Note From Monty
Every now and then one of our regular readers sends in a note about life where they live. I enjoy these pieces because they remind us that Australia is a very big country, and life can look very different depending on where you stand.
Many of us live within easy reach of a highway, a hospital, or a supermarket that is never more than a few minutes away.
Out in the bush, things are a little different.
This note arrived from one of our readers, PP, who lives deep in Outback Queensland not far from Longreach. When the rains come out there, they don’t just fill the creeks - they can cut whole towns off from the outside world.
The roads close, the mail stops, and everyone waits for the water to fall.
PP has kindly shared what that looks like from the ground.
Over to him.
Life Beyond the Black Stump
By PP
The Outback is well past the famous black stump - in fact, a long way past most things. It lies beyond the Great Dividing Range and far from the big smoke.
Outback? No mistake about it. It really is “out back”.
From here it’s twelve to fourteen hours on the road to Brisbane, and eight hours or more to reach the nearest coastal town.
I’ve spent most of my life in small country towns. Only twice did I try living in the city - once in Cairns when the population was still under 100,000, and once in Rockhampton. When the time came to leave, I was pleased to do so.
The big smoke simply isn’t a place where I thrive.
The bush, on the other hand, meets all my needs.
So what is it actually like living in the Outback?
Well, let’s get into it.
Australia is famous for sweeping plains, bushfires, droughts - and floods.
This story is about floods.
So far this year, much of Queensland has enjoyed a substantial wet season - what we call out here simply “the Wet.” It’s a rare event in this country, turning up roughly every thirteen years or so, just as the old weather forecaster Inigo Jones used to predict with his long-range forecasts.
So far this year I’ve recorded 474 mm of what we out here call liquid gold from Huey, the Rain God. Meanwhile the local Bureau of Meteorology station a few kilometres away has logged 323 mm.
Amazing what a few kilometres can mean when thunderstorms roll through.
The annual average here is about 450 mm, so we’re doing very well indeed.
But we’ve seen this before.
When I arrived here in 2010 the country was in drought. Then came the massive floods of 2013. Railway lines and bridges were washed out, highways were cut, and the town was isolated.
After three weeks of being cut off - except by air - the local council began preparing to fly essential food supplies in for the IGA. Not long after, trucks finally began arriving again once the southern highway reopened.
Then the drought returned.
Now here we are in March 2026, thirteen years later, and the state is once again awash with water - particularly across the Outback.
This little town missed the extreme rainfall that fell in places to our north and west, but we still collected a few hundred millimetres. The surrounding catchments received a good soaking.
And with all that water comes the next phase of Outback life.
Sandflies - blackflies - have exploded in numbers. Mosquitoes too. The little blighters swarm and bite furiously, leaving angry red welts that itch like mad. If you step outside without insect repellent, you’ll soon regret it.
And then there are the blowflies.
Cook a bit of meat and they arrive by the squadron. I’ve been sweeping up dead blowies by the dozen over the past few days.
But back to the floods.
According to the Bureau of Meteorology, we’re in for a major flood here by the end of the week. Warnings have already gone out, and the council is distributing sandbags for those in low-lying parts of town.
Fortunately, when I bought my house I checked the historical flood maps carefully. The place sits about a metre above the highest recorded flood level.
If the projections hold, the water should reach the street about ninety metres from the house. That should make quite a spectacle by the end of the week.
So what happens when a town is cut off?
Quite simply - nothing comes in and nothing goes out.
No trucks. No cars. No deliveries.
Supermarket shelves slowly thin out. Mail and parcels stop arriving because the mail truck can’t get through. With any luck the road may reopen early next week.
Until then, supplies get a bit lean.
The good news is the town has not run out of beer yet.
Rail services are still running for now, and the airport remains open.
But the highway between Jericho and Barcaldine is closed, and it looks unlikely to reopen before early next week.
There has been no mail delivered into Longreach since Monday, and it may be Monday or Tuesday next week before the next truck gets through.
Likewise, no mail has been heading east from Longreach since Monday afternoon — and that will remain the case until the flooded sections of road reopen.
Such is life in the Outback.
