Back Country

[shapeofthings]

I spent a week in the back country; over 300km inland where the green, arable coastal strip fades into semi-arid scrubland and dust. The first time you go out west the thirsty, lean country is an affront: half dead and empty, the land is broken, hard and ugly. But it seeps under your skin, you breathe in its rhythms and sink into dreaming out there, with the big sky reaching over you and the dust creasing your skin.

In May the mornings are beautiful, crisp and dry with crystal skies. Knee high yellowed grasses shimmer in the early light, hiding an array of creatures: more birds than call my city home. Flocks of wild cockatiels, galahs, emus, finches, bustards and other feathered wonders. Pretty-face wallabies and grey kangaroos stand sleepy-eyed on red-dust roads in the morning cool before leaping, spring-legged away from the 4-by. Inside, Marcus and I fell into the patterns of the days, listening to the Waifs, Counting Crows and other bands with that country/folk edge that lends itself so well to this dreamscape.

Days of driving, following maps and GPS, chasing water in this dry scub. You can see the bones of the land out here, the history is there for the reading: here lay an ancient sea, there an ancient mountain rich in iron. Watching the fragile soil change from white to pink to red across paddocks and dry creek beds. It's cattle country - herefords, brahmans, droughtmasters - but the stock is kept low and the trees unfelled by many wise enough to know that too many hooves or not enough trees in this delicate country will see the pitiful soil scurried away by the dust devils and the creek banks washed downstream, leaving the land scarred and barren. The scrub cattle are half-wild, hardy creatures, clinging to the water troughs and lingering waterholes,watching us wide-eyed.

We, too were, looking for water, following ill-advised points on a map to find one after another dry gully. Covering 400kms in a day looking for lingering pools big enough for a 20m sample of invertebrate life. In the best part of 5 days we found 3, not good news for the monitoring program, but not unexpected. Still, the road holds many discoveries. Boab trees broke the landscape in clusters where wiley farmers refrained from clearing them, aware of the precious water reserved in their trunks and it's value in a back-breaking drought, their swollen profiles a reminder that the rains do come, eventually. Windmills rested in the still weather, ever-ready to spin into activity, bringing up water from the bores for thirsty cattle, shy kangaroos and the ever-present birdlife.

Long days end in perfect sunsets and a cool drink at the pub. Dinner always accompanied by chips and a salad not complete without beetroot, tinned corn, pineapple and grated cheese. Feet eased out of work boots, a drink or two sliding into conversations and a welcome bed in another rural motel room. Morning always comes too soon and the ute is loaded; on the road and a bakery breakfast. Another day of dreaming, watching planes from far-off places weaving contrails across the perfect, open sky.