In part 1, UK correspondent Will Shiers was introduced to Outback trucking, meeting his Cropline Haulage Volvo FH16 780 chariot and its driver Brinley Lewis, learning about WA’s driving time rules, roadtrain combinations and Outback camaraderie – all while battling high temperatures and an empty stomach … We pick up the story at breakfast.

Our stop is the Paynes Find Roadhouse and Tavern, where we eagerly tuck into a much-needed bacon and egg sandwich, washing it down with a strong black coffee. Brinley, on the other hand, takes a far healthier approach, opting for a handful of nuts and a piece of fruit. He explains that he tries to eat well on the road. His truck is equipped with a fridge, freezer, air fryer, and microwave, allowing him to cook his meals most nights. “If you eat in roadhouses all the time, you’ll blow out,” he says, as I wipe egg yolk and ketchup from the corner of my mouth. “The only exercise we get is walking around the truck, which is why truckies are all big jiggers,” he adds with a chuckle.

Though he admits to enjoying a beer or two on some evenings, this trip is strictly dry, as alcohol is forbidden in trucks carrying dangerous goods. The mines also enforce a zero-tolerance alcohol policy, with every delivering driver breathalysed before entry.

Lewis takes the opportunity to check his tyres, all 58 of them. He hits them with his tyre iron, paying special attention to the inside wheels. He knows exactly what they should sound like, giving off a dull thud if losing pressure. But everything is fine. Then he checks the hub temperatures, pointing a Braketek infrared temperature gun at them.

Then we’re back on the road and heading to Cue, which, refreshingly, is only 200km away, where we will replenish the diesel tanks.

The scenery has changed now, with arable land switching to shrub. “This is the start of the cattle-grazing country,” Brinley says. “They’re allowed to roam free, and when it gets dark, I’ll be relying on my cow cam to see them,” he says pointing to an infrared screen on the dashboard in front of him. This aftermarket system, which includes a camera mounted on the truck’s roof, costs $10,000. “They’re expensive, but they’re a lot cheaper than the damage caused when you hit a cow. My friend hit one the other day and did $80,000 worth of damage to the truck, and it had bullbars.”

As we roll into Cue Roadhouse, we’ve covered nearly 600km and consumed close to 600L of diesel. The truck has averaged just over 1km per litre, which Brinley deems respectable. He expects this figure to improve further as the truck’s mileage increases and the engine beds in. Given the fuel consumption, we ask him if he believes electric trucks could ever replace combustion engines for this type of work. His laugh says it all!

According to Brinley, Cue Roadhouse is one of the better stops on the Great Northern Highway, partly because drivers receive $18 in food vouchers with a purchase of more than 300L of fuel. He opts for a sandwich and a Diet Coke. “The showers and toilets are pretty good here, too,” he adds. “Some places are so disgusting you wouldn’t wash your dog in them, and they still want to charge us $5, even if we’ve just bought 1000L of fuel.” He shares a story about one outside truckstop dunny he’s too scared to use because there are often frogs lurking under the seat!

We still have 538km to go to our destination, with no more planned stops for the day. However, within minutes of mentioning this, Brinley is forced to make an unplanned stop. The two-way radio crackles to life as the driver of an approaching escort van informs us of an 8.5m-wide load heading our way. Brinley finds a safe spot and pulls onto the gravel hard shoulder, as the approaching truck is occupying almost the entire two-lane road. “Some days you can have a bad run and pull over every 10 minutes,” Brinley says as he slowly merges back onto the highway. “It not only slows the journey, but you burn a lot of fuel getting back up to speed.”

About an hour later, we’re back on the radio again, this time to arrange an overtake of a truck carrying the biggest tyres we’ve ever seen, each weighing six tonnes. The driver gives us the signal when it’s safe to pass, then eases off the gas to allow us to do so safely. “We all get on very well up here,” Brinley says, giving a courteous wave to every vehicle that passes us.

The traffic density has thinned even further now, and nearly every vehicle we pass is a truck, including a number of impressive quads, some of which are pulled by blue Volvo FH16 700 10×6 tractors. Brinley explains that these trucks are permanently on the move, shared by two drivers. One drives for a 12-hour shift while the other rests, and then they swap.

I ask Brinley whether he’s a fan of the TV show Outback Truckers or if it feels too much like a busman’s holiday. “I can’t watch it,” he says. “It’s too much like cowboy trucking for my liking. It’s all ‘my Pete is bigger than yours’ nonsense. They turn a job that’s really not that hard into a big drama.”

On the subject of Peterbilts, we’ve only spotted a handful. Far more common are Kenworths and Freightliners. We’re seeing quite a few Macks, too, which are now offered with the same 581kW (780hp) D17 engine that’s powering our truck. But one vehicle that’s completely absent is the FH16 Aero. I get on the two-way and ask Volvo Truck Australia’s public relations and media manager, Matt Wood, who’s following us in the photo car, why this is. “You need bullbars in this part of the world, which defeats the purpose of buying an aerodynamic Aero cab,” he explains.

Brinley tells us that European trucks like the FH16 are helping to address Australia’s major driver shortage, thanks to their ease of driving, which makes them ideal for new drivers. He explains that most trucking firms offer their drivers a choice of European or American trucks. “Some boys still prefer an 18-speed manual box, but not me,” he says. “The I-Shift is the best transmission I’ve experienced.”

Australia’s driver shortage, which was exacerbated by Covid, has resulted in significant pay rises. Brinley reflects on how things have changed: “When I started, it was rubbish money, but now we’re on great coin. Although you do have to put the hours in to earn it. But you’re not out here for a social life. When you leave home, you might as well get the hours in. So, you just drive for your maximum hours, go to bed, and do the same thing the next day.”

By now, it’s late afternoon, and the January temperature is a blistering 46°C, though you’d never guess it from the cool, air-conditioned comfort of the cab. Brinley explains that the mercury can soar into the mid-50s at times, when the heat is so intense that the soles of your boots can melt onto the tarmac. In these searing conditions, he tends to ease off the accelerator, cautious of the potential for a blowout. His eyes occasionally glance at the truck’s temperature gauge, but so far, the FH16 has handled the summer heat without any trouble.

The truck is fitted with an Ice Pack cab cooler, running off the truck’s diesel reserves. It is essential for surviving nights in these scorching temperatures. Most nights are spent parked up in a solitary layby, and Brinley is unfazed by the isolation. He’s never had to deal with crime or diesel theft, and he’s taken aback when we share stories from back home.

“The only crime we see is kids throwing stones at trucks,” he says. “It usually happens in Meekatharra, the next town we’ll pass through. They throw big arse stones, and the police just turn a blind eye. But if they’re at it today, we’ll hear about it from the truckies heading south.”

Luckily, the stone-throwers are nowhere to be seen today, and we breeze through Meekatharra without a hitch.

As we continue, the landscape unfolds before us in a near-endless parade of wide-open spaces, dotted with the occasional kangaroo, cow, goat or eagle carcass along the roadside. Every so often, a giant lizard crosses our path, sensing the rumble of the truck and darting out of the way at the last possible second. But for the most part, it’s a continuous stretch of red dirt and sparse shrubbery. It’s a scene that is stunning in its own way – vast, rugged, and beautiful – but after miles upon miles of the same, it does begin to take on a rhythmic, repetitive quality.

I ask Brinley if the unchanging scenery ever bores him. He’s genuinely startled by the question.

“No!” he responds, almost indignantly. “I love it out here. And I love the lifestyle, too.”

And it’s clear he means it. The vast, unbroken expanse of the Outback isn’t just a backdrop to his work; it’s a source of deep satisfaction, a landscape that never loses its appeal.

We’re on the final stretch now, 260km to Newman, with no services along the way. The sun is sinking towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the red earth. As the sky darkens, Brinley switches on his infrared screen. A small Hyundai car overtakes us, prompting a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t want to be tackling this road at night in something like that,” he says. “It’s bad enough hitting a cow in a truck, let alone in that.”

Right on cue, a calf ambles onto the road ahead. By the time we reach it, it has wandered onto the opposite carriageway, but Brinley slows the truck to a near-stop anyway, knowing how unpredictable they can be. Swerving isn’t an option, as any sudden movement in the tractor is amplified along the length of the trailers, making a bad situation even worse. Slowing down is the only choice.

It’s fully dark when a passing truckie crackles over the radio with a warning – a dead cow is on the road, 2km ahead. Brinley thanks him and soon picks it up on his infrared camera. It must have been hit recently, still warm enough to glow on the screen. Out here, ranchers have clearly done the maths and concluded that the cost of losing cattle on the road is still cheaper than fencing off hundreds of miles of land.

Brinley drops us off in Newman, where we’ll spend the night in a mining camp before flying back to Perth. He had originally planned to push on to the mine in Christmas Creek, another 150km away, but word has come through that three trucks are already queued up waiting to tip. Instead, he opts to park up in a layby for the night. In just 10 hours, he’ll be back on the road, though, unloading at first light, then covering most of the long, unforgiving miles back to Perth before the day is out. And the next day, he’ll do it all again.

“It’s a way of life,” he says. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”