With reluctance, Xavier, the dog, and I left the quirky oasis of the Batavia Downs Cattle Station for the farthest reaches of rugged Cape York. Our fascination with the owners of the station and the miners who frequented its rustic bar on their days off had already led us to extend our stay several times. If we wanted to reach the Top of Australia before the wet season arrived, we needed to push on.
The station is located, in terms of Australian distances, near two legendary 4×4 tracks: Frenchman’s and the Old Telegraph, OTT. We turned off the corrugated, unsightly main road in favor of the wilds of the OTT, a route known for its tight squeezes and wild river crossings. The lead Landcruiser in our caravan was another group who camped at Batavian Downs. They planned to tackle a small part of the lower section and continue back to Batavian Downs on a track too rough for our comfort. We would split from them in a couple of hours to continue our adventure north.
Despite the steep sides and rapid flows, we made the first two river crossings without issue. Our new friends marked each success with cheers and beers. Life and its celebrations are different in the rugged parts of the country.
The third crossing marked the start of our problems. Halfway into the river, we heard a sharp ping, after which the Landcruiser spat out a large, thick branch from its undersides as we looked on in silent horror. Xavier pushed the car up the slippery embankment until we were far enough from the river to step out. Brown water poured out of the car’s delicate parts. Xavier opened the hood and stood shoulder to shoulder with one of our new friends to diagnose the problem. It wasn’t long before a few others joined. They came from parts unknown, called by the universal help signal of the outback: an open hood.
Over beers, the gaggle of muddied bush mechanics decided the aggressive stick had knocked off a fan blade, which, on its way out, cut a hole in the radiator. The prescribed fix was a jar of course ground pepper poured into the radiator, followed by an egg, which was cracked over the identified hole. The combination would provide a temporary plug for the hole.
With the pepper applied and egg set, the amateur mechanics stuck their heads back under the hood, or bonnet as they called it, to assess the result of the repair work. They felt certain the egg-pepper concoction was strong enough to slow the loss of fluid so that we could make it to an exit point from the track. From there, we would circle back to Batavia Downs for help. Since everyone in those parts drove Landcruisers, we were certain to find a new radiator within a week.
At first, the culinary radiator repair job held on despite the roughness of the track and the water crossings. We continued our path north, alone, when our new friends split off as planned.
That fix held well until it failed. Xavier recreated it until we ran out of eggs.
At first, we crossed streams and rivers with enough frequency that we could always replenish our ample stock of water before the radiator ran dry. But the further north we made it, the longer the distances became between water sources, until we reached a point where we felt it necessary to consult the map to estimate the time until we reached our next few crossings. It was at this moment we realized the distance between the final river crossing and the corrugated main road was far too long to have any chance of making it. We weren’t stuck yet but would be soon.
Xavier stopped the car on the far side of the final crossing and turned off the engine. If fate destined us to be stuck in the outback, we would be far better off stopped next to a water source. At least this stream ran shallow and clear. Xavier propped the hood open.
We carried plenty of food and camping equipment, but I didn’t relish the prospect of wasting an untold number of nights at an unplanned stop until we managed to hitch a ride out. I hoped for another solution, even though I couldn’t think of one.
I asked, “What do we do now?”
“I’m hungry. We could eat.”
Since we were no longer in a push to reach anywhere, we set ourselves up with an extravagant, slow picnic, complete with table, chairs, and a bottle of wine. Our spread distracted us from our circumstances. After a few glasses of wine, we made light of it. It’s hard to care about the seriousness of any predicament after you’ve drunk too much good wine.
The dog’s snores added a background track to our surreal scene. Then they stopped, and she began to bark.
A truck unlike any we had seen before vaulted out from the bushes, like something from a B-grade action movie. It was a similar size to a Landcruiser, and white, but it was also something else entirely. The closest I came to placing it was as a thirty-plus year old all terrainer, with the back half replaced by a bush mechanic’s version of a taco truck, full of compartments in which I imagined all manner of unidentifiable objects.
The driver of this incredible piece of equipment also possessed the most incredible piece of facial hair. His luscious, bushy beard glowed in the snatches of sunlight that poked through the trees. It waved in the slight breeze. It made him appear both friendly and menacing, fussy, and no-nonsense. If he noticed me noticing his marvelous facial hair, he didn’t let on.
“Problem,” he said. Statement of fact.
He didn’t stop for an answer. He stuck his head under the hood.
Xavier and I exchanged glances. Xavier set down his plastic wine glass and moved around to join our new friend, the bearded mechanic. He told the story of our misfortune, but if the man heard, he didn’t react. He didn’t even acknowledge Xavier’s presence beside him.
The man straightened up, held one finger up as a teacher might to silence a class, then walked back to the side of his rig. He opened one compartment and dug around inside. He spit in his two hands and rubbed them together as he made his way back towards the front of our truck.
The man leaned himself so far forward into our engine block his feet came up off the ground.
Xavier and I exchanged another glance. I thought about the Australian horror film, Wolf Creek, inspired by the brutal murder of three people whose car broke down in the outback. I mouthed “OK?”
Xavier raised his eyebrows, as if to say, and if not, what can we do? The best help we could hope for out there was for our vicious attack spaniel to wake up and lick him to death.
The man extracted himself from our truck and walked back towards his rig.
He said, “Wait ten minutes. Then all good for another 10,000k.” He didn’t even stop to look at us. His Akubra hat shaded the side of his face.
Xavier called out after him. “Do you want a beer or something? How can we thank you?”
The man slammed his doors and drove off as if the question had never reached his ears. And thirty minutes later, so did we. We added a few thousand more miles to our total before we replaced that busted radiator.
