Fully loaded with water, we left the lakes, steering towards Mount Wilson
(Gregory); the heat was great, and the flies worse than we had before
experienced.
Riding ahead steering was most unpleasant; one hand for the compass, one
for the bridle, left nothing with which to frighten the flies from the
corners of my eyes, which became quite raw in consequence. Certainly
riding is a great improvement on walking, and I prayed that the horses
would long be spared to us. Once through the dense scrub surrounding the
lake, and our old friends sand and spinifex lay before us. Crossing an
open plain, we reached Mount Wilson, from which the lake was plainly
visible, at a greatly lower level. This hill is the highest in a little
broken range of barren sandstone hills, peaks, knobs, and cliffs of all
manner of shapes and sizes. To the eastward stony tablelands can be seen,
running from which I noticed what I took to be a creek.
At this point it is interesting to see what Gregory's impressions were of
the country ahead. This was the furthest point he reached in 1856, having
landed an expedition on the Northern coast and travelled up the Victoria
River on to the head-waters of the Sturt Creek, and down that creek to
its end. He says: "From the summit of the hill (Mount Wilson) nothing was
visible but one unbounded waste of sandy ridges and low, rocky hills,
which lay to the South-East of the hill.
