The old postal route disappears into thin air

Day: 189 Stage three / total expedition days 580

Sunrise:
05:27

Sunset:
18:45

As the crow flies:
17,6

Daily kilometers:
27

Total kilometers:
5859 km

Temperature - Day (maximum):
38° degrees, sun approx. 60°

Temperature - Night:
18° degrees

Latitude:
22°57'52.3"

Longitude:
144°47'25.5"

Seat hump grinding camp – 11/21/2002

Today I wake up a few minutes before 03:00. I wake Tanja so that I don’t fall asleep again. Then, like every morning, I overcome my inner bastard and do my back exercises. Everything runs smoothly, except that fatigue is a constant and soon painful companion.

While loading, I examine Istan’s wound. Thankfully, it looks a little better and if Jafar’s wound doesn’t become infected again, it will hopefully heal soon.

Shortly after 06:00, we follow the old postal route again. We make good progress until we come across a gate with Vera Park written on it. “Camis udu!” I order and look at the sign. “Is Vera Park a national park?” I ask Tanja. “I don’t think so,” she replies and is about to open the gate. Suddenly I spot a movement in the distance. On closer inspection, I think I recognize a tractor. “Is he coming our way?” asks Tanja. I concentrate on the little thing to see where it is moving. ‘I think so,’ I reply after a while. “We’d better wait for him here. Maybe he’s the owner of Vera Park and can give us a few useful tips,” I say and sit down tiredly on the floor to wait.

Minutes later, the loudly hissing tractor door comes to a steaming halt next to us. A man in a ruff climbs out and greets us. We explain to him where we are going and ask if the old postal route leads through Vera Park. “I don’t know. It hasn’t been used for ages. You’re better off going north from here to Leebrook Station. From there it’s only 25 kilometers to the asphalt road that leads to Aramac.” “Tarmac road? A tarmac road is the last thing we want. According to my map, that would also be a huge detour,” I reply. “You have a map?” “Sure, you’ll look pretty old out here without a map,” I joke. “Let me see,” says the man, whereupon I pull the card from Sebastian’s saddle. “So, you’re up there,” he says, pointing to a spot at least five kilometers away from our current position. “What, up there? That can’t be,’ I reply, startled. “You’d better go to the Leebrook homestead. It’s easy from there.” “But that’s a detour of at least 50 to 70 kilometers. We’ll need two to three days longer for that!” I say, controlling my rising emotions. “It’s better to go this way. You won’t get lost there.” “We have now walked almost 6000 kilometers through this country. I don’t think we’ll get lost here.” “But on the other side of Leebrook there’s no gate in the border fence as far as I know,” the man replies. “We’ll find a way,” I reply, not wanting to tell him that I would have to put the fence down and rebuild it if necessary. “All right then. So when you go through the gate here, keep to the right. Then follow a track to the north and when it forks go south. There you will come to the fence. You follow it north for about two to three hundred meters until you come across an old gate,” he explains, drawing a rather confusing map in the dust with his fingers. “Okay,” I reply, understanding nothing of what he was trying to explain. Since he misinterpreted our position on the map so terribly, I find it hard to believe his description anyway. Too often in recent years we have been sent down the wrong track and too often we have been given useless, misleading information. We say goodbye as quickly as politeness allows and follow the track further east.

Just one kilometer later, we reach a natural waterhole in a side arm of Aramac Creek. As we don’t know what lies ahead, we take the opportunity to water our camels. Although they had just had a good drink the day before yesterday, we lug 30 ten-liter buckets to them until they are finally satisfied.

We have just finished when another jeep pulls up next to the waterhole. The driver gets out to greet us. “There’s a much better waterhole about three kilometers from here. You should water your animals there,” he suggests. “Thank you very much, but our camels are already full,” Tanja replies kindly. “Do you know if this is the old post road to Aramac?” I want to know, just to be sure. “I have no idea. I’m just helping out on this station. But if you follow the main path, you’ll come to a farm. There must be a connection to Aramac from there. Don’t forget to just follow the main track. You can’t miss it and you can’t get lost,” he recommends and then drives off again.

When we come to a fork in the road 15 minutes later, a few lanes lead south. Only an old, barely visible track winds its way eastwards. Following the jeep driver’s recommendation, we take the main path, which is actually impossible to miss. However, it doesn’t take long before an unpleasant feeling forces me to get the GPS out of my pocket. Annoyed, I realize that I’m still heading south instead of east. Was the barely visible path the right one? Another hour passes and we have not come a single meter closer to the village of Aramac. I’m thinking about turning back. But who knows whether the barely visible track actually leads east? It is easy for it to meander quickly in the wrong direction or even get lost in the dust.

Apart from that, one hour there and one hour back means a run of about 10 kilometers. An extremely unpleasant thought for me. I’m annoyed that I didn’t enter a more precise navigation into the computer last night. However, I had no way of knowing that this postal route, which is shown on the map, forks so often. Maybe we lost track of him yesterday?

“When are you finally going to set up camp?” Tanja asks, exhausted. Since she doesn’t yet know that we are moving in the wrong direction, I have to depress her even more. “Oh no! Does that mean we have to turn back?” “I don’t think so. We can still make our way to our path in a cross-country run,” I reply. Another half hour later, my decision is made. We leave the track that has barely brought us a few meters closer to our destination and walk across land overgrown with prickly, dried-up bushes. We cross a few creeks where the sun makes our blood boil in our veins and find a campsite under a group of gidyea trees on the other side. Exhausted and disappointed not to have come very far today, we set up camp.

HARDIE’S INJURED SITTING HUMP CUTS INTO HIS FLESH

Before Hardie is allowed to eat, I feel his body for any saddle sores, as I do every day. Then I let him stand up and am about to lead him away when my gaze lingers on an obviously bleeding spot on his buttock. “Oh God! Hardie’s rubbed his ischial tuberosity,’ I say in horror. I immediately take a closer look at the spot. The cornea of the ischial tuberosity is torn. He must have sat on a sharp-edged stone in the last few days which has splintered the edge of the cornea. The protruding, hard part of the cornea now penetrates the inside of his thigh like a knife while running and rubs him badly. The raw meat stands out.

(When camels lie down to sleep, their weight rests not only on their four knees, but also on a kind of hump located just behind their front legs on the side of their belly. This hump, as we call it, has a coarse, very firm horny skin on the underside. It acts like a fifth leg when sitting. When running, the camel’s thighs glide past the seat hump at a close distance).

“Oh dear, that doesn’t look good,” I say thoughtfully. “What can we do to help him?” Tanja asks anxiously. ‘I don’t know,’ I reply helplessly. We stand next to him for a while and think. We know that this injury will put Hardie out of action for a few days. Of course, there is no question of leaving him behind. We urgently need his manpower. Even if we completely relieve him and distribute all his equipment to the others, he may continue to wear out his thigh. “Not that the expedition is getting any easier. Apparently there are actually countless variations of challenges that will never end,” I moan, still perplexed. “Hm,” I whisper quietly as a strange thought begins to form in my brain. “What do you mean, huh? Do you have any ideas?” Tanja wants to know. “I think so. It sounds strange, but it might help.” “And what does it look like?” “I’ll grind off the protruding and cracked cornea with a file.” “You’re going to use the file on his ischial tuberosity? Will that work?” “We have nothing to lose. After all, you grind off a broken fingernail. The callus is numb, so he won’t feel any pain,” I say, unpack my Leatherman (knife, tool I always carry on my belt), unfold the file and apply it to the described spot. While I carefully grind off the protruding callus from Hardie’s buttocks, Tanja strokes him and talks him through it. If it hurts him, he could easily kick me. I am tense to the extreme. The wind blows the corneal particles away. Slowly the protruding thorn becomes smaller until it is smooth and thus completely defused. “Phew, that’s done. You did well Hardie. You’re a strong boy,” I say and rub some healing ointment into the open spot on his thigh. “Do you think we’ve helped him?” “Tomorrow will show us,” I answer confidently.

COORDINATE POINTS ON THE POSTAL WAY

As soon as the camels have finished eating, I take care of the navigation. According to the map, we are now sitting in the middle of the dry riverbed of Aramac Creek. The old post road, if it still exists at all, is only three kilometers north of us. For safety reasons, I now place a coordinate cross on the old track every five kilometers and enter the data into the GPS. In this way, we will inevitably come across the abandoned connection. It’s only a matter of time. Although my thoughts are already turning back to our water situation, I’m still calm. At this point, we still have just under 60 liters of the precious liquid. According to my calculations, it should be no more than two, maximum three, walking days to Aramac. We are currently using just over 20 liters. If we find the track tomorrow, we’ll have plenty of water. If not, we’ll have to increase our mileage and won’t be in any danger. Nevertheless, it annoys me at this late stage of the expedition to still have to think about water quantities and wrong routes. Once again, I never expected to lose the road again after Longreach. Should we perhaps have taken the detour after all? “You won’t get lost there,” said the man with the neck brace, calling my navigation skills into question. Is it my personal ego that is being challenged here again?

After I’ve finished my work, I push my negative thoughts to one side. I boil water for our dinner, pull a few ticks out of our faithful companion Rufus and set up our camp beds. After the water has boiled in the Billy, I pour it into the thermos flasks. A few drops that miss the mark immediately seep away into the dry ground. The soil immediately sticks to the bottom of the thermos like superglue. It is hard to describe how quickly the dark dust combines with the water and turns into a viscous, loamy slurry that clings mercilessly to everything it comes into contact with. If it starts to rain in this country, we will undoubtedly drown in mud, mire and swamp. The unpleasant thing about this clay is that it becomes rock hard after drying. Whenever Rufus runs through a puddle or jumps into a water hole to cool off, his paws get so sticky afterwards that we have difficulty getting the hard stuff out again. If we leave it in, he quickly gets sore.

We are already lying in bed as the sun begins to set. It’s still 32° degrees. A light, hot wind blows over our sweating bodies. Thousands of flies buzz around and still haven’t given up trying to drive us mad. The full moon is about to rise, while the sun star begins to cast its hot rays on the other side of the globe. It is only slowly getting cooler. Only gradually do the flies take their leave for the day, disappearing somewhere under the dry leaves and bushes. I watch the fiery red sky from my box seat for a long time. A few clouds seem to literally explode in the glow. The red becomes softer and softer until it melts into a pale gray-yellow. I lie there wide awake and can never seem to get enough of the sunsets, which are repeated every day and yet look different every time. With my last blink, I catch the remaining daylight until night falls imperceptibly and settles heavily on my tired songs. Until, as if in slow motion, I step into the land of relaxation, the land of dreams and fantasies.