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OZ
I always carry a dual-purpose motorcycle aboard. It is always a bit of
a job to disassemble and stow it, but it is worth its’ weight in gold
for the adventures and convenience it provides on the larger islands
and continents. When I first reached Australia, I got it into my head
to ride across the desert from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific. This
turned out to be nearly my last adventure in the end. The distances,
lack of ground cover, hence lack of food, and lack of water were
serious obstacles to deal with. The farmers were my savior ultimately.
They would feed me up, fuel me up and send me on my way. I would often
spend a few days with them at a time. The fences were also a problem.
Getting the motorcycle over the big ones ended up being a full day
affair, disassembling it partially and carting it over piece by piece.
I carried a lot of extra fuel on the machine and some water. The
limited carrying capacity mandated I bring a gun along to feed myself.
I took a 12-gauge shotgun, which proved to be a poor choice. The land
is so flat out there in many places, that I swear you can see the
curvature of the earth. I shall always remember my first hunt. There
are rabbits out there, but they are mostly infected with mixamitosis,
and I had serious doubts of the wisdom of eating one. The only other
animals visible were feral goats. The farms are so large there, several
generations of “domestic” animals can live without ever being handled.
They end up being truly wild and consequently really alert.
I had been riding for a couple of days without food, hoping to find
tracks or a road, which inevitably would lead to a farmhouse or some
civilization. The third day dawned and I was really motivated to do
something more immediate about the problem. I took slugs for the 12
gauge and set off after a herd of goats that were moving along in the
distance. The problem of no cover was daunting. I would do my best
version of the leopard crawl and these animals would spot me long
before I was close enough to have success with the shotgun. After many
hours of creeping towards them, and having them wait till I was about
100 yards away before running off another few hundred yards, I think I
finally tired them of the game. One old billy goat was slow to get the
message and finally paid the price. The only problem was that I was now
a very long way from my camp. I butchered the carcass (quite literally)
and started the long drudge back to my camp with a bleeding piece of
smelly old goat over my shoulder. I really don’t think I have ever been
dirtier in my life. There was absolutely no prospect of getting clean
either. That, tho, was certainly not on my mind on that long, painful,
trek back to camp. I got back just around sunset and rapidly got a fire
going. It was totally dark before the meat started to smell edible. I
was in the middle of my feast when I thought I heard voices. I quickly
surmised I was either hallucinating because of hunger, or worse, I was
being poisoned by the meat. Then, there, right in front of me,
appeared 3 wild looking characters, in ragged western clothes. “We
smelled yer grub mate” were the first words. They turned out to be
aborigines on walkabout. We all got stuck in to the goat. We didn’t
have too much in common to talk about, coming from such different
circumstances and cultures, but the slurping and burping was quite
companionable. Later, they got up, said farewells, and disappeared into
the night. When I awoke the next morning I had to look at the
footprints before accepting the encounter had been real, in fact, and
not just a goat meat inspired dream.
I eventually did make it across, tho the last little stretch I had to
‘cheat’ and use roads due to the land being densely settled. That
mountain range on the east coast is quite spectacular after the desert.
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