Levi

"Come with us" the stars whispered, spinning soft, sweet Siren's Songs that wrapped silvery webs around His heart. Calling Promises, winking in their inky orbit, "follow the Dream."

The Sun, galloping his fiery chariot across the cobalt azimuth beckoned, taunted, laughed at Him; still He did not go.

"Come, I have stories. Be my missionary" the Earth breathed, resonated, filled His quiet spaces. And so He came; Siren Songs guiding the rhythm of His heart, wrapped in the smiling Sun's warm embrace.

He learned a Story of Long Ago Times when this Earth was a bucking, restless teenager, freshly released from the Gondwanaland home. He told the Story and they came too, listening in awe and wonder; seeing the wounds sustained by the folly of youth.

Then one day and finally, He heard the sound of the Wind. Turning to it, he felt its fingers caressed His face, expand His lungs, sweep and swirl through arcane innerspaces. The soft, dusty-damp, eucalypt-scented, dry-burn breath of the Earth permeated his mind,

"Now you know this Story" she said, "but I am older than Mankind and my Stories are but my skin. For you to know my Secrets would be as to pour the water of all the oceans into a thimble. Go now, make your own Stories, for you can only fathom the picayune Secrets of man."

Toowoomba to Perth: Section 6

Days Fourteen to Eighteen: Katherine and Nitmiluk

I have so many exclamations and no way to create a coherent description of Nitmiluk: I’ll tell you what I did say “Wow, that’s beautiful” “Oh my” “Awesome” “Incredible” “Oh cool” “Gawd, look at that!”.

For those who have visited the latter, in terms of environment the Gorge is a lot like Carnarvon Gorge. Sparse tropical vegetation including tall palms, local eucalypt varieties, the bright yellow waxflowered kapok, scarlet-flowered kurrajong, strangler figs, speargrasses, Sturt’s desert rose, abundant birdlife including the ever-circling kites and eagles, and long stretches of bedrock upon which to roll ankles and break arches… and footwear if you don’t have the right sort.

Great stuff for my still gaspingly painful foot which I determined to completely ignore until I couldn’t walk anymore. I have very good Ignoring powers, and on that particular day I walked 14km over wobbly bedrock, sand, and shale, slipped, clambered and climbed over treeroots, limbs and the larger limestone rockfalls that tumble through the minor crevices leading down to the Katherine River.

Reaching the sandy cove that was my destination I was not alone, catching the fleeting image of a figure sans accoutrements clutching clothing to fore-person and scrambling up the sloped sand.

Tactfully I walked toward another part of the cove and saw a second (attired) person dive into the deep green waters of the river and swim in my direction. After surveying the view and no, not just the swimmer, for a short while I turned to leave.

As I did so, Second Person emerged from the undergrowth.

“Don’t let me stop you” I called to him.

“What?” he yelled

I repeated my greeting and he came toward me. “What is it?” he said.

“Don’t bother about me, I’ll leave you to it” I grinned.

“No, it’s ok” he said. Second Person turned out to be a German backpacker called Tom. Brown as a coffee bean, our Tom looked like he was exercising to its fullest potential his opportunity to adopt the kind of vagabond lifestyle and personal care choices that would horrify his mother.

Our Tom has been travelling throughout Australia for quite some time and was due to leave at the end of July for SE Asia, the Middle East and then home. After quite a long chat during which I discovered that Tom is the quintessential “man of the moment” such that although he snorkelled at Exmouth, buggered if he knew whether it was Ningaloo or not. “oh, Ningaloo” he smiled “that’s a very complicated name, why should I try to remember something so difficult”.

First Person soon appeared and shouted something in German to Tom. Tom shouted back, in German. Then his friend left, outfitted entirely in wet orange boardies and thongs. Tom explained that his friend was going to another part of the Gorge to swim.

“he’s going to walk all that way like that?” I gasped. “just in thongs???!!”

True to form, Tom shrugged and after a few more pleasantries we parted ways, only to meet up shortly thereafter as I was simultaneously climbing over rocks and peering through the viewfinder of my camera in an effort to find a kapok flower’s best angle.

Tom asked me if I was planning to go to another rock pool at the Gorge. I said I was, and we ended up spending the day as travelling companions.

Poor Tom, he asked me questions and I talked his ear off. We talked a lot about Aboriginal people, the sliced and diced history and significant information that I could give him, and the complexity of the problems for Aboriginal people. Don’t mistake me, I never told him I had the Answer, or any answers at all. We ended up deciding there were no answers that we knew of and whatever the solutions, they would take a long time to work.

Tom left school early, did an apprenticeship as an optometrist, discovered the purpose of a complete education and decided to travel.

Tom loves Australia and it’s bigness, but he really misses being able to ride his bike the 2km between towns and when he is hungry, picking fresh fruits from the trees lining the roads.

He has a 21 year old sister who is into horses and doesn’t travel because her two horses died and their parents bought her a foal as compensation. “The foal is her life” Tom assured me.

His dad is the Optometrist who took pity on an errant teen, and his mum stays at home. He is going to go to college when he gets back to Germany.

Tom knows all about HomeBrand: spaghetti and sauce is currently his staple diet. He wanted to have $150 for when he was in Darwin so that he could have BBQ every day. He wants to eat as much meat as possible in Darwin because there are not so many varieties in Germany as in Australia and those you can buy are mostly marinated.

“Dodgy meat then?” I asked.

“I would say so”.

Despite it being his major food group in Germany, no cheese whilst in Oz for that little black duck – “No, it’s too expensive in Australia”.

We sat and swam at the second rockhole, and saw First Person sunning himself at one of the lookout points. Again First Person did not say hello to me, but spoke in German to Tom.

“Doesn’t he know English?”

“Yes, I don’t know why he doesn’t speak in English. It’s strange.”

“Is he upset because you’re hanging out with me and not him?”

“No, it’s good for us to have some time to do our own thing. I was with another group and there was a German guy and he was really into the group thing. Everything as a group. It got really annoying, so this works ok.” They met in Tasmania when they both did a Cradle Mountain walk so they are just travelling companions, not mates as such. It’s a partnership of convenience, no strings, simple.

First Person appeared at Second Gorge rock pool some time after we got there, swam about for a bit and then dived into the water. Tom told me he was going to swim back to the campsite.

“I think it’s a long way to the campsite” he mused. I just shook my head. We had already talked about the stupid things people do when they don’t appreciate the dangers of the Australian environment and Tom had shared his Spectacularly Stupid moment: 24 hours after arriving in Australia, a friend who was already in Darwin insisted on taking him to Katherine Gorge. This was in November – the Build Up, Go Troppo and Mango Madness season.

The jetlagged and unacclimatised Tom was dragged 6km to the rockhole in the middle of the steaming, sweltering, drippingly humid, 50°C day. I shook my head when he told me that too.

Tom and I sat and swam and floated and lingered and climbed around the granite protrusions for a while. Eventually another, middle aged couple appeared, dropped their gear near the water’s edge and started to strip. To everyone’s great relief, bathers appeared underneath the hiking clothes and when they were suitably undressed, they both looked at each other and began a conversation in a foreign tongue.

Whilst these two were talking a trio of towel-toting, sun-browned women appeared and re-enacted the couples’ scene. The middle-aged women tiptoed tentatively to the water’s edge and put her foot in.

“It’s not cold, it’s lovely” I called.

They looked at me.

“…and don’t worry, the crocs’ll get them three first” I nodded toward the younger girls.

The man said “crocs?!” and the woman pulled her foot quickly from the water.

“Yeah sure, the girls are younger meat, much more tender, better meal by far”

“Are there crocodiles here?” asked the woman, now about 12 feet back from the water’s edge. The man hadn’t moved, of course.

“Well, I’ve swum here today and he…” I waved my head to Tom who was perched in a tree root near the water’s edge reading his book “has been swimming here longer than me today and yesterday. Only saw one, and it went after the kids. Slower swimmers, more prone to panic, you know…”

One of the girls came toward us and asked what I had said.

The man spoke to her in the same foreign language and she spoke to her friends. I presume the story was being repeated. The girls paused in their act of undressing just as some young men around their age appeared.

Again it was too easy, I gave in “naw, just kidding with ya” I said. “Don’t bother about crocs, here they’re freshwater and not aggressive in the way the salties are. None have been seen here recently and they’ll only attack if they feel they are being directly threatened, otherwise they’ll tend to stay away.”

I wasn’t just making this up off the top of my hat; I’d cleared up my own concerns about the family Crocodylidae through a conversation I had with the Rangers before leaving for my own walk that day.

I went over to where Tom was sitting and he glanced at our company “oh no, Germans”.

“What’s up? I thought you’d be happy to speak to someone in your own tongue”

“No way, I can do that at home. I want to learn English! Anyway, look at them, they’re just silly. It makes me laugh, watching them worry about something so stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like the crocodiles. Look, they won’t get into the water now. That’s what they’re talking about.”

Sure enough, a group conference being held with much gesticulation and nodding toward the water. Tom sighed, “I better go and say hello.”

He did, and when he came back, the middle-aged man had jumped into the water and was floating toward the middle of the river on his back. He called out to the others, still hovering at the water’s edge. Tom assured me they were expecting the man to be the unwitting participant in a Death-roll any moment, and he was teasing them about it.

“God what a nightmare” he muttered

“Huh?”

“Five Germans in a car together. Anyway, let’s get out of here, it’s getting too crowded.”

We walked back to his car, chatting about this and that, including the bold kangaroo that helped itself to his bread yesterday. Tom resolved the problem by giving the kangaroo a raw potato. I expressed my concern – Tom then became worried that he had perpetrated manslaughter against one of Australia's icons. I disagreed, suggesting instead that "it probably wasn't good for the poor bugger. Would have given him a nasty belly ache" to which Tom grinned, well pleased with his unwitting revenge of the marsupial's theft of his scarce supplies.

We parted ways, knowing that such are the fleeting and oftentimes anonymous, yet fulfilling and precious friendships made during travel.

When he left me I hobbled over to my car and immediately released my foot and a groan. The blasted thing had swollen to three times it’s normal size due both to heat and injury. Thongs were but a grab into my hiking pack and were donned post-haste. The relief was like another dip in the cool waters of the Katherine River.

Putting things into their places in the car – other members of Wright-Eayrs heritage will appreciate this sensibility; everything has it’s specific place so that it all fits and is at hand according to frequency and urgency of use – I left.

Returning to the campsite, a Superman-style change of clothes and I was lurching like the Hunchback of some fame toward the hot springs for a soak. Under gathering darkness I slipped my aching self into the temperate bubbles. Leaning back on some rocks, I listened to the chirrup of crickets and the trill of the fruit-bats and microbats I could see swooping above me as I stared upward at the twilight silhouettes of pandanas plants, Darwin box, and Bloodwood and the twinkling stars.

The next day I resolved to do some blogging but couldn’t resign myself to an entire day at the computer, so I decided to also visit the Cutta Cutta caves. These are a local and much poorer version of the Yallingup Caves. In summary, don’t bother.

A quiet day at the caravan park after the visit to the caves allowed me to arise ready for another go at the Gorge.

This day I did a much longer walk, 20km in total. I visited what is known as the Lily Pond and is the third bend in the gorge or Third Gorge. Indeed, about 3km from the end point of the walk, I did pass some billabongs complete with frogs, turtles and a small stock of waterlilies. I suppose they are not in season…

The end 2.5km of the walk was awesome, mainly for the fact that it required climbing down the face of the Gorge. At the end of the climb down one could walk back into a wide grotto and there see a waterfall cascading from the tabletop. You may also swim in the large freshwater pool that has formed at the bottom of the falls and a couple who had followed me did just this. This pool, the actual Lily Pond as I understand it, emptied via a series of smaller falls into the greater Gorge. At the termination of the rivulet caused by the Lily Pond’s overflow was small sandy cove shaded by a couple of large mangroves. Realising that the couple probably wanted their space, and also personally preferring to swim in the River proper, I took my rest at this cove.

Good thing, it gave me more chances to practice my cheekiness. Sea kayaks passed me in numbers, rowers waving hello in the general friendliness that exudes from people on holidays.

“Did you hike down to there?” someone called

“Yeah, yesterday” I called back

A few more passed without comment. I saw them return shortly; also matched was their silence.

A solo rower and I called “It’s crap that way”

“What?”

“I say, it’s crap that way. Must be, everyone keeps coming back again”

He took me seriously.

Honestly, how could anyone be paddling down the middle of the great and glorious Katherine Gorge, taking in its beauty and majesty first hand and believe that it was going to be crap in any place at all?

Eventually, a trio of paddlers decided that my spot would be theirs too which I took as my signal for flight; take one paper-white, skinny, whingeing pommy lad, his rubenesque girlfriend flapping and flopping about as she capsized her pink-faced self into the water, and their seemingly quite sensible and observably patient Dutch friend, yours truly looking to take in the (Howz the) serenity and you have a crowd.

As is usually the way of these things, the way back (up) the Gorge face was easier than the way down. I always find up to be easier anyway – the whole “staring death in the face” thing gets to me. Girl’s blouse that I am.

The walk back though was pretty darn tough. It was 40°C in the Gorge as I was walking back and my foot was doing it’s thing which seriously interrupted my stride and my pace. I could understand how the Hunchback got fat.

Add to the heat and my lurching perambulation the pain in my foot with a nag factor akin to a toddler in a toystore and the recent development of astronaut legs (the direct result of days doing with nothing more taxing than work the clutch and accelerator pedals) that were disgracefully wobbly after my relatively short hike. Outcome --> knackered.

For shame, I had to stop and rest at the ½ way signpost!! Bloody foot.

Nevermind, nothing could douse my jubilation after a second and equally fulfilling day at Nitmiluk, sealing forever my love for Gorge country.

Upon arriving at my campsite, the people next door to me – a kindly middle-aged couple who used to operate 4WD tours from NSW to Central Australia destinations – asked me about my day. I beamed at them and said it had been fantastic, just like the first time.

I then asked them how their boat cruise up the Katherine had fared.

“We didn’t go” She smiled at me ruefully. I raised my eyebrows. He went over to their kettle, made a cup of tea and sat down in his folding chair behind their camper.

“His sister, she and her husband are in a caravan a few sites up…, she had a stroke as she was getting on the boat. She just stopped as she was stepping up to get onto it, and suddenly she didn’t know who she was, where she was, nothing. She’s in Darwin Hospital now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. What does that mean for you?”

“I tell you one thing” She leaned toward me for emphasis “whatever you want to do, do it now. Because you never know.”

I nodded.

“We just have to wait and see. Things will turn out, one way or another. We are waiting to hear from the hospital; we probably have to go to Darwin but we don’t know. She could be ok. We don’t know….” She shook her head, looking at me.

“How is he?” I nodded toward her husband.

“Philosophical. She has been sick for a while, it’s not completely unexpected. Still… She’s only 57…” She looked at Him.

Turning back to me she said “live your life now, don’t wait. I had breast cancer a few years ago, and I realised that I have each day I’m alive and I can’t waste any of them. Whatever you want to do, do it, because you never know what could happen.”

“Well,” I rejoined, “before I left for this trip, a lot of people told me that they had always wanted to do what I’m doing. I will never have to have that conversation.”

She nodded, and I wished her and her husband my concerns and that things worked out in whatever way was best for everyone. She retired to her cup of tea with Him and they began murmured conversation that included frequent checks of their mobile phones.

I went about my evening rituals, thinking that the people I had met so far were, without exception, kind, warm, caring, generous, companionable, genuinely wonderful people. And that I had made the right choice to embark on this journey, despite my everpresent concerns for the wellbeing of my Nanna.

Toowoomba to Perth: Section 5

Days Twelve and Thirteen : Mt Isa to Katherine

The next two days are a melted icecream of memories. Camooweal however, I remember distinctly, as it was definitely the last outpost before the Never Never. The visible terrain ahead made leaving Camooweal quite a scary experience for me as all those Important Survival Tips Dad had tried to tell me came crowding back to mind in a flurry of scrambled jigsaw pieces. Lucky I had my bag of nylons with me, now... what to do with them...

The impossibly flat road that disappears into a distant puddle is almost indistinguishable from the stubbly yellow savannah surrounding it due to the blazing malevolent glare of the unobscured sun.

I thought things about running out of petrol, overheating and exploding tyres, dying of thirst, how much drinking and purified water I had with me, that I would sacrifice the purified water to sate my thirst if it came to me or the car’s cooling system, and how good it was that there were lots of people on the road that could help me in an emergency.

Very quickly after those thoughts, as my head hit the ceiling and the car lurched like a drunk camel, came an invective aimed squarely at the apparent disagreement between the QLD and NT governments over exactly how wide the border area was and therefore who exactly was responsible for the road from Camooweal to approximately the next river crossing well and truly inside the NT border. What a shocker, pot holes filling in the pot holes, not a square bit of space on either side of the road to steer your wheels without doing in the alignment.

But, my old girl held up a treat and we got through the rough patches alright. After that, there is a bit of fat-skinny road but not so much, plenty of dry creeks and rivers, then lots and lots and lots of flat, grey, dusty open space.

The extraordinary thing about this part of Australia is that although people say “there’s a whole lot of nothin”, that isn’t true. There is no word in English that adequately captures the magnitude of the vision before your eyes; the words you might use shrivel in The Space, the cavernous Nothing swallows them whole, rendering them grossly inadequate to the task.

However, there are quite distinct sections of terrain like a patchwork quilt; vegetation or the composition of the land repeats itself ad nauseum until suddenly you reach a new patch and something completely different, yet endlessly the same.

For instance, sometimes you may pass through an area peppered with termite mounds like a bizarre cemetery, the trees blackened witches brooms, bristles pointed like flames toward the sky. You will then round a bend or descend into a dip and become submerged in the ossified bed of Australia’s ancestral inland sea.

Nothing special happened between Mt Isa and Three Ways except that I counted 110 unique vehicles towing caravans or trailers between Mt Isa and the Barkly Homestead Roadhouse (448km and the only stop between Camooweal and the Three Ways roadhouse at the intersection of the Stuart and Barkly Highways).

I decided not to fill up with petrol at the Barkly Homestead Roadhouse on the advice of the nice lady who sold me petrol at Camooweal – “most expensive petrol all the way to Darwin” – who also told me you are at the Centre of your Universe for free – unlike the internet access there which was $4 for 15 minutes!!

The exciting part of that idea is that I was on half of a 40L tank with 200km between me and Three Ways. We made 460km on that tank with just a little room to spare.

Three Ways is basically the only sleeping option other than Tennant Creek in that part of the world and they know it. Couldn’t raise a smile from the surly girl behind the counter if you turned her on her head, then later when I asked if I could charge up my laptop in the dining area they asked me to pay $5!!

Better parts about Three Ways were the fantastic but bloody freezing pool into which I plunged that evening in order to clear the road dust from my head and a seventy-year old Flemish/Hungarian (he said so) man called Fredrick who was cycling from Albany to Perth via Darwin. Pretty cool huh?

After we chatted for a bit, I said “I’m Felicity, nice to meet you” and he said “are you Australian?”

“Uh-huh”

“That’s strange. That has never happened to me before”

"What’s that?”

“You are Felicity.”

“Well, yes, that I am. What’s strange about that?”

“You… you, hm, well nice to meet you too, I’m Frederick”

I think he was trying to say that Australians don’t usually offer their name when they greet him but I’m still not sure. Lost in Translation.

Anyway, he was finishing off this tour that he didn’t get to do four years ago because his wife had a car accident and ended up with the whole stationery drawer holding her knee together. End of cycling for her, and she understands that he just wants to finish what he started.

Frederick was of the opinion that if he stopped moving his bits would rust up and that would be the end of the story, but that his bits were of the opinion that they would rust anyway and see what he tried to do about it.

Day Fourteen: Three Ways to Katherine

Our leaving day got up a dusty wind that followed me through to Katherine. Frederick commented on it over my morning coffee and his electric shave (no power in the men’s toilets so he was shaving in the camp kitchen) and I said it seemed to be at his back so perhaps it was a good thing. Yes, he agreed, perhaps it was.

After the stint from Croyden to Three Ways, the drive to Katherine was easier than a topple from the proverbial.

My morning stop at Renner Springs to ensure that there would be petrol at Elliot (300km from Three Ways) was ruptured by a cacophonic willy-willy of about 1000 sulphur-crested cockies swinging, sweeping, swirling and eventually winging their wiggly way into the blue. Such are the beauteous wonders of the untamed Inland.

From Renner Springs northward the evidence pointed to more frequent visitations from the Rain Gods. That is to say, the straggly and stunted trees assumed a confident and solid trunk with expansive brachiation. Tall needle grasses suffocated the understorey, and the river crossings although still dry, were wide and their beds championed deep runnels.

At Elliot I refuelled the car and the body, and was stalked by a resident peacock for my smoko. Not deterred by a murmured “get away” or a flick with the foot, this proud bird aimed to stake its rightful claim of my sandwich and honked in irritation when a tithe was not forthcoming.

Elliot petrol station is also the general store for the surrounding Aboriginal community and the pictures you see on A Current Affair are not made up just for the journos. The service shop at the Elliot servo is security-grilled at door and window and I watched a girl in perhaps her late teens push a pram (with child) toward the shop door. Preceding her by about 5 minutes was a man possibly in his late 20s and she did not hesitate to express with gusto and for all to hear her displeasure at his intended destination.

Both entered the shop and were ejected by the attendant shortly thereafter, with a stern suggestion to continue their carry on someplace else.

He then departed in one direction with his plastic bag full of something and she pushed her baby the opposite way.

The manager shook his head and returned to his inside jobs.

I should also mention that the askance look that I was served when in Renner Springs I questioned the likelihood of fuel further onward should be returned to its owner. There was no fuel at Larrimer and even the makeshift tourist information centre-cum-pub-cum “world famous home made pise” shop had thoughtfully hung a handpainted sign on the fence “gone shopping”.

The stop at Daly Waters for petrol wasn’t too revealing so there isn’t much to share; Katherine though is a doozy.

From its outerskirts to its innerskirts (when coming from South) takes about 40 minutes, and takes one past the Tindal RAAF Airbase. Of course, I didn’t know whether the highway runs through the town centre, I had no reason to be confident that it would be sign-posted at all, such has been my experience with these things, it was after 5pm and having just travelled 1800km in three days I was desperate to stop driving so I was anxious to hit the mark first time around. When you drive by yourself you start to really know your Time to Stop signs and I was having them all over the place.

As is done in the Territory, everyone around was zooming past with purpose and I began to think that there was some Secret Squirrel business going on and the turnoff into Katherine was local knowledge only – slightly irrational thinking: definite Time to Stop signal.

But no, for a change town planning was my friend and the Stuart Highway slices right through the middle. And, Glory Be! A Woolies!!!! See how your expectations change when you get away from the major centres? A sizeable grocery store can bring a tear to the tired driver’s eye.

If possible I would have hugged Katherine, choking red bulldust and all.

Feeling buoyant, I set to sorting my accommodation. Even this was done with a quick phonecall so I thought, right, now that you’re here (at Woolies), you better stock up. It was pretty much a case of do it now before you collapse in an exhausted heap and can’t move.

Bloody hell!

In addition to the usual suspects – tourists by the bucketload, locals, property owners/residents from the surrounding stations, miners and the RAAF contingent, it was payday and everyone had their vouchers. The place was full to the rafters, every till was open and about 12 people deep.

The other striking thing about Katherine was that I immediately felt like an interloper. Gaggles of mainly Aboriginal people spilled into the street, meandered, loitered, chatted, yelled, sang, played, and followed each other waving fists or objects and gesticulating with a laconic flick of the hand.

Now I REALLY felt like I was in the Territory.

When I was at the checkout I got a better appreciation of the new realities the Intervention created for the people out here. A family of mothers were in front of me and the grandmother was having her items priced and then giving them back again if they took her over her voucher limit. The meat and bread in huge quantities went through, the party balloons and bags of lollies were sent back. I could see that grandmother was considering what she needed versus what she wanted to get for her family.

The mother following her grabbed some of the items that the Grandmother had returned, such as packs of salads, and put them with her own goods. When a box of Favourites chocolates went through at $20, she put gave it back immediately. There was a long pause when Mother considered whether floor cleaner was more important than a couple of bottles of soft drink. The soft drink won.

Fighting through the throng I made it back to the car and off to the vanpark. The rock-solid floor of my campsite was no deterrent – nothing a few hearty whacks of hammer upon peg couldn’t solve. And thoughtfully, the caravan park was a mere 500m from the Katherine Hot Springs. What a treat after my walk the next day… but we’ll get to that.

Crawling into my tent, I collapsed and a few of you heard from me!

Toowoomba to Perth: Section 4

A word to the wise courtesy of my experiences during my Cardwell layover – early to bed will increase the probability that you get a full night of rest; “working” backpackers are not necessarily so keen for their second-year visa that they will actually rise and shine as necessary to start their working day on time, or at all. Or bother to turn off their mobile phone alarms, presumably believing that excessive use of the “snooze” option is the equivalent to actually getting out of bed.

It was like a blimmin’ frog’s chorus, between 4.30am and 6.30am, when, I would say, their mobile phone batteries finally gave out.

Day Nine : Mission Beach to Ravenshoe via Daintree

After falling asleep to the lingering feeling of pitch and roll I woke early with the aim to get to Daintree or Cape Tribulation for a look see and maybe to hang around for the night. To make things more interesting, I went “the back way” through Atherton and Mareeba; this plan also let me fit in a walk on the Atherton Tablelands before chillin’ at the beach, mon.

Yeah, right. Somehow, before I left Toowoomba, I did a mischief to my right foot which has plagued me since. It is criminally painful when I walk on it for long distances and flares up something intolerable after a bushwalk (such as after Eungella). I haven’t had it seen to, in the hope that I will wake up one morning and it will magically be better. I also don’t think a Doc is going to tell me anything new “hmmm, looks like you’ve bruised something in there, try not to walk on it” – DUH! So I’ll save my $50 for something more exciting and just grit my teeth. But it does put the kibosh on anything really challenging in the way of a bushwalk so my trip to the Atherton Tablelands was disgracefully easy. A few happy snaps of some waterfalls and a few brief forays into the wilderness and that was it.

Mind, in some ways that was alright as I knew I had some land to cover and I was feeling a bit pressed for time as my favourite species of driver was out en force on this day; add to that population the Sunday Driver and I’m sure some of you can feel my heat from there!

So anyway, what I can tell you is Atherton is not especially interesting, the access roads to the Tablelands from Mission Beach are bland, over-farmed, rolling hills supporting the local dairy industry, and the “sites/sights” spring up out of nowhere via some obscure road through someone’s property. Very strange arrangement and nothing like the brochure.

So, that was the Tablelands through to Atherton and as I say, nothing exceptional. Atherton to Mareeba and onward to Port Douglas is quite striking in its variability. Around Mareeba it is dry inland scrub and salt lakes (a lot like the area around Norseman in WA) and allows access to Mossman Gorge; it is also home to … THE BIG MANGO!! Which is just like most of the other Big Whatever’s in that it is a very large fibreglass object stuck in the front of some dubious-looking establishment claiming to sell the only … (in this case mangos) in the country. Funny, I skipped it.

After that it was rainforest yadda, yadda, yadda, Daintree river (brown, sluggish, crocs, the usual), Cape Tribulation – just like Mission Beach only further north and if you can sense my less than captivated feeling you would be on the money.

What can I say? I was a bit over it. Felt like I wanted more than pretty, lush greenery and beaches. Felt an urge to stop sinking my hard-earned into The Smart State and to instead Go West (young man). Yes, I know I said I was going to take the Karunda Railway but honestly, by then I had seen so much rainforest I felt there wasn’t many surprises in store from that exercise except add-on costs that are never in the brochure. So I did. Go West that is, to the open air, where the skies are blue and the rain don’t fall.

But I did go through Karunda – up the hill, as I figured I had already paid for my petrol so why pay for the railway/cable car that would do the same thing? Well I’ll be damned if it wasn’t pretty, hilly, green, (blimmin convoluted roads) and very crowded.

Frankly I was so glad to be out and away from the North Coast I can’t tell you. Way too many people for my sanity. By the time I hit Mareeba again at 3.30pm I had shaken off most of the (always SO SLOW) traffic and could really hit the skids.

I had some thoughts about getting from Mareeba to Undara Station (for the lava tubes… patience, patience, I will explain) but after traversing the extra specially windy, sometimes scarily elevated roads through the real Atherton Tablelands (to the aft of Atherton and toward Ravenshoe – absolutely breathtakingly beautiful) I was pretty shattered and decided that a stop at the nearest place was in order. I should also add that I was about desperate for the loo which is very distracting when you are dead tired and trying to “push on”.

Undara would just have to hold its horses, off the road and into Ravenshoe. That is, Raven’s Hoe for the uneducated amongst you, not Raven Shoe, as I quickly discovered. Well Ravenshoe is the Land that Time Forgot. There is no caravan park (read: cheap accommodation), there is an expensive-for-where-you-are looking Motel and looming large at the end of the road (figurative and literal in my case) was the Tully Falls Hotel.

The sign said “Budget Accommodation”. With a sigh, I wondered whose version of budget I was going to encounter and pulled up.

This old girl was built in the 1870s and is slowly being resurrected by its new owners. The outside of the place has been re-painted in fetching cream with burgundy trims, the XXXX Gold signs are clearly new (no bullet holes) and there is no mis-spelling on the chalk boards telling you the daily specials which are either Roast Beef and Vegies (Monday, Wednesday and Friday) or Roast Lamb and Vegies (All other days). Gravy optional extra.

I love these kinda places.

I unbent my long-bent bits and staggered inside just as one of the bar patrons ejected himself through the same entryway, but in the opposite direction. He mumbled something about my car headlights which, upon turning, I discovered were still on. Country hospitality, even in the midst of a spew they’re happy to help.

Having rectified our mutual “issues”, we both re-entered the fire-place warmth of the sportsman’s bar where I was greeted by the barmaid who was clearly desperate for some interesting conversation that didn’t contain the phrase “another one thanks love”.

“Come a long way” she said.

“Yep”.

‘Where ya goin?”

“Perth”

“I been there, liked Fremantle but Perth, I could take it or leave it”.

“Yeah, it’s like that, you could bring up your kids or retire there but not so interesting for young people.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, credit?”

“Yep, on the plastic thanks”

This conversation from a girl behind a bar in Ravenshoe with four bedraggled, leathery, rusted-on biding-their-timers for company. Later I was to find out from one of the residents that at least two of them were called Jack and Jill, and “they’re an old couple that just like to have a good time”. So there ya go.

“Want to see my signature?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s credit isn’t it. Ok, well I trust ya. Here’s the key, I’ll show you the room.”

Up the creaking, well-polished, two flights of (caution, lowered clearance) staircase to the lodgings. A verandah all the way around for looking to the streets and a fine view of the mill, narrow dark-wood doorways with brass knobs, randomly numbered so don’t go thinking that in the Tully Falls Motel 12 is directly after 11, openings in the (caution, narrow clearance) washed-out green, enamel-based painted corridors. Well only on one side, the other side of the rooms leading to the verandah were mostly white (enamel-based) painted, (yellowing, fly-spotted) lace-curtained French Doors!!

Inside the room I was satisfied at the evident lean of the wardrobe toward the French Doors, while the floor insistently sloped to the contrary. The door needed a good shove to open and the French Doors didn’t close true enough for the sliding bolt to fit into its well-worn hole. There was as is always the case in such establishments a vanity basin stuck half-way up the wall at a height of no convenience to anyone. The concave mattress promised a night of suffocation if I rolled the wrong way.

Upstairs communal kitchenette and TV room – cosy enough and already occupied “G’day”, “Hi”, and the amenities were a dream. Swing doors on the toilets, industrial sized, green-concrete showers.

The residents stayed to one side of the upstairs lodgings (I was told) and as I walked with my guide past their doors I heard phlegmy harrumphs and coughs, shuffling, scratching and the crackle of wrappings and at the one door that was opened, three cartons of Woodstock and Cola.

Shivering (Ravenshoe is QLD’s highest town at an elevation of some 8900m) I said “um, are there heaters?”

“Nah, no heaters. Here’s the blankets and stuff, go for your life. I’ll leave you to it, ask me if you need anything” and thrusting at me the room key, dangling on a Carlton Draft lanyard, she was back downstairs to attend to the howls of the thirsty mob.

No worries, got my gear, sorted myself and off into the TV room, y’know, to be sociable. The bloke from before was still there, Gladiators yelling enthusiastically at him from the box.

“Hi” I said. “Do you live here?”

This second question came within the 10 seconds that I had looked at the bloke and realised he was lucky to be 20.

“Yeah”

“How long have you been here?”

“Three months”

“True? What brings you here?”

“Oh, I was working at the mill but I got a better job the other day. My second week this coming week. I’m a stumper – y’know, I put fence posts into the ground”

“So… why are you here? Not, at home or… something?”

“Oh, had a fight with my olds three weeks before my 17^th birthday so I left”.

“Musta been some kinda fight. You’re darn brave I reckon, I wouldn’t have just left at your age”

“Yeah well,” he shrugged.

‘So how did you get here then?, Ravenshoe…”

“My dad follows the mines, y’know. First we were in WA until I was 12, then we were in South Australia. Now we’re here. Where are you from?”

I told him I was from Perth and he said that his family used to own an Italian restaurant there. Then a Small World thing happened. Turns out the restaurant in question was in Maddington! He lived in Kelmscott though, he pointed out many times. He never wanted to work in the restaurant, and at one point he opened his own carwash down in Kelmscott. He said he didn’t charge a lot but because he got so much business he didn’t have to worry about not covering the costs.

Comes from a mixed family, “dad” is actually step-dad. I didn’t find out what happened to his real dad. He calls one of his brothers his “full-blood” brother, and the other, younger two are just his brothers.

He used to get really good marks at school, and this stayed the same when they went to SA. He was great at sports too, especially field events, and used to represent his school in the inter-school sports. Then, when they moved again, he decided he’d had enough of doing great things for some school that would get all the praise and leave him with nothing. He decided to aim for 4^th in all his events so there was no danger in accidentally getting a place on the inter-school team.

He also stopped trying to do well at school, and he couldn’t anyway because he had to look after his younger brothers while his mum and dad were at work. Because he was cooking their dinner and cleaning and stuff, he didn’t have time to do his school assignments and eventually he stopped trying.

Chris said he was always good at maths and could do it in his sleep, but his English was not so good. When he left home he tried to get into the Army, but his English scores in the screening test let him down. In the maths screening, he got all 75 questions right and they said that he would have walked into an Officer-class position if his English had been passable so in six months he was going to enrol to do Year 12 again.

I asked him if he ever saw his brothers and if they missed him. Chris said that his younger brothers come into town to go to school. The last time they saw him they gave him a huge bearhug and wanted him to come home with them. But his “full-blood” brother Andrew, well, he was just a dickhead. They had a fight the other day and “I pushed his head through the St Vinnie’s window”.

“Why?”

“Oh, he was saying stupid things, like ‘oh Chris, you think you’re so big and tough now that you’re not at home. Come on, I’m tougher than you’ and he tried to fight me. So I pushed him. The school teachers came and yelled at me but I didn’t care. He’s a dickhead.”

Chris also told me he’s got a computer in his room that he built himself from scraps. He couldn’t afford a new one so he made one. I told him I was impressed that he could do that, and it was a shame he was wasting his brain on stumping. He said he knew heaps of people in Ravenshoe that bought the flash new cases and then bought the bits they needed so it wasn’t really such a big deal.

I said it sounded like he had given up a lot of his talents but it was good that he was doing something positive, despite being out of home.

After a while our conversation petered out, but I kept thinking that this kid would have been one of them that goes under the radar – no-one notices that he’s not coping with all the changes of being in a blended family that moves with New Dad’s work and foists all the responsibilities on the oldest child. Then, before he’s even finished with school, he’s out on his own in the world.

Lucky in some ways that his world is still no bigger than Ravenshoe.

Eventually we said our goodnights, and upon retirement I discovered that the mattress held up to all my expectations.

Day Ten: Ravenshoe to Croydon

There is no morning in Ravenshoe, only a pinkish glow that turns into grey light. I saw Chris before I left, sitting on the fire escape stairs of the Hotel decked out in his Hi-Vis workwear, head lowered between his knees. Bit early for despondency I thought, but looking at the morning and thinking about our conversation last night… maybe not.

I saw him again as I was leaving, out the front of the bakery. I hope his job didn’t let him down.

Next stop took me further into the “real” bush, through Mt Garnatt and to Undara Station to view the lava tubes.

Another exciting thing happened pretty much right out of Mt Garnett…

There’s these signs from Ravenshoe onward informing you that road trains use the road and those universal yellow-and-black diamond street signs showing you who will win if you don’t shove over and let them pass, so there’s no excuses for the non-English speaking or illiterate road users.

Sure enough, rising through the morning sheen was the blurry shape of a roadtrain and me within 20m of a one way bridge. Decisions, decisions. Well shit I haven’t slowed down yet and if I do now I will end up with a new vent right down the front of my car, courtesy of the bridge rail, so I’ll take my luck with this one and let him pass.

We got through – just and I pulled right off the road when the truck got to me. Pah! It was just a baby! Only two trailers. But you know, that was enough for me to really switch on my careful driving brain, and it also gave me a good opportunity to check out the kerbsides.

You might laugh, but this is an important consideration for country driving. You need someplace to go when things get dicey on the road, say if someone coming in the other direction misjudges the length of the road train they’re overtaking and suddenly needs the bit of road you are using, and when the roads are not of any particular interest to a major business operation they are likely to only be 1 ½ cars wide so you are gonna end up in the dirt some time. Better to know what kind of dirt you’re hitting so you can work out how to get there and back on the road again in a controlled fashion, rather than Dukes of Hazard-style.

Good thing, the kerbsides pretty much all the way from Mt Garnatt to Cloncurry are hard-packed coffee rock or ochre-granite. Small, round rocks, bit of slippery dust, then low-cut grass. This is good kerbside for the on-again off-again high-speed driving that I was going to do for that entire stretch of the trip.

So onward to Undara and FINALLY I was on the kind of road that I so love to travel. Open bitumen, few cars, bush either side. A lot of it was ironbark and …? Of a greyish green persuasion, the dirt being a mixture of grey basalt bulldust and the aforedescribed pink granite.

Now, the other thing that really became prominent to my notice were animals of the domesticated and untamed versions. In particular, the driver West of the coastline should watch diligently for bovine obstructions. These supremely stupid moving mountains that blend perfectly with the roadside vegetation (not sure about the wisdom of Darwinism under these circumstances) will make tidy work of your front end should you happen to get in their way. Unfenced paddocks mean the unwary driver will be taking home their next T-bone on the radiator grill.

Otherwise, I should note in rapturous tones the eagles (someone told me they are the famed Wedge-tail and someone else said that wasn’t likely as they are only found in WA). My understanding is that these birds are endangered, but apparently no-one mentioned it to them. Thankfully less stupid than the cows but equally as single-minded when it comes to food, these Lords of the Sky swoop, swirl, perch, peck and prey wherever there is fresh roadkill. And out these ways, there is plenty. AND, they’re not shy at all to stare down any vehicle hurtling at them if moving means they might not get the best bits of whatever it is they’re ravenously engorging. Crazy.

The number of times I have had to actually stop or slow down to about 20km p/hour as I drive around a carcass with an eagle or two perched stubbornly atop. Then, when they deign at the 11^th hour to shift, they flap up and prematurely swoop around again with a single purpose in mind – to get back to dinner. So they basically give you at least two chances at the jackpot.

My concern is twofold – I don’t want to hit them because they are endangered and because I loathe killing anything but also because I would be in a fine jam with one of them stuck in my radiator. So it is mutually beneficial if they get out of the way so that I can get on my way. Try telling them that…

The other animal obstacle that I began to encounter with increasing frequency I have just mentioned. Roadkill is infinitely more dangerous than moving animalia because a 6-foot from tip to tail Boomer, on its side and inflated to 3 times its size thanks to the potent combination of decomposition processes and the blazing Outback sun is a rock that you are not gonna get over. When you are bearing down on one of these monoliths with a roadtrain or even a (bloody) Grey Nomad bearing down in the opposite direction, you don’t have many options.

A second problem with roadkill is that it attracts the predators as previously described, giving you several things to be considering when staring into the rippling glare at “that moving black thing” emerging in the middle distance that may or may not be a 53m long road train.

However, I am not truly complaining. Seeing these random obstacles told me truly that I was travelling as I love, into the space and nothing.

So back to Undara – the point of this place is that it is a station-turned-National Park due to the discovery of lava tubes formed when the Undara volcano erupted umpteen million years ago (they told me the specifics on the tour but I forget). The lava tubes are enormous basalt, granite, manganese and quartz caverns that stretch for 22 km (as far as they have discovered) from the original eruption site.

I only took a 2 hour tour but it was sufficient to impress me. Our guide was a cardboard cut-out Crocodile Dundee with the unlikely name of Levi (I asked him, he isn’t Jewish) who had the witty repartee down pat mixed with an exceptional knowledge of the local geology, biology and ecosystem.

All in all it was a really terrific way to kill several hours, and I recommend it to anyone.

Having done the tourist thing, I knew that I had to keep moving so I made a plan to get to Croyden by nightfall. This is a very ‘me’ plan – Normanton is the next big town from Undara which is precisely why I didn’t go there. I hate the big towns and so far they haven’t been kind to me (e.g., Mackay, Mt Isa).

I stopped at Mt Surprise to get fuel and asked the lady what the road out to Normanton was like.

“Fat and skinny, just like what you’ve been on. Watch for the road trains and you’ll be fine”.

Well it wasn’t the road trains that are the problem but the caravans!! Road hogs! I was off the road so many times, Ma and Pa Kettle coming the other way don’t seem to realise that their 4WD is quite sufficiently equipped to deal with the edges and it is not their supreme right to use the entire bitumenised section of the road when the road is too narrow for two cars.

Never mind, the drive to Croyden was, apart from close encounters with various fauna including wallabies and an Old Man Goanna strolling across the path, uneventful and relatively peaceful.

An indication of the contrariness and irony of these seemingly forever parched lands are the shallow undulations in the road prefixed with a warning “road subject to flooding, markers indicate depth” followed by a post marked with graduations every 10cm. A cursory glance at one’s surroundings would suggest water has long been a distant memory yet some of the posts topped out at an extraordinary 2m from ground level. I could not imagine that the water would not be absorbed readily into the cracked skin or sucked into the vast, thirsty throat of the dry earth surrounding me long enough to reach such a height!

Further, I crossed many bridges indicating a river flowed beneath, and was thrilled that these are as faithfully described in Australian legends, blinding-white sandy crevices improbably fringed and peopled by an array of native plants, resolutely sticking out the tough times, waiting patiently and verdantly(!) until the fabled flood blasts through from the North and sates their thirsty roots again.

So, Croyden. Is so small it’s entirety can be caught in a few words: houses x 10, pubs/restaurants x 3, general store, petrol station x 2, health-clinic cum daycare x 1. Peaceful, relaxed, red-earth and blue sky, any perambulation faster than a saunter will get you a sideways look.

Thoughtfully, there is an ample caravan and camping ground that amicably informs the visitor “If the office is unattended pick a site and come back later”. It is managed by a sole middle-aged woman who was not around when I arrived. When she returned she apologised profusely, saying she had been at the local CWA meeting that had dragged on and on. I paid for the night and let her get back to making bikkies for the music festival that was to happen at the coming weekend.

“Shame you’re not going to be around” she smiled at me.

“True,” I said, “I would have liked to see it. Seems to be the way, I’m too late or too early for everything going on around. Ah well, it can’t be helped.”

The absolute best thing about Croyden was the evening chorus. Galahs by the hundreds, like pink and grey clothes pegs swinging, hanging, flapping and carrying on about the powerlines. Shouting at the sun, daring it to go down, squawking, flustering and flying about whenever anything at all approached the powerlines.

Smaller groups of eagles, kites and ravens roosting in their own high places stared haughtily at the circus, with an occasional fluffing of the chests or a casual flap of powerful wings.

Night fell, and a full moon stared down on the also full campground. I met and spoke with many more fellow travellers, sharing information and places been. One of them was a retired miner from NSW heading (with special permission) into Arnhem Land for a spot of fishing. Only being charged $50 per night by his mate who runs a show in there. There was a couple from near Swan Hill in Victoria. We shared notes on the follies of caravanning, glancing at the ocean-liner sized examples surrounding us, and they pointed out a bowerbird bouncing near my tent.

Day Eleven: Croyden to Mt Isa

From Croyden the dirt is deep ochre, trees poke like the bristles of a brush from the dry soil, exclamation points surprised at their own survival.

Eagles and kites circle and soar, masticating cattle appear randomly at the edges of the road and everywhere there is land. A turn upward to Normanton and the old bloke at the servo was surprised I wasn’t going to Karumba like the hordes – it is the last bit of sealed road in the Gulf region and therefore the only place the caravan-driving beach- and deep-sea fishing enthusiasts can access their passion.

Nope, for me it was South, next likely stop being the Burke and Wills roadhouse. South of Normanton is yellowing, endless savannah, more fat-skinny road and a frustrating number of trailer- and caravan-hauling oncoming traffic with inevitable kerbside travelling (mostly on my part again!). Saltbush and gibber plain sections are a common sight for sore eyes; I shook my head and considered how stupid Burke had been to dump his supplies so early in his journey. I ruminated that Burke was gifted with equal measures of determination and foolhardiness to make it to the Gulf Country at all, and how remarkable it was that his group even considered returning the way they had come.

To prove a point to myself (and to keep me awake at the wheel – it’s pretty warm inside the car with no tint, no air con, the sun beating down from a clear sky and nothing alive or dead higher than your knee to provide shade) I started to count oncoming traffic. Ok only the Nomads. 11.30 I started and stopped when I got to the Burke & Wills Roadhouse at 2.30pm. Sixty nine (69) unique vehicles passed me during that period, and one madman doing about 130 clicks around the bends in a camper. Gawd knows where he was going, but I dunno about his hurry coz nothin’ moves fast in these parts… whatever it was, it probably wasn’t even there yet when he arrived.

That, dear friends, is one heck of a lot of traffic. The great part is that with so many people on the road, and so many of them armed to the back teeth to avoid or resolve any of the unexpected situations that Outback Oz could throw at them, I would have ample help should I run into any problems (good news Dad!).

Just before the Burke & Wills Roadhouse appeared like a blessing before my sun-strained eyes, I had a strange encounter. I could see something flashing up ahead, and it looked like white streamers tied to a pole, flapping in the wind. As I drew near, the pole transmogrified into a person! Yes, this was a Frenchman called Michel and he, kitted out as he was in painters coveralls rolled down to the waist, a peak-cap, wild hair and pulling a canvass trolley tethered to his waist, was walking around Australia.

We exchanged some words, I checked that he was sufficiently equipped with water and mentioned to him some of the terrain ahead of him, chastised him for not being covered over in the sun and heat (to which he replied, breathing deeply from his emaciated, Ambre-Solaire torso, “I am ok, it is ok”), and we parted ways.

The Burke & Wills is typical of a midpoint roadhouse, workman’s dongas painted out in leery colours to help you pretend they’re something comfortable, a clear space at the back somewhere for tents that, depending on when the last rain fell, may or may not have a few struggling blades of grass, ridiculous prices for everything, beer on tap for breakfast, sundry truckies, passers-through, Nomads, locals come in for a paper or a bottle of milk, and tired-looking backpackers (English and Irish girls this time) manning the counter services.

A brief stop and it was onwards to Mt Isa. From the Burke & Wills the terrain is much as before, however, leading into Cloncurry I was compelled to exclaim at the enormous cairns and piles of granite rock that are cast about the otherwise entirely flat landscape.

I should have stayed in Cloncurry, at first bite similar to Ayr. Leaving Cloncurry one may turn East toward Julia Creek/Hughenden/Emerald or West toward Mt Isa. Going West as I was, the rounded red-earth clusters of hillock, remnants of once mighty mountains of the Barkly Tablelands, bubble and rise around the driver winding her way towards Mt Isa and are an impressive sight.

Mt Isa though, is firmly fixed in my “Take It Or Leave It Basket” with a preference for the latter.

You can smell the place before you arrive and slipping through a gap in the ranges, it appears before you, filmed with fine grey dust. The most remarkable thing about Mt Isa, apart from the obvious smell and the sick feeling post-departure, is that the town was truly really built around the base of the Xtrata Mines!!. You may do your weekend grocery shopping at the major shopping hub located thoughtfully under the smoke stacks, and the haze will end any discussion about sunburn.

True to the genus “mining town”, accommodation is at a premium – space and cost. I jammed into the only caravan park (of four options) with camping space, along with at least the matched pair for each of the travellers that I had passed on the road earlier that day.

The fact that this joint was 5km from the town centre and close to my original entry point from Cloncurry was a positive twist of fortune given the controversially dubious air quality in Mt Isa proper. It was also yet another instance where I was the unwitting subject of the kindness of strangers.

Standard conversation with a trio who invited me to join them at Boule lead to an offer of a roast dinner that evening!! The cooks, Stan and Jude, put on a great spread. They were up from Adelaide and were heading North for marine adventures in the Gulf before heading East to the Cape (York).

That clear night, I joined a small contingent around a campfire to listen to the resident bush poet who paradoxically was English. She rolled out some old favourites like Clancy of the Overflow and the Man From Snowy River, as well as some modern and more irreverent rhymes, whose authors and titles I do not know to tell.

I retired that evening as an involuntary audience to the heady tones of Dark Side of the Moon being broadcast via some thoughtless person’s in-tent stereo system to the whole caravan park. Great album, nothing against it, but let’s just say I was exhausted and therefore was not in the right mindspace to appreciate this great work of musicianship.

My overnight in Mt Isa was also the only night so far where I was so cold I had my sleeping bag, a blanket and an extra sleeping bag to keep me warm and I was STILL cold!! My feet were like iceblocks all night, the upside being that there wasn’t much adjusting required when dawn finally broke and I had to get out of bed.