The little-known town of Eromanga is home to the furthest fuel station from the sea, and it’s a critical cog in Australia’s outback transport machine
Dinosaurs roamed the vast Australian landscape 95 million years ago, and before that sea-dwelling monsters traversed the oceans that drenched much of this now-arid continent.
Today, the largest things traveling our expansive nation are trucks, but it’s a full circle affair. If it wasn’t for the Titanosaur – the world’s largest dinosaur – we wouldn’t have our Kenworths or Macks. They run on diesel. Diesel comes from crude oil. Crude oil is, quite literally, dinosaur flesh and bone, with some megafauna thrown in, compressed, liquified and fermented over millions of years.
Where the Eromanga sea once spanned 2,000 kilometres in remote Queensland, home to terrifying marine reptiles like the Ichthyosauras and Kronosaurus, and once dry the Titanosaur, now sits a small refinery, surrounded by a patchwork of oil fields.
The little-known town the refinery occupies, aptly named Eromanga, is home to the furthest fuel station from the sea, and it’s a critical cog in Australia’s outback transport machine.
It’s in the name
We’d heard about Eromanga being the furthest town from the sea, we then heard it was the birthplace of IOR, and then we learnt there was a functioning refinery out there.
The Great Australian Bight and Gulf of Carpenteria, which eat into Australia’s northern and southern coastlines, mean the unlikely town of Eromanga is indeed the furthest fuel station from the ocean.
“But Australia only has two refineries left, and Eromanga isn’t one of them?” I’d thought that, too. But it’s every bit a refinery, it just doesn’t produce petrol. So, it flies under the radar.
It also doesn’t quite add up at first glance. When I looked at a zoomed-out view of Australia on Google Maps, I couldn’t work out how the furthest fuel station from the ocean is in remote Queensland and not in the Northern Territory. Or somewhere in Western Australia.
But, the Great Australian Bight and Gulf of Carpenteria, which eat into Australia’s northern and southern coastlines, mean the unlikely town of Eromanga is indeed the furthest from the ocean.
I had to know more, so I got in touch with the team at IOR to see if we could get into this little-known refinery in the middle of the bush.
As I’d soon learn, IOR, which originally stood for Inland Oil Refinery, was born in Eromanga.
Back in 1984 founders John Bonnor, a petroleum marketer, and Arthur Nommensen, a petroleum engineer, set out to take advantage of the abundant crude discovered at the Bodalla South oil field deep in Central Queensland.
IOR employs more than 450 people and also runs a fleet of around 150 trucks, which deliver fuel to its 24/7 Diesel Stops, located in the most remote corners of the country
A bare bush site just outside of the Eromanga township was chosen, around 1,000km west of Brisbane, and the Eromanga Crude Oil Refinery was built – without access to power or even running water. Proper outback stuff.
The refinery set the wheels in motion for Arthur and John, as they grew the company with the central goal of supplying regional Australia with fuel to power the transport, agriculture and resources industries.
Today, IOR employs more than 450 people. The company also runs a fleet of around 150 trucks, which deliver fuel to its 24/7 Diesel Stops, located in the most remote corners of the country.
After some back and forth with the IOR crew, I was told to meet a driver at the company’s Lytton Terminal in Brisbane, where 110 million litres of diesel is stored in tanks the size of a small suburb, and where our pilgrimage to the Eromanga Crude Oil Refinery would begin.
Looking for oil
Friendly but serious operator Andrew Donnelly is waiting next to a B-double when we arrive. As we get out of the car, he pushes off the bullbar of the Kenworth T659, moving to meet us.
“Here are some shirts for you guys,” he says, enthusiastically, handing me and photographer Thomas Wielecki an IOR-branded T-shirt.
Fuel was always the end game for me, so I’m right where I want to be.
On the back is a cartoon drawing of the same Kenworth he’s standing next to, which is known as ‘The Bus’.
“That’s because it doesn’t stop,” laughs Mark Thompson, the terminal manager, who’s now joined us. “There’s even a seat out where the guys wait to load, called the ‘Bus Stop’.”
‘The Bus’ also wears the number plate: IOR-01. “It’s special,” Mark tells me. “That’s the first number plate we got when we started the transport side of the business in 2010.”
Now, the plate sits on IOR’s toughest outback runner. The T659 is a replacement for an earlier, identical model that was originally part of a trial with the Department of Transport and Main Roads (TMR). It’s got a twin-steer front end, capable of 11 tonnes over the front axles, versus the usual six tonnes, among other upgrades.
“I believe the old one had done a few million kilometres,” Andrew explains, “so it proved itself across a pretty hard life.
“This one’s a lot fresher though, because they got it in 2022 to replace ‘The Bus’ – the original one.”
‘The Bus’ runs as a B-double from Brisbane to Charlton and then a third trailer is hooked up and the AB-triple is filled to the brim with 95,000 litres of diesel before it heads onto Eromanga
Once Andrew starts loading, he’s all work.
He tells me not to ask any more questions as he fills the Holmwood Highgate tankers with 50,000 litres of diesel. Watching him lock six fuel hoses in place, each pumping 2,300 litres per minute into his trailers, it’s a balancing act. He has to leapfrog back and forth, monitoring each hose to get his levels right.
‘The Bus’ runs as a B-double from Brisbane to Charlton just outside of Toowoomba, limited to two trailers because TMR won’t allow triples at the Port of Brisbane (yet). Once at Charlton, a third trailer is hooked up and the AB-triple is filled to the brim with 95,000 litres of diesel. Then, it’s onto Eromanga, where the fuel will be stored before being trucked to remote fuel sites around the country.
Following the Kenworth out of the Lytton Terminal, towards Toowoomba, we decided not to make Andrew stop for photos. There’ll be plenty of time for that once we’re out west. It’s an easy run, arriving just after 8:00pm.
Coming into Charlton he calls to tell us there won’t be much to see, and that tomorrow’s driver Brendon Miller wants to leave for Eromanga earlier than expected.
“You boys are probably better off going to sleep,” he says. “You’ll have to drive back out here by 3:00am at the latest, so you need more than a few hours of sleep before that drive.”
It’s special. That’s the first number plate we got when we started the transport side of the business in 2010.
Meeting Brendon at the Charlton Diesel Stop, around 2:45am, he greets us with a smile that could put the teeth whitening industry out of business. He’s in his mid-30s and has a country demeanour, warm and self-assured.
He’s excited to have us join him, sharing ideas about the best places to stop for photos, the towns with the best food, and the sights we should look out for along the way. He’s a hospitable guy, easy to be around the moment you meet him.
“It’s an awesome drive guys,” he says, as he finishes checking over his truck. “I’d be happy doing this forever, I reckon.”
Brendon cut his teeth doing a bit of everything, from harvests to road-train work, building his way up to today piloting AB-triples full of fuel.
“Fuel was always the end game for me,” he says, “so I’m right where I want to be.”
It was actually Brendon’s brother, Grahame, who landed him the gig. “He’d been here for about five years, and I always wanted the job but I needed to make sure I was ready,” he says. “Maybe I was scared, I don’t know.”
IOR driver Brendon cut his teeth doing a bit of everything, from harvests to road-train work, building his way up to today piloting AB-triples full of fuel
He took the leap and hasn’t looked back, but his story isn’t all that unique at IOR.
“We actually have a fair few brothers working here,” he says, pausing as he realises the obscurity of his statement. “It does sound weird, now that I say it out loud, but there’s a lot of us who work together.”
Most of this fuel will end up at Moomba, in remote South Australia, he explains, transported by a team of drivers based out of the Eromanga Crude Oil Refinery.
“So, they’ll take the 95,000 litres I’m carrying, and they’ll send it out to various Diesel Stops and other customers,” Brendon says. “They run it out to stops in Queensland and across into South Australia.”
At a bit over 115 tonnes on the road, Brendon is quicker up to speed than I expected, but he explains that this truck is a little bit special. “This one’s got a bit more,” he says, without elaborating.
“How much more?” I’m curious, now. “Well, it isn’t de-rated like half the other trucks out there,” he smiles. “The owners love this truck, so it’s been set up pretty much perfect for this.”
It’s an awesome drive guys. I’d be happy doing this forever, I reckon.
Into the outback
Brendon talks me through the ins and outs of the T659 as we make tracks towards Roma – our first stop on the road to Eromanga.
“The twin-steer does take a bit of getting used to,” he says, “particularly at low speeds. But once you’re up and rolling, you’d never know. It’s just a really well set up truck. Even the trailers are spot on.”
Brendon also sings the praises of a manual ‘box, as he wheels the Kenworth away from civilisation. “The autos just don’t really cut it for this type of work, to be honest,” he says, resting his hand against the Roadranger shifter. “I prefer to do the shifting when I’m this heavy.”
Brendon has been burnt by bad bosses in the past, so he knows good culture when he sees it. Still, he won’t name the “bad” companies when asked. It’s clear he’s got a lot of respect for other people, even if they’ve done him dirty.
“I’ve worked for some horrible people, with horrible gear, which is probably all I’ll say,” he tells me. “But here it’s different.”
After a short pause, he looks down at my field recorder, before elaborating.
IOR’s drivers clearly understand how important their role is, supplying remote Australia with the fuel required to keep the wheels turning and food on the table
“The bosses are my mates,” he says, pointing at the recorder. “I actually mean that, though. We all support each other, which makes this a great place to be.”
The run into Roma gives us our first taste of outback Queensland, as thick scrub flattens out to make way for arid, sandy dirt, with enormous gum trees lining the road. No matter how fast you go, it all stays the same. You’ve just got to sit back and make kays.
As the Warrego thins out, snaking through small towns like Muckadilla and Amby, it runs parallel to a railway line. A coal train passes us in the opposite direction, a cloud of black dust floating like a halo above the trailers. It’s a reminder we’re in central Queensland.
We’re not here for the coal though, we’re chasing crude oil.
It’s time to fuel up the Kenworth. The idea of stopping for fuel when you’re carting near-on 100,000 litres of the stuff isn’t lost on us.
“Ha ha, I’d be using a bucket if I used this,” Brendon laughs, when I ask if it’d just be easier to use the diesel he’s carrying.
I mean, it really is important out here so I guess I like knowing I’m helping to keep it all running.
As we pass the IOR Diesel Stops out here – with more than 115 operating 24/7 around the country – I’m reminded of how critical tankers like this one are. They keep farms running, trucks rolling, mines digging. Out here, diesel is a currency and IOR delivers.
It’s not lost on the drivers either, who understand how important their role is, supplying remote Australia with the fuel required to keep the wheels turning and food on the table.
“I mean, it really is important out here, so I guess I like knowing I’m helping to keep it all running,” Brendon says. “I haven’t really thought about it like that until now.”
At each Diesel Stop, above-ground containerised fuel tanks act as moveable bowsers. They can be put virtually anywhere, and drivers pay using either a tag or an app, so they don’t need to be manned. One even had a standard eftpos machine. It’s a brilliant concept and it gives outback towns access to diesel, without the need for a flashy new servo.
A water truck fills up to the left of us, and another IOR tanker pulls in on the other side. A quick chat with operator Steve May reveals that he loves his job just as much as Brendon. These guys are either very smart, knowing their endorsements will end up on the boss’s desk in magazine form, or they really do love what they do. I’m running with the latter.
We pass through a handful of small, friendly-looking towns, the first being Mitchell then Womalilla shortly after. Brendon tells us the stint from Roma to Charleville can drag a bit, and he isn’t wrong. I’m also feeling a bit of a pull from the back of our Prado, so I stop at Morven to confirm the rear-right is close to flat.
There’s nothing out here in the middle of Australia and the road feels like it never ends, so the urge for drivers to plant the throttle to speed things up is ever present
As we’re jacking the car up to swap out the spare, a truckie wanders over to ask if we need a hand. This is a recurring theme. Every time we pull over to take photos someone stops to check we’re okay. It’s a nice change from the every-man-for-himself attitude in major cities. Out here, people look out for each other.
Brendon included. Every time we stop, he checks we’re okay. He either pulls up to wait or gives us a call.
With the tyre now sorted, we’re up and moving again, exactly an hour away from Charleville. The towns get smaller, and the space between them widens.
Out here, pubs are a mark of a town’s general health. Wealthy towns have extravagant, freshly done-up hotels. Struggling towns have weathered watering holes that look like they might be out of business, if not for the one or two locals perched up out front, beer in hand.
One we pass has a repurposed boardroom table on the front veranda, surrounded by five or six rolling office chairs. A stringy old farmer type in a blue singlet sits atop a swivelling chair, leaning on the table as he analyses his schooner. He couldn’t be further from the boardroom.
Charleville looks to have a great bakery, so we stop for a pie. Thomas has two, which would become a theme on this trip. In fact, we’re both running on mainly pastry at this point.
The twin-steer does take a bit of getting used to, particularly at low speeds. But once you’re up and rolling, you’d never know.
The run out of Charleville is long, boring and not particularly scenic. It’s Brendon’s least favourite part of the journey. There’s nothing out here and the road feels like it never ends, so the urge to plant the throttle to speed things up is ever present.
Turning onto Diamantina Drive after what felt like days on the Warrego, we see a sign that reminds us how rural this is: Australia’s longest road. Thomas asks me to go back. He wants a photo of the sign. While we’re doing so, we question, again, how on earth the longest road in Australia is in Queensland. Surely the Stuart, which runs from Port Augusta in South Australia to Darwin at the top of the Territory, is longer? But that’s a highway, we decide, because we’ve got zero bars and can’t Google the answer.
We see a cyclist on a remote stretch of road, weaving around pieces of delaminated tyre tread on the tiny shoulder. I can’t work out why you’d do it, given this is road train country and it’s all tankers and livestock crates that frequently wander over the white line. Hats off to him, though.
By Quilpie we’re just keen to get there. It’s a cute town, with an incredibly green bowls club, but we’re going to lose light if we aren’t careful, so we drive straight through. Brendon decides to top up at the IOR Diesel Stop at the town’s edge.
He points out an old, dilapidated train carriage in the distance, with no roof and barely any walls.
“So, how’s this for bizarre?” he asks us. “Last week I was standing right here filling up and this lady comes out of there. She must have been on drugs, honestly, but I just have no idea how she got all the way out here in the first place. I think she was living in the carriage!”
The little-known town of Eromanga is home to the furthest fuel station from the sea, and it’s a critical cog in Australia’s outback transport machine
It’s about an hour and a half into Eromanga, on a stretch of road that’s barely paved. Long stints are single lane, the kind where you’ve got to be half on the dirt when you pass another car.
“This is my favourite part of the drive,” Brendon tells me. “It’s just the scenery, the wildlife.”
“What kind of wildlife?” I ask, mainly for the purpose of knowing what might run out onto the road. “Oh mate, heaps of pigs, roos, goannas, emus,” Brendon says. “There’s often baby emus too. They’re so bloody cute.”
He’s not wrong about the wildlife. Roadkill lines the narrow stretch of bitumen. Roos, goannas and worst of all: pigs. Pigs that could wipe out a car, bloated at the road’s edge. Legs up, inflated like soccer balls.
It’s harsh out here. It looks, smells and feels parched underfoot as we stop to ‘find a tree’. The ground cracks as I walk. There are plants I’ve never seen before, lizards I don’t recognise, and not a tree in sight. I aim for one of the cracks and enjoy the view.
Oil country
We’re metres off the back of Brendon’s rear trailer, Thomas intent on capturing the dramatic scene (strapped in, of course). The sun is low and the threat of a live animal is ever present, the countless dead examples acting as reminders.
This is my favourite part of the drive. It’s just the scenery, the wildlife heaps of pigs, roos, goannas, emus. There’s often baby emus too. They’re so bloody cute.
Thomas has the shot, he tells me, so we tuck in behind the triple and take it all in for a while. It’s stunningly desolate, almost Mars-like, and the sun is a piercing orange.
Time slows down as we storm across plains that were once deep beneath the Eromanga sea. Suddenly, we see the first sign of oil. A large ‘donkey’ that swings and pumps crude out of the ground. It’s a functioning machine too, fenced off on the side of the road.
Pulling up to the refinery, which sits on the outskirts of town, it’s a lot smaller than I expected.
A fenced off area on a barren patch of dirt houses a maze of pipes and tanks, surrounded by nothing. It’s no bigger than your average truck stop. Outside, a couple of fuel bowsers. Directly across the road, a sign reads: ‘Welcome to Eromanga. Furthest town from the sea’.
Brendon begins the process of unloading the diesel, and I wander over to chat to the workers at the camp.
The gentlemen sit, slumped in plastic deck chairs, wearing their IOR uniforms but with thongs – a sign the workday is done. Most have a beer in hand. They’re friendly but take a few minutes to warm up. Grunts and one-word answers become stories of a life on the road.
The refinery was founded in 1984 by John Bonnor and Arthur Nommensen with the goal of supplying regional Australia with fuel to power the transport, agriculture and resources industries
A chat to the operators reveals plenty of long backgrounds in transport. They all grew up around trucks, spending the school holidays in the cab with dad. This is all that some of them know.
Of course, Brendon cops plenty of shit for riding with a journalist and photographer. The star of IOR. “Here comes the celebrity,” the guys joke, as he wanders over. “Mr Hollywood!” More (less savoury) ribbing ensues.
They quiet down when they see Thomas pointing his camera squarely at them. He’s a photographer that doesn’t take no for an answer, and people tend to turn to putty when he tells them how it’s going to go. One of the workers covers his face with his cap, but Thomas tells him to lower it, that it’s important he captures the moment.
My only guess is that people respect his direct approach, because they always oblige. Brendon enjoys it, laughing from the sidelines.
The guys are a mix of fly-in, fly-out workers and locals. They stay out here for a week at a time, in cabins at the edge of the site. They only drive during the day and not particularly far, so it’s a far less arduous gig than Brendon’s.
“They’ve got it great, to be honest,” Brendon tells me as we walk back to his truck. “They only do the day shift and honestly, it’s pretty cruisy. Some of them are semi-retired almost, so it works for them. They just love trucks, get to have a beer at night, they’re happy.”
Every bit of the crude oil refined at the Eromanga refinery is used to make something we use every day, from soap to fuel to tar used in the construction of roads
Back at his truck, we climb up onto the roof of the tankers to watch the sunset. In case the IOR folks are reading this – we did so safely. Brendon urges longstanding refinery operator, Brad Eaton, to come up and join us.
Brad walks me through the refinery, pointing and talking fast. I tell him to dumb it right down. He’s throwing acronyms at me and I have no idea what he’s on about. “EMF…RCO…HFK.”
He’s a short, clean-cut man with an expressive face, and he’s intensely passionate about this place. I get the sense he could talk about the refinery all day.
“I’ve been here for 18 years so far,” he says, “so I think I am the fourth longest-serving employee at the refinery.” “In some way or another I’ve spent my entire working life around oil, it’s what I do.”
Basically – if my rudimentary understanding of it all is correct – the refinery is built around a big still, which separates the crude into its various base materials. The still is heated, and each layer is scooped up. The solvents, the diesel, the goop at the bottom…and it all has a use.
“So, you start with your solvents, then down into your diesels, then you get to your oils, then your greases, then the very last thing at the end is tar,” Brad says, excited to share his knowledge with an outsider.
I’ve worked for some horrible people, with horrible gear, which is probably all I’ll say. But here it’s different.
“But, it all gets used to make different things. We can’t strip it down to its very last drop, only the big refineries can get it down to its last part. The point is, every bit of this crude oil is used to make something you or I use every day, from soap to roads.”
The little outback refinery punches well above its weight, with around five employees on site at any one time. They work in shifts, year-round – 11:00am to 11:00pm, then 11:00pm to 11:00am, like clockwork. They’ll process as much crude oil as the mine companies handling the extraction can throw at them.
“We could do 175,000 litres a day, but normally we’re sitting on about 150,000 litres a day,” Brad tells me, shrugging as if to suggest it’s a walk in the park.
In fact, the refinery has the capacity to handle up to 1,500 barrels of crude oil a day, which is closer to 250,000 litres. It’s a seriously impressive operation and while small in size, offers vital fuels, solvents and other petroleum products to remote Australia.
I’ve been wanting to see, smell and touch crude oil. In the movies it looks thick like honey, black as coal, sticky and smelly.
“Course you can touch some, mate, but it’s nothing like that,” Brad replies after hearing my unusual request. “People think it’s going to be thick like motor oil, but it’s quite watery and it just smells like solvent.”
The refinery has the capacity to produce 175,000 litres a day, which is stored at Eromanga before being trucked to more than 115 remote fuel sites operating 24/7 around the country
“Is it okay to get on your skin?” I ask, sheepishly, making sure the other guys don’t hear me.
“Oh yeah, I’ve been covered in it in my early oil field days,” he laughs. “Hoses can bust or whatever, and next thing it’s everywhere. It’s fine on your skin, just don’t light a match.”
Brad gives us a small glass jar full of crude oil. Thomas and I are enthralled. We take the cap off for a whiff, and honestly it just smells like diesel to me. To the touch, though, it’s less oily. It wipes off easily, which I assume is because it contains the same solvents used to make brake cleaner.
It’s dark now and we see the fellas off, agreeing to be back here at 3:00am in the morning to follow Brendon out. He urges us to sit close behind him until we reach Quilpie, using his Kenworth as a wildlife shield. Good call. I offer to buy him dinner at the pub, but he’s got a few more hours of unloading yet and by then it’ll be time for bed.
At the Eromanga Royal Hotel, 500 metres up the road, I’m impressed to see a buzzing crowd of mostly inebriated locals. In a town this tiny, this is where all the gossiping is done.
“The little bastard slept in ‘til….get this…ten thuurdy IN THE F’ING MORNING,” an older gentleman in workwear tells a younger man in a dirty T-shirt.
The point is, every bit of this crude oil is used to make something you or I use every day, from soap to roads.
“Lazy prick,” the younger man replies, shaking his head before looking away, presumably to shunt the conversation.
The pub itself isn’t small, but the bar is only long enough to seat four, maybe five people. A couple of them nod and raise their glasses slightly to acknowledge me.
“What’ve you got on tap, mate?” I ask the barman, miffed by the absence of beer taps. “Ha, nothing mate. It’s just cans and stubbies here.” A few locals laugh. The one closest to me shakes his head.
On the shelf next to the bar is an assortment of old glass jars – small ones, big ones, tinted ones – all full of crude oil. They’re proud of it here. That and dinosaurs.
“You seen the Titanosaur at the Natural History Museum?” the barman asks us as he clears
a nearby table. Word had spread that we were doing a magazine story on the furthest town
from the ocean.
“We’re staying there tonight, but it won’t be open until well after we leave unfortunately,” I reply, genuinely disappointed.
The Eromanga Crude Oil Refinery keeps the wheels turning out here, and IOR is the reason you can get diesel in just about any outback town
“Bugger, mate. You’ll have to come back!”
A young woman plonks our rump steaks on the table without much care, and they’re big enough to have come from a dinosaur. Up there with the biggest I’ve ever had at a pub. We decide they’ve got to be 500 grams each. I can still smell the crude as I lift the fork to my face.
Chatting to a few locals at the bar, their best guess is that there are around 60 people left in Eromanga. The last census in 2021 revealed a population of 98, so who knows.
What I do know is that there’s one pub, one motel, one of everything essential. Of course, that includes one small but mighty refinery.
The Eromanga Crude Oil Refinery keeps the wheels turning out here, and IOR is the reason you can get diesel in just about any outback town.
