They must have rocks in their heads (Part 1)

Leaving Coober Pedy, after sheltering in a dugout, hiding from headwinds for a couple of days, we powered along the Stuart Highway at sometimes 30 km/h. Having no wind to contend with, we felt as though the previous days of riding in a headwind had given us a performance-enhancing drug effect on still days. There are flushes of hot pink wildflowers sprouting out from some kind of succulent looking bright green plant, soaking up the sunshine with the red dust and the occasional interesting reptile or dancing songlarks; all taking our focus from the road ahead. There are clusters of bush tomatoes linking the road edges. The land appears to get more arid as we travel North along it, but every now and then huge stands of 3 or 4 metre tall Acacia defy the lack of moisture, carpeted with soft-looking pale grass that looks like fluffy white animal fur.

Inside a dugout, Coober Pedy Wildflowers

The night before we had a big meal at the "best" restaurant in town, "John's", and ordered a takeaway "Coat of Arms" (emu and kangaroo) pizza to put in the fridge for the next days breakfast. Mmm breakfast pizza. The non-traditional breakfast, and the lack of a 50 km/h headwind combined allowed us to ride 140 km that day to camp next to a property fence amongst some concealing mulga.

We ride to Marla roadhouse the next day, where we buy fizz and fill up a water bottle with salty bore water not great for drinking but fine for cooking. There isn't any fresh water out here that you don't have to pay a lot for, but you can use some of the bore water at a pinch. We filled up our water bags before we left Coobs (30 litres costs 20c, so its cheap) but we liked to top up a bottle with bore water for cooking pasta and making porridge. There are pretty ranges appearing on three sides of us almost immediately upon leaving Marla. We pass a crude road sign made of old scrap metal that simply says "Plenty Cows" to make motorists aware of the wandering stock. Just before nightfall we make a campsite out of a patch of burred land next to a dry creek.

Next morning, a dingo scampers across ahead of us on the road, turning back to look at us, but running off into the trees when we approach. We pass four brumbies standing in the shade of some trees; less cowardly than that dingo, they simply stare at us blankly together. An open mine operation smears dust and diesel smoke across an interesting spinifex-dotted hill in the distance. We stop at a rest area to fill up water from the tank that tells us it may be contaminated, but they all say that, and its mostly only rust and mosquito larvae. A central netted dragon takes on heat from the middle of a lane and somehow survives the Stuart traffic: now many, many caravans, motorhomes, four wheel drives with off-road trailers and of course the Central Australian roadtrains. We are no threat except with our cameras. We camp in some scrub 5 km from the SA/NT border.

Rising early next morning to hit the NT border's water tank before the grey nomads wake up at the rest stop there, we then ride on a tiny bit before stopping for breakfast. We are often riding five, ten, fifteen kilometres before breakfast because the mornings are cold and it takes a while to warm up our stomachs and the alcohol fuel for Simon's stove. I just soak my oats overnight and eat them cold with some dried fruit to add some kind of flavour; but Simon cooks.

As soon as you enter the Northern Territory, everything seems to get a deeper shade of red. Huge ochre-coloured boulders appear beside the road and on the horizon. Wildflowers still blanket the ground in parts. We reach Kulgera roadhouse around 9 am and eat sandwiches and iced coffee. We also get things for lunch later as a bit of a luxury away from the usual fare of peanut butter smeared on crackers.

The Stuart Highway is saturated with caravanners and many pass too close, some honk just as they pass to make you gradually deaf in your right ear. By mid-afternoon we arrive at Erlunda roadhouse for an icy pole and a coke. This roadhouse is well stocked but expensive; but we have our supplies still. As we turn down the Lasseter Highway towards Uluru, the scenery turns to red dunes and soft spinifex, glowing in the afternoon light. Sand dunes here have been sitting in their present position for 30,000 years. We ride along another 35 km before making camp next to a fence amongst some mulga. The smiling crescent moon over a sand dune turns orange as night falls. As we begin to fall asleep, cows tramp past us. I wake up and shine a light to see two glowing, widely-spaced white LED eyes staring back at me from metres away. "What the fuck is that?" escapes my lips before my sleepy brain registers the stampede noise and the eyes are the same beast. Cow. I say "Oh, Hi Cow!" and it stampedes away before mooing into the night. "Mooon" "Mooon" I pretend it is staying at the red crescent moon. The stars are consumed by some clouds.

Next day, we are on the road at sunrise but not far along some locals had broken down sometime during the night, their car running out of petrol. There were standing around a fire to keep warm and one bloke would step out onto the road to try to flag down a lift. But, no one was stopping for him. He stuck his hitchhikers thumb out at me with a slight grin. He motioned he wanted something to eat with sign language, so Simon gave them a muesli bar each. They must have eventually got a lift and fuel as they were at the next roadhouse about the same time we got there, driving past slowly with cheery waving hands. Sometime later we clicked over 3000 km so far on our trip.





The Lasseter Highway that takes you from the Stuart Highway to Yulara (the resort town that services Uluru and Kata Tjuta tourists) attracts the biggest recreational vehicles and the worst drivers in Australia. At least three times a day we are driven off the road that has no shoulder for the most part, and only soft sand to the side, by someone driving a truck-sized motorhome (sometimes with a car towed behind), or a caravan, and no clue how to safely pass a slower vehicle when there is oncoming traffic. The only thing getting more of a workout than my middle finger was my mirrors. Despite the horrible road conditions, the occasional glimpses of Mt Conner in the distance sooth my mood; it's striking violet colours breathtaking amongst the red dunes, the golden, wheat-coloured spinifex, and grey-green mulga setting.

Mt Conner

We are now "outback" enough to attract the "bike paparazzi" which are people who drive right beside you (30 cm from you), slowly, creepily, and then stick a camera out the window to take a snap of you at close range. This of course is extremely rude, dangerous and irritating. I am not a koala. I'm not something you need to collect for your photo album. If you feel you must take a photo of a complete stranger, at least ask their permission. If I went up to someone randomly now and stuck a camera in their face, they'd rightly tell me to piss off. I have no idea why a traveller on a bike doesn't deserve any amount of decency from fellow humans.

That night we camp behind a red dune amongst the spinifex. Again, cows wander past when it's dark. In the early morning a dingo howls next to my head, waking us up with its haunting noise. I just yelled slowly, tiredly, "Go. Away. Dingo!" and hissed at it, and it went away. Simon likes to re-tell this story as me yelling out in a most Australian accent "piss off dingo". Anyway, while he fiddled with the zipper on his bivy bag, I solved the problem laying down.

A five kilometre ride next morning brought us to breakfast at the Curtin Springs roadhouse which has views of Mt Conner, and about one thousand caravanners free-camping. We then continued on towards Yulara, joined by a strengthening headwind. Teasing glimpses of Uluru magic as the road curved between rust-coloured sand dunes and obscuring Desert Oaks, and even distant, smokey-purple views of Kata Tjuta, spur us onwards regardless. Some of the critters that live in the area include spinifex hopping mouse, red kangaroo, mulgara, rufus hare-wallaby, dingo, ants, thorny devil, woma python, great desert skink, perentie, mulga snake (king brown), western bowerbird, crimson chat, black-breasted buzzard (kite), grey-fronted honey eater, slaty-backed thornbill, splendid fairy-wren, spinifex pigeon. Desert oak juvenille trees are straight and tall, but when the roots meet the water table the mature tree spreads out massive limbs as if celebrating with wide open arms.

Before we get to Yulara we meet "John" who cycled the dirt track from Perth to here, and considered the sealed road good quality, but more dangerous because of all the traffic. He sounds like he is heading down the unsealed Plenty Hwy next. Wearing nothing but short shorts in the middle of the day, he reminds me there must be a legion of 30-somethings European men who ride Australia in their 20s and go on to develop skin cancer, as many disregard the slip slop slap message we've now grown up with. We are travelling in UV rated long sleeves and long pants despite the hot days.

We finally make it into Yulara and check into a $265 cabin away from the caravan set. The cabin is labelled "budget" and while the interior is small and has bunk beds instead of a double, I'm not sure just who's budget they refer to; but its just for one night of sanctuary of walls, to wash ourselves and our clothes, and most importantly, to drink beer.

Yulara is a desert oasis, not least for us because it has a fully stocked IGA at city prices, the like of which we haven't seen since Coober Pedy. We escape inside and buy up icypoles, softdrink and - gasp - Cheesymite scrolls - before walking to a lookout for an Uluru sunset. There is a fire off in the distance towards Uluru, but it is out before last light.

Uluru
Uluru

But there is little rest for us overnight as we check out before first light to ride to Uluru with the rising sun. We circle Uluru via the base walk on our  bikes, and at this time of the early morning it is quiet for the most part.







Bush plum




















For many Australians, Uluru (pronounced pronounced Ool-or-roo), or 'Ayers Rock' as it was know for a short period of time, is like a cartoon character you've known since childhood - abstractly in the "middle of Australia" in the "middle of the outback" in the "middle of nowhere"; its image a staple on nearly every touristy souvenir. It's a mascot for our home like a koala or kangaroo is. You think this would diminish the power it can have over you. Nope. The overwhelming feeling is a sense of awe at its sheer size and presence on the landscape. It is this large, friendly giant that is paradoxically both enormous and "cuddly" at the same time. Uluru, from the time it was first seen, drew people to it, as a spot both sacred and offering a place to stay. Its pock marks, textures and stains tell stories and describe a way of life and a way of living (the law) [Tjukurpa (pronounced chook-orr-pa) meaning creation time, law, way of life]; all the while reminding us of the timeless beauty of nature.

The sky threatened rain, but the water refused to come and transform the rock purple. The colours change throughout the day regardless, reflecting the mood and hour of the day's sky. The colour changes of Uluru are due to the sun's rays being filtered through the earth's atmosphere. Mostly, being so close to the monolith it feels like you are seeing the unreal in the real. Uluru is 348 m tall--that is higher than the Eiffel tower. Uluru is just the tip of a huge slab of rock that is thought to continue 6 km below ground. By the time we had ridden around the rock, being sure to read every sign and explore every nook, swarms of people were arriving for the free guided tour that happens daily called the "Ranger guided Mala walk", and many buses had arrived for their own tours. The climb was closed that day based on the weather forecast, so there was no opportunity to show disrespect to those who show no respect by going against Anangu (pronounced Arn-ung-oo) -- Western Desert people -- wishes to not climb the rock. The climb is dangerous; Anangu feel great sadness if visitors are hurt on their land. The path of the climb is believed to be the traditional route taken by Mala men when they arrived at Uluru, and is associated with important Mala ceremonies. Aboriginal people arrived at Uluru-Kata Tjuta from the north about 30,000 years ago.

Some of the edible plants in the area include: Bush plum (Arnguli, pronounced Ah-noo-lee), Bush tomato (Tjantu, pronounced Jarn-too), and Native fig (Ili, pronounced Ear-lee).

Leaving with a headwind in our faces, we rode towards Kata Tjuta. It switched to a tailwind briefly as we rode the curved road, but mostly it was a fan-forced-oven crosswind. We camped about 4 km from Kata Tjuta, just outside the national park in some mulga scrub, sharing it with a thousand flies. Setting sun changing colours views of Kata Tjuta from camp kept us entertained as night fell.
































Next day we rode into Kata Tjuta just after sunrise, and walked the Valley of the Winds circuit through the domes. The different scenes offered from the lookouts along the walk seem like views to magical mystical lands. Kata Tjuta has 36 domes, the highest is 546 m (198 m taller than Uluru). Kata Tjuta (pronounced catta-jew-tah) means "many heads".

After a quick morning tea we head to nearby Walpa Gorge where there is a shorter walk into a sanctuary from the hot day. Walpa (pronounced wharl-pa) means "wind". Now if we combine the two names we have Kata Tjuta Walpa, meaning many headwinds? We run into someone we've met in Melbourne, and then meet her friend who has ridden a similar way to us, also giving up the Mawson trail in parts with his loaded touring bike. He asks how we are riding back to Melbourne, but we are heading north still. We laze about in some shade like two kangaroos for a couple of hours before heading back to the same campsite as last night, to again watch the sunset on Kata Tjuta domes. During the night I see a large shooting star/ meteorite, carving a bright path across the night sky wider than any shooting star I've seen so far. I half expect to hear a loud crash as if it could make it to earth.
























We ride back into Yulara the next day and stock up on supplies (read: cheesymite scrolls). We are there the same time as the Black Dog Ride motorcycle riders come in; Uluru being their final stopping point of the official ride. I believe the ride is to raise awareness for depression and suicide. Before we leave Yulara, I overhear a conversation between three grey nomads. The lady is saying "What's so good about the Olgas -- once you've seen one rock you've seen them all!" I just started laughing. This is someone who can't even be bothered driving 50 kms to see something amazing, delightful, and completely different from Uluru, if they could be bothered to find out.




Last glimpse of Uluru

Continue reading part 2

There is such a thing as too much fresh air

The small green signs that count down your approach to a town, spaced every 10 km, were proving very evasive as we slowly made our way into outback Coober Pedy at a rate of 7 km/h. Tumbleweed flew across the road in front of us like they were late for meetings. The narrow road shoulder worse than useless, with a rumble stripe audible line being a hazard to us if we ran up against it. Cattle road trains with three trailers blasted past us narrowly. We were riding into a headwind of about 50 km/h, perhaps more. There wasn't much difference between the constant wind and the gusts. All our effort turned into such a slow speed -- almost walking -- for the 60 km we had left to ride into town.

Two days earlier we had a similar headwind/crosswind, but from the other side of the road, and not as punishing. It never did slide around to be behind us like we had quite literally wished on a star for, several times at night. On that day we had managed a mere 80 km riding from sunrise, leaving from a rocky camp at a lookout spot near Pimba, all the way to dusk.

The day in between the wind had been more kind to us. We woke up to the still air from a camp not far from the Bon Bon rest area and decided to quickly get to the water tank there, and then ride on another few km before we even had breakfast in case that headwind returned. We managed to ride 115 km that day because the wind was a lot lighter.

The scenery remains fairly constant: low bushes, barely above the around; a rare tree or shrub that a person might be able to use to escape the sun or the wind behind. The wildflowers are scattered here and there; the ground covered in spots with delicate pinks or golden yellows. Desert Peas also crop up occasionally, usually in very small communities.

On the way out of Roxby Downs, about 48 k N of Woomera we found an ocean of the brilliant red desert peas beside the road; a simply amazing number of the black-beaded red flowers in one spot. Shortly after we clicked over 2000 km so far on our trip. The road south of Roxby is sealed, and surrounded in some parts with a desolately flat, featureless green. You follow some bleak power transmission lines forever. A dragon glares at us from its position on the edgeline, soaking in the road warmth. We entertain the occasional mob of emus. Every few kilometres there is another large bird of prey kite circling and casting ominous shadows over us as we pass below. Sometimes some roadkill will have them on the road, or diving down to scoop up some part of previously-internal organ from kangaroo off the asphalt.

Sea of desert peas

Road out of Roxby

Road Dragon



Riding further the scene turns from the red dirt of scrubby emu country to the Mars surface heading into Woomera. There are signs beside the road warning of Australian Government Defence Department Prohibited Area: "do not deviate". Close to the small township, the road forks: one way to Woomera town and nearby Pimba, the other to the detention centre prohibited area with its offensive high razor-wire fence. Woomera town seems to dedicate a high percentage of its land to painted-over-rust-relics from rocket launches and other airborne forays into military toys. We didn't join the caravaners exploring these outdoor museums, instead heading for the general store, then riding out past Pimba and to the lookout over the strange island lagoon to camp.





Further along the Stuart highway, Lake Hart with its Lake Eyre-like salty edges dominates the scene for a short while, before the road continues to carve a path between the mulga with wattles in golden bloom, the ruby flowers of hop bush and scarlet Eremophila, the grey blue of bladder saltbush (nature's bubble wrap) and bluebush. The yellow-flowered gums have swollen buds just about to burst into colour. Carpets of wildflowers below these of masses of yellow soft billy buttons, bright yellow seas of fleshy groundsel daisy flowers, the everlasting poached egg daisy, tiny white with yellow centre daisy flowers of bush minuria, purple desert fushias and miniature flowers of deliate pinks.

The Trans Australian Railway line runs near the highway, and a long procession of cargo passes by us every couple of hours heading east or west. We are starting to see lots of B-triple trucks pass us now as well as tankers with two giant barrels carrying fuel up the middle. We camp 5 km from Glendambo, down a dirt tack, and in amongst the thin-leaved acacia that whistle in the wind.



Next morning we manage to eat a full truckers breakfast at the Glendambo shell, and buy some 1.5 litre bottles of water as the taps only produce salty bore water. Lots of caravanners pass us, amongst the long freight. More wildflowers delight everywhere. Wedgetails take off from the edges of the road with giant spreads of amazing power and underwing pattern. Kestrels hover now and then, but mostly dart about on the wind. In the afternoon an emu is running alongside a barbed fence. We stop, but it is still getting tangled in the cruel wire. It falls in a feathery heap before kicking wildly, making the fence sing terribly, and so I cover my face and cringe. Next thing we know its up again on the other side of the fence and running wildly, with who knows what damage. We camp as the sun sets, turning the red dirt pink and dialing all the mulga and wattle colour up to vivid 11.



There is rain water at the moment, in the tanks available at two rest stops along the 250 km stretch between Glendambo and Coober Pedy (at Bon Bon rest area and Ingomar rest area) but it is impossible to know how long this would last for bike riders' use. After 115 km we rough camp down a track amongst the iron-red stones, where we are joined by brown songlarks dive bombing the area with their legs dangling (I think I want to come back as one, it looks too much fun), then a sunset of gradients rising over the pancake horizon, and as that fades, eventually the stars also join us, while we get blasted by the wind the flat earth does nothing to slow, and that snuffs our cooking fires out. We sleep, but that final miserable 60 km into Coober Pedy awaits us with the trill of birdsong the next morning.

Sunset from camp, flat country

Warning signs

Around about the half way mark in the 250 km stretch between services

As we reach 10 km out of Coober, a myriad of signs placed randomly untidy written on scrap metal and old car bonnets tied to star pickets beckon us to "pick me, pick me" for accommodation, tourist cash-cow attractions and other services. The wind seems to get stronger against us with each metre we get closer, like it doesn't want us to enter town, or like it is some real world boss level. We no longer wear cranky headwind faces, but a crazed sideways grin that says "this wind is so fucked that it is now comical". Song larks do their sky larking at us. Waves of red grit blow from uncovered shoulders and mine sites. The wind turbine at the top of the rise is pointing straight at the wind, turning fast, and facing the same direction as our hapless selves.

We turn into the main road of town and red dust shrouds us. The town has no trees and nothing green. It is pink sandstone and red dust and more red dust covering all in its midst, from the cars, to the people, to the buildings and signs. There are beat up utes with crude agricultural-looking opal mining machinery on the back driving around the the main street, which is walled in by pink and rust coloured rocky walls into which some shops and hotels are dug into, and your more-usual-looking low buildings and country pubs and service stations are nestled in among these. Weird fabrications combining metal scrap and pipes, old cars and buses, welded together to make strange contraptions like nightmare spiders, and insects from apocalypse movie props warehouses, are the town art. We feel like extras from a Mad Max film and even look the part with our dirty, dusty, effort-stained clothes, and dirty, weary, wary faces. I exclaim "Mad Max 15: The guzzaline has run out and we have to ride bicycles!".

We grab a drink from the pub, and then seek out some dug-out ("underground") accommodation: cream and rust coloured walls, ceilings; etched with mining machinery claws from when they were tunnelled; lights struggling to illuminate dark corners; voices, footsteps echoing eerily; breathing noises of air being moved through holes drilled in rock. The TV plays vintage 80s footage about opals, and the desperate gambling noodlers and miners.

Just as we had arrived into Coober Pedy, some power failure took out all the lines, so there was no eftpos, no ATMs, no mobile coverage. Cash-only signs were brought out of drawers as the locals took it in their "hey, at least the power is still on" stride. This just added to the wild-west-frontier feel of the place, along with the swirling dust in the wind blown unwashed town.

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Camps map at https://github.com/mareebiketouroz/triprecord/blob/master/camps.geojson

Emus, dust and wildflowers (photos)

Enter the forest. Mawson trail leaving Wilpena

Four emus on the way to Wilpena pose for photos

Emu walking the trail

Wilpena Pound

Middlesight water hut

A mob of emus

Two emus on the Mawson trail

Mawson trail

Trezona range

Ochre cliffs, Parachilna Gorge

Parachilna Gorge

Parachilna Gorge

Parachina Gorge

Parachina Gorge, view from camp

Parachina Gorge road approaching Parachilna

Dusk gradients

Paper daisy at sunrise

Carpet of wildflowers

Oodnadatta track

Sleepy Lizard snacking on yellow wildflowers

Borefield track, sandy patch

View from camp near Olympic Dam

Bivvy wake up, Borefield track

Sturt's Desert Peas

There, I fixed it. The Marree sign.

Emus, dust and wild flowers

Something caught my eye in amongst the conifers and so I rested my bike against a tree beside the road to follow my curiosity into the forest. A mob of twenty five emus were all gathered and didn't seem to mind my presence, so I watched them for a while, exasperated by their number, before riding on, further north into the Flinders Ranges.

The day before we were in Hawker, where the ancient rugged peaks dominating the horizons in all directions, with an especially good view from the lookout walks (Police Hill, Castle Rock). The area is very active with earthquakes, and one occurred 20 km north while we were visiting, but we didn't feel it, but you can see the seismograph in the general store, the ink running off the page. From there we headed towards Wilpena, the iconic range of these parts; the one on all the postcards. First thing that morning I spotted four emus; they spotted me also, coming over to me to pose for photos. I thought that was a lucky find.

You also notice plenty of pale, german-shepherd-coloured kangaroos here, while travelling at bicycle speed at least. The first time I saw one I thought it was an albino.

Its surprising to us the amount of pale green-grey cypress pine; strangely out of place where we are expecting arid plants, mallee maybe, or sparse gums to rule. It gives the place a Twin Peaks vibe. Black-shouldered kites hover above us from time to time, but we aren't seeing Kestrels anymore. The road is up and down, crossing plenty of dried up creek beds on causeways; their river stones a myriad of different pastels tightly packed over the roots of river reds.

In the late afternoon we reach Wilpena, chased in by the sightseeing small aircraft, and after quickly pitching camp, go for a walk into the 'Pound' before sunset.

Next day we pick up the Mawson trail again, with the wind so fierce we can barely leave Wilpena; it pushes us back as we try to push our bikes up some small stony rises, but once we scrabble to the top we stop fighting it, put out bikes down, and take a moment to look behind us at a section of Wilpena Pound now unobscured by trees. So otherworldly in the morning light, it burns its image onto our retinas, determined not to be forgotten. Luckily for us, the trail quickly makes it's way into the cypress-pine, albeit with a fairly technical bit of single track to contend with on loaded touring bikes. Front, low pannier bags keep getting snagged on trees and rocks, so there were countless moments of snap switches between mental thoughts of "this is fun, look at me, I'm awesome" to "wow that's a steep rocky ravine and I'm heading straight for it" as your bike changes direction 90 degrees in an instant.

There were several times when we'd come across a solitary emu, plodding along up the trail, unawares of us, as we slowed to match its base and giggle at its mechanical, 'Thunderbirds-puppetry' like legs while it walked. They really do look walk like an early prototype in robotics. Eventually it would detect our presence and run off with legs inelegantly flailing like that gangling kid at school, coming awkwardly last on mandatory sports day; but with a swishy skirt of shaggy feathers bounding as they run making for a more ludicrous scene. The chaotic manner in which they escape is apparently used to avoid wedgetail attack, possibly because its hard to prey on a bird that's making your ribs hurt with its comedy.

Wilpena Pound is your constant companion for hours, and you feel its presence like a very tall guide walking beside you, keeping you safe and on track.

As the scenery turned from forest to more open country we could often hear the emus deep grunts and drumming noises before we could spot them with our eyes. After climbing a steep ascent on an unsealed road (curious but clueless 4WDers wanting to engage in moderate levels of enquiry out their car windows while we attempted to pedal up a 25% unsealed incline didn't get a response), by mid afternoon we made it to Middlesight water hut. It looked nice. Neither of us had slept in a hut before so we spent the night. As dusk descended, a near full supermoon rose and we saw a teeny microbat fly over us.

The hut had bunks and was nice and warm all night. We read the logbook about Heysen trail walkers and Mawson trail riders exploits on the happy trails. Next morning we ride on the quiet road into a campground set amidst the Trezona range. No one is around so we enjoy this beautiful vista of craggy ancient shale and limestones around us alone. We cross the creek bed and follow the trail along the Trezona track. More riding through emu country, then we find the main road again, passing the "Great Wall of China" made up of stubborn rock forming a dinosaur like spine. A sheep on the wrong side of a fence tries to join his flock but runs straight into the fence, landing on his butt like a drunk walking into a glass wall; righting himself he then looks at me... sheepishly.

We are watched by a lazy red kangaroo resting in the sun amongst orange rocks, and a pair of circling wedgetails as we rode into Blinman, the highest town in SA. As we emerge from the hotel, having quickly gobbled some delicious pub grub for lunch like hungry dogs, a kelpie regards us. The barkeep tells its a kind of red dog who waits around all day until someone takes it home.

We ride west - the wind now an annoying crosswind, on a harsh unsealed road - stopping momentarily at Angorachina for fizz. A few large sheep are on the wrong side of a fence but they don't fear me and run. On my approach they simply, calmly, one by one, leap miraculously over the barbed wire fence unscathed. The scene was like a cartoon about counting sheep to get to sleep. Baaa. Jump. Baaa. Jump. Baaa. Jump....

The scenery remains a geologists dream - ochre red rusty and rugged peaks everywhere. We pass kangaroos - Euros - a mother and her joey poking out of the pouch just glare at me from the side of the road; a large male stops as I do, stands up, (ripples his chest muscles almost), then hops lazily to the other side of the road; another male just looks up to regard me briefly before continuing to eat grass: Pfft, whatever, mere human. Some black and white feral goats bleat, and a grey old billy goat can be seen at the top of a precariously rocky peak, but its the way that kangaroos scale the escarpments in just a few bounds that amaze; not a stone upturned.

We stop to camp at a stop in the Parachilna Gorge, at the trailhead for the Heysen hike, surrounded by rocky peaks glowing amber in last light of day. After dark, a supermoon rises between two peaks, so bright we can see our shadows - moonshadows -  cast across the creek bank. I don't think the wind stopped to take a breath all night, flapping at the tent.

More riding on the unsealed road the next day, which gets more corrugated and destructive to our bikes, bones and sanity. Three grey kangaroos hop across the road in front of me; the last fell in the dusty road but quickly got up and continued escaping me. If something as dexterous and graceful as a kangaroo has trouble staying upright on this road, how am I managing? Suddenly the peaks disappear and the flat horizon seems to surround us in almost every direction; a strange contrast to day of being fenced in by the ranges. We eventually find the sealed B83, and Parachilna there, but everything is shut at this time of the morning, so we ride north into a strong headwind to top up our energy with snacks at a ruined cottage. Bag moth caterpillars are trying to cross the bitumen in their hundreds -- so called because they form bags in the trees. The hairy things cause severe skin irritations if you are unlucky to get them on you so we don't feel so bad squashing a few under our tyres. The northern Flinders Ranges accompany us on the right, but their beauty cannot distract us enough from the horrible wind we are trying to wade through. A grey kangaroo mum and joey cross the road in front of me and disappear out of sight suddenly, straight down into a creek bed, only to poke a head up. Cute, but hardly a winner at hide and seek.

Beltana roadhouse is closed so we have lunch in a dry creek bed, finding shade under a river red gum. Its a warm, sunny day, but mostly we are worn out from the wind. Kestrels are returning to our vistas, as are more sheep; the hills sparsely dotted with vegetation as the land dries out. We ride past a wave frozen in rock. An empty coal train beats me into town. In 2018 the Alinta mine that employs most of the residents will be no more, but will the towns that water and feed the tourists here survive? We struggle on, and make it into Leigh Creek, having exhouased our water supplies; the dry headwind like a desiccant. We attach the service station fridge to slake our thirst, then check into the dusty caravan park, utterly ruined. We share the space with an "adventure coach" full of retirees from Adelaide, wanting a "swag" experience of the outback, without the adventure or true experience. We run away from the potential litany of annoying questions from people with the thinly-veiled but naive superiority of people who have travelled without effort (the same effort that gives a scene context and makes it memorable). We escape to the pub for drinks and meal. Two locals see us lock up our bikes and salute us with "Congratulations on the ride in" and "Yeah, congrats" with such gusto like they actually mean it; like they knew what the wind was doing to us.

Back at camp much later, when everyone is asleep, I wander back to tent, but gaze back over my shoulder at the sky momentarily. A shooting star darts across it, and at the exact same moment one of the "coach experience" camper's camouflage-coloured touring tents falls down. I swear to you my wish was innocent.

During the night the wind dies down, but picked up again -- miraculously blowing from the other direction. A tailwind? Can I believe it? Yesssssss! We pack up and get on the road early in the morning and fly into nearby Copley for breakfast, barely pedalling, laughing maniacally all the way. A red kangaroo races along beside us at the same speed, next to the road we are coasting. Its trying to cross the road but we're staying steady with it, effortlessly, at 35 km/h. It keeps bouncing along, watching its footfalls, stopping, looking up, seeing we are still beside it incredulously, cursing us. Eventually it puts the foot on the gas and cross the road in front of Simon at darting speed.

At Copley the cafe owner is nice, sincere and chatty and tells us about what to expect of the road ahead to Marree and the Oodnadatta track. Apparently the track he gives a '7 out of 10' at the moment because the rains mean they have recently graded the road. We are already pretty sure we will ride it to the T-junction and head south to Roxby Downs for a longer but mostly sealed and probably quicker and less bike-destroying ride to Coober Pedy, instead of travelling via William Creek. He's happy to hear this as he doesn't want to get a useless-to-him lat/lon from the authorities from where we need rescuing. What might be epic and a fun challenge on a fat bike packed light could slowly destroy our laden touring bikes carrying extra water and food, unless we limp along slowly, carefully, and I guess I'm just not in for that Mad Max bullshit. I guess I like my bike in the shape its in.

We ride the 33 km to Lyndhurst with ease and smiles, and the very nice lady at the roadhouse offers us a shower but we politely refuse not wanting to waste a minute of this tailwind we've been gifted (or maybe we've earned); we're afraid it will forsake us and we'd be filled with regret the rest of the day. We drink fizz and buy a takeaway lunch for further down the road. The sealed road ends here and the dirt is occassionally as smooth as a suburban bike path (i.e. somewhat) but often unpredictably lumpy, jittering our and our bikes frames like violence. I resort to filling my ears with music, to cover the disturbing rattles and creaks as my bike complains of ill treatment -- like its filing for a restraining order against me.

The road to Marree has ocassional sealed sections (better than those found in magazines) that announce themselves with signs saying "Sealed road 5 km ahead" and you woop out loud to yourself when you see it. The sealed road also comes signed with the distance until the bitumen disappears again, so you know how long to enjoy yourself on the silk sheets of pavement. "17 km of sealed" says one sign. Bliss. But it still ends too quick.

We have lunch at some ruins at Farina. This would have been our destination today if we had headwinds still. By 3 pm we've made it to 5 km out of Marree, 115 km despite all the dirt, but we make a free camp to save some cash and so we can hot breakfast in Marree the next day. We wheel our bikes behind some acacia and devour a packet of Monte Carlos and some fruit cake, read books and listen to the radio. Just over a fence beyond some emu tracks is the old Ghan railway line. The sun sets and we pitch tent now that no one will notice us. The sky is now a "gradient fill" across its dome of pink to blue to yellow to red, before the dazzling stars come out. We are asleep before the moon starts its shift.

Morning brings us into Marree where we fill up with rainwater (8 litres in case of desiccating headwinds) and breakfast and groceries. On a whim I pick up a gladwrapped hedgehog slice. Do this. Ride out to Marree now and pick one up. Its a CWA-ladies version of radio cake with a layer of mint between the biscuit and the chocolate top. Get me one while you are there. We ride out of town with two old blokes sitting on plastic chairs on a porch murmuring their disapproval at us.

The road doesn't seem that bad -- maybe it is a '7' at the moment. There are occasional sections where it is impossible to find a line of road you can ride without rattling the skin off your bones, but mostly it is a case of concentrating  intensely on where is safe enough to run your wheels and checking mirrors for passing vehicles vigilantly. Its slow going still. The locals using the road are super nice, slowing down, passing as far over as they can, to keep the dust and stones down. Tourists sometimes are good like that, but there are about 10% who have no clue about the etiquette of 'Less speed, less dust' and race past (sometimes without a 30 cm of you!) with their 4WDs and off road trailers kicking up stones at you. You just wish you could catch up with them and throw a handful of stones and dust at them in return. These are the types that'd give other drivers a smashed windscreen from a loose rock.

Luckily the road in quiet and you only see a couple of vehilcles in an hour. The land is nearly featureless and flat, except for something beautiful in the distant south that looks like a heavily eroded Uluru. The flora is more nullabor than the nullabor. The wildlife that we can see is now restricted to birds, and mostly its the hilarious anctics of the Brown songlark that flutters up-up-up and then floats down with its little legs dangling that keep us amused. They have these calls they make as they flutter upwards that sound like it is from a windup music box, all melodic, repetitive and metallic, or perhaps a mobile phone ringtone named after some obscure planet. These birds are our feathery alarm clocks at first light, although we never do find the snooze button. Finches also entertain us, flying in complicated patterns next to us, then crossing the road in front of us in a blur. Occasionally we'd ride past some unfenced black or brown bulls that would just stare at us disdainfully. 

The Oodnadatta track follows a trade route for Australias first people, and Parachilna Gorge was a source of tradeable ochre. We come across another stone ruin to have lunch at, amidst the flies. I managed to find a tub of 'Desert Dwellers' fly repellent at Marree (I think only available elsewhere at Darwin), but this pungent creme hasn't proved effective enough on these particular blighters. At one point we ride through a dust storm like a dystopian picture. 66 km down the dirt we find the T-intersection: the decision point. Roxby Downs or William Creek? Mostly sealed but more kilometres, or all unsealed, to Coober Pedy? Less dirt please. We head south down Borefield track towards Roxby. The road seems prety nice, albeit the wind is now right in our faces, and after about 10 km we're done for the day, making camp in the sand amongst some paper daisies and the rare sandhill canegrass. Brown songlarks trill and dance as we push out bikes through the soft powdery red sand and lay out our bivvys. We fall asleep watching the twinkling stars and shooting stars slide out.

Next morning, the feathery alarm clocks get us up and on the road quiclky and we ride past the "RD 100" sign (Roxby Downs 100 km) thinking "piece of cake". There was no cake to be had. There is still a headwind, of course. The track surface also gets worse as the soil gets a deeper red colour. Unpredictable sandy patches tried to buck us from our metallic broncos. Rough sections amidst unpassable soft dirt. Red mud that clogged up our wheels and was nearly too slippery to ride or walk on. Soft gravel with rocks and lumps so you spent half your time airborne rather than moving forward. We made it as far as the Olympic Dam mine site (heavily fence with 'No camping' of course) by the time the sun is nearly setting so we camp behind a dune on the last bit of unfenced land, still a way out of Roxby.

Another night to bivvy amongst the soft but gloriously red, red dirt and paper daisies that look like tiny fried eggs. The wildflowers have come early this year because of the rains - carpets of whites and yellows and purples set against the rust coloured sand. There are Sturt's Desert Peas in clusters, here and there, like silent one-eyed alien creatures landed on earth, watching, waiting...

Next day a red kangaroo hops along in front of us with his grey-coloured female and young. An occassional glimpse of emus on a sand dune. An omnivorous Sleepy Lizard eats a yellow wild flower. An arid recovery park is set up to guilt-subtract from the mining operatins, helping revive populations of Bilby and others; a 20 x 20 km fenced off area that just seem to annoy the roos as they bounce along beside its walls.

At Roxby we ride into town and its like a suburban shopping village except with more red dirt. The Carpenters blare out of a tinny external speaker at the RoxFM station building, making it feel like we are extras in a schlock horror Aussie film and something bad is about to happen. At the 'mall' i find soap, a tap and paper towels in the Ladies so I decide to wash my face of its dirt moustache. My face white again, I then notice my black neck underneath. I decide to wash that also but then I have to stop there and ignore the mirror or I'll never be able to leave the restroom, finding more ghosts of dust storms and nights wrapped in red dirt.