The breaking dawn brought a misty sun over low scrub and red ochre sandhills, that rich red-orange, almost terracotta on steroids, with small trees scattered across them.
There wasn't much that was too high.
With sunrise shots taken and no one nearby to chat with, a move back to the cabin and a visit to the Rain Room seemed like a good idea.
There wasn't much to see, those things would have to be done eventually, and the future was an unknown quantity.
I'd emerged and dressed for breakfast. I was in catch up mode on the field notes while Madam showered when my HBSP pen decided to give up the ghost.
Fortunately, I had a spare, but a brief grapple with the alternative wasn't entirely satisfactory.
So I headed off in search of a substitute, investing $2 on an Indian Pacific el cheapo that wasn't much chop.
Any subsequent decline in reportage can be attributed to the change. Poor workmen, their tools and all that…