... between bourke 'n' elizabeth ...

Day 7 ... Sunrise and sunset at Uluru

No mega-miles to travel today, and with sunrise at 7:07am the only thing that got me up early was the usual discomfort. However, with all the adjustments I had thought of, sleeping on the ground was no longer an issue.

As I negotiated the slight rise from the camp ground, I could feel the anticipation rising within me. It was swathed in a purple glow. It was iconic. Yeah, I guess it was big. I was hoping like hell that this was not going to be a deja-vu moment. It really hit me in the solar-plexus though when Jarrod corrected me. No, it is not a kilometre away, Julie; it is 20 kms away. Gulp! Really ... I did not believe him at first - then I remembered that sign from last night. Once again - bugger me!

I just gazed in awe. I felt no need to set up comedy shots. I felt no need to chatter.  I was content just being there. Before me was the biggest monolith in the world: a sacred place, a freak of nature.  A rock standing on its end, with another 6km of it in the still buried within the earth. About 3 hours later when we drove to it and cruised around to the car park, it was simply jaw-dropping.

Jarrod did discourage us from climbing Uluru. All the signs discourage people from climbing. I was pleased that we were so discouraged - I would not have made it! Shhh - I do myself an injustice - there is no way that I would have climbed it. However, I include here a photograph of my father on the top of Uluru eating an orange. He climbed the rock on 20th July 1990 which was 7 weeks after he turned 69.

As a group, and keeping together, we circumnavigated Uluru - the rock. As we went, Jarrod told us many of the dreaming stories associated with the rock. He would ask us what we wanted: the western science story or the dreaming story. Apparently, we should no longer refer to The Dreamtime as this is belittling the indigenous creation stories. Nor should they be myths or legends. Invariably, it was the dreaming story that we asked for. The stories of snakes, and fights, of eggs and boomerangs sustained us on the 3 hour walk. It was over flat ground and not in the least difficult. This was the day I took the most number of images.

I was so chuffed that noone insisted on climbing the rock. That pleased me.

Later on in the afternoon, we headed out to the sunset viewing platform - I kid you not. It turned out not to be particularly crowded. But the rows of buses down in the carpark all with their immaculately turned out attendants - penguins to a tee. They set up tables with immaculate, white, linen cloths. They serve French Champagne out of Waterford Crystal. The antithesis of everything I stand for. "Ooh dahling, aren't the colours splendid?" Spare me ...

Another lovely night around the campfire and a vote on whether we wanted another sunrise at Uluru or a sunrise at Kata Juta, the Olgas. To a person we went for Kata Juta. Why do something twice when you haven't done t'other at all? The team was working well. All but a couple had worked out that it was better to pitch in; that it made the trip more enjoyable. I retired a very happy little vegemite.

Day 6 ... Dalhousie to Yalara via Mt Dare & Lambert Centre

Was that a dream or did Jarrod wake us up at 5am to tell us to go back to sleep as he was driving into Mt Dare to fix the trailer connection. *groan*

Even when I awoke just before 7am, the sun was only just rising and everything was cast-over with the eerie glow of morning - and besides everyone else, apparently, had made a night of it. Tee hee - the wisdom of being old. Either that or not being able to hack it any more. Clad in my thongs, I shuffled off down to the springs. And they did not disappoint.

I gingerly descended the steps and tentatively dipped in a toe - still over 40C. Whoosh in goes the old bod. From the western end of the springs came a caterwauling that resembled children playing ghosts, and did they go on! I learnt later that this was how dingos greet the dawn. As I slooshed around in the quiet on my pat-malone, I was in the midst of swallows dive-bombing the water. Whether for tiny fish or for a drink I could not determine but there were over 50 of them. They would descend en-masse onto the stark branches of a dead tree on one side of the springs and then at an signal inaudible to me, in they would fly. It was a joy to watch. Then along came the boy-geologist from the previous night and that was the end of that. But all was not lost - by this time the rising sun was glinting off the water at the eastern end of the springs causing tiny whisps of steam to rise into the air and then drift away on the slightest of zephyrs. Between the diving swallows and the smoking water it was a magical morning.

Jarrod eventually returned from his little gallivant to Mt Dare with the trailer problems all fixed and we were on our way again. It was always going to be a hard slog Day 6 as we had before us about an 11 hour drive from the Dalhousie Hot Springs to Yallara. We were starting late with a driver who had already driven the round trip to Mt Dare. But like the trouper he was, our Jarrod did us proud. Mt Dare was pretty much a pub and a mechanics workshop - what else is required out the back of woop-woop? The pub was a bit of an eye-opener though looking as though it had been fitted out by someone with taste and thoughtfulness. Around the walls were works of art from a group called "Charlotte Dreaming". I had picked out two pieces that I though I would buy but the person who could close the deal took too long and I had to leave before I could get satisfaction. I am going to try to track Mel down via the internet and go from there.

After Mt Dare it was not long before we crossed from South Australia to the Northern Territory - so now I have done 'em all: all six states and both territories of the grand little Commonwealth of ours. And maybe 150kms into NT, Jarrod veered suddenly to the right and those of us in the back thought he had finally flipped. He drove like a man possessed along this track which was sliced out of the shifting sands and twisted between stunted trees and bushes, the redness of the "soil" increasing with each wild turn of the wheel. The knowing looks in the back of the truck froze a bit as we continued to continue until suddenly we screeched to a halt in a clearing and our guide declared "Here we are people in the very centre of Australia" which took me so much by surprise that I felt the tears well up and my chest constrict. I clambered down from the truck alternately shaking my head and holding it in my hands. Here I am. I am in the centre. The absolute centre of this country. Bugger me.

Geez, I got a buzz out of that. Thank you, J-man!

From then on, I knew it was a mad rush to get to Yalara as soon as possible - and most definitely after sunset at this rate. But I had just started Helen Garner's latest book, "The Spare Room" and I was okay, Jack! We rejoined the Stuart Highway at Kulgera - what is that black stuff on the road? Had a deliciously yummy chocolate paddle pop at Erldunda and then we ploughed on another 250 kms to set camp at Yalara - 20 kms from Uluru. And, for this trip, the only time we spend two nights in the same camp.

Yee-hah ... tomorrow we arrive at the pointy end of this entire journey. As Jarrod points out - frequently meaning often - this trip just keeps getting better and better.

Okay - now I have a confession to make. When I was about 10 - 1958 - my two brothers and I - I was the middle one - used to explore down creeks. There was a particular creek that ran through our farm and if you started right up near Bell's place, the first curve you came to was infested with swallows' nests which are labouriously put together using wet mud adhered to the underneath of the overhangs of eroded land. We three would come along with our sharpened sticks smashing the bejesus out of these mud flasks and nick the eggs, blow them and stash them in our bedrooms. I truly regret doing that.

Day 3 ... Iga Warta to William Creek via Lake Eyre South

I worked out that I needed to unzip my sleeping bag and use it as a blanket within the swag, rather than as a cocoon. This was when I started wrapping all my dirty clothes in my rolled towel to use as a pillow. Getting the hang of this. Now if only someone would slit the throat of that bloody rooster!

After a leisurely breakfast, Johnny Coulthard drove us out to the Ochre Pits to show us where his mob got all their colours for their body decoration and for their works of art. He was a nice easy-going lad, but once again, low on the cultural significance. We were each daubed with a dot of each colour. He told us that dots and l ines and squiggles had their own significance. But there was noone else there from his mob to be ceremonially painted. He was generous with his time and personable.

Then a quick 100 kms over to Lyndhurst to gawp at Talc Alf and listen to his rantings on how all the academics have the significance of language wrong. If they only listened to Alf they would realise that all language was taking us closer to the sun ... or something. He was a Dutch man who came to live in this part of SA over 50 years ago - probably heat-stroke from being too close to the sun.

Another hour in our trusty vehicle, a quick left at Maree and we were on our way to Lake Eyre South. This name looms large in my adolescent imagings because of Donald Campbell and his ill-fated attempts to get his beloved Bluebird to smash the World Land Speed Record in the 1960s. As Shelley said "boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away". Jarrod's spiel was starting to hang together as a coherent theory: Gondwanna Land, inland sea, Alice Springs Orogeny, Peterman Orogeny. We could see it in the folds of the Flinders and the layers of Brachina Gorge.The geological history of my country was coming alive before my eyes.

We crunched our way out onto the salt pan - a bath full of moisturiser would not have helped our poor skins. The land stretched out towards the mirage on the horizon. The dishevelled remains of the Old Ghan rail sleepers bore testament to the supremacy of nature over man. Yet dig through the crust and the "soil" beneath was moist (well, more moist) even though thick, black and gluggy. David Attenborough could bring this parched, encrusted landscape to life with that which is invisible to this neophyte. I shake my head in wonderment and disbelief; I am actually out here. That is the sound of my boots crunching upon Lake Eyre. I am walking above the Great Artesian Basin, I am about to travel the Oodnadatta Track. I have seen the folds in the Flinders where the Peterman Orogeny caused the upward displacement of the earth's crust. I have run my fingers along ancient folds and faults where the earth tried to turn itself inside-out.

Forward, Ho! William Creek is our camp for the night - in the pen out the back of the pub. Can't wait!

Day 2 ... through Flinders Ranges to Iga Warta

I started the morning with more determination and a better idea for pacing myself. Jarrod had already chatted with me about the climbing challenges ahead and I thought I could do Wilpena Pound but pretty much knew that the Kings Canyon Rim Walk was beyond me.

Breakfast and breaking camp was pretty much a schemozzle - not working as a team yet. My back and each hip ached. I had to find a solution to being strangled by the sleeping bag each time I rolled to ease the aches. The morning walk seemed to sooth the old body.

Wilpena Pound and the story of the early settlers was sobering. There were many times during this entire trip where we came across abandoned settlements - and I imagined the shattered lives that this implied. Even to the extent of pathetic graveyards. Only in the last 50 years has white man learned to live in tune with nature instead of trying to mould it.

Having a number of "geologists" in our midst, Brachina Gorge was always going to be a ball. The Brachina Gorge Geological Tour is a 20 kilometre self-guided trail that passes through 130 million years of earth history, giving an insight into past climates, the formation of the ranges and the evolution of early life forms.The information panels at the start of the gorge were really useful (as were many of this sort of bushipaedia). Kerstin chose for us to stop at Site 1 (Trezona Formation - 630 million years old) and Site 9 (Rawnsley Quartzite - 550 million year old). Jarrod was always interested in the Yellow-footed Rock Wallaby.This species, which is listed as vulnerable, inhabits rocky outcrops in semi-arid country, ranging from sandstones, limestones and conglomerates in the Flinders Ranges to granites in the Gawler Ranges and Olary Hills.

Our camp for the evening was at the Aboriginal community of Iga Warta. I discussed this community with Jarrod later. It really did not showcase Aboriginal culture in a way that was uplifting. They only have a 32 year lease on their landholding which indicates that maybe the government is giving them a chance but without much confidence that they will succeed. The songs and dances that we participated in around the campfire that evening as Terry Coulthard strummed his guitar became the running joke for the rest of the tour - an empty stomach forever indicated with "Oh, my walla". Not good.

Terry claimed that his Adnyamathanha mob did not have the didgeridoo as part of their tradition but from what I have read since, it was endemic in that part of central Australia. I know we have to be culturally sensitive - but there was nothing but a strumming guitar and stories that would not have passed muster for "Play School". To say the least - I was embarrassed.   

Day 1 ... Adelaide to the Flinders Ranges

Jarrod (Australian, 32, degree in Cultural Tourism) picked me up from my hotel at 6:30am and by 1pm we were lunching in Port Augusta.

The jeep encouraged familiarity with bench seats for 4 a-piece facing each other. I rapidly realised that the very rear seats were over the speakers and to be avoided like the plague.  The first day of anything is tenuous and this was no different. The average age was 30 - with me at 60 and Daphne from Canada at 21. They were a great bunch of people though and I felt very included and yet protected at the same time.

My first rude awakening was mid-afternoon when we walked the 20 minutes up to the Yourambulla Aboriginal cave painting site. I could not make it to the top. I think I could have - just not at the pace that they set. I waited just as the rise commenced.

Dusk was well upon us when we struck our first camp beside a dry creek bed festooned with Red River Gums not far south of Wilpena Pound. Here was my second rude awakening of the day - swags every night unless raining in which case we had swags in tents. The stars in the milky way were mind-blowing. No use trying to identify specific constellations - there were hundreds of thousands of the blighters swooshed across the heavens.

The camp fire was warm, the food was nutritious and tasty and I was the only one drinking red wine! My sleeping bag was warm as toast and I slept until 7am!

... seeing red ...

Where to begin to explain the impact that my Red Centre trip had on me. It was emotional in ways I would never had thought. It was physical in ways that I had dreaded. There were two especially emotional moments: arriving at the very centre of my country; and, seeing Uluru for the first time. My chest was constricted and I had to keep reminding myself that this was real - it was not on television; it was there in front of me. There were two difficult physical times: when I realised that I would be sleeping in a swag on the ground every night; and, the pain in my chest as I trudged around Kata Juta.

As I predicted, I was by far the oldest person on the trip. It was a full house; 10 paying passengers plus the driver. There were 6 females and 4 males. There were 3 French nationals, one Swiss, one Nederlander, 2 German nationals, one Canadian and one American living in London, England. The only Australians were me and the driver. Not many Australians make this trip. Which is very sad.  I am nearly 60, then followed 37, 32, 3X28, 25, 2x24, 23 and 21. Every person on the trip was a university graduate including the driver. Two people had Masters and two had doctorates. One of the German girls had a doctorate in Geology which was immensely useful.

I have over 700 images to sift through. There are 10 days of experiences that I wish to record - mainly for my own benefit.The trip itself cost about $1700 including entry fees. Getting to and from cost another $600. And I guess I spent another $1200 on "stuff". So, all up about $3,500 for just over 10 days. Not cheap. But worth every penny.

... bulli pass hail storm ...

Travelling back from Nowra this afternoon, Irene and I were inundated by severe weather.

As we reached the top of Bulli Pass - which is an escarpment above Wollongong - we entered the traditonal fog patch that inhabits that part of the stat. Not content with that, Thor was having his way with the elements and down tumbled torrential rain. But the sky was telling us that more was to come.

I have no memory of driving through the hail, but it suddenly appeared on the road in front of us. The freeway was covered with drifts of hail for maybe 10kms. By the time we were negotiating the treacherous surface, it was back to torrential rain. All vehicles reduced speed and increased the distance to the car in front.

As we left Nowra Irene had asked if I wanted to drive but, remembering my uncomfortable experience driving Christine's car back from Bermagui, I declined. Poor Irene had to drive through this entire mess.

Thank you, my friend.