ranges, covered with saltbush and other stock-fattening growth. Grasses
of many valuable kinds flourish thickly in the hills and gullies--in
fact, no better limited tracts of pastoral country could one wish to see
than are to be found within and in the neighborhood of these MacDonnell
Ranges.
The climate, too, is nearly all that could be desired throughout the
greater part of each year. The days are warm, the nights cool--a little
too much warmth sometimes, at others a little too much cold.
White people seem to live there as much for the purpose of making
strangers welcome as to amass money in a leisurely fashion, and black
people are more plentiful than gooseberries. Physically the natives to
be seen about are very good samples of aboriginalty. As at Oodnadatta,
the female blacks do most of the washing and general domestic work for
the townspeople, and of course the male blackfellows are invaluable to
those of the score of settlers who do much dealing in horses or cattle.
In this quaint spot, and amongst this hospitable community, I remained
for several days. There were many "gaps," sheltered waterholes, and
other interesting spots to be visited, and every man in the place came
forward with hearty offers to be my cicerone. Having been so long unused
to opportunities for gormandizing--unused, too, to sleeping between
sheets on flock mattresses--the hotel and those good things which it
contained exercised strong magnetic attractions.
Inquiries about the road ahead were pursued diligently, and an operator
at the telegraph station (obliging and considerate, as they all were)
sketched out for me an artistic and lucid plan of the route so far as
Barrow Creek. Armed with this plan, and loaded with provisions, the
"condition" I had put on during my few days' stay, a water-bag, a quart
pot, tools, and various other things, including a light parcel of meat
extract, Diamond and I one fine forenoon started out over the mountains,
thence on to the exterior desert, with the enticing prospect of
I-didn't-know-what before me.
Having come so far without hurt worth speaking of, and with the kindest
words of encouragement from the people here, I felt sanguine of being
able to make a fair show at the business thus far only half transacted.
* * * *
The township was out to say good-bye! Of the number was the telegraph
master, a genial officer who, in addition to controlling this most
important repeating station on that Transcontinental line which links
Australia and Europe, has acquired during a long residence a profound
knowledge of the aborigines of Central Australia, their languages, their
customs, and their folk-lore. He had with him his camera; and later on,
when (myself all unconscious of it) "Murif's Ride Across Australia"
headed many a paragraph and sketch, there appeared in one of the
Adelaide papers, beneath a drawing, this brief account, reproduced here
as showing how others on the scene viewed the enterprise at this stage,
after the capabilities of the machine had been in part demonstrated. It
is described as the expression of "Our Alice Springs correspondent":--
"The above snapshot was taken on Monday morning, April 13, just as Murif
was about to begin the second half of his great undertaking. Up to that
date he had travelled over 1,130 miles, the latter part of the journey
being anything but pleasant from a cyclist's point of view. There were
many obstacles to overcome in the shape of miles of rough stony road,
especially the 'gibbers,' near Charlotte Waters. Three-cornered Jacks
are another enemy to the cyclist; also miles of sand, which affords
splendid exercise and gave Murif a chance to develop the muscles of his
arms by pushing his machine, it being impossible to pedal over the sand.
"Murif's greatest piece of luck was noticed by me whilst out riding some
forty miles from here. I was looking down at Murif's track, and saw
where he had left the road to escape a stump and ran across a piece of
brandy case with three large nails standing point upwards. His tyre
missed these by half an inch. After passing an obstacle of that
description, his luck must carry him over the remaining thousand odd
miles safely.
"There are still many dangers he will have to steer clear of whilst
travelling north of here. Stumps overgrown by grass will be one of his
greatest enemies. A hard collision with one of these would mean serious
damage to his machine, and the distance between the telegraph
stations--the only place where he could repair a bad break--being some
200 miles, a mishap would prove serious to him. In places above Barrow's
Creek, and _en route_, he will find the spear-grass very troublesome,
and a cuirass would prove very beneficial to him while travelling
through it to keep the seeds, which are long and very sharp, from
penetrating his body.
"Both Murif and his machine were looking in the best of trim. On leaving
here he was carrying a fair amount of dunnage, including waterbag, &c.
The quartpot strapped underneath the saddle whilst travelling does duty
as a storage-room for his tea and sugar. On his back he carries a small
knapsack full of provisions. On his belt he has a small pouch for pipe,
tobacco, and matches. He smokes very little during the day, and when
short of water dispenses with the pipe until such times as he can afford
to indulge freely. He converts his lampstand into a rack for his
revolver, which article all travellers north of here carry, although it
is some years since the natives attacked a white man on the road.
However, prevention is better than cure.
"Murif, unlike most cyclists, prefers to travel in loose pyjamas, using
clips, rather than the knickers, the former being cool and comfortable
for this semi-tropical climate."
* * * *
Myself, writing from Alice Springs, begged for assistance "to give
expression to my deep feeling of gratification for the many kindnesses I
had been the recipient of on the road. They are thorough white men up
this way--the most generous-hearted, the kindliest, the bravest I
believe any country in the world could produce. Knowing them, one
realises of what noble stuff our pioneers are made."
Now I call at the telegraph station to try and express my thanks to the
last of the men--the men out back who know and show what brotherhood is;
wheel thoughtfully through the ranges 14 miles, and----
* * * *
As Diamond and I passed into the heart of the land we picked up a great
deal of information regarding the most suitable equipment for the
journey. Pretty well everyone had something to suggest.
"Ha! yes," said one, "the thing is to keep up your strength, and for
that there's nothing like good sleep." So I should have carried an
inflatable mattress and pillow--a simple affair, planned on the
pneumatic principle, to be pumped in every night at bedtime.
A shot gun or a rifle--"never can tell, you know."
A kodak--"That would have kept your mind occupied."
A tent--"Something light, of course, and easily rigged."
A sextant, quadrant, or theodolite--the suggestors weren't quite sure of
the differences between these things; all sounded impressive enough.
A pocket telegraph instrument.
Cyclist's cape and riding suit, with long woollen stockings--for
grass-seeds to hold on to, no doubt.
Aluminium water canteen, flint and steel and touch-paper, a medicine
chest (the larger the better), snake poison antidotes and brandy
(doubtless to make me see 'em), the Bible or a few works of my favorite
author, a small "handy" spirit-lamp, a field-glass, much woollen
underclothing, rice, oatmeal, cream of tartar, dried this and pressed
that; stock, taps and small die-plate; bombs for scattering obnoxious
niggers, a recently-invented apparatus for extracting water from damp
earth by evaporation and condensation, sponge for gathering up the dew
from the tree leaves, a hammock, mosquito curtain.
And many other articles which I cannot bring to mind just now. The
reader is entitled to suggest as many more as he pleases.
But it was too late to start collecting _all_ these things at Alice
Springs, so I considered, and contented myself with the purchase of--an
ounce of quinine, a box of Cockle's pills, and a quart pot.
* * * *
During the time I remained at Alice Springs I bothered my head very
little indeed about what there might be in store for me in the country
beyond. I had previously been led to cogitate over so very many evil
possibilities that I had long resolved not to lay myself out
particularly to guard against any at all. Had I devoted my thoughts and
actions to making certain of all being safe to the end, then very
plainly my wisest plan would have been to turn and cycle back. When
advised to arrange against this or that misfortune I returned grateful
thanks for the advice, but all the same trusted rather to precautionary
measures inventing themselves, or being invented by other than such a
powerless atom as myself.
I placed implicit trust on three things--good health, good luck, and a
good bicycle. If any of these went wrong, no preparation which I was in
a position to make would go far towards the prevention of very nasty
happenings.
* * * *
On resuming, after the welcome interval at Alice Springs, a 14-mile
cycle walk through the MacDonnell ranges was the first act billed on the
day's programme.
The track winds its toilsome way over the lowest rises and through
gullies squeezed between the higher of the rough granite and sandstone
hills. Much bigger ones--each duly catalogued and named by somebody at
sometime, I have no doubt--loomed up in every direction. Many of the
gullies are well grassed. Saltbush and mulga are met with occasionally;
and everywhere spring up low bushes of the kinds that are fattening and
well-beloved of flocks and herds. Rideable stretches of a mile or so may
be passed over as hardly worth noticing.
The hills end rather abruptly; and a thickly timbered plain outstretches
itself, extending as far eye can reach. Riding on to it one finds
everywhere abundance of grass as well as salt and blue bush. There are
some open places, but for the greater part of the way to Burt Well (21
miles from the range) the traveller advances within avenues cut through
densely-packed and far-extending mulga scrub.
The riding is very fair--a light loamy soil--but a sharp look-out has to
be kept for stumps on the roughly-cleared chain-wide track along the
telegraph line.
Innumerable small spire-like formations and mounds, the hills of white
ants, dot the track, and cumber its sides. None, curiously enough, are
known to exist south of the MacDonnell ranges.
Yet what impressed me most during the day's ride was that instead of
having entered a desert, I was pursuing a course through country of the
best description for stock--only lacking in water.
* * * *
Arriving at a lovely waterhole overhung with gum trees on the Burt Creek
(a pad branching from the main track leads to it), I stopped to have a
bath and enjoy the cool of the heavy shadow.
It is a law of the overland that a waterhole, unless it be very large or
there be others close by, must not be used for soapy-washing. One dips
up water with a billycan or pannikin, and, stepping back, should he not
have a wash-dish, he washes with one hand. It isn't satisfying, but it
has to do.
My waterproof served as a basin. A hole, begun with the boot-heel and
finished off by hand, was scooped out in the easily-shifted soil, the
waterproof spread out over and then pressed down into it, and--there it
was.
By the time I had had my refresher and a smoke I found it very easy to
persuade myself that the place was quite secluded and comfortable enough
to remain the night at, and I acted accordingly; stocked a supply of
firewood in reserve against the chilliness of coming wee small hours;
pulled up by their roots (which I then shook free of earth) a quantity
of the plentiful 18in.-high dry grass, and arranged my (low-) downy
couch in systematic 4 x 6 and side-banked fashion in the lee of the
sheltering bush to which I had close-tethered Diamond.
I hung up the lining of my wash basin to dry, lit a fire and brewed a
quartpot of tea; but not being very hungry did not broach my precious
cargo of bush bread and goat's mutton. I had with me a piece of old
newspaper, and I read it. There was a little writing to be done, and I
did it. A torn garment called, through the rent, for thread, and I gave
it some. Then I overhauled the bicycle, and, finding everything as it
should be, broke short a piece of stick and discordantly accompanied
myself in an "impromptu"--"Across the Continent in Pyjamas"--by
thrumming on the front wheel spokes. Smoked. Stood up and looked around
at the scrub; sat down and scribbled a little more--and felt lonely as I
could wish till bed time.
* * * *
Before sundown I had watched awhile the diamond sparrows flocking for
their evening drink in clustering clouds of dear little twittering
atoms. And note, I had begun to tell myself in meditative strain--note
how considerate Nature provides for these, even these smallest of her
trusting creatures. But a couple of hawks came along, and, swooping low
down, pounced greedily upon the thirsting little creatures. I saw no
good reason why I should interfere. I gave Nature credit for knowing its
business, and guessed the hawks were peckish. Yet, against my reasoning
instincts, I threw a lump of wood at one of the murderous, darting birds
of prey. The whizzing missile frightened him away alright--and killed
about a dozen sparrows.
How very like many great human schemes and systems!
* * * *
But now bedtime. The sun was down, and the stillness was intense. A dim
sense of unreality pervaded everything, including even
thought-consciousness, the _Ego_. Perhaps it was only through sharp
contrast with the past few nights spent talkatively with new
acquaintances in Alice Springs; but the solitude made itself felt more
oppressively than I can recall it ever to have done o' nights the other
side of that reposeful _ultima thule_.
All which trifling details of how I spent one afternoon and fixed my
camp I give now, to save, to some extent, vain repetition later on.
So far as "tucker" was concerned, before my own good stock had quite
run out I was so lucky as to come upon a traveller (whose business was
his own), with his two black-boys, somewhere between the Burt and
Tea-tree well. He re-loaded me with all the eatables I desired, and made
me welcome to them with the magnificent generosity of the bush.
* * * *
Flat, almost level country extends to a Government well--Connor's--about
23 miles northward from the Burt watercourse. Covering this well, as
also those others to be seen still further north, very fine-meshed
nettings are hinged to one side, preventing wild dogs, iguanas, and
birds from falling in. It is, as all the others are, walled round
substantially with upright hardwood posts, sunk touching one another;
and it is of course, equipped with windlass, buckets, and a line of
troughs. The water is as good as anybody could desire.
* * * *
The feelings of surprise engendered by the sight of such good grazing
country, the interest and curiosity excited by the ever-present
countless ant-hills, the mild astonishment as I looked through the
straight and level avenues lined sharply through the mulga (avenues
extending so far that their turning points were lost in the haze of
distance)--these were the deeper impressions.
But after the first day out from the ranges these feelings in part gave
place to intermittently-recurring sensations of a kind entirely new to
me. The high hills behind had, as it seemed, shut me off from the whole
world of animation. Up to the MacDonnell, if one doesn't get bushed, one
expects to meet with people every other day or so; but here, amid the
myriads of ant hills and the thick, impenetrable scrub, it is as if one
had strayed into a wonderland whose every inhabitant had died and had
had erected to him or her a lasting monument.
And I was cycling through the silent burial-ground!
A ghostly suggestiveness, a little creeping of the flesh, an uneasy
expectation of meeting with--one seldom questions at such moments
what--urged me quickly on a little way, or, again, would prompt me
suddenly to stop, dismount, lean over on the bicycle, and with craned
neck peer into the gloomy scrub and rather hoarsely invite what might be
therein to "come out." Then, recollecting it to be rather early for that
sort of "business" yet awhile, I'd laugh shamefacedly, then philosophise
a little, as, sitting beneath a shady bush or mulga tree, if not short
of water, I'd smoke a quiet pipe. For I was in no hurry, and by no means
did I dislike these new sensations.
* * * *
Hann's Range is 15 miles from Connor's Well. Soon after leaving the well
dreary open country is met with--nothing to be seen for many miles but
spinifex. Bad riding ground; for where there is much spinifex there
almost always will be found very loose or sandy soil or ranges. I look
longingly for signs of a mulga thicket, as there I knew the ground will
be much firmer.
As it approaches Hann's Range the road improves to very good, and once
again the mulga scrub shows up. The range is but a very low one, and is
soon left behind. After a run of 7 miles, over fair quartz-pebbly track,
another well (Ryan's). After Ryan's another fair stretch of 14 miles,
leading into a gap known as Prowse's, where it passes through a low hill
of granite--Mount Boothby. The sand thence becomes heavier, and so lasts
to a watercourse--the Woodforde. Here are camping places--soakages and
waterholes--and at one of these (a crossing of the creek) I spend a
night.
A very large burr has put in an appearance; and after it come burrs of
all sizes and of several different varieties.
* * * *
Much of the cycling hereabout is equivalent to cross-country riding.
Wherever the ground is soft the loose sand blows in and fills up the two
narrow parallel riding spaces which are sole indications of wheeled
vehicles having travelled this way at some time long gone by.
Between these clearly defined pads a ridge is formed on which grows
spinifex or a tussocky grass; so no choice is left to the cyclist but to
sheer off to the side. As spare horses are brought along when once a
year supplies are carted up to the telegraph stations on the
Transcontinental, the sides for some distance out from the track are
very badly cut about. One then perforce must ride as best he may, or
walk, through scrub and spinifex and over fallen timber.
From time to time, since leaving Connor's Well, many kangaroos had been
seen in the occasional open spaces.
At Ryan's Well, and from there northwards, there grows a small
pale-green leaved plant, bearing a ripe and tasty berry, in appearance
not unlike the gooseberries of down south gardens. I tested one, and
liked its flavour well. Then I experimented with a couple, then four;
and as there were no signs of ill effects, I fell upon them tooth and
nail. Their taste recalled rock-melons. The more I ate of them the more
I relished their peculiar "twang."
* * * *
Beyond Hann's Range tracks of naked feet had frequently been observed.
Where the ground is hard the cyclist may not heed these footprints much;
but in the slowing sand one feels so very powerless to "manoeuvre,"
that, for a little while at least, the sense of being alone is rather
agreeable.
Near a turn in the track a black head and shoulder disappeared behind a
bush. Surely, I thought, the time for an adventure has come; so,
dismounting, I walked back to the turning point and, completely hidden,
peeped along the track.
There was a curious sight. Half-a-dozen natives, now in full view, were
making a minute examination of the wheel marks. All were gesticulating
wildly. No "animal" like this had they ever seen before. I would have
given--what _could_ I have given them?--for their thoughts. Again and
again they ran along the track for a few yards--they who had been
tracking all manner of walking and crawling things all their lives. Next
they appeared to be comparing notes of the strange "beast" itself--so I
judged from the movements of their arms and bodies.
And thus they were still engaged when I turned Diamond once again, and
wheeled northward.
* * * *
From the Woodforde to the Tea-tree Well the track was fair--a light
loam. The mulga scrub in places is extraordinarily dense. A matter of
wonderment to me was how the explorers could have forced a passage for
themselves and their animals through those miles upon miles of closely
packed trees and undergrowth. One ceases to marvel at the creeping
progress they made. You need to be in some such place as this (about the
Tea-tree Well) before you realise how brave and venturesome and
determined the first explorers were--how terribly hard and dangerous
their work.
Now the track is plain enough to Barrow's Creek; anyone may follow it--a
fact with which, needless to say, I was not acquainted until I had
passed over it. But as the stumps have never been grubbed, and as the
ants' dwelling-places, if ever interfered with, have been rebuilt or are
in various stages of re-construction--what with one threatening
wheel-smasher and the other--the visiting cyclist may easily fancy
himself touring in a skittle alley studded with ninety-nine thousand
pins.
* * * *
The ant hills, ever prominent features in the landscape right through
Palmerston, are formed of hard dry clay, or of sand mixed with a
cementing solution secreted by the insect. It calls for a very forcible
kick to knock the top off even a small one. When broken into, the
structure is seen to be cellular, and the dirty-white inhabitants are
discovered moving hurriedly over the particles of dry grass or wood
which every cell contains.
The cyclist must exercise much caution amongst those pinnacled hillocks
and mulga remnants; but on good patches the sensation of sweeping around
and in and out through the many obstacles is rather enjoyable. You have
some of the delights of cycling and of skating into the bargain.
* * * *
The Tea-tree Well is about 50 yards away from the bank of a pretty wide
but not deep creek, on the bank of which flourish the inevitable giant
gum-trees. Out from that side of the watercourse farthest from the well,
and into the bed of it, grows the bushy nigger-harboring scrub from
which the well derives its name. Blacks might be in there by the dozen,
and a person camping near this well be never a whit the wiser. The
general aspect of the place and its surrounding are wild and
likely-looking enough for anything in the way of adventure.
Although it was early in the afternoon I felt drowsy, and planned a
sleep at this celebrated spot. First a reconnoitre: tracks of naked feet
in plenty; but, then, you can find them almost anywhere. So I comforted
myself, and (to my disgust afterwards, of course) argued with myself
that there was need of courage; then drew a bucket of the excellent
water from the well, and made my "camp."
* * * *
The burrs had, for the last two days, been very troublesome; wherefore I
improvised a burr-dissuader, which proved a very successful affair.
Finding an old tin matchbox near the well, I prized off the top and
bottom pieces, and, with a pair of small folding scissors, shaped one
end of each to correspond with the convex outside of the tyres. These
pieces of tin I fastened on the bicycle between the forks with the small
studs which at one time had held in place the front and back wheel
mud-guards. Each piece was so adjusted as to nearly touch the tyre. A
cover with central bead would need a corresponding cut in the tin.
A prickle seldom punctures at once; a few revolutions of the wheel must
be made before the thorn gets through into the air tube. The object,
then, was to remove the thing before those revolutions were made.