Racecourse plain.
Surrounded by scrubs.
A bare slope.
A yawning chasm.
Appearance of the peak.
Gleaming pools.
Cypress pines.
The tropic clime of youth.
Proceed westwards.
Thick scrubs.
Native method of procuring water.
A pine-clad hill.
A watercourse to the south.
A poor supply of water.
Skywards the only view.
Horses all gone.
Increasing temperature.
Attempt ascending high bluff.
Timberless mountains.
Beautiful flowers.
Sultry night.
Wretched encampment.
Depart from it.
I had come to the decision, as it was impossible to follow the Finke
through the gorge in consequence of the flood, and as the hills were
equally impracticable, to fall back upon the tributary I had noticed
the day before yesterday as joining the river from the west, thinking
I might in twenty or thirty miles find a gap in the northern range
that would enable me to reach the Finke again. The night was very
cold, the thermometer at daylight stood at 28 degrees. The river had
risen still higher in the night, and it was impossible to pass through
the gorge. We now turned west-south-west, in order to strike the
tributary. Passing first over rough stony ridges, covered with
porcupine grass, we entered a sandy, thickly-bushed country, and
struck the creek in ten miles.
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