SPINIFEX AND SAND.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 274, 19 November 1927, Page 19

SPINIFEX AND SAND.

NORTHWARD TO DARWIN.

REPAIRS IN THE WILDERNESS

A DAY IN A CREEK

(By GLADYS SANDFORD.)

(No. 2.) Two miles south of Wycliffe Wells a seven miles north-easterly deviation is made, and we come to Singleton Station, where Mr. and Mrs. Crook and their two daughters of 20 and 23 live. Neither of these girls has ever seen a white baby or a train. The father and daughters are away doing a week's mustering, and Mrs. Crook makes us very welcome. It is twelve months since she and her daughters last saw a white woman. We would stay, only our day's mileage is only 72, and we must push on. The little woman is left behind, the only other human beings there being a black gin and a few other natives, and her nearest neighbour 70 miles away. A Serious Breakdown. Anthills, long grass, washouts, and heavy sand combine to make driving hard work. We pass over Davenport Range, a bumpy stony track, hard to follow at times. Twice we have to dig or chop the soil away from the differential when we fall into big holes hidden by the long grass. More trouble awaits us. A sandy creek looks quite harmless. I take it leisurely, and we spend the whole day and night there. The coconut matting had been left at Alice Springs, there is very little timber about, and I slip the clutch many times and burn it out in an effort to free ourselves. Nothing for it but to remove the clutch and transmission, a difficult matter in itself in the heat of the day and with no pit. But worse still, I have to recork the discs with some corks, a last moment purchase made at Oodnadatta. I groan heavily as I sit straddled over the shaft, the weight of the unwieldy piece of machinery is taken with my arms and knees. A ryg is laid on the sandy bank, and staggering up through the heavy sand, we deposit the load. The corks bob about in our precious tea billy, which has been filled with engine oil. Hard work this—the corks are forced into place and each one shaved down with our skinning knife to the necessary thickness. The blazing sun seems to concentrate its entire heat in this hollow, and the flies are very busy; the smell of oil apparently attracts them in even greater numbers than usnaL With oily hands I try to brush them off my face, but they simply refuse to move, settling round eyes, nose and mouth.

The Sergeant-Major tears a strip off the mosquito net and fastens it round my hat—worse than ever—the flies crawl underneath and shelter there. A long blister forms on my forefinger, and bursts only to swell again. At last the discs are complete, and a cup of lime juice and water and a tin of apricots form the midday meal. Now comes the hardest part of all. Those discs must be assembled, and there are four stout springs to be held down. Everything is put in place, and a two hours' wrestle commences. The SergeantMajor hovers over me with a nut in each hand, ready to grip the thread of the bolt as soon as it shows. For a fraction of a second one thread is visible, then goes—all the discs slip sideways, and have to be placed correctly once more. I take a tyre lever and the hammer handle, and with both knees on one end of each, and my hands pressing down the other side, try in vain to catch the elusive thread. The sun scorches us, an occasional fly is drawn inwards with our heavy breathing, but we dare not let go. Finally, with a shout of "For the love of Mike!" the Sergeant-Major gets a nut secure. With one thread. I tighten it with a spanner to safety point, and a little later a second one is secured.

Camping in the Wilderness. Worn out with the struggle, I endeavour to rest before* commencing the task of putting back* clutch and transmission. More lime juice, a cigarctte, and I am ready. It is dark before the job is completed, and there are still the universal joint and the brakes to be coupled up. So the floor boards are laid down, the bed made up, and though the car is still almost up to the axle in the sandy creek bottom, we turn in, about 10 p.m., too tired even to sleep. I hear a car in the distance and see headlights. I switch mine on to warn them. It turns out to be a truck returning to Banka Banka Station, and with the driver is the policeman from Newcastle Waters. While they light a fire we dress, and then join them. Supper of salt beef, bread and coffee tastes good now—we were too weary before to bother about food. Then wo turn m again and sleep soundly until dawn. The policeman decides to return with us —his swag is added to our 39} cwt, and somehow or other we all squeeze into the front seat, reaching the station tbout 2 p.m. Our clothes are filthy—l have developed a habit of wiping my greasy hands on my breaches, and they are black with oil. We change into frocks, and the lubra takes our kit away to wash. On again, feeling all brand new in our clean clothes, we make good progress to the head of the Sturt Plains There are quite a lot of trees in the distance, and I thought at first they were covered with white blossoms, but as we approach a cloud of white cockatoos rise and wheel in the sunlight

A Dreadful Road.

Twelve miles of fairly good going, then on over a black soil track for 16 miles A fire plough run over this type of soil makes quite a good road, but here it remained as it was left after the wet w **en cattle had trekked through, and the hot sun had baked the hoof original shape. I slow down to 10 m.pJi., find the shaking terrific and finally we crawl along doing J p g over the r °ugh bumpy pound. Every now and again a wild turkey pops her head up out of the lone f? S9 j The Sergeant Major clutches thf wheel while I grab the .22 Winchester hich always lies alongside my seat. I wound two; we go and look for them, keeping a sharp lookout for snakes as we move on. But these turkeys are spry chaps, and though I sighted a line on to a small mulga bush when I fired, we can find no trace. They have a habit 0 perfectly still when wounded, and one can pass within two yards of m. yet they remain hidden. Our lees are covered with long sharp hooked grass-seed, and look a little like porcupine quills We know by experience hat it is fatal to leave them, as thev work m under the skin, so we pluck our stockings pretty thoroughly. Such slow progress monotonous plains everywhere of high straw coloured grass, with a snake like track running through it. scarcely a shrub to be seen—it seems as if we will never come to trees again.

A speck appears on the horizon, then anofher. I can see no movement, and decide it must be a car broken down, or a horse wagon resting, but later we meet two cars, consisting of the Commission from Darwin, and party, who have halted to take photographs. We are advised to camp at the 50 mile bore, where there is plenty of water. Ten miles from the bore a block from the main feed of the vaccum tank sets in— it is too dark to do any work on it, as we do not carry a torch. So every half mile or so the tube must be disconnected and pumped through. Sometimes we manage to struggle on for three miles at a stretch without repeating the performance. We are both weary—the track is not too easily picked up in the dark, and on more than one occasion I think we are going the wrong way. Such joy to find we are right after all. and the sight of a lovely camping ground with a huge tank of water revives us. The Sergeant Major unpacks the car whilst I rummage for wood, all the time assailed with a nasty fear that I might perhaps pick up a snake instead of a branch. Dinner over, the billy is heated for , a bath, which is thoroughly appreciated by us both. The dingoes give us a good concert, and howl lustily throughout the night, but I am too tired

to rouse myself to shoot. The surroundings have „quite changed, and we drive through close bush. The ground is carpeted with a magenta coloured flower rather like an everlasting flower, and makes a lovely patch of colour. A few shrubs are in bloom, and beautiful red, blue and green parroquets move from tree to tree. The pink and grey parrots, or gillahs, are everywhere. I have been told they are good eating, but cannot bear to kill them for food. • At Darwin. Much to my regret, we find that the car has to be trucked to Darwin from Katherine. There are only two trains per week, but a construction train goes through each day doing the 204 miles in about 13-14 hours, if one is lucky. We are accommodated in the guard's-van, and I sit on the step most of the way trying to form an idea of the route we would be following. The narrow gauge of the railway winds in and out between hills, over short lengths of level country, over rivers infested with alligators, and I cannot , see anything that looks like a road at all—a glimpse of a bridle track now and again— nothing more. The guard tells me that the average is about two cars per year for the last four years, so no wonder there is no road.

At Darwin station we are met by the Mayor and some of the town councillors. Altogether ten day 9 are spent in this town, waiting for the recent rains to dry up.

Owing to the great heat, I find it difficult to service the car by myself, and enHst the aid of a mechanic. After inspecting the clutch, I leave him to replace it, and before I have time to stop him, I find he has taken the hammer to drive the tapered bolt of the clutch spider through from the narrow side. There is a small crack in the spider, and we are 2000 miles from the nearest place where spares can be obtained. Nothing for it but to risk it.