Chris Smith

We made our home among the mulga trees that night in a red and sandy spot.  We were greeted by  the woo-ing of the wind through the leaves.

The trees were every twisted shape, short and individual. They looked as though they had been holding a wild party dancing and leaping and then they were suddenly frozen into their rigid poses.  They spoke in a song -like  low moaning tone  which echoed across the sandhills.  Later when  I was tucked up that night the sound of the wind seemed  like the hum of many cars.  A whole super highway of humming trees.

Camping is making a temporary home in a place of choice. Let’s hang the billy  on that branch, the towel over the stump. We weren’t slumming it, we were having a camp oven roast. We prepared a little fire to make coals and reverently placed the roast in the camp oven.

As the night deepened  the fire drew our gaze warming our hearts as it did the hearts of our ancestors. In the pitch black night the stars were vivid and plentiful.  We let the fire trail into coals then watched mesmerized as they gleamed and glittered.

Oh yes I was happy there and next morning watched  the dawn from my bed.