![]() Next morning we lay out our map collection. The road to Kilcowera goes along the fence.'' Next morning, the local copper, who presides alone over hundreds of square kilometres, confirms it. The pub is the only lit building and inside half a dozen people are finishing dinner by a roaring log fire. We turn around and head back to Hungerford. We're down to a quarter-tank of gas now and a half-hour of light, and what you don't want out here is to hit a roo, any time, but especially at night. ![]() We drive on, as you do, reworking our calculations, until finally, 50 or 60 Ks past where the turnoff should have been, it's decision point. This is the climax of much dusty travel.īut as the sun falls and the road roughens, the second turnoff, the one to Kilcowera, doesn't appear. We have food, water, diesel and swags, and the station owner is expecting us - check - so we head happily off. ![]() The Kilcowera road is a dirt track off another dirt track off the slightly wider dirt track that is Hungerford's main street, but it is clearly shown on the map a mere 94 kilometres distant. It's August, and by three o'clock the light is weakening. We're 1300 kilometres from Sydney, headed for Kilcowera, an organic cattle station (don't snort that's what the lady says) from which we hope to view a massive ''breeding event'' involving 60,000 pelicans. The story starts in the red-dirt border-town of Hungerford, population eight, that clings to the dingo fence like an oyster to your anchor-rope.
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