A tent zipper breaks the silence of our camp. Blinking, I turn in my sleeping bag. The entire side of my tent is lit up by the early morning glow of the sun.
I have slept deeply. Removed from the pressures of a busy office I am already feeling the benefits of my Simpson Desert adventure.
A family convoy of four vehicles, we entered the desert yesterday heading east along the French Line. We all took turns to drive. The long stretch of corrugated track was broken up by soft sandy dunes that required frequent second attempts to climb, accompanied by plenty of hooting and hollering.
We had puttered along in first and second gear, soaking up the August sunshine and listening to the occasional radio chatter alerting us to a dingo or camel sighting. A pack of off-road motorcycles buzzed past reminding us that we’re not the only humans. Excitement as the radio crackled into life and my brother in the lead vehicle announced it was time for smoko. Then lunch.
Late afternoon we selected an overnight camp site. Five hundred metres off the track, we circled our four-wheel-drives like wagons from the wild-west. I set up my tent at a carefully calculated distance from the heavy snorers. We gathered around the fire to enjoy camp stew and to sip hot black tea in enamel mugs. We told each other funny yarns as a fiery orange sun slipped below the horizon.
This is life in the slow lane.
I stretch. Apart from the zip I heard earlier, the campsite is silent at the start of our second day. Quiet as a mouse I pull on clothes and roll up my bedding as light filters through the canvas. Unzipping my tent, I step out to look up into a magnificent full moon cresting the sand dune beside us. Surprised, I shiver in the cool stillness soaking up the magic of the moment. My niece, in charge of the planning, has timed this trip well.
What time is it? I have no idea. I don’t wear a watch and turned off my smartphone as soon as we entered the desert. UHF radios are our only communication. No sign of movement anywhere in the camp. Inhaling the crisp air, I decide it’s pointless to try to go back to sleep.
Buoyed by the vibrant nightscape, a walk beckons. Maybe by the time I get back, it will be closer to dawn, and the others will be awake. I make my way over to the track and turn east towards Birdsville, another two or more days of bone shaking travel. I’d hate to think how long it would take to walk. You’d have to be crazy.
With the moon behind me and a star lit sky ahead, I hit a steady stride on the firm flats and puff my way over the soft dunes spaced up to a kilometre apart.
One, two, three, four dunes, I count.
Can it get any more silent? An endless horizon and big sky above suddenly seem overwhelming. What had the map said? Something like 150,000 square kilometres of red sand and salt pans. I falter, thinking of the dingo and camel tracks we had seen during the day. Could they be tracking me as I make my silent vigil? The shadows on the eastern side of the dune suddenly seem ominous. Was that a rustle?
I turn and make my way back. It’s okay I tell myself. There’s only one track. I’ll easily see our camp.
Breathing unevenly, I count the return trip. One, two, three… or was that four?
My heart thumps against my ribs.
At the top of the next dune, I am relieved to see a light shining in the distance. I recognise the silhouette of my brother-in-law’s vehicle with its distinctive side awning. Perhaps it was he who had woken me earlier. Relieved by his thoughtfulness and guided by the light he has turned on for me, I steady my pace and enjoy the walk back. With a bit of luck, he’ll have the kettle on.
Silence as I walk into the circle of the camp site. I study the lit-up vehicle with its red flag mounted on the bull-bar. There is no switched-on light. Instead, the full moon defiantly reflects off the man-made duco.
My shoulders slump. Everyone is still sound asleep. I’ve still no idea what time it is.
I return to my tent and unroll my bedding.
As I settle back in, a smile spreads across my face. At least I have a good yarn for our next campfire session.

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