The creek is nearly silent.  It’s been more than five years since it ran fast and clear, dancing and singing to its own tunes.  Only the vestiges of a little rain a few months ago dampen the stone course and bring a little life and green to this red rock canyon much contrasted by the black burnt shells of trees that did not survive the great conflagrations of the past summers.

It’s easy for your heart to be quiet amongst the blue gums mystically shimmering a pale silver white under the fall full moon like thousands of great-grandmothers wisely contemplating.  The leaves rustle in the night’s warm breeze to soothe the temper and ache from being far from home.  Visions tend to be of past lives that have led you to this Flinders Ranges billabong and the lives of those past that surely had been here before you with sweat stained hats and dusty boots.  And too, you consider in your dream or in this dream, if the Bunyip is indeed legend or should be awaited in a shadow but suffer no room for agitation or displeasing myth at this moment; it must just be a big billa' koala having his dinner.

You wonder about vastness, the great vastness that fronts this oasis.  It’s a different notion than expected.  It’s not a dramatic Mojave or Sonora with constant change, more a dry empty Kansas with abrupt surprises, great glorious surprises that magically appear then as quickly melt into a dusty red on turquoise horizon, hours, days, weeks until the next gem manifests itself and you can draw a bearing or better compare again your time to the earths time because like Kansas you get lost in the vastness, the timelessness of Oz.

It is an old land, very old.  The Flinders Ranges have sections that geologist figure are 600-800 million years old.  Maybe you can’t get a handle on it but it is easier than laying on your back in the Simpson Desert and gazing at the Southern Cross roaring in a seemingly horizonless sky or grasping the scale of overwhelming Anna Creek Station’s 5.5 million acres, that even a small part of Sidney Kidman’s holdings.  Luckily, the town of William Creek, Australia’s smallest, gives us the microscopic view, like seeing all the workings of the universe in the motion of a single atom or all the variations of life in a pseudopod.

At the heart of it all is Uluru, Ayer’s Rock, the red giant anomaly, the Betelgeuse of rocks.  It doesn’t make sense that it exists and the more one reads from those who try to make sense of its existence the less sense it makes; sort of a giant Zen experiment.  It must be touched to really understand its spirituality.  It feels like nothing else, maybe nothing else on this planet, to some, maybe nothing of this planet.  It is a strange substance, a metamorphic sandstone called arkosic sandstone.  That alone is unusual, but it appears to be monolithic, a single huge rock of the same material maybe 6 or 7 miles long and a mile and a half thick, the largest rock in the world.  Then to boot, it is not a quartz form like most metamorphic sandstones but a feldspar and it appears to have no foliation or planes; that is it seems uniform through out.  All that means is somehow a mile and a half of consistent feldspar sand was deposited all at once (that would a’ been some sandstorm) in a hole a mile and a half deep (deeper than the Grand Canyon) and six to nine miles long  then buried by miles of earth.  If that isn’t bizarre enough, somehow this thing gets turned upright, nearly straight up and down in almost the exact center of the continent, stickin’ out like a pimple on the tip of someone’s nose.

A lot of folks don’t figure Ayer’s Rock is worth the trip.  It is a long, long, long, hot, fly infested way.  But if you view the venture like being stung by wasps under the Bohdi tree, then the realization at the end clarifies the arduous journey.  This might be the reason for the aboriginal walkabout.  Sadly the few aboriginal folks we met were pretty soused and unable to make us understand the deeper aspects of their way of life; our loss.  The rock, though, spoke for itself to anyone willing to listen.

Not far, in Australian terms, from Uluru are the Olgas or Kata Tjuta.  That is supposedly aboriginal for "many heads", the appearance seems more to be the view of a red man’s finger joints bent as he views his fingernails on a giant thirty fingered hand; weathered, rounded, with deep crevices between.  Regardless of your perspective, they are wonderful, dramatic and unusual formation of rocks, but, much more sensible and intelligible.  They appear to be a conglomerate, sorta’ a red concrete with 4-5 foot aggregate, vaulted to about 1500 feet at reasonable angles of 10 to 20 degrees.  Aboriginals have constructed a beautiful legend surrounding these rocks of hero’s and villains with Malu, the kangaroo man and Mulumura, his sister the lizard woman, and Wanambi, the snake.  Especially fun are the Liru, poisonous snake men who are preparing for all eternity to go kill Uluru’s harmless carpet snakes.  It’s no wonder a society could exist basically unchanged for 40,000 years when rooted in a meaningful interpretation of life.

Even more fun is watching the interaction of Aussie park rangers and German tourists.  “The water is good here” says the Ranger. “How do you tell that?” queries a tourist.  “’Cause things be livin’ in it.”  Another tourist lays down and gulps heartily quenching his heat induced thirst and testing the theory.  “Good, huh?” “Ja, Gut.” “Crikey now we know for certain.”  It brings hope to our values when a white person performs a sensual act, even if foolish.

The first of the great solitary structures rising far above the plain is Mt. Connor.  We leave it for last because we don’t wish to admit our mistakes until they have been fully rectified and atoned by the true quest.  When you first see it you think it must be Uluru, you’ve traveled so far in the flat wilderness and cry to this lonely red false god, “I’ve arrived.” Sadly you are not even close.  It is a great mesa far larger than Uluru, or some say, and some say they are about the same size.  It depends on the vicinity you are in and who’s reality is prevailing.  It, too, is a sandstone but of many layers as is more typical.  It has not been vaulted at an angle but lies nearly perfectly flat; a massive dinner table on a barren and chairless dining room floor.  Its uniqueness is apparent if you wish it to be.  There are no mountain back drops or wild rivers channeling besides or thru it, like mesas of the American west.  It stands alone, separate, one against the world.

Mt. Connor can be mused from the station at Curtin Springs whilst downing a few stubbies of XXXX or VB with backpackers, eco-tourists, a couple locals and the “cameleer”.  Curtin Springs is a fairly “small” station merely a million acres or so with Mt. Connor its prominent feature.  In the days when the trek to Ayer’s Rock was truly only for the dreadnought, it was best known for the lines, sometimes over a mile long, of aborigines cueing to fill their jugs with rot gut wine.  Today, “cleaned-up”, it is not nearly as enticing for the natives.  It is rather pleasant for tourist white folks dying for a camel ride or an inexpensive place to stay with atmosphere and no flies under the thatch on the patio.  We really enjoyed our flyless time at Curtin Springs, and the food wasn’t bad either, ‘cept of course, if you’re a vegetarian.  And speaking of flying, the pleasant young pilot will introduce herself and explain the tours available in the stations Cessna 242; what a way to go!

It is more common for Australians to ask if you are going to Coober Pedy than to think you might possibly wish to go to “The Rock”.  In fact, at Brisbane Airport the very first, “you have to go to” demanded from an Ozzie was to this Mecca of Strangeness.  The curious fact is 99.9 percent of Australians haven’t been more than a few miles from home, the ocean coast, and haven’t a clue what their continent contains beyond “Tales of the Weird Bush”, of course the “Crocodile Hunter” and the other 5^th most venomous slimy creature, “beyond the black stump”, and our favorite, “back o’ Bourke”.  We are not ones to fault the Australian notion of enlightenment even if it is the antithesis of our own definition.  After a couple pints we are even willing to agree it is as fulfilling.

Coober Pedy claims to have representatives of 47 nationalities, so you might expect a cosmopolitan town, a “Blade Runner” buffet albeit underground.  On the surface we could only spot 3, the Neo-Nazi Croatian Brotherhood, Greeks and Aborigines.  As we mentioned underground may be the key.  Most Pediites live in current or abandoned opal mines; it is said to offset the tremendous heat of their desert clime.  We would venture to suggest a few other theories, like, “I spent half my life diggin’ this hole might’s well put it to use” or “flies don’t got no “down” genes, so I can have a peaceful home in here”. But probably, most likely, is the early settlers were returning soldiers from World War I and they probably just got used to living in holes.

Coober Pedy is supposed to be some form of “kupa piti” which is supposed to mean “white man in a hole”.  There are certainly lots of holes from opal pursuits, though the largest find was by an aboriginal woman around 1960; go figure?  Coober Pedy is the primary opal center in the world, producing more than 90% of all opals.  Opal retailing is interesting. Everyday at every store the proprietor will tell you opals are 30% off the marked price, for that day only. Of course, tomorrow is another day.  Other similarities to certain parts of Tijuana are quite apparent, especially the pub.  In general, Coober Pedy is an unpleasant place and when confronted with an infinite number of flies it is difficult to determine “the most” but Coober Pedy ranks right up there with Fly Hell or at least Dante’s place before The Gates.  Perhaps that is why opals are said to bring bad luck.

If austerity on a level or two is one of your requirements for true beauty, the Breakaways might resonate with you as an all time number one sight.  Not too far from Coober Pedy the entire central plain of Australia drops abruptly a few hundred feet.  Within a half a mile or so of this escarpment are some formations more colorful and alluring and austere than the great whole of the Painted Desert.  Perhaps they capture the imagination because, and unlike the Painted Desert, the formations are few in number singular and unique, the illuminating Australian way of things.  Words are useless as descriptive tools, you must feel the hot wind, smell the long gone sea, and have visions at this sight.  It goes again without saying why the apocalyptic Mad Max was shot here.

Near the Breakaways we had our first real encounter with the Dog Fence, a six thousand mile dingo proof post and wire barrier. Dingos to the north, sheep to the south, is the rule.  The fence itself is no great work of art, though, for scale and human determination it is without peer.  With just a little imagination and romantic inclination you could dream of being the Dog Fence Warden endlessly traversing desert, plain and red mount dressed in khaki shorts, Ozzie boots and leather strapped hat, a kinda Shaolin monk protecting pastoral life by constant vigilance, accepting harsh blue skies and fiery sands as a blessing of purpose. 

While one is having romantic images a stop at the near ghost town of Woomera conjures a glimpse of engineer fathers dressed in white shirts with plastic pocket protectors, black thin ties, and crew cut hair, bustling about in its 1965 heyday.  Woomera will probably look exactly the same in a thousand years as it does today, a perfectly preserved jet age plastic and brushed aluminum capsule of the military/industrial age, with perhaps a few more broken windows and perhaps a door or two broken from its hinges blowing in the dust-devil winds.  Its missile and rocket garden will probably be looted by then or perhaps archeologists will uncover beneath the sands Blue Steel or some other relic and try to decipher what purpose the missile may have had, or, why one of the dormitories and the missile had the same glyphs.  Perhaps they will realize rightly that the missile was an object of worship and dread and its priests and acolytes sequestered in the hive like building with its communal baths.  You can almost taste the excitement of the then young minds discovering and pursuing theory without care of consequence; consequence now as empty as the play-ground swings that rattle beside the Blue Steel. 

The pick-up truck is surprisingly (for a North American) fairly rare in the Australian Bush, though they do commonly drive the handsome successor to the Ford Falcon Ranchero, with bull bars and all, in cities and towns.  In the back country, mammoth Land Cruisers and Land Rovers sporting long black snorkels are more typical.  You wonder why, in this the driest continent of all, you would have such beasts.  The answer became very apparent to us as we drove the track to William Creek in a little Mitsubishi two-wheel drive sedan.  In Australia, the culvert, those large pipes running under the road to carry the torrents, is basically unknown.  Instead the stream or river when existent is allowed to follow its natural course.  On some dirt roads a concrete “floodway” is handily provided and marker posts are fixed in the approximate center to allow the hearty driver an estimate of how many meters in depth.  Some posts we saw marked over 4 meters about 13 ft, pretty deep in any measure.  The second issue is when it does rain, it pours and the soils seem to have no capacity for holding the water, so like other deserts and semi-arid regions the flash flood is common.  This is compounded by the flatness of the geography. 

The typical Outback Australian, whether by environment, genetics, or a history of questionable sanity, seems unwilling to allow mere natural obstacles to daunt him or her.  Another curious feature is they seem to swarm to adversity, “popping up” in great numbers hundreds of miles from anywhere to help a mate who would have assumed him or herself to be in total in isolation.  This attribute became clear to us as we sat confronted by a madly rushing Margaret Creek running deeper than the Mitz’s bonnet at speeds of a category 5 mountain stream.  We pondered this wonder and potential barrier 100 miles from any habitations. As far as we knew we were the only folks on this track, as no other vehicles had been encountered that day. Within minutes more than half a dozen Land Rovers and Land Cruisers gathered about us.  We were towed across the river.  A great time was had by all in back slapping and discussion of how the tale would be told of the little car in the wilds that was saved and went on its way to conquer more of the great Outback.  We did sort of see, at a great distance despite the distraction, Lake Eyre, and can say it really is there.

William Creek sits halfway between Oonadatta and Maree and boasts a hotel of repute and good cheer.  The women’s undergarments that adorn the pubs walls gives credence to the warm feelings that abide, though, our lady folk, despite numerous requests from local station hands, did not contribute. There’s not much more one can say about it.  Even the folks of William Creek only say, “There are a few ways of getting to William Creek, but why would you come here? For a beer of course!  And a cold one at that, served in a pub that has no frills but is absolutely full of character and atmosphere.”  Yep, that’s William Creek, Australia’s smallest “official” town, perhaps counting Men, Women and Children, maybe, population 6.  To us, the reason to go to nowhere is to have been there.  It might be a religious thing and then again it might not.

Marree, Leigh Creek, Copley and Betana are probably notable though we didn’t give them much notice.  A hunt was made for ‘roo and claret pies in Copley, but, alas the place for pies didn’t carry them anymore.  So on we went to Parachilna. 

Parachilna is an old whistle stop on the Farina rail line near the road to the Blinman copper mines.  Originally it was located at a well closer to the mines but moved itself to the railway siding. It is the way to the Parachilna Gorge into the Flinders Ranges.

Parachilna has the Prairie Hotel, an extremely overpriced hostelry, but, one of the best “roadkill” cafes we’ve ever enjoyed.  Here gourmet meals or pizzas and burgers of ‘roo, emu, camel and other bush fare (no witchy grubs though) are served by sprightly waitresses in a nice family atmosphere.  You can also purchase their trade mark T-shirts with the kangaroo, emu and camel road crossing signs.  We did.

During our time down south we indulged in the local cuisine rather than the American standbys (ok, we did, just once, do MacDonalds).  Kangaroo turns out to be (at least the fillets) a lovely meat.  We found similarities in taste and texture to our other favorite, good Wyoming elk.  Australian bacon, a fatty, partially cooked wet and slimy substance and Australian sausages didn’t make it with us and grilled tomatoes for breaky wasn’t our cuppa tea.  Beets or as they would correct us, beet root, is placed in large slices on every sandwich.  Wonderbread, or its Australian brother, is the bread of choice even at 4 star restaurants.  Our favorite thing though was the careful and pleasant use of pumpkin in various methods including pizza. Vegetarianism is unknown therefore not frowned upon.

Even though this adventure has miles to go these old mountains with screaming blue sky and puffy pink cotton candy clouds seem to say “stop and reflect”.  The hills and the gorge that hold this stream are a natural boundary not hard to cross, its just not the time to.