15/04/26 Renmark to Chowilla Camp 11: Aah The Serenity.

Time to go.

I stood beside my bicycle, a large red pannier in each hand.

"You must be in a boat, said the man who was wiping the window sills of the Renmark Hotel.

I asked how he had come to that conclusion.

"You've got the fuel containers he said, proud of his deductive powers.

" They're panniers for a bike." I held them up. "I'm on a bicycle."

"Oh. They look like fuel containers"

Should've gone to Specsavers, is all I can say.

I took forever to leave Renmark, walking up and down the riverfront looking for a place to fill my water bottles. I needed water bottles because for two days I wouldn't have access to drinking water without going through a painful process of boiling or filtering the river water.

With 12 litres of water on board, the bike was heavy and unwieldy. I pedaled past irrigation channels, through citrus orchards and neat rows of stone fruit trees in full autumn dress before leaving the bitumen and heading out toward the Chowilla Game Reserve.

Finally!  Someone put effort into their mailbox!

Pelicans on the river.

Into the wilderness.

The river took itself off to my right, and I pedalled instead along Chowilla Creek. Beyond the creek stretched the floodplain with glimpses of Lake Woolpolool and Merret, and beyond them a distant line of red cliffs lining the river.

The road demanded attention and sporadic trucks showered me with dust. A cheery couple on their way to Wentworth stopped to check that I was OK. A man from SA Water, coming back from the lock, stopped in great excitement. He was a cyclist and had been following the "unofficial" Indie Pac race which wasn't a race but just a collection of people who happened to all start riding from Fremantle at the same time to see who could get to Sydney first.

"I want to go by touring too!" he said."I just don't have the time!" He was too busy running triathlons instead, where he proudle told me he had chosen to be bad at three sports rather than good at one. And off he went in a cloud of dust, but not before telling me about Peter. Peter was from Germany and cycled through here two years ago, making such an impression that everyone was telling me about Peter when they saw my bicycle.

By the time I got to the Game Reserve I was struggling to get up the hills. I stopped in every spot of shade for a rest until it eventually dawned on me that maybe I was bonking and I should eat something. Two muslei bars later and I was back in the game and in no time at all there was the entry to the SA Parks campground.

Alas, I couldn't visit Lock 6, thereby ruining my perfect streak of Lock-visiting. Never mind, I set up camp beside Chowilla Creek and settled in for a spot of silence and contemplation. Ahh, the serenity, apart from all the banging and clattering by whoever was working on the bridge.

The banging men all went home at 17:00, and Chowilla creek was silent apart from the slap of fish jumping in the water. A single kangaroo lolloped along the campground track, veering off into the saltbush before I could take a photo. I cooked tea and learned important lessons about not combining two spicy dishes into one pot, and waiting until the flies clocked off before opening a can of tuna.

And then the mosquitoes clocked on, and I retired for the night.