The Explorers (56 page)

For Babies
wooden scraps used as cradle and perambulator
dusting powder (the sandy soil) and perhaps powdered charcoal
handkerchiefs (leaves and grass)
paperbark in place of baby's blanket

C
ECIL
M
ADIGAN

Across The Simpson, 1939

Some Australian terrain is so forbidding that the jet age had arrived before it was conquered. The east-west transect of the Simpson Desert, crossing against the grain of the great dunes, was one such conquest. Cecil Madigan, geologist and lecturer at the University of Adelaide, perused the region by air before attempting to lead his scientific expedition across by the best means then available—camel. We join him here in the heart of the desert, where the dunes are tallest and the feed scarcest. I had never guessed at the difficulty of obtaining astronomical observations before reading Madigan.

Next day we were still in giant sand ridges, the biggest yet. They must have reached 100 feet. They were more symmetrical, with the approach side steeper, and there were sometimes short transverse dunes on the top of them. We made rather a late start owing to the dew, but got in our six hours of travel, and it was quite enough. The going was very heavy. The wider crests with more loose sand greatly increased the camels' tasks. We passed a few little patches of munyeroo during the day, but otherwise it was very barren. In the afternoon some of the camels began to stumble and fall. We pushed on, hoping to find some feed and firewood to camp on, but it became worse. At last I had to stop. There was some dead needlebush for the fire but no feed at all. Again Jack criticised me for not stopping earlier where was a little feed, but it was my way to hope for something better ahead and to put the miles behind. The only satisfaction I had that day was to travel hopefully. I reckoned we had made eleven miles, in which we had climbed over forty great masses of sand. They were the highest sand ridges we had seen. There was nothing but sand and spinifex between the ridges, no feed, no signs of claypans. A few finches were noticed, a hawk, and a flock of nineteen crows. I wondered if they were the same crows as we had seen the day before, following us. Something sinister about these carrion birds.

It was a quiet and sober camp that night. Things were beginning to look serious. The day's march had definitely given cause for some misgiving. We were not yet halfway across the desert, and the camels were beginning to fail. One was developing mange and seemed almost done. There was still over 100 miles to go to reach the Mulligan, but there could be no question of turning back, for returning was now no easier than go o'er, but on the contrary would be much more difficult if one's expectations about the country ahead proved correct. Jack Bejah was depressed. He spoke of leaving one or two camels behind to follow us if they could, but this would have been against all the principles of exploration. Once you begin to abandon your gear it is a sign of approaching collapse. You should not have any gear you can do without. I told him to redistribute the loads but to keep the string together. It was no good spreading ourselves over the desert. We must come into that Queensland feed any day now…

It was a clear night again at last, and I was able to take star warm and comfortable. The camels couldn't stand many more days like today, but we could take easier stages. The chronometer was wound and put away in the bottom of Jack's big box—must get a better fastening for that, the piece of stick came out today. Nice the way the wireless was working—we must all send more messages home—been neglecting that. We'd be in that feed any day now…

Next morning there was some readjustment of loads, but soon the damp packages were heaved up and the wet cordage knotted, the camels jerked themselves on to their feet, and the long string began to wind slowly over the first sand ridge. How were we going to fare today? Across the valley and on to the top of the next sand ridge—and there before us lay a small claypan covered with water. Down into the valley, to find the clayey soil was carpeted with munyeroo! No waiting for something better this time. There were a few low mulga bushes at the end of the claypan, a suitable place to camp. Round to these, and down went the camels, and off came the loads laboriously put on a quarter of an hour before. We would let the camels graze here all day. If we had only come on another half mile last night it would have saved us a lot of work and some anxiety! This water and the green munyeroo must mean the edge of the rain country. Anyway, we would give the camels all the feed they wanted and a spell before tackling the sand ridges again. They were soon chewing at great mats of munyeroo pulled up from the ground and dangling from their mouths.

It was a beautiful sunny day. We opened up the baggage and spread everything out to dry, then took a walk round the camp. Two sand ridges away to the north-east there was a group of five claypans with gidgee trees, the first gidgee we had seen since leaving the Hale. This certainly looked like the edge of the rain belt. There was more clay here in the soil between the sand ridges, and a thinner cover over the underlying rock. Nodules of ironstone lay around, and pieces of chalcedony. Crocker discovered a small rock outcrop of chalcedonised sandstone. More interesting still was the discovery of signs of the former presence of aboriginals, the only such indications seen in the whole desert crossing. These were chips of chalcedony, typical of aboriginal workshop sites where knives, scrapers and spearheads have been made, and also parts of grinding stones, one a piece of schist that must have come from the MacDonnells. This disproved my theory and Winnecke's that aboriginals never entered any part of the desert.

R
OBYN
D
AVIDSON

Panic and Shake, 1977

Robyn Davidson undertook one of the most remarkable journeys ever made in contemporary Australia—from Alice Springs to Shark Bay, alone and on camel back. Her account is bone-chillingly honest. The terror of isolation, of not knowing where water can be found, is something every explorer must have felt but would never admit to. Davidson's confrontations with wild bull camels also add a codicil to camel exploration in Australia. It will be even more difficult now that feral camels have become so widespread.

We join Davidson setting out from Docker River, several hundred kilometres west of Uluru.

As I left the settlement, alone, I was aware only of a flatness, a lack of substance in everything. My steps felt achingly slow, small and leaden. They led me nowhere. Step after step after step, the interminable walking dragged out, pulling my thoughts downwards into spirals. The country seemed alien, faded, muted, the silence hostile, overwhelming.

I was twenty miles out, tired and thirsty. I drank some beer. I was about to turn off and make camp when through the beer-hazed afternoon heat came striding three large strong male camels in full season.

Panic and shake. Panic and shake. They attack and kill, remember. Remember now, one—tie up Bub securely, two—whoosh him down, three—take rifle from scabbard, four—load rifle, five—cock, aim and fire rifle. They were just thirty yards away and one was spurting a cylindrical arch of red blood. He didn't seem to notice it. They all came forward again.

I was scared deep in my bones. First, I could not believe it was happening, then I believed it was never going to stop. My ears thumped, cold sweat stuck to the hollow of my back. My vision was distorted by fear. Then I was past it, not thinking any more, just doing it.

Zzzzt. This time just behind his head and he turned and ambled away. Zzzt. Near the heart again, he slumped down but just sat there. Zzzt. In the head, dead. The other two trundled off into the scrub. Shake and sweat, shake and sweat. You've won for now.

I unsaddled the camels and hobbled them close, glancing around constantly. It was getting dark. They came back. Braver now, I shot one, but only wounded it. Night came too quickly.

The fire flickered on white moonstruck sand, the sky was black onyx. The rumbling sound of bulls circled the camp very close until I fell asleep. In the moonlight, I woke up and maybe twenty yards away was a beast standing in full profile. I didn't want to harm it. It was beautiful, proud. Not interested in me at all. I slept again. drifting off to the sound of bells on camels, peacefully chewing their cud.

Came dawn, I was already stalking, gun loaded and ready. They were both still there. I had to kill the wounded one. I tried to. Another cylinder of blood and he ran away nipping at his wound. I could not follow, I had my own survival to think of. There he was, the last young bull, a beautiful thing, a moonlight camel. I made a decision. This one of the three would be allowed to live until he did something directly to jeopardise my safety. Happy decision. ‘Yes, maybe he'll tag along right to Carnarvon. And I'll call him Aldebaran and isn't he magnificent, Diggity, what a match for Dookie. I don't have to kill him at all.' I snuck around to catch the camels. He watched me. Now, last camel to catch, Bub. Off he galloped in his hobbles, the new bull pacing lazily beside him. I couldn't catch him with the other bull so close. I tried for an hour, I was exhausted, I wanted to kill Bubby, to dismember him, rip his balls out, but they'd already gone. I took the rifle and walked to within thirty feet of the now excited and burbling young bull. I put a slug right where I knew it would kill him. It did not, and he bit and roared at his wound. He didn't understand this pain, I was crying. I fired again into his head and he sat down, gurgling through his own blood. I walked up to his head, we stared at one another—he knew then. He looked at me, I shot him in the brain, point blank.

Bubby was puzzled. He walked up to the carcass and drank some blood. It was all over his nose, like clown's lipstick, and he threw his lips around. He allowed himself to be caught, I didn't hit him. I walked on.

I entered a new time, space, dimension. A thousand years fitted into a day and aeons into each step. The desert oaks sighed and bent down to me, as if trying to grab at me. Sandhills came and sandhills went. Hills rose up and hills slipped away. Clouds rolled in and clouds rolled out and always the road, always the road, always the road.

So tired, I slept in the creek and thought of nothing but failure. I could not even light a fire. I wanted to hide in the dark. I thought it was surely longer than two days, I had walked so far. But time was different here, it was stretched by step after step and in each step a century of circular thought. I didn't want to think like this, was ashamed of my thoughts but I could not stop them. The moon, cold marble and cruel, pushed down on me, sucked at me, I could not hide from it, even in dream.

And the next day and the next day too, the road and the sandhills and the cold wind sucked at my thoughts and nothing happened but walking.

The country was dry. How could the camels be so thirsty and thin. At night, they came into camp and tried to knock over the water drums. I hadn't enough to spare, I rationed them. The map said ‘rockhole'. Thank god. I turned off the track somewhere in that haze of elastic time and walked in. More sandhills, then a stretch of gibberflat, wide and dry and desolate with one dead bird, and two empty holes. Some string somewhere inside me was starting to unravel. An important string, the one that held down panic. I walked on, That night I camped in those sandhills.

The sky was leaden and thick. All day it had been grey, smooth, translucent, like the belly of a frog. Spots of rain pattered on me but not enough to lay the dust. The sky was washing me out, emptying me. I was cold as I hunched over my meagre fire. And somewhere, between frozen sandhills, in a haunted and forgotten desert, where time is always measured by the interminable roll of constellations, or the chill call of a crow waking, I lay down on my dirty bundle of blankets. The frost clung like brittle cobwebs to the black bushes around me, while the sky turned thick with glitter. It was very still. I slept. The hour before the sun spills thin colour on the sand, I woke suddenly and tried to gather myself from a dream I could not remember. I was split. I woke into limbo and could not find myself. There were no reference points, nothing to keep the world controlled and bound together. There was nothing but chaos and the voices.