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Uluru's magnificent waterfalls: landmark transformed by rain – in pictures


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Uluru – the 600m-year-old gigantic rock formation in the heart of Australia – was transformed by heavy downpours this week, with rainwater cascading down its 300-metre sandstone facades. The spectacular event was photographed by local environmental staff on Tuesday evening as a storm passed over the nation’s ‘red centre’. Uluru is in one of the driest regions of Australia and experiences extreme temperatures ranging from the high 40s in the daytime to below zero at night

Friday 15 January 2016

All photos © Parks Australia - as seen on:  http://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/gallery/2016/jan/15/ulurus-magnificent-waterfalls-landmark-transformed-by-rain-in-pictures

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  • 4 weeks later...
On 2/7/2016 at 3:52 PM, jozzafunk said:

Amazing place - was tootling around the outback for 3 weeks last year

Speaking of trekking the Outback...

This caught the world's imagination, back then:

 

May 1978:

National-Geographic-Magazine-1978-05-May

 

 

(You Tube: Published on Dec 15, 2014)

In 1977, 27-year-old Robyn Davidson, along with her dog and four camels, embarked on a daring expedition -

Across the barren, unforgiving terrain of the Australian Outback.

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Photographer Rick Smolan captured stunning images of the untouched landscape -

And, the young woman's personal adventure.

 

While Rick includes, what is, a compelling teaser for the feature-film (2013 - 'Harvey Weinstien, and Co.' ...)

FWIW ...

It was just an 'okay' movie.

We were disappointed because, we thought it was going to be a great movie.

IOHO's ...

While Mandy Walker's cinematography was certainly illustrative -

The direction, at times, was 'off' - Maybe, because of the jacked screenplay?

And, even though, Mia W. did a commendable job -

We thought the actor (playing Rob Smolan's character) was miscast. (Certainly, 'mis-directed'?)

And, again, the screenplay seemed to play with the facts?    (Sorry to spoil it for anyone?)

 

Here's the book:

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If you can't find it at your local library?  AMAZON  (Opens w/ a Kindle preview)

Here's the large-format picture book by Rick Smolan:  AMAZON

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I'll also include the following ... Only, if you want to know a little more about, Robyn Davidson, herself?

It starts off slow, and tentative -  But, the (interesting) details surely come.

 

 

 

The following is an easy-to-read extract of Robyn Davidson's original account -

from this 2014 'UK Telegraph' article:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/starsandstories/10773102/Tracks-The-true-story-behind-the-film.html

Tracks: The true story behind the film

By Robyn Davidson 11:00AM BST 19 Apr 2014

Some string somewhere inside me is starting to unravel. It is an important string, the one that holds down panic. In the solitude of the desert night I feel the patter of rain on my sleeping bag – too light to lay the dust, too heavy for normal sleep. Sometime before midnight I come fully awake, and I do not know where, or who, I am.

Inside me I hear three different voices. The first says, ‘So this is it, you’ve finally lost it.’ The second voice urges, ‘Hold on, don’t let go. Be calm, lie down and fall asleep.’ The third voice is screaming. At dawn my dog, Diggity, licks me awake. The sky is cold and pitiless.

My four camels stand hobbled nearby – welcome, familiar shapes. Instinctively I start the morning routine – boil the tea, pack the gear, saddle the camels – and head south once more.

It is my 71st day of travel across Australia’s western desert. Slowly, as we get under way, the strings inside me knit together and I know who I am again. During the following four months on the trail the voices never returned, and in time I came to enjoy the silence and solitude of the desert.

Australia’s arid western region, from the town of Alice Springs to the Indian Ocean coast, is a beautiful, haunting, but largely empty land. Dominated by the harsh, almost uninhabited Great Sandy and Gibson deserts, the region is known only to Australian Aborigines, a handful of white settlers, and the few travellers who motor across it.

Why cross it by camel? I have no ready answer. On the other hand, why not? Australia is a vast country, and most of us who live there see only a small fraction of it. Beyond the roads, in the area known as the outback, camels are the perfect form of transport. One sees little by car, and horses would never survive the hardships of desert crossings.

At the age of 25, I gave up my study of Japanese language and culture at university in Brisbane and moved to the town of Alice Springs. I planned an expedition alone from Alice Springs to the Indian Ocean, a distance of some 1,700 miles.

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Davidson was photographed by her occasional visitor Rick Smolan.

For nearly a century, from the 1860s until recent times, camels were commonly used in the outback. The animals, imported from Afghanistan and India, proved highly successful until cars and trucks began to replace them in the 1920s. Many camels were then simply turned loose to roam the outback, where I was to find they can present problems for travellers.

Camels are still trained in Alice Springs for tourist jaunts and for occasional sale to Australia’s zoos. Sallay Mahomet, an Australian-born Afghan and a veteran handler, agreed to teach me something about the art of camel training.

I worked with Sallay nearly three months, for camels are not the easiest of beasts to train. To begin with, they can kill or injure you with a well-placed kick, and their bite is as painful as a horse’s.

Patiently Sallay taught me to understand camel behaviour – how to feed, saddle, doctor and control the animals, the last by kindness, discipline and use of a noseline attached to a wooden peg inserted through the animal’s nostril. Camels are similar to dogs; a well-trained one answers best to its accustomed handler.

For an expedition such as mine, it was essential that I did most of the training. Through part-time jobs, loans from friends, and finally with support from the National Geographic Society, I acquired the necessary equipment and four good camels: a mature, gelded male whom I named Dookie; a younger gelding, Bub; a female, Zeleika; and her calf, Goliath. Training and preparations took more than a year, but finally in early April 1977 I was ready to leave.

On April 8 Sallay and my father – who had come from Brisbane to see me off – trucked me, the camels, and Diggity to Glen Helen Tourist Camp, 80 miles west of Alice Springs. From there I journeyed to nearby Redbank Gorge, pausing long enough to say goodbye to my friends and helpers from Alice, who had all gathered there. Then I was off for the west coast, alone except for the intermittent company of the photographer Rick Smolan.

 

 

The route that Davidson took from Alice Springs to the Indian Ocean. She covered 1700 miles in nine months.

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DAY ONE That first full day on the trail was both exhilarating and terrifying. My initial stop was to be the Aborigine settlement of Areyonga, via an old abandoned track that wandered through dry, stony creek beds and gullies and often simply disappeared. A dozen times during the day I was struck by the chilling thought, ‘Am I lost?’ It was to become an all too familiar question in the months ahead.

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The emotional bond between Davidson and her camels was strengthened on the trip -

although they were not above trying to steal her dinner.  PHOTO: Rick Smolan

At sundown I camped beside the track and estimated my progress: 20 miles. Not bad for the first day – only some 1,680 left to go. After hobbling the camels to graze, I built a brushwood fire and cooked a dinner of tinned stew. The blaze was welcome, for night-time temperatures in the desert can drop to below freezing during Australia’s autumn and winter seasons.

Finally I slid into my sleeping bag under an extra blanket or two and spent most of the night alternately dozing and wondering if I would ever see my camels again. But the occasional sound of their bells was reassuring, and at last I drifted off.

The next morning settled one worry; the camels seemed more scared than I was. I awoke to find them huddled as close as possible around the swag and Diggity snoring happily beneath the blankets.

DAY FOUR In the afternoon we reached Areyonga, all slightly the worse for wear. My feet were blistered and my muscles were cramped. Diggity, too, was footsore and had to ride for a spell on Dookie’s back. Zeleika was a complete mess. Her hindquarters were weak, her nose was infected, and she had a huge lump in a vein leading to her udder.

Bub was still uncertain about the whole thing. During those first days he had shied in terror not only at rabbits but even at rocks and leaves. Dookie was the only one without grumbles, he was having a great time. I suspect he had always wanted to travel.

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Davidson with her camels and Diggity the dog trekking towards the Olgas -

225 miles south-west of Alice Springs. PHOTO: Rick Smolan

After four days of total solitude Areyonga came as a shock, though a pleasant one. A mile outside the settlement we were greeted by a welcoming throng of Aborigine children, shouting, giggling and begging for rides. Seemingly hundreds of small hands reached out to pat Diggity when she was allowed down from exile atop Dookie’s back, and there was endless tickling of camel legs.

For three days I rested at Areyonga, worrying about Zeleika, Bub and Goliath. I wondered what the next 30-mile stretch to the homestead at Tempe Downs would do to us all.

DAY EIGHT A few Aborigines accompanied us out of Areyonga for the first 10 miles towards Tempe Downs. Bidding me goodbye, my companions warned that the route over the mountains was an old one, unused for many years. My friends didn’t exaggerate.

After 15 miles the mountain track occasionally began to peter out, and I spent hours sweating over maps and compass. I took a couple of wrong turns into a dead-end canyon and had to backtrack out. To complicate matters, Bub chose the mountains to throw an unforgettable fit.

Shortly after a midday pause he decided to buck the entire 500lb of assorted swag, tucker and water drums off his back. As each article crashed to the ground, the more terrified Bub became and the harder he bucked. Finally he stood petrified, the dislodged saddle hanging under his belly and the items from the pack scattered for miles.

Despite the setbacks, we made it to Tempe Downs in three days and marked our 100th mile from the starting point at Glen Helen. After a radio call to my friends at Areyonga, I filled my drinking-water bag with rainwater and set off for Ayers Rock, 150 miles to the south-west.

We were entering sandhill country, an expanse of great motionless waves of reddish sand stretching mile after square mile ahead of us. Flies by the zillions engulfed us in dense clouds, covering every exposed square centimetre of human, dog or camel flesh. Although they didn’t bite, they crawled under eyelids, into ears and nostrils, and when they finally gave up at night, clouds of mosquitoes took over.

The country itself was exquisite. Huge stands of desert oak lined the valleys among the hills and there were varieties of flowers, plants bearing strange seedpods, or adorned with what looked like feathers. Two bizarre residents of the sandhills intrigued me. One is a type of ant known as the inch ant, a monstrous thing nearly an inch long, with a very aggressive nature, eyes that stare into your own, and fangs that look like spanners.

The other creature, whose name I do not know, is the most endearing little beetle I have ever met. He’s an unprepossessing chap to look at, and when he sees something coming towards him (I imagine that four camels, one human and a dog would be somewhat frightening), he buries his head in the sand, sticks his bottom in the air, and waits till you have either crushed him or missed. I always tried to miss, but Diggity and the camels…

DAY 21 After 250 miles of travel from Glen Helen we reached Ayers Rock. Among the mass of tourists who fly or drive in to see the great natural wonder, I found Jenny Green, my friend from Alice Springs, who had come to meet me. We talked – or rather I talked – for four straight days.

Having travelled for most of three weeks without company, I babbled on to Jenny like a madwoman, and, as is often the case, one makes oneself better by making others sick. Dear Jen. She flew home feeling depressed, and I rode out of Ayers Rock feeling on top of the world.

The next 140 miles to the settlement of Docker River at the eastern edge of the Gibson desert went smoothly until the weather dealt us an almost fatal blow. So far I had not encountered rain and had wondered how the camels would take to the bright orange plastic raincoats I had designed and made to cover their packs.

Just past the area known as Lasseter’s Country, heavy clouds began to bustle over the horizon. Down it came. Within an hour the track was a running river and we were all drenched, though the camels soon grew accustomed to the flapping of their raincoats.

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The camels soon grew accustomed to the raincoats Davidson made for them. PHOTO: Rick Smolan

Camels have feet like bald tyres. They simply cannot cope with mud, and leading them over precariously slippery patches is painful and exhausting to both driver and animal. In the midst of the storm Dookie, who was last in line, suddenly sat down with a thud and snapped his noseline.

I went back to him and tried to get him up. He refused. I shouted at him and had to kick the poor beast until he groaned to his feet. To my horror I saw that he was limping. It looked as if the trip was over.

We made it to Docker River in painful stages. Each night in camp along the way I cut shrubbery for Dookie and brought it to him. I massaged his shoulder. I cuddled him, kissed him, shed tears and begged him to get better. To no avail. The thought of perhaps having to shoot my best camel gnawed away at me.

Slowly, painfully, miserably, we limped into Docker River. Docker River is an Aborigine settlement, and the people were wonderfully hospitable. My few phrases of Pitjantjatjara were put to good use when I joined them in hunting, dancing, and gathering insects and wild plants for food. In the end it took Dookie a month to recover from what probably was a torn muscle in his shoulder.

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Dookie fell during one downpour and injured his shoulder, which took a month to recover. PHOTO: Rick Smolan

DAY 69 At last Dookie had improved enough to travel, and that morning we set off westwards into the Gibson desert. Before we had covered many miles some wild camels suddenly appeared. I had been warned about these creatures by Sallay.

‘Make no mistake,’ Sallay had said, ‘wild bull camels can kill you when they’re in rut. They will try to take a female, and if you are in the way, you’ll be attacked. The only thing that will stop them is a rifle bullet. If the time should come, don’t hesitate.’ And now the time had come.

Two hundred yards ahead stood three large wild bulls, obviously in season and aware of Zeleika. Faced with sudden danger, I found myself outside the situation, observing and talking to myself. Remember what Sallay said; take it a step at a time. One, tie up Bub, who will surely bolt, and sit him down. Two, carefully take the rifle from its scabbard. Three, load and cock. Four, aim, steady and fire.

By now the bulls were only 30 yards away. One spurted a small cylinder of blood where his heart should be. All three came forward again. Zzzt. This time just at the back of the wounded one’s head. Zzzt. This time in the heart. I was sure of it. Zzzt. At last, in the head, and it was over. The other two bulls trundled off. Darkness came too quickly.

I hobbled the camels and tried to keep them close. All night I heard the rumble of the two bulls circling the camp. At dawn one of them, a young and beautiful bull, stood 50 yards away in the scrub. I resolved not to shoot him unless he directly threatened me or my camels.

I rounded up Dookie, Zeleika and Goliath, and turned for Bub, good old unreliable Bub. In a flash he was off with the new young bull, galloping despite his hobbles. For an hour I tried to catch him and couldn’t; the wild bull stayed too close to him. It was Bub or the bull. End of resolve. This time, even through tears, my aim was straight.

DAY 71 It was on this night that I heard the voices and thought I was going mad – perhaps from a combination of worry over my water supply, the terrible monotony of sandhill country, and the effect of having had to shoot the wild bull camels. But the feeling of madness passed with sunrise and we journeyed on.

My worry over water was real, for we were down to 10 gallons – less than one fifth of capacity. Somewhere ahead, according to my map, lay an artesian well with an abandoned windmill and storage tank. Supposing I missed the well, or the water tank was dry?

The strain began to tell, and I sobbed as I walked, ‘God, please, the windmill must be over the next hill.’ Diggity licked my hand, whining, but I couldn’t stop. I raved at the hills. Then we crested the last one, and the land flattened out. A patch of green shone in the distance. Panic melted and I began to laugh, patting Diggity.

No need to find the well and tank that night; they were there by the patch of green. The camels drank. Diggity drank. And I drank. Then I had a freezing, early-morning bath. It was good to be alive.

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Davidson and Diggity enjoying a rare swim. PHOTO: Rick Smolan

DAY 75 This was a memorable day, for it brought the gift of Mr Eddie. He is a Pitjantjatjara man, and he arrived at my camp that evening with several carloads of Aborigines from the settlements of Wingelinna and Pipalyatjara. I served them all billies of tea, and we chatted.

My guests spent the night, and next morning they decided that one of them should accompany me to Pipalyatjara, two days’ walk ahead. I kept a polite silence and simply started off – to be joined by Mr Eddie. I turned then, and we looked at each other. There was such humour, depth, life and knowledge in those eyes that somehow we started laughing.

All that day and the next we communicated in pantomime and in broken Pitjantjatjara or English, falling into helpless laughter at each other’s antics. And so we came to Pipalyatjara – it is one of those rarities in the outback, an Aborigine settlement where the whites do a really splendid job of helping the Aborigines cope with prejudice, neglect and government bureaucracy.

Glendle Schrader, a friend from Alice Springs, is Pipalyatjara’s community adviser, and we spent three days exchanging news. As I began packing for Warburton, 180 miles due west in the Gibson desert, Mr Eddie announced that he was coming too.

DAY 80 That morning we set off together, and after a mile or two Mr Eddie insisted on a detour. He wanted to gather pauri, a native narcotic tobacco plant that Aborigines chew, and we turned into a valley beside the trail. We searched in silence for several hours and, in my ‘white-fella-preoccupation with time’, I began to wonder if we would ever reach Warburton.

But Mr Eddie seemed to flow with time rather than measure it, and eventually I relaxed and began to enjoy my surroundings. It was not the least of the lessons he was to teach me.

The following day was either a disaster or a delight, depending on one’s viewpoint. By afternoon we had trekked 15 miles and were tired, hot, dusty and fly-ridden. A column of red dust gradually rose on the horizon. Cars on the trail, though rare, frequently meant tourists, and I was in no mood to be gawked at today. These were worse than usual.

The car drew up beside us, and several men in silly hats spilt out, festooned with cameras. ‘Hey, Bruce,’ one yelled, ‘come look at this gal.’ ‘Will you look at those crazy sandals? And she’s got a boong with her!’ Now ‘boong’ is the white’s racist term for an Aborigine, and temper sizzling, I pushed past the men, and attention shifted to Mr Eddie.

‘You stand by camel, there’s a good boy.’ Behind me I caught the multiple clicks of shutters: then all of a sudden Mr Eddie seemed to go berserk. Brandishing his walking stick he drove the tourists back towards their car, alternately raving in Pitjantjatjara and demanding payment for the photographs in broken English.

The startled men beat a hasty retreat, emptying their pockets of bills as they went. Mr Eddie tucked the money away then he walked serenely over to me, and we cracked up. With tears streaming down my face I thought of the Aborigines, how they had been poisoned, slaughtered, herded into settlements, prodded, photographed, and left to rot with their shattered pride and their cheap liquor.

And here was this superb old gentleman, who had lived through it all, who could turn himself into an outrageous parody of the Aborigine, then do an about-face and laugh with the abandon of a child. Reflecting on my own lesser problems and hardships, I thought: if you can do it, old man, me too.

DAY 94 We parted in Warburton, Mr Eddie and I. I called on a friend by Australian Flying Doctor Service radio to take him home. I still think of our three weeks together on the trail as the heart of my entire journey. I had already arranged at Pipalyatjara to have a gun similar to mine waiting for Mr Eddie at Warburton. He had fallen in love with my rifle, and it seemed the perfect gift.

The most dangerous part of the journey now lay ahead of me, the Gunbarrel Highway. We would travel 350 miles of the Gunbarrel’s total 900-mile length, taking us across the forbidding Gibson desert.

The camels could not carry enough water to make it all the way, so my friend Glendle Schrader from Pipalyatjara would drive a truck with additional water from Warburton to the western part of the Gunbarrel.

From Pipalyatjara the round trip comes to 800 hazardous miles, whether on foot or by motor. Such is the quality of friends.

On July 15 I set out with Diggity and the camels. The country was harsh, though lovely in its way. Sand hills stretched over some of the route, interspersed here and there with great stands of impenetrable mulga bush. Golden tufts of spinifex grass turned portions of the trail into a giant pincushion that continually jabbed at our feet.

The camels strained under loads consisting largely of water, and noselines frequently snapped. Progress was achingly slow. Yet there were some moments along the Gunbarrel that I will never forget. One morning before sunrise – grey silk sky, Venus aloft – I saw a single crow, carving up wind currents above the hills.

One evening I opened a tin of cherries, the ultimate luxury, ate half, and put the other half beside the swag for breakfast. Woke up the next morning. Bub’s great ugly head, asleep on my legs, suspicious crimson stains on his lips.

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Mia Wasikowska on set filming Tracks. PHOTO: Contour by Getty

DAY 112 Two weeks and 220 miles into the Gunbarrel I had a wham-bammer of a day. Rain, I thought as the first light slithered under my eyelids and into the folds of the blankets. But the clouds vanished, and then I realised something was missing: the sound of familiar camel bells.

Zeleika and Bub were gone, and Dookie, it developed, was only around because he had a great hole in his foot and couldn’t walk. Where were Zeleika and Bub? How far had they gone? What about Dookie? Then I recalled what a very wise friend in Alice once said to me: ‘When things go wrong on the track, rather than panic, boil the billy, sit down and think clearly.’

So I boiled the billy, sat down with Diggity, and went over the salient points: You are a hundred miles from anything; you have lost two camels; one of the other camels has a hole in his foot so big you could sleep in it; you have only enough water to last for six days; your hip is sore from walking; this is a god-awful place to spend the rest of your life.

So having tidied all that up, I panicked.

Fortunately, it didn’t last, and after four hours I finally managed to get Zeleika and Bub back, doctored Dookie’s foot as best I could, and set off once more. The water situation was saved shortly afterwards by the arrival of Glendle and his truck.

When he caught up with us, he was so exhausted from the trip he could barely speak. We unloaded two of three 40-gallon water drums from the truck, then filled my own drums from them with gallons to spare. ‘You’ll be wanting the other drum down the trail a bit,’ Glendle said.

Wearily we drove some 50 miles to the west, dropped off the drum, and returned to camp. Minutes later Glendle was dead asleep in his blanket. Next morning he headed back towards Pipalyatjara. When he had become only a dust cloud on the horizon behind us, the silence and solitude closed in again.

I was not in the best shape. My left hip, sore from endless slogging over sand hills, was barely usable. My skin was dry as dog biscuits, my lips were cracked, I’d run out of toilet paper, and a sun blister was trying to take over my nose. Had it all been worth it? I still thought so.

DAY 118 At the cattle station called Carnegie, at the end of the Gunbarrel, I received another blow. The station was little used because of severe drought, and I could not resupply with food as I had planned. There was nothing to do but trek north-west 75 miles to the station at Glenayle and hope for the best.

Food ran so low that I once shared Diggity’s dog biscuits – not exactly a banquet, but if they could keep her going, they could do the same for me. By luck I met two men travelling by car to Carnegie, and they gave me some tucker. One of them kindly made a leather boot for Dookie’s sore foot. It didn’t last long, so I made another that lasted even less time.

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Davidson's dinner at times included witchetty grubs. PHOTO: Rick Smolan

All I could think of was Glenayle and escape from the drought. We straggled in at last, a miserable sight. I hadn’t washed for a month, my face and clothes were covered with red dust, I was exhausted, and I looked like a scarecrow.

As I entered the Glenayle homestead, the first thing I saw was a lovely, middle-aged lady watering her flower garden. As I approached her, she smiled and without a lift of the eyebrows said, ‘How nice to see you, dear. Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?’

And so I met the Ward family – Eileen, her husband, Henry, and their sons, Rex and Lou. What warm, generous and utterly charming people, and how little I can ever repay their kindness.

That week gave me a memorable look at Western Australia’s disastrous years-long drought. Though situated on the edge of the desert, the Wards’ cattle station survives on occasional rain and on groundwater from wells. But as we toured the property, I saw what devastation the drought had worked.

The horses were skin and bones and the cattle were even worse. Yet never once did I hear a complaint or a harsh word from the Wards. Their entire future was at stake, with no relief in sight. Still, they hung on with courage and hope.

While the horses and cows suffered, my camels – who could browse on trees as well as on ground cover – fared better, and after a week were slightly improved.

One morning as I stood talking with Henry and patting Bub, big, jealous Dookie came up behind me. By way of attracting my attention, he opened his great jaws, took my entire head between them, and squeezed gently. Then he opened his mouth and galloped off, immensely pleased with himself. I don’t allow bad manners among my camels, but this once I could only laugh at Dookie’s form of wit.

Soon afterwards we began packing up to leave Glenayle. The camels seemed pleased to get into their travelling kit again, so I didn’t tell them what lay ahead of us: the Canning Stock Route. The Canning is an Australian legend.

It runs nearly 1,000 miles, linking the small towns of Halls Creek and Wiluna and, far north of our route, crossing the Great Sandy Desert, one of Australia’s worst. The route got its name from the days when cattle were driven along it from well to remote well, though I don’t see how they survived.

Fortunately, I had to cover only 170 miles, from a point near Glenayle to Cunyu. The Gibson desert would be far behind us, and the remaining 450 miles to the Indian Ocean would be much easier.

DAY 129 We left Glenayle after a week and headed for the Canning at Well Number 9. This was dingo country, and I was terrified that Diggity would pick up one of the poisoned baits set out to exterminate the wild dogs. I put a muzzle on her, but she whined and scratched at it and was so disconsolate that I finally took it off.

The area was rougher than anything we had crossed before, and at Well Number 6 I called a halt. The setting was lovely, an infinitely extended bowl of pastel blue haze carpeting the desert, and in the far distance five violet, magical mountains soared above the desert. I longed to journey to those mountains. I had found the heart of the world.

Well Number 6 hardly deserved the name. The surface of the water lay nine feet below ground level and could only be reached with a bucket, a rope and enough effort to cause a hernia. The water tasted foul, but none of us cared, and I camouflaged mine with huge doses of coffee.

The night was incredibly lovely. I made camp and built a mattress of fallen leaves. The camels had more forage than they could possibly eat. In the evening they rolled and played in the white dust, raising puffs of cloud that the fat red sun turned to bronze. For three days it was perfection, and I wanted never to leave.

On the third night Diggity took a dingo bait. I had to shoot her. Before dawn I left that place I had thought so beautiful.

DAY 137 My only thought now was to push on to the end of my route. The country passed unnoticed beneath my feet, and I recall little of that time. I think I reached Cunyu on August 27.

There at last the press caught up with me, and I first learnt of interest in ‘the camel lady’. To avoid pestering questions, I left the camels at Cunyu and sneaked away to Wiluna, 40 miles to the south. The people of Wiluna asked no questions: they simply took me in and cared for me.

Within a week I was setting out for the Indian Ocean coast. Behind me lay nearly 1,300 miles – five months of travel. Ahead lay only 450 more miles. We made them slowly, for beyond Cunyu Zeleika fell seriously ill. She had nursed Goliath, her calf, throughout the entire six months, and now she suddenly began bleeding internally. I dosed her with everything in my medicine kit, but I was afraid she wouldn’t make it. I was wrong.

DAY 180 A month after leaving Cunyu we arrived at Dalgety Downs cattle station, only 156 miles from the sea. David and Margot Steadman, homesteaders at Dalgety, took us in and proceeded to spoil all five of us. The camels were fed barley, oats, and lollies, an undreamt-of diet. They were praised, patted, stroked and talked to.

With such care even Zeleika began to improve. For a time I considered leaving Zeleika behind with Dave and Margot and pushing on to the sea with the other three camels. But she continued to improve, and I decided that a dip in the Indian Ocean might do the old girl a power of good.

On that final stretch of 156 miles we rode in style for about 30 of them. At Woodleigh, 36 miles from the coast, two kindly homesteaders, David and Jan Thomson, offered to transport the camels and me on their flat-bed truck to a point only a couple of hours’ walk from the beach.

I accepted, but the camels had reservations. After the long journey, however, their trust in me was complete, and they finally climbed aboard. We trussed them up like plucked chickens and off we headed.

DAY 195 Six miles short of our goal we unloaded and set out on the final leg. Oh, how my spirits soared. Two hours later I saw it, glinting on the far side of the dunes – the Indian Ocean, end of trail. An anticlimax? Never. We rode down to the beach towards the sunset and stood thunderstruck at the beauty of the sea.

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At the end of the journey, the camels were wide-eyed with wonder at the sight of the Indian Ocean. PHOTO: Rick Smolan

The camels simply couldn’t comprehend so much water. They would stare at it, walk a few paces, then turn and stare again. Dookie pretended he wasn’t scared, but his eyes were popping out and his ears were so erect they pulled his eyelashes back.

I was riding Bub, and when the surf sent globs of foam tumbling over his feet, he danced and bucked and shied and nearly sent me flying. Zeleika would have nothing to do with that freakish ocean, but the others were entranced. They refused to believe it wasn’t drinkable. Each time they took a mouthful, their expressions broke me up.

We stayed one glorious week, then it was time to go. I had decided to leave all four camels in the care of David and Jan Thomson, who would give them a perfect home at Woodleigh after I returned to my own home on Australia’s east coast, where I could not keep them.

On October 27 David and Jan showed up in the truck, and we turned from the beach for the last time.

Many times since the trek I have been asked why I made it, and I answer that the trip speaks for itself. But for those who persist I would add these few thoughts. I love the desert and its incomparable sense of space. I enjoy being with Aborigines and learning from them.

I like the freedom inherent in being on my own, and I like the growth and learning processes that develop from taking chances. And obviously, camels are the best means of getting across deserts. Obvious. Self-explanatory. Simple. What’s all the fuss about?

 

 

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robyn_Davidson

 

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