Melbourne to Esperance and return via Lake Eyre, 2011

[mr turbo]

Can't wait to hear about more.

Me either

Regards
Mr Turbo

 

[El_Freddo]

I'm Jealous!! About two things: Your trip. And your camera!

Keep them coming - great writing skills too! Have you thought about writing an article for a magazine? Might be worth looking into

Cheers

Bennie

 

[mr turbo]

Keep them coming - great writing skills too! Have you thought about writing an article for a magazine? Might be worth looking into

^Ditto
I'll 2nd that :ebiggrin:

Regards
Mr Turbo

 

[Dulagarl]

^ Thanks everyone for the nice comments. Since you've been so nice, here is another installment.

Day 5: Waking in the Coorong.

When I was a child, which was a very long time ago, a volcano spewed lava creating the water filled crater that we now know as the Blue Lake in Mt Gambier.

https://www.volcanolive.com/mtgambier.html

Soon after that, I saw a film called ‘Storm Boy”, based on a novel by Colin Thiele of the same name. The story follows the adventures of a young boy who lives in the Coorong with his father, who but for his son would have been a hermit. The film and the book tell the story of the relationship the boy develops with three pelican chicks he rescues after their mother is shot, and sees one of the chicks, Mr Perceval, develop to adulthood.

The name Mr Perceval is synonymous with pelicans for many people of my age, such is the impression that the film made in many of us. More impressive to me however was the absolutely wild nature of the Coorong as depicted in the film and its imagery was one of many things in my mind as I went about getting breakfast on day 5..

The significance of the Coorong to Ngarrindjeri people was also in my thoughts that morning, but I lacked detail other than the fact that the Coorong had supported them for millennia, and extensive middens remained as evidence of this.

To be frank though, the weather that morning was anything but energising: thick grey clouds, a cold air mass, a hint of drizzle from time to time and a sea breeze. I also felt pretty grotty, and made a point of having a thorough wash and complete change of clothes before I set off from camp.

I was at Wreck Crossing, one of the more southerly crossings – points where you could gain access to Encounter Bay from the narrow strip of saltwater lagoon behind the dunes that is the Coorong. Wreck Crossing lies between the imaginatively named 28 Mile Crossing and 32 Mile Crossing, the latter of which is unsurprisingly 10 miles south of 42 Mile Crossing. Inspiring stuff which did not detract from my somewhat nonplussed mood that morning.

(In the map above, the Coorong National Park is the thin stretch of green on the coast which starts just north of Kingston SE, and runs to Lake Alexandrina)

I had choices to make: to sit in camp and read some of the wealth of written material I had, such as Ngarrindjeri icon David Unaipon’s work “Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines”, or the various brochures and maps of the area I had collected in Mt Gambier. The other alternative was to explore, and that seemed a more fitting way to escape the unease and self questioning I had somehow embarked on over coffee.

The most obvious thing to do was to traverse the crossing to the beach, and hope to leave my mood behind in the campsite (which was in itself quite a good campsite: basic, no facilities, no people and sheltered in thick tea tree scrub).

I took the Wreck Crossing track towards Encounter Bay, through a wild jumble of dunes on rough but not difficult sand. One section required caution in descending, but that being traversed it was not difficult going. In the dunes approaching the beach, I noticed the first of the said middens.

For those unfamiliar with the term midden, it is a scattering, sometimes quite dense, of the shells of shellfish which have been left behind by Aboriginal people, the contents of the shell having been eaten. They are common in coastal areas in south eastern Australia, but this one was massive. The small white fragments in the photo above are in fact large-ish shells, and as you can see they extend over a substantial area.

Obviously, a midden is not created in a day, a week, month or year, but over many years. Thankfully, this midden is fenced off from the track to help conserve it.

I continued, and was soon on the beach, looking north:

and then south:

It was spectacular, but the narrowness of the beach itself was a disappointment. I had intended to drive along the beach in a northerly direction, to at least 42 Mile crossing. The tides however had been high of late, principally because the moon had been at perigee a matter of less than a week prior, as documented by NASA among others:

https://science.nasa.gov/science-news/science-at-nasa/2011/16mar_supermoon/

I was not prepared to take the risk of encountering washouts alone on an expansive stretch of beach such as this. I had been scanning UHF channels in the morning, and had heard not evidence of any traffic on the beach. It was a Saturday, and I thought that there should have been people out fishing, but I was not sure. I was still somewhat uneasy, and that unease, combined with the narrowness of the beach itself led me to exercise caution and turn back along the Wreck Crossing Track.

Back off the beach, and the view of the dune field was breathtaking.

I wasn’t too upset about my retreat from the beach. It meant that I was not being stupid and I felt reassured somewhat that I was not rushing into situations and that I was making rational decisions, despite the range of options before me. The retreat meant I would end up towards the northern end of the Coorong over the next day or so, and would then be in striking distance of Adelaide and Port Augusta.

Content with those thoughts, I resolved to get back to the Old Coorong Road, and get somewhere near 42 Mile Crossing for lunch. I approach the one section of rough track, and the heavily loaded Subaru didn’t want to get up it first time…

Or second time…

Or third time.

I decided to give it a decent run to keep momentum, but I kept reaching the same spot where the ruts were deep and uneven, leading to having wheels not touching the ground.

Then I gunned it, heard a bang and a loud growling noise as I continued up the dune. I had no option than to get up on the flat, but the noise was terrifying. I assumed that I had broken a driveshaft or something like that. To say that I was fu^*ing spewing was an understatement.

 

[Dulagarl]

Day 5 continues...


I got out and surveyed the damage: Both rear wheels were at impossible angles to the body, as if the springs had collapsed. I had heard of this happening with leaf springs under heavy load, but independent suspension?

And what of the noise? I looked closed and found that the spring seats were resting on the tyres, and that is what was causing the noise. I hoped that that was the only problem, but I was not prepared to wreck two BF Goodrich AT tyres by driving the vehicle in this state, nor risk other damage from possible unseen problems.

So, it was time for some close analysis, bush mechanic style accompanied by a soliloquy symptomatic of either advanced tourettes or a fixation on fornication.

Rear wheel removed, it was obvious that the struts were bent: so much so that the springs had become wedged against the inside of the wheel well. Before I was to get anywhere I needed to resolve this, so I set about trying to get some leverage. Eventually after an hour of trying various objects, I settled on the bull bag which to those unfamiliar with the term is like a giant balloon used as a jack, which one inflates by connecting it to the exhaust pipe.

Given that the exhaust pipe was recessed into the rear bar, this was not easy, but I did have an extra piece of pipe that I wedged into the exhaust and connected to the bull bag hose. It leaked a bit, but it inflated the bag. I deflated the bag after this test, refitted the wheel, and wedged the bag between the wheel arch and the wheel. I held the bag filler hose firm over the extension pipe and BANG: the spring was free.

I repeated the exercise on the left hand side, and was equally successful. Despite all of this, the tyres remained in contact with the spring seats. Sustained and colourful profanity ensued for a few minutes.

I kept eating biscuits and drinking water through all of this though, so as to avoid weakness through exertions and dehydration. A substantial proportion of the contents of the vehicle had been removed, and tools were all over the place. I had detected no radio signals, and had no mobile coverage. I decided to try for another hour to get moving, and if that didn’t work it was time to walk to the highway.

That hour passed pretty quickly, and I reloaded everything into the vehicle. I filled a day pack with first aid kit, radio, mobile phone, a change of underwear, a clean shirt, a safety vest(to flag down cars) a handheld CB, my camera, GPS and some muesli bars. I grabbed the hydration pack and filled it. I paused for a moment before setting off due east towards the highway.

The vehicle was left in this state:

I surveyed the section of track where the struts had effectively collapsed, and it really didn’t look that bad.

I couldn’t figure out how the struts had sh%t themselves like that, but now was not the time to solve that question. It was about 2.30 pm, and I wanted to get to Kingston and get help before dark.

The car was off the track. I left a note on the windscreen to indicate where I had gone, so as to not spark an unwarranted search by any emergency service personnel who might be alerted to the abandoned vehicle. I radioed again before I set off, but no response.

I strapped the hydration pack to my front, put the backpack on my back, and hoofed it back to where I had camped. Since no-one was in the campground, I set off due east across the dry southern section of the salt lake, and within about an hour of forced march I was at the highway which I had estimated to be about 5 km from the vehicle.

Two cars sped past on their way to Kingston, but I had not quite emerged from the bushes in time to signal them. A short wheelbase Landcruiser soon came past, heading away from Kingston but I didn’t bother to wave it down since it was not going my way. I started walking determinedly along the highway, some 60 km from the nearest town. The road noise subsided, and I was alone.

 

[dirtyRU]

Now, that is some sh** for luck my friend. Sorry to hear about your troubles, although i'm very interested to see how it all went. I've actually thought about getting one of those that you call a "bull bag". I've seen them in use on the beach, or unlevel areas to change a flat when a jack is not stable or safe. Over here i've heard them called x-jacks.

[ame="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqBQ8q2mxuY"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqBQ8q2mxuY[/ame]

 

[Fuze911]

I had something like this happen to me not too long ago on a camping trip. Although it came to be that the camber bolts bent, moving my tire towards the strut and hitting the spring seats. Replacing the camber bolts with more robust versions fixed my issue.

Happened on each side at different times going over rough terrain with the car packed with gear + food/drinks. If your struts are actually bent, well then, thats strange. But be sure to check the camber bolts.

 

[mr turbo]

Sorry to hear about the car troubles whilst doing that climb Good to see that you were well prepared though :iconwink: with water food etc, etc

The road noise subsided, and I was alone.

That must of been an eerie feeling to say the least & quite scary at the same time.
Really on the edge of my seat now & very interested to hear how it all worked out

Regards
Mr Turbo

 

[carljwnc]

The suspense is killing me.:iconwink: Sorry about the troubles, but glad you were well prepared.

And even though it was in your time of trouble, this gave me a good laugh for the morning;
"Sustained and colourful profanity ensued for a few minutes."

 

[Dulagarl]

So, another instalment is ready. Apologies in advance for it being wordy and not very pictorial.


Three cars came by in rapid succession, heading from the north towards Kingston. I stood by the side of the road, holding the folded safety vest in my hand and waving it in a wide arc above my head, emphasising the side of the road. Each time I thought that a car was going to stop: they seemed to slow down upon first seeing me, then as they drew closer they seemed to speed up a little almost as a cruel joke. It really didn’t seem to make any sense.

I wondered what I could possibly be doing wrong, or whether people out here were just pri*ks who wouldn’t pick up a hitchhiker. I mean, it should be obvious that I was in some sort of difficulty, if not trouble, and that I needed a lift. It couldn’t be too hard to figure out, could it?

It seemed a long time until the next car came along, and it too repeated the pattern of initially slowing, then speeding up again. Each driver that went past also took a decent look at me, as if to satisfy themselves that I was either what they thought I was, or that I was not what they hoped I was. It really was puzzling.

It must have been about 45 minutes from the time I had reached the Princes Highway that a car ultimately stopped. (Note to our overseas readers: the Prices Hwy is our national highway; highway one, but it can in places have not a lot of traffic) A Subaru Liberty, recent model, very clean inside with a youngish bloke called Tom driving it. About the only other thing I noticed was a packet of cigarettes, and I’m really not sure why that mattered since I haven’t smoked for over a year. Anyway, he was a crowd controller, who ran his own business, and was travelling to Robe to check out a venue for a music festival that was slated for the Easter weekend.

I mentioned that a few cars had gone past, and that he was the first to stop. I described the strange way in which cars slowed and then sped up, at which he explained that at first sight I looked like a copper waving a beacon to get him to stop. He explained that he had been doing about 130kmh when he first spotted me, and slowed to 100.

I now understood what had been going through the minds of the previous drivers: “Oh sh&t a copper, slow down, I’m busted, ahh F2ck it it’s just some backpacker / crank / geezer / idiot in a South Australian Fire Service cap that looked like a copper. Stuff him for making me slow down!”

I consoled myself by reflecting that it wasn’t because I was an ugly *******.

As we talked I chewed on an apple, genuinely grateful for my lift. We were soon I Kingston and I got dropped off at the police station, so that I could let them know that I was not lost somewhere between my vehicle and the ocean. It being Saturday afternoon, the cop shop was unattended and there was a phone number to ring on the front door, so I went through that formality. Given that pretty much everything in Kingston SE would be closed, I thought I’d go to the most important piece of social infrastructure in town: the pub.

By chance the first pub I found was the Royal Mail Hotel: a large establishment for a town of this size, with a front bar, pool tables, and dining room, accommodation and (ughh) pokies. Can’t have it all my way I suppose.

I could go on about how events transpired that afternoon, but it would actually bore me to write about the ins and outs of explaining to a pub full of locals on a Saturday afternoon how I managed to get stuck where and how I goy\t stuck and how I managed to get where I was now. I am certain that it would be even more boring for you to read it.

I had soon arranged for a local by the name of Dave Moreland to pick me up in the morning (at who knows what cost!) to collect the vehicle (Royal Automotive Association don’t salvage from sand dunes!). I checked in, had a beer, and settled in for the night after an excellent feed of King George Whiting.

The next morning in the breakfast room, I came to the conclusion that I was the only guest in the hotel. This was confirmed by the cleaner, jenny, who introduced herself, saying “you must be Greg”. She explained that I had the same name as her husband, and kindly offered the use of her car while I was stuck in town getting repairs. I was really starting to like this town!

At the designated time the next morning, Dave Moreland collected me as arranged. It turned out that he had been driving the short wheelbase Landcruiser that was going in the opposite direction the day prior when I emerged from the scrub at the edge of the Princes Highway. We dropped his Falcon off at his place, which was on the way out of town, and picked up the Landcruiser and salvage gear and headed off to try to get the vehicle moving.

To say that Dave was a gentleman would be accurate. To say that he is a fu&kin’ great bloke would be more appropriate. We got to know each other quite well on the way to the vehicle, and more so as we tried to get it mobile.

We had hoped to bend the struts sufficiently to enable the vehicle to be driven all the way to Kingston, but it was not to be. By turning the rear wheels inside out, we at least got it rolling enough so that we could get it to the old Coorong Road where flat bed transport was possible.

As you can see, there was no question of driving this thing the 65 km or so back to Kingston. Soon enough we had the local towing company truck on site, thanks to Dave knowing the driver well.

I must say, despite the rats^it angle of the rear wheels, and the lowered rear end, the wide track look wasn’t too bad! Others who arrived on the scene commented similarly, adding that the vehicle had a bit of a Paris-Dakar look to it.

(continues)

 

[Dulagarl]

(continued)


So, that was Sunday, and I rode back into town with the vehicle on the flatbed. Dave avoided collecting any money off me for his troubles, and back in Kingston I collected essential items from the vehicle as we put it in LeCornu’s garage where Foz, the truck driver, was also chief mechanic. Before we all left the garage the motor was started and the note was admired prompting Foz and Dave to discuss plans for a dune buggy with an EZ30r “just like that”.

I was soon back at the Royal Mail Hotel resuming my role as an object of curiosity in the front bar and restaurant.

By Monday lunch time Foz had the old struts out, and new KYB excel G struts were on the way.

As you can see, the struts were severely bent.

I acquiesced at that point to at least a further night in Kingston, among locals both as friendly and helpful as to have no peer in my many travels to date. I do not exaggerate on this point: Kingston people are truly magnificent.

(I could go on and on about individuals here, but you are probably more interested in the road side of the story and the scenery….)

I spent the afternoon reading David Unaipon, and although I understood how his works had been appropriated by a whitefella and unfairly sold with no reward to Unaipon, I had not previously read the works themselves. Unable to travel through Ngarrindjeri country, I travelled virtually, keenly absorbing Unaipon’s description of Narroondarie (Ngurunderi), who he described his people’s equivalent to the Christian God, or the Allah of Islam. Unaipon explained:

“The belief in a Supreme Being and the religious instruction, as well as religious ceremonies and worship, are not the experiences of the Jew and the Mohammedan alone. Neither did it belong to one particular age or place, but to every age. This wonderful experience of a longing for something beautiful and noble, something spiritually divine, lives within the bosom of the nations of the past as it does today”

I looked forward to getting my vehicle back so that I could travel through Unaipon’s country, and possibly visit the cemetery where he now rests at Point McLeay (Raukkan).

Another night in the pub brought with it another night of excellent seafood and Coopers pale ale on tap, a game of pool against some Adelaide business men with small town syndrome, and the hope that I might be on the road the next day.

Tuesday morning as I walked along the foreshore I gazed out to sea where Lacepede Bay met the sky, the dividing line between them was indiscernible. I talked by phone with Doc Reynolds in Esperance and explained that I was delayed, which was fortuitous since he was going to be in Sydney at the time I had initially planned to arrive. My delay meant that he would have returned by the time I was to arrive. I felt that things were falling into place.

By 4 pm the car was repaired. I decided that I didn’t want to set off at the time of day that I would be competing with kangaroos and wombats for road space, and that a final night at the Royal Mail was in order. I paid a visit to Dave Moreland at his place just out of town and had a beer with him and Foz, and also managed to get Dave to finally accept a token of my gratitude. He had thus far refused to accept anything in return for his help.

As I was in bed reading after dinner, I saw a frightening sight: a very large white tailed spider on the ceiling of my room. (note to overseas readers: these bast^rds bite and cause nasty necrotic sores which literally eat your flesh!). I managed to dislodge it from the ceiling only for it to try to get into my dark green backpack, and there was no way that I was going to reach in to find it!

Eventually I found it cowering by the wall, dispatched it to the afterlife, and settled for an uneasy sleep. In the morning, I would be back on the road.

(Footnote: apologies to the reader for the lack of interesting sites and photos in this post. This will be compensated for in future instalments).

 

[dirtyRU]

This is just fantastic. The whole story just reminds me of an old movie. Not sure what movie, but maybe that the story is so good a movie could be made out of it.Runs into trouble, gets stranded in the dunes, hikes/catches a ride back to town. Mingles with the locals for a couple days before heading off to finish the adventure. Maybe that film, Wolf Creek, but just the first part

 

[mr turbo]

It must have been about 45 minutes from the time I had reached the Princes Highway that a car ultimately stopped.........A Subaru Liberty, recent model, very clean inside with a youngish bloke called Tom driving it.

How ironic is that the first car to stop was a Subaru
By the sounds if it, you had an adventure within an adventure so to speak

I know what you mean by people from the country compared to the big smoke, they are a completely different breed

I'm really looking forward to hearing the next installment of your magnificent trip

Regards
Mr Turbo

 

[carljwnc]

Dulagarl, there is no need to apologize for the lack of photos, your writing is fantastic and this story is just incredible to read.:ebiggrin:

Your experience in Kingston reminds me of the experience my parents had a couple of years ago when they had an unfortunate incident in which their van got totaled in French Camp, Mississippi, a very small town out in the middle of nowhere. The whole town took them under their wing and did everything they could to help them and make their unplanned stay as pleasant as possible. In the end they continued on their cross country trip in their new 2010 Outback.

Small towns FTW!!!

 

[MadScotsMan]

As an "ugly American", I have to say that Australia is a ruggedly beautiful country that I would love to visit someday. It is also obvious through stories you Aussies tell and the folks on here that your country is populated with some really wonderful folks! Thanks for sharing your journey with us.

 

[taza]

As an "ugly American", I have to say that Australia is a ruggedly beautiful country that I would love to visit someday. It is also obvious through stories you Aussies tell and the folks on here that your country is populated with some really wonderful folks! Thanks for sharing your journey with us.

Yeah there are some really great people here. Most of the great ones I know are country people... always willing to lend a hand and help :biggrin:
I try my best though

I originally come from a town of 3000 people and its a 100 second walk to the beach from my house country people FTW!

Its an excellent story your putting together. I can live without pics because im so drawn in :ebiggrin: I can't believ you put your rims on back to front!!! I can't believe it didn't bend them or sheer off a stud.
Well atleast I know if I bend a strut thats what i can do :lol:

 

[Dulagarl]

Hello again: another installment. This time from Kingston back into the Coorong on day 8.

My initial feelings on waking were that I had perhaps over-enjoyed my last night in Kingston, except for the spider incident. The lure of the road can in itself be rejuvenating, and a shower and breakfast followed by a short black at a café opposite the Royal Mail had me more than ready to resume the trip. It was now day 8 on the road, and my rough plans had me somewhere near Port Augusta by now, but reality had me not even past Adelaide. Despite all of that, I was in a much more relaxed frame of mind than I had been when I left Melbourne, even though I knew I was behind schedule. The pace of Kingston had served me well.

I took in a little more of Unaipon over breakfast, acquainting myself with the initiation rites of the Ngarrindjeri which in my rough way of translating cultural practices involved sending young blokes off for a night near the graves of the old people, and scaring the sh*t out of them by making all sorts of noises as they “slept with the spirits”. Those who faced the elders in the morning looking rested would pass the initiation test. I don’t know what happened to the others.

It felt bloody great to stride out to the Dulagarl full of coffee, and turn the key and get it to spit noise as it woke up. The 2.5 inch system resonated between the buildings in a way that drew glances and scowls from some in the supermarket parking lot, and smiles from the bargirl and cleaner in the pub. With a wave I cut through the morning air and was soon heading past the garage where the struts had been fitted, and built acceleration past the “top pub”. (Note to overseas readers: most Aussie towns have at least two pubs, and invariably one is known as the “top pub” and the other as the “bottom pub”. Sometimes there is also a “middle pub” and in some cases a “railway pub”. Kingston has only two…).

Turning onto the highway near the Big Lobster, I headed back out towards the Coorong and the dunes that had set me back for a few days. Despite my pleasure at being back on the road, I remained somewhat undecided about where I was heading for the day, and in the light drizzle I turned off towards Naracoorte with thoughts of mega fauna fossils and elaborate subterranean caves. I soon turned back towards the highway, reminding myself that I really wanted to be closer to Camp Coorong – a Ngarrindjeri learning place – by the end of that day.

My earlier distinct unease had downscaled itself to mild apprehension and perhaps only caution, but there was still something not quite right.

I dropped in for views of the sea at 32 mile and 42 mile crossings, and continued on to Chinaman’s well, where a interpretative walk was on offer. Australia’s Chinese heritage is both old and rich, with many Chinese families having been here for several generations as a result of their ancestors arriving for the gold rush of the mid 1800’s.

I hadn’t counted on the interesting stories of their time in the Coorong…

Aside from masterful stonemasonry, there was also information about market gardens and food vendors that were features of the Chinese presence in the Coorong during the gold rush. I’m not quite certain why I was surprised at that: it’s not as if Chinese people were welcomed by western establishments, in fact to the contrary. It made sense for the Chinese to fend for themselves in those days I their own ways.

The morning was soon gone and I started to look for a convenient place to prepare lunch, given that the Chinese vendors had left about 150 years ago.

I proceeded to the loop road, as it is known, near tea tree crossing, and thence to a pink lake in the “Lakes Nature Trail” area.

It was obvious by now that I would have to return to the Coorong at another time, given the variety of experiences that it had to offer. It is really a place that could take a minimum of two weeks to get a genuine feel for.

After lunch I proceeded on to Jack Point, which is an observation point for an important pelican breeding colony. Pelicans can travel round trips of up to 150 km from here to the Murray mouth collect fish stunned by salinity of the Coorong, and return to feed their young.

It was an interesting walk to the observation point, punctuated by a brief pause to allow a sizeable tiger snake to leave the track where it had been sunning itself after the morning dampness. I’m not quite sure that the German and Dutch tourists quite appreciated that they should be cautious as distinct from sh&t scared at the presence of snakes, despite my efforts at explaining how to deal with them.

The view at the observation point was excellent, despite the colony not containing large numbers of birds at this time of year.

I was impressed by how full the Coorong was at this part, following years of drought where the Murray hadn’t reached the sea, when the Coorong was starved of water by man-made barrages. It now looked healthy, despite the damage that had been done. I could only wonder about how much more it would recover with decent flows coming down the Murray, and if those flows could be sustained for a few years at least.

(...continues)

 

[Dulagarl]

(continued)

The day was getting away from me though and I continued on the Parnka Point with it’s reportedly “great scenery”. It lived up to its reputation:

I generally find islands enticing, but the island in the picture above had something special about it. I was drawn to it and took many photographs of it, both on the rise above the point, and on the flats below where I camped that night.

The atmospherics that evening were magnificent. The calm salty air, the remoteness, the light and the sound of the birds singing the end of day over the distant crashing of waves made for an experience to savour. You get good days and great days on trips, and this was one of the latter type. It was energising and electric, the whole experience being greater than the sum of the parts.

As evening turned to night I prepared dinner and shared the experience with a young Swiss couple on their first day in Australia. They were unfamiliar with the protocols of camping in Australia, having landed in Adelaide that morning, hired a campervan and set off south. Unlike many international visitors, they (rightly in my opinion) came to ask someone (the right person in my opinion: me) for information and advice. I was pleased by this, and I liked their attitude. As a result, I armed them with as much information as I could about what lies between the Coorong and Melbourne. I fully expect to hear about them when next I visit the Glenelg River.

When they left my camp, I turned off the light we had been using and noticed the brightness of the Milky Way as it stretched across the sky bridging the Coorong. I felt compelled to capture the moment.

I had big plans for the morning, photography wise. I was eager to get to the raised point for the best of the morning light. I finished my red wine served in my inelegant enamel cup, and gladly made my way to the tent which I had missed while in Kingston. It was satisfying to be in camp again, more so in this fantastic location.

 

[Kevin]

Just catching up - great great story!

(BTW & for future reference - I used undersized high tensile bolts to really change the camber angle and move the tyre off the strut wall after I bent both rear struts in the Simpson)

 

[mr turbo]

The more I read of your adventure Dulagarl, the more I'm enjoying it :ebiggrin:
All I can say is it's FAN-BLOODY-TASTIC

Regards
Mr Turbo