Old Crocks’ Camp 2. The next morning they’re back again. I dress inside my swag and crawl out, hairnet on. There are a number of things you can’t do through a fly veil. We’ve covered ‘eat a banana’. Add ‘clean your teeth’ and ‘blow your nose’ and you have a very messy net. Rotate it quarter of a turn though, and it doesn’t seem so bad.
At breakfast I try a new technique. If I walk fast enough into the ever-present wind I can ward off sufficient flies to east my cereal without ingesting too much extra protein. Trouble is you have to go back the other way, so not a perfect solution.
Later in the day I develop the technique still further. I try evading my personal swarm by trying to sprint back to the Land Rover before opening the door and jumping in. The Junior Dorm think the sight of a 66-year old man trailing a hat and fly-veil trying to run 10 yards in the middle of nowhere is ridiculous. Maybe they have a point, But I consider they’re not thinking laterally enough!
Eventually we head off, fly-less, to Madigan’s Camp 15 and our turning point north to the Hay River Track.
We’re on the trail of camels now. There are definitely camels here somewhere. In the soft sand along the track, John spots their characteristic, blobby, splayed-out two-toed footprints.
The Junior Dorm think its half a pantomime camel, as we only see the two prints. Their theories go on.
A special machine dreamed up by the Australian tourist board to convince gullible tourists that there is actually something living out here.
A JK Rowling visit with some Harry Potter invisibility cloaks. We’ve seen nothing.
Suddenly a crackly radio call. ‘Camels! Left. Far ridgeline.’ Its James, practicing his gunnery commands. I wait for the ‘load and fire’ order. But he’s right! Away on the far sand dune, silhouetted against the skyline are those distinctive shapes; humps, long curved necks and the tops of slowly moving legs. They look at us, think the better of our company and continue moving away. When we get up to that sand dune, they’ve disappeared into the low brush that covers both ridge and valley. On the next ridge I look back and see them through the monocular. A herd of seven or eight; another box ticked!
On dune five hundred and forty eight, James, with nothing better to do than look out of the window, notices a bulge in Peters’ front left tyre. It’s definitely lower, but not apparently punctured. The result of an-over enthusiastic pressure reduction exercise? No. Its pressure is barely discernible. We use that well-tried armoured corps approach; ‘top up and motor on’ using another of my ‘will it actually work?’ creations, the onboard air pump. The pump works, but doesn’t fix the problem. A later inspection shows it’s dropped again. We top up again, Now we’re hoping that we will limp in to somewhere solid and shady to effect a tyre change.
At least we’re prepared for this. Between us we have a Christmas song’s worth of stuff:
- Three puncture repair kits
- Four spare wheels and tyres.
- Five spare inner tubes.
- And a tyre pliers changing kit.
A bright red Isuzu four-wheel drive truck sits at Madigan’s Camp 15; a drum of fuel and other logistic stores on its tray back. Its driver scrambles up from his swag in surprise at visitors.
It’s Andrew; part of a 4WD adventure tour company awaiting the arrival of some clients who are haring about the desert in dune buggys.
At this point we’re out of the sand proper and on to harder tracks. We adjust all the tyre pressures again, based on the Army recommendations between sand and cross country, bringing them up to 25 and 30 psi front and rear. It’s always a balance, this; between the risk of puncture and tyre damage, and the need for smooth ride and grip on the surface.
We chat with Andrew about vehicles and the condition of the track, have coffee and then keen to dodge the flies set off – in haste in the wrong direction – down the Hay River track. It’s my fault, but John’s navigation and Memory Maps that spot the error before we’ve gone too far.
The Hay River Track winds through the river bed for about 40 kilometres before finally climbing onto its eastern bank. Its slow going in places; hard sand interspersed with soft, and occasional washouts.
The soft sand of the short, banked, S-bends bring a smile to my face though, as we slalom round them. Its skiing on wheels!
Old Crocks’ Camp 3 is supposed to be at Dingo Well. Water; the odd bit of wildlife; should be a pleasant evening after the flies are in bed. At the well there’s a nice spot. And a sign ‘Don’t camp here’. Disappointing; in this; one of the remotest parts of the country.
But to be fair, its a scientific project to bring back natural predators to control foxes, rabbits and cats. ‘May the howls of dingos lull you to sleep’ says the sign. It’s the bites we’re more interested in. Anyway, we push on, amid flocks of budgies swooping and soaring in their evening murmurings. The track goes on past knee high grass and prickles, offering nowhere really suitable to stop. It’s been a long day.
Eventually a spot with more bare earth than prickles emerges, and we rumble to a halt.
The tyre is changed with little trouble – 20 minutes in a fly-free environment. We’re getting slick at this!
Supper that night is again packed rations. Far nicer nowadays than the British Army rations of ‘cheese, possessed’ (processed cheese) and ‘babies heads’ (steak and kidney pudding in a can), it’s a veritable three-course feast.
I choose the pumpkin soup with croutons, followed by tomato and lamb sambal with mashed potatoes and with citrus cake and whisky as dessert.
Before supper, though, I decide that we need a sky hook to suspend a light over the dining table. An afternoon’s training by a Royal Engineers’ sergeant at the Cranleigh School Combined Cadet Force comes vaguely to mind. With ‘cordage’ – rope – and three stout pine logs we erected a tripod suitable for suspending a stretcher. Now, 50 years later, with a bungee and three aluminium tent poles I try and recall the lesson Trouble is I can’t exactly remember. I prop the elasticated three-pronged result next to James’s chair. At the first nudge the elastic exerts its full force and a leg proings off into the dirt. “You are the ultimate inflatable expedition leader!’, says James, narrowly avoiding decapitation. ‘You’ve let yourself down. You’ve let the Royal Engineers down! You’ve let the entire expedition down!’. We continue like previous nights – with a light on the table.
Even here after nearly four weeks camping there are lessons for us all. Today’s, from John, is catering oriented; ‘Remember to take out your old tea-bag before filling your cup up with soup!
Another thing I hope people remember is to share the story of what we’re doing. We’re doing this for charity; for four organisations that help children and veterans in a darker place. The Smith Family and Onside, and Mates4Mates and Combat Stress, have similar aims for their sectors. So please help spread the message about them by sharing the link or our gofundme page and encourage others to contribute.
Well done lads brings back memories – Charlesworth’s gunnery commands were always a little vague – atb Max