Desert Rain and Dry Rivers

The outback has a particular stillness that is calming and profound. In the evening around a campfire, we know how lucky we are to live here, where time is slower, and we are so close to the heartbeat of a land that is as old as time. This land does not give up its secrets easily. When early evening descends, it is time for walks and reflection, bringing a calmness at the end of the day before the beauty of star-speckled night unfolds. Even in the busyness of life, one cannot avoid the sharp touch of winter daylight transforming into darkness, becoming the backdrop to the closure of a manic day.

At this point, the landscape fights to get our attention. The slanting half-light and the silver ghost gums contribute to the beauty of the evening. How did we get to this season? How did we make it through the hours of the day to this moment? Do we even know? Why do we know - or why do we not?

I remember camping a year ago out at Birthday Waterhole in the depth of an overcast winter. We made a campfire that burned the cold away. The sky domed overhead with constellations of stars like tiny silver coins. It was just us and the white sand of the empty waterhole. Reached by a four-wheel-drive track 14.4 km off the turn-off from Namatjira Drive, this time the campsite was empty. The sand was white.

Birthday Waterhole in winter

  

Although some water now fills Birthday Waterhole, lingering from earlier storms in the year, the levels are low as there has again been no recent rain. It is mid-year now, and the sky is still cloudless. 

The bottom of the Todd River is also full of white sand. The Todd River winds through Alice Springs, currently without the deep water that I have seen flow within its banks only a handful of times over the last few years. I walk the length of the river behind my house in the last hours of daylight, and even dry, it is still beautiful. The ghost gums are as white as ivory, and the West MacDonnell Ranges loom in the background, the ridges uneven like the back of a caterpillar. The fallen leaves and twigs under my feet are dry, too, and crumble easily. Even in this waterless land, people still check the sky for rainclouds.

In the harsh environment of the outback, there is still life, and there is still hope. The winter wind might blow as sharp as ragged glass, and the landscape might yet be waiting, but we know that eventually, somehow, the rain will come. The evening is a time to take stock of the day, reorient, and face the future, keeping faith that what it brings is good and durable. Hopefully, it will include not only a flowing Todd River but a network of moving waterways across Central Australia, as other inland creeks and waterholes swell in the desert. It has happened once earlier this year. It is a fact that since that downpour, the rain has been sparse and scatty. But it is also a fact that it will happen again.

We just don't know how long we'll have to wait.