Archer River was our destination that day for a reason; it is an all purpose motel/petrol station/bar, and we were more than happy to spend an evening absorbing the local culture, not the mention the odd cold drink or two (or, more correctly, four or five). As we sat around the tables sipping our bourbon and cola we were, solely based on geographical convenience, educated on the fine art of driving a road train – a large truck towing up to 4 trailers behind it – by a bloke who had clearly ingested one too many beers, although he himself was not aware of this fact and was still happily consuming more. We even had the opportunity to go visit his truck; this consisting of a wobbly tour around the trailers and concluding in a conversation and public display of urination on one of the big tires near the front. We said our goodnights and stumbled back to camp for an alcohol induced slumber.

Accordingly, the next morning started out late, and it was not until 11 that we began to collapse camp.

We figured what lay ahead of us was a few hours of corrugated, dusty, hot roads, but in fact, after just three short hours of not so disagreeable travel we arrived at our next camping destination, the Wenlock River. Our priorities in order, we promptly jumped in for a swim.

The water was beautiful; much the improvement on a pool, but unfortunately a bit crowded. But that’s the fate we suffer while attempting this trip in the dry. Okay, admittedly in the wet [season] this area is completely impassible, and probably under a few meters of water. Still, I bet there are less people.

We set up our tents on a low hillside overlooking the river – “this should be interesting,” I thought, now stepping back and carefully considering our choice of residential placement. The tents were perched particularly close to a 2 meter fall, and, of course, opening up onto this very same direction. A great view, yes, but with equilibrium distorted later in the night with aid of alcohol, it would be no doubt entertaining. Come to think of it, it should also prove for a rousing morning; stumbling heavily with sleep out of tent and into an exhilarating freefall to sobriety. Well we’d see, anyway.

“Which way do you think he’s gonna go,” Sue was saying.

We were sitting on the other side of the river crossing having a quick lunch, en route to Eliot Falls, and watching an old Holden approach. It had 2 routes to choose from through the river; one consisting of an easy drive through some shallow water, the other taking a less direct and substantially more precipitous path. Yes, the choice seems obvious now, but you must keep in mind that when approaching you are presented with two trails and forced to make a quick, and somewhat uninformed, decision. We, of course, had taken the more challenging of the two paths, resulting in a couple of engine revving runs at a sandy hill leading to eventual victory and, as a reward, break for lunch.

“Oh, he’s going the wrong one,” Glen laughed.

We watch the Holden weave through the turns, come around the last bend and, seeing the sandy obstacle, begin a necessary, but at the end futile, acceleration. The Holden made it halfway up, then stalled.