The Dig Tree: A True Story of Bravery, Insanity, and the Race to Discover Australia's Wild Frontier Hardcover - 2002

First line

When Captain James Cook stood on the deck of the Endeavour in March 1770 and felt the hot dry winds filling her sails off Australia's southern coast, he declared that the country's interior would be nothing but desert.

Excerpt

One

Terra Australis Incognita

Let any man lay the map of Australia before him, and regard the blank upon its surface, and then let me ask him if it would not be an honourable achievement to be the first to place foot in its centre.
--Charles Sturt, 1840

When Captain James Cook stood on the deck of the Endeavour in March 1770 and felt the hot dry winds filling her sails off Australia's southern coast, he declared that the country's interior would be nothing but desert. Nearly a century later, the same sultry breeze blew down from the heart of the continent, removing the morning chill from Melbourne's Royal Park. As the sun rose, a small group of men emerged from the row of new canvas tents pitched under the gum trees. The warm air in their faces reminded them of the task that lay ahead.

It was Monday, August 20, 1860--the day that Australia's most elaborate and audacious expedition would set out to solve a geographical mystery that had confounded the European settlers since their arrival in Botany Bay in 1788. The Victorian Exploring Expedition was charged with crossing the driest inhabited continent on earth--an island the size of the United States of America, home to such extraordinary creatures as the kangaroo, the emu, and the duck-billed platypus. What other strange beasts or lost civilizations might lie hidden in a land that had rebuffed European explorers for so long?

Despite the early hour, people were already making their way down Melbourne's elegant boulevards, determined to catch a glimpse of the men, whom journalists had already dubbed "pioneers of civilisation and progress, some of who perchance might never return." The crowds bustled toward the park expecting to see a highly organized operation. Instead, they found a scene of "picturesque confusion."

Men rushed about, cursing under their breath as they tripped over the twenty tons of equipment that lay scattered on the grass. Artists jostled to find the best view and newspaper journalists elbowed their way through to examine the chaos. The Argus reported:

At one part, might be observed a couple of "associates," already dressed in their expeditionary undress uniform (scarlet jumper, flannel trousers, and cabbage-tree hat), busily engaged in packing; at another, a sepoy might be seen occupied in tying together the legs of a sheep. Orders were being rapidly issued and rapidly executed, and there was, indeed, every indication of the approach of a movement of an extraordinary character.

Many spectators made straight for the specially constructed stables on one side of the park. They were intrigued by the strange bellowing noises and peculiar odor emanating from the building. Those who managed to thrust their way inside were rewarded with a glimpse of four "Indian" sepoys, attired in white robes and red turbans, trying to calm a small herd of camels. Mochrani, Matvala, Gobin, Golah Singh, Linda, Tschibik, and their companions had been imported to conquer the deserts of central Australia. The animals were the pride of the expedition and enjoyed a level of care normally reserved for visiting English opera singers. In preparation for the journey, they had each been fitted with a waterproof rug, complete with a hole for the hump, along with two sets of camel shoes, "each made of several folds of leather, and shod with iron," designed for traveling over stony ground. Even river crossings had been prepared for. "If it becomes necessary to swim the camels," boasted the Argus, "air bags are to be lashed under their jowls, so as to keep their heads clear when crossing deep streams."

People milled about stroking, patting, and getting in the way. Then, as the police tried to evict the inquisitive onlookers, pandemonium erupted outside. A passing horse had smelled the new beasts, and displaying the customary equine revulsion for the camel, it bolted through the crowd, throwing its rider and breaking her leg. Not to be outdone, a camel broke loose and chased a well-known police officer across the park:

The gentleman referred to is of large mould, and until we saw his tumbling feat yesterday, we had no idea that he was such a sprightly gymnast. His down-going and uprising were greeted with shouts of laughter, in which he good-naturedly joined. The erring camel went helter-skelter through the crowd, and was not secured until he showed to admiration how speedily can go "the ship of the desert."

In the center of the turmoil, standing on top of a wagon, was a tall, flamboyant Irishman, with flashing blue eyes and a magnificent black beard. Shouting orders in a strong Galway accent, he was trying (and failing) to impose order on the mayhem below. Expedition leader Robert O'Hara Burke grew ever more impatient as he tried to squeeze too much equipment onto too few camels, horses, and wagons.

The expedition was already running hopelessly behind schedule, but as fast as his men tried to organize the stores, more people descended in a frenzy of curiosity. They inspected the rifles and ammunition, sat down at the cedar-topped dinner tables, and discussed the relative advantages of the bullock cart versus the American wagon. The expedition doctor, Hermann Beckler, recalled later, "no member of the expedition could see another, none could work with another, none could call another--such was the crush among the thousands who thronged to see our departure."

The Victorian Exploring Expedition had been organized by a committee of Melbourne's most important men. In July 1851 Victoria had proudly severed its ties with its parent colony of New South Wales and this grand enterprise was designed to show off the achievements of a new and ambitious colony. Every eventuality was prepared for using the latest inventions. One "hospital camel" was fitted with an enclosed stretcher, which would "afford capital accommodation for invalids, should sickness unfortunately visit the party." In order to cope with dry conditions, each man carried a "pocket charcoal filter, by means of which he will be able to obtain drinkable water under the most unfavourable circumstances," and should anyone get lost, the party carried "an abundance of signals, from the rocket and the blue light to the Union Jack and the Chinese gong." As the Age remarked, "Never did an expedition set forth under, on the whole, brighter auspices. Everything that could possibly be furnished, as in any way useful or auxiliary to the expedition, has been given it." The problem was--where to put it all?

By lunchtime the crowd had swelled to around 15,000, a good turnout for a city of 120,000. An impromptu band was formed and a carnival atmosphere swept through the park, compounding the general disarray and giving the proceedings "a very gay and animated appearance." Whispers began to circulate that certain "entertainments" could be procured in the bushes around the edge of the park and a "sly grog shop" opened up behind the camel stables.

By mid-afternoon an expedition member confirmed one of those rumors by appearing amongst the crowd "a little too hilarious through excess of beer." Burke had already dismissed two of his party for disobedience and he now fired ex-policeman Owen Cowan on the spot. The expedition was three men down--and it had not even finished packing.

One man avoided the revelry. Refusing to be interviewed or to have his photograph taken, a neatly dressed young Englishman stayed inside his tent, wrapping his scientific instruments and placing them inside custom-built mahogany boxes. Surveyor, astronomer, meteorologist, and third in command, William John Wills packed his nautical almanacs, sextant, compass, theodolite, chronometer, barometer, thermometer, anemometer, telescope, sketchbooks, notebooks, specimen jars, and bottles of preserving fluid.

Wills was a born scientist. It was his mission to discover, record, and explain the world around him, and now at the age of twenty-six he had the opportunity to cross an entire continent, from the Southern Ocean to the Gulf of Carpentaria. Wills had no doubt that scientific observation would soon dispel the mystique of the Australian interior as surely as it would explain away religion and other superstitions. He expected the journey to last more than two years.

The expedition had been due to depart at one o'clock in the afternoon but "hour after hour passed in preparation for starting." After lunch the deputy leader, George Landells, who had special responsibility for the camels, delayed proceedings even further by losing his temper when it was suggested his animals should carry an extra 150 kilograms each. Burke was becoming flustered. With the city's dignitaries waiting to offer the official farewell, he was facing the embarrassing prospect of having to leave with only half his party. Impulsively, and with little regard for the cost, he hired two extra American-style wagons and ordered that the rest of the supplies be loaded at once.

When the column of camels, horses, and wagons finally assembled shortly before four o'clock, the mood became patriotic. It was as if the city of Melbourne were saluting its troops as they strode off into battle. Burke returned to his tent, changed into his explorer's uniform, and then addressed the crowd. For a man who often had plenty to say, his speech was awkward:

On behalf of myself and the Expedition I beg to return you my most sincere thanks. No expedition has ever started under such favourable circumstances as this. The people, the government, the committee--they all have done heartily what they could do. It is now our turn; and we shall never do well till we justify what you have done in showing what we can do!

In private Burke was more forthright. "I will cross Australia," he told his friends, "or perish in the attempt."

As the band struck up "Cheer, Boys, Cheer," the crowd applauded and the explorers began to march. It was an exotic cavalcade. Dressed in traditional "oriental" attire, George Landells took the lead on an enormous bull camel, waving to the spectators and relishing the attention. Burke followed on Billy, his favorite gray horse, and behind him came the Indian sepoys, the scientists, the packhorses, and the American-style wagons. The entire procession was half a kilometer long. "Never have we seen such a manifestation of heartfelt interest in any public undertaking as on this occasion," the Argus declared, "the oldest dwellers in Australia have experienced nothing equal

to it."

Among the vehicles swaying out of Royal Park was one extraordinary contraption. It was a wagon designed so that "at a very short notice it can be taken off the wheels, and put to all the uses of a river punt, carrying an immense load high and dry on the water." This elaborate construction revealed the general uncertainty about what lay ahead for the explorers. Some believed the Australian interior would reveal nothing more than a vast desert; others fantasized about mountain ranges, fertile plains, lost civilizations, and wild animals unknown to science. A few believed the semisubmersible wagon might be needed to sail across an inland sea. The truth was--nobody knew.

It was 4:30 when the expedition left the park. Ahead lay a journey of at least 5,000 kilometers, the equivalent of marching from London to Moscow and back, or making the round trip from New York to Las Vegas. As the rousing speeches faded away and the crowd dispersed, the magnitude of the task became apparent. Several of the wagons became bogged down in the soft ground at the edge of the park. One broke down completely just beyond the camels' manure heap.

By the time Burke coaxed his recalcitrant convoy out of Melbourne in 1860, it was the age of overland exploration. Most of the world's great maritime voyages were over and every continent but Antarctica found itself being poked, prodded, and plundered by scientists, missionaries, traders, and tyrants. In the course of the nineteenth century Lewis and Clark blazed the Oregon Trail, William Wallace formulated evolutionary theory in Southeast Asia, David Livingstone disappeared into the depths of the Zambezi, and Friedrich von Humboldt traversed Venezuela, gingerly cataloguing the properties of the electric eel.

Australia revealed its secrets with reluctance. Unlike America, where the pioneers had spread out west as fast as their wagons could carry them, Australia's first colonies were convict settlements. The last thing the British government had in mind was a mass exploration of the surrounding area. This policy of containment was assisted by the founding of Sydney in 1788 beside the natural prison of the Great Dividing Range. The new immigrants spent the first few decades simply trying to survive, and when they felt secure enough to travel farther afield they found they were pinned to the east coast by the towering sandstone cliffs of the Blue Mountains.

Some convicts were convinced that China lay on the other side of the range, others told stories of fearsome warriors, savage kingdoms, and dangerous wild animals. These myths were propagated by overworked army officers, keen to emphasize the lurid consequences of escape from the prison farms. But as conditions in Sydney improved, and the fetters of convict society were loosened, pioneers spilled north and south searching for new pastures along the edges of the continent and helped set up the cities of Melbourne, Adelaide, and Brisbane.

Despite the opportunity to explore a landmass of 7.5 million square kilometers (about two-thirds the size of Europe), the new settlers showed a marked hesitancy to leave the coast. It seems strange that a new society could cling to the hemline of its adopted continent for so long without knowing what lay in the center--but with a small population and plenty of fertile soil, there was little incentive to travel inland. Even today, more than 80 percent of the Australian population lives within thirty kilometers of the coast.

As the towns grew into cities, people came to regard "the bush" with a mixture of apathy and apprehension. They might never have seen a koala or a wombat in the wild; the nearest they came to a kangaroo was when they walked over the skin rugs in their English-style cottages. The subtle olive-greens and silver-grays of the eucalyptus forests seemed pallid in comparison. Settlers like John Sherer in the 1850s regarded the Australian landscape as a source of tedium and discomfort:

There can be no walk, no journey of any kind, more monotonous than one through the bush ...there is no association of the past connected with it... Imagination is at a standstill--fairly bogged, as your body may be in a mud swamp. There are no sacred graves...no birthplaces of great men. Nothing of this kind; all is deadly dull, uninspiring hard work.

The first attempts to penetrate farther inland were often individual excursions by ambitious farmers. They took off into the unknown, armed with little more than a swag, a rifle, and a healthy dose of enthusiasm. Little by little, these unsung heroes of Australian exploration extended their knowledge of the surrounding countryside. They might discover abundant grasslands and giant forests or stumble over nuggets of gold. But as they fumbled farther afield, the fertile coastal safety net gave way and the landscape assumed a more menacing aspect.