A Backblocker's Pleasure Trip

From The Corner to Broken Hill, from Yulpunga to Bourke this great triangle, the Cinderella of the State, is the home of the duststorm, the place where the monsoon revels in all its might and glory. Samples of real estate are blown up from these western plains, and distributed over the continent, and rained into two oceans. Red sand that has been swept up hereabouts and from farther out, after being borne a thousand miles overland, has fallen on ships many leagues away from land. The country is mostly flat, thinly grassed in dry summers, and the loose surface soil is torn away and lifted to form the immeasurable clouds that wreck havoc and misery where they rain, leaving the ground scarred and swept as though it had been washed by a strong flood.

Sometimes the storms are gathering for days, and you see the sky overcast with a muggy or reddish glare, and secretly dread the coming blast. Yet as it appears here, it is a magnificent sight. The enormous banks of dust come whirling and whizzing across the country, like rolling folds upon folds of storm clouds bowling over the landscape and seeming to touch the very heavens in the mighty wall that obscures everything. Before this wall the air is quite clear; there are no leaders, whiffs or puffs to indicate that the splendid, convulsive columns are formed of dust. It is at times appalling in its magnitude and fearful grandeur. Suddenly your world is plunged into darkness; you see nothing; feel only the sting of the driving sand against your hands and face. Your nostrils and eyes are filled; you are blinded and suffocated, and tears stream from your eyes. Your horse turns from the blast, and cattle turn and drive you before them. You are helpless; you can only lie down flat, in a deep gully if possible, and let it sweep over you. It is gone in a few minutes.