A History of Western Australia

• Introduction
• Chapter 1 Before the Sail: Indigenous Life and Culture
• Chapter 2 Distant Shores: Early European Exploration
• Chapter 3 The Swan River Colony: A Difficult Beginning (1829-1849)
• Chapter 4 A Penal Colony: The Convict Era (1850-1868)
• Chapter 5 Expansion and Exploration: Pushing the Frontiers
• Chapter 6 The First Stirrings of Self-Government
• Chapter 7 Gold! The Kimberley and Yilgarn Rushes
• Chapter 8 Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie: The Goldfields Boom
• Chapter 9 Forrest's Vision: Infrastructure for a New Era
• Chapter 10 The Reluctant State: Western Australia and Federation
• Chapter 11 The Early Twentieth Century: Wheatbelt Expansion and Social Change
• Chapter 12 In Service of the Empire: Western Australia and World War I
• Chapter 13 Between the Wars: The Group Settlement Scheme and the Great Depression
• Chapter 14 The Secession Movement: A State Divided
• Chapter 15 On the Frontline: Western Australia in World War II
• Chapter 16 Post-War Reconstruction and Immigration
• Chapter 17 The Iron Ore Boom: Reshaping the Pilbara and the State
• Chapter 18 Social and Political Transformations: The 1960s and 1970s
• Chapter 19 The Court Years: Development and Controversy
• Chapter 20 WA Inc.: Politics and Business in the 1980s
• Chapter 21 The New Millennium: Economic Growth and Challenges
• Chapter 22 A State of Resources: The Modern Mining Industry
• Chapter 23 Land and People: Indigenous Affairs in Contemporary Western Australia
• Chapter 24 A Cultural Renaissance: Arts, Sport, and Identity
• Chapter 25 Into the Future: Western Australia in the 21st Century

To understand the story of Western Australia is to grapple with the profound influence of scale and isolation. It is a land of immense proportions, a sprawling territory that occupies a full third of the Australian continent. With a land area of over 2.5 million square kilometres, it is the second-largest country subdivision in the world, larger than Alaska and Texas combined, and bigger than Greenland. This sheer vastness has shaped every aspect of its history, from the deep past of its First Peoples to the modern-day challenges of governance and development. It is a state defined by distance—not only from the rest of the world but, crucially, from the eastern centres of power in its own nation. This isolation has bred a unique character: fiercely independent, often parochial, and forged by a history of overcoming the immense challenges of its environment.

The human story of this land did not begin with the arrival of European ships. It is a history that stretches back into deep time, with evidence of Aboriginal occupation dating back more than 50,000 years. For tens of thousands of years before the first sails appeared on the horizon, Indigenous peoples had developed complex societies, trade routes, and a profound spiritual connection to the country, adapting to its diverse and often harsh climates. From the ancient rock art of the Burrup Peninsula, known as Murujuga, to archaeological sites like Devil's Lair in the southwest, the traces of this long and rich history are etched into the landscape. This ancient heritage forms the foundational layer of Western Australia's story, a continuous cultural narrative that precedes and endures beyond the more recent history of colonisation.

The arrival of Europeans was hesitant and piecemeal. Dutch mariners were the first to make recorded contact in the 17th century, leaving behind names like Hartog, Houtman, and Leeuwin on the coastal charts, but they saw little to entice them to stay. It was not until 1829, with Captain James Stirling's establishment of the Swan River Colony, that a permanent British settlement was attempted. This was not a penal settlement like those in the east, but a "free" colony, an experiment in settlement based on land grants and private capital. The early years were a brutal struggle for survival. Ill-prepared settlers, unfamiliar with the ancient soils and seasonal rhythms, faced immense hardship, starvation, and conflict with the local Indigenous populations whose lands they were occupying. The ambitious project faltered, a testament to the ill-conceived policies of a distant government that failed to grasp the realities of the colonial experience.

The colony's fortunes, and its fundamental character, were irrevocably altered by two transformative forces: convicts and gold. The initial experiment in free settlement gave way to the practical need for labour, and from 1850 to 1868, Western Australia became a penal colony. The arrival of convicts provided the workforce needed to build the roads, bridges, and public buildings that the struggling colony desperately required. This era laid the groundwork for future development, but it was the discovery of gold in the 1880s and 1890s that truly reshaped the state's destiny. The gold rushes in the Kimberley, Yilgarn, and especially the Eastern Goldfields around Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie, triggered a massive influx of people and capital. The population quadrupled in a decade, transforming a quiet agricultural backwater into a dynamic and wealthy colony.

This sudden wealth fuelled a new era of ambition, personified by the state's first Premier, Sir John Forrest. His government embarked on vast infrastructure projects designed to conquer the state's environmental challenges. None was more audacious than the Goldfields Water Supply Scheme, a monumental engineering feat designed by C.Y. O'Connor to pump fresh water 560 kilometres from the coast to the arid goldfields. Derided by many as a "scheme of madness," the pipeline was a symbol of the state's newfound confidence and its determination to bend the environment to its will. It was this gold-rush prosperity and the influx of new arrivals, many from the eastern colonies, that ultimately propelled a reluctant Western Australia into the federation of the Australian Commonwealth in 1901.

The state's relationship with the rest of Australia has often been fraught, defined by a persistent sense of being misunderstood and neglected by the federal government in Canberra. This feeling of alienation is a recurring theme in Western Australian history, fuelled by economic grievances and the vast distance separating it from the nation's political heartland. This sentiment reached its zenith during the Great Depression, culminating in the 1933 secession referendum, where an overwhelming majority of Western Australians—nearly two-thirds of voters—voted to leave the Commonwealth and form their own dominion within the British Empire. While the move was ultimately unsuccessful, the secessionist spirit has never fully disappeared, resurfacing periodically as a potent symbol of the state's unique and often defiant identity.

In the second half of the twentieth century, another boom would once again reshape the state's economy and landscape. The discovery and exploitation of colossal iron ore deposits in the Pilbara region from the 1960s onwards heralded a new age of prosperity, turning Western Australia into an economic powerhouse and a key supplier of raw materials to the world. This resources boom, followed by the development of vast natural gas fields, has defined the modern era, bringing immense wealth but also creating a volatile economy susceptible to the fluctuations of global commodity prices. This cycle of boom and bust has become an enduring feature of the Western Australian experience, creating periods of rapid growth and high employment followed by sharp downturns and economic uncertainty.

This book traces the long and complex history of this remarkable place. It is a story of human endurance and adaptation in an ancient land, from the First Peoples who have called it home for millennia to the diverse waves of migrants who have arrived on its shores. It is a history marked by struggle, innovation, and conflict; by the slow, difficult work of building a society in isolation; and by the dramatic, earth-shaking booms that have repeatedly transformed its fortunes. From the deep time of Indigenous culture to the rough-and-tumble politics of the modern era, this is the story of how a third of a continent became the reluctant, resilient, and ever-evolving state of Western Australia.

For a very long time, the story of the land now known as Western Australia was one written not in ink, but in stone, soil, and memory. It is a story that begins in what archaeologists call deep time, a past so ancient it challenges modern comprehension. At least 50,000 years before any European monarch conceived of a southern continent, the first people had arrived. Evidence from ancient sites across the north of Australia suggests a human presence for possibly 65,000 years. These first Western Australians were part of the great wave of human migration out of Africa that had, over countless generations, pushed its way across Asia. They arrived not on a continent isolated by vast oceans, but on the supercontinent of Sahul, a single landmass that joined Australia, New Guinea, and Tasmania at a time of lower sea levels.

The journey to the west of this great landmass was a feat of extraordinary endurance and adaptation. Archaeological evidence suggests that people spread across the continent with remarkable speed, settling across its vast and varied landscapes within a few thousand years. In Western Australia, the traces of these first peoples are found etched into cave walls and buried under layers of earth, silent testaments to their antiquity. Sites like the Karnatukul rock shelter, or Serpent's Glen, in the Little Sandy Desert show evidence of continuous human occupation from around 50,000 years ago, demonstrating an early and successful adaptation to the continent's arid interior. This was not an empty land, but one populated by a now-vanished megafauna—giant marsupials and reptiles that would have presented both a threat and an opportunity to the earliest inhabitants.

In the state's far southwest, nestled within the Leeuwin-Naturaliste Ridge, lies Devil's Lair, a small limestone cave that has become one of Australia's most significant archaeological sites. Excavations since the 1970s have revealed a rich history of intermittent human use stretching back at least 48,000 years. The cave floor, a meticulous layering of sandy deposits, contains thousands of artefacts that paint a picture of life in the Pleistocene. Stone tools, animal bones, the remains of ancient campfires, and even a human tooth found amongst kangaroo fossils have been unearthed. The cave's name comes from the abundance of bones belonging to the Tasmanian devil, which once roamed the mainland.

More than just a record of survival, Devil's Lair offers glimpses into the earliest expressions of human culture. Among its most remarkable finds are ornaments, including three beads carefully crafted from animal bone, dated to between 12,700 and 19,000 years old. A stone object, perforated to be worn as a pendant, is thought to be around 14,000 years old. These are among the earliest indications of symbolic thought and personal adornment found in Australia, revealing a people not only surviving in their environment but engaging with it on an artistic and spiritual level. This evidence provides an important cultural link to the ancestors of the region's traditional custodians, the Noongar people.

Further north, on the coast of the Pilbara, another site tells an even older story of human occupation and a deep connection to the sea. Boodie Cave, on Barrow Island, holds some of the earliest evidence for Aboriginal life in Australia, with findings pushing back the settlement of the continent to more than 50,000 years ago. When first occupied, the cave was not on an island but was part of a wide coastal plain, as sea levels were much lower. The cave served as a hunting shelter for thousands of years, and its deposits contain the longest record of dietary fauna in Australia, revealing the crucial role marine resources played from the very beginning. The remains of turtles, shellfish, sea urchins, and even porpoises show a people expertly exploiting the rich coastal environment.

The discovery of shell beads made from tusk shells, dating back to between 10,600 and 13,500 years ago, further illustrates a long tradition of personal ornamentation in the northwest. Artefacts such as baler shells shaped into spoons or incised with markings speak to the resourcefulness of the cave's inhabitants. Around 10,000 years ago, the cave's use shifted from a temporary shelter to a more permanent residential base for family groups, until it was finally abandoned about 7,000 years ago when the rising seas cut Barrow Island off from the mainland.

If the caves of the south and northwest coasts provide a timeline, the rock art of the Pilbara and Kimberley offers a narrative. On the Burrup Peninsula, known as Murujuga, meaning "Hip Bone Sticking Out," lies what is considered the largest and most diverse collection of petroglyphs, or rock engravings, in the world. With an estimated one to two million individual images, this vast outdoor gallery tells a story of human existence and environmental change spanning at least 47,000 years. The art was created by etching through the dark red-brown outer layer of the igneous rocks to expose the lighter rock beneath.

The images of Murujuga are a library in stone, recording the spiritual and physical worlds of generations of people, including the Yaburara, the traditional inhabitants of the area. They depict human figures and rituals, as well as the changing fauna of the region. There are engravings of animals still common today, alongside creatures that have long since vanished from the mainland, most notably the Thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger. Some carvings may even depict megafauna that became extinct tens of thousands of years ago. This art provides a profound link for contemporary Aboriginal people to their stories, customs, and deep knowledge of the land. It is a living cultural tradition, a testament to the world's longest surviving continuous culture.

In the Kimberley region, the rock art is equally spectacular but stylistically distinct. Here, the ancient sandstone galleries are adorned with paintings rather than engravings. Among the oldest are the elegant and dynamic human figures known as Gwion Gwion, sometimes referred to as the Bradshaw figures. These intricate paintings of figures in ceremonial dress, often depicted with bags, spears, and boomerangs, are of contested age but represent an artistic tradition of great antiquity.

A more recent, but no less spiritually significant, art form in the Kimberley is that of the Wandjina. These are powerful creation spirits, painted in white, black, and red on the rock walls of caves and shelters. They are depicted with large, dark eyes but no mouths, a feature said to reflect their power; if they had mouths, the rain they control would never cease. For the Mowanjum people and other groups in the region, these are not simply images but the living presence of the spirits who created the land and continue to govern the seasons. The regular repainting of these figures is a crucial ceremonial responsibility, ensuring the renewal of life-giving rains and the continuation of the natural order.

It is a common misconception to speak of a single "Aboriginal culture." The vast expanse of Western Australia was, and is, home to a great diversity of peoples, each with their own distinct language, customs, laws, and traditions. These can be broadly grouped into several large cultural blocs. In the southwest corner lies the country of the Noongar people. In the arid interior, the Western Desert cultural bloc covers an immense area, home to groups such as the Martu and the Ngaanyatjarra. The Pilbara and the Kimberley are likewise home to numerous distinct language groups.

This diversity was a reflection of a profound and intimate connection to country, an adaptation to the specific environments in which people lived. Life in the well-watered and fertile southwest was vastly different from life in the harsh, arid landscapes of the central desert. Each group developed a complex and detailed understanding of their specific territory, a knowledge system built upon tens of thousands of years of observation and experience. This knowledge governed every aspect of life, from hunting and gathering to social law and spiritual practice.

In the temperate southwest, the Noongar people lived according to a calendar of six distinct seasons, a system far more attuned to the subtle environmental shifts of the region than the four seasons imported from Europe. This calendar is not fixed by dates but by natural indicators: the flowering of plants, the movements of animals, and changes in the weather. Each season dictated the most abundant food sources and the most appropriate places to be. It was a guide to living in harmony with the land, moving between the coast and the inland ranges to hunt, fish, and gather the resources each period had to offer.

During Birak (December-January), the first summer, the weather grew hot and dry, and Noongar people would use controlled fire to clear scrub and hunt game like kangaroos and possums. This practice, often called "fire-stick farming," was a sophisticated form of land management, rejuvenating the land and promoting the growth of specific plants. Bunuru (February-March) was the hottest time of year, when people often moved to the coast to take advantage of plentiful seafood. Djeran (April-May) brought cooler weather and the start of the rains, a time for collecting seeds and bulbs. Makuru (June-July) was the coldest and wettest season, when people would move inland to hunt kangaroos as other food sources became less available. Djilba (August-September) was a transitional time, cold but with warmer days, a period when roots and bulbs were staples. Finally, Kambarang (October-November) was the great wildflower season, a time of plenty as the land came alive with new growth and young animals.

In stark contrast, the peoples of the Western Desert, such as the Mandildjara and Martu, developed an extraordinary resilience to survive in one of the world's most challenging environments. Their country is a land of red sand dunes, spinifex plains, and scarce water. Survival depended on a minutely detailed knowledge of this landscape, an oral map of every waterhole, soak, and rock catchment passed down through generations. Life was nomadic, moving in small family groups between water sources in a seasonal cycle, hunting kangaroos and emus and gathering a wide variety of plant foods.

The social structure of desert peoples was, and is, incredibly complex, with intricate kinship systems, often referred to as "skin names," that govern relationships, responsibilities, and marriage rules. This system creates a web of connection and obligation that stretches across vast distances, ensuring that even in a sparsely populated land, everyone understands their place and their relationship to everyone else. It was this social technology, as much as any physical tool, that enabled life to flourish in the desert.

Across the continent, life was supported by a sophisticated and adaptable toolkit. Tools were fashioned from stone, wood, and bone, each perfectly suited to its purpose. Stone was flaked to create sharp spear points, knives, and scrapers for working wood and cleaning hides. Ground-edge axes, some of the oldest examples in the world, were used for heavier work. Wood was crafted into spears, spear-throwers (woomeras), boomerangs, and digging sticks, the latter being an essential tool for women to gather starchy yams and unearth small animals.

This technology was far from static. Archaeological finds show clear innovation and change over time. At Karnatukul in the Western Desert, for example, a crescent-shaped stone tool dating back 43,000 years shows signs of being hafted—that is, attached to a handle using resin. This is more than 15,000 years earlier than any other known example of this technology in Australia, demonstrating an early mastery of composite tools. This ingenuity allowed people to thrive in every corner of the vast state.

The foundation of all Aboriginal societies in Western Australia was an all-encompassing spiritual worldview often referred to in English as "The Dreaming," a poor translation of complex concepts like the Noongar Nyitting or the Western Desert Tjukurrpa. This was not a nostalgic "dreamtime" set in a long-dead past, but an active, ongoing reality that connected the past, present, and future. It is the foundational law, explaining how the world and all its inhabitants came to be through the actions of ancestral creator-beings.

These ancestral spirits moved across a formless land, and in their journeys, their actions and interactions, they shaped the landscape as it is known today. A prominent rocky outcrop might be the body of a resting kangaroo ancestor; a winding river, the path of a great serpent. These stories are not just myths; they are the basis of law, ceremony, and the intricate connection between people and their country. To be born in a certain area was to be a custodian of its stories and to hold a direct, personal responsibility for its care.

This knowledge was held and transmitted not in books, but through oral tradition—in songs, stories, dances, and ceremonies. The most remarkable expressions of this were the Songlines, or Dreaming Tracks, which crisscrossed the entire continent, forming an invisible network of pathways. These Songlines were both navigational maps and sacred narratives. By singing the songs in the correct sequence, a knowledgeable person could navigate vast distances, with the lyrics of the song corresponding to landmarks like hills, creeks, or rock formations.

A Songline was therefore a kind of cultural passport. Singing the songs of a particular country showed respect for its custodians and acknowledged the great creation stories that shaped it. These tracks were practical routes for trade and travel, but also sacred pathways that connected people to the spiritual power of the land and to their ancestors. They defined group territories and the ceremonies and obligations that went with them.

The peoples of ancient Western Australia were not isolated groups living in a static world. They were connected by extensive and ancient networks of trade that moved goods, knowledge, and culture over thousands of kilometres. These routes, often following the great Songlines, were the arteries of the continent, facilitating exchange between the coast and the deep interior.

One of the most prized commodities was ochre, a natural earth pigment used in ceremonies, art, and medicine. The Wilgie Mia ochre mine in the Murchison region stands as a testament to the scale and importance of this trade. Known to the Wajarri people as Thuwarri Thaa, it is the largest and deepest underground Aboriginal mine in Australia and is considered the world's oldest continuous mining operation, having been worked for at least 30,000 years. The rich red and yellow ochre produced here was of exceptional quality and high spiritual value, and was traded across much of the continent.

Miners used heavy stone mauls and fire-hardened wooden wedges to excavate the ochre from deep within the hillside, erecting pole scaffolding to work different levels of the rock face simultaneously—a unique and efficient technique. The creation story of the mine tells of a great kangaroo speared by a spirit being, whose blood formed the red ochre and whose liver the yellow. This story highlights the deep spiritual significance of the site and the precious commodity it produced.

Other goods also traveled these ancient highways. Pearl and baler shells from the Kimberley coast, often intricately engraved, were highly sought after and have been found hundreds, even thousands, of kilometres inland. Stone axes from specific quarries, boomerangs, and lightweight but strong spear shafts were also common trade items. But it was not just material goods that were exchanged. The trade routes were conduits for stories, songs, ceremonies, and ideas, creating a shared cultural landscape that connected the diverse peoples of the western third of the continent. For tens of thousands of years, this was the world—vast, ancient, and alive with culture, a land shaped by the Dreaming and sustained by a knowledge born of deep and unbroken connection.