Waking well before daylight we realised that Jobs Gate rest area was just as sparse in the morning as it was at night. Still, it had served a purpose and we were soon underway towards Bourke.
We noted that the road was straight, the cattle were fat, the goats were fat, and the roos were nowhere to be seen. We did however, come across one really big goat. As we slowed for a couple of cute little kids (goat kids, not human kids) checking out the centre of the road, a huge billy goat came over the horizon flat out. He was clearly not happy. Peter flashed his headlights to warn him that he was about to skittle two innocent kids, but to no avail. He ploughed on towards us, tempting doom.
In seconds the billy goat in his Landcruiser ute had passed. He missed us and the two littluns by mere inches. In fact, Peter was convinced it was just one inch, as G raised her finger to indicate same to billy goat as he flew by. Yes, goats are pests and a declared feral species. Billy’s deliberate attempt to kill them with his ute though was pure idiot, eroding our faith in decency. Perhaps he a member of the NSW Origin team.
Bourke was Bourke. We fuelled up and continued to Cobar.
This is one town that belies its reputation. Known for everything bad, it again impressed us with its services, cleanliness, and quaint persona. Whilst fuelling in Cobar, Peter noticed a bloke in a Ford Ranger towing a caravan. He was reefing his bull bar back and forth. It looked, let’s say, unstable. Peter jokingly offered him an Ocky strap to fix it. He turned and said in a very frustrated tone, “I can’t believe I just did that. I drove in here and drove straight into the post over there. I didn’t even see it. I’m going to Alice. I won’t %$%^& make it if I keep this up.” Peter made sure he laughed with his newfound mate, not at him. It was bloody funny!
Road works were the highlight of the afternoon. They were not fantastic roadworks; however, they broke the boredom of long straight roads as we headed towards Wilcannia with no intention of camping within 50 km of that inland icon. We set up shop at Baden Something rest area, settling in for a quite night among the short stubby trees just of the highway.
Puma had performed well today. She is pulling like a train on the hills and Gstring is tenaciously hanging on like; dare we say it, a Gstring. All is good in the mechanical world, yet not that good we don’t say a little Landrover prayer each night before hitting the hay.