What are the Odds?

The day began with perfect weather. We breakfasted and all hit the showers to wash not knowing if we would see a shower for a couple of days. In stark contrast to the first day we had clear skies and tailing winds as we wend our way through the Barossa Valley and into the Clare Valley, stopping at Clare for lunch. The trail is marked with historical towns whose heyday has well-passed, but which commemorate the exploring and pioneering days of the late 19th century. The mining which was undertaken in these towns long ceased to be economically viable, and the landscape is pocked with abandoned cottages – all of two-four rooms and with ceilings which might have suited hobbits far better than Heards.

Port Augusta was our last stop of note – the last major town before commencing the journey up the Stuart Highway to Alice Springs. Here is pure outback – deserted regions with few trees and uninhabited landscape, appearing – one imagines – as it has done for millennia, save the bitumen strip which marks the pathway north. Apart from two large houses being transported on the back of trucks – wide enough to block the entire highway – the obstacles to travel were few. No matter what speed one travels, the landscape does not change nor pass quickly, though change it does. The land invites one to slow down and absorb its pace. It has lived for many years and invites the deeper breath of an aged time.

We ventured into Woomera, considering that we might spend the night there, but abandoned the notion and headed further north along the highway for some twenty or so kilometres, pulling into a wayside stop overlooking lagoon island – a dry salt lake bed. The scenery was magnificent, and proved to be an ideal spot to camp for the night, so we set the van up and began to prepare ourselves for dinner. At this time a black Ford pulled off the highway with the intention of taking in the view and moving on. As the couple disembarked their vehicle, Ev walked around the back of the van to hear the stunned cries, “It’s Ev!!! O, my god, it’s Ev!” What do you reckon the odds of bumping into someone you know some 200 or so kilometres north of Port Augusta on a road travelled by perhaps a few dozen people each day? It was Laura, a friend from Melbourne, whose grandmother was a good friend and whose funeral we had celebrated some weeks before. At this point, Ev was lamenting the impact of Adelaide water on her hair, and the lack of makeup in response to my chidings, “Who are you going to meet who knows you?!” at the camp site that morning. Hmmmm.
After a quick catch-up we bade them farewell as they headed north while we supped and slept most peacefully.