The music of the road is rock. An impossible barrage of the sharpest shale assaulting the underneath of the poor 4x4.
Along the way, of the 8 or so vehicles in all of this long day, 3 of them now destined to be the tire mans customers. Their cars bowing down into to the ditch or praying upwards into the air - their inhabitants now furiously learning how to 'jack' the thing.
The desert 'Moonscape' is relentless. Rising and falling like a drunk only interspersed by spectacular red dunes on fire with their duty. A haze of dust, history and my squinting eyesight is set at what must be 100 miles away. I know it should only be 15 or so at this altitude but it's a 100 here.
On one implausible escarpment is perched a dozen sinister black shacks. Later I find out they are 'luxury' tents playing host to certifiable rock climbers. I imagine they will wear asbestos gloves and suits to scale the Mountains Of Lava. These suits are presumably illegal now.
Mile after mile of sand, shale, dust, shredded tires, more mountain and splendid desolation. Stunning.
On the horizon I know there are 65 Million year old petrified dunes. I've driven for long enough so when the smallest of signs confirms the road I need to turn off on is ahead I'm right there.
A track turns into nothing.
This place is so remote and so alone in its own spatial cosmos imagine my surprise when the man at the gate asked me my room number.
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