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.