... and everything seemed to be going so well (haven’t I
written that somewhere before?)
The day after we arrived in Alice, we were feeling a
little chuffed that we’d managed to limp our car and trailer down the highway,
and into our caravan site without further mishap. We had even arranged to have
the 12-pin plug replaced over the weekend. As such, with our laurels firmly
resting on having overcome a few minor obstacles, we decided it was time we
really put the cat-amongst-the-pigeons and test our mettle on a proper off-road
track.
Oh ho, onwards brave adventurers! No more pulling a
trailer on nice bitumen for us. No, we were wandering warriors, not beholden to
the edicts of the land transport authority telling us where we should drive.
No, we knew better than them. Oh ho…
So, turning our sights away from Alice, we sought out
what was meant to be a spectacular and grandly rewarding drive. ‘Palm Valley’,
the tourist map said, ‘experience 400-year-old cycads, untouched since the time
of the dinosaurs’. Right, well that clinched it! With the suggestion that there
may be dinosaurs on the cards, we were itching to get started!
Arriving at the turn off to Palm Valley, we were greeted
by several signs advising all who enter this place (in bright red capital
letters, no less) that this road was strictly terrain for four-wheel drive
vehicles only (don’t say you weren’t
warned!). ‘Pish and tosh’, we would have like to have said, casting caution to
the wind and tackling the beast of a trail like seasoned veterans of the road;
like stalwart hunters of fortune who had bushwacked more than their fair share
of outback. But, in reality, we weren’t such doyens of dust and ditches. Rather,
the only off-roading I had done, was largely unintentional; no more than a
careless whoopsie onto the curb one time when I wasn’t paying enough attention…
But, I guess you’ve got to start somewhere.
So, we dutifully pulled over at the information kiosk and
read every bit of information on offer to the neophyte who dared to venture
down this craggy and sinky-sandy
trail. ‘Drive slowly’, the signs said, ‘keep above 40’, others chimed in. ‘Keep
you speed constant’ came third helpful call from yet another dark corner of the
information board… ‘Keep your tyres inflated’, ‘drop your tyre pressure’, ‘lock
your rear diff’, ‘unlock your rear diff’… ‘enjoy the magnificent
scenery!’
“What the hell was all that?” we asked ourselves. At
least, we felt, that we were pretty good at enjoying the scenery… surely, we
had that part covered!
And so, off we ventured. Trying all at once to drive
slowly, to stay above 40 and keep our speed constant. I imagine anyone who
happened to glance in at me behind the wheel would have seen a crazy eyed
person in some physical stated of supreme cognitive tension trying to achieve
all three imperatives at the same time…
Well, with all that build-up of mental and physical strain,
something had to give. And give it did. Whilst maintaining a slow, constant,
speed – hovering at the same time above and below 40 km/h, the left rear tyre
grew weary of sustaining this state of physical improbability and decided it
would quite fancy just watching the scenery from the spare tyre rack at the
back of the car.
The wheels on the car go pop, pop, pop…
In reality, I’m pretty certain it was just a sharp piece
of flint sticking out of the river rocks (combined with inexperience and a good
dose of humbling bad luck). But, whatever the cause, pop went the tyre and stop
went to car. At least it gave us a few moments to sit forlornly and make sure we
were truly enjoying the magnificent
scenery…
Right, thought I, time to flick off this beleaguered tyre
and strap on a new one. We’ll be away before the dust had even settled. But, no….
It suddenly occurred to me, as I lay staring underneath the car in the dust,
sand and river stones (an annoyingly sharp piece of flint constantly prodding
me in the shoulder blades, no matter how I positioned myself), that changing a
tyre on small run-about in the comfort of your own driveway (ahhh, how I missed
my driveway at that moment) was a damn sight different proposition from
changing several tons of trailer luging machine, on soft sandy terrain, in the
blazing hot sun. ‘Right, where’s that instruction book gone’, I wondered to
myself slightly frantically.
Not one to shy away from accepting any assistance proffered
at a time of need (from friend or stranger alike), I was particularly glad when
my newest best mate of the day, Robert, turned up with his spare jack and barrels
full of worldly know-how to help remedy the situation. A crash course is road
side mechanics later (well, perhaps ‘roadside’ is stretching it a little; rocky,
sandy trail mechanics would likely be more apt), the tyre was striped, the car
didn’t collapse into a heap, and we were somehow back on our merry way towards
destiny!
At that point, one tyre down and a nagging feeling that I
would more than likely ruin another one shortly, I was fighting the urge to
find the nearest piece of road wide enough to turn around and head back home to
lick my wounds. Even the kindly words of our road side saviour, who suggested
that we were half way there, didn’t settle my mind. Ever the rationalist, to my
mind, half way there meant there was another three times the distanced we had already
travelled still to go (it was a dead-end track, and the only way out was to
follow the same toe curling route back to freedom). But, as Robert and his
family were heading the same way, he suggested that he could keep an eye on us
along the way and help us to pick out the best route to travel. Ok, at least we
wouldn’t get stuck in the middle of nowhere without hope of rescue. So, once
more, onwards brave adventurers! Oh ho…
Lead on, Robert, lead on!
Following behind this unexpected mentor, we ultimately
made it to our destination. Palm Valley was indeed as spectacular as the guide
books promised. Sheer walls stained in all manner of orange hues, clutches of
ancient cycads (many of which had been growing here peacefully since before
Captain Cook was even a wee lad), babbling rivers and billabongs teaming with
life. If only my heart would hush-up long enough to let me enjoy it (that’s enough
from you too brain – the return journey can’t be as hair raising as the drive
in, surely).
Would you stop to help this scruffy individual?
Sitting there in Palm Valley, all I could think about (in
vivid technicolour) were the steep ditches that had been negotiated, the long
patches of soft and cloying sand, rocky steps that the car was forced to
clamber up, and small rivers that had required fording. However, from the
comfort of my folding camp chair, sitting outside the caravan tonight – with a
stiff drink in my hand – I’m also starting to get glimpses of other memories that
include the wild horses we stumbled upon, the clear cobalt-blue sky contrasting
against the burnt auburn cliffs, and most of all, the tranquillity that comes
from being so far away from the rat-race for a short time.
As it turns out, I must have learned a thing or two from
my experience of driving behind Robert into this serenely rocky oasis. The
return trip passed without incident and flew by (at a nice, sedate pace of
course) quicker than I remembered the inwards road taking (but, isn’t that
always the way?). Before we knew it, we were back on solid, beautiful tarmac.
No longer was the road fighting against me and trying to dive out of my way as
I moved towards it. This was familiar. This was safe.
…but, I must admit, in the end, I was also a little
disappointed the whole adventure was over.
We’re not coming down until dad stops driving!
So, lessons learned:
1) No matter how slow I think I should go, it’s probably
best to drop back a few km/h – just to be sure.
2) An evening with an instruction manual is time well spent.
3) Rocky roads = go slow, sandy roads = keep up the speed.
Don’t get the two mixed up!
4) No matter how bumpy it gets, always, always make sure you take time to enjoy the magnificent scenery.
The next day, back in Alice, I was able to track down one
of the few tyre fixing services that had remained open on Easter long weekend.
To be honest, they were doing a roaring trade. Lines of punters, with flat 4x4
tyres being off loaded from similar adventuresome outings, clambered at their
forecourt. At least one person I spoke to also fessed up to having acquired a
similar puncture on the way to Palm Valley. ‘Must’ve been a sharp piece of
flint sticking out of the river rocks’, we agreed, and nodded to each other sagely.
That evening, we tracked down our roadside champion (he
happened to be staying at the same camp site), and dropped off a bottle of wine
to say thanks. Our lads also became good friends with his grandson, so we saw
more of them during our last few days in Alice. It was a good opportunity to
get some veteran knowledge about the roads we were hoping to travel in our
voyage ahead.
I seem to recall saying in my first blog post something
about anticipating that I would come back from this trip a little wiser than
when I left. Well, consider that already ticked off.
Bye ‘d bye,
Gregg
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