Not long out of Winton, birthplace of Waltzing Matilda, and we are traveling through huge tracts of flat dry grass. In some places there is not a tree or a shrub in sight in any direction. Occasionally we pass small herds of cattle, clustered around a water hole or gathering in the meagre shade of one of the few remaining trees. It is hard for me to imagine why any one would think that cattle don’t need any shade.
Arriving at Mt Isa is a bit of a shock. After 2000 km of amazing countryside a massive smoke stack rises up over the hillside. The town is completely dominated by the mine, a black industrial scar on this incredible landscape. The words on a roadside monument marking the transition from one language country to another land summed it up so well.
RIVER AND ROCKFACE AND TREE, TAKEN AND CUT OFF FROM ME, IN HEARTACHE AND FEAR
Here in the dusty red earth of the great mother Australia I saw a poignant parallel between the scarred, gouged earth I was witnessing and the mutilation of the feminine that is the topic of our journey.
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