Charters Towers to Mt. Garnet

Once upon a time, about eight days ago, three bicycle tourists headed north from Charters Towers into the Queensland bush. They each suffered their own form of fatigue, related in some way to long days on the road in kind of rough conditions.  This being the case, and with water sources every 100k, they broke the next sections into reasonable chunks.  42ks here.  75ks. A 43. One 64. A 40. 47. 58. 66. 

They saw many beautiful things during these days:

Blonde winter paddock grasses

Massive four-legged creatures with floppy ears and broad nostrils   

Red winged parrots and puffy white clouds

 They hauled extra liters of water into their bush camping spots for idyllic showers in the afternoon sun.  They chatted with farmers whose land they stayed on. They laughed heartily along with the calls of crows and antics of apostle birds and sulfur crested cockatoos.  

Their moods went up...into peaks of delirious sillies where they practiced their Australian accents, or played cow patty war.

And their moods went down...retreating to the safety of their tents for entire afternoons. One cried tears for home. Another, perhaps the same one,  had an internal tantrum when her tent tried to blow away during setup, again. Another didn't say anything for what felt like an entire day. 

But even when their muscles said, "please! No more!". Even when their rest spots got filled with dust from a parade of turning road trains. Even when the trees offered fake shadow from the blazing sun and the clouds fake rain, to cool their sweaty skin, they carried on. 

Because, you see, there was one catch. Between where they left and where they were going and the eight days in between, there was only one town: Greenvale. 150 people. "Big town!" They'd heard one traveler say. "BIG! With a big shop, oh yeah, plenty of food."  They weren't sure where he'd been traveling or for how long, but they were sure any food that was there would be expensive. 

In Charters Towers, they had arrived at the BIG shop (truly), one hour before it closed for the evening through the next day, Sunday.  In a bit of a frenzy, they bought food for the next day's rest and the four after that prior to Greenvale.  At the time, they'd cursed going into the shop with empty bellies.  Ravenously filling their carts with noodles and cookies, discount yoghurts, veggies, and kiwis.   And again, two days later, when one's panniers barely shut and things were bungee chored to every available space, she joked, "I think I accidentally bought enough food for the whole eight days!"

But accident... not!  Because that one big shop in Greenvale? That town where they had a gas BBQ at the park, and a swimming pool that was disastrously closed in "Winter." Where they hadn't seen a drop of water in months," yet watered one tree and the street for hours and cleaned the "caniveau" out with a power  hose operated by a man in high work boots and short shorts. Well, that one food shop in this town had boxes of cereal  for $8 and canned corn for $3. The vegetables and bread were due in Monday. And it was Thursday so...

they left with a dozen eggs. 

"I think we have just enough (to get to Mt. Garnet, the next town" ) the two said. 

"Oh, I should have plenty," the third said.  "it'll be a lot of couscous and honey, pasta, and quinoa for the last two days, but I have enough."

Yes, the cookies were all eaten , save for five, carefully and painstakenly , for the final days ride.  The carrots and apples long gone. They fried an egg on the last of their bread on the free BBQ and then continued on into the bush. Honeyed couscous is tasty, problem being it does not last long in ones belly.

They were hungry and dreaming of a real shop with real cookies.  Green vegetables.  Flavorful things.  All wishing they'd been able to hide a hidden treat in some pannier, Some crevice. 

And so, this is where the story truly begins.

The three cyclists sat at the covered picnic area of 40 mile scrub national park.  The sun had gone fishing in big pools of grey and hadn't been seen in a whole two days!  They were cold and still hungry and even found little dead worms floating in their tea water.  Discouraged and down, at least one of them started to slunk around. 

A cruel one joked, "must be time for dessert!"  

The slunked one cast up her heavy eyes for a moment then settled them back to the ground.  She knew she had no dessert.  

"Kelsey," one said, "we actually did hide something to have for just now."

She bolted upright. "What?  Really?! How!!  What is it?"

"Yeah, it's in the bag on the bike still..."

"Which pocket?" She skipped to their long red bike. 

"The main one, you won't miss it."

And behold:

Writing prompt: "Luxury beach resort."

That's what all the signs said. Back when I traveled on a busier road. Back where the water was turquoise, clear, or blue.  Something real and swimmable.  Not something only kept in tanks.  Kept locked away in pipes with spickets near signs of: NON POTABLE WATER DO NOT DRINK.

 "Do not drink."  "Do not drink."  

I took a wrong turn or a right one, if you don't believe in wrong. The water hadn't fed the grasses so they weren't turning green. The other people I saw had tans across their faces like the worn leather of their pickup truck seats.  No, there are no bikinis out here.  Just a two lane highway called "the great inland way."  Kangaroo limbs all splayed or mashed or pecked, now resting in some black kite or crow's belly.  Yes, kangaroo limbs instead of beach towels. Road trains instead of surf boards. No houses with sea-view balconies along the road.  No children with ice cream smeared on their faces.  People say "there's nothing out there!" Or "that's sure a long, empty stretch of road."  They are so right.  They are so wrong. Because in nothing is everything. A dozen feathers caught in snags of bristly grasses. Near a million red ants in a patch of red soil. More like sand.  So fine it flies like some sort of signal when you hold up your fingers, rub them together, and watch the dust fade off to another piece of land. 

Because in nothing is everything. The sound of ones own breathing.  Horizon far far, too many kilometers to take in with one seeing.  "Luxury beach resort."  With their food and their special holiday packages.  With their blondes and their jellyfish nets.  With their promises of relaxation and splendor. Well, I am blonde too and the great inland way beat life into me. Cry close to everyday with fatigue, but how can you really explain...

Eagle eyes locked on yours

The empty grace of a repetitive prayer

How can you really explain ...

I don't want no stinkin luxury beach resort. 

Even with the folded white towels. 

Even with the free buffet downstairs. 

I'll take the low groan of cows

And the hiss of a camping stove

And solitude, solitude

Prayer to be saved from, to be returned to, to be saved from, to be returned to

The gift of sweet, sufferable solitude.