The speed limit is 100 km/hr but I can't get above 80, and bleary eyes warn that the desolate horizon is disappearing in the pale of an approaching sandstorm. And then it happens. Without warning, a tumbleweed - thick and barbarous - dances in front of the car. It punctures a rear tyre and within 200 metres, it has been shredded by the unforgiving road. D'oh!
What is worse, the storm has closed in and now buffets us from all sides. We pull up as close to the side of the road as confidence allows in fear of the soft shoulders of the desert track and we turn to each other with non-plussed grimaces. We cannot wait for it to pass. Throwing long-sleeved shirts over our singlets, we don sunglasses and prepare to brace the storm so we can change the tyre.
The jack is all but useless and we are forced to dig a hole to prop the car up enough to change the wheel. Eventually we do, and when we climb back in, there is much relieved laughing. Red faces and and burnt legs betray how much we have been sandblasted.
I can see only a little way in front of us, but I persist until we reach Mungerannie. There, we enjoy a cleansing ale before setting off for Maree. Pulling into the caravan park just before dusk, we are promptly told we will be lucky if we can find space. We manage.
My set-up is easy and I roll out my swag. And while the others hammer in their tent pegs, I look up and notice the sunset. Grabbing my camera as quickly as I can find it, I abandon them and run across the road to an empty paddock. The sand and dust that scorched our flesh paints the sky in beautiful hues of pink and gold. As my shutter whirrs, I wonder how much of our fleshs makes up that sky and smile.
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