If there is one thing I will remember about our campsite for the night, other than the excitement of spotting the swimming wildlife frolicking about yesterday, it will be the howling wind. Right throughout the night and into the morning it whistled around the van, to the extent I could almost visualise it corkscrewing off of any sharp projecting edge it came into contact with. Strong enough to rock our little home on its suspension, despite having the corner stabilising jacks deployed, I was glad that we had chosen to park quite some distance from the jagged, unprotected cliff edge.

Thankful we weren’t too close to the edge.

Not only was the wind blowing gale like across the plains, but it was bringing with it an icy chill, which I quickly found out when I decided that it would be a good idea to get up, literally at the crack of dawn, to take some photos of the sun rising majestically over the cliffs. Proving just how reliant we become on having access to the Internet, I had to make an educated guess at what time I could expect to see the sun peeking out from behind the distant horizon. Thankfully, my estimation wasn’t too far removed from the actuality, as I headed out to the orange glow of the breaking dawn.

Dawn…

…breaks.

As beautiful as it was, I was left frozen to the bone as the wind ripped through the many layers of clothes I had donned in the vain hope of remaining warm. While I fought an intimate desire to rush back to the relative warmth of the bed I had not long left and on which the dogs would have quickly made themselves comfortable, Bec found it impossible to get back to sleep. I think she was imagining the emerging headlines: “Cliff Tragedy: A Victorian man was blown to his death from atop a cliff in far western South Australia this morning…” I did tell her that I would be careful, but it wasn’t until ¾ of an hour later when I decided that I had been beaten by the wind and returned to bed, that she was able to settle again.

It was then my turn to lay unsleeping, still fully clothed, but still shivering from the cold, as I grappled Bethany like a hot water bottle in an attempt to regain some sensation other than excruciating pain in the tips of my almost frost bitten finger tips. Not that Bethany seemed too concerned, just so long as she was allowed to stay on the bed with us, she was happy. Alvin meanwhile, was curled up, intermingled with my legs, helping warm my lower extremities.

By the time we re-emerged from our warm cocoon at 9:30AM, the sun had fully risen and was beginning to warm the landscape, even if the wind continued to sandblast the entire region with a fine coating of gritty dust. By 10:00AM as we were readying to pull out, the first of the mornings sightseers were rolling in, including a couple of vans, the couples within we have come to love to hate, thanks to their inane and unnecessary screeching chatter across the UHF radio airwaves.

It is common knowledge that caravanners generally listen in to a particular channel on the UHF radio band, so it becomes rather annoying when all that can be heard is the same shrill pitched voices calling constantly out to each other. Thankfully we haven’t publically ridiculed them over the radio, because they too have become accustomed to crossing paths with us, cheerily saying G’day at each subsequent meeting and even commenting on my lack of an Akubra this morning. There are no photos to prove this fact, but I had left it in the back of ‘The Beast’ in favor of a warmer and more difficult to blow off woolen beanie.

As always seems to be the case, we were literally climbing up into ‘The Beast’ when another old timer, travelling on his own struck up a conversation with us. He was a laugh to chat to, especially when I mentioned that we had been travelling on the road for 5 months. His only shocked query was: “And you’re still friends?” A full half an hour after we had planned to be moving this morning, we finally jibbed down the unformed goat track, out of the rest area and back onto the Eyre Highway, still pointing easterly, for day number four of our Nullarbor Trek.

Camels, wombats, kangaroos and Becs for the next 96km.

For the most part today, we were confined to the cabin of ‘The Beast’ while the howling wind haunted us as it tried its hardest to blow us all the way back to Western Australia causing the needle on the fuel gauge to drop at an alarming rate. I tried to ignore it as best I could, glancing at it only occasionally to make sure we weren’t going to suffer a flame out and be left stranded on the side of the road. The only stops we made were just briefly at a couple of lookouts, which promised grand vistas of the Bunda Cliffs. They were nothing like we had viewed right from our kitchen window yesterday afternoon though, as we had to walk along neatly formed paths, restricted by neat fences, with neat signs posted every few feet, warning of the inherent dangers of getting too near the fragile edges. It all seemed too restrictive, almost commercialised, although not as commercial as our stop at the head of the Great Australian Bight.

Bunda Cliffs lookout 1 for the day.

Bunda Cliffs 2 for the day

Only a few kilometres past the Nullarbor Roadhouse, we turned off of the Eyre Highway for the 24Km round trip detour to the top of the bight. It had been mentioned that there was a newly constructed whale watching and interpretative centre there, although I was more interested in visiting so as to be able to tick the location off of my unwritten list of must see and do things. Unfortunately, arriving at the car park, some distance from the coastal edge, the only way to proceed any further was by paying $15.00 each for the privilege, a money grabbing cost we found to be outrageous. In protest of the charge to see an Australian natural attraction, we drove the 12Km back out to the main road, although not before using their toilets. And flushing twice I might add!

It was a straight through run then to our campsite for tonight, another freebie job, just off to the side of the road. Nothing near as spectacular as last nights premier accommodation, we nearly had a melt down trying to level out the van. You would think that with five months under our belts and plenty of room in this camp to spare, we would have it down pat, but maybe not. That old fella this morning might have guessed something with his question, although I think not, as we quickly kissed and made up in just enough time to get a roaring campfire started. All in the name of roasting a couple of spuds that will otherwise have to be discarded when we reach the South Australian quarantine checkpoint tomorrow.

That’s not a fire.

This is a fire!

With the flames flaring to head height, and more and more fallen timber being added to the little ring of stones that was serving as our fireplace, we soon had a beautifully burning fire going. If not for the flies that swarmed around with every step you took, it would have been perfect. I counted a dozen fatalities with one swat of my hand against my chest at one point, such was the ferocity of the buzzing little blighters as the sought to invade any open orifice. Eyes, nose, ears and mouth were all targeted with great effect, as we soon sought refuge in the van for the remainder of the night.

Fire in the sky.

Until next time, stay safe, have fun and don’t forget to write.