Part 9

"Little fellow, then?" by way of suggestion.

"N-o," still the reply, "not little pella."

"Well what size was it?" impatiently.

"Lee-tle bit big pella."

It is fellow, fella, pfellow, pfeller, pfella, pella according to the pliancy of the talker's tongue.

Renner Springs is the name of a cattle station situated on the edge of a wide belt of table lands (and downs country as it is called), which stretches away eastward with hardly a break to Queensland. It is about 20 miles south of Powell's Creek. One white man only resided there. A chinaman cook is employed, and blacks do all the station work. Although not good for cycling over, most of the land between Tennants Creek and here seemed to me to be well suited for pastoral purposes.

Near the small homestead are several springs--circular ponds of clear drinkable water, occurring out on the flat; but along the line of an adjacent quartzite and--sandstone ridge, one overflows, is fenced in, and serves to irrigate a garden by means of the trenches in which the water is continually running. On leaving the garden what remains unabsorbed of the water (which on coming to the surface has a temperature of 95°), is soon lost again in the sand.

At Renner's there was the usual cordial invitation to eat, and the equally usual "Thanks--many thanks, yes." The blacks, the manager said, had during the past few days been gathering from all quarters for the purpose of holding a big corroboree, and the number in camp was being added to hourly.

The first part of the twenty miles or thereabouts to Powell's Creek consisted of sandy flats between the usual low hills; and for the rest the track kept on fairly hard ground between and over the hills of various small ranges.

Natives must have been about in great numbers, yet I saw none for some time after leaving Renner Springs. Stopping to make a note of something, and looking back, I was surprised to see a thin column of smoke ascending from a hillock which I had passed within the last quarter of a mile. Stopping again, further on, I observed the same thing had "again" occurred, and wondered if there was any truth in the smoke-signalling theory, and, if so, what did these present signals convey.

I missed a turn-off track at about 15 miles from Renner Springs, and, keeping close to the telegraph line, did some very rough hill-climbing. An hour or two's slow travelling, however, brought me first to Powell's Creek itself, and then, all safe but more clothes-torn, out through a gap in the ranges, immediately behind the telegraph station.

* * * *

The main buildings at Powell's Creek are of stone, with galvanized iron roofing; and, when taken together, form two sides of a square. The operating room, with two other rooms (officer's dwelling) are under the one roof; a wide verandah, bedecked with potted flowering-shrubs and faced with lattice-work, overgrown with evergreen climbing plants, runs along the front and at each end. At a right-angle, but separated from the more imposing structure by a distance of about one chain is a row of stone-walled cottages--stores and sleeping apartments, and other necessary offices; and a vegetable garden.

With the exception of the gums which grow thickly in the rich ground on the banks of the creek, there are no neighbouring trees of any great height. The telegraph station itself is in a fork of the creek.

In the stone walls of one of the cottages are several portholes--reminders of other days, when the natives were troublesome. To-day the blacks would be almost as likely to wage war on the citizens of Adelaide as to attack the inmates of one of those telegraph stations.

An enthusiastic cyclist (but minus a bicycle) was stationed, as assistant, at Powell's Creek. An amateur photographer also in same person, equipped, too with a camera; and during the several days I remained, several excellent photos of the bicycle were taken--some with a lubra or a blackboy "up."

My boots were mended with copper wire; and my cleaner pair of pyjamas (kept in reserve and put on in any sheltering clump of bushes or behind a hid-tree, immediately on sighting telegraph or other station buildings) were minus half a leg. Further, I gave them here, as I did people everywhere, to understand I was a nobody--one of whom they probably never again would hear anything more. Yet I was received as courteously, and welcomed as cordially, as if I had been an influential politician or a titled governor's son.

* * * *

From Powell's Creek it is but 54 miles to Newcastle Waters homestead. The road from the telegraph station to Lawson's Creek (26 miles) runs mostly either alongside or over low spurs and branches of the Ashburton Range, with occasional stretches of sand and clay flats.

When cycling through range country I have nearly always found the track, where track there was, fair for riding on; and there is ever a bright novelty in the panoramic changes. Any sort of surface, in fact, in preference to sand.

* * * *

Before reaching the Lawson (where I camped for a night) I obtained a splendid view of an extensive sheet of water, lying away from the track, about three miles to the west. So very small was my knowledge of the country that I had not the remotest idea of this vast reservoir's existence.

Yet Lake Woods is a permanent fresh-water lake, with a circumference of between 80 and 90 miles. It is fed from the north by the Newcastle River, and by the annually-flooded flats which drain into that, at times, noble stream.

The lake is bordered to the water's edge with heavy timber, and the country everywhere in its vicinity grows abundance of the best stock grasses--Mitchell and Flinders chiefly. The timber is mostly box; but among the lower trees are a pea-bearing plant and other bushes which cattle dearly love.

Native companions, ducks and wild fowl of many varieties gather, too, in uncountable numbers in the bays and long-reaching arms of this magnificent lake.

* * * *

From Lawson's Creek up to Newcastle Waters station (28 miles) and thence for 15 miles beyond, is some grand grazing country, carrying mobs of the sleek and most healthy-looking cattle that ever delighted an owner's eyes. But I cannot speak in like terms of praise about the roads.

Here is a note from my directions for this stage: "From the Lawson to Sandy Creek is 6 miles. Mostly rough. Rough also to the bend in the line about three miles on. Kept along the line from Lawson's to the bend. About a mile north of Sandy Creek water can be had by going across to the Newcastle Creek (running north and south)--about ¾ or 1 mile westward. The bend to Pole Camp Shackle, about 8 miles. Water might be to the left, perhaps a mile; follow pad or tracks into it. The Shackle to Newcastle Station 12 miles."

* * * *

In this stretch (28 miles), I had the first experience worth noticing, of that "Bay of Biscay" formation of which much had been heard. And what there was of it was rough on bike and rider. Undeniably so.

Where "Bay of Biscay" ground occurs, the soil is generally a blue-black clay--a pug-mixture of silt and decomposed vegetable matter--which the roots of a thick and wiry blue-grass hold firmly lumped together.

Either that, or the loose stuff between lumps of stone-hard pug is periodically washed away, and in the process holes are formed of varying depths. Anyway, the surface is rough as the Bay of Biscay--which is the explanation of the term, I suppose. Where it is met with, the country is flat and subject to heavy floodings; and so it follows that in the rainy seasons those Bay of Biscay plains are converted into shallow, muddy lagoons or impassable lakes.

After the water has evaporated or drained off, and until a pad has been worn through, the journeying over these wretched tracts is so unavoidably jolting and chin-choppy that (so 'tis said) horsemen dismount or stop and loll in their saddles, every hundred yards or so, to rest until their aching jaws and bones re-set and the kinks straighten out of their spinal columns. Walking or cycling over it is as pleasant as walking or cycling up and down a stairway, with the stairs of unequal height and width, blindfolded or in the dark.

* * * *

The Lawson Creek rises in the ranges east of the track, and, cutting the road at right angles, flows into Lake Woods just below the mouth of the Newcastle. This latter creek then, coming from the north, is seen at intervals away to the west; and--a strongly running river for months in some rainy seasons--contained, when I passed along, a chain of wide lagoons and lengthy waterholes between its thickly timbered banks.

The water is quite white; not thick, but milky in appearance, a minute quantity of clay or silt being held in suspension. Nevertheless one could hardly wish for more palatable drinking water. But with its peculiar color it is wasted here. A dairyman, now, would go into raptures over it. Indeed, the country about here, what with the excellent pasturage and the abundance of water, was strongly suggestive of overflowing milk pails.

The road crosses the Newcastle Creek before the cattle station, a couple of chains up from the north-westerly bank, is reached; and a very large waterhole (from which, with a well to fall back upon, the station gets its supply) is close by the crossing place.

I had seen many smokes since leaving Powell's Creek, but had not caught sight of any of the natives. To this waterhole, however, had just come in some ten or a dozen weedy ones; but interest in their kind was on the wane, and I gave them scant attention.

* * * *

A Chinaman--for we are entering the land of the Chinaman now--was in charge at the Newcastle. A "colonial experience" gentleman was there, but he was on the sick list. Three or four valuable dogs were chained to box kennels around the homestead. In case the blacks showed signs of becoming troublesome, all the person in charge had to do was to unloose one of those dogs, and no blackfellow could come within two miles of the place. Possibly no other fellow either.

The two managers, brothers, were absent; but I had had full permission to "make myself at home at Newcastle waters" from one of them--I had met him travelling southwards between Tennant's and Powell's Creeks, and, as I said, had been generously treated by him.

The buildings, of which there are perhaps half-a-dozen--store, kitchen, men's sleeping room, manager's dwelling and others, as well as sheds--had all been designed and erected with an eye to use rather than to ornament. A garden close by is tendered to by a very civil Chinaman, I noticed only one blackfellow about the place.

Here I spent two happy days, eating, sleeping, writing and reading; taking no account of the time, absolutely unconscious of day or date, nor troubling about such inconsequential matters; I was right, the bike was right, so all was right as right could be.

Leaving the station, the creek must be re-crossed to get to the track which runs northwards to Daly Waters (82 miles). To this track the thoughtful Chinaman ordered the station blackfellow to lead me--thoughtful, because the maze of tracks and pads _was_ slightly bewildering. Here for once was the yellow man superior over the black. But, ordinarily, there is no love lost between them. Each views the other with a magnificent contempt.

To one of the blackboys in the service of a traveller, I said at nighttime, pointing to a place where someone, camping, had made a comfortable bed of dry grass, (the blackboy was peering around for a sleeping place.)

"Why you not sleep over there Johnny?"

"No fea," he replied; "Him Chinaman make it that one."

Or he may have only meant that it was too luxurious.

* * * *

From Newcastle to Newcastle North (a waterhole in the "river,") is 8 or 9 miles; a very good and level road. From the waterhole the road continues for six miles through scrub, swamp, and box trees; and this was chiefly a stretch of silky clay, kneaded, when wet, by travelling cattle, and ruined for the cyclist's purpose.

Bright green-leaved guttapercha trees are numerous along this portion of the route. The tree, or more properly bush, grows to a height of 15 or 20 feet; when a branch is broken, a thick milky substance exudes. Scratches made on one's hands or face by its thorny projections become very painful and take a long time to heal.

* * * *

At the end of the 15 miles from Newcastle station one suddenly finds oneself clear of the scrub, and, as it were, precipitated into Sturt's Bay of Biscay Plains. This arm of plain is 15 miles across; enough to make a cyclist feel sea-sick before getting half-way through.

Towards the middle of the dry season a fairly level pad is beaten; and then the ride across could be done expeditiously and without much risk to man or mount. But that pad, although traceable, had not as yet been fashioned when I chanced to get there, and as much careful navigation was called for as is needed to steer a ship through the Bay of Biscay itself when in its most cantankerous mood.

Having launched this frail barque upon this tempestuous sea (this is merely by way of variation), the voyager loses sight of land. Billows and blue grass everywhere, and not a drop to drink. One false step, and a broken neck or leg might follow. The look-out must be kept alert.

To save the barque--or perhaps we had better come back to the continent and call it a bike--I had been doing a good deal of walking; and when 7 or 8 miles had been covered I sat down to rest and make a short note of the fact that neither a tree or a shrub was within range of vision, "although afar off, to the east, what is either a low range of hills (the Ashburton?) or a line of dense scrub can be traced." The note lengthened out, and it rambles on:--"I feel it more than ever to be almost an indictable offence (against its maker) to press a respectable bicycle into negotiating such an outrageous track. Where's the telegraph line? As usual, I dunno. But no matter. This is the road right enough. Cut the telegraph wire? As soon think of cutting----

"What a sheet of water must be here when this plain is covered! Besides being 'Biscay'--lumped clay--this ground is fissured--long slits and crevices, from an inch to four or five inches wide.... Sky overcast....

"Been thinking what a mess I'd be in if a downpour of rain comes on before I could get out of this. In a few minutes all the ground would be impassable--20 miles or so of black stickphast. Bad for D (Diamond); bad for me."

The note was unfinished. I stowed the book, picked up my ever-sparkling Diamond (for I had spent many a half hour in brightening it), and vaulted into the saddle as the hind wheel was going to bump. There was a moment's strain and doubt as to whether the bicycle could be upright as the wheel endeavoured to climb out of the abyss, then we were off bump, bump, bump, kangaroo-fashion.

There was a reason for this unusual haste--a heavy black mass away back on the southerly horizon. The clouds overhead, too, were moving up fast from that direction; and as these ominous signs to me betokened the quick occurrence of that dreaded rain--

On, Diamond, on!

* * * *

The clouds held back, and I was industriously persuading myself that they were only smoke, when out of the treacherous 'Biscay' we passed unharmed, Diamond and I, through a narrow opening in an apparently never-ending and sharply-defined wall of thickly-packed tropical vegetation, of glistening leafy trees and trailing plants, bright flowers and rank undergrowth.

Fifteen anxious miles of bumpy, desolate, barren wretchedness, and now, all suddenly, a cyclist's paradise, dense foliage and deep shade, with a winding track, hard and level and strewn with ironstone gravel.

A fairy land; and fairy fingers pulled hard upon the wheels and stopped them. Then, as in some delightful dream, I led Diamond to a hedgewood tree, and stood stock still to drink in the melody--silent melody; for there was no sound to woo the eyes from the feast of tropic beauty.

And, drinking, I tingled with delight, and gloated on this prodigal glory in form and color as a miser might in secret upon his piled-up hoards of gold.

O marvellous Nature, supreme master-artist, what human brain could conceive so glorious a transformation scene--so swift, so entrancing, so unexpected!

But the wheels spin again, yet slowly; for the change may come at any moment, and I dawdled to stretch the sweetness out.

* * * *

Bluegrass and open space appeared too soon. But the fit of depression was a thing of a moment; for around the little flat were large box-trees thickly clustered; and, on the further side, majestic leafy coolabahs fringed a reservoir carved by the hand of nature in the rock and clay, and capable of holding three or four million gallons of water; fairly open on the side from which I approached, but on the other sides walled in by a tangled growth of well-nigh impenetrable scrub and brush and forest tree.

The coolabahs threw deep shadows on the carpet of soft grass spread upon the open side; and in this romantic spot--were six or eight confounded Chinamen!

* * * *

Occasional parties of celestials, equipped with guns, horses, and provisions, make across from about here to Queensland, to evade the poll tax. Along by many cattle stations to Camooweal, a border-town, is the favored route. As Camooweal is far away from anywhere else, the expense of carting the Chinamen back to whence they came would be too great; and if imprisoned for a short term, when they first arrive--well, they have arrived anyhow.

A party of Chinamen are considered to have done well if half of those who set out for Camooweal ever see it. The blacks knock over a lot; several always drop by the way, and nobody troubles much about them or their misfortunes.

The present gathering had with them three horses.

These they did not ride, but loaded them with provisions and necessaries, and, walking beside them, led them along.

Deciding to camp at Frew's Ironstone Ponds (the reservoir is 36 miles from Newcastle), I chose a place among the coolabahs, and walked over to the Chinamen.

"Good day." It was a feeler.

"No savee."

Taking out a florin (the only silver coin I had), I said to him, whose smile was blandest, "You got it flour?" pointing to a small bag of it. "You bake it Johnny cake, so big," I drew a small circle on the ground and laid the two-shilling-piece within the circle.

The yellow man's smile broadened at sight of the white money. He knew something of English. He said, "Welly goo."

So, happy in the certainty of having fresh baked bread for supper, I, leaving them, proceeded to make my primitive wash-basin preparations, and had a bath.

Before sundown, the Chinamen had shot a great number of the ducks with which the surface of the waterhole (in common with most of the others along the track, by the way) was swarming. And one of them, at supper time, came over and presented me with an only three-parts empty tin of jam--a small tin. May he have escaped both niggers and imprisonment?

* * * *

Often o' nights, as here at this romantic camping place, there came to me the clear realization of what would be the consequence of a disabling accident.

There were no means that I could see of getting out from places in this country for months if my machine smashed up. I was a nobody--had neither wealth nor influence at my back, and would be powerless to do anything or get people to do anything for me.

And suppose I did get to a telegraph or other station. Is it a couple of riding and pack horses, with saddles, packs, and provisions all on, and a black boy, you would throw at the head of a stranger cyclist who had been warned against coming your way, yet who arrives--only to break down at your door?

I would be a nuisance to myself and everyone else around the place I reached, and to all who had associated their names in any way with mine. Ugh? The situation would be unbearably horrible. And the prospect! When the time came, and I was given the chance to go north or south, what a prospect loomed either way before me!

If the bike broke down, I would have made but very little exertion indeed to get out into the world at either end. Why should I, even if an opportunity of doing so soon presented itself--out into where the crooked finger of derisive "I told him so" would evermore be mockingly bent towards me? Why should I, when I could lie down and remain, quite comfortably, and in peace, at the side of the first waterhole I should come upon!

When a fellow gets into the habit of lying awake o' nights out in the open, gazing upwards at the starlit sky, and thinking dreamily of what lies beyond, he is--at least some of him are--liable to become more or less desirous of satisfying the curiosity such ruminations excites. The stars twinkle as if they were all quite happy. If one could only be quite sure.--But I'd rather chance that than face the other certainty. I would cut no telegraph wire; would trouble no station people or anyone else. And so I comforted myself, and slept well.

* * * *

On leaving Frew's beautiful pond early in the morning, the road leading to Daly Waters (55 miles) was assured by the Chinamen's tracks. Remarkable tracks these--left by flat oblong pieces of wood with which each traveller was sandal-shod.

The road from the pond, still strewn with ironstone-gravel, immediately entered the forest, where of the sky little was to be seen except a narrow strip overhead. A short strip this, too, for the road wound now to the west, now away to the east, or, again, ran northwards.

And so light-heartedly I wheeled through the morning's shadows, between two walls of forest trees, and over or around logs and branches of fallen ones, for 17 miles. Then came three miles of dangerous "Bay of Biscay" ground; then five miles of still treacherous track, on which were many patches of "Biscay holes" and lengths of fallen timber; and then again the jungle, and so to Daly Waters.

Besides the higher trees, a heavy undergrowth, and many kinds of grass flanked either side. The trees were in great variety--bloodwood, ironwood, lancewood, coolabah, bauhinia, hedgewood, whipcord tree and quinine tree. Added to these, a bush known as the water wattle, a native orange, and a turpentine bush; and, for aught I know, a dozen others.

I passed through an extensive belt of tall, and remarkably straight trees, growing very close together. The trunks were branchless for a long way up, 25 feet of clear stem being not uncommon. To this very respectable forest tree there had been given the name of mulga, a misnomer truly, judged by the standards of the south.

But of them all the most to be admired had a stem, straight and slender, 30 feet or more in height, leafless; but bearing on every branch large numbers of a bright red flower, in shape, resembling very much the fuchsia!

And of flowers there are not many on the Overland. From the MacDonnell Ranges, right up to Powell's Creek, my only "button hole," was a large bell-shaped, blue flower, growing on a bush about 3 feet in height; but, Diamond, I bedecked with yellow wattle blossom wherever it could be got. Beyond Daly Waters, a little round flower, like a "billy-button"--white, blood-red or variegated--replaced the larger, and more quickly, withering blue-bell.

* * * *