SOMETHING IN THE EYRE
The mother of Australia’s salt lakes, Lake Eyre shimmers away on the horizon through infinite stumpy saltbush, a solitary stripe of untainted whiteness that would make a Hollywood dentist salivate.
HOW THIRSTY WOULD YOU have to be before you gave in, before the pitiless outback swelter forced you to lap up salt water like a desperate animal?
Up ahead, a pannier-burdened bicycle lies cumbersomely on its side on the stony track’s shoulder, as if cast away in panic. Further down, a figure kneels over the edge of a slack, shallow creek.
The mother of Australia’s salt lakes, Lake Eyre shimmers away on the horizon through infinite stumpy saltbush, a solitary stripe of untainted whiteness that would make a Hollywood dentist salivate. I edge closer.
“Need anything?” I ask, shaking my drink bottle, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that salt water?”
“Nah, this one’s not too salty!” he says resolutely, from under his fly-net, lips so cracked that a sneeze would blow them clean
