Part 4
Towards the end a cyclist would leave his bicycle (now become a burden to him) while he staggered over to search what, from the distance, seemed a likely-looking place for water; and on coming back he would be lucky indeed if he could find again his silent steed. This second search would not be prosecuted coolly: madness would then quickly overtake the distracted seeker; he might drink from and bathe in imaginary streams, throw off his clothes to let the surging waters touch and cool his parched skin, but ever uppermost in his distorted fancies would be some form of his elusive bicycle.
* * * *
Crown Point, 20 miles from The Goyder; much sand, but a well-defined track. The last five miles fair for cycling on; but for nearly a mile along the bed of the Finke River (approaching Crown Point cattle station) is a terribly heavy white sand bed.
After my previous day's experiences in the sand I succeeded in crawling thus far before the next sundown, and remained for the whole of another day before proceeding onwards. At the Crown Point station I fed, I fear, like a wolf.
How soon the drooping spirits revive! I set out for Horseshoe Bend hopefully, even gaily.
Crown Point station is so named because of its propinquity to a hill about 350 feet high, of sugar-loaf shape, surmounted by something not unlike a crown.
West of this crowned point is a long, low, stony and unused saddle; then again a hill of about the same height as the Crown and of similar strata--white and brown desert sandstone. Apparently the formations were one in times long past.
The Finke channel passes to the east of both Crown Hill and station. The river here is thickly fringed with giant gums, which grow for some hundreds of feet in from the bank proper. Swamp gums, box trees, and acacias are plentiful also further out. In width it varies from a quarter to three-quarters of a mile. In times of drought famished horses have been known to paw down and down into the loose sand in the bed, searching for soakage water, until they have made graves for themselves.
Around Crown Point the cyclist need not look for thorns. He will find them without a search.
A marsupial mole (which some of the blacks named for me "el-comita," others "qu-monpita") may also be found here. The species is unique. It puts in an appearance after rain; at other times it burrows in the sand, and vanishes.
* * * *
Down from the cattle ranche by the river's bed, there are generally gathered a large number of natives, of the Larapinta or Arunto tribe. In the main camp many small tires burn, around which humble hearths the various families find already fashioned their unostentatious and separate homes. They sleep huddled up with the family dogs, close by the fires, but without a vestige of covering or shelter except their scanty every-day attire.
They appear to be quite happy, and are presented with cancerous bullocks now and then from travelling mobs, and others.
Nightly one hears the sound of their laughter, mingled with weird cries, monotonous chantings, and beating of tom-toms, or sticks upon the ground. They think themselves very clever if they succeed in working up an echo. When ferreted out, the discoverer claims it as his very own, and the others listen in admiring silence whilst he works the "wondrous vocal gift" for much more than 'tis worth.
I was surprised to notice that the niggers' hands and feet were not particularly large. The heels, though, are roughened, hardened, and split like battered and blackened pieces of corrugated iron. The soles are apparently made out of rhinoceros hide. "Three cornered jacks" only tickle them--even when they happen to sit down on the spiky abominations.
* * * *
One black, an "old hand" at the station, but transported from somewhere afar off, inveighed in good, angular Whitechapel English, pidgin-ised, against the fool blackfeller who sit down alonga here!
Wherefore was it, if he had such a very poor opinion of them, that he remained among them?
He withered me with the contempt that was in his answer.
"No can make it rain!"
In his country--a majestic wave of the hand indicated where that was--if the porter at Heaven's flood-gates went to sleep or forgot to open them within a reasonable time, certain old men jumped up and walked alonga blackfellows' camp, where they called in the aid of eagle-hawk's feathers, paint stripes, many fires and a good deal of fuss. And then--a big thing in corroborees: big one, plenty shout out. After the corroboree the "old men" and the other participators in it shifted their spears and boomerangs to high ground, built mia-mias, and waited. And when they had waited long enough the rain fell. "Sometimes piccaninny rain--one night corroboree. Big fellow corroboree? My word! B-i-g pfeller rain."
Should no rain fall the explanation was not far to seek. "Nudder" (opposition shop) "blackfeller hold it corroboree. Too much big pfeller noise make it, and frighten _him_ away."
What wouldn't some perturbed whitefellers give for so simple a philosophy!
* * * *
Horseshoe Bend, 28 miles from Crown Point. Mostly sand; very little riding. Here is a depôt and accommodation (meal-providing) house.
The depôt is picturesquely situated in a sharp bend of the Finke River. Rugged hills show up on all sides. In front, by the river's side, a well; and in the sandy bed itself, many nearly permanent soakages delight the casual traveller.
* * * *
Here it was that one of the encamped blacks on spying me rushed helter-skelter to the storekeeper to breathlessly inform him that whitefellow come along ridin' big one mosquito.
Previously blackfellows had described the bicycle as a "piccaninny engine." "Big pfeller engine come alonga bime-bye, I suppose?" questioned the blackfellow, having in mind a Transcontinental railway doubtless. "One-side buggy" had also been a native's not inapt description of the novel vehicle.
* * * *
The blacks (always camped near-by wherever white men linger) are of great help to the whites in dealing with horses and cattle. Their cleverness at tracking is well known. An illustration, out of the way.
At one of the very few houses between Oodnadatta and Alice Springs the proprietor brought three cats--three of about a like size--into the back room; told me the various names by which they were called to breakfast, and then requested me to drop one of them--any one of them I chose--through the window. I did so to humour him, and off scampered pussy to a brush-shed over the way. Going outside, after shutting the window and locking the room door, the "boss" called loudly for "Billy." From the further side of the stock-yard's fence came a blackfellow.
"What name that fellow cat make it tracks?" the "boss" said, pointing to the very faintest marks.
A moment's scrutiny, and the blackfellow replied "That one Nelly me think it." And he was right.
* * * *
At the Horseshoe Bend depôt I purchased a water-bag (and a good one it was--lasted me all the way through) and a small billy-can, which served my purposes until I reached Alice Springs.
So far the sparse, low scrub on the sand flats and rises was chiefly acacia, of many varieties, while clumps of mulga marked the firmer soil. Spinifex (not of such coarse growth. I fancy, as what in other places is known as "porcupine") was everywhere. The track through the sand gets so badly cut up that when walking one keeps well in to where a thin crust may be left, and finds oneself steering a very erratic course. Beyond the Bend we reach the first desert oak--a very good shade tree, with from 10 to 15 feet of straight stem. The wood is very hard and heavy; one can hardly drive a nail into it.
At Oodnadatta we left the regularly fenced country. Apparently one may here take up for grazing purposes a hundred acres, and use a hundred thousand.
No sheep beyond Oodnadatta either. Beef and goat's flesh is the vogue. The goat's flesh is called "mutton."
* * * *
To Depot Well, 15 miles from Horseshoe Bend; no riding--heavy sandhills. Stopped at a camel camp. Fifteen miles is not much of a distance certainly; but on a hot day (as all days up in this part appear to be) to not lead, but get behind and push, the bicycle through, with the surety of more to-morrow, and for days to come--Diamond and I agreed that it was a "fair thing."
These drift sand-hills--red, loose, and sometimes very steep indeed--make travelling, no matter how one may creep, very wearisome and laborious. When you have struggled to the summit of one of them you take a view of the surroundings. As far as the eye can see (and, alas! very much further) an unbroken stretch of the same formation. You wade ankle deep on descending; and when pushing a bicycle up you have to "tack," planting each foot sideways in the sand to get the necessary grip. I was glad I had provided myself with boots instead of shoes.
Broom-brush, spinifex, and desert oaks (these at long intervals) alone break the burdensome monotony.
* * * *
Only soon after a heavy rainfall could much riding be done in those sandy districts. Two-inch tyres should be used; inch and three-quarters are too narrow. Mine, as well as being one and three-quarter inches only, were "tandem"--altogether too heavy (or "dead") for cycling over sand. I deflated them slightly, so that a wider surface might be availed of.
* * * *
Picked up a bush culinary wrinkle here. An Afghan, whom I watched kneading up flour preparatory to shaping out a camp-oven damper, made a sodden centre, the curse of many a "bush cake," impossible by the simple expedient of pressing the middle part down until scarcely any centre remained--nothing more than a thin layer, which must necessarily result in a central crust.
* * * *
It is a twenty mile stage from the Depot Well to Alice Well, through much sand. The Hugh River crosses the track in half-a-dozen places.
In the afternoon, when within a few miles of this Well, I came unexpectedly upon a loaded waggon stuck in one of the last crossings of the Hugh. A very steep bank rose at the farther side, up which the horses had been unable to pull their load. The harness was lying on the ground, piled up; but there was no sign, except tracks, of the horses or their drivers. I coo-eed and mounted on top of the load to look around--and then, in the midst of this desert, from the interior of a coverless box, embedded between two flour bags, smiled up at me seductively a dozen or more beautiful, although quite rotten and shrivelled, apples! I lifted one out, and to ease my conscience, remembering having heard that there was a blacks' mission station to the east, stood, and, naturally assuming that the loading was missionaries' property, put down a shilling in the apple's place. But tasting one only was worse than not having any at all; so, coward-like, I sprang from the waggon, mounted Diamond, and hurried away before the temptation to appropriate a down-south shilling's-worth of the luscious (because so rotten) fruit became irresistible.
At the Alice is another "accommodation house," which, however, I did not need to visit; for the horse drivers, from whose waggon I had been tempted to take the shilling's-worth of apples, were here giving the horses a "spell." They fed me liberally; but I said nothing to them about the apple.
The Hugh is a very large, sandy-bedded creek. The banks are heavily timbered with massive gum trees. Good camel and horse feed grows in this part of the country--a species of acacia, and a succulent sage-bush-like herb.
* * * *
To Francis Well, the next 20 miles, is mostly through sand. Here are some niggers who keep the troughs full of water on the chance of passing teamsters supplying them with tobacco or small lots of flour. The mail passes every three weeks, once going down to Oodnadatta, the next time returning to Alice Springs; and the mail horses for the change are running here.
The well, sunk at the junction of the Francis Creek and the Hugh, contains beautiful fresh water. Black cockatoos flutter among the branches of giant gums which mark the meeting of the waters--flutter and squawk incessantly. And now and again, too, one catches sight of the gaudier galah or the gay ring-necked parrot.
At one of these wells the bucket was too heavy for me to land unaided from the deep bottom. Here was another annoyance, if nothing worse. I was desperately thirsty. The water glittered tantalizingly in sight. Ha! An empty bucket at the surface. I half-filled it with stones, and it obligingly went down and gave me all the assistance I wanted in weighing its companion up. Afterwards, at shallower wells, I tied the cord I carried to my billy-can, and so supplied my modest wants.
* * * *
By climbing the higher of the hills which are to be seen after you pass Francis Well, the remarkable column known as Chambers' Pillar rises afar off in the midst of sandhills to the west. It looks like a mighty furnace-stack built upon a hill top: the hill about 100 feet high, the Pillar another hundred. But the soft desert sandstone of which it is composed is fast wearing away. This still majestic landmark, a solitary sentinel guarding the heart of a continent--its days are numbered in the book of Time.
* * * *
Camels do nearly all the carrying in this country; and at Francis Well a caravan was camped. A white man was in charge. I do not know how the stranger fares at the hands of an Afghan, but the few white men I met along the road at halting places between Oodnadatta and Alice Springs were without exception most generously hospitable and most kindly-dispositioned. All did what they could--by more or less clear directions anent the route; by supplying me with food and inviting me to "spell" with them if they were "spelling"--to make my journey a partly enjoyable as well as a successful one. I gratefully admit how largely I am indebted to one and all of them.
From Hergott to Alice Springs the population is grouped under three generic headings--"Whites," "Afghans," and "Blackfellows." The loftier Afghan sometimes scornfully denies that he is of our color. I have heard it asked of a Jemadar--"What name fellow drive so-and-so's camels along to Birdsville? Whitefellow?" and I have heard him answer: "No, _not whitefellow_. Afghan-man _boss_ go las' time." Beyond the MacDonnell Ranges the Afghan and his camel disappear, and are neither seen nor heard of more. There is a no-man's land; then, further northward, the vacant place is filled by Chinamen.
It is both interesting and amusing to listen while Afghans and blacks or blackfellows and Chinamen converse. Not that they make a practice of so indulging; there are entirely too many vernacular difficulties in their way.
One such attempt at conversation was suggestive to me of two blind men who, getting drunk together, led one another up wrong turnings, until, after a final and protracted endeavour to get back to anywhere near the starting point, they found themselves both hopelessly lost.
Each has a way peculiar to his class of directing that luckless traveller who may be so ignorant as to make enquiries of him.
You ask an Afghan how many miles it is to a certain place. He slyly leads you on to make a guess for yourself--and at once cheerfully agrees. "Yes, ten mile," or whatever it may be the other has suggested.
The blackfellow tells you vaguely that the certain place is "L-aw-ong way," "Ova that a way," or "Byen bye you catch 'em all right."
The Chinaman listens very politely to all the questions you put to him, and then remarks with his most guileless smile, "No savee."
Still some white men's directions are not very lucid. One, for example, will say, "When you come to there look out for a small stony hill _to the right_," waving, as he says, the left hand from him. Also East is spoken of when West is similarly indicated. Others, again, expect a fellow to perform mental gymnastics. One will clear and level a small space upon the ground to serve as a blackboard. He begins, "Now, we'll put it, here's North--" and draws a line pointing due South.
* * * *
Mount Breadin Dam is another 20 miles from Francis Well. The track is fair for cycling over. Camped somewhere in the scrub. Dry sand makes a fairly comfortable blanket.
Desert oaks had for the last few days been frequently met with, growing singly or in groves. The wind soughs through the foliage--like the music of rushing, seething water in some distant creek.
Water, always water! Thitherward one's thoughts here ever fly; upon memories of it one lingers with the utmost fondness.
As I struggle on and on, deeper and deeper into the toils of the desert, there grows upon me a morbid dread of running short of water. To have it was my greatest craving; to have plenty of it my chief aim.
The wind is mostly in my teeth, but that is of small consequence now that I am content to creep over these interminable wastes.
* * * *
Everybody carries a bottle of eye-water. Sore eyes are very prevalent in this sandy country. The flies had it pretty well all their own way with me down by the Goyder; so now I also have had to procure a small bottle. A depôt would not be a depôt without a stock of it.
* * * *
By noon Diamond had borne me to the Deep Well and its "accommodation house." Having obtained some provisions, we pushed on and camped that night some 15 miles ahead. Deep Well is in flat sandy country, in a valley of the James Range. As it is about 200 feet deep, the water is drawn by bullocks attached to a "whip." The surrounding country is lightly stocked with cattle and goats. The well itself is rented from the Government, and a small charge is made for the water.
Between here and Alice Springs another well is badly wanted. Another well--or, better, two. This absence of, or long distance between, waters is a well-founded matter for complaint with the teamsters or team owners, and must impose great hardships on anyone whom business--or "eccentricity"--may prevail on to travel hither.
At the very best the life of the teamsters on these far-inland tracks is full of misery and hardship. That anyone should voluntarily go overlanding they cannot comprehend. Here I am asked in astonished curiosity what I am going through the continent for. It must be for a bet! I can only answer that I am going with much the same object in view as a hen is said to have when she walks across a road--just to reach the other side.
* * * *
The flies refrained from tackling a couple of very highly-greased aboriginals whom I spoke to at the Deep Well. They had burnished themselves with a thick oil, derived from animal fat, no doubt. Each on-coming fly, when within six inches of the glossy surface, shot off at a right angle, as though it had run its head into an invisible stone wall. Now and again one could be seen to drop slightly, as if stunned. I do not think the oil-skin they wore was of good quality.
This couple were disposed to approach too unpleasantly close whilst I was re-inflating one of the tyres. Suddenly undoing the pump, I vigorously squirted fresh air at them. The blast pierced the special atmosphere in which they had so long moved; the fresh air came as a shock to them, and they were careful not to venture within range of so deadly a weapon any more.
The flies, I think, trouble the blackfellows more than the whites. A blackfellow's hand is constantly passing across his face to drive the pestering things away; or they protect themselves by starting a small fire and sitting at the smoky side of it.
* * * *
From the Deep Well, sandhills and sandflats extend northwards for about 20 miles. Then a large range is encountered, through which the cyclist may ride until he reaches a steep incline well known as The Pinch. Here the track goes over a high ridge by way of a narrow cutting through the rock.
Granite hills now hem us in, but soon we enter a narrow pass between two long and wall-like rock formations. This is Hell's Gate. We hurry through. The track now passes over well-grassed sandy flats, which make good riding. At about eight miles a big hill rises to the right. Opposite a pad branches off to the left.
A welcome break, guiding the thirsty or curious follower to the rockhole, the Ooriminna. Right into the heart of a range this pad takes one. Very soon the cyclist will find either leading or pushing his machine to be out of the question. However others may manage (for the bicycle will be everywhere in time), I stooped and shouldered mine. And how its bright parts sparkled with ill-contained inward joy, I persuaded myself, whenever it was thus borne along the tedious way! Now, with it held aloft, I walked or scrambled and climbed over the last and rougher part of the two miles to the water.
* * * *
Very weird is this Ooriminna. It is a citadel of Desolation strongly guarded; and how the hole was first discovered must for ever be to us a mystery. Judging from the surroundings, horses or men could hardly have thought to find water here. And but for water what man or beast would pierce these solitudes?
The hole is formed in an extremely rocky gorge of the range. Huge boulders heaped up in strange fantastic shapes, the counterpart in miniature of castles, fortresses, and towers, stand gaunt and frowning, or threatening to fall precipitately, above, below, and on the more open side. The hole itself is almost a circle; it is probably 20 feet in depth and 25 feet across. Above it, at the back, always in deepest shadow, are several small caves, wherein are native drawings--rude as the scribblings of a schoolboy in his snatched moments--of snakes and hands and things beyond this pen's power to name. From over these caves the water falls when the rains come.
The rocks are an unkindly-looking grey, spotted mixtures of granite, quartz, and sandstone.
Still higher up the quickly-rising gorge is a second rockhole, a smaller one. Approaching from the southern entrance I first came on this one--inaccessible to horses and camels--and only saw the larger rockhole as I descended, with bicycle still shouldered, trudging on to strike the road which leads to Alice Springs, from which this Ooriminna pad loops out and back again.
* * * *
After getting clear of the Ooriminna rocks there are four or five miles of sand, low lying between the ranges; and now, at last, the cyclist finds awaiting him a splendidly smooth and hard clay flat, stretching right away for over 20 miles to the already faintly outlined MacDonnell ranges.
The track soon enters and winds through densely packed and tropically-foliaged scrub, with here and there a small clear space suddenly opening out in front. At the moment of entering each of these recurring spaces one may discern the fast uprising and darkening blue of distant mountains--and again the obscuring scrub envelopes bicycle and rider.
After the stories he will have been told, the cyclist, should he be a stranger and alone, will surely throw a glance to one side and to the other--ahead, too, as he turns each of the numerous sharp angles--in half-timid and half-hopeful expectation of seeing start out or up to intercept him a score or two of spear-brandishing and yelling bogie men. And he will almost certainly be disappointed.
* * * *