Tony wakes us before dawn so that we will have time to break camp and drive to the overlook where we hope to watch the sunrise over Kata Tijuta. It is freezing cold and he has started a welcome fire, but with the time constraint, breakfast consists of only cold cereal and bad coffee. Sugar and milk do little to camouflage the bitter taste, but I am at least awake enough to roll up my swag. We drive 30 minutes to the overlook positioned half way between Uluru (Ayers Rock) and Kata Tijuta, (the Olgas) and follow a boardwalk path uphill to a vista point to await the sunrise. Dawn creeps in quietly and the two immense rocks change colors gradually; a spectacular sight of morphing colors and velvety shadows; purple, salmon, pink, orange and red. Visually satiated, we drive to the base of Kata Tijuta for a 7 kilometer hike through the “Valley of the Winds.” Except for the chilling cold and harsh winds in exposed gaps, this morning’s hike is my favorite. The sky is clear of clouds, adding to the chill factor, but the morning sunlight dramatizes the rock formations. John is layered in a capalini, a T-shirt, a flannel and his windproof jacket but is uncomfortably cold in spite of the exertion required for the hike. Two hours into the climb we stop at a spectacular vista and Tony dolls out granola bars and oranges, a welcome mid-morning snack. It is only now that we spot one other group of hikers. Tony has us on a strict schedule, which keeps us away from the throngs of other hikers. The hike takes us 3 ½ hours and we enjoy private breathtaking vistas.
It is 11:30 A.M. when we return to the parking area, now filled with tour busses and 4 wheel drive vehicles. We retrace our drive back through the Uluru resort area on route to tonight’s campsite. Elizabeth and I both wish for a real cup of coffee and while Tony fills the Land Cruiser with petro, we buy flat white coffees and snacks at the Uluru resort center. An hour later, we stop at Curtin Springs station and break for a picnic lunch. We team together and again make sandwiches and I wander the back sections of this immense station, admiring the farm machinery and a few loaded road trains. A road train is a long chain of flat cars, loaded and hitched together and powered by a Semi-Truck engine; an Australian phenomena.
By late afternoon, cloud bursts dampen the landscape and the sky has grown ominously grey. Tonight’s campsite will be near Kings Canyon National Park but we need more fire wood before we make camp. Tony veers off the paved road, in search of Mulga wood. He finds a suitable grove and John morphs into the Karate Kid, uprooting rotting trees with one kick and jumping on the downed branches to break them into manageable pieces. Tony loads the wood atop the trailer with cigarette in hand.
We arrive at a campground around 5:00 P.M. and all take showers before our planned drive out to our private campsite. It has rained heavily here and the ground is sodden and muddy.
After our showers, Tony expresses concern about the weather; that if it continues to rain during the night, we might not be able to drive out in the morning. Elizabeth is also concerned about the rain and Tony informs us that we may choose to stay in one of the permanent tents belonging to Connections Tour. Somewhat disappointed, but agreeable to the consensus, I agree to this solution. Connections has an empty site on the edge of the campground consisting of a half dozen small tents surrounding a screened in cooking and dining tent. John and I choose one small tent, equipped with cots and mattresses and unroll our sleeping bags. Tony starts a fire which is soon blazing and we team together to cut vegetables to duplicate last night’s vegetable stew. Tony busies himself preparing the chicken with lemon myrtle, his bottle of port close by to assist him in his culinary magic. All is cooked in cast iron pots nestled in the coals of the fire. Dinner is exceptional again; the lemon myrtle spices in the chicken a unique flavor that we all marvel at. Tony has planned a second course and after dinner, he holds a kangaroo tail over the fire, burning the hair off the hide. He then wraps the tail in foil and buries it in the coals. I surmise that he is cooking this delicacy for the benefit of John and John is politely determined to stay awake until the tail is cooked. I turn in before the sampling, but can hear their muffled talk from the confines of my tent. John comes to bed an hour later, not entirely impressed with the flavor and texture of kangaroo tail; extremely oily and sinewy.
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