The next morning its cold, keeping the flies in bed for an extra half hour. We can eat breakfast in the open for a change.
After breakfast, a solitary, thirsty-looking dingo crosses our path shortly after the start, unimpressed, as nobody had taught it to use the tap (which didn’t work anyway) at Dingo Well. We startle two pairs of Australian bustards that flap slowly airborne on our approach. The surrounding area shows the Hay River well-named. The grass is so long we look for combine harvesters. But there are none.
We pass two tropics of Capricorn. One, a colourful budget sign with stickers, is immediately adopted by the Junior Dorm. They want to smother themselves in oil and roll in the dust (a bit like Land Rover maintenance) but realise that that’s about Neptune and the equator. Not a couple of hundred meters on is the more formal smarter sign only suitable for Senior School, who knowingly smirk to themselves like Hubert Lane-ites in the ‘Just William’ books.
The track is steady now, following the east side of the river. In places we seem to be driving through a dead stick forest. The challenge for the driver is to tell washouts – and there are some big ones – from shadows. A radio call from the Junior Dorm in Joy, who are leading today with their customary zest for speed. ‘Watch out! A tricky bit ahead of you.’ We lever ourselves carefully over a small precipice that twists and warps the track surface. ‘They would have hit that in third gear!’ John chuckles.
On to Batton Hill Camp, where fees are, in theory, $20 a person a night. I’m sorry to say it’s an absolute ruin. It may have been something once. A functional looking antenna, but an empty dwelling, overgrown weeds, abandoned half-wrecked vehicles, rubbish and a dead kangaroo in the ablutions. Not working as advertised. Such a waste of investment. And we can’t see the hill, because the grass is too long!
Batton Hill Camp pretty much marks the end of our 230 kilometre journey up the Hay River. Just north of it the track crosses the sandy dry river bed and we’re then on the long straight track to the Plenty Highway and Jervois station. It’s so straight that the Romans might have been here. But there are no baths, no amphitheatres, no mosaics – and no pasta!
Along the way we see someone has parked. As we draw near, its clear they’ve been parked for a long time. Probably not since Roman times but it does emphasise the remoteness of where we are. Just a solitary camel for company
We’re out!. At Jervois Station – the first dwelling for 763 kilometres – a young boy, deadpan face, tells us we’ve parked in the wrong place and sells us cokes and chocolates. When he realises where we’ve come from, he turns serious, and quizzes me about open gates. I feel guilty in front of this stony-faced 7-year old. Was I supposed to have shut it? But it’s the camel he wants to know about; which side of the fence it was on. Eventually satisfied with my answers, he offers no more. A future poker player in the making, for sure.
From Jervois we’re on the Plenty Highway, heading towards Queensland. It starts the inevitable Junior Dorm conversation; Plenty of what? ‘Nothing’ and ‘dust’ are two front runners. But it is open and there has clearly been recent flood repair, leaving it in good condition. We think we can get to Tobermory Station, just outside the Queensland border by tonight. Another 230 kilometres and a termite mound later, we make it.
Tobermory Station is SO nice! Tobermory – the Wombles must have been here; it is so clean. A real example of cattle station hospitality and thought about what can be done if you have a mind.
As we approach down the immaculate gravel road and over the levee, kites wheel overhead the cattle pens to our left. A helicopter – the ubiquitous Robinson R22 – comes in low and lands after a hard day’s mustering.
We top up with fuel, book in, park in the shade of the Coolibah trees, and repair to the bar. The beer is cold. There’s a fire already going in the trayback of a retired truck. There’s a sunset. And fellow travellers to chat to.
One is an Axeman – we’ll call him Darryl. He and his wife are on their way to wood chopping competitions at shows in the Northern Territory.
Guy listens, fascinated, to the competition descriptions; wood chop, tree felling, and chainsaw racing. One of these shows we’ve got to see.
In the morning Darryl lets us see us his chestful of axes – sealed to keep out air or anything that might contaminate them. They make the two I’ve sharpened for the bonnet of the Land Rovers look like toys. The steel of his have been cast and honed by dwarves deep in Mount Doom – or something. They gleam like Excalibre might have done, are sharpened on a stone that is worth more than a Land Rover and then stropped with calf leather for final razor sharpness. Even looking at the blade can cut you.
I may have made some of this up but they are VERY impressive axes, and we commit to altering this journey to see some in action.
We have also committed this journey to raising funds for four charities who do terrific work to help people at a low point in their lives. We’re trying to help brighten the future of two sectors; children, for our future, and veterans because they are our past. We may be out of the Simpson Desert now, but the wider challenge remains. So please help by sharing by sharing the link or our gofundme page and encourage others to contribute.
Might I suggest at the end of the journey you collate the blogs and the plethora of photos, of which you have only teased us with a smattering, into a coffee table like photo book that your legion of fans could purchase to continue the fundraising!
Thanks Darryl, we’ll certainly be doing something like that. Not sure there will be legions of fans out there but it will certainly keep James happy!
I’m waiting for the movie . . .
Starring Harrison Ford as Indiana Shapland.