Moving into the outback requires peeling layers - urban artifice, suburban parks, wheatbelt uniformity, the occasional nature reserve, small towns toggling remnant bush, much of it claimed by mines or the detritus of bygone days: empty wells, abandoned mine shafts, tattered homes missing roofs and doors, rusted fencing and ancient cow poop.
For us it means adding layers. The sting of the morning cold calls for six layers on the top half, two on the bottom, a wool hat, scarf and mittens. Welcome to winter camping.
The beach umbrella keeps us dry during breakfast
Our experience with weather forecasts is that they usually err on the side of precipitation. In Australia it usually rains less than they say it will. Since Sunday, when the rain was meant to slow down to near nothing, it’s persisted with uncanny obstinacy. It drizzles and drags one. Looks like it will clear but the woolly sky holds firm and delivers another lot of light rain that ensures everything stays damp or wet.
We arrive in Kalgoorlie early afternoon. The streets are glistening and 17 degrees feels like 10 with the wind. We check out several 4WD stores to enquire about installing air bags on our rear suspension – the heavy trailer is dragging down the rear of the car. But all three shops say it’ll take a few days to get the part we need delivered from Perth. So we bag the idea and head to the Dome instead. We’d spent nearly every day in this salubrious two-story wood-panelled coffee house when we were stuck here for a week last October waiting for our Kia to get fixed. I flip open my computer and clock an hour of work. It’s past 4pm by the time we hit the road. This far east, without changing time zones, the sun sets at 5pm. And the drizzly rain persists. The land is covered in puddles and mud.
We find a spot just north of Kalgoorlie, a short distance from the “Two-up” club, where old-timers congregate in a ramshackle tin shed to play an once-outlawed gambling game. Fortunately on a wet Monday night nobody’s ventured out for a game. The silhouette of a gangly gum rests in the twilight while we share a glass of red. Before it’s half gone the rain resumes. So we head inside the camper to wait it out, hoping for a dry spell long enough to cook our dinner.
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