Timberless mountains.
Beautiful flowers.
Sultry night.
Wretched encampment.
Depart from it.

I had come to the decision, as it was impossible to follow the Finke
through the gorge in consequence of the flood, and as the hills were
equally impracticable, to fall back upon the tributary I had noticed
the day before yesterday as joining the river from the west, thinking
I might in twenty or thirty miles find a gap in the northern range
that would enable me to reach the Finke again. The night was very
cold, the thermometer at daylight stood at 28 degrees. The river had
risen still higher in the night, and it was impossible to pass through
the gorge. We now turned west-south-west, in order to strike the
tributary. Passing first over rough stony ridges, covered with
porcupine grass, we entered a sandy, thickly-bushed country, and
struck the creek in ten miles. A new range lying west I expected to be
the source of it, but it now seemed to turn too much to the south.
There was very poor grass, it being old and dry, but as the new range
to the west was too distant, we encamped, as there was water. This
watercourse was called Rudall's Creek. A cold and very dewy night made
all our packs, blankets, etc., wet and clammy; the mercury fell below
freezing point, but instantly upon the sun's appearance it went up
enormously. The horses rambled, and it was late when we reached the
western range, as our road was beset by some miles of dense scrubs.
The range was isolated, and of some elevation. As we passed along the
creek, the slight flood became slighter still; it had now nearly
ceased running. The day was one of the warmest we had yet experienced.
The creek now seemed not to come from the range, but, thinking water