The road north from Boodjamulla National Park was rough, even by the low standards of the Australian outback. In the three weeks since leaving the sealed road in Cooktown, Xavier and I thought we had grown immune to the rough red tracks. That road taught us we were mistaken.
The road’s style straddled the space between the bumpy, wide routes constructed by the mining companies to accommodate their thundering 200-foot-long road-trains and the ramshackle wheel-width 4×4 tracks carved out of the landscape by the repeated passing of Landcruisers. It was corrugated, which usually indicated the presence of mine trains, but wasn’t wide enough to accommodate their spread, and contained a few hairpins that were better navigated by a Landcruiser. The dog, Pepper, expressed her dissatisfaction with the conditions by repeatedly climbing my body towards my head, like a cat scaling a tree, to avoid the harsh sun and jolting bumps. I pulled her bed from the backseat and placed it at my feet to convince her to stop. When that failed, I gave up and allowed her to form a twenty-five-pound scarf around my neck.
Periodic cattle fences impeded our steady process north. At each gate, I made my obligatory jump down from the Landcruiser, dog in tow, pushed the gate open, and closed it behind us. The dust kicked up from the tires coated my skin and hair in a fine, dehydrated red. After a few such dust showers, I craved the questionable cleanliness offered by our pop-up shower tent. Pepper stopped following me in favor of the relative safety of the truck.
Other than those fences, and the occasional cow, utter desolation marked the day. We didn’t cross a single other vehicle. The landscape stood devoid of the usual scrubby bushes and occasional Boab tree. We spotted no kangaroos or dingoes. The customary rest stops populated by two trash cans and a charcoal barbecue disappeared. The bareness of the landscape stood in sharp contrast to the indescribable beauty of Boodjamulla, to the south, and Karumba, to the northeast.
It was too late to question our decision to take this route, so we pressed on.
By the time we reached the charmingly named hamlet of Hell’s Gate (population three), we were ready to be done with the road for the day. It didn’t matter that it was early afternoon, or that the beat-up, dusty oasis in front of us lacked a single blade of grass or tree. For one night, we could suffer in exchange for a shower. I hoped they sold some sort of ice cream bar, because it had been a hot week, and I craved something cold and sweet.
Xavier made his way inside to purchase gas and inquire about camping while I meandered around the pumps tied to Pepper. It felt good to move my legs without receiving a thick coat of dust.
The dog ran out of urine to deposit around the pumps before Xavier returned. This was unusual. Pepper’s bathroom breaks were always slowed by the excessive care she took when she chose the spots with which to grace her secondhand water. I squinted. But the glint of the sun off the roadhouse’s windows blinded me. I secured Pepper to the Landcruiser’s bull bar and walked towards the roadhouse.
The still air inside the station smothered the interior in a mix of heat and gasoline fumes. Xavier faced the counter, behind which stood a man who was flanked on either side by two strapping women. The women possessed the stern faces and straight posture of bodyguards. Xavier jangled his keys with an uncharacteristic nervousness. I developed the vague unease of an unwelcome visitor to a private stare-down match.
The man was short, and slender, with wild eyes and long, unkempt hair that bellied an internal madness. He was the hot weather version of The Shining. Jack Torrance, come to life.
In a vain effort to cut the tension, I asked, “Any chance you have any ice cream bars?”
“Ice cream bars,” Jack said. “I’d give my damn soul just for an ice cream bar.”
“Maybe just the gas,” Xavier said.
I nodded. Trading souls for ice cream in a place called Hell’s Gate was not my idea of a good time either.
“You must be tired. Take a campsite. It’s reeeeaaaal nice.”
The option to spend the night evaporated with Jack’s strange words. We needed to escape from the danger this man posed. Jack didn’t risk ending tonight like his moniker, trapped in a framed photo on the wall, the very image of possession. That ending belonged to us, if we slept in his campground.
“It’s a bit too early for us to stop,” I said, as I looked at my feet to avoid any risk that Jack’s possession would jump from his eyes into mine.
Jack bent over to fish around behind his counter. Xavier and I stepped back under the vigilant gaze of the motionless bodyguards. Jack stood back up and unfurled a long, thin sheet of paper, the end of which disappeared behind the counter.
“Want a sticker? Buy a sticker. Yeah, you want a sticker.” Jack said. His eyes darted around the room. He had two live potential victims in front of him and didn’t want to lose them.
The next gas station was 300 miles further along. We didn’t have enough fuel left to cover that distance. We couldn’t leave until this man sold us enough gas to fill at least one of our two empty tanks.
“That’s ok, just the gas.” Xavier said.
“Want a sticker?” The song of Jack stuck on repeat. His last effort to keep us. “Buy a sticker.” He ran his finger along the top of the strip. The shine of Jack’s eyes matched that of his sweaty forehead.
I shivered.
Xavier’s eyes widened. He didn’t want to buy a sticker, but he did want to escape from Hell’s Gate, from Jack, gassed up and unscathed. Maybe a small peace offering would mollify this isolated beast. “Ok. $120 worth of gas and one sticker.”
Jack bared his teeth and raised his eyebrows, in equal parts pleasure and menace. “A sticker. Which sticker. Oh, a sticker.”
“The one on the bottom.” Xavier slipped his credit card back into his wallet and pulled out six twenties. He wanted to keep his name secret from Jack lest he stalk us.
Jack took his money and tore off a sticker as he continued to mutter about the stickers, another sticker, buy stickers, stay the night, you want to stay the night, the camping’s real nice. He hadn’t given up, but he made change anyway. We pretended not to hear him.
Xavier filled the tank. I threw the cursed sticker that purchased our freedom in the trashcan next to the pump. No mementos required for this visit.
That evening was the only one during which we broke our no driving at night rule. We logged another three hundred miles of rough travel out of Hell’s Gate and only stopped after midnight, when we reached the safety of the gas station in McArthur. We watched the rearview mirror for Jack and his bodyguards the entire drive.
