Bees. Hundreds of tiny stingless bees swarm around like flies and, though cuter to look at, still settle mercilessly on sweat-covered arms and legs. When the first get attracted by the dampness of an eye or ear, the protection of a head net doesn’t sound so ridiculous anymore. Luckily, similar to all sane souls in the vastness of this Western Australia national park, they avoid the midday heat, when the sun turns the soft ochre sand into a pain-endurance test for bare feet and the air flickers in the distance, creating fantastic mirages on the burning hot asphalt of the black shimmering roads. And when the ground temperature rises just enough and the wind comes at just the right angle a little tornado is born, swirling around, gathering sand and bits of the straw-like spinifex grass that grows here everywhere, making its way through the milky-green leaves of short eucalyptus trees, enthusiastically crossing campsites, toppling over everything not bolted to the ground or tied to trees. Like gazebos. And tents. Whose flynets are a poor defence against the tiny dust particles, so the rain cover is required, turning the small home into a sauna at night. And while the moon is gone the stars come out, the milky way just visible in the absence of light pollution, its beauty leaving the dingoes with nothing to say but admiring howls. Such a stunning similarity to dogs. Just thinner. Not a lot to eat here, unless they catch some birds. Or the odd sand goanna. Or one of the extremely shy rock wallabies. All of them most likely gathering close to the last drops of freshwater during these last dry days, waiting for the wet to come back. Though the gorges here are gorgeous. The few which haven’t dried out yet and are more than just dirty-green puddles of stagnating water, bear strong waterfalls, massaging backs and arms in just the right spots, long rivers and creeks with lively vegetation and shade-spending trees, large and inviting water holes full of fish and surrounded by chirping birds and crickets, deep inside hundred-meter-tall canyons, not even visible from above. The bush-camper getting tired of the lack of showers has thus a reasonably good substitute, if they know where to look for the refreshing blue. In that way even late-risers ill-planned midday hikes become sufferable. Not a lot of campsites are open during this off-season and they are far from full. The few faces met on the way show up in regular intervals; everyone seems to go in the same direction. After three days, the whole tourist population in Karijini knows each other and all are heading to Exmouth after. Cause that’s what people do. Still so predictable. Travel suggestions are being exchanged, although the most valuable information is still gathered at the tourist information. One of the few places where their help is actually helpful, because reception is bumpy, internet access scarce and information in it outdated and lacking. So, when the friendly receptionist with an urge to have conversation drops the sentence ‘and this road is questionable, lots of flat tires’ one takes her advice to heart and changes travel plans immediately. And see, a few days later, following a longish detour on a sealed road, compared to the ‘questionable’ unsealed one, there are some familiar faces at the side of the highway, looking desperate and tired, about to change their second flat tire in twenty-four hours because their receptionist at the tourist information was not nearly talkative enough. In the end though everyone makes it to Exmouth.