Day 422 | Spring Creek: just out in the middle of not much
84 km | zzOz total: 12,645 km
You come up the hill?
Yeah, I reply, not stating the obvious, mate, when you are standing at a lookout on a high outcrop you must have come up.
The said climb sure was a grunt but like the Spooners Range south of Nelson you keep plugging away, often in the lowest gear of the 27 and after a couple of stops, to look back at the view, or, perhaps, catch some breath and let some lactic acid dissipate from the lower limbs, bit by bit you get there.
He has eyebrows you could plait, a gnarly face that’s seen plenty of weather over the years and an aggressive demeanour, beer gut, puffing away on a cigarette, may well spend as much on the cancer sticks as it costs me to live my current fully austere lifestyle.
That’s a fair load, he continues, motioning towards my bike and caravan, pale blue smoke following the hand movement.
Yeah, there’s a few things I could get rid of, not saying there’s little in the way of provisions aboard, it’s now way low tide.
I don’t point my eyes towards his decked out bus, converted to comfortable living, looking quite new, a full sized, also new, 4WD hanging off the tow ball, might be a million bucks on those automotive wheels, because I’m an agreeable type, at least on occasions when there’s little discernible upside to the conversation, but he surely senses my antipathy for his style of transportation, his heavyweight affluence precluding much engagement with nature and the world out here.
Contrast that inane exchange with some more pleasurable banter with a gorgeous Dutch gal, all white teeth and intelligence, wavy shoulder length hair that if she was Australian would undoubtably be straining credibility towards the platinum blonde end of the spectrum, but she is a self assured European and it’s soft brown, might even say mousey brown, provided those mice were looking lovely. Topics including finding a cassowary, as yet unsuccessful, the bizarre interior decoration of the nearby Lions Den Hotel and, from me, excitement about yesterday’s Split Rock Aboriginal rock art.
An Aussie bloke, scrawny although he probably thinks tough looking, wanders over from the silver backpacker’s style camper van, unhappy, edgy eyes, maybe it ain’t going so well.
1000 generations, huh, what did they produce?
Err, I suppose they survived, at time thrived. That’s an achievement in this harsh country.
A snort of dismissal, both at me and the world’s longest standing society.
At the rate we’re going, ie, 7 billion of humanity, we’ll be lucky to survive another 5, make that 3, generations.
So much I don’t say but I’m grinning wildly, an echo of Her Gorgeousness.
There’s some people I don’t mind being around.