As Luck Would Have It, It Was The Wrong
Smoke; Breaden On Arriving At The End Hill Had Made A Fire, And This The
Evening Breeze Had Rekindled; And The Camp-Fire Happened To Die Down At
The Very Time It Was Most Needed.
In due course I arrived at the hill,
named Mount Colin, after poor Colin Gibson, a Coolgardie friend who had
lately died from typhoid.
From the summit a noticeable flat-topped hill,
Mount Cox, named after Ernest Cox, also of Coolgardie, bears 76 degrees
about fifteen miles distant, at the end of a fair-sized range running
S.S.W. Between this range and that from which I was observing, I noticed
several belts of bloodwoods, which might be creeks, but probably are only
flats similar to that crossed by us. Picking up the tracks of the main
party, I followed them to camp, not sorry to have a rest; for it was ten
hours since Godfrey and I had had anything to eat or drink, and the rocks
were rough and the spinifex dense. I mention this, not as illustrating our
hardships, but to show what training will do; any one of us would have
been quite ready to do the day's tramp over again had any necessity
arisen.
That night as I was shooting the stars, by which I found we were in lat.
24 degrees 57 minutes, long. 125 degrees 9 minutes (dead reckoning), I
noticed several bronzewing pigeons flying down the creek which I had
followed, and on which we were camped.
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