Scattered cumulus clouds hang innocently 1,000 feet above, casting occasional shadows over the rugged folding ridges of the Lolworth ranges in Far North Queensland. To the West and North of the Gazelle's wingtip, the White Mountain National Park glimmers dully, looking for all the world like some long forgotten ancient Grecian city, overgrown and awaiting discovery.
I track South, passing over the wrinkled earth as it plunges and dives into snaking creek lines, sprouting massive gumtrees that seem to be searching for the sun amongst the shadows of their retaining landscape. From time to time, a semi-permanent oasis appears on the barren land, dark stained pools held within granite rocks, remnants of the last season's flooding, and around their edges, a collage of animal pads tracking in and away, and I drift lazily by, in the not-so-still air, perhaps 800 feet above, and see it all.
Soon, and just as the Garmin 76 and Pilot 3 predict, I see the faint impression of Torrens Creek as it pours itself languidly out of the mass of fractured white granite mountains beyond.
Another 10 nautical miles and the township of Torrens Creek will be waiting, and we track on until there it is, barely three miles ahead and obscured by a shadow as a lonely cloud slides overhead. The open savannah beyond the ranges behind me have given way to the red sands of our countries interior. This is desert country now.
Over-flying the town and watching as a group of locals play a Saturday morning game of cricket, I make my second call on the local frequency, and again no-one answers. Joining circuit, the Rotax throttled back to a smooth hum, we descend onto final, sink to within 100 feet of the red strip of bare ground running perhaps 1,200 metres in front of me, then level out to inspect this World War Two era supply strip.
The thing you notice first is this is not a maintained runway. Solid red ant beds grow from the soil and blend in to surprise the unwary. Young eucalypt saplings encroach toward the centre-line, maybe six years of growth have gone into their ten feet of height.
Hmmm!
Abeam the windsock hoop, the windsock itself long ago devoured by the elements, I throttle up to full power and the Gazelle scrambles upward to a more respectable altitude to conduct a low-level circuit, and we repeat the process.
A whirly-gig snaps across the strip in front of us, a plume of red dust licking at the surrounding timber, and a warning that the cooling winter air that had subdued the thermal activity so far is beginning to lose its authority. Just another thing to deal with.
By the third pass, I've selected a portion of bare ground to act as my landing zone and set up an approach into the now gusting breeze. Pick a touchdown point, then make sure that is where the wheels DO touch down. It's time for a short field landing. When did you last do one of those? Last landing actually. In fact pretty much every landing I conduct in the Gazelle, is. No problem on my home field, with its relatively clear approaches and manicured surface. Only this isn't my home base field. Things seem a little different coming in over 600 metres of red, lumpy, tree studded, once airstrip now threshold. A little different indeed!
The wheels touch down with a slight humming noise, and the deceleration is rapid as inertia is dissipated into the fine red sand. The Rotax is shut down after a moment at idle, and it's out onto the deserted airstrip for a quick look around and a few photos. Tracks in the sandy surface tell the story. Only local town dogs and dingoes have roamed this field. I'm probably the first aircraft here for a long, long time, and it couldn't be better.
A short call on the Iridium sat phone to satisfy my own "new landing zone" SAR requirements and I'm on my own again, ready for the adventure to progress. Run up complete and time for a short field take-off. Full power, weight off the nose wheel and wait to encourage the craft into flight. And wait. Confirm full throttle and continue waiting. Then it seems the seat has grabbed me and the little Skyfox is lurching forward full of pent up enthusiasm. A tap on the brakes and we're climbing strongly. Lesson learnt. Dessert sand hangs onto aircraft wheels like a bog. Hmmm. If it ever rained out here life could become rather interesting.
Level at one thousand feet above ground and 63 knots across it, I see the sharp pointed hill showing on the edge of the propeller arc, marking the township of Pentland, my next destination.
We pass the Burra range and I circle twice, over this weathered and crumbling extension of the White Mountains, with its cliffs and crevices, then turn back on track and pass across the timbered landscape again, spattered with blobs of wattle, showing gold in colour, as if Pro Hart had been given a tin of yellow paint, a shotgun and carte blanche. It looks good from up here.
A call on the radio almost confirms the lack of other craft, and I line up to the familiar RFDS rated Pentland airstrip, and as the GPS flicks to 1.57 nautical miles, I close the throttle and trim for 53 knots, for the third time broadcasting my intentions to anyone willing to listen. From this height, according to my aircraft's Pilot Manual, I will touch down 200 metres beyond the approach threshold. I hold the speed and trust what the manual says. The visual clues of my home airstrip are lacking, no longer here to help access our progress.
There is only the airspeed to hold accurately, and judgement. The same as if the failure was real. Not surprisingly, it works to within 100 metres, and the Gazelle touches down without further assistance from the throttle, and we roll to a stop on the well-maintained hard packed airstrip.
Another photo opportunity, a brief call on the sat phone and we're airborne again. Thirty nautical miles up the valley is the base airstrip, and the Skyfox takes to it like a horse turned to home with 78 knots showing on the GPS, and the Rotax purring like the svelte little Austrian she is.
We cross over the rounded topped ranges and suddenly the aerial corrugations begin. At 300 feet above ground they dissipate into smoothness, and we join a low-level circuit and land easily at the Gazelle's home base, knowing just when to expect the sink over those towering Eucalyptus, and already leaning into that gust of wind that seems constantly to be rolling in from the thicket of black ti-tree, and you realize just how familiar things can become. Realize, in fact, that a little adventure flight every now and then, no matter how local it is, can hold more value to your skills as a pilot, than a thousand flights in a familiar environment.
So why not mix things up a little? Add a new airstrip to the logbook. Isn't that what adventure is all about? to involve yourself in something new and exciting?
Aircraft and adventure fit too neatly to ignore it, so go for a flight somewhere different, and add a little more to that unassuming bag of experience sitting invisibly by your side.
