As the price of gold skyrockets to unprecedented heights, it’s hard not to feel a pang of nostalgia for a bygone era—one that Western Australian photographers Roger Garwood and Trish Ainslie captured just in time. But here’s where it gets fascinating: their journey to the remote Goldfields in 1989 wasn’t just about snapping photos; it was about preserving the stories of a vanishing breed—prospectors who had lived through war and weathered the harshness of the outback. At the time, gold was a mere $350 an ounce, a far cry from the staggering $5,000 it reached recently. Yet, their mission wasn’t as straightforward as they’d hoped.
Trish Ainslie recalls, ‘We combed the area, meeting an array of colorful characters, but none fit the bill of a war veteran prospector.’ It wasn’t until their final day that they stumbled upon Hector Pelham, a man who seemed plucked from the pages of history. Sitting on his verandah in Broad Arrow, 40 kilometers north of Kalgoorlie, Pelham was a sight to behold—a patch over one eye, a slouch hat held together by wire, and a lifetime of stories etched into his face. He had enlisted on the very day World War II began in 1939. After capturing his portrait, Ainslie asked if there were others like him. ‘Nah,’ he replied, ‘dropping off like flies.’ And with that, the title of their eventual book, Off Like Flies, was born.
And this is the part most people miss: it wasn’t until they returned to Fremantle that the idea for the book crystallized. Ainslie credits the fascination of friends and family with her Goldfields tales as the spark. Garwood adds that once word of their project spread, they were inundated with interest from ‘rock kickers’—prospectors eager to share their stories. ‘Despite living hundreds of miles apart, they maintained a tight-knit community,’ he notes. Their book, published in November 1990, was met with widespread acclaim, immortalizing an era on the brink of extinction.
By 1989, Western Australia’s state batteries—once the lifeblood of prospectors—were largely shuttered, signaling a seismic shift in their way of life. ‘This is the end,’ some lamented, as the traditional methods of panning for gold gave way to modernity. Many of the prospectors Ainslie and Garwood photographed were in their twilight years, still wielding picks, shovels, and sieves. ‘They were the last of their kind,’ Ainslie reflects.
But here’s where it gets controversial: while the Goldfields were a place of hardship, they were also a haven of solidarity and contentment. Garwood recalls the unbreakable bond among prospectors, who would pool their gold nuggets to help a fellow miner in need. ‘It was a level of camaraderie I’d never seen,’ he says. Yet, this raises a thought-provoking question: In today’s world of digital transactions and isolation, have we lost something essential that these prospectors held dear?
One unforgettable character was ‘Kingy,’ whom Garwood met in Meekatharra. Kingy invited him into his humble tin shack and revealed a treasure trove of gold nuggets stashed under his bed. ‘Why not put it in the bank?’ Garwood asked. Kingy’s response was both startling and profound: ‘I’ve already got half a million in the bank. What more do I need?’ It’s a reminder that wealth isn’t just about money—it’s about community, purpose, and living life on your own terms.
Nearly four decades later, Ainslie and Garwood’s work remains a testament to a fading way of life. The Goldfields left an indelible mark on them—the serenity of the sunsets, the resilience of the people, and the raw beauty of the desert. Garwood, who first visited in the 1970s, describes it as ‘a geography lesson coming to life,’ a stark, barren landscape that felt like another world. But here’s the question we leave you with: As we chase modern riches, are we leaving behind the values that made communities like these so extraordinary? Share your thoughts in the comments—we’d love to hear your take.
