One thing my tent doesn't have is a window, so I was surprised to see the bush shrouded in fog when I finally unzipped the door flap this morning at 8.00am. The traffic on the highway had started to increase in volume, and there was no point in napping any longer. The fog did mean all the stuff I had left outside was damp, but there was not much I could do about that.

As I packed, I decided I was carrying too much weight. I resolved to work out what to send forward to my parents, such as excess clothing, my document folder, and a camera case, and to get rid of some of the food that I felt I would not need. I decided later in the day that I should keep the gas burner for sterilising water. This came after I took water for coffee from a flowing stream and found it to be very brackish. The last thing I want is for bad water to cause an intestinal upset.

I've found already that something usually goes wrong in the first kilometre of the day, and today was no exception. One of the buckles on the straps around the panniers came loose less than 50 metres after I started riding. I finally dispensed with the buckle, and just wrapped the strap around the bag and tied it in a knot.

The riding was pleasant despite the fog and overcast conditions. I thought the day would pan out well considering what I had endured yesterday. I did not, however, anticipate that the climbs would be so persistent. I lived in Western Australia for 2½ years and spent all but a short time on the undulating coastal plains. I had forgotten that to the east of Perth, the terrain comprised hills and valleys.

I was off the bike and walking to the crests of four hills, but this was in the context of 35 to 40 rises and climbs over the course of the day. It's a fact of cycling life that a good downhill run requires one to climb a hill first. But I seemed to do more than my fair share of climbing today, coming as it did after yesterday's effort up through Roleystone.

The most pleasant part of the day was a 2.5km downhill after the final crest that was marked by a "lookout" sign. The run took me right to the middle of Brookton. I did not have to pedal once all the way down. It was a happy welcome to the town.

The overcast conditions lasted a couple of hours after I left my campsite, and by 12.30pm, the cloud had broken, and the sun became intense. I still had some something to drink left over from yesterday. But I took some time to find a suitable stream to restock supplies, mainly because I was climbing all the time.

However, I was reluctant to take the water with me. I almost spat out the first mouthful of coffee. If I had not used sweetened condensed milk, I would have sworn I would have put in salt accidentally instead of sugar. It was disgusting. I mixed some glucose powder in one bottle of water. It was really not much use and by the end of the day, the water from both bottles was awful. I was so thankful to buy some Coke and Gatorade at the first Brookton service station I came to, even though the 1.25-litres Coke and one-litre Gatorade cost a whopping $6.40, well over the ruling city prices.

The Brookton Highway represents an interesting commentary on the rural economy in this part of the world. Despite the big "NO" signs for the water catchment for about two-thirds of the way, there are quite a few "poison" signs posted, along with Forestry signs warning of quarantined areas for jarrah dieback disease. Most of the forest I could see was dry sclerophyll, and fire had ravaged parts of it, including the area where I camped last night.

About 35km from Brookton, the scenery changed dramatically. Lush green pastures replaced the open, rocky forests, which in turn had replaced Roleystone's fruit orchards yesterday.

Sheep, grain and cattle appear to be the mainstay of the economy around Brookton. It is shearing time, as evidenced by the semi-trailers taking large wool bales towards Perth. Brookton's surroundings suggest the rural industry is in a healthy position, at least in this part of the continent.

I started riding at 9.00am today, and arrived in Brookton about 4.00pm, at an average speed of just under 20km/h. The average was less than I had hoped at the start of this trip. But looking at the climbing and the excess weight I am carrying, I seem to be doing quite well.

One of the highlights today was coming across a group of Main Roads Department workmen who told me a foreign rider had passed through the week before me. I said, more in jest, that I would try to catch him! The wildlife along the roads also was plentiful, with black cockatoos in particular zooming through the forests with their distinctive screeches, and their marvellous masses of red feathers under their tails. Then in the grain country, green-and-red parrots become more common, interspersed with green-and-black varieties. They, too, were magnificent.

Brookton has a caravan park and campsite, but I felt I should avoid sleeping on the ground to give my hips and knees a rest. My knees continue to concern me, and are among the reasons why I aim to cut weight on the bike. I'm aware of a complaint called cyclist's knee, but I have not had the symptoms before. The toe-clips provide my feet with some free play, so they don't lock the knees in one permanent position (as could happen, I have been informed, with clipless pedals).

I ventured into the middle of town where one line of shops ran parallel to the railway line, but I was not enthusiastic about the hotel there. The tourist information centre in the old railway station was closed, so I returned to the other side of the rail lines and found the Club Hotel, a traditional but run-down pub. The owners sat at the door of the public bar, and told me the single room rate was $20 a night, with shared facilities. The prospects of a soft bed, a hot shower, and a good steak dinner were too good to ignore.

I napped for 90 minutes then showered, and washed my bike shorts. I sorted through what I don't need and now have a decent pile of stuff that I might have to send off in a couple of packages, depending on the postage costs. Then I went downstairs for a beer, something that was high on my priority list since 20km out of Brookton when my water started to taste obscene. The Coke at the service station was a poor substitute for a big, icy-cold beer. In the end, I had five through the evening, and I enjoyed a porterhouse steak cooked to melt-in-the-mouth perfection. The company in the bar added to the enjoyment.

The topic of bar conversation was bread-making machines. Two farming brothers said their bread-maker did not seem work properly. Even their mother could not get a good result. The mixture inside the cooked loaf remained doughy. The hotel co-owner said he had not had any problems since getting his bread-maker for Father's Day, and he proclaimed proudly that every one of his loaves turned out perfectly. The slices he served me with the steak bore testament to his claim. The entertainment for me, though, was a bar scene with country folk talking things domestic rather than football, politics or crops and cattle.

I spent a lot of time talking to Ross Croft, who gave me his life history. As with many country folk, he seemed to stretch the truth to its limit. The main thing was that he had some worthwhile advice on how to get to Esperance.

I had several options, but he advised not to go through Corrigin. Rather, the Pingelly-Narrogin route was much better. He said the road to Corrigin had long steady climbs and the good countryside around Brookton petered out rapidly to become brown scrub. The Narrogin option followed much the same sort of country as I had seen as I came into Brookton. In addition, the original road was one of the tracks formed for horse teams in the early days of settlement, and the hills were far less daunting.

The towns on the Pingelly-Narrogin route were closer together, at least in time, so that if something did go wrong, I was close to habitation. I had seriously considered the Narrogin route anyway, but was not going to make up my mind until closer to the day. "Crofty" helped me to decide.

Crofty, the son of a Main Roads worker, started an apprenticeship and did three out of the four years before he let his temper get the better of him and he was sacked. He then drifted from job to job, and spent the best part of a decade in the mining industry in the Far North of Western Australia. Later, he worked as a shearer in the summer, and with a grain transport and storage company at other times. He finally settled down in his home town of Brookton.

His story is just like many others. His deepest regret is the lost opportunity with his apprenticeship. His brother died of cancer at the age of 37, the result of smoking, heavy drinking and dust from working the mines. Their father, a smoker too, died of a heart attack. He figured that he was 75 when he had his first attack, and there was no point in giving up. He died shortly afterwards.

I was not the first cyclist Crofty had come across. He told me of a Japanese rider he and a mate picked up in the Far North. Distances between towns in that harsh country are are more than 200km. The Japanese rider was grateful for the lift, and even more so for the beer offered by his saviours to quench his monumental thirst!

I went to bed after Crofty bought me a final beer to finish an "okay" day.