Two years, three attempts, ninety holes in the ground and one very small machine. This is where the rest of it gets written down.

So there is a website now.

It has taken longer to build this than it took to walk from Wiluna to Mount Magnet, and I did that with a pram.

Here is the short version, for anyone arriving cold. In 2025 and 2026 I made three attempts at the Canning Stock Route in Western Australia — eighteen hundred and fifty kilometres, fifty-one wells, and the most remote vehicle track on earth. I have not finished it. What I did instead was bury ninety days of my own food along it at twenty-kilometre intervals, walk six hundred and sixty kilometres of the Kimberley, catch rain in a cup on top of a sand dune for two days, and get carried out of the Great Sandy Desert with a fever by rangers who turned up with steak.

The first attempt ended in a single morning because of twenty centimetres. That is the difference between the floor of a wheel rut and the axle of the trolley I had spent two years planning around. Nobody thought to measure it. I have thought about very little else since.

I designed the whole thing on one rule: nobody should ever have to come for me. Anything anybody gives you is a present, a present is lovely, and a present is not a thing you can build a supply chain on.

Then I walked into the one country on earth where every single vehicle that passes you slows down, winds a window down, and asks whether you are right for water.

The book is called Dear Desert. It is written. This page is for the rest — what happens next, the photographs that did not fit, the things I got wrong and would do differently, and the questions people keep asking me at rodeos and roadhouses and in the queue at the IGA.

The trolley is in the shed. It is not in storage. There is a difference, and I intend to prove it.