Winston Aldworth rides the rails from Sydney to Perth.
The thing they don't tell you about the Big Red is that it's not actually all that red. Where you thought you'd spend days staring out at dust and sand, some shin-high scrub plant intrudes on your mental cubby hole, dominating the landscape of the empty spaces from Australia's east coast to the west.
Out the windows of the Indian Pacific train, there's life in the dirt.
But the other thing they told you about the the Big Red is dead true. It's big all right. So big that measuring it in simple terms of distance doesn't do justice to the size of the place. We get our heads around the scale of this journey not by referring to kilometres (it's 4352, since you asked), but by days. The train ride from Sydney to Perth takes four days.
That's four days of peering out a window watching Australia roll by. From the rainforested crawl up the Blue Mountains, to Perth's quiet outer suburbs, where giant houses fill giant sections. We are definitely in the big country.
There are stops along the way - Broken Hill (a mining town whose admirable claim to have a pub on every corner doesn't stand up to close inspection), Cook (an abandoned settlement in the middle of the Outback) and, of course, the stunning Barossa (which is pretty much food and wine heaven).
We're late arriving in Broken Hill, the kind of mining town that has first dibs on the term "hard times". Bits of Mad Max II were filmed on the sun-worn roads around here. Priscilla Queen of the Desert had scenes at the Palace Hotel, a boozer which claims to possess the "biggest pub verandah in New South Wales" " when you find your claim to fame, hang on to it.
They've been ripping silver, lead and zinc out of the ground around here since 1833. At its peak, 4000 people worked in the mines, today there's 600.
They reckon there's only a dozen or so years of mining left.
So, what will be left when the mines are done? At least one cool thing will remain. On a scrub-covered hill, 10 minutes out of town, a sculpture park looks out over land normally reserved for roos and killer snakes. In 1992, a dozen artists from all around the world set up camp on a desolate hillside with spectacular views, carving artworks into massive rocks.
Carving the rocks took months. They camped out there, among the snakes, roos and killer heat, leaving their small mark on the epic, ageless environment.
On board the Indian Pacific. Photo / Supplied
Pay attention train nerds: There are 26 carriages on our train, with two locomotives - the second, I'm told, is just there to help with braking coming down the hills of the Blue Mountains. Average speed, 85kp/h. Top speed 115kp/h. Passengers are not allowed to have a look in the locomotive. When we stopped for 40 minutes in the near-empty town of Cook, the train nerds gathered around the front end while the two drivers tapped into the fuel reserves and stretched their legs.
Most animals are quick-witted enough to get out of the way when the train is coming. "Camels are a problem," one of the drivers tells me. "We hit one last week. They can knock things about the place."
He points out hydraulic cables that can get dislodged when a camel is whacked. "They make a helluva mess."
It's probably not much fun for the camel, either.
The town of Cook (population: 4) is a barmy place. A rumour goes around the passengers that three of Cook's locals don't get along with the other one. You've got to be barmy to live here at all, but to live here and not get on with your neighbour? That's heroic.
Strolling the dusty, deserted streets, we meet the four locals and get the real story. They get on fine. They love living out here. "You can smell the serenity," says one with more than a hint of tasking the piss.
There used to be hundreds of people living here, a thriving rail service centre. But when the train service was privatised in 1997, Cook got the chop. Now, it's a genuine ghost town. Visitors write their names into the dust settled on windows; years later, the names remain, no less remote than footprints on the moon. Maddest of all, there's a dusty golf course just outside town.
On board the India Pacific. Photo / Supplied
There's just one line connecting east to west and, with up to 70 trains a day going through in either direction, we take our turn pulling into sidings as massive machines of freight whizz past.
On the Nullabor Plains, we travel the longest stretch of straight railway track in the world. I was warned by an Australian who had driven through this part of the country: "The Nullabor will bore you to death."
They were dead wrong. I loved the place. That shin-high scrub stretches to the horizon. Staring at it, I wondered how many more horizons it stretched to beyond the one I could see.
Every now and then, we rattled past abandoned towns, derelict railway shacks and little settlements - some still lived in.
Once we've crossed over into Western Australia, we make another Outback stop, this time for dinner under the stars at Rawllina. The train pulls into another quiet town. Trestle tables are laid out for the several hundred dinner guests, the barbecue is fizzing. Dinner in the desert.
The food is fabulous, the wine too. But we're miles from anywhere. Before we board, I duck away to pee behind a tree. "Don't go that way, mate," one of the staff tells me. "Safer over there." He points to a nearby power pole.
The barbecue in the Outback was just one of many great meals on the Indian Pacific. There's a new menu being launched in April, with greater focus on matching food and wine.
You've got red dirt on your feet and a glass of red wine - really good red wine - in your hand.
Dining aboard the train. Photo / Supplied
It's an ambitious endeavour for even the most ardent of wine and food buffs, but on the Indian Pacific train, you can literally eat your way across Australia.
All food and beverage is included in the price of tickets for Gold and Platinum Class passengers. Gold passengers get a twin sleeper " top bunk and bottom bunk - while in Platinum you'll be sleeping in a double bed. Both sets of passengers get terrific wine and food.
On our trip, we're joined by wine writer Jeremy Oliver, an enthusiastic advocate of Australian wine.
He talks us through single-variety chardonnay and shiraz - one from each state. Then we have some more. And a bit more after that.
Jeremy turns us on to Australia's new chardonnays.
"A lot of it used to look like it had been drunk before," he concedes.
Things are better now. Case in point being the 2012 Cloudburst, which is, I think, the best wine I've ever tasted.
Jeremy uses the word "ridiculous" a lot. "The Cloudburst is ridiculously good." He's right.
Over a glass of Penfolds Yattarna, the "white Grange". "This is the winemaking equivalent of Nasa's Moon landings."
John Duval set out to make a white version of the Barossa Grange, a red that fetches around $1000 a bottle. "They succeeded," says Jeremy. "It's ridiculous that they can make a wine as good as this."
Trails of khaki cling to the side of the glass of the muscat. Happily, I'm not the only one to dip a furtive finger in and clean the sides of the vessel.
Fine dining aboard the Indian Pacific. Photo / Supplied
When we get off in the Barossa, it's to load up on great food and wine. But the best food I had on the journey, honestly, was produced by the train's chefs in their tiny kitchens.
At the Barossa Valley Cheese Company, they do camembert-versus-brie taste tests, teaching guests to tell the difference between the two.
If you want to see cheese boss Victoria McClurg laugh on the inside, go in there and ask if their cheeses are gluten-free.
"We get that more than you would think."
On the Nullabor desert, we buzz through boarded-up towns. There's the odd car wreck burned out in the red dust and, occasionally, abandoned rail freight carriages, some bearing the work of surely the world's most dedicated graffiti artists. "Bring back the mullet," is daubed in fresh paint on one of them. I suspect, around here, it's never really gone away.
Imagine being one of the poor crew who laid the first train tracks out here. The coast-to-coast rail link was completed in 1917, so those work sites didn't have fancy mod-cons like air conditioning or workers' rights. Sitting in the air-conditioned Platinum Lounge aboard the Indian Pacific, I raise a glass of exceptionally good shiraz to those poor bastards.
Aboard the train, you get used to the constant, (mostly) gentle jostle of the tracks. Wine glasses, standing ready for action, shimmer lightly against each other. In the dining carts, cutlery clinks to the rhythm of the sleepers.
I arrive in Perth, full of food and wonder at the Outback.
