He shouldn’t have made it out. But he did!
In October 1971, Jack had flown into Darwin from Maningrida, in Central Arnhem Land to buy a motor car. He found an old, second-hand, short-wheel based Land Rover that he proudly turned eastward for the three-hundred and fifty-kilometre drive back out to his Djinang country.
Coincidently, the Wet Season arrived early that year; rivers rose dramatically and the bush tracks became impassable: for most. But our traveller had a lifetime’s experience: a little bit of rain was not going to stop Jack Mirritji!
Six weeks later, about an hour shy of Maningrida, I came across the Land Rover, Jack’s backside protruded out from the engine bay, a large number of engine-parts lay around the vehicle. There was also a blue tarp with six large barramundi thereupon.
“Gidday Balang. Gamak?” “Yer, I’m OK Wamali. Da engine’s playing up a bit, so I been down onto the Thompson for a bit of fishing. Thought I’d take some tucker back for the mob.”
I looked into the engine bay. Jack had the cylinder head off and I was gobsmacked to see six large beer cans sitting where steel pistons usually sit. “Yer, he started to slow down, and I found the piston-rings finished. These beer cans, dare steel top and bottom provide enough push to keep things ticking along. Gamak properly!”
“How’d ya hook the cans to the con rod” I queried and Jack grinned, as he explained about finding some old fencing wire back along the track. “It works good, but she’s blowin’ a bit o’ smoke. I reckon dats da cooking oil I’ve been throwin’ inta da engine.”
I took Jack and the barra’ back into town. Next day we drove back out to the Landy. We talked about his Darwin trip. “How’d ya get across the rivers?” He described dragging logs into the streams, to achieve temporary bridging. “What about the Liverpool?”
“Dat one’s cheeky” but he proceeded to describe an olden time crossing. “Ya know dat big ole tree on dis side. Opposite ‘im, there’s a sandbar goin’ half way across ta river. When ya in the middle, ya turn downstream quick, onta a root from dat old tree. Ya follow him for a bit and den ya have ta turn to the far bank, gun ta engine an’ go like ‘ell!”
As the seasons changed the roads dried out. I had to drive into Darwin and saw the deep ruts, occasionally veering from side to side, several bogs, now dried, cavernous holes with tree branches poking out.
Jack’s journey continued to be writ large for a couple of years. His wheel ruts eventually disappeared when our track had a grader blade over it.
The old Landy went for a few more years, sometimes sidelined outside Jack’s camp, but then phoenix-like, trundling off on some expedition. It was almost always loaded to the gunnels with hunters, kids and dogs.
A bush mechanic of legendry skills. He always made it home.