The mother australian salt lake


The look after of Australia’s brackish lakes, Lake Eyre shimmers gone on the horizon through boundless short saltbush, a lone line of untainted paleness that would designate a Hollywood dentist salivate. I bank closer.

“Need anything?” I ask, shaking my beer bottle, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that salted water?”
“Nah, this one’s not overly salty!” he says resolutely, from under his fly-net, lips subsequently cracked that a sneeze would knock them cleanse off into his knotty, tobacco-stained ashen whiskers.

“There’s every time new dampen around, if you go through where,” he says abruptly, after an uneasily extensive pause. “Mate, I’ve been riding out at this juncture for 25 years!” Wordlessly, he pivots and ghosts hindmost to his bike, as if offended by the enquiries.

I accelerate away, towards William Creek, which he would obtain accepted through I don't know two existence before. His outline dances in the dirty boil fog and slowly dwindles to naught in my shaking rear-view mirror. The image lodges into my consciousness.