I got up late last night, to take a nocturnal wander to find a tree, only to get a fright. As I stepped out of the van, I thought for sure that the couple of whizz bangers* who had decided to camp right by us overnight, had left their fire burning. On closer scrutiny, it turned out that far from being an out of control bushfire, it was the red soil. As it turns out, even under the lunar glow of a near full moon the dirt luminesces a fiery orangey red.

(*Definition: whizz banger/s (noun): Tourists, generally backpackers, travelling in tight little cramped vans with a sliding door. So named because of the clatter, i.e.: whizz bang, made by said door as it slides closed, often at either very early or very late hours. Generalisation, any backpacker camping out, regardless of their choice of vehicle style.)

Anyway, this morning we woke to another dreary morning, setting off after traversing state lines a number of times again in an effort to revisit the carpark on the other side of the road. We wanted to get some happy snaps of our momentous border crossings before continuing on. Not only that, but man spreading has been in the media recently, and I figured that if I could put a, ahem, leg in each state then why not.

Man Spreading, Outback Style!

We needed to clock up about 300KM today, broken into three reasonably equal stages. The first stage took us from the border crossing to Erldunda, passing through more of the same fantastic scenic landscape as we had travelled through yesterday. Wide open spaces interspersed with wads of scrub. Erldunda is a typical outback outpost, a combined hotel, caravan park, pub, petrol station, petting zoo, restaurant and mini-mart all rolled into one. It is situated where the road to Uluru meets the Stuart Highway, but for today at least, after a brief stop, we will be continuing northward. And we couldn’t have arrived with better timing, the last turn up the driveway sloshing the remaining few litres of fuel around in the belly of ‘The Beast’ with just enough vigour to cause the low fuel light to illuminate. I don’t mind running it close to the wire in the knowledge that the two cans in the back are still full up.

Rolling towards the bowsers, I surveyed the lengthy line of travellers, all waiting patiently to fill up. I hardly wanted to be waiting, so snuck around to the little known diesel pump around the back. That would speed up proceedings I figured. I was only a little shocked by the price, knowing full well that the tyranny of distance would be at work. $1.83 a litre. Doesn’t sound too bad until you syphon nearly 120 litres from their storage tanks into your own. And despite being branded a Shell outlet, there is no luxury of a discount docket to be had out in these parts.

Since our earlier escapades with exploding tyres, I’ve been keeping up a rigid routine of checking the pressures with systematic regularity. I therefore decided to take the opportunity while parked right by the air hose, to confirm that the contents of each rubber ring were at the optimum pressure before we moved off. I hooked up the inflator to the first tyre and pressed the button. A check of the tyre indicated that the pressure was a touch low. I squashed the button in again, hearing a flow of air and a creaking of the suspension joints. Something was happening, but when I released the valve, the pressure had actually dropped. I was flummoxed. I grabbed my own pressure gauge out of ‘The Beast’. It gave me the same reading. So I reconnected the pump and gave it another shot, only for the pressure to bleed some more, by which time we were at an impasse. I had now successfully lowered the pressure to such an extent that continuation of our immediate travel plans were in peril.

Then I saw it. The compressor, sitting forlornly in a locked cage, coated in a thick layer of red dust, with the switch set to the off position. I had managed then, to use the air in my tyre to begin to re-pressurise the tank of the compressor, rather than the other way around. What was meant to be a relatively quick stop for fuel was turning into an epic quest in its own right as I searched for the right person to gain access to the cage to switch the compressor on for me.

When I did find him, ‘The Beast’ garnered his attention, as he set in for a longwinded chat while I busied myself recanting my own air from the compressor to re-inflate my now squidgy tyre. Apart from that, the pressures were all good, so without further ado, we regained our position on the road, pointing the nose of the rig north for stage number two.

Stage two was another 100km trek, to Stuarts Well, another outpost which is home to a camel farm. In the hope of getting a ride upon a majestic dromedary, we pulled in and made enquiries at the counter. For reasons unknown, we were the first customers in a month to be granted a ride, half an hour sitting high atop gorgeous camels, trekking through the rocky outcrops of the foothills of the MacDonnell Ranges. As we rode, I discovered that one of our cameras seems to have bitten the dust. I then spent the next few minutes precariously balanced, untethered on my saddle as I struggled to get camera number two out of my pocket without falling off and looking like a dumb city slicker tourist rather than the cowboy persona I am trying to depict. Strangely enough, for this ridgy didge Aussie outback experience, our guide was a whizz banger from the UK, midway through her mandatory 90 days of rural work to earn her an extended visa.

Ready To Ride.

Whoosh.

Look Out, Here We Come.

This Is Fun.

Marcus Gets Into The Act.

Elated with our jaunt, we remounted in the leather saddles of ‘The Beast’ for the final stage of our journey, the final 100 or so kilometre journey into Australias outback capital, Alice Springs.

We arrived at our caravan park to be directed to what we initially thought was a rather ordinary site, almost like an overflow site, despite our booking being made some weeks ago. Upon closer inspection of the remainder of the park, we realized that we had prime position, located in the bush camping area of the park rather than squashed in amongst the other vans. After quickly parking the van, the hard work began, as Bec set about giving our little washing machine a marathon work out as I struggled to hoist the heavy sheets of canvas that make up our annex. It was over three hours later that we both finally managed to sit down, the realization dawning on us that it was after 6:00PM and we had stopped for neither breakfast or lunch and were by this time ravenous. We are now nestled under the shade of a couple of leafy trees, right by the pool, which I have promised Bec I am going to take a dip in should the temperature exceed 20^OC, set up for our extended stay of a week or so here, debating what crass brand of fast food is going to win out for a quick feed, neither of us feeling remotely energetic enough to fire up the stove to cook a meal.

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