As a solo traveller,  having just retired and half-way through a trip around Australia, I do not identify as a grey nomad.    To me, this  categorises a homogenous group of elderly Australians doing what they should have done throughout their lives, i.e. camping.  This group, I have found, keep to themselves and only welcome others like them – couples with fancy homes away from home.

So we see slogans painted all over their massive motorhomes (complete with toilet, shower, washing machine and television) such as “adventure before dementia”, “spending the kids inheritance” and “Flo and Bob’s Big Adventure”.      Am I being unkind in making these observations?    Only very occasionally on my travels this year have I encountered couples who have ventured outside their own secure world to reach out to me as a solo traveller.

One such traveller is a lady called Ellen from Mandurah in WA.   I met her in the caravan park laundry at Bremer Beach when she kindly offered to include my towels with hers in a drier.    I did not think about her motivation and accepted her kind, apparently unconditional offer.  She rejected my offer to share the cost.

Later, I folded her towels and returned them to her  caravan.    “I’m cooking rissoles tonight and will bring some over to you later as we eat very early at around 4 or 5.”

Sure enough, a lovely dinner was delivered hot and ready to eat after 5pm.    Again, I was amazed at Ellen’s generosity and altruism.  She assured me she did not feel sorry for me.

Ellen’s kindness towards me will never be forgotten.    Again,  the next night, corned beef and vegetables arrived – to be heated at my convenience in the camp kitchen.

Upon my departure, a delicious bacon and egg wrap was delivered warm, wrapped in foil.

Ellen’s motivation was clearly rooted in her kind nature.   Not once did I skeptically sense motivation other than to selflessly benefit me.  Ellen has extended her generous nature to accompany a widowed friend as part of their platonic relationship.  She looks after him.

From my experience with Ellen, I have resolved to be more kind and reach out to others whatever their or my needs may be.

It was not surprising at Gold Coast airport to see a couple who were seated next to the solo traveler on  the direct flight to Gold Coast from Perth a week previously.    There is only one flight a week and it does an immediate turnaround.

Stashing my bag in the overhead locker, and surveying the seats immediately behind, I commented to the couple who shared the same exit row with me that this was to be a quiet flight.   The gentleman made a strange facial expression and half pointed his finger to someone entering the plane behind me.   

There was the dishevelled you man with his equally dishevelled female partner who had occupied the seat behind us on the flight a week ago.    The unkempt pair headed up to the back of the plane.

On the earlier flight a week ago, the pair had occupied their seats and, under some influence, proceeded to make unacceptable noise, talking and laughing loudly for all nearby to feel discomfort.     I decided to politely ask them to “keep it down”.   Response from the young man was, “Shutup!  This is a public place.”  I pointed out that I was asking politely but still he told me to shutup with a defiant look on his face.

My solution?  I turned to the hostess standing nearby and explained.  She immediately approached the couple and not a word was heard from them for the rest of the long flight.  I do not know what she said to them but she smiled at me as she stepped back into the galley.

So here we were a week later, same flight, same people.

Soon, not so surprisingly, the couple were moved to the exit door and before the plane could take off they were escorted off the plane by Federal Police.  Apparently, the male passenger had threatened another passenger who had objected to the way the young man was speaking to his female companion.  A “domestic”.    Some people never learn.

Karma we called it as we high-fived and then explained to the cabin staff about the earlier incident.

Camping in the heart southern forests at Big Brook Dam near Pemberton was one way to experience the majestic karri trees. And the solo traveller did.    Other ways included climbing one of the highest fire-lookout trees in the world –  the Gloucester Tree which stretches fifty eight metres above the canopy.  Not for this solo traveller!   Just watching climbers nimbly reach the upper  platform was enough to bring shudders of anxiety to one  afflicted by vertigo.

This affliction (admittedly as well as lack of fitness and age) was a valid excuse for also passing by Walpole and its nearby Tree Top Walk suspended 40 metres through the crowns of unique Tingle forests.    It was no excuse to bypass the Ancient Empire Walk in which you wander through hollowed tree trunks.

So from Parry’s Beach further on, and acting on the persuasion of camping neighbours, backtracking to Walpole and the renowned Tree Top Walk saw the solo traveller identifying herself as stupid but nevertheless heading for the walk ticket office.   

Not yet firmly convinced that she would undertake the challenge of the suspension bridge, a guided stroll through the Ancient Empire Walk provided plenty of opportunity to renege on the promise that it was now or never to be rid of invalid fear.

Facing the ticket seller, still half-committed, she handed over the $15.50 and quickly surveyed those in the queue behind her.    “Could I please follow behind you on the bridge?” she implored a British couple.    They were to be kindly supported by their nephew who offered to walk behind the reluctant risk taker.

Hands gripped the rails tightly until the bridge sloped downwards to more acceptable heights and the vertiginous traveller trained her eyes on the couple in front (rather than the canopy or what lay below) whiLST constantly engaging the nephew guardian at the rear in conversation about his life and work in Newman.

Yes, the grip on the rails lightened and the last 20 metres were comfortable but not completely enjoyable.

“Do you want to go around again?” asked the traveller’s guardian angels.    Slight temptation subsided into heartfelt thanks for the protection and encouragement.     Would she ever try a stunt like that again?    Maybe.

When in Rome ….

Lawson, the Australian sheepdog, had ridden alongside his Rolling Solo traveller for almost 10,000 kilometres across the top of Australia from South Queensland to Exmouth.    She had thought it would be exciting for Lawson, but the truth was that sitting up front in the motorhome day after day, kilometre after long kilometre, would have tested the most patient of pets.   Now in Exmouth, he realised that all the solo travellers with dogs were camped alongside the back fence providing lots of opportunities to howl, bark and generally announce a presence.

However, the camp restrictions were tight and Lawson was still confined – not to the cabin of the motorhome, but tied up alongside the vehicle.   Camp rules apparently.

These rules, it seemed, did not apply to three marauding native birds.    Large as life and with plenty of audacity, these emus strutted from campsite to campsite looking for food and having the gall to poke their heads inside any open caravan doors.    There was nothing Lawson could do about it but just bark furiously if the wicked wayfarers dared to venture into his territory.

Opportunistic to the utmost degree, Lawson eagerly awaited the departure of his mistress on a glass bottom boat cruise as he knew that generous Rollers had offered to pet sit. 

So it was that Lawson was handed over to a rather fussy campervanner who kept telling him to stop licking her.   He was only trying to be friendly as well as testing the waters.   “She will be a pushover, I reckon”, he thought.  “She is very nervous around me.”

When next “something wicked” his way came he knew he had to take pursuit.   He canvassed his lead secured under a flimsy aluminium camp table and knew it would be easy to take off. 

Around the corner came the three.   Seizing his chance he lept out in pursuit of the flightless birds.   A circuit of the camp grounds was completed before the four disappeared into the scrub.  Soon the emus appeared with Lawson closely and loudly following.  The affray was interrupted when several of the campers grabbed his lead and Lawson was led back to his dogsitter.  Oh well, he noted, it was a few days before the marauders again dared to show their arrogant faces around the campsite.

Tin Cans – I can

Johann, the Great Dane won the admiration of all in the Exmouth carvavan park.   He strutted alongside his owner each day as she walked him around the park.  How he would have loved to saunter on one of the many beaches but for some reason  he was not welcome in national parks.

He was craving for exercise and excitement.    Sadly he lay down outside the toilet block as his mistress tethered him to the steel cage which housed aluminium cans.    Not sensing the lightweight cage and its cargo, he stood proudly and decided to do a couple of laps of the park while his owner was busy inside the outhouse.

With limited deliberation, Johann took off.   Closely following him was the cage filled with cans. The noise was horrendous as hundreds of aluminium cans spewed onto the gravel road and as Johann dragged the cage behind him.     Terrified, he ran faster, firmly convinced he was being followed.     He was, but not by the cage and contents.  Several Rollers raced to rescue the terrified pooch, restrain him and lead him back to the toilet block.   Out came his owner, quite oblivious about his narrow escape but perplexed at the amount of cans which littered the roadway and curious about the crescendo of metal hitting gravel which she heard inside the toilet block.

Cool Katherine

The heat was unbearable.    42.5 degrees in the shade and not a breath of fresh air to relieve the oppression.    The springs were crowded with holidaying school kids who had muddied the waters.   The car wash might provide some relief.  

Getting on top of the dust was a necessary routine if Tilly the campervan was ever to redeem her sparkling white appearance.    The Northern Territory dust and grime found its way into every crevice but the car wash would only touch the surface.

A pre-soak and then a soap brush would clean her up and provide some sort of temporary air conditioning for the solo traveller.

Whilst waiting for the pre-soak to do its work, a hunched figure was sighted sitting alongside a wash station tap, outside the cleaning bays.   The indigenous man, of an undeterminable age, was fully clothed and proceeded to bend and sway under the fully turned tap.    Gushing water covered him from head to fully-shoed toe and beneath the flow his face was filled with the utmost joy.   How the solo traveller envied him!  He didn’t have much but in that moment he was rich with joy and comfort and walked away dripping and grinning widely.  

Not so cool Katherine

Possibly one of the last of her tribe, the Aboriginal elder, struggled along the street aided by her walker and a young man – perhaps a grandson.    Her legs and arms were stick thin and her hair metallic grey as it contrasted against her black skin. Several wounds – one on her arm and two on her legs – were encased in clean white dressings.    

The two appeared to be heading to the airconditioned shopping centre but instead crossed the road to the Tourist Information Centre forecourt.  Here, sitting under the  wide foliage of the trees was a group of indigenous people, chatting, laughing and welcoming their own newcomers.    A young girl was feeding her baby with no shame or false modesty to hide her aubergine-like breasts.

The elder joined the group in the shade and others moved to accommodate her on the steps.   Here was a community respectful of each other and enjoying some of what was their’s in the shade of those lovely big trees.    The edifice of the Visitor Information Centre intruded in the background.

Stopping off at Larrimah on the fringe of the Stuart Highway in the remote Northern Territory reignited my fascination with a story about Paddy Moriarty’s disappearance from the town over a year ago. Pasted on a post adjacent to the sparsely populated town (a pub and probably only five houses to call themselves neighbours) is a poster advertising the disappearance of Paddy and his dog. I quietly recounted the story to my three other travel companions as we parked our vans outside the Pink Panther Hotel. “If it was in the press, and the story is well known, why the whispering?” one companion asked. I quickly told her that every resident in the town was a contender for homicide.

We had stopped here as a sign on the approach to town promoted Fran’s delicious pies and home made cakes. We found Fran’s house fortunately some distance from the Pink Panther pub as the town was clearly divided on whether to support the publican who makes his own pies or Fran who had set up in opposition. Division was apparently rampant based on the pie issue and linked to Paddy’s disappearance as he had supported the publican and his pies.

We didn’t stay long as the publican of the “Pink Panther Hotel” was a man of few words who seemed resentful of the tourists who come into his pub which hosts the highest bar in the Territory and other eclectic paraphernalia. A weird place (the nomenclature and whopping big pink panther stature outside are both certainly incongruous with the surroundings) – and we prudently decided not to check out Fran’s baked goods.

On the wonderful side, the homestead and pub camping locations are so surprising. Barkly Station Homestead is a working station and a camping oasis on the harsh Barkly Tableland. Green grass, a swimming pool and the ever present 5 o’clock happy hour provide relief from long dusty roads. Places like the Daly Waters Pub which offers wild caught barra on its menu is abuzz with travellers who donate their caps and bank notes for posting on the walls of the decrepit hotel interior.

At Mataranka in the Elsey National Park and Bitter Springs just down the road, the thermal pools are refreshingly tepid and shaded by towering palms and lush, green bushland. All travellers gasp in admiration and surprise.

Back to weird – dotted all along the highways are dressed termite mounds, decked out by travellers with shirts, scarves, caps etc. These make the long straight stretches interesting.

The distances are long but the stories and sights are sometimes weird and more often than not, wonderful. (See instagram for photographs!)

The weather report for most areas of Western Queensland included the usual wind speed and direction and temperature as well as “raised dust”. Before we came across this consequence of drought we thought we had seen it all. Camping on the Thomson River just outside Longreach was on parched, cracked riverbed and the inch thick dust at a weir campsite near Barcaldine was testament to the long drought.

One of the amazing aspects of country driving, for me, has been the clear blue sky stretching across fields as far as the eye can see. Further out here is heartbreak.

Gone is the brilliant blue sky and instead a raised dust grey sky meets the “autumn” yellow of dead grass. “Gutwrenching” was a fellow travellers response when we first saw the raised dust enveloping the landscape. Think about it – that is all soil floating up there and it will soon transform into a dust storm if the wind gets up. (See photograph on instagram.)

A visit to the Longreach School of the Air also brought home the extreme difficulty faced by our graziers. Once a term, the kids from stations come into Longreach for a week long session at the school campus. At $10 a day ($70 per week), the cost is beyond the capacity of many farmers.

I will think more deeply about contributing to drought relief in future.

Yes, I know I have commented,  with disdain, at aspects of the Grey Nomads but observing most of them in this wonderful place has provided an altered perspective.

Chatting is what these adventurers love.    I am guilty – given I travel alone until I meet up with others.   There is never a lost opportunity to latch on to someone to share knowledge of places just gone or places yet to come.   In Carnarvon the park is full of caravans and camper trailers with a splattering of campervans.     Walking to the amenities block can be dire (if you are in an absolute hurry) when these friendly nomads seek out every passerby for the opportunity to talk to someone apart from their partner with whom they spend long periods in confined spaces camped or on the road.

What I found, and what spurred me on to explore the wonders of this park (together with my kids’ interest in my physical well-being) was the capacity of many nomads to complete 14 k walks.

So, remembering my son’s imperative “You’ve gotta get walking” and my daughter’s warning that the park had many uneven, rocky surfaces and stepping stones to cross the creek many times on the walks, I set off and soon found a stick like that the nomads carry.   12 kilometres and six hours later, I limped into the carpark and guzzled a huge mug of cool water as I had depleted my 1 litre supply about 3.5 k’s from the visitor carpark.

Accomplishment?    You betcha!  I have never walked so far and climbed so many stairs to see such amazing sights as the Moss Garden and Ward’s Canyon.    (For more photos, see Instagram.)