THE change was dramatic! Less than 12 months previously, the lake was full to the brim with life-giving water. Now, while its surface glittered like the mirror of an inland sea, it was all but a mirage; only in the centre of the once expansive lake was there a hint of moisture, but even that was nothing more than a thin veneer of water over mud that was fast becoming desiccated, cracked and dry.
I was disappointed, having thought that once full and with rain in the intervening months since my last visit, there would be enough water to revel in this inland oasis. But, like most surface-water sources in the vastness of the Gibson Desert, they are ephemeral expanses subject to wind and unrelenting sun; their existence measured in days and weeks, not months or years.
On a large coolabah on the edge of the drying pan, a group of 10 or so white-faced herons perched forlornly and dispirited, their fate sealed by the vanishing waters and their retreat back to more permanent reservoirs cut off by the expansive sea of sand now devoid of any life-giving succour and any hope of escape. They were doomed, and they seemed to know it.
Our fate wasn’t anywhere near as assured, permanent or as dramatic, and we decided to camp on the flat dry pan well away from the spinifex and scrub that dominated the surrounds. And while there was little or no water, Lake Cohen, just off the north-south track that
