WiFi has been a bit spotty out here in the desert, and I'm kind of loving the unusual absence of my cell phone's chirps and dings, typically indicative of a work email. If you're ever wanting to disconnect and can't stand the idea of yet another boring cruise, the outback is the place to go! My fantasy-of-meat dinner (affectionately called the "Drover's Blowout" by restaurant staff) was a bit less triumphant than I expected. Of the crocodile, bison, kangaroo, camel, barramundi, and baby koala (haha just kidding Jill!) only the kangaroo stood out and I'd already had it before. I was pretty surprised by how completely different the crocodile was from our alligator back home, but the camel was just as wretched as any normal person would expect. There were hits and misses but it was an enlightening if not wildly successful experience, and even Brittany was impressed by the croc. Interestingly, the most exciting part of the night was during the 15 minute walk to the restaurant from our hotel. We clung to a spit of uniformly dry red dirt next to the road and eventually came within one second and a few precious inches of walking, face first, right into a massive spider's web, complete with the requisite grotesquely massive spider. A blinding flash of the glistening silk caught my eye at the last possible moment, and I reflexively let out a surprisingly disturbing guttural groan as I half collapsed to the sidewalk. Kind of a "eeeuuuurrrrrrrrrgggghhhhh". Needless to say, it wasn't my finest or most masculine moment of the trip. Fortunately, given the preposterous proportions of the offending arachnid Brittany gave me a pass and my man card remains in my possession, though its revocation seems sadly imminent. Dutifully as ever, we were standing outside our hotel at 5:50AM yesterday morning, waiting in the darkness for our tour bus to pick us up. We don't take guided tours all that often but it pretty much invariably boils down to me panicking that we'll miss the bus, goading Brittany out of bed at an ungodly hour with a cattle iron, and then sitting outside as the scheduled pickup time comes and goes. And so the ritual continues! A full half hour after our supposed pickup time, and after our optimistically jumping up to board buses only interested in every waiting tourist but us, our truck finally arrived. A chipper young woman with a straggly blonde bun and a bone-deep tan welcomed us aboard a massive vehicle that looks like it should have a Russian ballistic missile launching from where the passengers sit. There were about 18 people in the group, and we learned right out the gate that we'd been mispronouncing the name of the big red rock we were headed out to see from the get-go. Uluru isn't pronounced ooh-LOO-roo, but uh-loo-ROO instead. Believe me I realize this information is absolutely meaningless to anyone but me, but there's no doubt in my mind that I'll have forgotten which pronunciation is correct in about 36 hours. This is where I'll go when me and Brittany start arguing about it. I'll probably be swearing it was the first (incorrect) way, and she'll be able to rightfully gloat over my fish-like memory. We had around five hours of driving to get from Alice Springs to Uluru, so they broke it up by stopping at roadhouses every hour or two. The first one was a camel farm where you could pay a modest $7 to ride one around, and I joined everyone else in the group in saying "pfffffttttttt!" I'll take a ************ exchanging my cash for a chance to have a giant smelly animal repeatedly shove its rock-like hump up my groin. Yes, it is absolutely as unpleasant as it sounds. We did see a few babies though, and they ran around like happily bouncing puppies despite standing taller than me which was surprisingly adorable. I don't buy very many souvenirs on our trips, but my sizzling scalp and artistically sheared bald patch were crying out for a hat, so a stereotypically Australian bush hat sounded like a pretty great idea. Of course, I passed up several opportunities to buy one until our last stop of the day afforded a final opportunity and ended up paying an extra $30 for no reason other than terrible timing, but I now have a super cool kangaroo leather hat! Brittany picked it out of the lot because its got natural scars and scratches all over the hide. Naturally, we conclusively determined it was made from a warrior kangaroo that died in an epic battle with an emu, in space . Sounds legit to me! After a quick lunch at camp we trekked out to a large group of massive dome-like boulders called Kata Tjuta for a quick hike. It was here that we were formally introduced to a new and undeniably mutant species of Australian fly. These babies weren't gigantic like the ones we initially met; they were uniformly tiny and seemed to have an obsessive desire to land on your face. Anywhere would do, as long as there was a possibility of them being inhaled, eaten, or snorted through the nose. They don't bite, they just incessantly land somewhere on your head (probably take a tiny dump), fly for half a second and then land again. No amount of swatting will keep them away, and half a can of deet has approximately the same effect as bathing in honey. Aaarrrgghhhhh! It'll drive ya nuts. We've seen people all over the place that wear giant fly nets over their entire heads, and I've inevitably thought each time, "what a touristy doofus!" Hmm, they're starting to look really, really chic just now... As we drove to Uluru we passed more red earth, much of it made more spectacular by towering flat-bottomed clouds. Each of them hung in the sky like mounds of Cool Whip piled onto invisible glass plates and suspended miles above us. Stepping off the bus, we were hit with 100 degrees of unalduterated heat. Sure it was "dry", but it made me feel sticky all over. It was the kind of heat that makes you think your sneakers will melt like mozzarella cheese on a just-baked pizza. This, I surmised, must be how a turkey feels in a convection oven. But the temperature changes are extreme, and the stifling afternoon sun didn't last long. By the time we clambered out in front of the constantly enlarging Uluru it was a downright cool 87 degrees. From this vantage point the big red rock seemed more like a pale brown loaf, and we stared at it, transfixed in expectation before the sun set. I was surprised by its curving ridges and sometimes sharp, jagged edges. I'd always imagined Uluru as a perfectly smooth and somewhat boring chunk of rock, but it turned out to be far more interesting than all that. Our guide doled out sparkling wine and cheeses as the sun dutifully descended like a glowing ember retreating under an ashy horizon, and every visible surface changed from a muted brown to the fire red we'd been promised in the postcard shops. Then, as quickly as the impossibly vibrant colors had come, they were gone. In an instant, the entire structure turned from a burning umber to an ash gray blob, and the spectacle had vanished. Sure the rock was still there, but there was no magic left in it. Aboriginal women had gathered nearby to sell their artwork and handicrafts to rarely appreciative tourists who now filed past them, occasionally sneaking a short lived glance. It was the first time I'd had the opportunity to see them up close and contemplate what seems to be a truly pitiful and dejected existence. The more I think about their position the more grateful I am that Jehovah already has a fix in the works. There's simply nothing man can do to solve the "aboriginal problem", and Australians will be the first to tell you that. I certainly didn't appreciate the magnitude of the situation, and even now I'm bewildered by the inadequacy of attempted solutions. It's honestly unfathomable. I'd better change the subject now; anything on aborigines gets me into a dangerously introspective mood and it'll be just about impossible for me to write. I was really impressed by the dinner spread back at camp. A eucalyptus centerpiece and abundant bottles of wine adorned a long communal table of beef, pork, and kangaroo. Of course, the roo won out as the most delicious part of the meal. I am really going to miss that when we get back home! I might have to investigate a Sam's Club membership or something; they sell that kind of thing, right? Brittany made the hilariously genuine attempt of saying she's now been camping four times, as if having your meals cooked for you while staying in a permanent tent with a fan and bed qualified as "camping". Oh Brittany, ye hath so much to learn! One of these days I need to take her on a real-deal camping trip so she appreciates the difference. Although...that would probably be a pretty miserable experience for the both of us. Perhaps I'll allow her placating delusions. The alarm went off at the cruel hour of 5am this morning, and a shower that would have been described as "blissfully cold" the previous afternoon was now simply horridly frigid. Once we were all cleaned up (meaning we had scraped a thick layer of salty goop from our foul-smelling bodies) I was excited to finally have the chance to try Vegemite. That one stupid song is just about the only reason any American has ever even heard of the stuff, and I wanted to know what the fuss was all about. I spread a tiny amount onto my warm croissant, took a nibble, and instantly began to uncontrollably dry heave. Yes, it truly is that bad. I honestly couldn't even describe the taste to you because I straight-up don't remember; it seems my brain has mercifully erased the experience from my palate, and the involuntary hacking is all I have to remind me that Vegemite=nasty poo unforgivably described as food. Before we creeped onto the bus in a single-file zombie-esque fashion, one of the Germans passed his phone around so we could all see a picture of the red back (close relative of our black widows) that he found in his tent last night. My first thought was, "wow, what a good thing he saw it before bed!" which was quickly followed by a panicky, "did I check my boots this morning?!" Getting up so early was the best thing we could've done though; we enjoyed a base walk all around Uluru with only a handful of other people and temperatures at a pre-furnace level. We power walked a bit to break away from the group, and for long stretches of time there was just me, Brittany, and the constantly changing rock. A cool breeze blew off the steep slopes which kept us from drowning in sweat and spoiled every fly's plans of permanently colonizing the inside of my nose. Wind over tall dry grasses was all we could here until passing a tree full of tiny birds that chirped and squeaked like a hundred rubber dog toys. Pick up that bright pink bone the next time you're in a pet store and give it a good squeeze. You've just heard an Australian bird. I relished touching the rock and pensively considered the eons to which it stood as a silent witness. Finally confronting it up close, I realized it's far more irregular then I ever would've guessed, even from our sunset lookout point last night. Its shape is more similar to an arrowhead than a big solid oval, and every crag caught the morning light in a different way giving the impression of many differently colored boulders than one gigantic natural edifice. By the time we'd finished our circuit on the flat, elevation-free ground (Brittany's forte) the sun had made its dramatic entrance and we'd started to cook. There's a little cultural center on site where you can watch aboriginal women create traditional art, and we retreated here with a cold Coke Zero. The artwork itself was breathtaking, covered in brightly colored dots and swirls. Two women sat on the floor in a corner and slowly cranked out some more. They seemed terribly depressed, and I've never felt so distant from someone sitting within five feet of me. I'm tellin' ya, this aborigine thing has me in knots. A legit, hand-made boomerang sounded like a pretty neat souvenir, but the $200-$450 tags scared me off. I totally get that some real skill goes into making these things, but at the end of the day it's a curved hunk of wood...the end. Guess I'll have to stick with the $5 Chinese ones at the airport! Any guesses on how many throws I'll get before it dives straight into the ground and shatters into a hundred tiny pieces? My guess: one. We'll be hiking the Kings Canyon tomorrow and it's a couple hours from where we were this morning so...more driving. The roads to our new bush camp are just as desolate as you'd imagine. The sun shines so brightly off the desert that you squint to see even with sunglasses, and a quick look out in front of our truck revealed nothing but a perfectly straight highway extending endlessly into the distance. I'd probably last about an hour behind the wheel before falling asleep of boredom and careening off the road to a dusty death. Yup, good thing I'm not driving! We did get a nice jolt from the monotony when a lean looking dingo lazily sauntered across our lane and forced us to slam the brakes to a near stop. Come to think of it, that was the first dingo we'd seen out here. It doesn't stir up the same excitement as a wallaby or koala, but it's one more quintessentially Australian thing we can check off our list of things-to-see. It took a day, but the group has kind of settled in and tonight was the most fun we've had at camp so far. We're a pretty eclectic bunch from all over the world, and trading travel stories - or explaining why Americans do what the rest of the world perceives as nuts - never gets old. Our tents are wedged against the face of a beautiful sandstone ridge that glowed red (like everything else) as the sun set. This is the first place we've been where fires weren't straight up banned, so we got to sit around a big bonfire and roast cherry marshmallows with big dead sticks. The evenings are nearly as cool as the days are hot (but still not cool enough for us to wear those jackets we were oh so stupid enough to bring) and gooey marshmallows are always worth a singed appendage or three. Rachel, our Aussie guide, brought out the Vegemite and spread it over some mallows before roasting them. She tried to get the rest of us to do the same, but after our breakfast experimentations we were nearly unanimous in absolutely hating the stuff - possibly to the point of searching out unopened jars so they could be destroyed before being accidentally consumed by poor and innocent children. A heated debate commenced over whether she actually liked it or was just trying to see what she could get us stupid foreigners to do, but we didn't take the stomach-churning bait. It might just be something you've got to grow up with but oh my golly goodness it's bad! A bunch of people were sleeping in swags outside by the fire, and Rachel dutifully explained an ancient anti-dingo protection technique that I swear was pulled straight out of a SpongeBob Squarepants episode. It involved building a salt-filled moat and multiple dirt barrier walls, and we were rolling as we laughed...you know, once we finally realized she wasn't serious and that our chances of being devoured by a pack of late-night-munchies-crazed dingoes were relatively small. Things got a little rowdy later on so Brittany and I headed to bed, where we were inadvertently serenaded to sleep by an Italian that sounds exactly like a popular plumber and an American that's every bit as loud as his Hawaiian shirt. I'm sure they had fun, but something tells me they'll regret that fifth glass of wine when the alarms go off at 4:30am tomorrow and we try, yet again, to beat that peskily punctual sun to the punch.