Kalinda Station was 263 kilometres west across the Nullarbor. Matey and I set out that morning, crossing the Western Australian border early in the afternoon. At the quarantine station, I surrendered my remaining fresh fruit and vegetables. The highway didn’t veer far from the coast and was punctuated with lookouts across the limestone cliffs. Thirteen kilometres further took us to Eucla, a tiny community with a roadhouse, clinic, police station, and Bureau of Meteorology huts. I booked into the caravan park, and at the little supermarket, I bought fruit and vegetables, a tinned ham, kitchen gloves, and an array of cleaning products. I didn’t know what state the shearers’ kitchen would be in.
It was only sixty-three kilometres the next day to the track that took me to Kalinda Homestead. I
