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.