April 1st. All fool's day, and 200 and odd days out. Started early to-day, and our journey was entirely through swamps and water holes, with mud up to your neck—a frightful country. The day was fine, however, and we went to all points of the compass—Mr. McKinlay calls it a "zigzag" course—till we camped on a large creek well timbered. The country round and about it is a perfect bog; a man can hardly get out of some places. "We shall have a job to cross this creek. I expect Mr. McKinlay is going out to find a crossing place if he can, and there is not much doubt but he will. Our camp is in a "Dismal Swamp." We passed to the right of us some very peculiar hills on our way to-day, one was exactly like a tent. Mr. McKinlay has just now returned with the news that he has found a crossing place, and describes the country on the other side of the creek as being one network of creeks, with magnificently grassed flats, very different to this.
There is a native weir here, and the fish are very numerous, jumping up at flies and other insects on the water. Had we the proper tackle we could have good sport. The creeks to the east are drying fast.
2nd. We went only about one mile to-day. The crossing of the creek was a long and nasty job; it was as soft as mud could be. One of the
