As if dancing demons were joining hands

Day: 207 Stage three / total expedition days 598

Sunrise:
05:23

Sunset:
18:51

As the crow flies:
22,3

Daily kilometers:
28

Total kilometers:
6101 km

Temperature - Day (maximum):
40° degrees, sun approx. 60°

Temperature - Night:
16.9° degrees

Latitude:
22°14'04.5"

Longitude:
146°10'42.6"

Heart Leaf Bypass Camp – 09.12.2002

A few hundred meters before the homestead of Jochmus Station, we turn onto a narrow track to the east. A hand-painted sign tells us that this is the way to Doongmabulla. Bob from Eastmere suggested this shortcut. Large clearings reveal how hard the station owners work here to turn scrubland into grazing land. As hardly any grass grows in the shade of the trees, the cattle breeders here are forced to take such measures in order to survive. Thousands of tree corpses are scattered across the now open land, so that we are more or less walking through dead land. No cattle can be spotted on the open plain. As on many stations in Queensland, the huge herds have been evacuated. The merciless drought has even destroyed the grass, which is why the cattle have absolutely nothing left to eat. It is an unpleasant sight that we find difficult to get used to.

Again, far away from any human life, we march through the inhumanly hot bush landscape. We stop the caravan at least every 15 minutes to moisten our dry mouths with a few sips of water from the drinking bags. As we walk, I keep glancing at the GPS to make sure that this snaking track isn’t taking us in the wrong direction. “How fast are we going?” Tanja asks. “5.5 kilometers per hour,” I reply and am surprised that our bodies can keep up this tight marching speed.

THE LAND OF DEADLY POISONOUS PLANTS

As is so often the case, the vegetation suddenly changes. We reach the Shuttleworth Bore at Doongmabulla Station. There are thousands of cattle here again. A few hundred of them gather around the local watering hole. “Hold this, please,” I say to Tanja, hand her the lead line and look for a way through the maze of fences for the caravan. “We can water our boys over there,” I say as I come back and lead Sebastian through two open fence gates to a long water trough. “Take a look! There’s a ute over there,” Tanja points me to a jeep parked next to a water tank. It takes some time for the driver to spot us. Then he comes to us. “Didn’t think I’d meet you,” he says and introduces himself. It’s Cleve, who Tanja spoke to on the phone a few days ago to ask him about the Heart Leaf situation on his ward. According to the surrounding farms, we are in the center of the poisonous plant. “How can you keep so many cattle in the poisonous plant country?” Tanja wants to know. “When the cattle have other greens to eat, they hardly snack on the Desert Poison Bush and now during the drought it is not quite so poisonous. Nevertheless, we keep losing some. Look,” he says, pointing to a few dead animals lying around in a crooked position not far from the water trough. “Ultimately, it’s a matter of management. The Desert Poison Bush is absolutely deadly after a rain. Just when it is sprouting fresh green. We have to try to move the cattle to other fencing where there are no poisonous plants before this time. However, if they have eaten from them, we must not move them around under any circumstances. Any kind of stress or movement will kill them with one hundred percent certainty. So we need to have a good sense of doing the right thing at the right time,” he explains.

“Where does the Heart Leaf grow?” Tanja continues to ask. “You’re still relatively safe for the next 10 kilometers, then you have to be careful. It’s best not to move far away from the track. The Heart Leaf Bush grows in groups. However, I cannot and do not want to guarantee that there will be a few specimens in the next 10 kilometers,” he warns us.

We say goodbye to Cleve and walk on. We let our eyes circle attentively through the bush landscape to spot one of the poison bushes. As far as our eyes can see, we hardly discover anything for our camels to eat. “I wonder how the cattle survive here?” I say thoughtfully. It’s long past time to hide from the rising midday heat in a camp, but the dying vegetation forces us onwards and upwards. 1 ½ hours have passed since we spoke to Cleve. In order not to end up in the poisonous land he describes, we are forced to stop soon. I now carefully lead the caravan down the embankment of a dry creek bed. Suddenly I discover lots of lush trees and plenty of shade. I am tempted to set up camp here, but a vague feeling drives me on. Minutes later, I’m annoyed not to have set up camp next to the creek bed. I could still decide to turn back, but I don’t want to go back. As I walk, I search intently for edible bushes to the left and right of the path. “Let’s leave the track,” I decide and pull the animals to the northwest. We step into a hollow. The leaves on the trees look better down here again. Apparently the water from the surrounding gentle hills runs into this depression, which is why the roots of the bushes and trees get more water.

“Over there! That looks like a gidyea forest!” I shout joyfully, pointing to my discovery. “Yes, wonderful,” Tanja cheers. Although no Heart Leaf grows in the Gidyea area, Tanja immediately ties our camels to the feeding trees after unloading. “Better safe than sorry,” she says, and she’s right. The risk of losing one of our boys here through poisoning is simply too high.

WAS IT THE RUMBLING OF A CAMEL’S STOMACH?

In the late afternoon, dark storm clouds gather for the first time in a long time. “Will it rain?” Tanja asks. “Hm, I don’t know,” I reply and study the sky. It looks like the cloud front in front of our camp is splitting.

Some of the cloud towers move just past us in a north-westerly direction. Another aggressive-looking cloud formation seems to be bypassing our camp from east to south. “I think we’re in luck,” I say and place a few twigs in the Thermet’s fire opening. It doesn’t take long for the water to boil. So as not to burn my fingers, I lift the hot thermet under our protective foil with a welding glove and fill up our thermos flasks. I pour the rest of the water into the bags with the freeze-dried equestrian food that we eat alongside the delicious tasting organic products from Rapunzel. It doesn’t take long before we enjoy dinner. Rrrrooohhhrrrr! We hear a distant grumble. “What was that?” I ask, looking up in shock. “I think it’s thundering,” answers Tanja. “It’s thundering? I don’t think so. It sounded more like one of the camel’s stomachs was rumbling.” “No, I think it was distant thunder.” “Hm, maybe,” I reply and look at the sky again. The two cloud fronts embracing us do indeed look threatening. I’m just about to sit down again when I see a flash of lightning through the clouds in the corner of my eye. I remain spellbound. In fact, the first flash is followed by many more of the glistening streams of energy. Its white, soon biting light cuts through the black-blue cloud mountains for a few seconds. Rrrrooohhhrrrr, we hear it again. “Definitely not a camel’s stomach,” I realize and sit down.

“Do you think it’s coming over us?” “You mean is it going to rain?” I ask. “Yes.” It gives me the impression of a local thunderstorm. If the clouds continue to disperse like this, we’ll be spared,’ I reply again confidently. Now a little tense, I spoon up my tasty dinner. After the bag is empty, I still feel very hungry. “Do we have anything sweet?” I ask. “Let me think about it. You can eat a few more nuts and drink some cocoa.” “Give me that,” I say like a lion about to pounce on its prey. Rrrrooooooohhhrrrr…! Rrrrrrrrrrooohhhrrrr…! Rrrrooohhhrrrr, it thunders again and again as I throw a packet of rapunzel nuts behind my gills.

The low-lying sun squeezes through a few gaps in the clouds and illuminates our camp and the gidyea forest in dramatic but soft golden colors. We are fascinated by the play of colors and the unusual tranquility. Is it the calm before the storm? It crosses my brain. I put my thoughts to one side and take a few photos of our camels feeding ravenously on the trees. Their brown fur shines in indescribable shades. In this unique moment, they appear as if they are beings from a long-forgotten time. Rrrrooohhhrrrr, it reminds us of heaven again. A light wind comes up. The protective film flutters and rattles above our heads. “I’ll set up the camp beds,” I say and prepare our camp for the night. Rufus has crawled under one of the saddles. Only his head sticks out. His alert, brown eyes watch me. Rrrrooohhhrrrr, it roars as it gets closer, whereupon Rufus ducks his head and can no longer be seen. Suddenly, the two cloud fronts behind our camp form a massive wall. I am shocked to see that they have now formed a circle above our heads. As if dancing demons were joining hands up there and squeezing the last bit of blue sky with their combined strength, the light disappears.

An unpleasant gust of wind tears the protective film considerably and before we know it, the first raindrops are falling on us. “The beds! We have to save the camp beds!” I shout and jump up with Tanja to carry them under the protective foil. During our bed rescue operation, the floodgates open and a torrent of unexpected moisture hits the sleeping bags. We haven’t seen rain like this since April. That will soon be eight months. This is probably the reason why we have hardly made any preparations to protect ourselves from it. Rain has become a foreign word for us, a fact that no longer seemed to exist in our lives, and now it’s suddenly hammering down from the sky for all we’re worth. “I’ll get our rain gear!” Tanja shouts to drown out the pattering. “Yes, that’s a good idea!” I reply, pulling everything that shouldn’t get wet under the protective film.

Thank goodness almost all our equipment is packed in Ortlieb bags and sacks, so we hardly have to worry about it at this stage. Rrrrooohhhrrrr! Rrrrooohhhrrrr, it thunders loudly above our heads. A violent storm blows the large raindrops vertically across the land. Although we are sitting under the foil, we are getting wet. Rufus lies trembling with fear under the camp beds. We still can’t quite grasp that it’s really raining. “My God! Look at that! The rain isn’t running off! Big puddles are forming around our camp!” I shout in horror, looking at the growing pools of water. “Oh shit!” Tanja swears, and since such words rarely come from her lips, they don’t help me to stay calm. We watch spellbound as the puddles grow into ever larger lakes within a few minutes. There is no earth to be seen where our beds were recently. The ground here is apparently so hard that the water has no way of draining away. It is also possible that the ground will not absorb these sudden masses of water. “If it keeps raining like this, we’ll drown here!” I shout, fighting against the drumming on the foil. “Should we load up the camels to escape from here to one of the nearby hills?” Tanja asks. “I don’t know. Maybe it will stop soon? Besides, we would then have to move on the slippery ground and it can’t be long before night falls,” I say uncertainly.

Tanja’s and my memories revolve around the terrible experiences we had in the Great Sandy Desert over a year ago. We almost drowned in the middle of the desert in a terrible 100-hour downpour. (Diary overview from 13.07.01-16.07.01, day 28-31 stage two). After a long battle against the floods, we survived, but one of our best camel friends, Goola, died of pneumonia.

Tanja and I look at each other. We can read the respective thoughts in our eyes. We try not to say what we’re thinking, but I can feel the clammy fingers of an unpleasant fear beginning to grip me. It can’t be long before the water surfaces reach our camp. Too bad, today our camp is located in a valley. “Ohhhh, when I think that I was about to set up camp next to the deep creek bed, I feel sick to my stomach,” I say, shivering. “Will this thunderstorm mean the end of the drought?” says Tanja. “I hope not,” I reply, looking spellbound at the water. One of the lakes is now only a meter away from us. It can only be moments before it spills over our toes. “What a bloody mess,” I grumble. The storm tears badly at the foil. Small rivulets flow through where it is sewn together. It drips on our chairs, on the table, on the plates and on us. In no time at all everything is wet and uncomfortable. Rufus looks like a watered poodle. The sun is no longer visible. She has left us and taken the daylight with her. “It’s good that we’ve left the Black Earth behind us,” Tanja says quietly. “Oh yes, very good. But it would be even better if this storm left us alone again before we drown here.”

No sooner have these words crossed my lips than the rain stops. As if someone had flipped the switch, it stops. At first speechless, we look under our foil into the darkening gidyea forest. “Will it come back?” Tanja asks. I step outside and look up. Directly above us is a clear blue sky. The storm moves on. Bright flashes of lightning and quivering thunder tell us that the storm is continuing. As if it were pulling the wind behind it like a cloak, it suddenly whirls wind through the forest. Branches break, the foil is about to tear, some equipment is thrown a few meters through the air and suddenly it is quiet. The air is crystal clear. The canopy of stars arches over our heads, as it does every evening. Tanja and I tidy up the camp and put the beds in a place where no lake has formed yet. Rufus shakes himself vigorously and is allowed to make himself comfortable under our beds. Tired and relieved not to have sunk into the water this time, we crawl into our sleeping bags for the first time in a long time. The storm has caused temperatures to drop by 10° degrees. I lie there with my eyes open and enjoy the young, freshly washed night. The rain suddenly awakens many animals from their torpor. Birds begin to chirp brightly and clearly. Crickets chirp and the camels chew their cud. I think about the stark contrasts of nature for some time. Destruction and death are only a hair’s breadth away from rebirth and life.