No one had bothered to wake me until finally my comatose brain registered a furious pounding upon my cabin door. "Roma station arriving," bellowed the urgent disembodied voice from beyond the shuddering compartment door.

A quick look out of the window revealed that we weren't arriving, we were there!

Feeling like a cuckolder caught in the act I hurled various bits of clothing, luggage and yesterday's socks and underwear onto the platform and joined the tangled heap myself, endeavouring to hold my jeans up and tuck in a chaotically buttoned shirt. I received a ripple of applause from my equally dishevelled-looking travel companions, sleepily assembled about the platform trying to apply make up and grovelling around in overloaded handbags for damage repair kits.

It had been some party the night before on Queensland Rail's lumbering Westlander. Various members of our highly-perfumed contingent of female travel agents were now paying the supreme penalty for the previous night's excesses. Quantities of Panadol and bottled water were being handed around to sufferers.

Corinna, our mother hen and tour leader, rallied us into some sort of order and called the roll. With all in attendance, physically if not mentally, we were chivvied to a waiting bus for a short ride to breakfast at the local information centre. Persistent drizzle descended from grey clouds above, ungluing hastily applied mascara and steaming up glasses. It was a hot and sticky morning.

Breakfast was laid out on trestles under the dripping corrugated iron veranda of the info centre. I eyed the solidified fried eggs, barbecued sausages oozing grease and the smoking remnants of incinerated bacon ruefully. My stomach rebelled. The girls, being made of sterner stuff hoed in, the greasy offering presumably spongeing up the excesses of the previous rollicking evening compressed tightly into the Westlander's bar car.

Wisely I opted for the tried and proven Australian alternative, the Dingo's breakfast, to whit -- a scratch, a fart, a drink of water and a good look round. Crude but effective.

Whilst the rain dribbled persistently and the ladies devoured the grizzly remains of "breaky," I cast my eyes about and pondered upon my reason for being way out here on a sultry drizzling Friday morning six hundred kilometres due west of Brisbane. Our coiffed and fragrant entourage were embarking upon what is euphemistically called a 'media famil'. We were enroute for The Carnarvon Gorge National Park, a stunningly beautiful and ancient 300,000 hectare eruption in Western Queensland's predominantly flat carapace still some four hours north by coach.

Our hosts were The Fortland Group who own The Oasis Lodge, a small resort crouching amongst ancient towering peaks, craggy gorges, deep, dark and impenetrable rainforests containing 3000 year-old palm trees and Aboriginal rock art that has yet to be dated. How long this gallery has been there no one really knows. Some guess at 20,000 years, some say thirty or forty. As we were eventually to see, such were the stunning colours and its state of preservation, it could have been painted yesterday.

This period of quiet introspection was soon violently interrupted. A piercing blast from a steam whistle shocked me out of my reverie. From behind the building emerged a man straddling a small and intricately detailed steam engine chuffing along on an inlaid track. He proceeded to orbit us for the next half an hour sadistically blowing his ear piercing tooter always within close proximity so as to achieve maximum effect upon throbbing heads. People have strange ways of getting their kicks. To this day I don't know whether he was supposed to be there as an amusing diversion or if he always drives his little engine around at seven in the morning in the pouring rain.

Corinna, Fortland's representative, brandished her ever present itinerary and again busied herself by herding our moist and somnambulistic group towards the waiting bus and driver who, for the duration of 'breaky', wandered around the ageing vehicle periodically kicking the tyres and peering thoughtfully at the engine.

I don't like buses. As a person who is on the taller side of normal, being compressed into a seat designed to accommodate passengers of lesser physical stature is not my idea of a fun day out. Ever tried squeezing a potato into a pea pod?

Corinna had pre-empted the problem. Earlier I had noticed a short stocky individual bedecked in checked shirt, jeans, RM Williams boots and topped with a wide-brimmed Akubra bushman's hat heavily tapered at the front. Standard countrymen's garb. He bore a striking resemblance to Slim Dusty, a country and western musical icon in Australia. He was leaning casually on the bonnet of his red Nissan Patrol and obviously a peripheral member of our group.

"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable travelling with Peter", suggested Corinna, introducing us. I hastily agreed and loaded my swag.

It soon transpired that Peter L. Keegan was no chatterbox. We set off in companionable silence accompanied by Walon Jennings' wailing from the truck's sound system.

Australian countrymen tend to use conversation with economy. We were well into the journey before tentative conversation was engaged. It transpired that at 58, Keegan was, in a previous life, an oil and gas driller, the Roma area being noted for its subterranean supply.

"I've lived here all me life," he volunteered. He told me, in between Walon Jennings' tracks, that he 'chucked in' his job a few years ago and 'gave 'em a hand' at the Information Centre. What he didn't tell me was (as I was gradually to learn) that he is also a Carnarvon addict and spends every spare moment trekking through the gorge's seemingly infinite hidden and secret places. He is an acknowledged expert on the place and after about 400 trips gave up counting the visits. 'I keep expecting to die up there. I haven't yet, but one day I'll get it right," he added enigmatically. End of conversation. One learns not to pry when it comes to the average Australian Bushman.

Once again we lapsed into silence and watched the verdant prairie land pass us by. Rain had finally come to the outback and the once parched and splintered landscape. Droughts lasting ten years are a common phenomenon out here, but when the heavens do open up the thirsty country is magically transformed into lush grasslands. This is cattle country. Brahman and Droughtmasters masticate happily upon nature's unpredictable bounty as we pass.

The hitherto concealed sun now bathed the countryside and the atmosphere became increasingly oppressive as the country temporarily dried out. Steam wafted off the damp and rapidly heating bitumen.

A thirst, derived from the previous evening's excesses, made itself apparent. I groped around on the floor in search of my water bottle. I grabbed more than I bargained fore. Unbeknownst to me, I had been casually resting my feet on a box full of 357 Magnum hollowpoints! Upon further casual inspection I unearthed yet more of the lethal projectiles rolling around in the pockets of the centre console.

'Expecting trouble?" I ventured.

"You never travel out here without a weapon," grunted my friend by way of explanation and nodding over his shoulder. Lying, hitherto unnoticed, across the back seat was a sheathed Puma lever-action rifle. "Never know when you might need it," he added. What was it Dirty Harry had said about the 357 Magnum? "I dunno," replied Keegan.

We continued our journey accompanied by the doleful strains of Walon Jennings.

Several hundred million years ago, certainly further back than I can remember, Carnarvon Gorge, along with vast tracts of Australia, was under water. As the oceans receded, compacted sand was left behind to be gradually eroded into what we now recognise as The Carnarvon Gorge.

As a geological landmark Carnarvon is unique and is steeped in Aboriginal mythology. Plant species such as the Angiopteris fern, one of the slowest growing plants on earth, flourish in the cool and dark depths of the park. They, along with a myriad of other plant species, date back as far as 300 million years. Don't bother planting one in your garden. You'll never live to see it grow. Mosses and lichens lay slippery green carpets over ancient rock formations.
Giant peaks rear up from impenetrable valleys. Down below, where the sun rarely penetrates, unexplored remnant rainforests flourish. Cycads, macrozamias and grass trees (that also take interminable lengths of time to grow) strain for a glimpse of light. Gentle streams that, after subtropical rain, swell and thunder down the various fissures in the rock and ultimately into the gorge, create secret tropical gardens, rock pools and waterholes.

A gentle trek into the Moss Gardens invariably leaves visitors in awe, utterly gobsmacked by the rearing and majestic peaks and cliffs that tower above this quiet and secret place. Birdlife is on the wing everywhere - 183 species, including king parrots, huge wedge tail eagles, kingfishers and curlews inhabit the park. Screeching cockatoos squawk raucously above in the misty canopy.

The noises of the jungle, cicadas, frogs, geckoes and the buzzing of an infinite variety of insects, transport you easily back to pre-history when the dinosaurs called Australia home (with apologies to Peter Allen). There are also plenty of critters that hop, slither, swim and shuffle. Find yourself a quiet spot to hide and you may see eastern grey kangaroos and their cousins the Pretty Face and Whiptail wallabies or even the human-shy platypus. Spiky echidnas, yellow bellied gliders and possums are in abundance although you need a torch to see the latter.

In the spring the valleys erupt in a riot of colour as the yellow and pink hibiscus explodes into bloom.

Carnarvon Gorge in all its natural splendour is the second most visited destination in Central Western Queensland after the Stockman's Hall of Fame at Longreach further out west. Forty thousand people a year make the journey. A large and well-appointed campsite is maintained by the Queensland Department of Environment and Heritage. Just outside the confines of the park and shrouded amongst the eucalyptus trees, archaic Macrozamia and Cabbage Palms shelter the aptly named Oasis Lodge surrounded as it is by a moat of cool creeks and bastion of geological skyscrapers etched out over the last 190 million years. This is Peter L. Keegan territory.

And so it was here that we arrived just in time for lunch 740kms west of Brisbane.

The Oasis resort is comprised of 23 individual 'safari cabins' -- half tent, half wooden construction. They come with all the comforts, en suites, fridges, shady verandahs, fans and heaters. This is camping with carpets. Even in sub-tropical Queensland it can get bitterly cold at night. In some of the more remote recesses of the gorge temperatures as chillingly cool as 17 below are experienced in the winter. At the same time it can become stiflingly hot in mid-summer.

There is a small 'Squatters' Dining Room' and bar semi-surrounded by shady decks. The atmosphere is comfortably casual and the menu and wine list modest but sufficient.

Our bus- and train-lagged troop vanished to their respective cabins to freshen up and re-apply fragrance and make-up. I went in search of Craig Ilsley the local chopper pilot who I was told would give me the 'ride of my life.' Of Peter there was no sign. "He's gone bush," I was told, knowingly.

I found the veteran bush pilot warming up his machine a short distance up the road from the Oasis. The first thing you notice about Greg's whirlybird is that it has no windows. "That increases the 'wow factor,'" he shouted through the intercom. This is seat of your pants stuff. Ilsley has flown small choppers all over Australia. Not just your 'up and down, don't frighten the pants off the punters' stuff, but aerial stock-mustering, feral pig shooting and the like. He knows how to fly. Pretty soon we were swooping through chasms and dissecting the stalagmite-like peaks. I peered down between my knees into hidden pockets of rainforest. It's like the roller coaster ride you always dreamed of. To Greg, who admits to never getting sick of the sight, it's all in a day's work.

Back at the Lodge I bumped into Peter. Has he ever flown over his beloved Carnarvon? "Nope, only ever been in a chopper once in my life." Would he like a trip up there I asked. "Oh yeah, wouldn't mind," he replied with little obvious enthusiasm. I talked to Craig. "No worries mate." We decide to do the trip tomorrow as the weather is closing in. "I'd like to land on one of those spurs," I added without much hope of a positive reply. "No worries mate", he replied airily, and added as a slightly chilling afterthought, "I s'pose you ARE insured". Another bloke who doesn't waste words.

That evening after a short excursion into the bush the ladies were scrubbed up and ready for another evening's merriment. We fell-to upon lemon pepper perch, rib fillet steak, macadamia nut crusted pork fillets and Asian chicken stir-fry washed down with a Grant Burge Cabernet and a Rosemount Show Reserve Chardonnay. But as the evening wore on even the most energetic were flagging. Corinna and The Itinerary were threatening an early start. We were to be marched up through the Carnarvon Gorge to the Aboriginal Art Gallery with various stops in between. And so to bed, tripping over a slumbering kangaroo on the way, to listen to the possums crashing about playing chase on the tin roofs of our chalets.

Once more I (and I suspect the rest of our troop) was aroused by a shadowy figure energetically thumping on the door with an overly cheery, "It's 5.30, up and at 'em."

Amassing in darkness, at the restaurant we were issued by even chirpier staff with back-packs, water bottles and a breakfast pack and were given instructions on what to do if we got lost. "Don't panic, stay where you are and we'll come and find you, sometime or other," grinned one of our drill-masters. Our assembly wandered around in circles bumping into each other and yawning good mornings. Some of last evening's die- hard party animals were nursing sore heads and distributing yet more Panadol. A sprightly Corinna was out in the gloom rounding up stragglers.

Our leader was Brendan Moody. A tall, swarthy, and judging by some of the whispered comments from the ladies, an acceptably handsome National Parks and Wildlife Ranger.

We were embarking on a gentle 12km ramble into the depths of the Gorge. Peter L. Keegan lurked in the shadows, itching to get a move on. Brendan issued the command to "move 'em out" and we disappeared into the mist, almost immediately having to negotiate Carnarvon Creek. More by luck than design no one fell in at our first crossing. Rock-hopping over quickly running streams requires an extra degree of co-ordination when one is somnambulistic.

Still, sore heads or not, the ladies soon set a cracking pace. Keegan had set off at a gallop and vanished into the murk. I loped along behind at a more decorous pace, awed by the slowly emerging peaks and escarpments that soared vertically into the foggy dawn. The cockatoos screeched prehistorically from up in the gloom. More creeks were negotiated and two hours later we arrived at the gallery. Breakfast was broken out and our sweaty and panting mob fell silent and munched whilst Brendan launched into his much practiced historical commentary.

Towering over us was an almost vertical wall and at its base was the we had come to see. The Aboriginal artists used coloured ochres, sometimes mined locally and sometimes imported from great distances. Indigenous people knew all about trading on the futures market. Brendan explained the commonly-accepted doctrine on what the paintings meant and their significance. A tricky process, because of inter-tribal sensitivities (not to mention white man's interpretation). Even the Aboriginal elders can't agree on the origins of some of the art or what it depicts. Also etched into the sandstone were countless examples of the female vulva depicted in various shapes and sizes. One particular etching of this particular section of the female anatomy must have been a foot long. Obviously a formidable woman in the eyes of that particular sculptor. Surrounded by a bevy of curious young women, Brendan grinned sheepishly when asked how you would explain the presence of so much ancient pornography to curious young boys. "We tell 'em that that's how the Aboriginals sharpened their tools," he quipped and hastily changed the subject.

Our return journey was taken at a more leisurely pace. Leg muscles more used to the rigours of the disco floor and unused to extended hiking slowed the general pace. Our troop digressed from the main trail to gasp in wonder at the Amphitheatre, accessible only by climbing a slightly shaky metal ladder. Even the slightest whisper is amplified. Further on, the still physically capable clambered up into the Moss Garden. If you believe in fairies and goblins this place is for you.

By midday the sauna-like atmosphere was making itself clammily obvious. A cold beer and lunch on the shady verandah were definitely in order. Corinna's itinerary agreed, so it was back to the Lodge for refreshment. The tantalising smoky aroma of a barbecue wafted about the encampment. We were going feral for lunch, buffalo, kangaroo fillets and emu were sizzling on the griddle.

Ravenous from the morning's march our mob attacked their victuals with relish. Craig the pilot was hovering in the background anxious to get choppering as the weather was threatening to close in.

I found Keegan belly-up, stripped to the waist and enjoying a post- prandial snooze on his chalet's squatters' chair, a peculiarly Australian adaptation of the standard deck chair. This device allows one to sprawl with legs elevated and supported by two extendable planks of wood. This method of lounging allows for a cold beer to be instantly accessible on wide armrests.

"Ready to go for a ride Peter?" I queried. "Yep," he replied expansively. Why use more words if one will do?

Once strapped into the helicopter Keegan began to show signs of animation. For the last couple of days I'd been trying to pin him down for a chat. Just what was it that made him return time after time. "I just get the urge to go and when I do I drop everything and take off," he had vouchsafed to me earlier in one of his more expansive moods.

We ducked and weaved through and sometimes below the massifs. For a brief and exciting moment we kept company with a wedge tail eagle soaring on the updraughts. Keegan's eyes widened at this whole new perspective of his beloved Carnarvon Gorge.

We arrived at our precarious-looking natural landing pad atop one of the peaks. Gingerly Bilsley nudged the machine closer with thrashing rotors, just missing the few scraggy bushes that somehow survive atop this hostile place. We flung open the doors and jumped for it. The pilot backed the machine away into the distance. We were enveloped in silence, staring out at what must be one of the more stunning views of the Australian landscape. This was a hard act to follow. Keegan peered around him, gradually taking in the vastness of it all. He stared me straight in the eye, his own moist, and uttered simply "Now you can see why I love the ...... place."

Back at the Oasis the girls were preparing to party.