On The Wallaby, The Diary of a Queensland Swagman by Edward S. Sorenson

September 7.-- I had been told about a bridle-track and a dray road to Juandah. The former was shorter. Therefore, when I saw a track running straight into a dark scrub, and the road going round it, I took the track. It turned out to be a cattle-pad, and run to a mudhole in a deep gully. From there I made a bee-line through the scrub to cut the road. The thorns and twigs caught my swag, knocked my hat off, hooked on to my clothes, and either jerked me back or jerked the piece out. It was soon impressed upon me that my straw hat was not the proper thing to wear in a tangled scrub. Everything ground and rasped and gritted on it; its serrated edges sawed into vine and branch, and the band began to run out like chain stitches. The worst happened when the billycan was knocked out of my hand, and every drop of the precious cold tea I had been taking particular care of was spilt. I was thirsty, too, and had been saving it until I got thirstier. I got thirstier.

At last I struck the road--in thick brigalow. Too thirsty to spell, I plodded along in a lather of sweat and dust. Crossed a flat and rounded two hills. No refreshments. Midday passed, and the dryness continued. I hung on to the road, though at times I was uncertain as to whether I was on it or not. One never feels comfortable on a thoroughfare of that sort, which requires the skill of a tracker to trace; under the present circumstances it was an aggravation.