Yosemite, Part VI

I was close now. Waking up early on the third day there were about twelve miles to walk (all the maps and signs were in miles, so I’d converted my thinking). But the previous day I’d been limping along at only a mile an hour, the discomfort in my foot just wouldn’t allow for more. I got going before the sun rose to give myself time to get back to the car and medical attention.  In the shadow of the early morning I wound down the escarpment, surprising a family of deer on the way.

I was determined to get back, but also worried about what was to be done with this horrible cut on my foot, which was still oozing blood and throbbing relentlessly.

Reaching the valley floor the path followed the shallow, clear waters of the Tuolumne River as it snaked its way towards home. In the glowing sunshine I hobbled along, stopping now and again to catch my breath. I gazed around at the line of pine-covered mountains rising on either side of the river plain, the snowy peaks back from where I’d come, and the bubbling river flowing gently along, quietly doing what it was made to do.

Before long I began passing people with fishing rods, father and son out for a day in the wild. It looked like paradise, and I envied them for their lack of worry.  

In mid-afternoon, physically and mentally exhausted, I presented myself at the Ranger hut. I needed some help I told them and they called a first aid officer in to look at me.

‘Sorry if I’m a bit smelly’, I said as I unwound the manky, blood-soaked bandage from my foot, ‘it’s been a tough few days’.

‘That’s fine’, she said. Then, looking at the wound, ‘Yeah, you’re going to need to get to hospital for this one. Or there’s a medical centre in Yosemite village if that’s easier for you.’

I drove down to the busy Yosemite village and pulled up at the medical centre. I was waiting behind a Belgian guy who’d smashed his knee rock climbing, and when it was my turn I went in to see Andy the nurse. I took the bandage off.

‘Eeeeeergheeew’, he said. ‘Why didn’t you come in sooner? Hey Jen, come and look at this!’ he called.

In came Jen, another nurse. After looking with a delighted grimace at the gaping, festering wound which now seemed to take up most of the sole of my foot, she asked if I’d mind if she took a photo.

A doctor came in and poked around inside for a bit.

‘We don’t normally put in sutures after two days, but I don’t see any other options’, he said. ‘There’s a high chance of infection so you need to get straight back here if it gets sore and red’.

Up until now the pain had never been too terrible. But after flushing out the wound, it was time for the anaesthetic. I hate needles at the best of times, I really do. And I discovered that a needle in the foot is like no pain I’d ever come across. Six times they jabbed me with that little stick of fire and six times I writhed on the bed as though undergoing an exorcism.

Drained, lonely and sorry for myself, I hopped out of the medical centre to face the next question... how does a man on crutches go about setting up a tent? 

Looking back at the mountains I'd been exploring, the path home was flat and sunny.

In dappled sunshine I limped along beside the quiet river.

Paradise, but I was determined just to get back. 

Yosemite, Part I

I hired a little hatchback and rolled east out of San Francisco. Through flat sunny plains and towards the Sierra Nevada. The craggy mountains were just a name to me, I didn’t really know what to expect and even as I drew near there wasn’t much to prepare me for the sight.

Driving into Yosemite Valley I was overawed. The landforms are towering, there is a feel of the ancient and the powerful, the spiritual nature of the earth. Giant granite rockfaces climb heavenwards, standing watch over the coming of day and the coming of night, the changing of seasons, the passing of ages.

Waterfalls dropped from on high, vapors drifting off like steam. Squirrels and deer haunt the shadows. Snow lay thick on the high ground, but the sky was crisp and blue. Pine, spruce and fir trees, so foreign and lush to my Australian eyes, stood around clear quiet lakes.

Yosemite is rich in history. Until 1851 it was home to the Ahwahneechee tribe of indigenous Americans, but with white settlers flooding to California during the gold rush, they were routed and by 1855 tourists were arriving. In 1864 Abraham Lincoln signed the Yosemite Grant, which entrusted the valley to the state “for public use, resort and recreation.”  This was eight years before Yellowstone became the world’s first official National Park.

I sensed it was a special place. And, I soon learned, I wasn’t alone. Yosemite National Park is the United States’ most popular and receives three and a half million visitors a year. Like busy little ants we shuttled around, from carpark to booking office to campsite.

On one hand, I thought it was fantastic that so many people were connecting with the real world, breathing the fresh air and walking the trails. On the other hand I really wouldn’t have minded if some of these people had buggered off to the shopping malls in the nearest city. 

The park covers over three thousand square kilometres, but the majority of visitors stay within the eighteen square kilometres of Yosemite Valley. The glacier-carved valley is spectacular, more than worthy of this attention. This is where the peaks with names like Half Dome, the Sentinel and El Capitan are found. With their stark, striking forms they have become recognisable, almost like a symbol you’d see on a tshirt.   

You need to book ahead for one of the four hundred daily passes to hike up Half Dome.

I’d planned to join the masses for some day hikes around the valley, but for the time being I was craving some space, so I waited in line at the visitor centre to arrange a pass for a three day hike in the quieter northern region. With the route mapped out and everything I needed with me, I was ready for a stroll through the backwoods.

2011

From Tunnel View lookout. El Capitan is in the foreground on the left, and Half Dome is in the background, just right of centre. 

Half Dome. 

El Capitan. Can you spot the rock climbers? No, neither can I, but they're bound to be there - the place was crawling with them.

The Wizard of Chefchaouen

High up in the Rif Mountains of north western Morocco is a town painted blue and white. The walls of the shops and the houses are whitewashed and many then coloured blue, and from a distance the town looks like a fairy tale come true. 

In summer tourists come to breathe the mountain air and eat candy and take strolls around the marketplace.

In winter the people of the town scurry through the stone streets wearing long woollen gowns with pointed hoods, and they duck into their stores advertising spices, goat’s cheese, woollen blankets and crafts, to escape the cold and to talk to their neighbours.

I too walked the stone streets, getting lost and found again as the narrow ways wound up and down the steep hillside. The mountaintop above Chefchaouen was dusted with snow, and on one of my rambling walks it began snowing in the town. As the flakes fell gently on the grey stone pavement children ran excitedly in and out, and the adults raised their faces to the sky. ‘The first time in twenty seven years it has snowed in the town!’ an old man told me with a grin.

Leaning against a doorway a voice called to me ‘Welcome friend, from where do you hail?’

‘A long way from home friend’ he said on learning I was Australian. ‘Come in for a cup of tea, and I can show you my shop.’

‘I’d like to, but I’m travelling light and am really not interested in buying anything’ I told him.

‘Of course, of course, just come in and we can talk a little.’

I followed him into his little store which was cloistered and warm. The walls were hung with rugs of rich colour and fabric, there was candlelight and the smell of herbs and spices. He sat himself on a low lounge chair and gestured at one opposite for me. He was of middle age and of middle size and had an air of calm about him, his movements were unhurried and assured. A serene smile sat across his face as he looked over at me.

‘Australia, Australia...the land of kangaroos and Vegemite’ he said as he poured the sweet green tea and handed me a small glass full.  Steam rose from it, and the warmth of it in my hand, and the smell wafting from its surface were intoxicating on this cold winters day in the mountains of Morocco.

‘You know about Australia?’ I said. It was rare to meet people who spoke much English, let alone knew about my country.

‘Even though I myself have not ventured far beyond my town’ he said, ‘many people they come into my store, people from the corners of the globe. So it is as if I have travelled far without travelling at all.’

Sipping the tea, and feeling it fall smooth and warm down my throat I looked round the store, at his many fine crafts.

‘You like my store, no? Is there anything you like most in particular?’

‘No, I think everything is lovely.’

‘I know you, you’re backpacker, no? You carry all in one small pack and have no room for my fine things. But you have family no? You have mother and father at home maybe also brother and sister?’

‘Yes, I have a family, a good family.’

‘I know I know, you do not wish to buy. But if you were going to buy a something for your good family, what might you buy them? One of these fine rugs, perhaps?’ He gestured at the wall behind him where there was an array of beautifully crafted rugs of different weaves, colours and sizes. ‘More tea?’ he said with a smile and poured another cup full for me.

‘That blue one there is nice. And the red one over there is too, my parents live separately so one wouldn’t do.'

'Of course, of course. Excellent choice my friend, they are two of my finest rugs. I know you have no wish to buy, but just to pass the time, how much do you think you would pay for those two fine rugs?’

Gently and good naturedly the conversation wound, like the alleyways of the town, around and up and down. Never heading too directly to the end point, but circling and meandering as if there was all the time in the world and nothing to be gained by turning either this way or that.

And then with only a vague idea of what had happened, I found myself out on the cold street again with two rugs and a woollen gown of my own under my arm. I walked back to the hotel wondering how on earth I'd fit these into my pack and calculating how many days worth of my budget I had just parted with; handed over to this masterful wizard in his den on the hill, in the blue and white town in the mountains. 

2007

Timbuktu Days, Part II

The buildings of Timbuktu were made of the very earth on which they stood – low, flat-roofed mud dwellings with open doorways giving a glimpse of the dark and cool within.  The streets were sand, and there was a sandy grey haze in the air.

The mosques stood tall and proud. They were spiked with wooden struts, used as steps for the re-coating of mud after the annual rains.

Here and there were large domed tents with goats ambling around. The nomadic Tuaregs used these as their homes while in the city, in between trips into the desert. The Tuaregs, in their distinctive blue robes, are nomadic desert people whose territory crosses the borders of Mali, Niger and Algeria. They walked the streets, or sat in their tents drinking sweet green tea. Some rode camels.

The African City of Gold is more humble than it was during the fifteenth century when it was a centre for Islamic scholarship -of the 100,000 population, a quarter were scholars. A mystical city, it lured European explorers many of whom died in their attempts to reach it. The Scottish Gordon Laing was the first to make it, but was murdered two days after leaving the city in 1826. The Frenchman Rene-Auguste Caillie disguised himself as an Arab to reach the city in 1828, and returned to Europe to claim the prize offered by the Geographical Society of Paris. 

At the time of my visit there were plenty of westerners around, more than usual because the Festival au Desert was on in a few days and lovers of African blues were arriving for the show.

I suspect the entire city was transformed by the coming of the festival. I arrived in Timbuktu four days before it began, in time to observe the build up of mayhem.

A cheap hotel gave me a mattress to put on the floor of their covered courtyard. I left my stuff and walked out to see what there was to see. Imposing mud mosques, carved wooden doors, an atmosphere of restrained excitement.

I was befriended by an enthusiastic local called Issa who was eager to tell me all about the city. He took me to his sand-floored house to drink tea. It was cool and dark inside and his little radio had African blues crackling out. Children wandered past the open doorway. Issa’s mum walked in and out giving me a dubious eye each time she passed - apparently she hadn’t got festival fever like Issa. Three teenage girls with large tubs of rice on their heads came in. One took off her tub to scoop some rice out for Issa’s mum, and the other two began dancing to the song on the radio. With tubs balanced neatly on their head they moved to the lilting music, spontaneous and unrestrained.

I spent hours on the flat roof of the hotel, looking down at the sandy streets. From three floors up I observed the tourists being pursued by salesmen; they were followed from their cars to their hotel, from the hotel to the bar. These days before the festival provided opportunity for the persistent businessman to make a years’ wages in a short time.

I saw Doug, another Australian I had met earlier in my travels. He told me how he’d been in the back of a truck driving into town when it occurred to him that this was no way to enter Timbuktu. He called out for the driver to stop, and jumping off with his bag he found a donkey laden with firewood, whose owner was willing to put Doug on top. So he entered the city on the back of a donkey.

With Issa and his friends we ate dinner at a makeshift restaurant on the street. There was an oil lamp on the table, and dishes of brochette, chips, salad and bread. Sharing a meal in the warm evening air, the lamp light flickering off our faces, shadows dancing on the wall behind us, people from opposite sides of the world laughing together... there was a lot to be thankful for. Afterwards we wandered the streets in the dark evening, looking for perhaps some music. We found instead a group of men watching a dubbed kung fu movie on a small tv on the street and we stood to watch with them.

Then a blackout. Lights out all over the town. Doug didn’t know how to find the place he was staying. It wasn’t a hotel, just a guy’s house and he had no name for it, only a picture on his digital camera. He showed some of the men who had been watching the kung fu, asking them if they knew where it was. They laughed, wondering how these foreigners survive in this world, but one of them recognised it and offered to take him there on his motorbike. Timbuktu days were full of the unexpected.  

2007

Timbuktu Days, Part I

Timbuktu isn’t the easiest place in the world to reach. On the southern boundary of the Sahara Desert, and at the northern extreme of the habitable part of Mali, it’s a city in the middle of nowhere.

There’s the overland option, which involves a day or so in the back of an overcrowded Landcruiser on shifting, ephemeral sandy tracks. Or there’s the maritime route. The Niger River flows right by the city’s doorstep, and a four day cruise through the Sahel sounded like my kind of travel.

In Mopti I found a Lebanese family and a couple of French girls who were thinking the same and together we hired a vessel, a long thin pinasse, and a couple of crew to take us there. With the small motor chugging, we set off north towards the desert and straight into the stiff harmattan wind which was blowing with a chill off the water.

Drifting into the grey unknown...the air was hazy with sand and the sun shone through a veil, the wind relentlessly bending the eucalypts which lined the river as we sailed through the barren landscape. The harmattan is the trade wind that blows from the Sahara southwards for several months of the year, blustering without reprieve, dropping temperatures down low. In this bleak no man’s land we occasionally passed another pinasse, with sails made of plastic or cloths pieced together, billowing in the wind – desert pirates who waved as they passed. The river cut through the harsh surroundings.

There were villages on the banks, the mud huts blending into the harsh grey scenery. Dusty children waded into the water to wave at us, goats scrambled on the banks, people sat and fished and worked. We pulled in at villages to buy fish and were surrounded by bubbling mobs of kids. They stared, they asked questions, they demanded gifts and they gave high fives as we left.

The days passed gradually. Talk a little, eat a little, doze a little. I sometimes climbed up onto the roof to escape the engine noise and splashing water. I was struck by the kindness and love the Lebanese family showed to each other, and the way this extended to me and the French girls and the skipper and deckhand. There was warmth and laughter on our little boat as we edged towards Timbuktu.   

I was full of expectation for this mysterious place. For several hundred years from the 12^th century, Timbuktu was a wealthy trading city. I envision scholars writing poetry in cloistered mud dwellings, merchants wandering the marketplaces checking on their produce and griots playing music to all who would listen. Before European ships sailed the coast of Africa, Timbuktu was the final link between West Africa and the Mediterranean. Gold, ivory, salt and slaves were marched across the desert in camel caravans. Even today, salt which comes from the mines of Taoudenni, 740km to the north, arrives in Timbuktu in large slabs carried by camels. The distance is covered in sixteen nights, with rest during the day.    

We camped out at night, the crackling fire keeping us entertained into the evening, and on the afternoon of the fourth day we docked at the port in Korioume.  We had arrived. The river had delivered us. 

2007

Oh, Brian

Brian had it all organised. He’d done some thinking and he’d done some talking and he’d nutted out a plan. I could tell he was the organising type when earlier in the afternoon he’d wandered over to my campsite and formally invited me to his fireplace that evening.

‘I’ve got wood, plenty of it. Bring a drink, cook your food on the fire, whatever you like.’

I was measuring powdered milk and sugar into ziplock bags and he asked if I was preparing for a hike. I told him my plans of walking three days through the National Park from Parachilna to Wilpena, which would involve a complicated bit of manoeuvring – dropping my car at Wilpena and then trying to hitch a ride up to the start of the hike. He nodded, then walked off to continue his invitations.

It was a little roadside campsite in Flinders Ranges National Park, South Australia. I brought my folding chair and a beer over to the roaring fire where I met Brian’s wife Kerry and the couple from the caravan on the far side, Rob and Christine. Colin, my garrulous neighbour, came over with a bowl of something to eat and he slumped in his chair to slurp it down.

Around sixty and a bit overweight, Brian had good manners and was very sure of himself. Not only that, he was also sure of his wife.

‘Dinner ready yet?’ he asked her as he eyed me getting into my couscous and noting that Colin, the other single male, had also already eaten. Kerry got to it and served it up, and after demolishing his long awaited chicken and vegetables, Brian said ‘you can leave the dishes til morning, it’s getting late.’

‘Like hell’ she said, handing him her plate for him to wash. 

Brian made a show of putting on the last piece of Tasmanian timber he’d been carting round the country for several months, then stood with his back to the fire, wine glass in hand.

‘Steve, the crazy bugger, is going walkabout tomorrow’ he announced, ‘and we’re going to help him. Kerry and I will take him to Parachilna, and Rob here will drop his car at Wilpena.’

I wasn’t sure if it was a look of surprise that crossed Rob’s face at this news. I didn’t get to find out because Colin interrupted with a story about how he had hiked fifty kilometres along a beach in Victoria last year. ‘And I’m sixty nine! Sixty nine eh...’ he faded off into a reverie.

So Rob was part of the plan, whether he liked it or not. I was so pleased with my little gang of grey nomads I could have hugged them all. Even when discussion turned to politics and they began abusing Bob Brown for stopping the progress in Tasmania, I looked fondly upon my little flock of red necked grey nomads chirping away in the night.

 In the morning I sat in the back seat of the Nissan ute while Brian and Kerry took turns pointing out things to see.

‘Kangaroos on the hill there.’

‘Look at that rockslide.’

‘Emus.’

At Blinman we stopped and Kerry, who had been delegated the camera duties, wandered off to take the official record of the abandoned copper mining town. In supervisory role, Brian directed her not to miss the old red phone booth or the filled-in swimming pool.

The Parachilna road was closed so we had to take a thirty kilometre detour on corrugated gravel. Brian drove cautiously but once he hit some bumps at speed and sent us jolting around the cab.

‘Shit, Brian’ Kerry said.

‘ Hehe’ he chuckled,  ‘I didn’t see it did I?’

‘Car’s gonna need another service now isn’t it?’ she muttered.

A little later he stopped the car and directed her to take a picture of the mountain range. She opened the door and a cloud of dust blew in.

‘Oh Brian’ she said.

‘What, I didn’t make the dust did I?’

‘No but it was your driving.’

We got to the trailhead and I heaved my pack out of the tray. They said goodbye as though I was walking to my doom, then drove off with a beep of the horn.

The shale clinked underfoot as I plodded along dry riverbeds, admiring the big old River Red Gums which were bright and vibrant despite the dry conditions. Their bark is white, not red, and they glowed in the warm sun. I tried to imagine how it would look here after rain, to have the creeks gushing with water. The health of the trees, the piles of detritus wedged up against their roots and the scarred erosion on the river bends were all evidence that the water surely comes.

Red-walled gorges rose around me and when the trail climbed to the ridge tops I had views of the ranges rolling away to the south and wedge tailed eagles circling above. I strolled through hillsides covered in native cypress pines.

On the afternoon of the second day the trail crossed a dirt road. A city four wheel drive was parked with four retirees sauntering around.

‘Hiking all that way on your own! You must like yourself.’

The first human being I’d seen in a day and a half and this is what he says to me.  I walked on, into the trees and the hills and the wide open spaces.

Hiking The Stirling Ranges

I stayed a few days in the Stirling Ranges, just to the north of Albany. The creased and folded mountains were easy on the eye after the continuous flat flat West Australian landscape.

One evening in the campsite I got chatting with a guy called Kurt. He asked what I was doing the next day and I told him I was going to climb up Toolbrunup, the second tallest but most difficult of the peaks. He asked if he could tag along and I said sure, some company would be good. He asked what time I normally got going and I said about eight would be good. Great he said.

When I wandered over to his site around eight in the morning his table was littered with cooking gear and food containers and bags of flour and jugs of water. He was busy chopping up an orange peel.

Hey Kurt how’re you going? I said.

Good he said and you?

Good. What are you up to?

Just making a cake. And some bread.

Right, cool. Um, you still want to come hiking this morning?

Yeah man yeah. This won’t take long. I make all my own stuff you know. I’m a vegan and you know the supermarkets don’t have much. You know. Plus it’s cheaper. One whole bag of flour only costs a dollar and you can make lots of cake with that you know. And bread. This won’t take long, you know. Forty five minutes.

Two and a half hours later he called over to me at my site – Hey Tim, you ready to go?

Me? I said. Yeah I’m ready.

We started walking, and after a couple of minutes he stopped dead in the middle of the track and started waving his arms round in slow whooshing movements. I stood watching. After about thirty seconds he said oh sorry I’m into tai chi you know, it helps you know keep the energy flowing.

Righto. Can I walk in front?

He stopped like that every few minutes, so I left him to it but waited at intervals for him to catch up. Approaching the top I nearly trod on an echidna sitting right in the path. I stayed still while it unfolded itself and waddled right past me, brushing against my foot before crashing off into the scrub.

When Kurt finally made it to the top I said great view hey. Did you see the echidna?

The what? Nah mate nah.  He admired the view and took a few photos. I offered to take one of him on his camera and he said yeah just wait a sec. He got down in the yoga guru position with legs crossed and hands upturned on knees and sat on a rock ledge. I took a few photos from different angles then put the camera down.

He sat with eyes closed for ages so I walked around the summit and noticed we were being circled by one two three wedge tailed eagles. Round and round they went, riding the air currents, flying so fast and with such ease. Like they’d been doing it all their lives. They came close – within thirty metres of where I stood – the sun glistening off their dark feathers, their strong legs hanging down and their big claws so prominent. Then they’d drift high up, before swopping down to my height again.

So close they came that I worried for Kurt’s safety – he was only a little guy so I reckon if one eagle had’ve grabbed him by each ear they could have carted him off.

Two of the eagles started putting on an aerobatic display, with some sort of mid-air clashing. One rolled onto its back midflight and the other would hurtle down and collide before making off again. They did this a few times when, following some unseen cue, one of them flew off. Just made a beeline for another peak to circle.

Kurt finally surfaced and I told him all about it, but my words didn’t even register. He just grabbed his camera and looked through the photos I’d taken of him, saying I thought you might have zoomed in on me a bit more to capture the serenity you know.

An Offering

An hour east of Albany , with hardly a signpost to point the way, is Waychinicup National Park. Its main feature is a wide, flat estuary surrounded by grey and orange granite boulders. A quiet river bending into the Southern Ocean. Seagrass meadows below the water, blue sky and a grey mountain above.

My first visit there was a couple of years ago with my sister Anna. We stumbled across it after a long drive, and were struck down. There was nobody around. We scrambled through the spiky undergrowth to swim in the cool water, lured in by the untainted purity of the scene, then warmed up like scaled beings on the sunny rocks. There was an ancient feel there, and I half expected to sight a sea creature emerging, something from another epoch rising to greet us. We felt on that still, clear afternoon that this could have been amongst the most beautiful places we’d ever seen. A goanna ambled up the path before us.

This time I stayed a few days. There are only a handful of campsites, and they’re nestled into the bushes so you can’t tell that anyone else is around. Like an exclusive resort for campers. Some days there were kids splashing around in the water having raucous fun, sometimes it was perfectly quiet and still.

I snorkelled, watching the fish flit in and out of rocky crevices. And I walked around the shore, listening to the water gently lap around my feet. There were birds circling around, cormorants and some bird of prey I couldn’t identify. Mostly I just sat and watched the scene around me. Simply sitting in a place like that seems to be a worthwhile way to pass time.

I drove out one morning to look for some waves at a beach round the corner and when I came back I was told of the spectacle I’d missed. A large school of herring had been chased into the inlet by a school of salmon. The salmon had herded the herring up into the shallows by the rocks right near the campsites. Once they had the herring trapped the salmon began a feeding frenzy, turning the water into a seething pool of froth. Fish were leaping out of the water onto the rocks, and flapping round on the shore. You could see them all right there at your feet. One man reached down and picked up a salmon in his hands and hugged it to his chest before throwing it back in the water.  An offering.

Nullarbor Dreaming, Part Two

Eastward, 2012

 ‘Good day for a drive eh? Not too hot, and you’ve got a tail wind.’

The guy who checked me out of the backpackers at Esperance was the last person I talked to before setting off over the Nullarbor. My second crossing – four years after driving west I was returning to my east coast homeland. Again the car was full of everything I had, again I was moving to a new beginning. Though this time it was to a familiar territory. And this time the car stereo was working.

As I pulled out of the car park that old melancholy seasickness settled in – a familiar feeling that comes to me during times of upheaval. I made it worse for myself by putting David Gray on the stereo, and the ache of his voice singing ‘through the wind and the rain my darling, say goodbye’ and the grey sky and drops of rain on the windscreen combined with the thoughts in my head about places I was leaving behind and a love that never happened and the vague uncertainty of life, to make it a wistful journey north towards Norseman.

I filled up with fuel, ate an apple and then turning eastwards the countryside changed. The steel grey road glistened in the wet and off to the side there were eucalypts of glowing white, dark brown and rusty orange. The moist leaves shimmered in subtle shades of green, and there was bare red earth, dark grey clouds and patches of blue sky.

I was in no hurry and stopped for stretches, for snacks, to admire the view. The road was quiet – a couple of road trains but mostly campervans or four wheel drives towing caravans. People crossing the country, people on the move.

I drove the ninety mile straight listening to Midnight Oil, ‘yellow belly black snake sleeping on a red rock waiting for the stranger to go’, it’s suited to this country. At the end of the straight I pulled down a dirt track and found a spot to set up camp. There was enough wood for a fire so I got a little one going then began my maiden attempt at making damper. It was messy and there was flour everywhere and dough stuck all over my hands, but after giving it a spell in the coals I brought out a toasty, one person sized loaf of warm crusty goodness. I sipped my tea, leaned back to take in the stars and felt alright.

...

A dark cloudy morning, somewhere on the Nullarbor. Wind gusted light rain onto the windscreen. Five or six crows stood over the slain figure of a lone roo in the middle of the road. They looked like sinister men in dark suits, not uninvolved in the death of this unfortunate individual. Some sort of gangland hit. One pecked at its exposed guts while the others stood guard. ‘Aaaarg’ said one of the henchmen. As I drove closer they reluctantly flapped over to the roadside. ‘Oooorg’ said another. I had a suspicion I had just witnessed a murder of crows. 

...

I watched the gradual changes in landscape and vegetation. So many trees, more than I remembered seeing last time. At Madura Pass there’s a slight rise and as the road drops there are sweeping views to the south over a flat plain dotted with low acacias. A scarp ran to the east and the road followed the bottom of this into the distance. There was a lookout and a barefoot guy had hopped out of his van to sit on a rock and strum his guitar; another couple in a big campervan took some photos then drove away. There was a cool breeze, and I sat for a while then drove off too.

Thick clouds roamed the skies dumping brief rain showers as they passed. Puddles formed in depressions in the road, luring thirsty kangaroos into dangerous territory. An emu took tentative steps onto the road in front of me before wisely deciding to give it a miss for now.  

Entering South Australia the ocean became visible off to the right. There were tracks leading to the cliffs, vertical and powerful and I gazed over the Great Australian Bight. Less trees, more low scrub here. The afternoon wore on, I wasn’t sure of the time exactly because there had been one or maybe two time zone changes. But it was late enough to stop. I pulled onto another track to find a corner to pitch the tent and light a fire. Did I talk to anybody today? A few words to the crusty fella at the Eucla servo, that’s all.

Next morning, the third day, I drove on. My mind was everywhere. I tried to be present in the moment, to appreciate the place and time because I know it’s special to be doing this trip. But I was flicking to the past and the future. Thinking of how the metaphorical journey of life is occasionally a literal journey as well. For a lot of people on this road, and for me, we’re on a journey to somewhere. I’m beginning a new part of my life, done with Western Australia, I’m driving somewhere new.

I gently brought my attention to the feel of the sunshine streaming through the windscreen and warming my chest, these waves of energy that have flown through space from the fire in the sky just to crash into my navy blue tshirt, bringing a hum and a zing to my skin; I noticed the smell of the wood smoke in my hair and clothes from last night’s fire; I felt the vibrations of the tyres on the tarmac coming up to me through the chassis and the seat where I was perched only centimetres above the road I was hurtling past; I heard the sound of Paul Simon on the stereo singing ‘and I could say ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh and everybody would know what I was talking about’ , and for a moment there, just for a flash, I think I did know what he was talking about and I felt that truly this moment, this minute of this life is something to treasure.  

There was a sign stuck to a tree with the painted message asking WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY? Someone else had banged in a handwritten sign below this replying 6 FEET DOWN WITH YOU.   

Further along there was a sign proclaiming JESUS DIED FOR ALL, but it was barely legible, thoroughly pocked as it was with what I assumed were bullet holes.  

The Nullarbor... the place draws the lurking demons to the surface. I guess I outran mine this time. I made it unscathed to Cactus Bay where I stayed quite still for a few days, giving them a fair chance to catch up.

Nullarbor Dreaming, Part One

Westward, 2008.

Day 8: It's been many days since my last shower, I don't remember the last time I ate apple pie with ice cream, and I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever hear Livin on a Prayer by Bon Jovi again. The hours and kilometres are all blurring together and the space-time continuum has become a gooey highway, the consistency of mashed potato. I fear that I'm losing my mind entirely. Will I ever again see civilisation, will I ever gaze longingly into my dear Esmay's eyes, and will my dream of becoming the first man to run a certain distance in a certain time ever be realised?

Turning the corner out of Port Augusta, suddenly there it was. The red earth, low scrub and shimmering road way off into the distance. Central Australia. It was exciting for thirty seconds and then the cabin fever set in. I was hearing voices - it was Sam Symmons on Triple J, and he was fading out fast. No radio, and the smug cd player was refusing to accept any of my offerings so I was left alone to take on the Nullarbor in a mute silent vacuum.

Soon I heard something...dada dada dada (Jaws music), I was being circled by something; something grey and dangerous. It was...The Grey Nomads. They were in pursuit of me, coming from all directions, racing to see Australia before they die. They hunted in pairs, first it was Rhonda and Bob, then Bill and Wendy, the sticker on the tail of their caravan like a killer’s calling card. The Grey Nomads like to wave as they pass in the other direction, perhaps mistaking me for one of them. Needing some entertainment, I thought I'd engage them in a game of one-upmanship. If they gave me a lazy one finger off the wheel wave, I gave them two fingers. If they gave me a whole hand wave, I waved both hands. If they waved two hands, I stuck my whole arm out the window to wave.  

This arms race escalated until eventually I had both hands, both feet and my head out the window every time a campervan came near, just to outdo the old guy coming the other way.

I was miserably contemplating why this game, like all good things in life, seemed destined to end with body parts splattered all over the road, as I pulled into a service station, when who should come out to fill up my tank but The Oracle!

"You're not The One, Neo" she said.

"You mean I can dodge Grey Nomads?" I replied.

"No, but here's a cookie." 

As I drove out, I understood. I had to think outside the box. I could never outmuscle the Nomads, they were too many. I had to play by my own rules. I bamboozled them with new waves - The Ridgey Didge, The Twinings and The Cockatoo (make a circle with thumb and forefinger, leaving the other fingers splayed above. Accompany this with a shriek like a cockatoo. The Nomads can't hear this, but if you wind down the window and scream as they pass, they will get the picture.)  

The trip continued this way with little distraction.

I drove the longest straight stretch of road in Australia (ninety miles, or one hundred and forty six point six kilometres.) Not a bend. Can you imagine driving over an hour while sitting still behind the wheel, not turning once? I came up with the ingenious idea of tying a piece of string around the accelerator and the steering wheel, and crawling into the back for a nap for an hour and nineteen minutes. My plan was thwarted by the fact that I had no string, and both my shoelaces were already being used for other purposes (one was tying my beard - which was growing down to my knees - into a funky plait, and the other was tied around my waist for good luck).

I watched massive wedge tailed eagles cruising the skies, or munching on dead roos on the roadside. 

And then I was set upon by pirates. Desert pirates. These pirates weren't sailing their vessel over the seven seas, bearing the Jolly Roger aloft, but were instead sailing a roadblock through the sand, bearing a red stop sign aloft. They weren't bedecked in eye-patches and wooden legs, but instead wore orange vests with QUARANTINE written on the back. They didn't demand pieces of eight or treasure maps under pain of death, but wanted fruit, vegetables, honey or used earth moving equipment.

As they boarded my vehicle, I cast a longing look at my cache of crunchy apples, juicy mandarins, and also-crunchy carrots, my healthy alternative to skog.

"Please sir, spare me one mandarin" I implored the man, "I live in constant fear of scurvy."

"We all do mate”, he said, “but rules are rules. Now give me that honey."

"Did you say give me that honey, or give me that, honey?" I asked, for clarification purposes.

"Arrgh, just give me the loot, sugar," he said, lunging for the plunder.

But I stepped aside, declaring "You'll never take me alive, Fresh Produce Pirate!" and I gave a loud whistle, a signal for the eagles to come and whisk me and the produce away to safety. The eagles, however, let me down. They may have been rescuing Frodo and Sam from Mount Doom, or maybe they were busy carcass-crunching up the road.

As the pirate grabbed me, I knew there was only one course of action left open.

"You can take our lives but you'll never take our produce!" I screamed and began eating all the fresh food I had left. During this fruit and veg frenzy, I made a shocking discovery. Apples, mandarins and carrots, when mixed with honey, create a taste sensation unlike any I know. It was fresh, original, and had that special zing I've spent my life searching for. If only I could escape back to my lab, I could genetically engineer the perfect fruit. I knew, from past experience though, that getting the little buggers to breed in captivity is the hardest part.

It's not surprising that these villains deal in such commodities. Out in the desert treasure maps and pieces of eight are a dime a dozen, but fresh fruit is rare as a fat Kenyan. They don't even sell whole apples, but just little shards that you have to take to a special dealer for verification. He sits in his office with his little eye piece in and studies bits of goo - he might say "yep, that’s pure Granny Smith" if you're lucky, or "no mate, that's just a piece of snot," if you're not.

Day 9- Esperance: I apologise for yesterday. Please don’t think less of me. I'm now on the coast, in the land of milk and honey (literally). White sanded beaches, shops, fresh food. I don’t know if the crazed look in my eye gives away the peril I’ve survived. There are still about a thousand kilometres to go, and I’m hopeful that by the time I get to Perth I may have regained enough composure to become a fitting member of society after all.