Ten hours of driving from Kununarra to Fitzroy crossing. Heat.
Burnt out wrecks on the side of the highways. I’d passed a dozen of them on my way up. They’re fresh.
When they’ve still got their tires and parts.
When they haven’t been set alight.
Where spares don’t come cheap or easy.
When I got to Fitzroy River a thousand thousand grasshoppers took to the air and greeted me by plastering my windscreen with their being. And the dozens of cows running across the road. Cantering into my path in what appeared to be some kind of suicidal death pact agreed upon by the heard.
It was time to camp.
Unpowered site please.
There’s a few grasshoppers out there mate.
No shit buddy.