Rick and me at the end of the track
On our last night the sunset had to be seen to be believed. There were pinks and violets and purples and reds, all reflecting off a huge lake, with the strangest cloud formations making the sky look like a poster from the late sixties. It was no coincidence that we slept bloody well that night, and the next day the tramp out to the car was blissfully easy, with well-formed tracks, no mud and no bloody hook grass; it wasn't long before I'd met up with Zed – a welcome sight, I can tell you – dropped Rick off at his bus stop, and hopped into a gorgeously hot shower back at Gunn's Camp, probably one of the most pleasurable moments of a long tramp.
After eight days in the bush – one less than originally planned, but far more challenging and rewarding than originally planned, too – even the rugged and rustic charm of Gunn's Camp, with its fire-fuelled hot water system and friendly sandfly population, was civilised. That night I slept the sleep of the just.
