Homeward bound, I wish I was homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where the music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me...'Homeward Bound', Simon and Garfunkel
The Chichester Ranges reflected in the northern end of the George River
We covered the remaining distance in no time, compared to the hard going through the creeks and spinifex. Apart from a kilometre through the scrub it was all road, and according to some warped tradition of Scott's, we ran the last 50m to the cars, which were a sight for sore eyes.
We packed up the cars while being devoured by a nest of meat ants – big, red ants with a particular craving for meat, dead or alive – and parted company after exchanging addresses, taking photos of us holding the map, and so on. He was a top man, was Scott, and I'm in his debt for providing me with an experience that some tourists would pay serious money for. It would have been worth every penny.
So, that was the walk. I then drove straight to Whim Creek, the nearest civilisation in my direction; it's basically a pub in the middle of nowhere, and I couldn't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. I feasted on beer and burgers, watched the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and wondered at the beauty of it all. A very happy drunk, I was.
