That spirited enthusiasm of the first week was all but forgotten. After another ‘heartbreaking day’ he reached the southern edge of Lake Eyre.
On the plains, where the stones thinned out, Jerome could manage a higher speed, but negotiating gibber-strewn roads demanded great concentration and energy. But Jerome tried to not lose his sense of humour. He once occupied an hour or so trying to work out the musical note made when the tyres flicked aside the loose stones. He found it be a high D. When the stone was not flicked aside and the bicycle bucked hard over it, ‘a low D is emitted — by the rider’. Continuing his musical theme, Jerome recorded that the ‘dominant notes’ of this country were ‘sun, stone, mirage, and sun’.
In the morning he tried to find an easier riding surface by the train line. This, too, proved difficult. The ground immediately next to the line was too soft. But between the tracks themselves it was too rough. In either position, he could hear nothing over the roar of the wind. Although the train only came once every three weeks, Jerome could not help nervously glancing over his shoulder every minute or so.
The chance of being surprised by a train was slim. But riding near the rail line came with other risks. Snakes bred in the foliage that grew alongside, and the rail itself could be an obstacle. Sometimes the two hazards combined. One time, when Jerome lifted his feet from the pedals to avoid a snake that darted across his path, his front wheel struck the rail. He tumbled down a steep embankment, scraping his skin and ripping his clothes. His first thought, though, was for Diamond, which remained near the tracks. He climbed back up the slope to examine his companion. Save for a twisted handlebar, the bike was unscathed. As he was utterly dependent on this bicycle for his safe movement through remote country, it is no surprise that Jerome developed strong feelings for his ride. The journey had been ‘terribly trying on the bicycle; but Diamond is staunch. We are fast friends already; and in the oppressive silence I find myself familiarly addressing the steel-ribbed skeleton with words of comfort and encouragement.’
Feeling a little faint after the crash, Jerome decided to make camp for the night. At daybreak he set off for William Creek. As he was in no rush, he made a detour to a nearby property he had heard about. Experiments with irrigation had transformed the Anna Creek Station into an ‘oasis in the desert’, and Jerome was impressed by the bounty being grown there. He believed the property demonstrated the extraordinary productive potential of the region. Even more impressive for the ravenous cyclist was the decadent spread of locally grown produce that the owner laid out for lunch.
Sufficiently fortified for his onward journey, Jerome again braved the headwinds and stony trails. As he approached Warrina Creek, the already rough track became steadily worse; it was ‘so demonically vile’ that he bucked over the rocks like a cantering horse, Jerome recorded. Once again, he fell well short of his destination and camped near a deserted hut.
Another challenge for the outback rider was the bush fly that breeds in the abundant manure produced by roving stock. Clouds of the sticky menace attacked Jerome’s eyes. As riding the rocky tracks necessitated keeping both hands on the handlebars, he couldn’t even swat them away. By the time he reached Oodnadatta on 20 March, his eyes were swollen and lined with pus-filled sores. He had the dreaded bung-eye. The ailment was awful, but the timing was good. He had arrived at a veritable city in the outback. The remote settlement had two general stores, a butcher’s shop and a blacksmith. It also had a district doctor. Jerome received treatment and spent the next five days resting at the commodious hotel.
Before he left town, the doctor gave him some parting advice: ‘Be careful. Think well before you venture beyond “The Alice”.’ Jerome had heard this before. But the time for thinking had passed. On 25 March he left without hesitation, and pedalled alongside the Overland Telegraph line that would lead him to Port Darwin. That said, riding towards a place called Blood Creek in no way eased his anxiety about the way ahead.
The next few days were the hardest slog of the entire trip. Dry creeks, gibbers and sand — a trifecta of misery. And a bit of snake-dodging added a little ‘spice of excitement’ to the laborious ride.
Approaching Blood Creek, a gibber field got the better of him and bucked him off the bike, twisting his ankle in the process. With no food or drink, he stretched out in the sand under his waterproof oilskin. Here his primitive sleeping arrangements proved a blessing. Heat from his body created a layer of condensation on the underside of the sheet. He got up and ‘greedily licked up, cat-like, all I could of the precious dew’. Luckily, his injuries were minor enough that he managed to cycle and walk 60 kilometres to the creek, where he found contractors at work on the bore.
From here he rode to the telegraph station at Charlotte Waters, just north of the future border between South Australia and the Northern Territory (officially created in 1911). He refilled his containers, but made a fateful decision to press on under the midday sun. An easy-to-follow track did not emerge. He struggled over loose sandhills, shouldering his bike up the steeper dunes. ‘A fierce sun tormented me from above and blistering sand from beneath,’ he later recalled.
Once he ran out of water, he became ‘parched beyond endurance’. So began the crazed search for a well. In the distance he noticed a man-made structure and raced towards it. Alas, it was a fenced-in grave. Was that an omen? ‘It was dangerous to think,’ he told himself. ‘On, on!’ At twilight, he found the well. He threw himself down, and drank, then drank some more. Later he was overcome by stomach cramps but managed to keep the water down. As he lay there recovering, he contemplated how easy it would be to perish after first being driven mad by thirst.
By morning, he felt a little better. The three-hour ride to Crown Point Station went quickly on the well-defined track. After exchanging the usual pleasantries with the manager, Jerome sat down for lunch and ‘ate like a wolf’. His spirits rose once again, and he rode on with fresh zeal.
The days began to blur, one into the other. To get better traction on the soft sand, Jerome tried deflating his tyres a little. Alas, the experiment failed. On some days he did not even get to pedal his bicycle, such was the difficulty of getting over the sandhills.
As he rode in the sweltering conditions, Jerome’s mind was occupied by one thing: water. The longer it took to move between each creek and well, the more obsessed he became. Everything worked against moving fast. But Jerome had come, to some degree, to accept the slowness of outback travel. ‘The wind is mostly in my teeth,’ he reflected, ‘but that is of small consequence now that I am content to creep over these interminable wastes.’
Occasionally, a natural feature jolted him out of his boredom. At Frances Creek, Jerome glimpsed what appeared to be a spire of rock jutting into the sky. He climbed a high hill to get a better look. Chambers’ Pillar rose from the sandhills to the west. He thought it looked like a mighty furnace stack built on top of a hill, a ‘solitary sentinel guarding the heart of a continent’.
Still, Jerome plugged away. Then, without warning, the land changed. The sand dunes and mulga scrub gave way to granite hills and outcrops. He rode through a narrow pass between two long wall-like formations. Looking up, he imagined a volley of native spears whizzing down upon him. He pedalled with more purpose, continuing deeper into rocks and eventually reaching the end of the track. A famous waterhole, he had been told, could be found higher up, so he shouldered his bike and picked his way into the heart of the formation. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. ‘Very weird is this Ooraminna,’ he would later write. ‘It is a citadel of desolation strongly guarded.’ Huge boulders were heaped into fantastic shapes, reminiscent of castles, fortresses and towers. ‘Gaunt and frowning’ they stood, threatening to fall at any moment. Predictably, the ancient rock art he observed failed to move him. Having drunk deeply at the shaded rock pool, he descended, bicycle still on his shoulder, and searched for the ‘pad’ that led north.
Once clear of the soft sand, Jerome rode along a smooth clay flat. Making good time, he wove through dense mulga scrub. Here and there he caught glimpses of the horizon and, through the haze, a line of mountains. Drawing nearer, the line thickened into a ‘mighty wall’ of rock, blocking any further progress north. Upon