We woke to a beautiful sunrise and a quick decamp - the memories of the previous evening’s discussions almost forgotten. Note to self – don’t touch on emotions after several beers and three bottles of red. Best to stick to topics as the ABC, Fairfax and the Banking Royal Commission. WCGW?
After a minor false start we met our tour guide, Ronnie, a Slim Dusty soundalike, for a tour of the Mimbi Caves. The caves are set in a limestone range, remnants of a vast barrier reef, laid down 350 million years ago. I felt like a cross between Miranda from Picnic at Hanging Rock and David Gulpilil exploring a space so ancient and quiet that goose-bumps were not optional. Through a labyrinth of caves and tunnels we found ancient waterways and rock art and a peace not normally found with Whittle around.
Unable to drink any more billy tea or eat more damper we left in a hurry realising the scale of the drive ahead. A brief stop at Wolfe Creek Meter Crater (read John Jarret and a minor backpacker mishap) for a quick photo and then joining the famous CSR (Canning Stock Route
for the uninitiated). We thought that we had realised the scale of the drive ahead, but completely mis-interrupted the distance and road quality. The destination of Gregory Lake seemed to move with illusiveness of a West Tigers Premiership. The road was corrugated, narrow (close your rear-mirrors narrow), dark (due to no sun) and long. We reached the Lake and a picturesque camp site (a sky filled with endless stars) only to be greeted by two lonely and talkative grey nomads. It was interesting the see the poles apart approach of the ever-talkative-Wilko and the go-and-fuck-yourself-Whittle towards caravaners. Brooksie
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