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© 2003 Brian F. Schreurs
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Mt. Ebenezer to Erldunda

August 6, 2001

  2884 miles       refuel & depart Mt. Ebenezer
  2987 miles       refuel in Curtin Springs
  3071 miles       refuel in Yularu
  3207 miles       overnight in Erldunda

On a lark, Jason pulls off at a lookout east of Curtin Springs. It's there to enjoy the view of Mount Connor, a heaping big mesa that rises from a plain otherwise devoid of significant land features from horizon to horizon. Mount Connor sits on a private ranch, and tours are available from nearby Curtin Springs, but such a tour would be at least a day-trip and possibly an overnighter. The XJ6 wouldn't make it, but the hardy traveller can choose from offroaders or camels.

Mt. Connor, the ultimate flat-top.

The mysterious lake over the hill.

"Crikey, a curve! Best slow 'er down to 85 or 90, mate."

Aboriginal art painted on the face of Ayers Rock. It's older than, oh I don't know, recorded civilization or so.

An Olga. Some German girls get beautiful sports cars named after them; others get large, lumpy rocks.

The end of the Olga's lush valley.

Instead of making the trek to the foot of Mount Connor, Jason and I walk across the highway and up a slight hill, perhaps to find a better vantage point for the mesa, though it seems unlikely we'd find one. Indeed, Connor looks essentially unchanged from this bump in the landscape; we do, however, enjoy the excellent view of the highway. A few steps further to examine the other side of the hill, and we find: a lake.

Yes, a lake, in the middle of the bloody desert.

"I'll bet you weren't expecting that," quips Jason.

Clearly it is a lake of little depth but great width. There probably isn't enough water to paddle a canoe, but you could push one through the mud for days. That is, if you don't just sink in over your head. The sand here is extremely fine, the consistency of beach sand except red. Very red. The only thing keeping central Australia from becoming a Sahara wasteland is the tenacity of the desert grasses in clinging to this poor soil. Jason fills a soda bottle with the stuff, purpose unclear.

We motor on to Ayers Rock, and upon arrival, take a full lap of the monolith. Its enormity is greatly underestimated by the photographs and postcards seen around the world. Seems the world-famous sunset falls on the end of the rock; it is several times longer than it is wide -- about 9.5 kilometers long. Its face is pocked by holes where softer rock has eroded away, and channels for the monsoon runoff carve ripples along its flanks.

Ayers Rock is considered holy ground by the Aboriginals, and through a complicated land-grant arrangement with the Australian government, they actually own the rock. As such, they try to keep tourists off it as much as possible while still obeying the government requirement that it be publicly accessible. Therefore, though it is generally possible to walk right up to the rock, certain sections are permanently cordoned off, and there is only one way to climb to the top. This day that one way is closed due to "wind". 10,000 miles of travel and I can't climb the rock. Ah well.

Walking entirely around Ayers Rock is more of an adventure than we have time for, but we do explore parts of it. The area right around the rock, perhaps sheltered from the environs that scorch most of the central desert, is alive with life: pools of water, real trees, small wildlife. Shallow overhangs are covered with ancient Aboriginal art, sheer cliffs reach for the sky. Shane is in his element, telling story after story of the rock's role in Australian history, impossible to verify at this juncture but carrying the ring of truth to them. It is altogether more impressive to stand at the foot of the rock than it is to park at a distance, waiting for sunset.

With some reluctance, we pile back into the car and make for the Olgas, another large rock formation that is often forgotten in the shadow of Ayers Rock fame. I myself wonder at the point of visiting more big rocks in flat desert, detecting a bit of a theme in central Australian landmarks, but another 40 kilometers hardly seems like something worth arguing over.

We arrive at the Olgas in reasonable time and hike to the foot of them. Shane, who wanted most to go in the first place, is unable to continue from back pain. Jason and I head up the trail without him. The Olgas pretty much consist of a bunch of roundish rocks protruding from the desert floor, much larger in person than they appear in photos. This trail we're walking loosely follows a creek that cuts between two of the larger ones. Plants living alongside the creek appear as emeralds compared to the scrub we've been passing in the desert; the walls slope gently for a few yards, then rise steeply to meet the sky. This valley is very well sheltered.

As we walk up the trail, it soon becomes apparent that our distance perception is distorted by the environment. Water would have been a good idea, but I press on regardless. The valley slowly narrows as Jason and I walk the trail; near its end, there is a platform to rest and view the valley. Strangely, the greenery in the valley climbs to its terminus, where the two cliffs nearly touch, and nothing but blue sky on the other side. It seems an unlikely place for a spring, but then again the whole thing seems a bit surreal so I don't think on it too hard.

Soon enough we remember leaving Shane to bake in the sun while we've been walking in the shade of the valley, and we make our way back to see what's left of him. On our return we find he's had a grand time sitting around moaning. I head straight for the water -- a clever affair where the rainwater is collected in large tanks and made available to travellers for free, something that would never fly in America where Joe Suburb would sue the government if the water didn't meet EPA regulations. Somehow I survive my draught of pure rainwater, and even find it refreshing.

With the Olgas behind us, the sightseeing is over. The Darwin Run is finished so we have no further business with the Jaguar Club of Victoria wankers. It's time to make the long journey home. With no paved shortcuts from here to Townsville, we must retrace our previous route: Lasseter Highway to Stuart Highway, turn left, to Barkly Highway, turn right.

Our first goal is Alice Springs. We are all eager to make good time so none of us are too shy with the gas pedal. We drive well into the afternoon, switching drivers periodically. At one juncture, with Jason driving and Shane napping, I note a peculiar odor in the air -- coolant. Not wanting to wake Shane and have him try to siphon antifreeze, I wrote Jason a short note: "SMELL COOLANT?" He shakes his head and we keep going.

At our fuel stop in Erldunda, we note a hissing noise under the bonnet. Jason opens it up and after a few moments of poking around we find the culprit: a heater hose has a small leak, spraying a fine jet of green mist. The engine is far too hot to reach the hose, and by the time it cools enough to work on it'll be after dark. We're done for the day; we book a room and pack it in early.