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.
* * * *
This day, like every other day up there, was "blazing" hot. Parts of the
road, too, were unsafe; and my waterbag, from being knocked about, and
worn thin in places, allowed the water to evaporate quickly (truth to
tell, I had soon drunk it all rather than have this occur), and a
stretch of 35 miles had to be cycled over before more was got. Yet,
notwithstanding these things, the ride from Frew's to Daly Waters, all
through dense forest, lingers in my memory as making one of the most
enjoyable day's cycling I ever had.
* * * *
The feeling of loneliness had to a great extent worn off. I had, it may
be, become inured to it. Still, the change of scene and country was so
marked and impressive that often throughout the ride, in the lasting
gloom and shadow of countless solemn giant trees, encompassed by a
penetrating solitude, I experienced again those indescribable sensations
to which I had not been for many a day susceptible--mystic sensations of
a hushed expectant awe as in the presence of a something living,
breathing, but unseen, intangible. As I passed by I glanced into an
opening, or looked far back between the trunks where trees were
scattered--and it seemed to me so very strange that nothing should be
moving there!
Yet this sense of being alone with throbbing nature--the hidden
influence--was not by any means unhappy. It was a restful feeling--a
feeling of peacefulness, as though one had awakened from a long, long
sleep, to find oneself in a calm and weird existence somewhere beyond
the state of life: a borderland arrived at after death.
And the toil and turmoil of existence in the world which had been left
behind, viewed from the distance, appeared now to be so very
purposeless; its work-a-day prosaic rounds and its confinement so very
galling; its dead-sea-apple pleasures so few and short-lived; its
miseries, so many and enduring; the worth of it all so very little that
the consciousness of having to again return to it was as a jarring note.
And in the vast immensity of towering forest the thought of quiet Death
was no unwelcome one. I realised so clearly what an insignificant atom
this was which moved through it, as an ant might--so insignificant that,
had the certain prospect of the atom's end appeared, for anyone to fuss
or mourn over such a trivial incident as that death would be, seemed
extravagant, as absurd as to mourn the withering of a blade of grass or
the falling of a leaf.
In this land of forest, and quiet, and vastness, the silence, if it be
given a thought, is so profound, so unnatural, that memories of some
night in childhood come back to mind--some dark, still night through
whose long hours the child waited alone in a roomy house, hushed with
bated breath, and "fancied things."
* * * *
About mid-day I arrived at water--probably The Burt; a shallow, clayey
creek. After drinking, and whilst the quart-pot boiled, I put in the
time carving my name on the trunk of a gum-tree overhanging the
waterhole. I was not sure about the date, but cut one in. High grass
grew on that bank of the creek on which I stopped--grass high enough to
cover and shade the bicycle which, when I pushed it in, stood nearly
upright against the finger-thick blades.
A smoke was rising down the creek; and when my opposition cloud was
raised an inquisitive black female hove in sight. When first observed,
she was on the far side of the watercourse, peeping from behind some
bushes; but a minute afterwards she came out into full view. My first
impulse was to call her over. Then I wondered how she would act if I
remained silent. So I pretended not to be aware of her presence, and
went on with the letter-forming.
The lubra stood still for a moment, irresolute; then she advanced
slowly, keeping a little way out from the creek, and passed me before
she crossed. To keep her in sight I had need to turn but very slightly.
On seeing her step down into the creek's bed I took pains to keep my
back to her. Presumably she was unable to satisfactorily explain away
the mien of deep preoccupation so ostentatiously displayed. At any rate
she came very close, looked on from behind as I worked, and once
coughed, or "hem'd" aboriginally. And still I obstinately continued
deaf. She had a becomingly dirty bone stuck horizontally through her
broad nose, and for the rest was fashionably dressed in a dog's-tooth
necklace.
At last she touched me on the shoulder. At this I faced sharply around
and stared with a look intended to convey blank astonishment. She
giggled; but there was a tinge of uneasiness or uncertainty about the
giggle; then said "which way nanto?"
Having gone so far with no idea of saying or doing anything in
particular to the young woman, I now acted on the prompting of the
moment--rushed from her suddenly into the long grass, collared the
nanto, and rushed out with it. She screamed at my reappearance--or
rather at the appearance of the prancing bicycle. Then turned and ran;
and I ran the nanto after her.
But shoving the bicycle handicapped me, and she out-distanced us easily.
I stopped and called out to her to come back, but she wouldn't. I cried
almost tearfully, "Angelina," but 'twas no use.
I reckoned women were a class of people no fellow could understand, and
walked sadly back to my lonely dinner--hour--for dinner I had little.
From this waterhole I felt not the slightest of inclinations to go on.
Had I brought with me from Newcastle sufficient food to last me out I
might have camped there for a week. Finishing off my name plate
leisurely (this was the only place at which I had so occupied myself), I
ate what I had to eat, and smoked.
And, smoking, I pondered deeply over the notion of making for the
blacks' camp and trying to strike a bargain with the chief or elders of
the tribe--that they should keep me well supplied with tucker for a week
or so, and show me the lions in return for which I'd teach 'em to ride
the bicycle at, say, two snakes a lesson, lubras half price.
But I had been learning to ride myself one time and knew how strangely
learner's legs get tangled up in spokes and other parts, a cyclist
cannot cycle without. So I decided to go on. Having so decided, I
yawned, called out despairingly for Angelina to come forth and see me
off, waved my hand in the direction she would most likely be observing
from, and made wheel tracks for Daly waters.
* * * *
Those tracks were formed but very slowly; for it had entered my mind
that the end of my journey was approaching, and I knew not whether to be
glad or sorry. I almost concluded to my own satisfaction that life
would be almost worth living if at the end of it a fellow having arrived
all alone at a weird undesecrated old forest like this should then
mysteriously disappear. If he were to get away far back, and tread
lightly in going, people might search for months and never find him; and
there would be no ghosts of ghoulish undertakers or neighboring
unsympathetic corpses to trouble his last sleep.
But for myself I had no justifiable excuse for doing anything of that
sort--so long as the bicycle didn't break down.
Meditating thus, I came to still another large waterhole, surrounded on
all sides by massive boulders of the now common brown and friable iron
ore. A pretty spot indeed. Forest trees grew thickly around, except at
one side, and there they were more scattered, and high grass and bushes
lined that bank.
The follow-on track was most uncertain, and half an hour was occupied in
making sure of it.
Having at length traced out the right pad, which went off again from the
waterhole at a sharp angle, I strolled down to the water's edge and had
a drink; then cracked up several pieces of the iron ore, but as they
didn't look "kindly," gave up prospecting; next cooeed to try if there
was an echo, but found there wasn't; had another drink, stretched myself
out in a shady place, and, without having the slightest intention of
doing so, fell asleep.
On waking I looked at my watch. "The deuce!" I darted for the bicycle.
Now where was the bicycle? The soil was hard white clay, yielding no
foot-prints for a guide. Think fixedly as I might, I could not bring to
mind where I had "planted" it. True, I could not think very fixedly. Too
many disagreeable thoughts came crowding up.
What a pretty ending to my journey this! My bicycle, it would almost
seem, had carried into execution the little poetical thing in the way of
existence-endings I had contemplated vaguely a while back--had wheeled
itself out into the undesecrated old forest, and vanished from mortal
ken.
I found it--of course somewhere, and within half an hour.
* * * *