Category: Simpson Desert 2020

You can’t go to Charleville without doing at least one or two of the official ‘eight things to do in Charleville’. We chose the Cosmos Experience at the Cosmos Centre.

Arriving early, we walked around the interesting displays of all things planetary. We learned that if we could put a mirror far enough away in space, we could see reflected images of what we were doing 100 years ago on earth. Seemed a lot of effort when we could just read a book about it.

Dinner was a better than average quiche and salad in house, surrounded by space junk. Actually, it was souvenirs on display, but the made in China stickers on the bottom suggested what we originally thought.

At precisely 6.30pm we were beckoned out of the building into what looked like a tin shed. Soon, with pounding music to build drama, the roof slid open to reveal the sky. We couldn’t help but think we had seen it before somewhere, despite having paid good money to see it this time.

Two young blokes ran us through 30 minutes of star gazing, appropriately COVID distanced. Each of the audience had a crack at identifying theJewel Box, Pluto and Jupiter, through a telescope. When questioned, we learned from the knowledge base at our end of the shed, that Mars did not pop its head up until the 9.30pm show, and that the bright light screeching across the sky was the International Space Station.

Bursting with star knowledge we headed back to camp for what was a pretty cold night.

Morning came, as did tea and coffee before we packed and said our good-byes to Charleville for a while. We headed north something to Augathella before turning off the tarmac onto Mt Talbot Road. The plan was to take the back roads over to Injune, then slip up to Carnarvon Gorge for a few days.

Our confidence in the Carnarvon adventure was low as we had phoned, e-mailed and texted each of the available accommodation providers in the area for over a week with no return contact at all. Still we plugged on ever eastward via Wetlands, Redford and Womblebank, with Puma lapping up the bush environment.

This trip was more than planned. The road varied between brilliant hard pack atop ridges overlooking stunning grass lands, to horrid corrugations for kilometre after kilometre. Wildlife was acutely absent save a few clean skin cattle. Most of those were so tame however, you could take one home, pat it and call it a dog.

After a fair few hours, Injune came into focus. We immediately dropped in to check out the amenities as it was indeed a fair few hours in the saddle. Heading then to the information centre, we were assured that Carnarvon accommodation providers were terrible at getting back to people and the web sites were really hard to negotiate! We were assured however that if we dropped up to the gate, we might get a spot. If not, however we could camp in the nearby gravel pit, but that would be illegal. We did consider dropping the 150 kilometres up to the gate but then opted to head the 90 odd kilometres south to Roma and a fresh batch of mums scones with cream and jam.

A couple of days in Roma went quickly as did the 530 kilometres home.

Our trip had been at different times, full of excitement, expectation, dismay and disbelief. Mostly however it had been full of friends and adventure. We had missed Innamincka and the Strzelecki Track, but apparently, they aren’t going anywhere in the next few years so we should get to say gidday.

Time to plan the next one.

The music was rubbish. The screaming like dying hyenas was hideous. The Landcruiser driving into a dead tree was bloody funny. It was 11 pm and the ringers were in town.

It wasn’t till Sunday morning when talking to Sharon and Stefan that we learned the ringers are not allowed drink in the town limits so head over the other side of the water hole for festivities. In Stefan’s words, “it always ends in tears”.  Tonight, was no different with one of the young guns ending up with his bicep protruding from his arm. At least he got a flight ,without all the COVID checks, as the flying doctor came to pick him up.

After a chat, we grabbed a fantastic bacon and egg roll washed down with French plunger coffee and some tea from the tin shed beside the service station. Local girl Gemma, has set up a burgeoning little business and is going great guns.

We turned Puma east for the 630 kilometres hike to Quilpie. Since last passing we noticed that the countryside was considerably greener, looking most unlike western Queensland. Road trains were the order of the day with at least six heading towards us and four heading our way. They were only outdone by a group of hopefuls driving a Jucy Van towards Birdsville. Natural selection has many facets. They should be found in the next month or so, we suspect.

Finding ourselves behind one such beast towing three double decks of cattle, we sat patiently. Then with a flash of his indicator it was on. We knew there was an opportunity to overtake. Puma wound up ,headed off the narrow bitumen onto the gravel roads edge. Noticing a fast approaching guidepost wanting to share our territory, Puma headed further out. She rounded the post on the bush side and began to move back to the bitumen just as an unseen erosion hump loomed. Puma jagged left, clipped the hump, got a bit of air then settled back down to normality. Puma Airways – guaranteed to get you there one way or another.

A call on the CB to the truckie suggested we had not seen the hump. He replied with a raucous laugh that he had not either and noted that Puma was pretty good at off-roading.

The day worn on. Somewhere along the way we came across the hole in the hill again. It became apparent that the local councils had not yet had a chance to fix the hole, so it remained, as the sign said, a point of interest.

Not much more happened as the miles accumulated. Puma hummed along. Peter and G feasted on a four-course meal for lunch; Chicos, Minties, Raspberries and Cashews. Four of the five food groups in one meal. We were on fire.

Quilpie arrived in good time. We set up camp in town, ate at the Bowls Club, coffeed at the Empire Café and headed off to sleep.

Our trip to from Quilpie to Charleville started with a brilliant bacon and egg sandwich at the equally brilliant Empire Café in town. Some good coffee and tea. We were set.

Any other travellers would head down the lovely bitumen to the big city; not us. We headed the Black Road to Adavale. Adavale is not for everyone. Built on a flood plain, it has few buildings these days, but the cemetery was recommended to us as a must see.

We headed a kilometre or so out of town past the new sign saying ‘Patisserie’, finding the paddock strewn with graves in mostly disrepair. Reading the engraved headstones gave some insight into Adavale bygone. Most who had died had not made it past about 50. A disproportionate number had died as children. Hard not to feel saddened by the tough life they must have endured.

A quick yarn to the local police officer and we were off on the 180-kilometre trip into Charleville. Nothing stood out on this section other than road works with no signage or direction. We picked our own path, not raising any swear words from the workers so it must have been the intended road.

By the time we reached Charleville we were famished. We entered one café and said, ‘no way’. We entered the next, ordered food and wished with all our wishing power that we had eaten at the one G and Pete rejected. The burger stayed hardened in our stomachs for the remainder of the afternoon. There are no words to describe how bad this swill was.

As we pulled up at the bush somethingorother camp, G mentioned something was squeaking. Given, when the Atomic tests were conducted at Maralinga, G turned slowly and said “did you hear something”, Peter knew something was not surely right with his beloved Puma. A quick look revealed both rear brake backing plates had cracked and shattered with the thousands of kilometres of corrugations. A better than good time removal of the plates brought Puma back to fully operability and ready to take on the next stage of our adventure.

Exhausted we went to sleep; and it rained! That bloody ancestor!

Birdsville or bust. The rain overnight had dampened the campground just enough to worry us as to what the roads may be like for the remaining 311 kilometres to Birdsville.

As we headed north, we began to encounter bog holes, medium sized bog holes and some really big bog holes. We managed to negotiate all without issue ,indeed admiring the efforts of lady driving a Commodore towards us, having obviously negotiated similar obstacles in two wheel drive on road tyres. She obviously knew the country and her car. Hats off.

Happening upon a water truck and grader ahead, we took little heed. Little heed until the road became like a skating rink. As we got closer, we saw the grader was in fact ripping up the road surface and the truck was drenching the soft clay. A few interesting moments came our way as we picked our passing opportunities very carefully and continued on.

The environment changed constantly. Often barren, with even gibbers not able to eke out a decent existence. Often lush with desert foliage flourishing and usually dry lakes full of water. The roads changed also. One moment bone jarring corrugations, the next ,slippery mud and clay. Tuning out at the wheel was not an option.

As we approached a fairly low-key mud hole, we noticed a jet-black Holden Commodore SS pulled up on the other side. The driver was out of the car examining the muddy mess. He told us he was considering whether he should put some rocks in the hole before driving through it. Bernie convinced him it would be OK and that we would stay to make sure he got through. With warnings given of the bog holes to come, he and his young family set sail ever south, hoping to make Mungeranie by days end.

The mention of a few slippery bits ahead of us from out mud hole mate, proved to be true. We came upon a ten plus kilometre section of light -coloured, dry looking, wet slop. The moment the tyres broke the surface it was game on, with constant steering inputs needed to keep Puma and the Toyota headed towards Birdsville instead exiting into the bush.

Early afternoon we crossed the SA / Qld border. Annette and G breathed a huge sigh of relief to be back in the good state. We all felt a bit more at home despite being 1600 kilometres from our houses.

Through COVID checks at the Windorah turn-off and we were in Birdsville. We were greeted warmly by Trevor, Sue and Maxi. We spent hours telling stories, drinking wine, having dinner and catching up.

A phone call from the local police during dinner inquired whether or not we had seen a jet-black SS Commodore on the Birdsville Track. Our hearts sank as we could all picture the lad and his family having to spend a cold night alone on the side of the road; hungry and very much on edge. As Peter prepared to drive down the track with Stefan, a second call told us the stricken family had made it safely to Mungeranie.

With Bernie and Annette heading home Saturday and Trevor, Sue and Maxi heading to the Diamantina Lakes National Park, we headed off to bed at a reasonable hour. None of us heard it, but Annette asked the next morning if we had heard her scream overnight.  Apparently at about 10 pm Annette heard a scratching noise on top of the swag. She awoke fully to spy a rat trying to gain access. Annette’s scream woke Bernie who dispatched the rat with one well timed backhander. Annette did not sleep a wink for fear of another rat attack. Bernie returned to a sound sleep despite having only half an inch of mattress for Annette was not returning to the side of the swag from whence the would-be intruder came.

Saturday morning, we said our good-byes, wished each other well and watched as the Toyota and 130 Defender headed their separate ways. Peter and G spent the day cleaning, washing and doing stuff you just have to do when travelling in preparation for moving on Sunday.

The trip from William Creek to Mungeranie was just another scoot day. We drove the 200 or so kilometres to Maree in good time, stopping only to have a look over Lake Eyre South where it kisses the track momentarily. Stunning as it always is, with the salt surface mimicking water, we cruised on.

Maree is a must stop, if only for fuel, before typically taking on either the Birdsville Track to the north or the Strzelecki Track to the north east. Our previous experiences in Maree had been mixed. They had swayed between slightly bad and really rotten. Today however would be so very different.

Initially a bit standoffish, the lady serving us in the service station delivered arguably some of the best bacon and egg sandwiches any of us had ever eaten. None left but a single crumb on the plate. Maree had redeemed itself at the hands of one lovely lady who knew how to win us over.

Our progress to Mungeranie was predictable, if not exciting. Gravel road of varying surface, with ever changing countryside to admire. Flat top hills were common, as were lakes devoid of water. Interestingly though, some did have water this year. A rare event indeed.

We rolled in to the Mungeranie Hotel latish afternoon. Greeted warmly, we were told by the volunteer barman to camp anywhere and camping was free. We set up near the wetlands (read, smelly almost stagnant water hole) before heading to the bar to have a lovely aged Coke and a truly, awfully aged wine.

Our time at the bar was entertaining and educational. We learned that COVID could be sorted if we went to a herd mentality model, wipe out a couple of million and then have no unemployment. We had to agree the numbers added up.

Soon enough we headed off to bed as the thunder clouds gathered and let us know we were at the mercy of the ancestor yet again. G did not sleep this night. As it started to rain, she had fully awake nightmares of us being stranded again, but this time in Mungeranie, beside a smelly, almost stagnant waterhole with not a 38-degree thermal spring in sight.

Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, a full five days after arriving in Dalhousie Springs, we got the news from Graham that the roads were open in all directions. Given the time of day, the distance to Oodnadatta and the interesting environmental influences roaming at night, we decided to have one more swim in the warm spring and head off the next morning.

Wednesday blossomed almost cloudless. We wasted little time driving out of paradise into the unknown. We knew the roads would still be a bit wet here and there. We didn’t expect what we encountered. At first the track wound around a landscape of small dunes, significant vegetation and at Dalhousie ruins, massive palm trees.

The ruins were a history lesson. A picture of what life must have been like way back when. We assumed they decided to set up house in a  good season, for there was no good reason to exist our here at any other time. We discovered a sign telling us of a ‘deeply spiritual well’ nearby. Dutifully, we examined the well and learned it’s spirituality extended to a rotten hole in the ground covered by a steel grate and overgrown with reeds. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of such deep spirituality, the hair stood up on the back of our necks like ridgebacks at doggy day care!

We ventured on with a late morning tea planned for Oodnadatta. We soon realised that progress was slow with endless bog holes to negotiate. Morning tea would certainly be a latish lunch.

The vastness of the outback plays tricks on everyone after a while. Today was no different. In disbelief, we encountered a lovely new NO ENTRY sign on the right of the track. Beyond the sign was a freshly prepared dirt road leading to a small shelter of some kind. In any other part of the world you’d swear it was a bus stop. Perhaps it was a road crew’s way of having a bit of fun, but in any court, the sign had no place being there.

With Bernie and Annette in front, the big Toyota paused at the sign then elected to do the right thing and not enter past the sign. The alternative track however, had what seemed an innocuous section of mud to negotiate. The Toyota started well but then sank deep with all forward movement stopping instantly. We are sure someone was watching, chuckling, saying “got another one. That NO ENTRY sign is worth its weight in gold”. A quick tug from Puma and the beast was again free to roam the road south to the Pink Roadhouse.

The remainder of the trek to Oodnadatta was uneventful, save a few detours off the main track to self-made ones, avoiding deep mud. At about lunch time and a bit, we arrived at the iconic Pink Roadhouse. We ate good food, drank average tea and coffee and very nearly forgot to get gas refilled. As we left ,the owner approached Peter and G asking who owned Puma. When he learned it was us, he told us in true believer style, that he had never had a Landrover come to his garage for a breakdown yet had had very many Toyotas. Puma smiled a knowing smile and we were on our way.

On the famous Oodnadatta Track our speed picked up. A track it may have been a hundred years ago. Now it was a veritable highway, only undermined by occasional stretches of corrugations. We made good time, not stopping for much as we had been here a few times before. Still, the remnants of the Old Ghan rail line earnt an occasional stop and a more frequent slow down as we made good miles towards William Creek.

There are good businesspeople and there are really good businesspeople. We reckoned the bloke who now owns all of William Creek township is in the second category. In a location about 200 kilometres from the nearest anything, he has turned the pub into a ‘must stop’ location. It provides exceptional service, great food and an extremely welcoming atmosphere. Couple that with a really decent campground and amenities, a cracking air strip and you have a great business. Additionally, he runs flights over Lake Eyre. In the normal non-COVID year he employs 40 people. This year it is only eight.

We had driven hard today. We needed too, as yet again the rain ancestor was chasing us with predicted storms and rain threatening to cut off our progress. We needed to keep moving east.

Graham, the Dalhousie volunteer ranger, is a great man. A great man with continued bad news. Friday, he told us that if it did not rain, we may get out Sunday. Saturday, he told us that they would revaluate road conditions on Monday. We were at Dalhousie Springs for a fair stay.

All was not lost. We had toilets, rank as they were. We had a hot spring to bathe in each day; multiple times. We had fine weather and we had Adam.

Adam was the leader of a group of campers in a similar predicament to us. Arriving just ahead of us on Thursday, it was their tracks we had followed. Adam was a Queenslander, being the owner of an earthmoving business. He only drank rum, but brought some beer for Justin, as he called it. (Just in case).

Adam liked a chat. Adam loved a chat; with Adam doing the chatting. We learned of his busines, his life and a lot about his vehicles. He had a massively raised Jeep on this trip, a Toyota Tundra at home and five show level Harley’s.

He told us in detail of his Harleys. How the wheels were coated in rose gold, how they had been bobbed and raked and built. The detail was not skimped upon. Adam was a great bloke with a love of life.

Adam, his mates and all the other travellers stuck in this desert paradise, made the best of a bad situation. We were forced to relax and enjoy good old-fashioned conversation. Life was good.

Sunday, like the days prior, presented with a cold wind, but cloudless sky. Our hopes for escape rose considerably. Being ever the romantic, Bernie whipped out a stunning compliment to Annette to kick start her day. In his mind, the showerless days in the desert, combined with a daily dip in the hot spring had given her a radiance he had not recently seen. This, combined with the alluring wispiness of her unwashed hair, the likes Rod Stewart would pay thousands for, was obviously tickling his fancy. This was the foundation for lasting love.

Sunday turned to Monday, each day with the almost promise of the roads opening. Graham, the volunteer ranger, was a gent. He politely told us the bosses in Port Augusta had decided not to open the roads……again. We questioned the foolishness of this decision as the camp had now grown to over 50 people. Another week here and we collectively were going to be a big problem to the SA government.

Monday turned to Tuesday with the same news. Adams mob and another could bare it no longer. With no smokes or alcohol left, they decided it was a genuine emergency to leave. They did so via closed roads. Their fate is at this stage still unknown.

More swims in our very own heated spring followed. Yarns with other groups increased. Newcomers from the closed Oodnadatta end did us no favours by arriving via closed roads.

With clouds gathering heavily on Tuesday afternoon, nerves were getting on edge. We needed to get out before the roads got drenched again. Time was not on our side. Topping off confusion and poor management of the situation, a group came to camp saying they had left Mt Dare with not a road closed sign in sight and had been invited along the road by a grader driver working on it. Puma was starting to get a bit catty over the entire situation.

Lynnie Junction to Dalhousie.

The next morning was bitterly cold. We mean true cold. Not the Queenslander, I think it’s cold but really, it’s still 25 degrees cold. True cold. Stinging wind, spitting rain with drops the size buckets and skin shrunken to where wrinkles had vanished, amongst other things.

The cars dutifully started without complaint as we again prepared to head west. First ,we had to back track two kilometres, then head up the Coulson Track for 20 kilometres to meet the French Line. Accomplished in short time, we started to have good feelings about the day ahead, although the threat of bad rain remained.

Not that long after turning onto the French line and lunching at Purnie Bore, where again the going was slow with steep, twisty dunes being the order of the day, we heard another party on the CB headed toward us. After a good half an hour we came upon a trio of vehicles led by a VW Transporter van with road tyres and no suspension lift. The radio transmissions we had been hearing referring to taking the tops off dunes now became understandable. We are pretty sure the aspirations of this driver outweighed his yet to be realised reality. His scant mention of having fun in the mud if it rains fell on our deaf ears.

Just as we organised a passing spot and began a trackside yarn with the trio, it hailed. Not big hail mind, but hail, nonetheless. Today was beginning to turn to big dingo poo! We ventured on. The track, in lower spots, became wet. Wet then muddy. Wet then muddy then sloppy. Still we marched on in the bitter wind and almost sleet filled rain showers.

Dalhousie Springs was always our destination for today. The promise of a 38-degree bath in the spring after days of questionable hygiene in the desert, remained a strong determiner.

Cresting a small sand dune reality hit. We were faced with the first of what, we had no idea, were innumerable lakes as far as we could see. The road was defined by only a raised graded edge to the left. The massive rainstorm an hour earlier had changed the landscape for an indeterminable period. Decision time!

We considered heavily turning on our heel and going back the Rig Road, then down the K1 line to the Birdsville Track. This option, whilst possiblly the safest, also risked us running out of fuel. After some deep thought and a few plans of how to tackle it, we decided that ‘if its flooded forget it’, whilst a lovely, feel good message, is sometimes not applicable. Staying in the flooded desert for what would likely be many days, was not an option. We determined that the safety of Mt Dare was still our daily target.

Into the unknown. We travelled section by section. Once one vehicle had cleared the obstacle ahead, the second would come through. We followed where necessary, the fresh tracks of some vehicles ahead, although we had no sight of them. The cars pushed on. Often in deep mud with certainty that at any moment we would sink to an unrecoverable bog. Mostly we elected to stick to the road, reasoning that if it held water, the bottom was at least hard.

We are unsure of how many hours our ordeal went on. We approximate about 70 kilometres, but time and distance had no correlation this afternoon. Water continued to smash up over our bonnets as any thought of slowing out of the ideal rev range was folly and certain stoppage. We continued on; without any confidence at all.

As we finally saw an end near. We risked a joke that we had been sideways more than straight for the entire distance. Then it happened. In what can only be called dingo poo sized dumbass decision, Peter elected to take a side-track as it looked better than the now proven submerged main track. All was good until it wasn’t. Puma went down like a big cat on field mouse. She sat unable to move until the magic of snatch straps launched her back to dominance of her natural environment.

We sloshed our way into Dalhousie Springs, certain we only had 70 kilometres and a couple of hours to go to Mt Dare, a hot shower and a great pub feed. 

Pretty bright orange is not our favourite colour. Pretty it may be, but it dictates the colour of the little flags lined up on a string across the road accompanied by a road closed sign. Dalhousie was as far as we were going. We quickly learnt that the road from Mt Dare to Oodnadatta was closed and it is policy to close the Dalhousie to Mt Dare road in sympathy.

We set up camp, got bitterly cold again and suffered persistent rain all night. The campground was a quagmire. A trip to the toilets was…….bugger it, just cross your legs. All was not good in the world.

Back on the famous French Line, our morning progress slowed considerably. Not hard at all, but second gear was the order of the day as the dunes became steeper with switchbacks on the crests thrown in to keep us awake. Camel poo prevailed, but still no camels. We did consider whether our poo identification prowess was lacking and that maybe it was the creation of a dingo. Deciding that it would have to be one hell big of a dingo to leave deposits of such magnitude, we elected to go with our first view and continued the lookout for camels.

A couple of hours passed before we ventured upon the left turn to the Approdinna Attora Knolls, but a few short kilometres away. The ground hardened appreciably, white rocks strutted out of the surface and the world was a  different place to half an hour earlier.

The knolls are, well let’s face it, a pretty sad excuse for a broken-down hill of no magnificence. There is a couple of them so they don’t get lonely so far from civilisation, but wasting ink to mark off the bucket list is not advised. Still, a walk up revealed a good look at a nearby salt pan and let us see the build-up in the skies of what was to come. Before departing we read about how the rain ancestor hung out around these parts. Not out of bed today, we had no idea yet what a grudge this bloke could hold.

Heading south, we lunched at a wide part of the track, fixed a wiring connection on the Toyota and plodded ever so relentlessly to meet the Rig Road, before heading west again.

An hour or so more, but who’s counting in the desert, we came upon the Lone Gum. Not only does this single tree offer evidence of the ability of plants to survive where they shouldn’t, it marked the turn left to head south once again keeping true to the Rig Road. We noticed that the lovely purple flowers were no longer, clearly not liking this part of the desert. The white ones prevailed. A few yellow popped their heads up for effect.

Driving between the dunes, the going should have been easier. Who would have thought that corrugations would prevail to such an extent in a world full of soft sand? The dunes here were lower, with the track occasionally popping over one or two just for fun and often traversing the top of a dune for a kilometre or two.

As we once again turned west, we knew this day was going to be one to remember. The sky now was black. It came in dark black, dark blackish grey and jet black. There was no blue. The sun was yesterday’s news. We all knew that making a mile was priority one at this stage.

Initially our goal became traversing the long Rig Road, 48 kilometre straight, directly into steeper sand dunes to make it just on dark to the point where road again turns northish. With concerted effort we made it to that point, found a possible camp spot then realised that the lovely area protected from wind was a small clay pan. With rain a certainty and heavy rain a likelihood, playing in clay was about as uncool as we could get.

The environment, our safety and the warmth of our respective cars dictated we continued on to the supposed relative safety of Lynnie Junction where the Rig Road meets the WAA line. Every trip has at least one epic driving sequence. This was one. With spotlights turning night into day, we punched north with the wind howling and the rain ever more threatening. The night had an eerie feel. We individually and collectively felt just a little bit vulnerable as the endless corrugations shook any decency out of us.

Finally, the junction came. We grabbed a camp spot. Threw our tents up and cooked a dinner in quick time. Our tents had been set up to combat the south-westerly wind. Sometime around, I’m almost asleep but not quite’, it changed entirely and smashed us all night from the north east, in what was a night of wondering if we would do a Harry Potter and fly across the landscape ending up in Western Australia.

With no urgency required, the crew gathered slowly on a fairly mild morning to bid farewell to Birdsville. At about 9.30am we parked the three vehicles outside the Birdsville Pub for the iconic, if not, well overdone photo. Just as we thought how fantastic Puma and her mates looked, we were rightly outdone by a group of 1920’s Whippets that had travelled to Birdsville over the same roads we had.

With no way to match the achievements of the motoring relics, we headed for a scrumptious breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and quite decent coffee in the hotel dining room. We commented that the west has COVID sorted to a degree the coast could only hope too. Sign in before you enter, sanitise as you enter, sit apart from other groups; these businesses are taking it very seriously. Consequently, no COVID in Birdsville!

10.30am or so came and went as we finally left electricity, flushing toilets and phone coverage behind and headed west. About half an hour later we halted at the base of Little Red, dropped our tyre pressures a bit for the deep sand we would encounter, then headed up and over the first of nearly 1100 sand dunes to come. We elected to leave Big Red to those who needed to prove size matters.

A bit of past experience told us that the second sand dune in the desert, sometimes called ‘Nemesis’ is by far the most difficult to get over. Being long, soft and typically rutted deeply, it did not disappoint today. Each of us had to have more than one crack at it with the 130 dual cab needing a bit of a tug to make the monster. As the group negotiated the beast Peter had an extremely proud husband moment with G jumping in the drivers’ seat and making mincemeat of some difficult dunes.

We were blessed this year with the entire desert being covered with flowers. We had seen it bare bones, as a desert is usually imagined. We had seen water in Eyre Creek, but never had we seen floral coverage of this magnitude. Bright yellows, whites and purples adorned the entire landscape. Privileged, is the word that came to mind.

As we punted up and over a few more dunes we heard the fateful crackle of Sue’s voice on the CB. The words “we may have a problem’ sent shivers down out spines. We headed back to find that the 130 had lost all drive with a blown clutch. We rested to let it cool down in the lost hope that it would spring back into life and Trevor and the girls could continue with us. Half an hour passed before an official diagnosis revealed the clutch was best described as a cousin of Wallaby Ted – ‘Roo Ted’.

With nothing left to do but call Birdsville Garage for assistance, we settled in for the afternoon. If you have to break down, drinking wine, eating cheese and having a yarn is not a bad way to spend some hours. We elected to stay together as a group until rescue the next morning.

At about 8.30am the burble of the Birdsville Garage petrol Landcruiser ute was heard coming over the dunes. After a bit of a chat, followed by Stefan, the Birdsville Police Officer coming for a look, the 130 was hooked up and launched up and over the dunes, towed by the Landcruiser, off to the home of clutch rehabilitation.

With two vehicles now left in the party, Bernie, Annette, G and Peter headed west towards Poeppel Corner. Legend has it that the Simpson Desert is an unimaginably difficult 4wd drive adventure. Truth is it can be a bit boring. The repetition of toddle along the track, see sand dune, change to low range third, accelerate, crest and roll down the other side can become monotonous. Seasoned as we are, calls of ‘there’s dingo footprints’, or ‘that was camel poo, we must be close to seeing a camel’, can make the monotony disappear.

Soon enough we crested a dune to see the amazing vision of Lake Poeppel. Not a big lake by any measure of inland salt lakes in Australia, the crossing of this one is critical to any desert adventure. Not only does it take you to the bucket list visit to the pole indicating the meeting of Queensland, South Australia and Northern Territory, it dictates there is one track across. Wander left or right off the track and you are guaranteed to sink the car to the axles and be there for a very long time. The lake never really dries out, it just looks like it is.

With the visit to the meeting of the states done, including acknowledging the original point was incorrect due to a worn-out measuring chain, we headed into the desert again to seek out a camping spot.

In short term a cracker of a camp was found. Flat and protected, the Simpson had given us a gift for the toils of a long day driving. A fire, wine, stars and chocolate ended a great day.

Today was always planned. A rest day in Birdsville, chilling out, waiting for our friends Annnette and Bernie to arrive.

Instead, a long day was spent by Peter and Trevor fixing annoying niggles with the cars. Peter had packed his roof rack with too much rearward emphasis and Trevor could not for the life of him fix his rear lights.

The girls did a bit of housekeeping before the big Toyota split the air. Coffee, wine, munchies, dinner and sleep were next on the agenda.

Other that that the %%&^&$ Hema ran flat again and G and Peter visited the local police officer and his wife for a bit. Stephan and Sharon, as always were welcoming and filled us in on the Birdsville news.

No pictures today. As of tomorrow (Monday 3rd August) we will be off air for about 10 days or more as we enter the Simpson Desert. Will be back blogging as soon as we can.