It’s strange how some things slip your mind more easily than others, from the same time or event. But on a lengthy journey of a lifetime, during which extraordinary things appear round many different corners, I wonder if the brain reaches a saturation point where it needs a break from endless new or novel. ‘Hang on!’ I imagine it pleading: ‘I need to process what we’ve just seen in order to preserve lovely memories for you.’ So occasionally, as precious moments stack up, it’s feasible the odd one could slip through a metaphorical crack.

Places with names such as Coffin Bay, Esperance, Shark Bay and Eighty Mile Beach were firmly fixed in my head long before finalising the details of our last Big Trip in Australia. And it’s highly unlikely they’ll dislodge from the recesses of my memory any time soon. But it does look as if I temporarily ‘misplaced’ Geike Gorge, however, until I’d almost reached Broome while writing up the Trip on the blog.

As I look at my photos of what is named Danggu by the Bunuba Aboriginal custodians – meaning ‘where the water is deep under the cave’ – it’s hard to believe I didn’t remember a delicate-pink-striped landscape. It was never on my original list of Australian must-sees; I’d never heard of it. And it wasn’t on the radar until we spent some time in Derby’s tourist information office, where there was mainly a lot of ‘noise’ about Horizontal Falls, a big draw in WA: but there was also a flimsy black-and-white pamphlet about Geike Gorge.

Fitzroy Crossing had to be on the list, for its name alone. ‘Crossing’ suggests some kind of challenge, or historically romantic setting. Even if you’re not exactly sure why, you are drawn to it. One person’s must-see destination might leave the next explorer cold: but over time, and after many chats with fellow travellers passing by here and there, you get a feeling for which of their recomens are likely to be right up your street, and those you’ll almost certainly pass by.

Carved through ancient limestone by the Fitzroy River, the gorge has striking walls. Who would have thought of pairing the palest rose rocks against dark-green clear waters, as Mother Nature has chosen here? I have seen many stunning rocks on our journeys, identified by my friend, an aspiring geologist. Were it not for his interest in rocky phenomena on our travels, I would have missed stunning strata, outrageous outcrops, inexplicable intrusions and some of the oldest rocks on the planet.

A sightseeing ‘cruise’ on the Fitzroy made a wonderful change from walking a circuit, climbing to a lookout, or following a guide. It was peaceful and relaxing, with lapping-water noises and pretty colours. There were different angles from which to shoot, right up-close or set back; gazing up to towering cliff-tops, or peering into fathomless caves along the waterline.

On Day 75 of the Big Trip we travelled from Fitzroy Crossing to Halls Creek, almost 300 kilometres. It was a hot day, with storm clouds bubbling up from mid-afternoon, eventually resulting in a heavy downpour but, strangely, no thunder or lightning. There was a slightly unsettling feel to the place: previously, we’d heard mention of ‘trouble’: some businesses were boarded up, and other buildings surrounded by barbed wire. There was extensive after-dark shouting from houses on the other side of a fence that surrounded our campsite, which had only one entry/exit point. But thereabouts we heard or observed a red-winged parrot, whistling kite, black kite, welcome swallow, galah, egret, ibis, bee-eater, black-necked stork, sulphur-crested cockatoo, brolga and crow.

The crocs here were the freshwater variety, so safely small: the reflections were stunning.

It was time to move on to what I was certain would be a high spot – Wolfe Creek Meteorite Crater. I called my son in Victoria to tell him where we were headed next day. It was Sunday, and if he didn’t hear from us by Wednesday, I instructed him to raise an alarm. I wasn’t anticipating an encounter with a deranged loner, although you never know in the remotest outback: it was merely a sensible precaution in a region where you can travel for a day without passing another car; and mobile phone coverage in places is at best patchy.

I’ve never seen Wolfe Creek the movie: I’m not into horror. I’ve been known to sit behind a frosted-glass door listening to the soundtrack of a scary film but reluctant to combine spine-chilling audio with dark and terrifying imagery. A wuss, I am; or a drama queen. Even though I hadn’t watched the film, its reputation had long preceded it. Any remote and sparsely inhabited place, but especially in the Australian desert, filled me with trepidation, combined with irresistible fascination.

In far-west New South Wales once, we came across a man on a bicycle. We stopped to make sure he was OK, and have a chat. The track was sandy but firm enough to ride on and not get bogged. He was travelling what seemed to me to be a crazy distance on a push-bike; I think it was Sydney to Brisbane, and the difficult route, in what was technically sandy desert, and certainly not paved. But this was Australia, where you can tow an unimaginably luxurious off-road caravan; or pedal solo, pulling a teeny-tiny trailer.

Even assuming you have all appropriate gear, I recommend listening to a weather forecast first thing every day you’re planning to travel along remote tracks. The interval between the photos below was little more than an hour. I’d heard a forecast that morning but chosen to largely ignore it, believing we’d be further south or west by the time the system came through. Heavy rain transformed the red dirt surface into what felt like a sheet of ice beneath the Landie’s wheels.