Leaving The Hills On The 21st, We Soon Reached A Little Colony Of
Detached Hills Of Queer Shapes, One, As
Breaden said, looking "like a
clown's cap." From the top of the highest, which I named Mount Ernest,
after my
Brother-in-law, a dismal scene stretched before us, nothing but
the interminable sand-ridges, the horizon as level as that of the ocean.
What heartbreaking country, monotonous, lifeless, without interest,
without excitement save when the stern necessity of finding water forced
us to seek out the natives in their primitive camps! Every day, however,
might bring forth some change, and, dismal as the country is, one was
buoyed up by the thought of difficulties overcome, and that each day's
march disclosed so much more of the nature of a region hitherto
untraversed. It would have been preferable to have found good country,
for not only would that have been of some practical benefit to the world
at large, but would have been more pleasant to travel through. So far we
had had nothing but hard work, and as the only result the clear proof
that a howling wilderness of sand occupies the greater area of the
Colony's interior
By going due East from Mount Ernest I could have cut the Sturt Creek in
less than one hundred miles' travel, which would have simplified our
journey. But taking into consideration that an equal distance would
probably take us beyond the northern boundary of the desert, I determined
to continue on a Northerly course, as by doing so we should be still
traversing unknown country, until we reached the Margaret River or some
tributary of it; whereas by cutting and then following up the Sturt, we
should merely be going over ground already covered by Gregory's and
subsequent parties.
Careful scanning of the horizon from Mount Ernest resulted in sighting
some hills or rocks to the North-East. Excepting that higher ground
existed, nothing could be seen as to its nature, for it was ever moving
this way and that in the shimmering haze of heat and glare of the sun,
which, intensified by powerful field-glasses, made one's eyes ache. I
find it hard indeed to render this narrative interesting, for every page
of my diary shows an entry no less monotonous than the following:
"Same miserable country - roasting sun - no feed for camels - camp on crest
of high ridge in hopes of getting a breath of air - thousands of small ants
worry us at night - have to shift blankets half a dozen times. Val's feet
getting better - she can again walk a little."
The high ground seen from Mount Ernest turned out to be bare rocks of
black ironstone, from which we sighted a very large smoke rising to the
eastward - miles of country must have been burning, a greater extent than
we had yet seen actually alight. Probably the hot weather accounted for
the spread of the flames. Though apparently at no great distance, it took
us all that day and six hours of the next to reach the scene of the fire,
where spinifex and trees were still smouldering and occasionally breaking
into flames, whirlwinds of dust and ashes rising in every direction.
Having camped we set out as usual to find tracks, Breaden and Warri being
successful in finding a pad of some dozen blacks going in the same
direction.
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