Day two got a little more serious, 6 hours 19 minutes in the saddle for 606.1 km exposed a stretch of roadside carnage that beggared belief. The road through Julia Creek and Cloncurry had a roo carcass every 100 metres. Murders of crows draped their pall on bitumen biltong and aeries of eagles dined on bovine beasts that had met the same fate. I let the bike weave it’s way through corpse and carion while feeling the brunt of road trains that threatened to throw me off the tarmac (or some such alliteration).
Mt Isa and its chimney stacks pierced a westerning sky and I thought about pulling up despite knowing the rodeo was on and the place was probably booked out. Sure enough a neon sign announced that van parks were overflowing for the next two days. I secretly thanked the person with the foresight to do that, and save me the laborious process of stopping, pulling off my helmet and wandering around caravan parks. Instead I topped up with fuel and lit out for Camooweal. To my surprise the roadkill evaporated and I let the motor have its head to get me into the pub campground an hour before sunset. That’s as late as I hope to make it and if I had seen one live roo I had made a pact to pull up and camp immediately.
Camooweal pub
No shirt no fuel