next morning Alex takes us around the plant and shows us how the salt is produced simply by letting the water evaporate from sea water in large ponds the size of football fields. The salt is then harvested by scraping off the layer of salt before it goes through various cleaning and filtering processes. We also take a look at the different forms of salt (blocks, flakes and fine table salt), as well as their salt licks for livestock and agribusiness products.

There is saltbush growing all around the salt pans and ponds. Saltbush has a very deep tap root that draws the water table down with it, preventing the salty water from reaching the surface. In areas where the water table has reached the surface and salinity is a problem, you’ll often find that the saltbush has been cleared, and replanting it can help to rehabilitate the land.

Rhino laying a bed of sea plants to cook the snapper on.

Inside a razorfish you’ll find a nugget of scallop-like meat.

Razorfish heart.

Before we leave the coast and head into the Outback, we go off on a detour to Streaky Bay to see a bloke about some razorfish. A few years back, oyster farmer Reg Brown and his wife, Janine, noticed an influx of razorfish taking over their oyster leases, so they applied for a permit to fish them commercially. These razorfish are an invasive species and, in my opinion, should be on our menus. Yes, they’re pricey and hard to catch, but there’s no denying they taste great.

Reg and Janine have just returned with a catch of razorfish, and I’m intrigued to try them straight off the boat. With extremely sharp shells, they certainly live up to their name, and they have a large shell for the amount of meat they contain, but it’s beautiful meat, almost like a firm scallop with a notable fat content. The guts are pretty significant as well and could potentially be used to make a fish sauce or garum of some sort. I already make a garum with mussel guts at the restaurant, but you could easily do it with razorfish too.

By now, the boys look like they need a frothy. Wayne Hulme, of Joto, who supplies most of the fish and seafood we use at Biota, had said that we couldn’t come here without going to Streaky Bay Seafood for lunch, so that’s what we do, eating some great whiting out on the pier, with a few beers.

RYAN KOVAC
Bertha’s Meats, Bowral

‘I want you to come on the South Australia part of the trip, Rhino,’ says James, across the kitchen at Biota. That’s how my two-week-long adventure through some of the most memorable and remote parts of Australia came about.

Starting with a flight into Adelaide, I was off to discover what this country has to offer. South Australia was an intense contrast between the hot, saltbush-strewn desert and the cold waters of the great Southern Ocean. Meeting Mike and Gayle Quarmby was a moment I will never forget. Mike talked of scouring Outback Australia for a specific strain of saltbush and only finding it on an island in the middle of a river untouched by livestock and farmers. Seeing Outback Pride’s passion for working closely with indigenous people was incredible, and their drive to bring native ingredients to the rest of Australia will be a huge inspiration to me personally, and my cooking, for a long time to come.

Something my family and friends all know about me is that my favourite place to be is that thin line where the ocean meets the land, and so our visit to the Goolwa Pipi Company did not disappoint. Standing knee-deep in the Southern Ocean with powerful waves breaking as far as the eye can see, and with ancient sand dunes rich in indigenous history at my back, was my idea of nirvana. Jumping in and helping Alistair and his crew harvest pipis from along a 90-kilometre stretch of unbroken sandy beach gave me a real sense of connection to this land’s indigenous heritage.

‘What do you mean, there’s no flights out of Alice Springs? Fuck it. Ryan will just keep heading north.’ This is where my journey took an unexpected turn, one that led me across the guts of Australia with James. We travelled through the heart of the Gawler Ranges, a surreal landscape of red dirt, harsh weather-torn scrub and the occasional windmill... someone told me we were going through a sheep farm – but in six hours of driving I never saw one. Arriving in Kingoonya was like taking half a step back into civilisation, in the shape of a tin shed that served cold beer. Good enough. And the friendly faces at Van Rook cattle station marked the end of the adventure, with a few beers and stories being swapped.

Reflecting on my journey, I feel a great sense of pride in the country I call home – from the people I met and shared a cold beer or two with, to the rich abundance of food and ingredients and the ever-changing landscapes. I feel like a very lucky man to have stumbled into such a wonderful opportunity.