Ripcord Adventure Journal 1.4

Volume 1 | Number 4 | September 2015 

RAJ 1.4

A Letter from the Editor 

Welcome to Ripcord Adventure Journal. 

After only four issues we appear to have been exiled voluntarily to 

beautiful Siberia, a region as vast as it is geographically diverse; from 

the pen of the first woman to cycle across the "new" Russia we 

travel the old stock route across Australia, from well to well and 

from story to story broadening our understanding of this island 

continent. The drive to explore, the reason to adventure is discussed 

before taking us underground to the vaulted caverns and flooded 

passages of the deepest cave system in the Americas to emerge 

suddenly back in to the full light of an Andean stratovolcano 

summit, the nearest point to space on earth that two companions 

can reach, until finally, the long road that this issue takes, brings us 

to the last place in Yemen. 

We aim to be the home of authentic, adventurous travel, which 

serves as a starting point for personal reflection, study and new 

journeys. 

On behalf of the editorial, writing and design team I wish to thank 

our sponsors Redpoint Resolutions (particularly Thomas 

Bochnowski, Ted Muhlner and Martha Marin), the World Explorers 

Bureau USA (Charlotte Baker-Weinert) and the team at 

Adventure.com for their continued support. 

Tim Lavery 

General Editor, Ripcord Adventure Journal 

www.ripcordadventurejournal.com 

www.ripcordtravelprotection.com

Ripcord Adventure Journal © February 2015 by Redpoint 

Resolutions & World Explorers Bureau. All articles and images © 

2015 of the respective Authors and photographers. 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, 

distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including 

photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical 

methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, 

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews 

and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. 

For permission requests, general enquiries or sponsorship 

opportunities, contact the publisher: 

Ripcord Adventure Journal: info@ripcordadventurejournal.com 

Supporting the following Organisation

"The memory of a cave I used to know at 

home was always in my mind, with its 

lofty passages, its silence and solitude, its 

shrouding gloom, its sepulchral echos, its 

flitting lights, and more than all, its 

sudden revelations of branching crevices 

and corridors where we least expected 

them." 

Mark Twain 

"Innocents Abroad"

RIPCORD 

ADVENTURE 

JOURNAL 

1.4 

Editorial Team 

Shane Dallas 

Tim Lavery 

Ami Gigi Alexander 

Terry Sharrer 

Paul Devaney 

Featuring 

Sophie Ibbotson 

Max Lovell-Hoare 

Tor Torkildson 

Robb Saunders 

Kate Leeming 

Bill Steele 

John Lavery 

Jonathan Sterck 

Tim Mackintosh- 

Smith 

Publishers 

Redpoint Resolutions 

& World Explorers 

Bureau 

WWW.RIPCORDADVENTUREJOURNAL.COM

Contents 

Guest Editorial: 

The Long Road to Adventure 

Robb Saunders 

Fifty years of continuous 

exploration 

Bill Steele 

Out there and back 

Kate Leeming 

50 


Self Exile in Siberia 

Sophie Ibbotson & Max Lovell- 

Hoare 

The last place in Yemen 

Tim Mackintosh-Smith 

Book review: Mad, Bad & 

Dangerous to Know 

Book review: The Flying Carpet 

Contributors and credits 

1 

17 

35 

79 

93 

111 

131 

135 

139

The long road 

to adventure 

Robb Saunders 

1

2

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

11am, I was certain that I must have travelled well over ten 

kilometers since I left this morning. There could be no way that I 

had been walking for less than that. There was only one road to 

travel on for the next few days. Its gradient forever changing, like 

the sun trying its utmost to make itself known through the thick 

grey clouds that were sprinkling its watery remnants down upon 

me. Snow too had become more frequent as I made my way along 

the winding, lonesome road. I would stop occasionally to take 

photos of the vast, unpopulated landscape, and one or two selfies of 

myself to hopefully one day prove my adventurous nature to my 

future grandchildren. With the fast paced lives we currently live 

who knows if they will ever see such wonders as this. 

I was becoming concerned by this stage, the road was slowly 

becoming the only terrain for me to travel, and yet was also 

becoming the most dangerous. Bridges were more apparent the 

higher up the mountain I went, they supplied no space for 

pedestrians and thus forced me into the driving lanes. If cars, or 

worse, trucks were to appear whilst on these bridges I would have 

no place to move but hang myself over the railing and hope the 

residual force of the big metal vehicles wouldn’t thrust me off. 

It was then that I decided to try my luck at climbing down into the 

gully and crossing the river below. “How hard could it be?” I 

thought to myself whilst standing on the nice solid road. I stepped 

into the muddy grass and shrubbery laden wilderness, leaving the 

makings of civilization behind. Getting down needed to be carefully 

thought out, and slowly executed. One misstep or wrong grasp at a 

weak hanging tree branch and down the hill like Humpty Dumpty I 

will go. No one knowing I would be down there, most likely 

discovered first by the supposed brown bear I had been told about 

since arriving. 

Everything was wet and slippery. It smelt like moss and petrichor. I 

looked up and quickly realised that the bridge was now high up 

above me. A new feeling of terrified freedom that I have never 

known was both confronting and sensational. In that moment, no 

3

one on this enormous planet knew I was there. I could have held up 

there for weeks and never see a human soul, only to hear them echo 

over the bridge in the distance above. I was however on a schedule 

and needed to make ground quickly as this detour was eating time. 

When I came closer to the river I discovered something, I was stuck. 

In order to continue, I needed to get down to the river bed, the 

obstacle was manmade of vertical concrete. It resembled the walls of 

a dam. I contemplated jumping down but with my heavy 25kg pack 

it would either end badly for myself or worse, my precious 

expensive equipment, hence why I wasn’t going to drop my pack 

down first and try and climb freely. My best shot was a tree I 

spotted in the distance. I figured if I were to fall accurately toward 

the thickest part of the tree, leaving my feet firmly placed on the 

edge I would then be able to parkour style my way down using it as 

support against the concrete wall. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

At this point I could no longer tell if it was sweat or rain on my 

palms. Everything was wet and the sky was on the cusp of pouring. 

I stopped over analyzing my actions and leaned forward over the 

edge, arms out ready for impact. What was I doing here! 

The auction of my apartment didn’t go well, a handful of potential 

buyers and not one made an offer. I wanted to scream I was so 

frustrated. The planning was complete, everything was mapped out, 

and all I needed was the funds to put it into fruition. The funds I 

had hoped to receive from the sale, the sale that had been promised 

to me by the real estate agent, who was losing his credibility by the 

day. 

My body was still stuck in Australia, my mind was already trekking 

the vast landscapes of an unknown world. I had made it, my first 

time traveling alone, my first proper adventure! I could dictate 

everything I wanted to do, and what I wanted to do was walk. My 

goal was to land at the top and walk for three months down this 

ancient landscape. 

I landed on the 17th of May. It was wintery cold and the air was 

4

5



filled by a thick fog. I decided I would spend the weekend 

composing myself before beginning my trek. One, to let everything 

sink in, and two, to spend some time exploring the strangely 

familiar but somewhat different city that I was in. So when I arrived 

at the hotel I decided that instead of recuperating in my room I 

would throw my bags down and head out. To which I discovered 

that the main social hub nearest me was the train station. Over time 

it dawned on me that having a shopping and restaurant district 

intertwined with the railway system was a common occurrence and 

it surprises me that they have not quite picked up on that logical 

enterprise back home. I walked around the restaurant district for 

somewhere to eat and came upon an Irish pub. Mainly out of a 

traveler’s curiosity to see how they portrayed it, I went in and 

ordered a pint and sat at the bar. The smell of tobacco infused with 

cooked meat and stale beer consumed the air. It was dark and had 

the feel of an old establishment even though it was inside a shopping 

mall and could not have been older than ten years. I heard many 

English speaking westerners in the bar. As I had just arrived I had 

no desire to socialize with them. I was also content with being alone 

with my thoughts. 

A little while later the barman approached to inform me that I was 

invited to sit with a group at the nearby table. I turned to see they 

were all women, around my age, enjoying after work refreshments 

and snacks. They waived me over so I kindly obliged. 

“Hello.” I said trying to enunciate as clearly as possible. 

“Hello.” They replied gleefully and as cautiously as possible to not 

embarrass themselves with the foreign tongue. 

I pulled up a chair and sat down. I can only recall one name of the 

women. Seiko, she was strongest at English so she was most curious 

to know my intentions about why I was in her homeland. To which 

I began explaining that I had just arrived this evening and about to 

embark on a three month journey walking south. Once Seiko 

relayed what I said back to her friends they seemed confused, they 

6

could not understand the purpose of such a trip. “Why not take a 

train, a bus, a car or fly to the destinations you want to see?” What 

they didn’t understand and I guess myself at the time was that I had 

not really thought about where I was going to go, the adventure 

itself was the destination. 

The impact was hard, but my hands stayed true, my arms however 

underestimated the added weight and almost failed me. I shimmied 

down and was back on solid ground. The rain was well and truly 

making its presence known but being wet was not a concern I 

carried with me. I traversed the river’s edge looking for a safe and 

shallow way across. There was a line of tall rocks about ankle deep 

that were situated the full length across. I was happy to be able to 

put my new waterproof hiking boots through some proper tests 

during this challenging event. I stepped onto the first rock. The 

water was moving a lot quicker than anticipated but nothing to 

worry myself over. I moved to the next rock. Success! I managed to 

frolic my way across rock to rock like a gazelle, I was becoming so 

proficient that my socks were not yet wet, which, as is Murphy’s 

Law, due to my overconfidence I forgot a key point. It is said that a 

rolling stone gathers no moss. So what do stones that don’t move 

do? It was the last rock, which was above the surface of the water, I 

hopped, skipped and slipped on its mossy face and submerged my 

legs into the water. My perfect game was ruined, it had happened, 

the socks were wet! 



I pulled myself into the river bank and began climbing my way back 

up to the road. I was now on the other side of the bridge. I decided 

after that time consuming endeavor that I would risk it on the next 

bridge and try and make a run for it, but first, I needed to a new pair 

of socks! 

From where I lay, on a hard, sterile and cold bed in the emergency 

department of the Epworth hospital in Melbourne, Australia, my 

outlook didn’t look promising. Everything could be over before it 

began. Unable to sit up, unable to move at all without my spine 

feeling like it was trying to rip itself out of my body, I lay there, the 

7



hospital curtain closed but never enough to give me the privacy I 

needed to quietly sob. In only a few months I was supposed to be 

on an adventure, now it may not happen. 

I had damaged my back that evening. Twenty minutes into starting 

my shift at work. A task I undertake every day, a task that I had 

mentioned many times to my superiors that it is hazardous to do 

alone. You would think something as simple as moving a table 

wouldn’t be difficult, but these are crafted from a thick glass with 

long, solid timber legs. This particular day I moved it and the dam 

leg broke! I instinctively thrust down to catch it before the glass 

broke on the floor, good thing was I caught the glass; the only thing 

that broke was me. I was stuck in a dark, moldy and humid concrete 

store room for twenty minutes before I was discovered, placed into 

a wheelchair and driven to the hospital. In the past I guess we have 

all wished for a small minor injury to get us out of work. This was 

not one of those days. 

The doctor came back in. Gave me some strong painkillers and 

orders to go home and rest for a couple of weeks and check in with 

my doctor. I asked about how it would affect my travel plans... 

It was not good news. 

I decided that camping may not be as fun as everyone makes it out 

to be. Can you still be an adventurer and not like camping? I woke 

up, saturated by the watery dew from the inside of the tent, it must 

have dropped to below 5 degrees Celsius overnight. I had put my 

thermal undergarments and all my other items of clothing on during 

the night to stay warm. I even put my rain jacket on in the hopes of 

staying dry, but the cold weather and the humidity from my body 

heat was causing some extreme indoor climate issues. The sleep I 

had was more broken than I anticipated but I hadn’t been killed by 

the strange noises outside my tent, so that was a plus. I could not 

tell if the sun had risen or if that was just a streetlight shining 

through, the sound of children became more apparent the longer I 

lingered so it must have been morning. How late in the morning 

8

9

10

was answered once I stepped out of the tent and discovered the 

grass I had made camp in last night was actually a baseball field, and 

it was game day. Great! 

Ten days had gone by. My back was straining at every physical 

movement but bearable to walk slowly around the house. The pain 

didn’t want to leave so eagerly like I had hoped. Maybe I’ve 

overestimating myself. By this stage the stabbing sensations were 

hurting my sense of adventure more than my body. “I should be at 

work, I should be planning my trip now!” I had an abundance of 

time at home to plan for the trip, but all I achieved was binge 

watching episodes of Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead and 

eating too much delicious ice cream. My motivational jar was as 

empty as a tip jar at a bank. 



The trip was over before it begun. 

My damn back! Three weeks into my walk and it was all starting to 

trouble me once more. I had some painkillers in my first aid kit with 

the hopes that I would not need them, or at the very least not for 

my back, I had to power through, I trekked close to forty 

kilometers the previous day, back pain will not defeat me! 

Camping in a baseball field for the night wasn’t exactly comfortable 

so the fatigue was setting in. I had walked almost eighteen 

kilometers this morning from where I departed in front of the 

shocked parents and utterly intrigued and excited young baseball 

players. I was only planning on averaging that distance a day, but 

my destination was eighty kilometers away, and I needed to get 

there in 48 hours. 

Having passed the mountainous terrain and with winter now 

winding to a close the sun was taking advantage. I was becoming 

tiresome and hot. I had changed my socks once already and 

bandaged up my blistered feet. I was walking along the coast now 

and the smell of the ocean reminded me of home. Sitting on the 

beach in Australia and digging trenches in the sand for the water to 

11



travel through. Yes I’m an adult. The sand on this beach however 

didn’t feel like home. It felt more solid, like it had been mixed with 

clay. The colour was also a dark brown instead of a breezy yellow. 

The good thing was it definitely made walking easier, and when a 

gust of wind came along the sand wouldn’t give in and fly up to 

attack my eyes like microscopic Hulks. I was making ground 

quickly and forgot myself, due to getting lost in the moment I lost 

the road I was following, which was no longer in sight. 

The human body is a strange and wonderful machine. One minute 

you are struggling with body movement and the next its back up to 

being fully functional. In my case I was back to training, walking 

the two hour stroll home from work every day, only minor soreness 

along the way. The light at the end of the tunnel was becoming 

much larger. All I needed to accomplish now was finding the money 

to make it through. 

Bang! Smash! 

The sound that shot me out of the hotel bed and onto my shaking 

feet. Disorientated, for a second I thought I was still back home in 

my old room, in the apartment I had once owned, the apartment I 

sold to be right here, experiencing this terrifying stuff. 

Crack! Kick! 

I knew dipping into my budget to splurge a little extra cash for a 

hotel room with a fluffy double bed would come back to haunt me, 

I didn’t think it would be literal. A shadowy figure was peering 

under my door from the hotel hallway. Constantly turning the 

locked door handle whilst banging the wood. I stood, frozen in fear 

and confusion. I thought to myself, “I have worked for hotels for 

almost ten years, I have witnessed many strange things during my 

time, and I’ve even had to break into rooms on many occasions”. 

Which made me realize, this isn’t an employee, this is someone 

trying to get into my room, maybe to me, maybe he wants my 

camera, my laptop, my ice cream! In those small minute seconds 

12

that I was frozen, all kinds of terrible thoughts entered my mind. I 

grabbed my pocket knife from the desk and walked over to the 

door. A few more minutes and this person will be inside. In a tone 

of voice so deep it could have been mistaken for James Earl Jones 

these words sprayed out of my mouth… 

“HEY! GET LOST!” 

The shadow was motionless, some silent phrases were said that were 

too soft, and also not English for my ears to decipher. The silence 

became more terrifying than the banging, I was paralyzed once 

more. It felt as though we were staring at one another through the 

solid wooden door. Both motionless, like a game of chicken, 

whoever moved first would lose and the victor would get the 

comfort of the soft warm bed, and my ice cream. As I was awoken 

in the middle of a REM cycle my mind was contemplating all 

possibilities, be it the logical reality or the supernatural. What felt 

like an eternity went by and still no movement, soon frustration was 

beginning to push my fears aside and prepare myself for 

confrontation. I wanted to go to bed, I wanted to sleep, this time I 

needed some Clint Eastwood style vocals. 



“Hey, get out of here asshole!” I said sternly. 

I walked over to the door and began to make door handle noises. I 

knew if that didn’t work the next move would be to open the door 

and hope this person was smaller than me, didn’t have a weapon, 

and didn’t know karate. 

The shadow disappeared from under the door. I heard the sounds of 

footsteps fading in the distance. With my frustration now pounding 

on my ego to go do something about this disturbance, I opened the 

door. The hallway was so brightly lit it took a moment for my eyes 

to adjust. I began to walk towards the elevators where my disturber 

would be waiting when suddenly I realized something. I’m hardly 

clothed, and my hotel key was sitting smugly on the cabinet in my 

room laughing to itself at my stupidity. I hadn’t heard the door close 

13



yet, I ran back to my room at top speed. I could see the gap closing 

between two universes, one with me in my warm, sleep filled 

solitude and the other of me, explaining my embarrassment barely 

clothed to the front desk attendant. 

April 2014, after over six months on the market, my apartment was 

finally sold. It was my ticket out. My Walter Mitty moment. Over 

the next month I quit my job, collected my travel gear and said 

farewells to my loved ones. It was time. 

Time for me to disappear. 

To a distant land over the seas. 

To a land that thrives on respect and honor. A civilization centuries 

old before my country had even been discovered by the British. 

To a land where tradition meets innovation. 

To the land of the rising sun. 

Japan. 

Having spent three months in this wonderful country, my time here 

was near its end. The experience will not leave me any time soon 

and I will be forever grateful to the people I met and who helped me 

along the way. 

Like the kind man at the convenient store who saw me sitting 

outside during one of my many breaks, who had taken it upon 

himself to come outside and bring me a cold bottle of sparkling 

water, asking nothing in return but a smile. 

To the women working at a petrol station who saw me walking late 

one afternoon, noticeably tired. They asked me where I was going 

to which I replied I was looking for a hotel nearby. They asked me 

to wait, they brought me some water and ten minutes later a taxi 

14

arrived for me. Perplexed I looked around to see the women smiling 

and waving. 

To the two fish mongers in the early days of my journey, my body 

still was adjusting to the food, which introduced an issue that 

requires immediate attention in the form of a restroom. As I walked 

into your shop I fell, to which you both helped me to my feet 

without hesitation as to why a strange man was entering. When 

discovering of my predicament you invited me into your home in 

the back, introduced me to your family and let me use your private 

bathroom, no questions asked. Upon leaving you would not accept 

what little currency I had on me at the time, you gave me a cold 

drink and sent me on my way. 

When looking back on my adventure in Japan, from Sapporo to 

Osaka, it won’t be the landmarks, the tourist attractions or the 

landscape that will bring a smile to my face. It will be small 

moments such as these that I will cherish with fond memories. 

15

"As soon as you have crossed your doorstep 

or the county line, into that place where 

the structures, laws, and conventions of 

your upbringing no longer apply, where 

the support and approval (but also the 

disapproval and repression) of your family 

and neighbors are not to be had: then you 

have entered into adventure, a place of 

sorrow, marvels, and regret." 

Michael Chabon 

"Gentlemen of the Road" 

16

50 years of 

continuous 

exploration: 

Sistema Huautla, the 

Deepest Cave in the 

Americas 

Bill Steele 

8 

17

18

In the summer of 1965 three young Texas weekend spelunkers 

drove a low riding car up a newly constructed dirt road in the Sierra 

Mazateca of the northern part of the southern Mexico state of 

Oaxaca. They were seeking caves with the potential to be the 

deepest in the Americas. They had it right. As soon as they got in 

the vicinity of Huautla de Jimenez, they started finding cave 

entrances. 

The next year they returned with ropes and drove to the other side 

of the mountain town of Huautla. Immediately they found two 

large cave entrances in the bottom of deep sinkholes. These are the 

primary entrances of Sistema Huautla, a mega cave system with 20 

entrances, 71.4 km (44 miles) in length, 1,554 m (5,097 feet) in 

depth, making it the deepest known cave in the Western 

Hemisphere, the 8th deepest cave in the world, the longest of the 16 

deepest caves in the world, and what many cavers feel is the greatest 

cave on Earth. 



Fifty years later, over thirty expeditions, seven of them Explorers 

Club flag expeditions, these exploration of these caves has renewed 

momentum. Late March to early May 2015 forty-seven speleologists 

from seven countries: USA, Mexico, Great Britain, Australia, 

Poland, Switzerland, and Romania participated in a six week 

expedition in varying lengths of stay. There was a long list of 

objectives, including exploring unexplored passages by “checking 

out leads” indicated in past underground survey field notes. 

The restarted project exploring and studying the caves of the 

Huautla de Jimenez, Oaxaca, Mexico has been given the name of 

Proyecto Espeleologico Sistema Huautla (Huautla system 

speleological project), or PESH for short. PESH was launched in 

2013 with the objectives of extending the mapped length of the cave 

system from the then 65 km to over 100 km, the depth from the 

current 1,554 m to 1,610 m (a vertical mile, or 5,280 feet), and all the 

while maintaining “full speleology”, meaning studies and papers 

written on the various study disciplines of speleology: geology, 

hydrology, biology, paleontology, archaeology, and exploration 

19

techniques. 



The exploration of the Huautla caves has gone through phases. The 

years 1965-1970 saw several expeditions organized by cavers from 

the USA and Canada, and the establishment of the cave Sotano de 

San Agustin as the deepest cave in the Americas at 600 m in depth. It 

was felt that the cave was fully explored. 

In 1976 a group went to see this cave and check out a “lead” 

indicated on the map published by the Canadians a few years 

before. In caving jargon a “lead” is a possible unexplored passage. A 

lead is indicated on a cave map with broken continuing lines and a 

question mark. Maybe it goes on, and maybe it doesn’t. The reason 

the lead had not been entered eight years before was that it was very 

remote, taking two days of underground travel to get to it, and there 

was a very difficult overhung climb about five meters high. This 

climb was successfully climbed, a passage did indeed continue, and 

since then the cave has been explored from a length of two miles 

then to 44 miles now and the depth is two and a half times deeper. 

After the 1976 expedition there was one expedition after another 

most years until 1994. The 1994 expedition was a major three 

month-long effort that resulted a book being written about it, 

“Beyond the Deep”. The farthest the 1994 expedition reached was a 

deep pool of water at a depth of 1,475 m below the highest point 

reached in the cave system. The pool was extremely remote and 

required not only hundreds of meters of technical rope work, but 

long dives underwater too, with rebreathers and sophisticated scuba 

gear, and camping in the cave beyond the reach of any means of 

communication with the surface. 

Between 1994 and 2007 there were a few scattered expeditions to the 

Huautla caves, but several of those years saw no activity. The 

Huautla cavers were exploring caves elsewhere in Mexico, USA, 

China, Puerto Rico, etc. 

Then came 2013 and the big British-led expedition. Young, very 

20

active, British cave explorers sought logistical information from me 

and others to mount their own expedition to dive in the deep pool, 

called a “sump” in caver parlance, at the bottom of the cave. 

Through the years leading up to this expedition Sistema Huautla 

had been surpassed in depth by a cave not far south of it, on a high 

mountain range separated from the Huautla plateau by a deep 

canyon, and this cave, Sistema Cheve, had a surveyed depth only 

nine meters deeper than Sistema Huautla. 



The Brits had a successful expedition and explored 80 m deep in the 

pool of water, using mixed gases for breathing. Eighty meters was 

the limit what they could do with the gases they were breathing so 

they ended the dive there, with the water-filled passage descending 

at least another 20 meters they could see with powerful underwater 

dive lights. Sistema Huautla was once again the deepest cave in the 

Western Hemisphere at 1,554 m from the highest point humanly 

reached in the cave, to the lowest point humanly reached. That’s the 

way it’s figured in a deep cave. 

Tommy Shifflett from Virginia and I joined the British expedition 

for the last part of it. We had our own 

area to look at, looking for unexplored passages, and found over 

half a kilometer of lovely decorated, unexplored passages after 

doing an aid climb across the top of a shaft. 

Tommy and I talked while we were there together about how much 

we love the caves and the area of Huautla, Oaxaca, and there is 

much remaining to do. So in the airport in Oaxaca, as we waited for 

our respective flights back to the USA, we sketched out a plan for a 

restart of annual expeditions to Sistema Huautla and other caves of 

the area. 

We decided to give our project a new name – in Spanish this time – 

Proyecto Espeleologico Sistema Huautla, and wrote down our 

goals: 

- To explore, survey, and conduct a comprehensive speleological 

21

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

study of the Sistema Huautla area caves. 

- Conduct speleological studies to include exploration and mapping, 

cartography, geology, hydrology, biology, paleontology, 

archaeology, and equipment and technique development. 

- Support Mexican cave scientists in field research. 

- Conduct annual springtime expeditions for ten years 2014-2023. 

- Survey data kept current. 

- Goal of reaching 100 km in length. 

- Goal of reaching 1,610 m in depth, which is 5,280 ft., a vertical 

mile. 

- All results published. 

All of this is easy to say, but to say we’re going to have annual 

expeditions for ten years, it’s very important that the first one be 

successful. The first PESH expedition, in 2014, was successful on 

several fronts. Diplomacy at the state, municipio, and agencia levels 

was for the most part fruitful, with permission granted to go caving 

in the area for three years. One area remains a challenge due to the 

resident Mazatec people’s beliefs in cave spirits and what might 

happen if they are angered by foreigners going in caves no one has 

ever entered. A plan has been formulated to do diplomatic work to 

deal with this issue, but it’s going to take several years to overcome, 

if it’s ever overcome. 

The area to the east of the known passages of Sistema Huautla, was 

an objective, to search for new cave entrances that might descend 

deep and connect with the cave system below. Around 20 new pits 

and caves were explored and mapped, without anything going very 

far or deep. A cave southeast of known passages in the system 

shows promise with strong airflow and the exploration of it will 

continue during the 2016 expedition. 

Oscar Franke, Ph.D., professor of biology, a noted arachnologist 

and scorpion expert and a professor at the National Autonomous 

University of Mexico (UNAM) in Mexico City, joined our 

expeditions in 2014 and 2015 and brought along three graduate 

students each time. They are thrilled that they have collected twelve 

22

new species of cave life, including new species of tarantula, new 

species of harvestmen spiders, and a new species of scorpion in the 

caves. They will return in 2016. 

An important paleontological site was found in a cave as well. In a 

series of large adjoining rooms in a cave we had not visited in over 

30 years, not far from the village where we rent houses, large bones 

were noticed in a talus cone of dirt on the floor. We think there must 

have been an entrance above the bones at one time in the distant 

past. Based on photographs taken with scale and sent to a 

professional paleontologist in Mexico City, he feels that at least one 

of the animals is an extinct Pleistocene ground sloth. A graduate 

student of his joined us for a week this year and plans to return for a 

longer amount of time in 2016 to excavated the 1 ½ m tall cone of 

bones and other ancient surface debris. 

Halfway through the first PESH expedition in 2014, five cavers 

arrived with packs already prepared to go underground and camp in 

the La Grieta section of Sistema Huautla. La Grieta, meaning “the 

crack”, is a significant section of Sistema Huautla. It’s over 700 m in 

depth to where it connects to the system and has tributaries feeding 

into it that were initially explored in 1977, but no one had been back 

to them since then. 

Taking underground backpacks, five cavers went into La Grieta to 

stay underground for nine days. They set up a remote camp and 

explored an upstream tributary initially explored without finding an 

end in 1977. They succeeded in discovering and mapping 1.6 km of 

new passages. This was Kasia Biernacka of Poland, Gilly Elor, 

Corey Hackley, John Harman, and Bill Stone of the USA. Three of 

them camped underground for seven days and two of them for nine. 

Their most significant discovery was a passage extending over 1.5 

km to the north, directly toward the highest topography in the area. 

They turned around in 20 X 20 m borehole passage because they 

were running low on food and battery power for their lights. This 

continuing passage is a major objective for 2016. 

23



The second annual PESH expedition took place from March 23 – 

May 5, 2015 with 47 speleologists and support people from ten 

counties; the United States, Mexico, England, France, Germany, 

Poland, Switzerland, Austria, Romania, and Australia. 

Cavers explored the upstream sump (a sump is a cave passage with 

water to the ceiling (necessitating scuba gear) in Red Ball Canyon at 

the 700 m (2,296 foot) deep Sotano de San Agustin section of 

Sistema Huautla, an area not seen since 1979. On the far side of 

three sumps, 30 m, 30 m, and 5 m long, two cavers, Andreas 

Klocker of Australia, and Zeb Lilly of Virginia in the USA, direct 

aid climbed 180 m (590 feet) vertically beyond it. It continues to go 

up into the unknown and is getting bigger. 

They also discovered a new and potentially extensive new part of 

the La Grieta section of Sistema Huautla. Dubbed Mexiguilla due to 

its similarity with New Mexico’s (USA) Lechuguilla Cave (one of 

the world’s most beautiful caves), the area has the best formations 

yet found in the 44 mile long cave system. 

Besides Sistema Huautla, teams explored and mapped small caves in 

the area in hopes of opening up new sections of Sistema Huautla. 

Progress was also made with public relations efforts to gain access 

to unexplored entrances where local Mazatec Indians believe cave 

spirits reside and fear offending them, resulting in their corn not 

growing well or their children getting sick. At the suggestion of a 

local government official, PESH designed, created, and installed a 

USA National Park visitors’ center quality display in the local 

government building, with 16 excellent photographs as large prints 

informative text in Spanish, and a profile map with scale of the cave 

showing it to be as deep at four Empire State Buildings in New 

York City stacked on top of each other. 

Another focus of the 2015 expedition was underground 

photography. Six excellent cave photographers were part of the 

team: Karis Biernacka of Poland, Liz Rogers of Australia, Dave 

Bunnell, Steve Eginoire, Chris Higgins, and Matt Tomlinson of the 

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25

26

USA. A coffee table book of the best Huautla cave photographs 

through the years is being planned for the future. 

PESH 2016 Expedition 

Planning and preparing for our next expedition is underway in early 

September 2015. The dates are set: basically the month of April with 

a week of preparation in the field prior to that. Preparation in the 

field includes three days of driving from Texas to southern Mexico, 

visiting local government officials and getting permits and 

permissions, renting houses in a small village near the entrance to 

the section of the cave system we will concentrate on, and setting 

the houses up, which means getting the kitchen operating, buying 

groceries, and preparing for twenty more people to arrive in a few 

days. Then it will be four weeks of high energy activity with 

unexpected and usually surprising news reports from underground 

explorations. 



We have a long list of exploration and study objectives for the next 

expedition, but then there is the possibility of the unexpected 

happening. The unexpected happened on the first two PESH 

expeditions, and they both happened late in the expeditions. “The 

unexpected” is something almost unique to cave exploration in these 

modern times. Since satellite photos are not available because caves 

are beneath the earth’s surface, and no technology exists that can 

penetrate thick layers of rock in mountains to see where cave 

passage lie, you literally don’t know until you go, in other words, 

pure exploration is still possible on Earth. The unexpected in cave 

exploration is usually when a surprising discovery is made where 

the geology of the cave as it is understood did not hold true and 

there is an unusual variation in the geologic structure. 

Near the end of the 2014 expedition, on the last day of a seven day 

stay deep in the cave, explorers working from a remote camp, 400 m 

below the surface, broke out into a 20 meter diameter tunnel 

bearing due north. It’s probably been there for five million years, 

but no one had ever reached it before. As much as it pained the team 

27



of five that found it, after exploring ahead a few hundred meters and 

mapping it, they took a photo to show its grandness and turned 

around to head out. That continuing passage is the number one 

objective in 2016. A team of five is already making plans to remain 

deep underground for one month and explore that passage as far as 

they can. 

Two other main objectives are in the same cave and will require 

other teams to camp deep and far in the cave to explore them. One 

was discovered late in the 2015 expedition. Three cavers had gone 

deep into the cave to “winterize it”, meaning pull ropes up shafts as 

they exited the cave, and leave the ropes coiled there where flood 

waters in the coming rainy season would not wash them away or 

damage them. 

Their plan was to camp one night in the remote underground camp, 

using sleeping bags and stoves already staged there for use in 2015, 

and the next day climb out of the cave and pull the fixed ropes up as 

they did. The problem was that one of them got sick once they got 

to the camp. He was going to need a day to recuperate, so the other 

two decided to do some exploring and mapping. They looked at the 

survey notes from the year before and picked a minor “lead”, a side 

passage noted but not yet explored, and decided it was close enough 

to the camp where the sick caver would be left, and they would give 

it a few hours and probably finish it. 

That’s not what happened. As soon as these two got on their hands 

and knees in soft sand in the low passage, they felt a strong breeze 

and smiled at each other. Cavers know, “if it blows, it goes.” 

Barometric exchanges with the changing air pressure on the surface 

cause breezes, sometimes even strong winds in caves, and cavers get 

good at detecting these clues and following them. 

And follow the wind these two did, to a new section with the most 

beautifully decorated passages found in all of the caves in Huautla. 

These two explorers, Gilly Elor and Derek Bristol, marveled at the 

wonderment of perhaps one of the most beautiful places on earth, 

28

or rather inside earth. Derek has done a fair amount of exploring in 

Lechuguilla Cave, New Mexico, said by many to be the most 

beautiful cave known. He thinks the section of Sistema Huautla 

they found that day in late April 2015, is as good. So, in thinking 

hard for a name for it, he coined the name Mexiguilla, combining 

the words Mexico and Lechuguilla. Mexiguilla will be explored, 

mapped, and photographed in 2016. 

Another top objective for 2016 is in this same section of Sistema 

Huautla. It’s over 700 m deep. Seen only once in 1977, there is a 

gigantic dome with a waterfall named Doo Dah Dome. It’s as wide 

and soaring as the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, but much taller. The 

passage followed to get to it is named the Wind Tunnel, there is so 

much wind blowing through it. Doo Dah Dome is of unknown 

height. The lights of today are so much better than they were in 

1977, so perhaps in 2016 explorers will be able to see the top of the 

dome. But then again, maybe not. The plan is to climb it, using 

direct aid, and explore up-trending passages toward the surface, 

possibly as much as 1,000 m (3,300 feet) above. 

Gear and techniques 

A lot has changed gear-wise in the 50 years the caves of Huautla 

have been explored. In 1965 the first cavers wore denim pants and 

jackets and work boots. Their helmets were construction hard hats 

and their headlamps were carbide lights. Every three to five hours 

they had to refuel their carbide lamps. If they got wet, and the 

Huautla caves are wet even in the driest time of the year, their 

cotton pants and jackets sapped their body heat. 

Cavers not shun cotton completely. Synthetic materials make 

underwear warm even when wet. For outerwear nylon or PVC 

coveralls are worn. These are very durable and protect the caver 

from the often sharp walls. For boots most cavers wear lugged 

rubber canyoneering boots. Wet caves soften leather and leather 

boots die off quickly. 

29

A couple of years ago I wrote an article and got it published in a 

cavers’ journal titled “The Light is the Future is Here Now”. In it I 

recalled being miles from the entrance, deep in a cave, as a teenager, 

taking a break, waiting for someone to refuel his carbide lamp 

before it was my turn, and discussing how someday, someday way 

off the distant future, we will have very rugged headlamps with 

different settings to switch from 180 degrees of full periphery light 

to a beam that could reach the bottom of a deep, perhaps 500 foot 

deep shaft, to see if the rope we had just rigged reaches the bottom. 

It will be totally waterproof with batteries that last so long you can 

go on a long, maybe even 20 hour, non-stop caving trip and not 

have to change batteries. We laughed and someone said, “Like I’ll 

live long enough to see that!” I hope that he has. I have. 

I have a top of the line Scurion headlamp. Its Swiss engineered and 

made, very futuristic-looking, and does all of those things. Your 

headlamp is your primary piece of gear in caving. If you are out of 

light, you are stuck or you are borrowing a light. My Scurion is just 

one of four lights I always have with me in a cave. More often than 

not I have loaned a light to someone before I needed a backup light. 

The Scurion has never failed me. 

The ropes the first Huautla cavers had in the 60s were of a laid 

construction, meaning three strands twisted very tightly together, a 

rope named Goldline, which was known and dreaded for spinning 

anytime a caver could not stop the spinning by reaching out to the 

wall. If the rope hung in free space, a caver would spin round and 

round. Sometimes they got motion sick from the spinning. 

Packs were army surplus made of canvas. Canteens were also army 

surplus, or sometimes left over from when the caver was a Boy 

Scout. 

All the early Huautla cavers were male. That was in the 60s. In the 

70s it changed and about a fourth were female. Now it sometimes 

approaches 50%. This is a very welcome development. 

30

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The ropes also changed in the 70s from the laid, twisted 

construction of Goldline rope, to the kernmantle, braided design of 

modern caving ropes, which don’t spin in free fall and don’t stretch. 

They are also very tough and abrasion resistant. 

Over the past twenty years the European technique of rigging 

rebelays, deviations, and using smaller, 9mm ropes has been adopted 

in Mexico and in much of the USA. Rebelays are when a rope is 

anchored on the wall of a shaft so that the rope does not make 

contact with a sharp place on the wall. A deviation is when a sling or 

a runner is used so the rope passes through a carabiner and is held 

away from the wall or sharp edge. 

Rappelling devices are exclusively either a rappel rack, or a bobbintype 

rappelling device, usually a Petzl Stop or Simple. The latter 

type is quicker when passing a rebelay and it has to be taken off the 

rappel rope in mid-shaft. 

Rope ascent is done by a technique called frogging. It’s a sit/stand 

technique, where a Petzl Croll ascending device is attached to a low 

slung seat harness and lifted by a chest harness when a climbing 

caver stands. Once seated they kick their heels back under their 

fanny, slide up an upper mechanical ascender which has a loop for 

their feet, and then stand up and do it again, moving like an 

inchworm. Once learned, it’s quite efficient, and since you are 

standing with both legs at once, it’s possible to haul a fairly heavy 

load as you climb a rope. 

Full speleology 

Speleology is the study of caves. Full speleology means conducting 

studies in all of the sub-disciplines of speleology: geology, 

hydrology, biology, paleontology, and archaeology. Huautla cavers 

even had a psychological study done on them in the mid-90s by a 

NASA researcher. After all, they were going to be in a remote place 

with a small team, no outside stimulus or distractions, doing 

difficult tasks in a risky environment and dependent on technology. 

33

In 2005 (and updated in 2012) the “Encyclopedia of Caves” was 

published in the USA by Elsevier Press. Editors William White and 

David Culver invited Jim Smith and me to co-author a chapter for it 

about Sistema Huautla. We decided to convey in our chapter not 

only a brief history of the exploration, mapping through the years 

and generally how it sizes up with the caves of the world, but we 

also listed the various disciplines of speleology and cited theses 

written and published, papers in journals, and books written about 

the exploration including “Beyond the Deep” by William C. Stone, 

Barbara AmEnde, and Monte Paulsen, and “Huautla: Thirty Years 

in One of the World’s Deepest Caves” by me. 

Adventure 

There is no denying that the exploration of Sistema Huautla has 

been a grand adventure. Sit around a campfire with Huautla cavers 

and the stories pour forth. Two books have been written, countless 

articles in journals, and there is more to come. There are videos on 

You Tube and a movie was even made in the 90's that is on Vimeo 

(Huautla: The Mexican Cave). Portions of it have made to US 

television on NOVA, National Geographic Explorer, and How’d 

They do That? The Brits’ 2013 expedition shot video which is also 

on the web. 

I’m 66 years old. I was “bitten by the bug” to explore caves when I 

was 13. I’ve been in over 2,500 caves in the USA, Mexico, Belize, 

Guatemala, and China, but my masterpiece is Sistema Huautla. I’ve 

been on twenty expeditions there and my 21st is coming up in a few 

months. I think of myself as fortunate, fortunate to be among a 

group of world-class explorers who have hammered away, 

regardless of the difficulties and danger, to be the original explorers 

of what many feel is the greatest cave on Earth. 

34

Out there 

and back 

Kate Leeming 

8 

35

36

A myriad of thoughts flitted through my mind as I devoured Ken’s 

generous breakfast at the Club Hotel in Wiluna. I packed the 

calories in as if it was my last supper. Before leaving, I took the 

opportunity to make a few final calls as this was my last chance for a 

few weeks to speak on a land line. I called Arnaud and also my 

mother, to wish her happy birthday. I would be able to use the 

satellite phone to ‘check in’, but as it was incredibly expensive, I 

planned to make only short calls once a week unless there was an 

emergency. 



Departing from the ‘Welcome to Paradise’ sign, I headed north, 

keen not to lose too much time. The day was already warming up, 

as were my legs which had benefitted from two days off, although 

they had not fully recovered. The dreaded muscle spasms returned, 

and I had no choice but to cycle through the pain. 

The first 38 km was a properly maintained gravel road servicing the 

Kutkabubba Community and Cunyu Station. To reach Well 1 I had 

to turn off the main track 4 km from Wiluna and venture 3 km west 

along a Gunbarrel Highway- like corrugated track, where it was 

impossible to avoid the corrugations on the firm surface. Kerrie and 

her grand-daughter followed, rattling along in their ute (a pickup 

truck), as did Don in his laden 4WD. 

Starting at Well 1 seems obvious, but most drivers, including Don, 

usually leave it out, preferring to head straight for the turn-off from 

the station road near Well 2 to the rough 4WD track. This they 

consider the Canning Stock Route ‘proper’. I felt that Well 1 was an 

important landmark and the most appropriate place for an official 

start. The last of an estimated thirty-one mobs of cattle were driven 

down the Stock Route in 1959. Since then, the condition of the 

watering points has deteriorated and about three-quarters of the 

wells, including Well 1, are now derelict and unfit for use by stock 

let alone humans. Only a handful of wells have been restored to 

supply drinkable water. 

The limited reliable water and food supplies were the main reasons I 

37

needed to travel with a support vehicle. With up to 400 km between 

supplies of good water, it was impossible to carry a week’s needs 

through the heat, especially over deep sand. We could carry 120 

litres or six days’ worth in the vehicle and planned to replenish 

supplies at Wells 15, 26, 33, 46 and 49. The next time we could buy 

food would be at the Kunawarritji Community, 1000 km from 

Wiluna. 

Well 1, sunk to a depth of 45 feet (13.5 metres) according to Snell’s 

journal, was built to supply good water for stock as they were kept 

there for extended periods of time before heading off to market, or 

new pastures if they were more fortunate. I wandered around the 

well and the water tanks, situated by Cockarra 

Creek, which were now in disrepair. The stagnant water which halffilled 

the wooden shaft appeared more like a murky black soup. The 

head of the windmill and the decapitated base of the Southern Cross 

frame lay rusting on the ground nearby, and the two galvanised iron 

water tanks sat empty and decaying on their concrete bases. 

Back on the well-graded road, my bike felt a bit like a racehorse. I 

positively flew over the dirt at more than 20 km an hour. Minus all 

the bags, I slammed into all the road imperfections harder than 

before and my wheels were tossed around at the even slightest 

bump or stone. Perhaps my bike was more like a bucking bronco - 

and this was the good road! Apart from a few essential items, 

everything else was in the vehicle. It almost felt like I was cheating. 

In the single rear pannier I carried my camera, basic tool kit, spare 

tubes, pump, snack food, extra water bottles, map and a two-way 

radio. The plan was that we would meet up for breaks and 

obviously to camp, but most of the time I would be alone, out of 

sight. The two-way radio was an important piece of equipment as 

long as we were within range. For the radio to work we had to be 

within 12 km as the crow flies. It was vital that we tested all our 

equipment and practised communicating on the first day so we 

could work as a team when things became more demanding. 

38

I had to get used to cycling on my own. In general, I quite liked the 

feeling of being free to move at my own pace. Although Greg and I 

were relatively equal in ability, we both had had to compromise. 

Where strength was a major factor - up steep inclines or pushing the 

heavy bikes through deep sand on the Gunbarrel - Greg was 

generally stronger. I was usually better at sustaining a steady pace, 

especially over the longer days. Now it was totally up to me. I had 

to listen to my body and adapt my work rate accordingly. At this 

point it was all positive. I wondered if this would change later on 

when the notoriously soft sand ridges kicked in and I would have to 

rely on self-motivational techniques to keep moving forward. 



It didn’t seem to take long to carve a path through the scrubland to 

the turn- off to the track. We paused for lunch under the valued 

shade of the mulga bushes, the wattle Acacia aneura which had 

provided protection through most of the semi-arid country Greg 

and I had already travelled. The mulga leaves were a valuable source 

of protein for stock while the timber was used by Canning and Snell 

to build some of the wells. I passed pockets of everlasting flowers 

which formed carpets of brilliant yellow with splashes of pink and 

white. 

The track was sign-posted as the Canning Stock Route Heritage 

Trail. Next to this was a warning stating that the track is 

recommended for 4WD vehicles only, that there is no water, fuel or 

services between Wiluna and Halls Creek, a distance of over 1900 

km in length, and that motorists are advised to obtain adequate 

supplies and spares before venturing on this road. No mention of 

bicycles. 

Travelling with a support vehicle proved an utter luxury compared 

with having to carry everything on the bike. Previously Greg and I 

had to make do with sitting on a piece of shadecloth or a log for 

lunch, whereas Don pulled out two folding chairs. In catering for 

the journey, Don’s plan was to carry as much fresh food as would 

keep. He decided to bring a freezer rather than a refrigerator. The 

vehicle could only power one appliance and we could carry more 

39



major food items in a freezer over the four weeks, especially meat, 

which would be important for recovery and maintaining strength 

over the time. I enjoyed the deluxe avocado, tomato and cheese 

sandwiches followed by yoghurt, appreciating the fact that our 

sustenance would soon cease to be so varied and fancy. 

The Canning Stock Route is not an official gazetted road, and 

therefore most of it has never seen a grader. Canning’s original 

survey tabled a tract of land about eight kilometres wide. The broad 

band which connected the fifty-two watering points was wide 

enough to allow stock to graze on the limited vegetation. 

While a few vehicles had made it as far as Well 11 as early as 1929, 

the entire CSR was not conquered by vehicle until as late as 1968. 

Surveyors Russ Wenholz, Dave Chudleigh and Noel Kealley had to 

arrange for three fuel dumps along the way to supply their heavily 

laden Land Rovers. They averaged 75 km a day at 6.5 km per hour, 

covering 2600 km in thirty-four days. It was five years before 

another vehicle traversed the entire route. In 1980, a visitors’ book 

was placed at Well 26 and over one hundred people signed it the 

following year. 

Since then, numbers have steadily increased to at least one thousand 

annually - there may be many more, as some travelers do not 

register their intentions at Wiluna or Halls Creek as they should. 

The tyres of their 4WDs have formed the track, as drivers have 

searched for the best path through the different types of terrain. At 

this point, just before Well 2, the track simplified to merely two 

wheel ruts. Occasionally it diversified into extra options where 

vehicles had searched for alternative routes to avoid becoming 

bogged after rain, which turns the ground to the consistency of 

putty. The first eight kilometres wound through the bush on 

gravelly conglomerate and clay. I made good progress and at that 

stage was planning to reach Well 3 by the end of Day 1. 

Well 2 was in ruins and overshadowed by the newer windmill and 

water tank. We took a few minutes to check it out. Graffiti on the 

40

tank announced that “Jesus is coming - so look busy!” Beyond the 

well and without warning, the protected scrubland petered out into 

a plain of endless sand supporting only sparse vegetation cover. This 

was bad news for me as the track quality disintegrated with it into 

loose sand and corrugations. Any minor straight stretch of about 20 

metres or more would present me with a washboard surface. This 

was smooth on the bends, but speeding vehicles had sprayed sand 

outwards as they accelerated away from the turns and caused ruts 

with soft banks 30-40 cm deep. Had I been carrying a full load as 

before, I would have had to walk sections of the track as the wheels 

would have sunk too far. 



Don appeared quite exasperated when we stopped for a breather. 

He had never known this section of the track to be so rough and cut 

up. I hadn’t imagined that I would have to struggle so much at this 

early stage. There had obviously been an unsustainable number of 

vehicles over the track during the season, many of the drivers 

unaware of the damage they caused by travelling too fast. As the 

track is not maintained in any way, this is not only dangerous, as 

they may not have time to react to unforeseen obstacles or bulldust, 

but it is also the cause of the horrific corrugations which are no 

good for drivers or cyclists. 

Don was worried that the track condition would damage his shock 

absorbers before he reached Halls Creek. The only shock absorbers 

I possessed were the fat tyres I had chosen to combat sand and 

corrugations, and either my knees or backside. Shock absorbers 

would have significantly smoothed my ride on unsealed tracks (they 

are a hindrance on tarmac). They certainly would have been part of 

my equipment had I been solely cycling the Canning Stock Route. 

Here it was only Day 1, and already I was longing for anything that 

would make my task more comfortable. 

Travelling was slower than expected and, due to my late start, I 

realised by mid-afternoon that reaching Well 3 that day was an 

unrealistic goal. I adjusted the target to Tank 2A. In the late 

41



afternoon, just before my destination, I spotted a wild cat 

wandering along the track. Feral cats are responsible for killing 

more native animals than any other vermin, causing great damage to 

many of Australia’s endemic species. Being down-wind of the black 

feline, I was able to creep up to within about 10 metres before the 

animal, which is a larger version of a domestic cat, sensed my 

presence and darted off through the spinifex and bushes. In earlier 

days, pastoralists were unable to keep dogs because large numbers 

of poison baits had been laid to control the fox and dingo 

populations. 

Many chose to keep cats instead, the descendants of which roam 

wild in alarming numbers. Don drove on ahead to start setting up 

camp at Tank 2A. The Granites was the last watering point to be 

constructed by Canning in 1910. The storage tank was blasted out 

of solid granite rock and at one time had a capacity of 40 000 litres. 

Transporting the dynamite had been a task to be handled with kid 

gloves. Reaching the final well with the volatile explosive intact was 

testimony to good management and a little luck. The quietest camel 

drew the short straw (which, if the plan went wrong, could have 

been the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back), and carried 

the dynamite at the tail end of the train. At each camp the explosive 

was placed in a hole in the ground and covered with branches to 

keep it cool. 

After they had finished Tank 2A, the construction team wearily 

returned to Wiluna after two seasons on the job. The Canning Stock 

Route was ready for use, completed at a cost of 22,000 pounds. 

Today, a crumbling stone fence partially protects the water source 

which is now half-caved in. Mosquitoes revelled over the stagnant 

pool as the sun melted into the horizon. We camped a good distance 

away from the water-hole so animals could get to the tank to drink 

overnight. 

Compared with the lightweight model I had been carrying up until 

then, the heavy-duty canvas tent I was to use for the duration of the 

42

43

44

CSR was palatial. Don showed me how to erect it, the single 

extendable pole pushing up the centre so I could actually stand up 

in it. I would have had room to swing that wild cat! The selfinflating 

mattress was also far more luxurious than I was used to. 

Don insisted that very soon I would need all the comfort I could 

get. All these little luxuries, which most would not appreciate as 

much as I did in these circumstances, were to help maintain morale 

further down the track. Dinner was steak, potatoes and fresh salad 

with mini-pavlovas, cream, strawberries and kiwi fruit for sweets. It 

was not going to last, but it was a civilised celebration of our first 

night on the Canning Stock Route. 



Day 2, Friday 24 September 

The Granites to Well4A 

Distance - 100 km 

Daily temperatures were now consistently in the mid-to-high 30s, 

averaging about 37°C (100°Fahrenheit on the old scale). I dragged 

myself away from the comfortable mattress at S.4Sam and pedalled 

off about an hour and a half later. 

I had planned to get away earlier, but being the first morning on the 

road, we hadn’t developed a routine. I never like to be hurried first 

thing in the morning. It always takes time to prepare for the day. 

The plan was to get breakfast organised, pack my personal 

belongings, eat and go, leaving Don to pack up camp, load and 

prepare his vehicle. He could afford to take his time whereas I had a 

sense of urgency to make best use of the daylight, especially in the 

relative cool. Don had remembered the section of track to Well 3 as 

being good quality; this report, together with the solid surface for 

the first four kilo metres through the scrub, buoyed my 

expectations for what was to come. As I moved away from the 

protection of the trees, it was therefore disheartening to find the soft 

plains return and with them a track quality similar to the section 

between Wells 2 and 2A. 

As on the Gunbarrel, occasional ancient sand ridges which had 

45



compacted over thousands of years rose above the plain, providing a 

brief respite. Of the 31 km to Well 3, approximately 21 km were 

bad. My average speed had dropped from about 22 km per hour on 

the maintained gravel road to 13.9 km per hour. While this gives an 

indication of the relative decrease in track standard, it doesn’t, 

however, give an idea of the amount of extra energy used to 

maintain balance and push through the sand. Tank 2A to Well 3 

took two hours and fifteen minutes. 

The benefit of travelling so slowly was that I could identify various 

animal tracks, which became more frequent as I approached Well 3 

and the more productive land around the dry creek bed. Within a 

few kilometres I identified emu, cat, goanna, snake, small lizard and 

various bird tracks. The colourful display of flowers was similarly 

diverse. Large red kangaroos darted in front of me as I approached 

the turn-off to the well. A flock of white cockatoos, twenty- eight 

parrots and pink and grey galahs squawked noisily from their 

perches in the towering river red gums, announcing my presence. 

Well 3 sits beside the banks of Sweeney Creek, named after James 

Sweeney, farrier on John Forrest’s 1874 expedition from Perth to 

Adelaide via a northerly route. Water was drawn from a depth of 23 

feet (about 7 metres) but the well only yielded about 4000 gallons 

(18,000 litres) per day. In 1929, the water quality was classed as 

excellent. 

The well was restored by the Foothills 4WD Club of Western 

Australia, which in 1998 had made two trips to complete its 

refurbishment. The members had done a good job, fixing a pair of 

trapdoors over the top and building a protective fence around the 

shaft. But even after restoration, the quality of the stagnant water 

was questionable and certainly smelt unfit to drink. When I opened 

the lid, I disturbed hundreds of small brown frogs, which normally 

lived on the ledges of the horizontal wooden planks which lined the 

walls. They darted chaotically at the shock of the bright light, many 

belly flopping into the water below. The segmented metal troughing 

had broken and would need some further work if it were to hold 

46

water again. 

About 22 km further east along Sweeney Creek was William Snell’s 

Bridleface Outcamp. Between 1927 and 1938, he leased 123,000 

hectares in the region, now a part of Cunyu Station, south and east 

of Lake Nabberu which I was soon to cross. During this time, 

Wiluna was at its peak, producing 1000 tonnes of gold-bearing ore 

per day and employing over one thousand men to work in the 

mines. Snell would take his cattle from his Bridleface lease to his 

own slaughter-yards just out of Wiluna. There cattle would be 

fattened on mulga for a couple of weeks before reaching his own 

butcher shop in Wiluna. 

I waited at the well for Don as I thought he said he would catch me 

up within a couple of hours. I tried the two-way but there was no 

response. I couldn’t afford to wait any longer or I would have no 

chance of reaching Windich Spring, my intended destination. Clear 

of the tall timber which may have impeded my reception, I 

attempted to call him at repeated intervals. The track followed a 

ruined fence line to White Well and then on to Corners Well; these 

were station wells with plenty of water flowing from their windmill 

bores into large tanks and finally overflowing into adjacent troughs. 

Cattle milled around without a care in the world. I had become 

accustomed to their reaction to me: fixating stares could have been 

either in utter disbelief or just that their minds had drawn a 

complete blank. 

I was beginning to think I should turn back to look for Don. What 

if he had fallen off the roof of his vehicle while loading it? I thought 

I should at least aim to reach Well 3A for lunch and make a decision 

then. We had two satellite phones and an E-PIRB (emergency 

position indicating radio beacon) if required, but all were in the 

4WD. I was feeling vulnerable. At least we were still in station 

country and I could manage to get some sort of help. In another day 

and a half we would be in the Little Sandy Desert where there 

would be no option. 

47

Soon I heard a vehicle approaching from behind. It was not Don, 

but Murray. We had met Murray on Day 1 at the turn-off to the 

CSR_ He was travelling in the opposite direction, heading back to 

Wiluna to refuel and prepare for driving the full length of the track. 

Murray said it was his fault that Don was late as he had spent a 

couple of hours in conversation with him, trying to extract as much 

information about the CSR as he could. He was amazed at what I 

was attempting and would have talked on all day, but time was 

crucial for me and I was keen to get on with it, now that I knew that 

Don was all right. My water was getting low so I was appreciative 

of a top up from Murray. We wished each other luck before he 

motored off ahead of me. 

I reached Well 3A by midday and still no Don. By now I was 

becoming annoyed because he obviously didn’t realise that I had 

been out on my own for nearly five hours and that I might be 

worried by his non-appearance. I also needed water and was more 

than ready for food. 

Well 3A, also called Government Well, was built by Snell to 

supplement the small water yields of Wells 3 and 4. The southern 

end of the CSR was also used to drive sheep on occasions and the 

extra well made this easier. In keeping with his commissioning brief, 

the wells constructed by Snell were smaller in dimension than 

Canning’s originals. Later, when he tried to deepen Well 3A to 

improve the low yielding flow, the water turned salty. The date of 

1929 was written on the inside of one of the galvanised trough 

sections; each of these sections had been transported there balanced 

on the back of a camel. Judging by the state of the disjointed 

segments, the trough had not held water for a very long time. 

As I wandered around the ruins, it was evident that the water was 

certainly fit for wildlife. The presence of desert finches is always a 

sure sign of water. They chirped constantly as they nipped in and 

out of the well through tiny cracks between the termite-eaten 

boards which covered the shaft. Zebra finches are grain-eating birds 

and rely on a constant water supply to metabolise the grains. 

48

The fact that they are present in huge numbers is an indication that 

the season has been good. They mostly live off spinifex seeds and 

breed when water and seeds are plentiful. Birds which rely on 

insects and small animals for sustenance receive sufficient moisture 

from their prey not to have to rely solely on watering points. 

I still couldn’t reach Don on the two-way radio, and was 

considering heading off when I noticed a puncture in my rear wheel. 

Removing the wheel to repair the tube was far less hassle than 

before as I didn’t have to unload all the bags from Desert finches at 

Well 3a, my bike. Just as I was finishing pumping the tyre, I heard 

the vehicle. It was a Government Well great relief. At the same time, 

I was annoyed, but I refrained from losing my temper: we had to 

work as a team and creating avoidable tension would be counterproductive. 

I calmly told Don how I felt about being left for five 

hours when I thought he was going to catch me up after two. He 

needed to understand what was required. I could survive for longer 

periods of time on my own as long as I was prepared with enough 

food and water. It was important we developed clear 

communications before I hit the sand dunes. 



From Well 3A, the track had recently been realigned through 

privately owned Cunyu Station land, missing Well 4, in order to 

minimise track damage. In wet conditions, the section crossing the 

narrowest part of Lake Nabberu becomes impassable. Lake 

Nabberu is a series of salt lakes running east to west for about 45 

km. Canning’s original route crossed the centre, and to make it 

easier to navigate in wet conditions, he laid mulga logs in the mud. 

This became known as the ‘Corduroyed Crossing’. Snell also 

encountered difficulties after eight-and-a-half inches (212 mm) of 

rain in the region and adopted the same technique, building a 

corduroy of logs across the narrowest part of the lake to transport 

the heavy well-drilling plant. 

The realigned track wound a path through the chain of lakes, 

generally running parallel to the Frere Range. The 36 km between 

Well 3a and Snell Pass, which crosses the Frere Range, were a 

49

stunning kaleidoscope of colours and textures. The soft, corrugated 

orange sand of the track was a stark contrast to a mass of purple 

flowers, which must bloom at the mere sniff of moisture in the 

atmosphere. A thick blanket of dry spinifex could have been 

mistaken for a prosperous field of meadow hay, were I still in 

Russia. Thickets of mulga bushes covered the better ground, adding 

a layer of grey-green, while gnarled skeletons of trees became more 

prevalent near the lakes’ shores. We paused at one of the small 

satellite salt lakes. I could only squint at the shimmering, white, 

salty lake bed. Behind the lake was the low backdrop of the ancient 

Frere Range, its red- orange earth emitting a fiery glow, which 

penetrated the sparse vegetation even in the mid-afternoon. 

Don travelled much more closely to me during the afternoon 

session. I handed him my camera, both to encourage him to capture 

a record and to prevent the camera from being shaken to pieces. 

Overcoming an energy-sapping struggle through deep sand around 

the top of the lake, where it was a battle to keep the wheels turning, 

I descended to lake bed level. There the continuously stony surface 

was unavoidable and the constant pounding was particularly hard 

on my forearms. My tendons felt as though they were being shaken 

away from their bony insertions. The painful problem, particularly 

on my left arm, gradually worsened during the course of the 

afternoon to a point where I was struggling to hold on to the 

handlebars. I tried to steer with one hand, alternating left with right 

in order to rest the other for a few seconds. In normal cycling 

conditions, it would be easy to steer with one hand, but out here, 

controlling the bike most of the time required a vice-like grip with 

both hands and intense concentration to navigate the smoothest and 

safest path. 

Day 2 was an unlucky day as far as punctures go. My fourth 

puncture occurred near Pharis Bore at the base of Snell Pass and 24 

km from Windich Spring. Apart from the annoyance factor, it also 

meant losing time. Again I realised that I was going to fall short of 

my planned destination, although not by too much as Well 4A is 

only 7 km away from Windich Spring. 

50

Climbing Snell Pass I was more concerned with avoiding all the 

wash-away gullies than the tame ascent. I made up some time on the 

descent and then over the firm, dry claypans all the way to Kennedy 

Creek. Arriving at Well 4A, my odometer clicked over the 100-km 

mark. I was satisfied with that and wondered whether it would be 

the only time I clocked a century on the CSR. I was concerned at 

the state of my forearms as they were painful even to touch, let 

alone hold on to the handlebars. The muscles, in constant spasm, 

had ceased to work and I had to prise my left hand off the 

handlebars by physically peeling each finger away individually in 

order to release my grip. 



We1l4A is one of the more interesting wells en route, especially in 

relation to my personal family history, and it became a spiritual 

experience for me. Snell built Wells 4A and 4B to break the long 64- 

km gap between Wells 4 and 5. 

Drover Tom Cole had reported losing cattle between the wells due 

to the distance. When Well 4A was built, the region was in flood, 

making its construction more laborious. Snell’s party fashioned the 

trunk of an existing tree, which had naturally grown at an angle, as 

the whip pole. While the remaining woodwork is in ruin, the water 

supply remains good. Inscribed on the whip pole is the date of its 

construction: 30.3.29. 

The process of ‘whipping’ was a method used to raise water from 

the well by camel or horse power. The animal was harnessed by a 

wire rope, the other end of which was attached to a 90-litre canvas 

bucket. The rope passed under a pulley on the ground and then over 

another pulley mounted on the whip pole positioned directly over 

the well. While one stockman walked the animal back and forth, 

raising and lowering the bucket, another stockman would pour the 

water into a chute which led to the trough from which the cattle 

would drink. 

Each animal would drink about 50 litres initially and then return for 

more later on. Given that most herds comprised of between 300 and 

51



800 cattle, the job took many back-breaking hours. This labourintensive 

process would be carried out in shifts by the drovers until 

all the animals were watered and content. Other team members 

would have to control the thirsty beasts so that they didn’t 

stampede the trough in a frenzied rush for water. Even though that 

night I could have been content sleeping on a bed of nails, I was 

really appreciative of my chair, more fresh food and a comfortable 

bed. 

Day 3, Saturday 25 September 

Well 4A to Well 8 


I managed to get away a little earlier this time so I could spend some 

time at Windich Spring, seven kilometres from Well 4A. Windich is 

an old corroboree ground; its native name, ‘Koojeela’, means 

‘permanent water’. John Forrest discovered the spring during his 

1874 expedition and he named it after Tommy Windich, an 

Aboriginal who accompanied him on his three expeditions. Situated 

on Kennedy Creek, the limestone pool can reach about a kilometre 

in length and 10 metres deep and is a haven for wildlife and stock. It 

used to be much deeper, but silted up after heavy cyclonic rains in 

1965. I wandered along the shoreline among the majestic river red 

gums. Protected by steep banks, the still waters provided the 

medium for a perfect mirror image of the surroundings, broken 

occasionally by a bird landing or a puff of wind. I caused a few 

ripples of my own as I took the opportunity to mend a punctured 

tube which I had received enroute to the spring. Mindful of 

yesterday’s experiences and keen to develop a better communication 

system, I radioed to Don that I was on my way. 

As I approached Well 4B, I heard and then spotted a number of 

large red kangaroos darting through the mulga scrub and then an 

emu with three chicks following in single file, fleeing my presence. I 

didn’t bother stopping at the completely ruined Well 4B, and set off 

for Well 5, making good distance through the station scrubland. The 

more curves built into the track, the slower the average speed of the 

52

vehicles, which negates most of the corrugation problems. 

Well 5, 800 metres off the track, was Canning’s deepest well. 

Building it had involved blasting 70 cubic metres of rock weighing 

110 tonnes to a depth of 104 feet (32 metres), and then excavating it 

by hand. The well had been restored four months earlier by Granite 

Peak Station and the Chamberlain Tractor Company. Don managed 

to catch me up as I was leaving so I was able to refill all my bottles 

and have a snack before the nineteen kilometres to Pierre Spring, 

Well 6, and lunch. 



The route to Pierre Spring was not so straightforward. About seven 

kilometres from the Well 5 turn-off I came to the top of a rise with 

vast views. Open plains, with only sparse vegetation cover, stretched 

as far as I could see. Mt Salvado, the Ingebong Hills and a few lesser 

rises broke the monotony. Descending the gravel track to the plain, 

I was surprised to be confronted by my first sand dune, an obstacle 

I hadn’t been expecting this soon. Don had mentioned that the 

ground might go a bit soft but I hadn’t realised it would become flyaway 

beach sand. In the heat of the day it was particularly fluid, 

filling any spaces in my shoes when I was forced to push. A vile 40- 

degree wind gusted from a north-westerly direction, singeing the 

back of my throat. The worst of the sand drifts only lasted about 

three kilometres, and I spent much of that time cursing them, 

worrying about what lay ahead. This experience proved a wake-up 

call; although totally draining, it showed me that I needed to 

improve. Looking down the deepest my attitude to avoid slipping 

into such negativity again, as this only intensified well on the CSR - 

Well No 5 and prolonged the mental torment. 

When John Forrest discovered the spring, the underground steam 

which flows north to Mt Salvado actually presented an unlimited 

water supply at ground level. He named the oasis after another 

Aboriginal helper, Tommy Pierre. Set amid a lone cluster of river 

red gums, Pierre Spring (Well 6) is a popular overnight stop for 

drivers, especially as it supplies high quality water only 3.5 metres 

down. It was one of the first wells to be restored by the Geraldton 

53



4WD Club in 1991, some members of which Greg and I met back 

on the Gunbarrel. With an unsustainable number of campers, 

human waste had started to contaminate the pristine water supply. 

During our lunch stop I was pleased to note a new Enviro-Loo had 

recently been installed, which naturally breaks down human waste 

to nothing. 

On Don’s recommendation we visited Ingebong Hills, five 

kilometres further on. Rare, fading examples of Indigenous art 

adorned the overhangs. Don knew where to look and led me over 

an obstacle course of huge boulders which lay at the base of the 

cliff. As a skilled rock climber, he seemed to negotiate the course 

with ease wearing just a pair of thongs (flip flops) as footwear, 

making me feel comparatively clumsy. The weathering pattern of 

the rock formations was unusual, reminding me of flattened orange 

Mediterranean roof tiles. After climbing through a narrow chasm to 

reach the summit, we were rewarded with sweeping 360-degree 

views. Way below, the CSR track was merely an insignificant pencilline 

scratched through the desert - easy to rub out. 

There were more nasty surprises during the afternoon stint as the 

track at times traversed along the ridges of more small dunes. Long 

stretches also presented me with soft waves of corrugations. I could 

pedal for short sections but it was a fine line between pedaling and 

having to walk. Fortunately, conditions improved by Well 7, the 

shaft of which had caved in. The single track gave birth to a 

multitude of options around the shady well site. It was difficult to 

ascertain which the correct path forward was. I wasn’t keen on 

wasting energy by following a station track in the wrong direction. 

Again I had to adjust my plan slightly, as I had been slowed by the 

extensive sand trap. Well 8 was only eight kilometres short of 

Canning Bore and I was content with that. While Well 8 was 

derelict, there was a windmill bore nearby to supply the station 

cattle. Driving in the tent pegs that night was quite an effort. 

The ground was packed hard, perhaps due to the hooves of 

54

introduced animals. The land has been stocked for many years now 

and cattle spend much of their existence milling around the water 

source. 

Day 4. Sunday 26 September 

Well 8 to lake Aerodrome 


I was gradually refining my morning routine and was on the road 

by 6.45am after my usual huge bowl of muesli and four slices of 

toast and honey. The mornings had lost their chill, a sure sign that 

the season was changing, but at this stage the early hours were a 

comfortable temperature. The first three days on the CSR had been 

personally inspiring, delivering so much variation in scenery, 

wildlife and history. I was eager to see what Day 4 would bring. 



My body took a real pummeling over the next 26 km to Weld 

Spring, Well 9. With its ‘kitty litter’ surface and unrelenting 

corrugations, the track was reminiscent of the Gunbarrel Highway. 

It exacerbated the numbness I had developed in both hands, mostly 

from the excessive vibrations from Day 2. I still made good ground 

as I averaged 15 km per hour. Weld Spring, now a part of the Ward 

family’s Glenayle Station and the last outpost before the Little 

Sandy and Gibson deserts, is one of the most historically important 

wells on the stock route. 

Weld Spring was named in honour of the then governor of Western 

Australia, Aloysius Weld, by John Forrest on his epic journey from 

the Indian Ocean to the Overland Telegraph Line in South 

Australia. Forrest, who later became premier of Western Australia 

and the first Australian-born member of the House of Lords, led 

the expedition party. The group included his brother, Alexander, 

who was second in command, two other white men - James 

Sweeney and James Kennedy - and two Aboriginals, the aforementioned 

Tommy Windich and Tommy Pierre. Some thirty-two 

years before Canning surveyed the region, Forrest recorded and 

named many landmarks between Wells 3 and 9 in honour of his 

55



expedition party members and eminent persons. 

The party discovered the spring on 2 June 1874 and remained there 

for eighteen days. On the afternoon of 13 June they were attacked 

by a group of some 40-60 Aboriginals who swarmed down from the 

hill which overlooks the waterhole, in Forrest’s words, “ ... all 

plumed up and armed with spears and shields”. The men were 

forced to discharge their firearms in defense and at least two 

Aboriginals were wounded. The Aboriginals retreated and the 

following day the Forrest party hurriedly erected a stone hut near 

the water to protect them from a potential shower of spears should 

they be raided again. The explorers were not attacked again and a 

week later moved east into the Gibson Desert. 

Well 9 had the highest yield of all the wells on the CSR at 31000 

gallons (141000 litres) a day, according to Snell’s measurements in 

1929. His reconditioning party set up its base camp not far from the 

remains of John Forrest’s barricade and next to a corkwood tree 

with the initials ‘J F’ blazed into it. They used the camp for the first 

few months as they worked back towards Well 1 before moving 

north. 

Weld Spring also witnessed the final chapter in Snell’s life. In 1938 

he took out his final pastoral lease of 31000 acres (13 000 hectares) 

on Gum Creek just north and west of Weld Spring and including 

Weld Spring itself. During Snell’s time reconditioning the stock 

route, he recorded that there were huge areas of native potatoes, or 

coolyate, in the region, ‘enough’, he said, ‘to feed 300 Aborigines’. 

In memory of this, he called his last lease Coolya, although it was 

officially registered as Bridleface. It was here on 8 November 1942 

that at the age of seventy-two he passed away, in the presence of his 

faithful Aboriginal helper and two dogs. His companion ran all the 

way to Granite Peak Station and poked his head around the 

shearing shed to relay the message to a shed full of shearers. The 

news was eventually passed on to police headquarters. George 

Nicholson, the policeman sent to recover Snell’s body, found his 

remains near a carrara bush, close to his humpy near Weld Spring. 

56

As his body had been part eaten by dogs there was no way of 

determining his cause of death. Nicholson collected Snell’s few 

possessions, which included a single five-pound note, books, saddle 

bags and harness. His cattle were rounded up and sold off. The 

police found several medical books within this collection. Although 

Snell had only received four years of formal education, he had a 

disciplined mind. He was deeply motivated by the joy of learning 

and continued his education throughout his life. 



In his later years, Snell had refused to pay the lease fees on any of 

his Bridleface or Nabberu holdings, maintaining that “The bloody 

Government’s not getting any of my money. I've got my own bank. 

My banks are out here in the bush and when I need money I know 

where to go.” He buried his money and stores in 100-gallon (455- 

litre) tanks underneath the ground. To prevent the Aboriginals from 

finding the tanks, he would run a mob of cattle over the top to wipe 

out all the traces. The Lands Department gave up trying to recover 

its dues, the Accounts Department placing his case in the ‘too hard’ 

basket. I don’t think anyone would get away with such tax evasion 

techniques these days. Nobody has ever found the money buried by 

William Snell in his ‘own bank’. 

It was a privilege to arrive at Weld Spring, rolling in quietly without 

disturbing the animals. The area surrounding the station waters - 

windmill, tanks and trough - was mostly bare ground; where there 

was shade, many cattle lazed around, unfussed by my arrival. Three 

emus appeared from nowhere and seemed content to just wander. I 

couldn’t believe it - usually wild emus would disappear as soon as 

they sensed I was there. I pulled out my camera, and hurriedly fixed 

on my telephoto lens. They kept their distance but continued to 

hover as if checking me out, allowing me to snap away. 

I moved the bike up against the ruined walls of the Forrest fortress 

and had a wander around myself, trying to imagine the historical 

events just described. The hut’s stone walls were originally ten by 

nine feet and seven feet high (approximately 3 metres square and 2 

metres high) and the roof was thatched with boughs. The scene was 

57

58



so tranquil, it was difficult to imagine dozens of Aboriginals 

attacking the campsite from over the nearby hill, hurling spears at 

the explorers as they traded fire in defense. I left the Weld Spring 

site alone. It took Don about four hours to catch up with me. 

Just away from Well 9, the track joined a decent station road, which 

to my amazement had been graded recently. This road passes 

through Glenayle Station and meets the Gunbarrel Highway about 

150 km to the south-east at Niminga Well, 30 km west of Carnegie 

Station. Many drivers use Glenayle’s private roads as a short-cut to 

reach the CSR from the Gunbarrel. The graded station road initially 

made my ride much more comfortable but it didn’t last long, soon 

petering out into the usual4WD track. This was a mess. In widening 

the track for heavy machinery to pass, the grader had driven its 

blade over it once in each direction. Everything apart from mature 

trees had been scraped level, and I had to stop regularly and remove 

uprooted bushes and branches from my path. The two wheel ruts of 

the original track were indefinable, as sand and shrapnel filled the 

depressions. On the positive side, the grader had knocked the tops 

off the corrugations. On the negative side, I was unable to 

determine which parts of the track were solid and which parts 

would give way. It was here that I faced the deepest bulldust I 

encountered for the whole expedition. At my pace I had time to 

distinguish where the depressions were - disguised under the 

‘talcum powder’ dust - but I had no way of telling their depth. The 

dust particles felt cool and wet - they were somewhat refreshing, as 

they ‘splashed’ over my lower legs. Needless to say, dipping into the 

dust wasn’t very good for the working parts of my bike. 

As I rode on, it was a lottery as to what was hidden in the sand. I 

came adrift many times. The most annoying problem, however, was 

running over hidden stumps and branches which resulted in 

punctures. The middle strip between the wheel ruts, which was 

usually covered with small bushes, had been scraped bare. I was 

regularly lured on to the smoother, more solid surface and the 

promise of making up some distance. Giving in to this temptation 

proved a hindrance because by the time I stopped to repair 

59

punctures caused by the spikes of the snapped-off bushes, I lost 

much more time. 

Just before Well 10 I met my second vehicle for the CSR section. 

Two women from Fitzroy Crossing were spending their holiday 

doing the ‘big triangle’: the CSR, Gunbarrel Highway and Tanami 

Track. They were covering my route in reverse in much less time. 

They too had had a long conversation with Murray, who was not 

that far ahead of us at this stage, and had learnt of my attempt. 

Central to their discussion following this encounter was how long 

they thought it would take me to pedal the CSR. Considering their 

own struggle to pass through the sea of sand, their estimate was that 

it would take me at least two months. 



As it turned out, the Peak Drilling Company, which Greg and I had 

encountered on the second last day of the Gunbarrel, was 

responsible for grading the track all the way to where they were 

drilling for nickel- just south of Well 15 - in order to allow their 

heavy machinery access. We estimated the road work was less than 

three weeks old. I explained that, overall, from Well 9 I had made 

better progress than before. The women weren’t so sure that this 

would last when I reached the dunes. 

Well 10 was built at the transition between the dense scrub and 

more barren landscape where mature trees thinned out and the 

vegetation gradually appeared to diffuse into drifting sands. Drovers 

called Well 10 the Lucky Well because it marked the end of the 

worst sand country as they reached pastoral lands. Although it once 

provided good quality water, the well itself, which I investigated 

while waiting for Don to arrive, was not in good shape. The whip 

pole had fallen and the woodwork had rotted with the aid of 

termites. 

I had done nearly 50 km for the day up until Well 10 and it was only 

about 10.30am. Don had warned me that things might start getting a 

bit soft before I reached the next well only 15 km away, but I hadn’t 

mentally prepared for the drastic change of terrain. Suddenly I was 

60



cursing the sands of the Little Sandy 

Desert. It didn’t matter that the dunes weren’t very high as it was 

the loose, bottomless sand which slowed me down. The women 

from Fitzroy Crossing had told me that the grader had made a 

terrible mess of the track and they were right; it had evened out the 

surface by pushing the sand into the wheel tracks. 

Where the grader had missed small sections, it was slightly easier 

because I could find fractionally firmer surfaces to guide my wheels 

over. There may have been corrugations but at least I could get 

some traction, even if it was minimal. I was temporarily relieved to 

reach Goodwin Soak, Well 11. Pushing over the previous eight 

kilometres, especially as the temperature soared, heightened the 

degree of difficulty. The temperature radiating off the sand was 

much hotter. Below my knees my legs were covered in a paste 

formed by the red dust which glued to my sweaty skin. 

Goodwin Soak, positioned on a samphire flat near the edge of 

White Lake, originally had a high yielding water supply drawn from 

just 3.5 metres under the surface. Named after the manager of the 

Western Australian Bank in Wiluna - a particularly important 

position during the time of the gold rush - it didn’t take much to 

flood the shaft and for the water supply to turn salty. The succulent 

samphire bushes had enveloped the woodwork of the well. 

Until 1969, Well 11 was the limit of any vehicle transport from the 

south. In February 1929, seven of Snell’s team of ten men were 

transported to Well 9 in Mr. Green’s motor truck to link up with 

Snell and his advance party. In the same year, Harry Paine and A 

Allsop, surveyors with the WA Department of Lands and Surveys, 

reached Well 11 in two four-cylinder Chevrolets while surveying 

proposed pastoral leases. Robert Falconer (owner of Carnegie 

Station) and his sons frequently drove the route up to Wells 9, 10 or 

11 to meet mobs coming down from Billiluna, their Kimberley 

station. Until 1947, they would bring out fresh supplies in their 

1915 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, using sand mats to negotiate the 

61

small dunes between Wells 10 and 11. 

During World War II, sending cattle by sea south from the 

Kimberley was a great risk, and interest revived in using the CSR as 

a safer route. In late 1941, the Army attempted a reconnaissance in 

four trucks, three with 4WD, from Wiluna to Halls Creek but they 

only made it as far Goodwin Soak because of flooding around 

White Lake. 



In fact, right up until the first successful vehicle traverse of the CSR, 

the humble camel was by far and away the most efficient form of 

transport. Camels were the hardcore beasts, invaluable to Canning, 

Snell and all who chose to live in and develop Australia’s arid 

regions. Everything about the camel physiology is specifically 

adapted to conserve moisture, from the ability to recycle their teardrops 

to the completely dry, pebble-like droppings which are 

expelled at the other end of the animal. A camel can go up to three 

weeks without water if it is trained to do so. It has an immensely 

resilient constitution and can live off vegetation with minimal 

nutritional value, such as spinifex and mulga, Camels can carry a 

load of up to one tonne on level ground and half that when the 

going is soft or more rugged. A camel wagon transport system 

could travel almost anywhere as camels are expert at climbing sand 

ridges - they crawl on their front knees and push with their 

extended back legs. (That is why Giles, on his failed first attempt to 

traverse the Gibson Desert, so ‘ardently longed for a camel’.) 

I arrived at Goodwin Soak to find Don talking to a couple of 

geologists who had been analysing land near Lake Disappointment 

further north. Two cars in one day - the place was becoming 

crowded! They too were annoyed about the state of the graded 

track. They agreed with Don that it completely destroyed the 

character of the CSR and made driving conditions more 

treacherous. Try cycling! 

The track could never be improved by merely pushing a grader 

through sand and the maintenance of any road would be a never- 

62



ending task. Hostile weather conditions and thunderstorms would 

either bury it under sand drifts or wash it all away. 

We used the vehicle and a lone desert oak for shade at our lunch 

break, moving our chairs several times to keep in the shadows as the 

sun tracked slowly west. The desert oak was another signal that we 

were now in sand ridge country; its shelter, though wispy, was 

welcome as it filtered out much of the intensity of the early 

afternoon sun. 

I only managed 22 km in the afternoon session, in about three-anda-half 

hours. It was completely exhausting and I may as well have 

been cycling on dry beach sand. There was no telling what my 

wheels were going to hit next and when I fell off it was difficult to 

restart as getting any grip at all was a challenge. 

I realised I needed to develop a better technique to cope with the 

situation. So I learnt to keep my gear selection low and only use the 

bottom three on the gear block, even if I could see a better section 

ahead. A ‘good patch’ invariably wouldn’t last and I would become 

bogged, unable to restart in the wrong gear. 

Small gears and a fast, even cadence allowed me to more or less 

‘skim’ over the surface, minimising the pressure of each individual 

leg drive and therefore the chance of the back wheel spinning. That 

was the theory, anyway. On the edge of the desert and between two 

salt lakes, the ridges appeared to lie chaotically in random directions 

rather than the more uniform ridges I was expecting. The track 

wriggled around, along and over the ridges - it was like navigating 

an exasperating maze. And this was only the start of the sand: there 

was about 1400 km of the stuff to go. 

We were never going to reach Well 12 by nightfall as I had 

optimistically thought after doing 63 km by lunch. Lake Aerodrome 

was the new target. Another of Snell’s briefs was to locate possible 

sites for air strips every fifty miles (80 km) or so. Given the terrain, 

this was not a practical instruction, as the area had to be about 500 

63

yards by 500 yards (455 metres square) and firm enough for a car to 

travel at 35 miles (56 km) an hour. The only landing ground Snell 

chose and named was Lake Aerodrome. No air strip was 

constructed there, however, because although the lake appeared to 

be suitably level and dry, it was often moist beneath the saltencrusted 

surface. I reached the crest of a large dune at sunset, the 

brilliant white salt lake to the north-west. It was a special sight but 

Don appeared upset. To make the passage for the drilling equipment 

easier, the grader had excavated the top off the ridge as if it were 

making a cutting for a major road, thus reducing the impact of what 

Don remembered as one of his favourite views on the whole stock 

route. But I was happy because we were nearing the end of the day. 



We followed the track a few kilometres further, skirting the edge of 

the lake. Sand had drifted across the clay pan road ... there is always 

a sting in the tail. Eventually we found a narrow strip to set up 

camp: we couldn’t use the lake as it was damp underfoot and, in any 

case, using the lake surface would scar it for many years. 

I took extra time to brush the chain and gears as they had been 

dipped in bulldust. While Don prepared the evening meals most 

nights, I attended to the bike, cleaning off the grit and adding some 

‘dry lube’. No bike is built for the type of constant wear and tear I 

put it through for extended periods. 

Day 5, Monday 27 September 

Lake Aerodrome to Well 15 - 5.7 km 


A deep red sun rose over the lake, rapidly burning away the 

morning clouds. I started off on the track, but found it covered with 

sand spilling from the dunes. I opted instead for the crackling, saltencrusted 

lake, following the tracks of the heavy drilling equipment 

which had already scarred the moist surface. If I hit soft mud, I 

would merely pick up my bike and walk a few metres. When Don 

followed later he rightly stayed on the track, the sand being much 

easier for his vehicle to negotiate. Travelling over the salt would not 

64



only have contributed seriously to indefinite scarring, but also put 

him at risk of getting hopelessly bogged. 

From there I hit the sand ridges head on, reaching Well 12 some 5.5 

km later. The previous day I had virtually run up the dunes with a 

real spring in my step. I would then stride down the slope, mindful 

that I had to move forward at a good pace or the journey would 

take too long. This time I experimented by mounting the saddle and 

pushing off strongly so I could slip my foot into the pedal and ‘surf’ 

with the sand down the dune. As long as I could stay on, it was 

quite effective - even fun. At the base of each slope, however, I 

would encounter a prominent wave of sand caused by vehicles 

overdoing the power for their ascent. Occasionally, the rollercoaster 

was large enough to send me airborne, and I was sometimes 

able to reach speeds of up to 25 km per hour. 

Well 12, the shaft of which had been restored, is set among an 

isolated stand of shady desert oaks. The 500-metre diversion road 

had not been graded, making my approach both rougher and 

slightly faster. There were no secrets or short-cuts to reaching Well 

13 and lunch; it was simply a long, 27-km slog. The terrain sloped 

gently, providing a constant resistance rather than being punctuated 

by regularly spaced sand dunes. I could pedal most of the way, 

although I could barely manage to turn the cogs. My average speed 

was only eight kilometres per hour, an alarmingly low figure that 

was becoming the median speed over the sand-based country. It was 

simply head down and only think about reaching the next well 

rather than how far I still had to go. The best analogy I can come up 

with for the effort required to cycle this bloody ‘sand pit’ is to go 

down to the gym and crank the exercise bike up to maximum 

resistance. 

When you stop pedalling, the wheel stops turning immediately. It is 

impossible to gain any momentum and you are completely 

exhausted after a few minutes. Then try this for eight hours a day 

while also having to keep balance, losing power each time the wheel 

spins out. My arms ached and hands were still numb from gripping 

65

the handlebars. Moving forward took intense concentration. 

Well 13 was another dry, ruined well, two kilometres off the track. 

The surrounding trees, which provided welcome shade for us, 

would have also provided the timber for the construction and 

reconditioning of the well. Snell noted that the surrounding country 

was poor, providing little stock feed. 

The route to Well 14 was more of the same. Focusing on the 10 

metres in front of me gave little opportunity to study my 

surroundings, which were basically sand and spinifex with the 

occasional bush. There was also the odd ‘spear tree’ which has a fine 

white trunk and sparse foliage. I presumed that a denser foliage 

would increase wind resistance, causing the flimsy-looking trunk to 

snap or blow over. 



The springy trunks were prized by Aboriginals for fashioning 

spears as the wood has a high tensile strength and is ideal for making 

these weapons. The shaft of the spear would be further streamlined 

by a process of heating to facilitate the removal of the bark, and 

then straightened by applying pressure with both hands and feet 

while the shaft was stilt supple from the heat. 

Nearer to Well 14, the land quality improved slightly, signalled by 

the presence of a greater diversity of vegetation, including purple 

Sturt Desert Roses beside the track. There was little left of the well 

itself, positioned on a flat between two sand ridges. When Dr W J 

Peasley passed through here in 1977 in search of The Last of the 

Nomads, he found artefacts - numerous pulleys, steel bars and other 

debris - left by early expeditions and from them deduced that Well 

14 must have been used as a depot by either Canning or Snell. 

On a gum tree about 200 metres from the well a blaze indicated that 

one of the renowned drovers, Ben Taylor, had come down the stock 

route and reached the well on 2 July 1939. Near the tree Peasley 

discovered a fragment of a perfume bottle. He recognised the wellknown 

name still visible on the label- it was one that was popular in 

66

the 1930s and 1940s - and postulated that the most likely owner was 

probably Eileen Lanagan. She was the first woman to travel the 

stock route, accompanying her drover husband, George, from 

Biltiluna to Carnegie stations with 800 head of cattle over four-anda-half 

months. Another potential owner could have been a drover 

who was carrying a gift back from the wealthy goldfields or even 

Perth for his lady friend or mother. It would have taken a fair splash 

of perfume to mask the rigours of my toil. 

A storm was imminent and mindful that a downpour could threaten 

our progress by turning any clay-based zones into a quagmire, I 

made a hasty inspection of the ruined well, paused for a snack and 

then pushed on. Well 15, where we planned to replenish our water 

supply, was 25 km away and I had just two hours of daylight left. 

Given the state of the track and my slow pace, there was little 

chance of making the distance, but I was going to get as close as I 

could. 

I seemed to make faster headway after that, partly because the 

graded track improved slightly and partly because I was anxious 

about the thunderstorm brewing in the east. Bolts of forked and 

sheet lightning contrasted spectacularly with the menacing dark 

grey clouds. In the west, the late afternoon sun cast a golden glow 

over the spinifex plains in the foreground. 

Each huge droplet of rain made a separate mark as it was absorbed 

into the parched earth until the spots gradually joined up. Some of 

the moisture evaporated immediately as the raindrops fused with 

the hot sand. I could see the resultant steam rise from the track 

ahead and the atmosphere of this natural sauna filled with scents of 

‘earthen wet hay’ and a hint of eucalyptus. I pushed on - these were 

only a couple of isolated showers on the fringe of the main 

thunderstorm - not minding the warm droplets rinsing the dust off 

my skin. The biggest annoyance was the thin topping of mud that 

stuck hopelessly to my tyres, at times totally caking up my wheels 

and making them impossible to turn. I was forced to stop regularly 

to manually scrape it off. 

67

If I could get enough speed up, the ‘dry’ mud would spin off, 

flicking dollops everywhere. Don and I kept in radio contact. We 

had decided that once I reached a certain point I would stop, load 

my bike on to the vehicle and drive the last few kilometres to Well 

15 so we could set up camp. This would make it more convenient 

for Don when he came to draw the water the following day. The 

next morning he would drive me back to the point I had reached, so 

that I could resume cycling and not break the continuous line of my 

attempt. 



About five kilometres before my intended finish point, the heavens 

really opened. Thunder and lightning closed in and it felt like they 

were chasing me. There was no shelter; I was completely exposed. 

The scale of the scene made me feel insignificant and powerless, 

with no choice but to race for my destination as fast as I could. Up 

until then I had been feeling exhausted from the day’s efforts but the 

adrenaline roused by the situation made me immediately forget this 

and run my body into overdrive. The ground had by now become 

completely saturated and the mud too wet to stick to my tyres. I 

was soaked through to the bone but not too cold as long as I kept 

moving. Don headed back to find me, but by that stage I had found 

a second wind. I continued on an extra three kilo metres further 

than I had planned until the storm subsided. By this stage there was 

barely enough light to see the track, across which I drew a line, 

marking it with a stick and a couple of rocks. 

It felt strange sitting in the vehicle to drive the 5.7 kms to Well 15. 

There was no struggle, the 4WD making light work of any rough 

road. It all felt very cosy. By the same token there was not the same 

sense of achievement or connection with the ground we were 

covering. 

I was pleased with my efforts. I had been on the road from lam to 

6pm, and it had taken nearly nine hours of pedalling and pushing to 

cover 72 km at an average of 8.5 km per hour. Cycling over this type 

of terrain was a totally different league to anything I had done 

before, each pedal stroke taking so much more strength and energy. 

68

69



I could afford to relax slightly because I had planned two ‘half days’ 

and then a full day off in order to visit and appreciate the Calvert 

Range and the Durba Hills. 

Day 6, Tuesday 28 September 

Well 15 to the Calvert Range 


Well 15 was restored in 1998 and Don was accustomed to relying on 

it as a water source. A simple plaque positioned near the well 

marked the death of Joseph Edward Wilkins, who in September 

1936 was speared by natives 24 km east of the well at Boonjinji 

native soak. His remains were recovered and interred in the Wiluna 

cemetery. 

In the morning I was delivered back to where I stopped the 

previous night. The storm had settled the dust and cleared the air. I 

ensured that I started behind the line I had drawn - it would be very 

unsatisfactory to miss even the smallest section of track. I started 

out with less of a sense of urgency than usual, knowing that I only 

had to cover about 50 km to reach the turn-off to the Calvert 

Range. 

After a kilometre, the graded road finished; the heavy vehicle tracks 

peeled off to the east toward the drilling site. With that episode 

complete, I now faced severe corrugations over a fairly flat straight 

stage, which ran more or less parallel with the line of the ridges. 

There was no escape; I could only choose the right or the left wheel 

track. The anatomy of a single wheel track in cross-section would 

show a V, the consistently corrugated sand filling in the shape. No 

matter how hard I tried, I could not prevent my wheels from 

slipping into the centre of the depression, so I was forced to ride 

over the deepest, softest part of the track. 

A few kilometres after passing Don, who was hard at work refilling 

our water containers, the dunes returned at a higher frequency than 

ever before. Eighteen kilometres north of Well 15, I paused at the 

70

wreckage of a small handcart parked under a tree. Murray Rankin’s 

trolley remains as a monument to the first failed attempt to walk the 

CSR in 1974. Rankin returned to achieve his mission two years later, 

making it to Wiluna with one companion after some two-and-a-half 

months on the track. 

Walking is actually a good way of appreciating the CSR; there 

would be no concerns with corrugations or being channelled into 

the softest part of the track. It would be more efficient to march 

through the sand than pedal two narrow wheels. I could only move 

about 25 per cent faster on average over the sand than walkers do, 

and cycling requires far more energy. Parking my bike near Murray 

Rankin’s trolley, I explored the diverse vegetation between the 

dunes. There were spectacular white grevilleas, yellow flowering 

acacias, fine powder-blue pincushions, and all sorts of desert plants 

with delicate foliage which I couldn’t identify. The view at lunch 

resembled the yellow plains Greg and I travelled through along the 

Gunbarrel Highway. 



Back on the track, I spotted all sorts of lizards between Wells 15 and 

16. Larger goannas and monitors lay across the route, basking in the 

heat and unthreatened by my presence. By contrast, little dragon 

and ‘tartar’ lizards darted in and out of the spinifex, playing 

‘chicken’ with deftly timed late runs in front of my advancing 

wheels. I clocked these tiny creatures scurrying in short bursts at 

about twenty kilometres an hour, the ‘tartar’ appearing to stop and 

wave, hence their name. Thorny devils were also abundant, 

although slightly less numerous at the end of a busy season of 

passing 4WDs as drivers would rarely see them and the devils were 

unable to react to oncoming vehicles. 

I stopped a few times and carried my bike around so as not to 

disturb them. I saw a number of squashed devils on the track in this 

section, their little bodies ironed out with four legs pointing 

outwards in a star position. Riding 50 km normally wouldn’t be a 

big deal but the conditions and terrain prolonged my struggle 

through the heat of the day until about 3pm. Camels made my path 

71



more arduous - they prefer to use the clear track where possible 

rather than stepping through the spinifex, and in doing so, churn up 

the surface. Camel tracks, especially near the turn-off to Well 16, 

prevented me from surfing down the sand ridges. 

At the junction with the Calvert Range track, we secured the bike to 

the roof of the Land Cruiser and I put my feet up as Don drove the 

40-km diversion off the stock route to the Calvert Range. It was a 

bonus to take advantage of the vehicle and make the most of a rest 

break. The ranges were named by Lawrence Wells after the sponsor 

of the 1896 Calvert Scientific Exploring Expedition which Wells led. 

Albert Calvert financed the fateful expedition from Geraldton to the 

Kimberley to search for minerals, find a stock route and carry out a 

scientific survey. 

Important Aboriginal painting and engraving sites located within 

gorges of the Calvert Range have raised new prospects for 

understanding both the nature and deep antiquity of Aboriginal 

peoples’ occupation of the Western Desert. The weathering 

sandstone range has probably acted as a meeting place for 

Indigenous people for tens of thousands of years. One of the most 

interesting carvings to be found at the Calvert Range is a depiction 

of a thylacine (Tasmanian tiger) dated at 26000 years old. The 

thylacine has been extinct on the mainland for 4000 years. 

The major point of interest enroute was the now-defunct Sunday 

Well. In 1906, during Canning’s survey, the party had become 

desperate for water. An Aboriginal guide pointed them towards a 

native soak and they started digging. Working by candlelight, they 

struck water at 2am the following morning after sinking a shaft 

three metres deep. As it was a Sunday, Canning named the well 

Sunday Well. 

Even though the track was far superior to the quality of the CSR 

due to the less frequent traffic, a vehicle can only average about 25 

km per hour in the high dune country. Between the sand ridges, it 

was more reminiscent of the Canning of five years back when Don 

72

first travelled it. The journey took about two hours (with a couple 

of photo stops) and as we arrived at the table-topped range, the late 

afternoon sun lent the sandstone a spectacular deep red glow. I 

climbed the boulders to gain a private vantage point from which to 

enjoy the sunset. 

Day 7, Wednesday 29 September 

Calvert Range to Durba Spring 




I awoke next morning to find myself in the middle of a natural 

amphitheatre of rust-coloured rock and majestic ghost gums. Flies, 

which become active with the first morning rays, buzzed 

menacingly outside the sanctuary of my tent, ready to cause 

maximum annoyance as soon as I unzipped the door. It was 

incentive enough to prolong my lie-in for a few more minutes. I 

soon got going, however, as I was keen to explore the rocky ravines 

before the worst of the heat. 

Don led me south around the base of the range for a 20-minute 

walk, before following a dry creek bed up into a gorge which 

housed a high concentration of Indigenous artwork. He left me to 

it. I trod as tentatively as a thorny devil over the rocks, fully 

expecting at any moment to accost a snake out sunning itself, 

drawing energy from the rocks. I had no desire to disturb anything. 

Judging by the diverse collection of paintings and petroglyphs, the 

rocks have witnessed thousands of years of Indigenous habitation. 

A dingo, serpents, kangaroos, various animals, shields and 

corroboree pictures adorn the rock faces. Pictures exposed to 

constant sunlight and the erosive elements have generally faded 

away but those protected beneath overhangs, in crevasses and caves 

have retained their definition and colour intensity. In the shade of a 

gallery overhang I saw a well-used stone ‘work bench’ complete 

with depressions and smooth grinding stones, an ancient version of 

a mortar and pestle which was used to grind and mix painting 

materials. To maximise the longevity of the paintings, the ochre 

73



pigments would be combined with emu fat or witchetty grub as a 

base. The predominant colours were red and white with the 

occasional use of yellow ochres. 

On our return journey, I noted how skilled Don was as a driver. He 

was patient over the rough track, always mindful of the style of 

driving required to preserve both the condition of the track and his 

vehicle. Traversing each dune involved gauging just the right 

amount of power at the base so it would barely carry the vehicle 

over the crest. Many approaches required a run up but on some 

occasions we didn’t have enough power to reach the top of the 

ridge, so Don had to reverse back down the slope for a second 

attempt. Too much power, on the other hand, caused the formation 

of the large waves at the base of the dunes, dangerous for drivers 

and for me on the descents. Since the start of the sand ridge country 

Don had reduced his tyre pressure (as had I on my bike) to allow 

for maximum traction over the sand. 

Stepping out of the vehicle to prepare to set off from the Calvert 

Range turn- off at the southern end of the Durba Hills was like 

entering a furnace, the harsh conditions seeming even more extreme 

after I had been taking it easy in the 4WD. As I headed off, Don 

reassured me that the 30-km ride to Durba Spring on the north-east 

side of the range would be mostly rocky. Rocks may be difficult for 

drivers, but I had been longing for a rocky surface over the last few 

days; anything solid was welcome. 

The first five kilo metres were sandy and slow going, but after that 

conditions improved, a combination of rocks and sand drifts. 

Canning’s Cairn, a two-metre pile of stones set on the southwestern 

spur of the Durba Hills, was erected on his first survey 

expedition in 1906. I hadn’t realised there was an easier route as I 

scrambled up the edge of the 62-metre cliff to get a closer look at 

the historic trig point. Snell had christened these hills The Rockies. 

The sweeping views were spectacular, but their small scale and the 

nature of their beauty is in stark contrast with their American 

namesake. To the north and west were endless waves of sand ridges, 

74

apart from the lone Diebel Hills. 

To the east and south lay the crumbling cliffs of the Durbas, pockets 

of green near to the base of the range indicating areas that were 

watered by run- off from the slopes. I crossed a couple of dry 

ephemeral creeks and was surprised to find a patch of flowering 

Sturt Desert Peas. I had expected to see more of these beautiful 

native plants during the expedition, but this was the only wild spray 

I saw the whole way. On the way to our campsite, Don stopped to 

collect firewood, mainly needed to burn our rubbish; the idea was 

to reduce our refuse down to very little and dispose of any residue 

such as cans later on. My last few kilometres became a drawn-out 

affair as I hit impossible sections of sand washed off from the slopes. 

It was a race to reach my destination before the steadily encroaching 

darkness. Landing fair on top of a large hummock of spinifex 

virtually in slow motion had me cursing out loud. I couldn’t waste 

time picking out the spines - they had to wait until I arrived at last 

light. 



Crossing over a dry stony creek, I could just make out the stunning 

campsite, considered by many to be one of Australia’s finest natural 

venues. The oasis, with its clear running spring water, huge white 

gum trees up to 24 metres high and luxuriant permanent couchgrass 

cover, had been a popular camping place for drovers during 

the heyday of the stock route. A few date palms thrived beside the 

permanent water, most likely grown from seeds left by the Afghan 

cameleers who accompanied the drovers. The site was also an 

important meeting place for the Aboriginal people who recorded 

their presence and indicated the site’s spiritual significance on the 

sandstone walls. When Canning’s party came through in 1906, they 

found a large cache of spears and, concerned for their safety, 

confiscated them. The high cliffs flanking the mouth of the gorge 

would have made a perfect vantage point for an attack. 

During the dry season, the site is rarely free of campers as they 

usually plan to spend a rest day after a week out from Wiluna. I too 

had taken a week to cycle there from Wiluna and was physically 

75

exhausted, but very satisfied with my achievement. At the first 

opportunity I used the satellite phone to call Arnaud and ‘check in’. 

I felt so far away with so far to go. 

76

77

78

50 


8 

79

80

50. 

Doesn’t look much in print does it? 

A good cricket score, a nice denomination note to have in your back 

pocket but when it comes to years it is a watershed birthday. 

No longer can you pretend to still be young and it is time to think 

of some things that you want to do, and well, get a wiggle on! 



So I decided to attempt something a bit special for my fiftieth year 

and to travel and climb as near to the stars as it is possible to get on 

Earth. “Oh, here we go, another Everest story” I hear you mutter, 

well, no actually. Everest is the highest mountain above sea level but 

not only is it beyond my experience, ability and budget it is not the 

spot for a bit of stargrazing due to the planet being more orange 

shaped than spherical and that distinction goes to a far lesser known 

extinct volcano in Ecuador called Chimborazo. 

Around the Millennium I spent three months travelling in Ecuador 

and quickly grew to love the country that has Jungles, mountains, 

rainforest, cloud forest, beaches, colonial towns and friendly people 

wherever you go on or off the beaten track. It was whilst on a long 

swaying bus journey that I noticed the guide–book-little-knownfact 

about the peak of Chimborazo being 7000ft further into space 

than Everest and the seed was planted that would take many years 

and a half century birthday to germinate. 

Naturally this adventure would need a companion and I contacted 

an old friend Mike who I had shared accommodation and climbing 

with in Switzerland and with his greater experience in mountaincraft 

I was relieved at his enthusiasm to join me and the planning 

began. 

Chimborazo (6,268m 20,564ft) is best climbed in certain months to 

avoid bad weather and we chose December and a visit of three 

weeks to allow for acclimatisation, firstly in the foothills around 

81

Ecuador’s capital city Quito. Quito itself is the highest 

constitutional capital city in the world and the first day or two 

wandering the streets and sightseeing made us realise that our sea 

level lungs would need some work. 

The easiest way to improve is hiking and the teleferico (cable car) 

takes you up to just over 4,000m looking down on sprawling Quito 

and we spent many days exploring from the top station to a nearby 

peak, (Rucu Pichincha 4698m) munching on oreo biscuits and 

repeating steep sections to tone muscles and allow the lungs to get 

used to extracting oxygen from the thin air. 

After ten or so days we realised we needed more altitude and a 

break from the constant noise of a capital city, not least the regular 

triggering of a car alarm virtually outside our window at night that 

cycled through a variety of sirens before silencing. We took a couple 

of buses to a small hostel not far from Chimborazo itself. 

Taking a bus in Ecuador is an adventure where you trust your life to 

a driver who will care for it considerably less than you do: 

overtaking while approaching a corner and racing a rival bus 

company to the next stop and scooping up the passengers are 

common place. Night-time bus journeys are best avoided altogether, 

you won’t see the scenery and you will pass many recently 

happened accidents, sometimes involving a coach chillingly similar 

to the one you are on. 

We were left at the side of the highway in Urbina and walked a 

dusty track fringed with cattle and alpacas to a rustic hotel run by 

the charismatic Rodrigo Donoso. From here we could hike higher 

than before and judge weather conditions locally for the climb itself. 

Most evenings Rodrigo would join us and recount his past 

adventures such as finding a crashed civilian airliner before the army 

who were also searching for it or locating one of the camps used by 

Edward Whymper, the Englishman who made the first ascent of 

Chimborazo in 1880. 

82

This was supposed to be a good month for weather but we were 

suffering daily rainfall which would only mean fresh snow on the 

mountain, not good for our ascent. Contact with the hut wardens 

revealed no one climbing, strong winds and avalanche danger. 

Back to the hiking routine wandering the low hills around the 

mountain base daily improving acclimatisation and enjoying the 

barren yet beautiful countryside although in the back of our minds 

was the thought that we did not have the luxury of waiting too long 

for a break in the weather as return flights were a fixed date on the 

near horizon. We also discussed climbing some of the other 

mountains more frequented and more picturesque than our goal: 

Cotopaxi an active volcano and Cayambe are popular destinations. 

However we were after the nearest the sun “grail” and decided to 

wait near Chimborazo for the weather to improve, we also knew 

that we would need all our reserves of energy and strength to 

summit and they may be depleted by a high climb on another 

mountain beforehand. 



Finally we were rewarded, the weather cleared and as we had 

planned, the moon was nearing full, which would be helpful for a 

climb that starts before midnight. Gear was checked, a guide 

booked and transport arranged. A Jeep took us from our hostel to 

the Carrel refuge at 4,800m. Here we had some lunch and walked to 

the higher and last refuge the “Wymper hut” at 5,000m, the walk is 

short, under an hour but you feel the effect of height taking small 

measured steps and keeping a consistent pace. When we visited (Dec 

2011) the hut was basic with no power, and despite having a big 

hearth there was no wood for fires, since then it has been 

refurbished. 

We made ourselves comfortable and the guide pointed out our route 

up the South West flank, similar to the route Whymper chose 131 

years previously. The departure time would allow us to be returning 

before the sun warmed and melted ice that released dangerous rockfalls 

from El Castillo, I understand now that the route has been 

changed away from El Castillo due to more frequent cascades of 

83

ocks. 



Killing time we chatted to the only other climber there, a confident 

young German traveller with his guide who rattled off the list of 

mountains he had climbed in Ecuador and was visibly scathing of 

our lack of local practice in attempting Chimborazo without doing 

the groundwork first. Furthermore he informed us that it was a 

German who first climbed the mountain, which was, well, 

awkward, especially as we were sitting in Whympers hut! 

Supper arrived to allow us to change the subject and at around six 

we were despatched to the upstairs dormitories to get some sleep 

before beginning the climb later that evening. As mentioned, the hut 

was shabby then, un-insulated and probably the same temperature 

as outside which had plummeted since the sun had set. I dressed in 

every bit of clothing I had and got into a sleeping bag that was more 

suitable for a summer festival, plugged in an ipod and imagined 

some refreshing sleep. It didn’t come. Never in my life have I felt so 

cold, deep down core cold. The music tracks came and went and my 

watch seemed to be going backwards, so slowly were the frozen 

minutes passing, this wasn’t the preparation to a long haul climb 

that we wanted but finally there was a tap on the doorframe (there 

wasn’t a door, probably some hypothermic mountaineer had burnt 

it!) The movement of getting ready fought off some of the chill and 

we were soon outside crunching in the ice and snow and setting off 

from the refuge. 

For the first hour or so the climb was steady, the snow hard enough 

that we walked on top of it rather than through it and the head 

torches were redundant thanks to the moon and reflected light from 

the snow. We meandered up a hill onto a ridge and paused to eat 

some energy bars, no sign of our German friend from the night 

before, he would be starting later. The air was still, with some stars 

showing amongst scurrying clouds. Now we roped up, fixed 

crampons and set out to cross a saddle that would take us to the 

base of the mountain itself. We crossed some exposed rocks, almost 

immediately on leaving the saddle the wind started and grew in 

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intensity in a moment. Hats on, helmets, hoods up, clear goggles for 

the icy shards whipped up by the winds that at this altitude were 

crossing the earth unimpeded. 

The benign conditions of a moment ago were gone and from here 

your respect for the mountain was immediate. The snow was now 

knee deep with a crust that sometimes supported your weight and 

sometimes didn’t, slowing progress and requiring frustrating effort 

to release a trapped foot. The incline had increased dramatically and 

a fall here would sweep you down the slope and over a cliff edge to 

a sheer drop, the banter stopped as we concentrated on breathing 

deeply, placing the crampons carefully so as not to tread on the rope 

(at best a mountaineering faux pas, at worst piercing the rope so it 

would fail if stressed) and swapping the ice axe to the downhill 

gloved hand as we zig-zagged to be able to self-arrest if needed. 



With the wind chill and the low temperatures, our faces were cold 

but bodies warm thanks to the huge exertion needed to continue 

our momentum forwards up a slope that appeared as if we were 

making no head way upon, sometimes at up to 60 degrees 

inclination. The hours passed, it had become lighter but was 

overcast, the wind still howled and now the snow was fresher and 

more powdery sometimes sinking up to the thighs and fighting to 

get onto firmer ground, breaking trail for hours was making this 

climb far harder than having a route to follow. Five and a half hours 

from leaving the saddle and only a couple of hundred metres from 

the summit, the steep slope again increased and the guide stopped, 

prodded with his axe dislodging a slab of snow a foot thick and 

turned on his heel pointing rapidly back the way we had come with 

fear and urgency in his eyes it was clear we were in danger of 

starting an avalanche that would have probably been the end of the 

three of us. 

Descending was easier as we had made a path on the way up and 

your feet could take easy big strides scything through the snow and 

ice. When the slope levelled we paused for water and chocolate and 

the guide explained that the recent new snow had not set properly 

87



with the snow underneath making a layer barely attached to the 

mountain and as the angle of slope increased he had feared it could 

give way. As we set off downwards the German climber and his 

guide passed us ascending and the guides spoke earnestly together in 

rapid Spanish, then we continued back towards the hut catching an 

occasional glimpse through clouds of what looked like the whole of 

Ecuador from our roof top vantage point. 

Back at the hut we had breakfast and tea (we are after all British, 

there is no situation not dealt with better by “sticking the kettle 

on”!) The altitude at the hut was high enough for boiling water 

being a comfortable temperature to stick your fingers in, interesting 

science, but disgusting lukewarm tea! We talked the climb and took 

the positives, we hadn’t turned back from fitness issues, we had 

made good progress before being forced back and we were all safe. 

Shortly afterwards, the other climbing pair stamped into the hut 

having reached the same decision as us, we warmed to the German 

then as he was surprised and impressed at our achievement and we 

parted presently with smiles and handshakes and wishes of good 

luck “next time”. 

Back at the hostel we chatted over the options. We could climb 

Cotopaxi (and who doesn’t want to peer over the rim of an active 

volcano covered in snow?) and abandon our furthest from the 

centre of the earth climb. We could say we had done the climbing 

part and retire to a beach or a trip to the Rainforest for the 

remaining week and a half of our trip, or we could go again. The 

thought remained that if we didn’t climb Chimborazo now, we may 

never do it or may return at some future point when we wouldn’t 

have the fitness we had now and have to do it all over again. After a 

few days rest and further lower level hikes we decided to try again. 

Our guide was on Cotopaxi, so we booked with another and 

changed the itinerary as I could not face another chilling rest at the 

hut before decamping, so this time we planned to arrive at 

Whymper’s hut at the departure time, the disadvantage was adding 

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an hour or so walking before starting the proper ascent, the 

advantage would be to eat heartily at lower altitude and arrive and 

go. 

This night was cloudier and we needed the head torches as we left 

the refuge in darkness. Again after an hour we paused to hydrate 

and then continued over the saddle and the exposed rocky section 

when my crampons began to slide and lose purchase on the iced 

rock, we hadn’t roped up at this point and I was very relieved to feel 

a firm push on my shoulder blades from Mike behind me to get my 

momentum going forward and away from a vertical drop. After the 

rocks we quickly roped and again the wind started from nothing as 

we began the long zig-zags, turn, swap ice axe hand, mind the rope 

don’t look ahead, it is better not to see the pathetically slow 

progress up this steep slope that seems to have no apparent end. 

Water bottles froze and were useless and jackets became as stiff as 

metal from ice as we trudged backwards and forwards across the 

slope of 50 and later 60 degrees. 

On this ascent, the snow had bound together and was hard enough 

that we only sunk to our knees from time to time and careful 

treading meant energy was not being wasted in freeing limbs. Every 

hour we paused for a thumbs up and to eat something sweet. By 

now we were panting hard and wasting breath on talking was not an 

option, again the hill inclined and after a dozen or so more traverses 

it was flattening out, the effort fell away with the slope. Suddenly 

we were walking on a near flat plain, the summit! 

Relief, elation and the cold seeping in as soon as we stopped 

exerting ourselves and in a gale on the summit we extracted a 

camera and took a couple of photos with our backs to the wind and 

shook hands as is the custom on any climb when you get to the top. 

There was no visibility to speak of and no desire to wander further 

on the flat-ish plain to another area that is slightly higher than our 

point, there are actually four summits at the top but with no 

visibility and the wind whipping snowflakes and ice we decided to 

leave. 

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The journey back down took less than half the ascent and the clouds 

parted, offering the deep blue skies that you get at altitude and 

tremendous views of the sort you usually only see from an 

aeroplane window and not whilst bounding down deep snow, still 

roped and enjoying the ease of losing height and returning to the 

hut, once again peeling off layers as the wind subsided and the sun 

warmed. The warm feeling was from the inside too, we had done 

what we set out to do and had ticked off one item from the bucket 

list. 

We still had a week left, so we took a bus to Riobamba and relaxed 

wandering the streets of this backpackers favourite destination, 

renting mountain bikes and riding the paths around spectacular 

waterfalls, visited a gorge, descended a steep valley in possibly the 

world’s worst cable car (actually a metal cage powered by an old 

static bus) that broke down twice, leaving us swaying and laughing 

nervously! 

We cycled up above the town to get a glimpse of the volcano 

Tungurahua venting steam at sunset before returning to the noise 

and chaos of Quito and return flights, only interrupted when we 

caused a security delay at Schiphol airport as a combination of a 

paperback and an ipod with headphones in a rucksack worried the 

staff enough to freeze the conveyor belt, evacuate the gate and call 

guards with machine guns to interview us! 

Now a few years on from this trip and the thoughts turn to the next, 

yacht to Bermuda? Climb Kilimanjaro? Northern lights by Land 

Rover? May I suggest whilst you are still fit in mind and body, if 

there are things you want to see and do, well, get a wiggle on! 

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"Climb the mountains and get their good 

tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you 

as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will 

blow their own freshness into you, and the 

storms their energy, while cares will drop 

away from you like the leaves of 

Autumn." 

John Muir 

"The Mountains of California" 

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Self exile in 

Siberia 

Sophie Ibbotson & Max 

Lovell-Hoare 

8 

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I can’t capture in words or in pictures that first step out onto the 

Pacific. The ocean just isn’t supposed to support your weight. Eyes 

focused on the bodies far out from the promenade, I took a deep 

breath, held it, and jumped. Immediately I sunk up to my knees in 

the crisp white snow, but it was with the euphoria of a child first 

touching snowflakes, or running headlong into the waves. With an 

ungainly gait, I plunged out in a slow motion (or should that be 

snow motion?) sprint, a satisfying crunch and flurry of powder with 

every clumsy footfall. Mad as a hare during a full moon, I danced in 

circles, shrieked, and chased the tails of kites before collapsing 

exhausted on my back, sinking satisfyingly a few inches down into 

the snow, making snow angels, and grinning inanely. In all honesty, 

I didn’t even notice the cold. 

25 years ago, this simple, joyous act would not have been possible. 

Vladivostok - the far end of Russia and, therefore, seemingly the 

end of the known world too - was a closed Soviet military port, a 

stone’s throw from Japan, China and North Korea, and hence of 

unrivalled strategic importance. I knew the name as a child, having 

glimpsed the haziest of photos spread out on the dining room table 

before they were hurriedly tidied away, but even in the dying days 

of the Soviet Union, it seemed incredulous that one day I might 

actually go there in person, wander freely, and still have the chance 

to leave. But here I was, in 2015, dancing on the Pacific. The ice 

might be dangerously thin in patches, as I was told retrospectively, 

but no one appeared to care. I was just another day tripper, 

frolicking child-like out at sea. 

Siberia has none of the romantic literature of colonial India or the 

heart of Africa. Those writers who have described their experiences 

here have tended, quite understandably, to focus on the hardships 

they endured, of their daily struggle to survive. Solzhenitsyn and 

Chekhov did not mince their words, nor embellish their tales for 

effect: even my guide, Olga, a fierce Russian patriot, described in 

vivid detail her great grandparents’ three year walk here from 

European Russia. Her grandmother was born on the way, giving 

cause for hope, but plenty of their fellow travellers perished from 

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exposure, starvation, and vicious attacks by hungry wolves. 

The bitter cold and deprivation, at times inflicted by mankind as 

much as by the severe continental climate, is but half the picture, 

however. Travelling nigh on 18,000 miles back and forth across 

Siberia in 2014, and another 6,000 or so this year, a picture of a far 

more complex, intriguing place and people emerges from the 

permafrost and tundra. 



Already I am tripping myself up, and for that I must apologise. 

Siberia is not one place, nor home to one people: how could it be? 

This vast region stretches from the Ural Mountains, the natural 

border between Europe and Asia, all of the way to the Pacific 

Ocean and the Sea of Japan. At its northernmost point it reaches far 

north into the Arctic Circle, and to the south it touches the borders 

of Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China. Winter temperatures here can 

fall to 60 below zero, a point at which a bucket of warm water will 

freeze before touching the ground, and yet in the summer months 

the sun beats down, searing the soil and burning the faces of those 

few who labour upon it. Glancing at the crowds in Vladivostok, 

Ulaan Ude or Novosibirsk, you see Mongols and Buryats, Koreans 

and Manchurians, Uighurs, Uzbeks and Tatars. Siberia is a true 

melting pot of natural resources and landscapes, flora and fauna, and 

people. 

The locals explain this variety of riches with a simple origin myth. 

When God made the world, he visited the regions one by one, 

distributing thoughtfully the animals and plants, the mineral wealth, 

and so on. By the time that he reached Siberia, the end of the world, 

however, God was tired from the exertion, and so rather than 

measuring out Siberia’s share carefully, he simply upended his 

pockets. Everything that was left in there fell to the earth, waiting to 

be discovered by man. When you are on the ground here, it makes 

an awful lot of sense. 

Each one of our Siberian journeys has begun in Vladivostok, the 

eastern terminus of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Snaking 5,772 miles 

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across the seven time zones back to Moscow, half the world away in 

European Russia, it is a masterpiece of engineering and perhaps the 

only means by which a country of this scale can be held together. 

The Trans-Siberian Railway was built long before there were roads 

here: the sparseness of habitation is such that the latter seemed an 

unnecessary indulgence. Those with money fly; and those without 

roubles to spare must ride the same train day and night for a week 

or more if they are to reach the nation’s capital. We joined them 

once again on their way. 



The first thing you learn about Russian trains in winter is that they 

give saunas a run for their money. The Russian budget traveller, be 

he peasant or migrant worker, likes to travel in comfort in his vest 

and flip flops, even if it is 30 below outside. He expects to turn 

bright red and sweat profusely as he rides from town to town, then 

to take a brief stroll along the snow covered platform, like a Roman 

citizen braving the frigidarium. Waddling through the train station, 

bundled up with only our eyes showing through the faux fur at the 

edge of our hoods, we clearly didn’t appreciate the huge advances 

the Soviet Union had made with regard to heating infrastructure, 

poor things, and hence had to be welcomed aboard the carriage with 

measures of vodka sufficient to pickle a ferret. If the heating on the 

train were to fail, at least our own freezing temperature would have 

been lowered. 

There are two ways to ride the Trans-Siberian: the regular, inter-city 

service with its live chickens, grubby bunks and a menu comprised 

entirely of variations on a theme of potatoes; and the luxurious 

Golden Eagle Trans-Siberian Express, Russia’s smartest (and most 

expensive) private train. In the winter months when tourist numbers 

are inevitably down, both trains are hauled from station to station 

behind the same locomotive, so you see how the other half lives. 

One train might be more authentic, but the other is undoubtedly a 

more pleasurable ride. 

Rattling and rumbling through the night, we slowly began to make 

our way westwards along the Amur River to Khabarovsk, all 

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carpeted in snow. If you have ever looked out at a snow field on a 

moonlit night, you will be able to appreciate to some extent its 

beauty, only here the bluish glow is seemingly endless, and every 

pinprick of light in the canopy of stars is so bright that you awake 

in the small hours thinking that it must be day. It is an amateur 

astronomer’s dream. 

In the days when Vladivostok was still out of bounds, foreign 

travellers were forced to end their journey in Khabarovsk, so it 

thrived as a regional trading hub. The freight trains and their goods 

now all carry on straight through to the coast, but there is still a 

fair-sized covered market where the black market money changers 

rub shoulders with fishmongers and grocers. Though cognisant of 

the need to stock up with supplies for the train ride ahead, we were 

nevertheless sidetracked by the scale of the Kamchatka crabs; the ice 

cream tub sized containers of black and red caviar; confectionary in 

a rainbow of artificial colours; and great sticky blocks of 

honeycomb, none of which would travel well. We consoled 

ourselves with Siberian pine nuts, some of them soaked in honey 

and dipped in dark chocolate, mixed dried fruits, and tins of an 

unspecified species of fish. 

It was just as well that we did. For the next two days and nights, the 

train raced on, barely stopping, and even when it did, we had no 

desire at all to go outside. Though the landscapes were majestic 

through the windows, crisp in their whites, blues and greys, icicles 

formed on the short inter sections between the carriages, and the 

bitter cold gusts whenever someone opened an external door, even 

for a moment, assured us this was no place for humankind. 

According to the thermometer, it was a balmy -27 degrees Celsius 

the morning we reached Ulan Ude, close to the border with 

Mongolia, and by that time we were ready to stretch our legs. The 

city’s central square is home to the world’s largest head of Lenin, at 

goodness knows how many tonnes. It is a favourite spot for newly 

married couples to pose for their wedding photographs and, even 

more alarming, for aged babushkas to pay homage, kissing the 

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granite slabs beneath. 

A city is a city, however, and bar Lenin, Ulan Ude has no particular 

draws. We therefore boarded a bus into the hinterland, working our 

way back in time to the Village of the Old Believers. Exiled from 

European Russia in the 17th century when they refused to adopt the 

reformed practices of the Russian Orthodox Church, this small 

population has somehow clung onto life, and their heritage, in one 

of the most inhospitable climates on earth. 



The village is immaculately kept, each single storey wooden house 

laid out on straight streets. Many of the houses are painted, the art 

work just visible beneath the snow laden eaves. Ladies in their 

bright traditional costumes hurry from one house to the next, or 

across the road to their rebuilt chapel. 

Our hostess here was Galina, a former university professor who had 

been reduced to hawking vegetables in Ulan Ude’s markets when 

the Soviet Union fell. Tall and fiercely proud, she now compensates 

for her enforced change in circumstance by taking in paying guests 

and running the local community centre. Here she puts on 

performances of music and dance, her own extensive brood Siberia’s 

equally talented answer to the Von Trapp Family Singers. Here, for 

the first time, we were fed like fighting cocks: the table groaned 

under the weight of smoked fish; home-baked bread; mashed potato 

and meatballs; grated carrot and cabbage salad; and deep fried 

pastries with a bitter-sweet wild currant jam. The vodka flowed, and 

as it did, the music unsurprisingly crescendoed, the hall a bubble of 

culture and warmth in an otherwise cold, bitter night. 

We re-boarded the train, the only two passengers waiting on a 

concrete platform barely 30 metres long, which seemed to be the 

station for nowhere in particular. Thank God the train driver didn’t 

miss us, and that we were properly attired for the early morning 

cold. 

I had my heart now set on reaching Lake Baikal, the world’s largest 

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fresh water lake. In the early days of the Trans-Siberian, before the 

line was complete, the train would stop at the water’s edge and then, 

depending on the time of year, either allow passengers to disembark 

and cross the ice by sled, or to board a steamer. Today there is a 

branch line from the hub at Irkutsk around the lake shore, and in 

the winter months it quite possibly rates as the finest train ride there 

is. 

Lake Baikal is frozen several metres deep, and it is Siberia’s Winter 

Wonderland. Gazing upon it from the train, utterly unspoilt, the 

blue-white ice bergs rising amidst the sheet of snow are 

mesmerising. You have to strain your eyes to spot the faintest 

outline of the mountains on the other side, and more often than not 

they are lost in the clouds. As you approach the neighbouring 

settlements of Listvyanka and Port Baikal, you come to realise that 

natural beauty is not all that Lake Baikal has to offer: this is Siberia’s 

winter sports capital too. Pisted ski runs served by chairlifts 

overlook the lake, the Lake Baikal Ski Marathon takes place each 

year in March, and there is a designated ice driving obstacle course 

for 4x4s tens of metres out from the shore. 

Racing out onto the lake much as I had done in Vladivostok, I came 

down to earth with an almighty thump. The coating of snow here 

was only an inch or so thick, and in places less, and the sheet ice 

beneath it was slick. Chastened, though thankfully not bruised as I 

had on ample thermal layers for padding, I looked about for 

inspiration about how best to move around. One tall woman, 

resplendent in her furs, was tottering about on stilettos; two more 

crazy fools were cycling by. I resigned myself to spending a fair 

proportion of the day on my backside, if not face down in the snow. 

The solution, of course, is to hand over responsibility for keeping 

you upright to someone, or something, else entirely. A pack of dogs, 

not entirely huskies but perhaps with a healthy dose of Alsatian and 

wolf thrown into the mix, were yapping and panting, their breath 

forming a haze in the air. Feeling a little like a sack of potatoes, I 

climbed onto their sled and, hanging on for dear life, allowed myself 

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to be driven at what felt to be some considerable speed across the 

ice. The corners, such as they were, took some getting used to, but 

as I began to get my balance right and relax, the ride was an 

unrivalled thrill. A flurry of snow sprayed up across my legs, so 

close was I to the ground, and as the dogs got into their stride, they 

really picked up the pace. The snowmobile racing alongside could 

barely keep up with us all. 

My face burned pink with the cold, but at the same time I felt warm 

inside. The same could not be said for the few moments when I 

removed my gloves, however: then the burning was of an altogether 

more unpleasant kind. I’d stopped for a snack, as you do, but in the 

middle of a lake there are limited options. For a sushi lover, that 

doesn’t matter though. Local fishermen drill a hole through the ice, 

and dangle their hooks through to catch Omul. This oily endemic 

fish, though still alive at the moment they catch it, is frozen stiff 

within minutes of being brought to the surface, so it is simply sliced 

up and laid on a plate. I will give you three guesses what the 

preferred drink to wash it down with is, and two of them you won’t 

need. 



Although there are still long, empty stretches of terrain, once you 

reach Lake Baikal you begin to feel less like you are on some strange 

other planet, and more that you might chance upon civilisation. 

This is just as well, because otherwise Novosibirsk (literally New 

Siberia) would come as quite a shock. An important outpost of the 

Russian Academy of Sciences, and hence a major centre of research, 

this vast metropolis also benefits from its relative proximity to 

Russia’s major oil, gas and mineral reserves. The Academy of 

Science’s Geology Department is world renowned, and rightly so, 

so if you agree with us that geology rocks, then their ram-packed 

museum is a must see. 

We had another guilty pleasure to indulge on this occasion, 

however, and that is our love of trains. Not content will simply 

riding behind a modern electric train, we took a detour to the 

Novosibirsk Railway Museum. In this huge outdoor museum, even 

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 


the largest of the exhibits were only just visible beneath the snow; 

smaller items had disappeared from view entirely. We boarded the 

luxurious carriages of Russia’s last Tsar, and found them to be 

unsurprisingly preferable to the wards and operating theatres of the 

gruesome World War II hospital train parked alongside. The prison 

carriages were similarly sinister - we dared not venture inside - but 

our spirits were lightened by the profusion of well-preserved steam 

locomotives, innovative ice breakers, and trains for carrying missiles. 

A happy, if geeky, afternoon ensued. 

By all accounts, Siberia ends at Ekaterinburg in the Ural Mountains, 

though the train still has quite some distance to run to Moscow. The 

cities and towns along the railway line are by this point far more 

frequent, the wild, wild east having given way to gentler landscapes 

108

punctuated with suburban sprawl.This is still a hard, hard place to 

live, however. The growing season is limited to 90 days each year, so 

foodstuffs are hard to come by. Along the tracks lie the rusting 

skeletons of factory buildings, brick kilns and defunct railway 

yards, depressing reminders that the subsidies of the Soviet Union 

are long gone, and nothing yet has replaced them or shows signs of 

doing so. Old men and women, broken by years of disappointment, 

loiter on the smaller station platforms, watching the trains thunder 

by with no intention of boarding, but rather waiting to see if and 

when their sons and grandsons will return from work in the cities. 

The concrete apartment blocks they live in, once heralded as 

exemplary living units and are now crumbling around their ears, 

with no likelihood of renovation. When the Russian economy 

crashed in the early 1990s, these are the people who suffered most, 

and no amount of oil and gas wealth will save them now. 

It was therefore with some relief that we put the final part of the 

journey behind us and pulled into to the station in Moscow. The 

beauty and the wonder of Siberia is in its natural landscapes and 

with the sheer determination with which people strive to overcome 

the physical challenges that the climate and terrain present. Man can 

alleviate or compound that hardship. The former is a cause for 

celebration; the latter a source of unbridled sorrow. 

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"Wandering is the activity of the child, the 

passion of the genius; it is the discovery of the 

self, the discovery of the outside world, and 

the learning of how the self is both "at one 

with" and "separate from" the outside world. 

These discoveries are as fundamental to the 

soul as "learning to survive" is fundamental to 

the body. These discoveries are essential to 

realizing what it means to be human. To 

wander is to be alive." 

Roman Payne 

"Europa" 

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The last place 

in Yemen 

Tim Mackintosh-Smith 

8 

111

For much of the year, mists shroud the peaks of the 1500-meter 

(4900’) Haghier Mountains above Hadibu, the largest settlement on 

the island of Suqutra. Its 3625 square kilometers (1400 sq. mi) little 

explored by scientists, Suqutra has been biologically isolated since 

Tertiary times, and about a third of its plants and animals occur 

nowhere else. Such endemic species include, the chameleon 

Chamaeleo monachus, one of 24 endemic reptiles; the Socotra 

sparrow (Passer Insularis), the most common of the island’s six 

endemic birds; Scolopendra valida, a meat-eating centipede with a 

painful bite; the damselfly Enallagma granti, the sole endemic of 20 

dragonfly species recorded on the island; a male land crab of a 

nocturnal species not yet found in 1997 at 700 meters’ altitude 

(2300’) in the middle of the island; the fruit of the cucumber tree 

Dendrosicyos socotranus), one of many Suqutran plants that has 

adapted to seasonal rain and drought by its tissues; Phaulotypus 

insularis, a bizarrely shaped grasshopper relative that is one of some 

endemic species of jumping insects; and the perennial Babiana 

socotrana, a member of the iris family. 



The origin of the island’s name is in itself obscure. Arab writers have 

glossed it as suq qatr,the Emporium of Resin, but it probably 

derives from the Sanskrit dvipa sakhadara, the Island of Bliss. This 

in turn may be a version of Dh Skrd, which appears in South 

Arabian inscriptions and seems to have given the Greek geographers 

their home-grown sounding name for the island, Dioskurida. The 

etymological enigma is compounded by questions about the racial 

origins of the Suqutris, whose veins are thought to flow with South 

Arabian, Greek and Indian blood, with perhaps a dash of 

Portuguese. 

Medieval writers did their best to shroud the island in a mist of 

dubious or downright incredible facts. Ibn al-Mujawir says that for 

six months of the year the Suqutris were forced to play host to 

pirates, who seem to have worked en famille: “They are a mean 

bunch, and their old women are meaner than their men.” For 

defensive reasons, he writes, the islanders took to sorcery, and when 

the late 12th-century Ayyubids sailed for Suqutra with five 

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warships, the Suqutris magicked their island out of sight. For five 

days and nights the Ayyubid fleet quartered the seas, but found no 

trace of it. 

Eight centuries on, Suqutra occupies an apparently stable position 

12½ degrees north of the Equator. It is home to a breed of dwarf 

cattle, to wild goats and donkeys, and to civet cats, which lurk in an 

eccentric arboretum where a third of the flora is unique to the 

island. The only pictures of Suqutra I had seen were of trees like 

yuccas and other potted plants but bizarrely mutated and enlarged; 

a few illustrating a British colonial official’s visit to the Sultan in 

1961; and Wellsted’s drawing, done in the 1830’s, of a scene near the 

capital Hadibu, which owed more to the Picturesque than to 

observation. As for the written sources, my scant knowledge of the 

place was founded on rumour and travellers’ tales. 

Clearly the only way of proving the island actually existed, was not 

some elaborate fiction, would be to go there. But how? 

For half the year, Suqutra is cut off from the rest of the world by 

violent storms; for the other half, a small plane is supposed to go 

there twice a week. The islanders number around 40,000, but I had 

never met a Suqutri and knew no one who had. Yemenis in the 

capital, San’a, if they had heard of the place, thought of it as the very 

margin of the world. 

And then, unexpectedly, the door to Suqutra opened. I was in a 

shared taxi when I heard something that made me sit up. It cut 

through the low hum of talk, audible as a stage-whisper. It was that 

phonemic phantom of South Arabia, the lateral sibilant which is a 

shhissed through the corners of the mouth. I turned to the speakers: 

“You must be Mahris.” 

“No, we’re from Suqutra—if you’ve heard of it.” 

I must have stared at them longer than was polite. They brushed off 

my apologies and we started chatting. Sa’d and Muhammad had 

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finished secondary school in Aden. They were going home to be 

teachers. “And you’re flying from al-Mukalla?” I asked them. 

“We wanted to, but the plane’s full and will be for weeks. You see, 

it’s the end of al-kaws,the season of storms, and everyone’s going 

home. We’re travelling by sea.” 

Less than a month after that meeting, I bade an emotional farewell 

to my San’ani friends. For them, the great and wide sea teems with 

leviathans and other terrors. “You’ll end up,” they said, and in all 

seriousness, “in the belly of a whale.” At their insistence I had 

written my will. With me was Kevin, recently returned from four 

years in Kuala Lumpur, Georgetown and Chiang Mai. In the Far 

East he had suffered from breakbone fever and from not being in 

Yemen. 



Three days later we arrived in the small town on the Hadramawt 

coast which Sa’d and Muhammad had said was the main port for 

Suqutra. It was late afternoon and the sun slanted, mellifluous, 

across a broad bay. The only craft were a few hawris, slender, sharpnosed 

fishing boats. They hardly moved, so calm was the ocean. 

At a tea house that smelt of fish we asked about a boat to Suqutra. 

“I’ll take you to Salim bin Sayf,” said a boy. “I think he’s going to 

Suqutra soon. And he’s the best nakhudhah anywhere.” 

Nakhudhah! That was a word with resonances! Persian for a ship’s 

captain and used in Arabic since the time of Sindbad, it recalls the 

days before the sextant, before even the lodestone. 

The boy took us to the far end of the street, past the school and up 

an alley where we knocked on a plywood door. Salim bin Sayf stuck 

his head through the door, bushy bearded, rheumy in the eye, the 

very picture of the best nakhudhah anywhere. He was sailing for 

Suqutra “on the eve of Wednesday.” At first suspicious of why we 

should want to go by sea, he softened when we explained that as 

foreigners we’d have to pay for the plane tickets in dollars, which 

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meant they would cost us five times what they cost Yemenis. 

Anyway, the plane was full. 

We asked how much he charged. Salim tugged his beard, the gesture 

that means “Shame on you!” and named a ridiculously low price. 

“And what about food?” 

He looked us up and down. “Can you eat what we eat?” 

I tugged an imaginary beard. Salim chuckled and we said goodbye 

until “the eve of Wednesday.” 

On the appointed Tuesday evening, down on the beach once more, 

we scanned the water. There was no sign of an oceangoing vessel. A 

child was standing in the shallows, lazily casting a weighted net into 

the water. We walked over to him, fearing the worst. “Where’s the 

nakhudhah Salim bin Sayf?” I asked. 

“I don’t know.” He cast the net again. “But that’s his sambuk out 

there.” The boy pointed to a boat that seemed little bigger than a 

hawri. The only difference was that it had a single forward-raking 

mast. The hull was painted red and yellow. 

“That’s the one that goes to Suqutra?” The boy nodded. 

The seas around Suqutra are notorious for their unpredictable 

winds and mountainous swell. I remembered reading an old verse, 

in a book of cautionary tales for sea captains, which spoke of the 

perils of navigating between the island and Cape Hafun, the tip of 

the Horn of Africa: 

Between Suqutra and Hafun’s head, 

Pray your course be never set... 

Somewhere out in the 420 kilometers (260 mi) of open ocean that 

115

separated us from Suqutra, Leviathan was licking his many pairs of 

lips. 

On board the sambuk, which rolled even in this calm sea, a kerosene 

lamp was lit. A smear of light revealed a deck crowded with boxes, 

oil drums, ropes, anchors and bodies. There were 15 other 

passengers, already embarked and asleep. That made 23 of us in an 

open 10-meter (35’) boat, and the voyage would last two nights and 

a day. 

The nakhudhah Salim was last on board. Bare-chested, issuing 

orders, he had somehow grown bigger and younger. A crewman 

skipped below deck and cranked the engine to life; Salim produced a 

compass sitting on a bed of woodshavings in a twine-bound box. 

He lined the box up with the mast and secured it with a few nails 

banged into the deck. At one in the morning we weighed anchor 

and headed, on a course of 110 degrees, for the ocean. 

Salim told me about his family. His father and his ancestors had 

been skippers here for as long as anyone could remember. His 

mother was a Suqutri from Nujad on the island’s south coast. The 

lamp was turned low. Salim kept his eyes on the stars. A cord, 

looped round the hewn tiller, tightened and then slackened in his 

fingers. 

“Nujad is where they come down the mountains to pasture the 

flocks. Lubnan, my father calls it.” Lebanon, the land rich in milk. 

He refolded the tarpaulin he was sitting on and wrapped himself in 

a large striped blanket. “They make these in Suqutra. You see, 

everything comes from their flocks—milk, butter, cheese, wool, 

meat.” 

“What about fishing?” 

“There’s some. The real Suqutris are bad sailors. That’s why we 

Hadramis marry Suqutri girls. It puts some salt in their blood.” 

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I looked back to where the town had been, and gone. Beneath me 

the diesel thumped yet, somehow, did not disturb the calm. 

Salim was still at the helm when I awoke. It was as calm as ever. The 

sea curdled where the prow cut through it, then recon-gealed in the 

sambuk’s wake. An odd flying fish shot out of the water like a spat 

pip. In such a sea, “without a stir, without a ripple, without a 

wrinkle—viscous, stagnant, dead,” perhaps at this very spot, 

Conrad’s Lord Jim had abandoned the doomed Patna. 

Our six-ton sambuk, the Kanafah (no one ever used the name, and 

even Salim had to think before he remembered it), had been built a 

few years ago in al-Shihr. Below the waterline the hull was of teak. 

For the rest a cheaper hardwood, jawi, “Javan,” was used, with pine 

planking for the deck. Powered by a 33-horsepower Japanese 

engine, she was also lateen-rigged like all Arab craft but her sail 

would only be used in emergencies. “Diesel engines started coming 

in the mid-50’s,” Salim said. “By about 20 years ago they’d taken 

over completely. If we were under sail it would usually take about 

five days to reach Suqutra. In weather like this, much longer.” 

The Suqutri passengers were silent men with wild, auburn-tinted 

hair, wrapped in huge Kashmir shawls and looking queasy. If they 

did speak, it was in undertones, all aspirants and sibilants like the 

soughing of the wind in treetops. It reminded me of Hebridean 

Gaelic. To a speaker of Arabic, the Suqutri language sounds like a 

distant and dyslexic cousin. But occasional words are familiar and, 

in time, I realized that it shares with the Raymi and Yafi’i dialects of 

Yemeni Arabic the past-tense k-ending, another revenant from the 

ancient languages. 

The second night, Salim was at the helm again and I joined him, 

curious to learn more about techniques of navigation and whether 

much knowledge had been passed down from its heyday among the 

Arabs, the 15th and 16th centuries. During this period, the 

celebrated pilot Ahmad ibn Majid led the field in a science in which 

mnemonic verses played the part of charts, and nakhudhahs held 

117

international conferences to discuss abstruse points on winds and 

stars. 

“We all know Ibn Majid,” Salim explained. “Nakhudhahs consider 

him their ancestor. But now we rely on the compass. See, we started 

on a course of 110 degrees. Now it’s 135 degrees. By the time we 

reach Suqutra we’ll be following a course of 150 degrees. If we went 

in a straight line, the current would take us into the ocean.” 



“And if there were no compass?” 

“Ah, every nakhudhah knows the stars. Those two point to Mirbat 

in Oman; those, to Qishn; then,” he went on, running his finger 

across the sky, “Sayhut; Qusay’ir, al-Shihr, al-Mukalla, Aden, 

Djibouti, Berbera, Abdulkuri, Qalansiyah, Hadibu. Every three 

hours you must change to a new pair of stars as the old ones fall 

away.” 

I lay back, leaving Salim at the tiller, wrapped in his woolen 

shamlah. The old familiar constellations above me were rearranging 

themselves. Where the Plow, Orion and the Little Bear had been, 

there was now an array of new signs above like the overhead route 

markings at a highway interchange, but on a cosmic scale. 

I was awakened by the dawn call to prayer, which Hadid, one of the 

crew, chanted before the mast in a thin voice as penetrating as an 

alarm clock’s bleep. A change had come over the sea. The dead, 

viscous surface was now alive. We were still six or seven hours off 

Suqutra, but even this far away the invisible island was loosing its 

aeolian forces on the water. Over breakfast Hadid told us that the 

sea off Suqutra was always za’lan, angry. “This is nothing. Often the 

waves come over the deck. I’ve done this journey many times, and 

I’ve usually been soaked from start to finish.” 

And then it appeared. First just a smudge on the horizon, it resolved 

into a line of cliffs with a streak of white sand at their base. We 

headed for a spot where the line dipped. The dip became a broad 

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strath carpeted in seamless green, its sides framing a foreground of 

palms and the low cuboid houses of Qalansiyah. Hadid hoisted his 

red-checked headcloth as an ensign and we dropped anchor in water 

of incredible clarity. A couple of sambuks and a few hawris bobbed 

around us; shoals of fish darted under the hull. A hawri came and 

took us to the shore. Sa’d was there too with a notebook to list the 

incoming goods. Salim, Hadid and the others were greeted with a 

gracefully choreographed double nose-touch accompanied by little 

sniffs. Sa’d and I shook hands. 

On board, Kevin and I had felt no discomfort from the boat’s 

motion but now, on dry land, we were both hit by the effect of 36 

hours on the ocean. My brain seemed to swivel on gimbals inside 

my skull. One of the passengers, a native of Qalansiyah, took pity 

on us and invited us home. He led us along narrow alleyways where 

the ground quivered and the walls throbbed. When we arrived at his 

house, the only two-story building in the town, he took us to an 

airy upstairs room with yellow walls and a repeating calligraphic 

frieze, the Islamic creed, “There is no god but God,” stenciled in 

pink. We were ordered to lie down. 

Half an hour later the worst of the delayed motion-sickness had 

worn off. It was then that I realized something was different: there 

had been no interrogation. Usually in Yemen a newcomer, and 

particularly a foreigner who speaks Arabic, is subjected within 

moments of arrival to intensive questioning on every subject. There 

is rarely any other motive than a wish to break the ice, and to this 

end the interrogation is very effective, preferable by far to an 

embarrassed Anglo-Saxon silence. It is a small price to pay for often 

bewilderingly generous hospitality. Here, though, no demands had 

been made on us. Writing of his visit to the island 160 years before, 

Wellsted said of the Suqutris that “the most distinguishing trait of 

their character is their hospitality.” Nothing has changed. 

The only losers in the hospitality stakes are the goats. That evening 

our host slaughtered one for the Kanafah’s crew and the two 

nasranis. It was a skull-smashing, cartilage-wrenching occasion, a 

119

Homeric feast, its victim the first of a hecatomb which was to fall as 

Kevin and I wandered the island. 

Salim said it was time for bed. After all, for the last two nights he 

had, Odysseus-like, “never closed his eyes in sleep but kept them on 

the Pleiades.” Before turning in he spoke to Kevin and me. “Come 

with us tomorrow. We’re going round the island to Sitayruh, my 

mother’s village in Nujad.” We agreed eagerly. “It’s a ten-hour 

journey so we must be up before dawn. Sleep now.” We bedded 

down with the crew in Ali’s courtyard. 



At 4:30 in the morning the cold was bitter. Our course took us 

under the lee of the cliffs, disturbing the cormorants that nested in 

the rock-face. Over to the southwest Salim pointed out two distant 

islands, the Brothers, rising from the sea like plinths waiting for 

statues. “That’s where I go shark-fishing.” At the village of Nayt, a 

few huts on the beach, we dropped an oil drum of salt into the sea; a 

boy swam out and pushed it back to the beach. Further on at 

Hizalah, where half a dozen tiny stone cabins clung like barnacles to 

a cleft in the rocks, another boy swam out and climbed into the 

sambuk. He stood on the deck, dripping, like the half-seal, half-man 

amphibians of Norse legend. After a panted exchange in Suqutri he 

plunged back into the aquamarine water and fetched a hawri, in 

which we deposited a spare anchor. 

Soon after, the cliffs rose again, 500-meter (1600’) walls striated 

horizontally and falling sheer into the sea. At last, where a tiny 

settlement called Subraha appeared at the foot of the cliff wall, Salim 

broke the spell of silence. “This is the start of the Nujad Plain, 

where people bring their flocks down from the mountains.” Kevin 

pointed out that there didn’t seem to be any way down. “Oh, there 

are paths, not that you’d call them that,” Salim said. “The ledges are 

sometimes only this wide.” He showed a span. “In some places they 

use ropes. And their flocks can be several hundred head.” 

We arrived at Sitayruh an hour before sundown. The shoreline was 

busy, a metropolis after so many hours of near-empty coastline. 

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Men staggered under unidentifiable loads, draped across their backs 

like huge rubbery cloaks, which they tossed into a beached hawri 

before returning to reload at the little headland that formed the 

bay’s eastern arm. Landing was precarious and we had to jump, 

between breakers, from the boat which took us ashore. 

Kevin went to investigate the loads. They turned out to be sharks, 

split kipperwise, salted and dried. I found him examining a pile of 

fins, which they call rish, feathers. Some were enormous and had 

been cut off the hammerheads and makos whose flesh was stacked 

nearby. While this is exported to Hadramawt, the Suqutris 

themselves are said to be fond of the shark’s liver, salted and 

preserved in its stomach. The fins were sold on the mainland for 

1200 shilins a kilo, around $30 at the time. “We know they go to the 

Far East,” said a voice from beneath one of the sharks, “but what do 

they do with them? They must be crazy to pay that much. Praise 

God!” 

Hadid, who, like Salim, also had a wife here, appeared and led us 

over the dunes to the village. The houses were compounds of single 

stone rooms, bewigged with palm-frond thatch and surrounded by 

fences of the same material. We sat in Hadid’s yard, eating dates and 

drinking coffee, until the evening prayer. A bowl of rawbah was 

passed round. In Yemen, rawbah refers to milk after the fat has been 

removed to make ghee; it is poured into a goatskin, which is inflated 

with a lungful of air and sealed, and then left to turn sour. Slightly 

sparkling, the Suqutris are addicted to it. At first we found it 

delicious; a fortnight later we were sick of the taste. 

Hadid, Kevin and I went that night to Salim’s house, where the crew 

and most of Sitayruh’s adult male population sat waiting for more 

goat. The large compound was mostly in darkness, with a couple of 

lanterns making feeble pools of light. When the food arrived, we ate 

in silence while Salim carved bite-sized chunks of meat with which 

he constantly replenished a pile on top of the huge plate of rawbahsoaked 

rice. The evening went on. Riddles were told, tonguetwisters 

recited in Suqutri, English and San’ani Arabic, everyone 

121

laughing at my attempts to produce a lateral sibilant. Gradually, 

conversation changed to Suqutri, then subsided, until you could 

hear the beating of moths’ wings against the lamp-glass. 

Kevin edged closer to the bush, camera poised. The snake lay coiled 

and motionless, its gray and orange stripes camouflaging it against 

the twig shadows and sand. The lens was inches from it. 

“They did say there weren’t any poisonous snakes in Suqutra,” he 

whispered, without turning his head. “Didn’t they?” 



“Yes, but I’m taking no responsibility for...” 

The shutter clicked, the snake reared, swayed, then looped off. We 

found out later that it was a harmless desert boa, probably of the 

type called Eryx jayakeri. 

So this was the Nujad Plain, Salim’s land of rich pastures: a dry 

waste of dunes and low bushes. We had set off early along the 

beach, then struck inland for Mahattat Nujad. “It’s an hour and a 

half if you take it easy. And Mahattat Nujad is full of shops. And 

cars. You’ll have no problems getting a ride to Hadibu,” Salim told 

us. Five hot hours later we arrived at Mahattat Nujad. We had lunch 

in the police station; after the meal, we asked the policemen if there 

was a car to Hadibu. 

“There may be one.” The “may” was ominous. “In a couple of 

days.” 

The crossing of Suqutra to Hadibu, a direct distance of around 40 

kilometers (24 mi), actually took four hours. It could have been 

quicker, but Ali Shayif, who drove us there in his pick-up, had to 

stop time and again to unblock his fuel filter or beef up the truck’s 

sagging springs with wooden wedges, banged in with stones. 

The next day we crossed the arena of the Hadibu Plain on foot. At 

the foot of the great shattered grandstand that backed it the going 

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got rougher; the Hajhir peaks, said to be one of the oldest bits of 

exposed land on Earth, are of granite, but with a limestone topping 

that has crumbled and fallen like icing from a badly cut wedding 

cake. Fragments as big as houses, riddled by erosion, were home to 

shaggy goats which sat eyeing us from their niches like dowagers in 

opera boxes. 

We made for a gap far above. As we climbed, the vegetation grew 

denser, streams appeared in unexpected clefts, and now and again 

one of us would exclaim at some new discovery, a spider’s web 

constructed on perfect Euclidean principles or a caterpillar in 

poster-paint colors. But it was the plants that fascinated us most. 

Nondescript bushes erupted into bunches of asparagus, trees turned 

into organ pipes then chimney-sweeps’ brooms, begonia-like 

flowers sprang from pairs of enormous conjoined boxers’ ears. 

Sap, juice, resin and gum exude from branches and leaves so fleshy 

they often suggest the animal more than the vegetable. Several 

species are edible. There are tamarinds, grape-like berries, wild 

pomegranates and wild oranges. Frankincense and myrrh made 

Suqutra an important outpost of the thuriferous mainland regions in 

ancient times, and other plant species produce everything from 

incense-flavoured chewing gum to a kind of birdlime. Medicinal 

plants abound and the Suqutris use them regularly to treat scorpion 

stings, rashes and wounds. For over two millennia, one of the 

island’s most famous products was the Suqutri aloe, whose soothing 

sap gained popularity in seventeenth-century Europe with the rise 

of the East India trading companies. 

Nearer the crest, the vegetation thinned. Limestone gave way to 

naked granite. Suddenly, above us and sharply outlined against a 

brilliant sky, there appeared what at first seemed to be a line of giant 

conical funnels, their narrow ends stuck in the skyline. The 

upturned cones resolved as we got closer into branches, topped with 

spiky leaves and bursting out of a central trunk like fan-vaulting in a 

chapter house. Even after all the other weird flora, the sight was 

startling: it is with good reason that this, the dragon’s blood tree, has 

123

ecome Suqutra’s unofficial emblem. Botanically, and by one of 

those evolutionary quirks that makes the rock hyrax a cousin of the 

elephant, Dracaena cinnabari is a member of the lily family. The 

common name, according to Pliny, derives from blood shed during 

a fight between an elephant and a dragon, from which the trees 

sprang. Dragon’s blood was formerly in great demand as an 

ingredient of various dyes, including those used in violin varnish 

and the palates of dentures; medieval European scribes made ink 

from it, and Chinese cabinet-makers used it in the famous cinnabar 

lacquer. Now, consumption is almost entirely local—the Suqutris 

use it to decorate pots and as a remedy for eye and skin diseases. 



I climbed one of the larger trees, perhaps six meters (20’) tall to the 

flat bristly top of its canopy. Its smooth bark was marked by scabs 

where the resin had oozed out and coagulated. In one of the highest 

branches I found a tiny lump that had been missed by the 

harvesters. It was globular and brick-red, the outside matte, the 

inner face glassy where it had been stuck to the tree. 

A few miles east of Hadibu, along a shore that crunches with a litter 

of shells and coral, lies the village of Suq, the island’s original 

commercial center. Proof that it was so in ancient times came from 

excavations carried out by a Yemeni-Soviet team of archaeologists, 

who discovered fragments of a Roman amphora and other, possibly 

Indian, imported wares. Suq was still Suqutra’s capital when the 

Portuguese decided to occupy the island in 1507. 

We had come to visit the fort of St. Michael, which the Portuguese 

captured from a Mahri garrison and rebuilt. It lies on a spur of Jabal 

Hawari, the eastern limit of Hadibu Bay. Most of the inhabitants of 

Suq seemed unaware of its existence, but eventually a boy showed 

us the way. A scramble up a rough track brought us to a flatfish area 

filled with the remains of a cistern, bastions and walls with rough 

lime-plaster facing that reminded Kevin of Albuquerque’s fort at 

Malacca. The ruins are unprepossessing but the view over Hadibu 

Plain is panoramic: below us, palms crowded round a lagoon where 

a wadi met the sea; eastwards stretched a broad bay backed by 

124



dunes, while in the opposite direction were the little gable-ended 

thatched houses of Suq and, in the distance, the palms and houses of 

Hadibu; to the south, a thick cloud blanket was pierced by the 

Hajhir spires; in front of us lay the ocean. 

It seemed incredible that this was just one of an immensely long 

chain of coastal and island forts stretching from Mozambique via 

Muscat and the Malabar Coast all the way to the East Indies—that, 

for a few decades, the Indian Ocean had been a Portuguese lake. Yet 

in the history of empires, this was one of the shortest-lived. 

Following that abortive occupation by the Portuguese, Suqutra, on 

the whole, eluded the imperialist grasp—though never quite as 

spectacularly as when it vanished out of sight of the Ayyubid fleet. 

The Portuguese returned on and off but never stayed. The Omanis 

attacked half-heartedly in 1669, and the British tried it out as a 

coaling station before deciding on Aden, but their garrison 

succumbed to fever. The Suqutris of the interior, meanwhile, went 

on as before, collecting dragon’s blood and aloes, and milking their 

goats. It was as if the Portuguese had been and gone and left 

nothing. Or had they? There were the legendary blue-eyed people 

of Shilhal. Or could they be an even older genetic throwback, 

connected with the claim of Cosmos and later writers that the island 

had been colonized by Greeks? 

We hired another Salim, the owner of a battered green Landcruiser, 

to take us as far east as possible. We would finish the journey to 

Shilhal on foot. 

There are no gas stations on Suqutra—you just knock on a door and 

fill a jerry can, if you’re lucky. Gas is in short supply because of the 

difficulty of importing it, and costs up to five times the official rate 

in San’a; the cost of hiring a car is correspondingly high. After a 

lengthy tour of downtown Hadibu, we had a full tank. 

An hour out of Hadibu, we were up on the high rolling moors, 

heading east under low cloud. Occasionally the cloud parted to light 

125

up a distant peak or hamlet, but at the village of Ifsir the rain set in, 

thick and wet. Here lived Salim’s sister, so there was another caprine 

slaughter, another massive lunch of meat, rice and rawbah. From 

Ifsir to Kitab and Aryant the rain fell hard, turning the red road to 

mud and making the Landcruiser slip on the pass up to the higher 

plateau. But by the time we reached our destination, the village of 

Qadaminhuh, the rain had stopped. Kevin and I were dropped at a 

newly built house and wandered off into the sodden landscape 

while Salim went to find the owner. 

Qadaminhuh is also known as Schools, from the big quadrangle of 

incongruous barrack-like buildings next to it. Here, a hundred or so 

weekly boarders live and study, boys from across this eastern region 

of Mumi. As we walked down the track towards the schools a fitful 

light broke through the cloud and a rainbow materialized. The place 

seemed deserted, but then a figure appeared from a doorway and 

headed towards us. He was dark-skinned and tall, clearly not a 

Suqutri, and before we could greet him he spread his arms in a wide 

sweep that took in the plain, the low surrounding hills and the 

rainbow, and said in rich and unaccented English, “Welcome to 

our...humble surroundings!” 

Muhammad was an Adeni high-school graduate sent to do his 

obligatory teaching service on Suqutra. At first he had thought of it 

as a punishment posting. But up here in Mumi, he said, the scenery 

was so beautiful, the people so kind that you might imagine 

yourself in England. I agreed that even if the nearest country, in a 

direct line, was Somalia, you might be forgiven for thinking you 

were in northern Europe. “But in England you couldn’t just turn up 

on someone’s doorstep and stay for the night.” 

Sa’d, our host, expressed no surprise that two total strangers should 

be billeted on him. “It’s our custom,” he said simply. We asked Sa’d 

about the blue-eyed people of Shilhal; he, too, was skeptical, and 

spoke of the place—only a few miles away as the vulture flies—as if 

it might not have existed. 

126

By seven the next morning we were high in the uplands under a 

lowering sky on the way to Shilhal. The going was hard, over sharp 

rocks dotted with tiny alpine flowers. Every so often we had to 

cross low walls of misshapen lichen-covered stones that were clearly 

very old: some authorities have taken them to be the ancient 

boundaries of incense plantations, but in fact they marked out 

claims allotted by the sultan for the harvesting of aloes. 

We crossed a little dale, filled with basil and lemon-scented herbs, 

where we breakfasted on unripe tamarinds. The valley marked the 

beginning of cattle country, and up on the far top we passed a herd. 

Like their cousins in al-Mahrah and Dhofar, these were humpless 

beasts no bigger than a small donkey. Progress was slow, for at each 

hamlet we passed we were invited in for rawbah, and at lunchtime 

we joined an apparently never-ending feast in honor of a villager 

just returned from the Emirates. At the end of the valley the track 

climbed under a crag with walled caves at its base. Before us, a few 

houses in a hollow, was the village of the blue-eyes: Shilhal. It 

looked no different from the other villages of Mumi. It felt like the 

end of the world. 

“A year or two ago,” said Thani, in whose guest-house the clan of 

Shilhal were gathered, “a foreign woman came here. She might have 

been French, or Russian. I don’t know. Anyway, we were sitting 

round like this, talking about history, and she asked us: “Do you 

think your grandfathers were oranges?”” 

There were tears of laughter at the memory. Thani got out of a 

leather pouch what looked like a clay cigar holder, then a fragment 

of tobacco leaf which he placed for a moment on the lamp before 

crumbling it and putting it in the holder. When his match refused to 

light I handed him my disposable lighter; he looked at it with 

curiosity then, shaking his head, handed it back. A second match 

worked. He took a single long drag then went on. “Then she said, I 

mean the people, not the fruit.” You see, “oranges” and 

“Portuguese” sound similar in Arabic.” 

127

“So what do you think—have you got any Portuguese blood?” I 

asked. In build the people of Shilhal looked the same as the other 

mountain Suqutris we had met; but a few of them did have fairer 

skin, and there were undeniably striking eyes that ranged between 

green and light hazel. Striking enough, anyway, for reports of them 

to circulate and become embroidered. 

A man who had so far been silent, a dashing figure, bare-chested 

with a shawl thrown round his neck; replied. “They say that we, the 

real Suqutris, have two ancestors. One lived here in Mumi and the 

other at the western end of the island. In time, people came in from 

outside and married with their descendants.” 

I remembered the claim later, when reading an analysis by the 

Russian scholar Vitaly Naumkin of Suqutri palm-prints and teeth. 

He was able to come to few firm conclusions about the islanders’ 

origins, other than saying that they are a mixture. However, he goes 

on, the inhabitants of the western and eastern highlands are both 

“mutually similar” and markedly different from other groups. 

Linguistically, he puts forward the hypothesis that Suqutri became 

isolated from the ancient South Arabian languages at some time 

between 1000 and 500 BC. This suggests a rough date for the 

settlement of the island by groups from the mainland. 

It is probably true to say, then, that here, in these isolated 

communities on an isolated chunk of land, are the people whom 

another scholar called “the last real South Arabians.” As for 

Portuguese forebears—if there ever were any in Shilhal—time has 

obliterated all memory of them. 

Talk was reverting to Suqutri. I was interested to hear some Suqutri 

poetry and asked the Shilhalis if they knew any. It was the barechested 

man who answered again. “I have a little,” he said, and 

chanted a haiku-length verse. It was received with sighs, then 

silence. I asked the man what the verse meant. He smiled. “Ah, it’s 

about love. But I only know the words, not the meaning. I’m not a 

sha’ir, a poet.” 

128

Then I remembered the root sense of the word sha’ir: not a reciter 

of verses or an arranger of words, but one who was endowed with 

insight, one who perceived. Suqutri poetry is a dense thicket of 

ellipsis and metaphor. It needed a perceiver to see the way through 

it. 

The next morning was bright and cloudless. We made our way 

slowly upwards over a cracked limestone pavement. Near the top of 

the hill, a breeze began to buffet our faces. Then the ground 

vanished. A 600-meter (2000’) cliff fell sheer to white sand, white 

surf, blue sea where a single speck of black, a hawri, hung in 

motionless suspense between the elements. To the right was the 

great dome of al-Jumjumah, the Skull, then the long promontory of 

Ra’s Mumi, a haunt of sirens, a wrecker of ships, a scimitar cutting 

the ocean. The last place in Yemen. 

I remember sitting above the village that afternoon under a 

westering sun. Light raked across ruddy earth and bald limestone, 

across the grassy roofs and drystone walls of Shilhal. They were 

bringing in the goats. Virgil described the scene at Shilhal in the 

Eclogues: 

Ite domum saturae, venit Hesperus, ite capellae. 

Go, my full-uddered goats, go home, for the Evening Star is rising. 

And, in the Georgics, Suqutra itself appears as the incense land of 

Panchaea. Virgil inherited the name from the pharaonic Egyptians, 

whose Pa-anch was a Utopian island ruled by the King of the 

Incense Land. The myth of the island paradise—from Pa-anch 

through Odysseus’s land of the Phaeacians and Sindbad’s fabulous 

isles, all the way to Bali Hai in South Pacific—is one of the most 

enduring in the world. Here, perhaps, at the end of Yemen, was its 

beginning. 

129

"The perfect journey is never finished. The 

goal is always just across the next river, 

round the shoulder of the next mountain. 

There is always one more track to follow, 

one more mirage to explore." 

Rosita Forbes 

130

Book Review 

The Flying Carpet 

written by 

Richard Halliburton 

Tor Torkildson 

8 

131



“I wanted freedom to indulge in whatever caprice struck my fancy, 

freedom to search the farthermost corners of the earth for the 

beautiful, the joyous and romantic.” 

Richard Halliburton - world traveler, best-selling author, popular 

lecturer, wrote those words in one of his books, The Royal Road to 

Romance (1925). Who was Richard Halliburton, this “modern 

Icarus” who flew too near the sun? This adventurer who kept an 

entire generation spellbound with his exploits around the world 

after the Great Depression. Inspired by the English poet Lord 

Byron, he swam the Hellespont and the entire length of the Panama 

Canal, all 51 miles of it, over the course of 50 hours in nine days. He 

also climbed the Matterhorn, got himself incarcerated at Devil’s 

Island, spent the night atop the Great Pyramid, rode an elephant 

through the Alps a la Hannibal, retraced the path of Odysseus, hung 

out with pirates and headhunters, and eventually flew in an airplane 

around the world. Halliburton liked to characterize himself as a 

vagabond and traveled on as little money as possible. He was 

handsome, charming, well connected, and fearless. He wrote very 

popular books with titles like: The Book of Marvels, The Royal 

Road to Romance, New Worlds to Conquer, and The Flying Carpet. 

In 1931, adventurer Richard Halliburton hired Moye Stephens to 

fly him around the world in a two-seater Stearman C-2B biplane 

dubbed “the Flying Carpet.” The book, by the same name, recounts 

how Halliburton landed in Timbuktu, passed over Mount Everest, 

flew over the Taj Mahal upside down, and dropped into the jungles 

of Borneo to visit head hunters. It seemed as if his goal was to fly to 

as many exotic places as possible. As he told his pilot, “We must 

have the world. We can have the world! I’ve just given myself an 

airplane and I want you to fly us to all the outlandish places in the 

world, Turkey, Persia, Paris, and Pasadena. We’re going to fly across 

deserts, over mountains, rescue imprisoned princesses and fight 

dragons.” 

For Halliburton “the Flying Carpet” was the ultimate romantic, 

risky, exploratory way to see the world. They performed acrobatics 

132

in Fez, hung out with the French Foreign Legion, explored Cairo, 

Damascus, and Petra. His romantic notions of travel seem to have 

had an especially enchanting effect on the youth of his day and my 

own grandfather (who had all of Halliburton’s books in hardcover). 

Among his young fans: Lady Bird Johnson, Vince Lombardi, Lenny 

Bruce, and Walter Cronkite. “He was a daring adventurerjournalist 

and best-selling author, as devilishly handsome as a movie 

star.” Cronkite recalled, and he commanded his audience with 

superb theatricality. 



I remember what a great surprise it was when I stumbled upon a 

copy of The Flying Carpet and devoured it in a single night. This is 

the life for me I thought. I recently re-read the book and found it 

just as exciting to read today as it must have been 85 years ago for 

his audiences. I found the adventure writing in The Flying Carpet 

colorful and simply told. It is obvious that he was an “innocent 

abroad” and his romantic notions of the world shone through in his 

best prose. I liked that the book is free of gratuitous philosophizing, 

or a tunnel vision point of view, and is written with the general 

public in mind. This book can be read by young children, middle 

aged stay-put types, modern day adventurers, or re-read by the 

elderly. The magic of Richard Halliburton’s journey around the 

world in a bi-plane will never cease to amaze the reader, as it is 

timeless, and one of the greatest adventures ever undertaken. 

Richard Halliburton’s most mysterious adventure began in 1936, 

inspired in part by Art Linkletter, then a young promoter but later 

to become a television celebrity. Linkletter was working for the San 

Francisco World’s Fair, which needed a special event to mark its 

opening day. What better an attraction than to have world-famous 

Richard Halliburton pull up in a Chinese junk, just arrived from 

across the Pacific? The plan was for Halliburton to sail a junk from 

Hong Kong to San Francisco, where it would dock, and become a 

part of the exhibition. Halliburton jumped at the opportunity and 

chance for a new adventure. After numerous delays in the building 

of the junk and one failed voyage, the Sea Dragon finally set sail 

133

from Hong Kong on March, 4, 1939. It was already too late to make 

the fair’s opening. Some two and a half weeks after setting sail, a 

monster storm hit the Sea Dragon with gale force winds and 

estimated 50 foot waves. Richard Halliburton was never seen again. 

Like Amelia Earhart, who vanished two years earlier, Halliburton’s 

disappearance gave rise to all kinds of rumors, and many hoped it 

was a stunt and he would re-surface one day. With the harsh realities 

of World War II the public lost interest in Halliburton and his 

romantic antics and exploits. 

If you are looking for a good “old world” tale of high adventure, I 

suspect you will find great joy in reading Richard Halliburton’s 

books, especially The Flying Carpet. In fact, you could take a 

magical journey around the world and never leave your living room 

(like my grandfather, who never traveled outside the United States, 

and left it to me to take on the physical journey). That is the power 

of Halliburton’s writing and timeless charm. I am packing my bags! 

134

Book Review 

Mad, Bad and Dangerous 

to Know 

written by 

Ranulph Fiennes 

John W. Lavery 

8 

135

A terrific read, and a book not easily put down once started though 

due to its volume, a hefty 402 pages did make it impossible to digest 

at one sitting. That said it would not do a book of this detailed 

content justice to read it at anything other than a leisurely pace. 

Let’s start by confirming that I found this book so aptly named 

“Mad, bad and dangerous to know” lived up to its title in every 

possible way. 

Chapter one, the Guinness book of Records once described 

Ranulph Fiennes as the “youngest posthumous baronet”. This early 

claim to fame came about because his father, another Ranulph, was 

killed during the Italian Campaign in the Second World War four 

months before his birth. His father died in command of the Royal 

Scots Greys at Salerno. 

From an early stage in life young Ranulph was determined that he 

should be as his father was and especially that he would command 

the Royal Scots Greys. Early childhood begins with a brief 

description of moving in the company of his mother and three elder 

sisters from England to South Africa to live with "Granny Florrie" 

his grandmother. An idyllic time was spent with the native boys 

roaming and exploring in the shadow of Table Mountain. 

Eventually the return to England and Sussex to be enrolled at Eaton 

where he describes the school environment there as hellish and was 

very glad to see the back of it after four years. In 1963 he made his 

way to Germany to join the Royal Scots Greys at a base there. He 

was just eighteen years old and began his Tank training course. 

Soon he was to contemplate becoming a member of the elite force 

the SAS and by 1965 his course papers to join were filed and by 

1966 he became the youngest captain in the army. 

A mad, bad and dangerous prank which went terribly wrong in 

“civi-street” got him into hot water with his superiors and had him 

expelled from the SAS. 

136

Back in the Royal Scots Greys territorials unit he volunteers for 

service in the Sultan’s Armed Forces in Oman and so he left 

England again but not before asking his childhood sweetheart 

Ginny to marry him. 

By the late 1960’s he was on patrol of the ancient Deheoba Camel 

trails in the rugged country north of the Qara Mountains. Living 

months at a time in the scorching deserts, avoiding enemy traps. 

Suffering ulcerating desert sores, sometimes straying over the 

Yemeni border while never developing a routine that would give 

him away to the enemy. Night missions deep into enemy territory. 

Waiting in the sweltering heat of the day, burrowed into a thorn 

bush, while observing maybe yards away from the hide the 

movements of the enemy building stone defensive positions. 



By 1970 Fiennes time in Oman comes to an end and his chosen 

career was ended. He would find a new civilian life that in his own 

words “suited my startling lack of qualifications.” 

A journey into writing began with publishers Hodder and 

Stoughton and his first book “A talent for Trouble” was to earn him 

a modest sum. But even more importantly it was the catalyst that 

began his new career. 

He would organise expeditions which would be sponsored. Then on 

return he would give talks and also write about his adventures and 

travels. All resulting income from this end would be his to live on. 

Soon a series of expeditions followed with varying degrees of 

success. But all had one thing in common - DANGER and the 

distinct possibility that one might not make it back alive. By 1975 

with much planning behind him Fiennes and his team including 

soulmate Ginny who by now was his wife had completed the 

paperwork for expedition sponsorship with over 800 companies. 

The project was titled Transglobe and so was to commence in 1979. 

And so begins another great adventure into the unknown, the 

137

Transglobe expedition which had taken 7 years of intensive planning 

was now finally under way. 

Fiennes descriptions of the Transglobe expedition leaves nothing to 

the imagination and in one passage the stark reality of even the most 

simplest of daily tasks is outlined. “Charlie and I saved time daily 

by never cooking breakfast.” “We merely drank a mug of coffee 

from our vacuum flask, heated the night before.” He then goes on, 

“This gave us the courage to unzip our bags and climb into our 

frosted clothes and boots.” And then he hits us with, “for seven 

months we were to remain in precisely the same clothing without 

washing.” This I think would be an endurance in itself for most of 

us. 

Add to that sleeping in a tent night after night at -40C, frost bite to 

fingers, toes, nose and ears and you have the ingredients of an 

almost hellish existence. As you continue to read his autobiography 

you wonder what makes him want to repeat with similar feats 

having the previous knowledge that in itself would make most of us 

say- enough is enough or more to the point - once is enough. 

Fiennes and his team complete the Transglobe expedition just inside 

3 years and almost immediately begin to plan the next journey into 

danger. Fiennes moving description of his wife’s Ginny's descent 

into the pain filled world of aggressive stomach cancer makes one 

see the soft and tender side of this amazing rugged mountain of a 

man, who was to be by her side right up to the moment that she 

died. 

When I finished the last chapter my mind raced through the 

fantastic journey his life has taken. He is always in control, one 

adventure down another to go, that is his ongoing mode of lifestyle. 

There is no compromise but there is always change, every day lived 

almost to the extreme. Now, as I put the book down for the last 

time I think, where is Ranulph Fiennes today? One thing is for sure, 

wherever it is, it’s probably damned uncomfortable. 

138

Contributors 

Credits: 

All articles and images are the copyright of the their 

respective authors. Ripcord Adventure Journal is grateful 

to all our writers and photographers for permission to 

publish their work. 

Tim Mackintosh-Smith, "The last place in Yemen", 

courtesy of Saudi Aramco World, September/October 

1999. 

Kate Leeming, "Out there and back", is excerpted from 

the book of the same title available from the author's 

website, www.kateleeming.com 

Images on pages 94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 103, 105, 106, 108 and 

the inside front courtesy of Sophie Ibbotson & Max 

Lovell-Hoare; pages 36, 43, 44, 58, 69, 76, 77, 78 and 

opposite the contents page courtesy of Kate Leeming; page 

18 courtesy of Bill Steele; pages 2, 5, 9 and 10 courtesy of 

Robb Saunders; the Cover Image and pages 25, 26, 31 and 

32 courtesy of Chris Higgins; pages 80, 85, 86 and 90 

courtesy of Jonathan Sterck. 

139 

158



Shane Dallas is a professional adventurer, 

travel blogger and speaker with an 

unquenchable passion for travel. 

Tim Lavery is the Director of the World 

Explorers Bureau, the global organisation 

for adventurers and explorers. 

Ami Gigi Alexander is a world traveller 

and writer of tales of place, interwoven 

with memoir and social commentary. Her 

work focuses on being an empowered 

woman, a solo traveller, and finding the 

good in the world. 

Dr. Terry Sharrer is a former Curator at 

the Smithsonian, Editor of Tagline 

(Medical Automation) and member of the 

board of the World Explorers Foundation. 

Paul Devaney's professional background 

is aerospace, he has climbed 6 of the 

"Seven Summits", and received the first 

Charles Howard Bury Award on the 

recommendation of Apollo 11 Astronaut 

Michael Collins for his climbing efforts 

and his contribution to humanitarian relief 

in Nepal following the 2015 earthquake. 

140

Featured writer 

Sophie Ibbotson 

From Afghanistan to South Sudan, Sophie is an explorer who likes 

her adventures with just a hint of danger. An orientalist by training, 

and an entrepreneur and writer by profession, Sophie broke the 

world altitude record for auto rickshaws in 2008 when she drove 

over the 15,397' Khunjerab Pass between Pakistan and China. 

Let's just say that autos don't much care for snow. She has led three 

expeditions to Afghanistan, including two extended treks to explore 

the Wakhan Corridor, and has lapped the globe many times over by 

both car and train. In her commercial life, she promotes investment 

in emerging markets and post-conflict zones, work which has 

enabled her to spend protracted periods in more than 40 countries. 

Highlights include driving a 40' crane from the UK to Kyrgyzstan, 

reviving horse racing in Sudan, tourism development in Kashmir, 

the first private train into Iran, and micro finance initiatives in 

Afghanistan. Oh, and generally being a thorn in the side of the 

FCO. 

141

Featured writer 

Kate Leeming 

As an explorer/adventurer Kate has cycled the equivalent distance 

of twice around the world at the Equator. her greatest achievements 

to date include: 

Breaking the Cycle Expedition – a ten month, 22,040km journey 

across Africa from Point des Almadies, Senegal to Cape Hafun, 

Puntland, Somalia in a continuous line. 

The 25,000km Great Australian Cycle Expedition (The nine month 

journey included 7000km offroad on remote desert tracks. The most 

arduous part of this expedition was the first bicycle crossing of the 

Canning Stock Route (CSR) by a woman. The CSR is 1800km long 

with approximately 1000 sand dunes). 

The 13,400km Trans-Siberian Cycle Expedition. The aim of the five 

month 1993 expedition from St Petersburg to Vladivostok was to 

aid the children of Chernobyl (This is also believed to be the first 

unsupported bicycle crossing of the ‘new’ Russia by a woman). 

142

Publishers 

Ripcord is the adventure travel arm of Redpoint Resolutions, 

a travel risk and crisis response company specializing in 

comprehensive global travel solutions. They serve 

government agencies, corporations and organizations that 

require employees to travel or live abroad. The company is 

owned and operated by special operations veterans and 

physicians who practice wilderness medicine and understand 

the challenges of medical and security emergencies in remote 

environments. 

Ripcord’s global intelligence, evacuation services, essential 

benefits and 24/7 operations center has your back no matter 

where your adventures takes you. 

The World Explorers Bureau (WEB) is a speakers agency 

that represents 70+ explorers and extreme adventurers, men 

and women who have lived with cannibals, dived the deepest 

seas, rowed the oceans, cycled the globe, lived underwater, 

climbed the highest mountains, explored unmapped caves, 

walked, skied and cycled to the Poles, walked in space and 

continue to explore the unexplored. 

WEB Speakers inspire audiences around the world with 

captivating tales of their adventures encapsulating themes 

which include pushing boundaries, leadership, teamwork and 

motivation. 

143

“Let those who wish have their 

respectability - I wanted 

freedom, freedom to indulge in 

whatever caprice struck my 

fancy, freedom to search in the 

farthermost corners of the earth 

for the beautiful, the joyous, 

and the romantic.” 

Richard Halliburton 

144

Published by Redpoint Resolutions & World Explorers Bureau 

www.ripcordadventurejournal.com

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