Uluru Dreaming

We start to plan, remembering dirt roads with huge potholes hidden by bulldust. Deep enough to snap and axel. Of tipped over utilities and the smell of spilt beer from a trail of glittering cans littering the red sand beside the track. A time of complete isolation with only the staccato crackle of the CB radio--Red Rover, Red Rover, come in Red Rover--the only form of communication across a windswept landscape dotted with road-kill. Shredded tyres curled like black snakes ready to strike.
The RACV map spread out before us on the kitchen table tells a different story. Black bitumen strides from Melbourne to The Rock. We both have Iphones, Ipads and laptops to ensure constant communication along the way. I wonder if the spirit of adventure we experienced forty years ago will still be there.