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The boys leave the saloon at Mount Dare and head for the sunset in Part Two of the Simpson Desert Adventure.

Words by Jonh Rooth
Photography by Robb Cox

Last month we finished up in the bar at Mount Dare around mid-afternoon. It was cool inside that old green house, the beer was even colder and the only way Pat could get us out of there was to load a trolley with seven cartons of VB and trundle it past us to the F250. "Works every time!" he said, as we hopped back in our trucks. Carrying the beer in the big Effy was working every time, too. With its great long wheelbase and Old Man Emu suspension, the big Ford was riding the corrugations like an oil tanker through choppy seas. You could see the wheels chucking up and down, but the cabin wasn't budging. No wonder Pat had grown so fond of it - he wanted to buy it by trip's end - and there was no way anyone was budging sound man Hoppy from the navigator's seat either. The big F-truck is ARB Andy Brown's daily driver, bought originally to tow his race car around the country in feet-up comfort with the cruise control on.

Naturally enough it's also the 'test vehicle' for ARB's research and development crew, and apart from the suspension, they'd already designed that trick Deluxe winch bar and whacked on a tough 15,000lb Warn - enough to pull the Ford up a tree if need be. Ian Shultz had driven the Ford up from Melbourne to the Alice before taking over the Rodeo for the rest of the trip, and he'd given that bar a real-world test when a big roo, dazzled by the IPF Extreme driving lights, had failed to get out of the way. The result? No damage at all to the truck or the bar despite a mighty splattering of roo-goo. Anyone who doubts the necessity of good steel protection up front on a long Aussie road trip is welcome to look closely at these photos. What could have been a buckled radiator isn't, and that's all there is to it!

The big V8 was backed by an ARB-fitted Long Ranger 270L fuel tank, and like the others, it'd been filled to the brim at Mount Dare, the last chance this side of Birdsville for food, fuel and beer. Both the Dakar 60 Series and the Rodeo had Long Ranger tanks, so after filling Milo's piddly 50L tank, I filled my jerry cans, too. With luck, I'd only have to use one of them at most, but the Simpson isn't the sort of place you rely on luck alone. Despite its growing popularity as a tourist destination, we're still talking about one of the most isolated places on earth, where a wrong turn or a breakdown can turn into a major disaster with a few bad decisions thrown in. It's almost 10 years since I had a trail-bike tour go very wrong through here, and the lessons learnt that time have stuck hard and fast! Pete Flanders, head copper up at Doomadgee these days, and I were the only two guides - there should have been four, but the tour operator was cheapening out - and we had 14 Japanese tourists on trail bikes and only the one truck, a 75 Series tray-back. As 'part-time' guides, what we didn't know was that the business had been losing customers and money. The operator, a misbegotten sod, was out to save on anything he could, so instead of the usual two or even three trucks as back-ups, we left Birdsville with just the one.

And it was loaded to the hilt, because rather than sending the tourists' luggage by courier to Yulara, the operator decided to cheap out at the last minute and toss it on the tray-back. The poor old Toyota was already carrying spare fuel, bike parts, camping gear for 16 people and all the water and food required for a 10-day trip. It was so overloaded that I had the truck's spares winched up tight to the roo bar - an ARB bar, they're tough suckers - and the canopy was bulging everywhere. Now I should have known better and I guess Pete, younger than me but with more commonsense, should have, too. But we'd both pulled off some monster trips in the past against the odds and had a reputation for working hard and laughing off problems.

Even though we sensed the odds weren't right, pride meant we weren't going to be the ones to blow the whistle. We figured 'we'd be right'. In the Simpson, that's not good enough; you need the odds well in your favour and plenty in reserve. When one of our Japs ploughed into a dune on day one, copping an eye injury and some twisted limbs, we loaded the broken bike in the truck and the rider up front, chucking whatever we could to make it fit. The Toyota was so loaded that it couldn't get over the dunes without flattening the poor old diesel and jumping hard. That up-ended the water containers and wore a hole in the spare fuel drum, too. A couple of crates of food got mashed in for good measure, and suddenly we're in the middle of nowhere without enough food and water, the truck's lost first gear, the clutch is slipping and the poor Jap's in need of a doctor. This was the first time we'd ever carried a satellite phone - a great big thing in its own suitcase in those days - and you can bet we were sweating it as Pete read the instructions out loud while I twiddled the aerial.

Yep, it was the first time either of us had used one of the bloody things, but that, and a bail-out run down the K1 Line, saved the day. You don't take the Simpson lightly - ever. The biggest trick is to travel with a group and keep things as light as possible, sharing tools and gear, and not taking anything that's not needed. Then you still need double rations on everything from food to water and fuel! Oh, and a $95 Desert Parks pass, another example of our wonderful government putting the boot in to the travellers who need it the least. Why any Australian should have to pay more than their crippling income tax to access any part of our own country is totally beyond me. No arguments please; I've heard them all and they're crap.These thoughts were swirling through my mind like the dust swirling through Milo's cabin as the fat Cooper STs churned the 70km to Dalhousie. The springs are an incredible phenomena - hot water bubbling up naturally from the Artesian Basin in the middle of one of the most arid parts of the world.

The camping ground - dirt beaten so hard it's like a concrete pad - is a bit of a walk from the springs, but within minutes of pegging our claim we were running for the water. After a day's worth of dust and heat, and plenty of bounce thrown in, a soak in the pools, floating around in an old tyre tube, is like stepping into another world of steaming luxury. Talking luxury, my old Waeco - veteran of four years' worth of Milo pounding and Fat Kevvy-type beer attacks - finally chucked in the towel that day. Being one fridge down before you enter the Simmo isn't good, not with a thirsty lot like this, and we tried a few tricks to bring it back to life. Now the outback has an amazing habit of throwing up strange coincidences. While battling with the Waeco, who should step over from another camp but a bloke we recognised from off-road competitions. It turned out Ben's day job was a fridge mechanic! He pulled it down but it wasn't something that could be fixed without parts - the solid-state componentry was burnt out. "Looks like your Waeco's an esky now, Roothy," he said, as I passed him another beer.

So it was beers all round to give the Waeco a wake, a quick dinner, another round or three and bed. The hot water had done its thing, relaxing us like a snatch strap falling off the hook. After Dalhousie it wasn't long before we were driving across the Gluepot, an aptly named bit of flat country that, after a couple of inches of rain, is virtually impassable. Deep ruts in the track were proof of recent rain, and while the dust was flying, we were keeping strictly to the track to avoid the possibility of hitting a big 'glugg'. Out here things can look just lovely - until you break the crust and sink. It's better to play it safe! There's a bit of a gentle climb up to a gibber tableland - the last rocks before Birdsville - then another long stretch of potential swamp where once again the ruts told the story.

Slowly the track became more sandy and the saltbush came back as we neared the first of many low sand ridges that spell the beginning of the Simpson. Purnie Bore, some 68km from Dalhousie, comes up without warning after yet another low sandhill, but these days the amenities block and lunch tables mark the spot as much as the water-fed greenery. Purnie, like a lot of free-flowing bores, has been capped in recent years as people have realised that the Artesian Basin isn't a limitless resource. But there's still plenty of water and wildlife, a beaut respite before the real dry country begins. There's something like two, three and even four sandhills every kilometre from here on in, and plenty of them offer up twisted tracks that weave all over the place as countless drivers have followed each other to dodge soft spots and drifts. Then there are the potholes and drop-offs left from the old hard clay base and hard lumps of gypsum shoving up through the sand - constant wheel twisting and low speeds guaranteed! But the Effy handled it like a gecko up a flyscreen with plenty of tail flicking as Pat put the boot in.

Shultzy, in the Rodeo, was falling in love with that automatic transmission, and while Lowmount might have been worried about scratches on the Dakar 60, the big ballooned-out tyres and all-new power steering made his job a whole lot easier. Which left Coxy and me sucking up the dust in Milo. Actually, it wasn't that bad. Thanks to the other guys, we were in front most of the time - Rob played the old photography card. And with Milo in second high and riding on the hand throttle, it was like punching a tractor up the beach - slow maybe, but dead easy and a whole lot of fun. Four-wheel driving doesn't get much better than a Simmo crossing - out here you have to fourby all the way! Until nightfall anyway. Cresting one last dune we drove off the track a couple of hundred metres and made camp on a nice flat spot with a few poo trees scattered the right distance away - in sight, out of smell - near the dune base. With just enough light left, Shultzy rattled up a big fire, dug a hole for a hot-coal barby and started sizzling sausages. The rest of us went off for a kick of the footy!

That night we chopped the sausages into a satay curry, bolstered that mess with rice and chug-a-lugged another few (hundred) beers to, err, replenish the lost fluids! Under a magnificent carpet of stars, we told plenty of fibs around the fire and roared with laughter, as much as anything because life doesn't get any better than this! We hit the French Line Track the next morning early, because the further east you go, the slower progress tends to be as the drift sand deepens and the dunes get taller. Things slowed down even more at Lake Tamblyn, a typical Simpson salt lake and a superb place to fool around and take some photos, too. While Pat and Rob were doing exactly that, I fuelled up Milo, managing to fit a jerry and a half (about 40L) in the main tank.

When it was time to leave, Shultzy couldn't get the Rodeo to start. The motor was turning over but was dead as our camel skull. It was stinking hot and the reflection of the hard-packed white salt made it even hotter. While Ian and I tried all sorts of combinations of lock and unlock, figuring the engine management had gone to stolen mode or something, Lowmount walked over and released the petrol cap. There was a whoosh of air and the Rodeo fired into life - there'd been a vapour lock in the Long Ranger tank. Relief all around! Salt lakes aren't the best places to sit around trying to sort dead trucks. Sometimes you'd almost reckon Lowmount's worth his tucker. Sometimes. Shortly after the lake, we took a turn down the Knolls Track to check out the Approdina Attora Atolls. Coxy reckons these low, flat-topped hillocks of white gypsum are about as exciting as wake-boarding in the bath. There's not much to them, even with the best efforts of the signpost nazis to make these lumps a 'real tourist experience' by fencing them off and pissing off the campers. But everything in context, right? When there's nothing but red sand dunes and salt lakes forever, these white lumps stick out for miles. The Aborigines used them as landmarks to find their waterholes; the white explorers used them to pinpoint their position. They're just not very exciting, that's all.

No, we got our excitement somewhere between a couple of the lake crossings - there are several long and narrow lakes from the Knolls through to Poeppel Corner - when Milo put a foot wrong and fell down into a great crater of soft sand. It wasn't anything a bit of digging and a big snatch from the Effy couldn't sort, but it could have been a hellish recovery if I'd been on my own. As it was, filming the recovery slowed us down long enough to watch the sun almost set, and within a few miles we were looking for another trackside camp. A few old fireplaces marked a beauty, and the ritual of beers and barby took us into the night. Words can't describe the sheer beauty of bush camping in the middle of nowhere. Then I stuffed it right up. After watching Pat and the others use the trick new satphone to ring their wives, I figured I'd give it a go, too. I dialled the Mudflats and copped a deluge. This ringing-the-wife thing isn't something I'm good at, especially after leaving without actually mentioning where we were going. There I was, all full of peace and goodwill and VB, trying to make these incredible days of sand and sun sound like hard yakka when the Handbrake's launched in with both barrels!

Yep, it might be hot and dry in the Simpson, but the tail end of a monsoon had gone through the Mudflats, and the roof I was supposed to fix last year leaked big-time. The Handbrake's floating around the sunken lounge on the coffee table with her mum, yelling into the phone that the table's slowly going down as the chipboard soaks it up. So I told her to lighten the load and give her mum a shove. Oops, not good, but fortunately the wires to the satellite 'thingy' played up, and with a crackle of crushed VB can down the mouthpiece I pushed the hang-up button. Sounds like a real wet bun fight at home. Boy was I glad to be out in the Simpson!

Righto, there's still more to tell, so I'll see you here next month, same dry channel, same dusty time. Thanks heavens I put the beer fridge up on blocks before I left home, eh?

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