DOWN UNDER, BOTTOM UP
It was early; way before breakfast and before the Australian outback heat set in. As far as the eye could see – and I could see about 30 miles easily – nothing moved. I was just south of Laura and as far north in Australia as I could ride, the Tarmac turning to full-on dirt just up the road. I saw a scruffy wooden sign at the side of the road pointing up a track to 'Split Rock Paintings'. I stopped, parked the bike, hung my jacket and helmet over the bars, and let the morning quiet spill over me.
The walk up the rocky track was hot and dry. Still nothing moved, not even the spindly leaves on the gum trees. Over a small rise, I saw a massive boulder of rock with steep overhangs blocking my path. Under the overhangs were, according to UNESCO, some of the finest rock paintings in the world. Dozens of them, up to 30,000 years old. And there they were – no fences, no guides, no trippers, nothing to pay, no warning signs to separate them and their overpowering presence from a grubby biker from Tasmania. I stayed
