As we made our way down the trail we hit a large patch of sand, quickly slowing the Land Rover, then making it struggle, then just completely stopping it.

“Uh Oh,” Glen laughed. “That’s not good, Dom.”

“No worries,” I said. “She’s not in four wheel drive.”

I pushed down the yellow knob, put her in first, and we sprang out. Not a challenge at all really, but up until this point we hadn’t had the need for four wheel drive, and the thought hadn’t crossed our mind’s to engaging it. If we hadn’t then, though, we would have soon after, as the track quickly went from sandy to rocky, to just being a down right escarpment. But it was thrilling to be doing some real off-road driving, and we were all enjoying ourselves thoroughly. Well, Glen and I were, I don’t think the girls appreciated being thrown around so much.

The track ended at a narrow walking path, and we abandoned the Land Rover and set off on foot through the brush in search of Giant Horse. The trail led us downhill for a kilometer or so, until we came across the first of many rock walls adorned with Aboriginal paintings.

We strolled about, admiring the images of people, scrub turkeys, kangaroos, but what was really on our mind was the Giant Horse, the most prominent of the paintings, and of course, the all elusive Aboriginal porn.

“Here’s the horse,” Glen was saying, following a little path over large rocks and through some brush that opened up to a wall with a large horse painted at its center. We stopped to analyze the image.

You know, I still don’t understand the vast appeal that Aboriginal art embodies. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not trying to be mean or anything, it’s just that it looks like they gave a heard of five-year-olds a paintbrush and let them loose to reek havoc on all surrounding rocks. Then, they preserved it all by having people come out and re-trace these images over and over again. That’s not to say it’s bad, just … simple. But I digress. I know there is history behind it all, and I can appreciate it for that.

Ambitious in the anatomical department, the pornographic art was indeed something worth taking a look at. I won’t go into great detail here of the actions of depicted participants – it’s not that kind of publication, after all – suffice it to say it was NOT done by a 5 year old. There was a cave not far from said painting, but after careful consideration I decided against venturing in. I mean, if they put this sort of image on the outside wall, just imagine what they would be drawing in the privacy of the abovementioned love grotto. I didn’t want to know.

Our trip back to Laura proved to be no less exciting; smoke came bellowing from the underneath of the Landy as we were driving through an open area of scraggily brush. We were unsure of exactly how to proceed in this situation, and opted to stop the car and scramble out, quickly.

We sprinted a safe distance away, turned, and watched with alarm the impressive display of near-combustion.

“This isn’t good,” I helpfully pointed out.

“No, no it’s not,” Glen said.