Next day was another classic post, done with his cheeky look into the camera and him acting out his instructions just out of shot: ‘So yesterday I was telling you about the old 3B cream; liquid gold this, it’s worth more than its weight in gold. Me mate Stevie P put me onto it – if there’s one man who knows what I’m going through it’s him, he’s quite partial to a bit of mango rash himself. Anyways, they say prevention is better than the cure so let’s get the old Skins down there [as he removes his pants just out of sight of the camera] – it’s a morning ritual but I didn’t have a go yesterday thus the problems I had yesterday afternoon. You start off with a small amount and give it a good rub up under the Jatz Crackers, normally come back with a good second spadge; it’s just like buttering your toast, really, you don’t want to miss any bits or it’s gunna result in dry corners, and problems. And last but not least, a good healthy serve up the old crack there – don’t be afraid to get involved, people. Have a good old go at it; it’s going to save you for the day. So that’s it … with that we’re away … a bit of excess there, we’ll get rid of that [he wipes more on his arse]. Skins up, we’re into it.’
He wasn’t as humorous late in the day when, while walking in the dark near the centre of the road, as there was little traffic, a young blue-singleted driver of a white Commodore decided to be an idiot and accelerated, crossed the broken lines on the road and came with centimetres of knocking Cad over. It wasn’t the last, or closest, call he encountered with errant motorists.
DAY 113, 18 APRIL 2011
REST DAY, PORT PIRIE
After our telephone argument, Cad had decided to follow up a PR agent he’d been put onto, Sarah Rice, who quickly arranged a series of with local media interviews for him in Port Pirie. Discussions with Sarah a few days later revealed that she’d worked with me in the Australian Olympic Committee’s media centre at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. What a coincidence!
Cad wasn’t so impressed with the Cancer Council, from which he’d had no contact and battled to get a return phone call from. He had a progressive total for his fundraising on his website and every time someone donated online the tally would increase. He would deposit donations he received on the road into a nominated account but they would sometimes not show up on his tally, and he could rarely get an explanation or reconciliation of the money. In the end he would deposit money into my account and I would post the amount online with the credit of ‘donations on the road’, to ensure they were correctly recorded.
DAYS 114–116, 19–21 APRIL 2011
PORT PIRIE TO PORT AUGUSTA (94 KM)
Donations picked up, a direct result of the media coverage, especially on television. Cad listened to his Spanish lessons while enjoying the change in scenery, with the Flinders Ranges nearby and the landscape of wheat fields turning to bushy scrub.
He did more interviews at Port Augusta, including one for The Transcontinental with reporter Elise (described as ‘a hottie’ in his diary), who stumped him when she asked what were the three most random things he had seen. He could only think of the sex toys he’d found on the side of the road (why didn’t he recall the laptop computer?); ‘I don’t think she’ll put that in.’ She didn’t, but I liked his quote about warming to the task after 115 days: ‘I guess I’m like a saddle that takes a while to be broken in.’
DAYS 117–120, 22–25 APRIL 2011
PORT AUGUSTA TO COWELL (182 KM)
Day 117 was Good Friday. Cad’s Easter plan was to walk over 180 kilometres through Whyalla to the next decent sized town, Cowell. The local MP, Lyn Breuer, stopped to donate $50 and said she had read about him in the newspaper. After 50 kilometres he’d had enough and pushed up a dirt track, crossed a railway line and camped in the dark, only to find he’d picked a spot that was covered in thorns (I can imagine how many f-bombs were let off!) and quickly moved his tent.
He reached Cowell on Anzac Day, a day Cad would always celebrate with two-up and a few too many beers, but he was too late for the two-up session. So he had an ale and headed off to have a shower, only to find the caravan park was full (although he was granted a free shower), so he trooped off to the local oval to free camp for the night with a group of grey nomads. It was back to the Commercial Pub, where he was soon talking to some local oyster farmers. Typically, a thousand questions from Cad and many beers later, and he had been invited to work on the boat with them the next day.
DAY 121, 26 APRIL 2011
OYSTER FARMING IN COWELL
Cad woke up feeling rough from his long session at the pub but was back into it mid-morning when Gary and Terry took him across the bay to their oyster lease and had him stacking oysters onto the boat. They went back to shore to open the baskets and pour the oysters into a big steel tub. ‘I worked up a sweat and was feeling sick from not eating or drinking enough after a hangover. When it was done I had a sticky inside at Gary sorting out the various sizes as they ran along the conveyor belt and through tunnels and all ended up in different sacks, it was pretty cool.’
DAYS 122–125, 27–30 APRIL 2011
COWELL TO PORT LINCOLN (161 KM)
The day started with goodbyes and a visit to the bank, where the $860 deposit took his total to $10,700, making Oz On Foot the Cancer Council’s biggest online fundraiser (it still is, at $25,456), then a visit to the chemist to try to get some relief for his ‘scrot rot’.
Sarah had suggested Cad do a YouTube ‘best wishes for your wedding’ blog for Prince William and Kate Middleton, who were being married in two days’ time. He felt it was a stupid idea but Sarah thought it would lift awareness and might get a run around the world. So he did, and it’s a scream (www.youtube.com/watch?v=aArlJTszGJc); ‘I thought I’d put fair dinkum and hooroo in – Poms love that shit, don’t they?’
Cad was walking in the rain about 30 kilometres out of Port Lincoln when locals Lofty and Chris pulled over to donate and offered him shelter in their shed for the weekend. When he limped into town like a drowned rat, in agony from the chafing, rash and blistered feet, he called Lofty, a retired fisherman. Arriving at their place, he found Lofty and Chris waiting for him in the driveway. They even offered him a fold-out bed in the rumpus room rather than the back shed – ‘absolute legends!’ It wasn’t just the lamb shanks and vegetables for dinner that night that lifted Cad’s spirits enormously, or the magnificent house overlooking the bay, but how Lofty and Chris went out of their way over the next few days to show him their town and treat him fondly. It created an instant friendship.
DAYS 126–127, 1–2 MAY 2011
TIME OFF IN PORT LINCOLN
Port Lincoln is best known for its fishing, tuna particularly, and for the fact that Australia’s greatest staying racehorse, three-time Melbourne Cup winner Makybe Diva, has links to the town through its owner, local tuna fisherman come good Tony Santic; there is even a statue of the great mare along the waterfront. When Chris and I stayed there on our 2006 around-Australia trip we loved it, and Andrew came to share our affection for the town.
I remember talking to him while he was there, and he seemed keen to invest in real estate there when the walk was finished; from his diaries I found that had come from discussions with Lofty. Lofty and Chris took him sightseeing, out for meals and generally played the perfect hosts. He went to a doctor to seek relief for his rash, topped up his food and water supplies, bought new tyres and did repairs on the pram, banked more money and restocked his energy and motivation. The doctor diagnosed his problem as a parasite and put him on a course of penicillin, telling him to rid himself of the underwear he’d been wearing and not to walk in Skins.
That prompted a trip to a St Vincent’s store, where Cad bought six shirts for $6; ‘two were funny old man’s shirts’. Soon after that he acquired long pyjama pants to match, making him quite a sight along the highways of South Australia and the Nullarbor in his new ‘uniform’.
DAYS 128–134, 3–9 MAY 2011
PORT LINCOLN TO STREAKY BAY (294 KM)
When leaving Port Lincoln, An
drew was approached by a guy who said he was a freelance television journalist. After discovering Andrew’s mission he arranged to meet him on the road next day with a film crew to do a story, which he claimed national television would pick up. He arrived on cue next day and Cad spent an eternity walking up and down the road for filming and answering questions, and was then filmed setting up camp and cooking that evening. It was great to have someone go to such effort, but to my knowledge nothing ever appeared on the box.
As Cad approached the roadhouse at Sheringa he was confronted with the cynical Aussie humour of owner Mark and two mates sitting out the front. ‘Need some fuel, do you?’ they smiled, pointing at his pram. Cad replied that he did, as a matter of fact, for his cooker.
While Cad went inside and asked for the copies of the Port Lincoln newspaper that he’d called ahead about, asking Mark’s wife, Kath, to put them away for him, Mark read the article. The wisecracks continued: ‘Sold your house to do this, eh?’ Yeah. ‘And your car?’ Yeah. ‘What about the missis?’ Yeah. ‘That’s the smartest thing you ever did … at least you don’t have to pay maintenance. You brought the kids with you, though, eh!’. Kath and Mark’s mates burst out laughing again. Cad sat down for a natter before he continued the journey; ‘they were a funny bunch,’ he later wrote.
The scenery changed further over these days to more barren expanses and sand flats. As he settled into his tent after dinner he heard country and western music but couldn’t pick where it was coming from. Soon after came constant rifle fire, which he found unnerving: ‘I was waiting for a stray bullet to come through the tent.’
Next night he hit Streaky Bay after his six-day leg from Port Lincoln, where he cooked up a ‘hell feed’ of sausages, onions, carrots and potato. Looking at his video blogs, he seemed well there – except for his uniform of pyjamas and orange high-vis vest – as he braced himself for the leg that he’d been anxious about, the Nullarbor. He had a day off to wash, shop and rest then headed out on the 102-kilometre three-day path to Ceduna, the last town before the Nullarbor.
DAYS 135–141, 10–16 MAY 2011
STREAKY BAY TO CEDUNA (102 KM), THEN FOUR REST DAYS
Ceduna, the last outpost before the Nullarbor, was where Andrew took stock and stocked up. He had to organise several food parcels to be taken ahead (he commandeered some fellow caravan park residents to act as honorary couriers) and meticulously mapped out the distances between each roadhouse and what food he would require. He went to the post office soon after arriving and gathered the new shoes, Leatherman utility tool and plastic containers I’d sent, an iPod full of new songs from Narelle, one of the crew he’d befriended in Melbourne, especially to help get him across the Nullarbor, and a book and stickers for the pram from Colin Ricketts.
While at Ceduna he met Ivan from the Isle of Man, who was riding his bicycle with a trailer around the world on a shoestring budget.
The assignment in Ceduna was to do some running repairs on Redge, put together his food parcels, sleep, rest and prepare for the 1200 kilometres until the first town past the Nullarbor: Norseman.
6
THE NULLARBOR
The Nullarbor. It’s where I feared Andrew had run into big strife, the first time I panicked and became concerned about his safety. Basically, he went missing – well, that’s certainly how it appeared for the one person – me – who had the job of tracking him and posting his location on the Oz On Foot website every few days.
The stretch from Ceduna to Norseman, across Australia’s famous Nullarbor Plain, was the leg of his trek that I was most worried about, for a reason I can’t explain. Maybe it was because I knew how isolated, and cold, it would be, particularly if he left the main road to camp. Plus, I had been warned, when Chris and I drove the same route, not to pull over if we encountered anyone from the remote Indigenous communities trying to stop us along the highway, pretending they had broken down – that they were just after money. That’s exactly what we did encounter, but kept driving. Also I’d heard of men heading out of the communities for all-night drinking sessions and becoming quite aggressive. Since he left Sydney, the Nullarbor had been on my mind.
I would have liked to have kept as close a track as I could of his progress, but this was difficult as he would only have phone coverage and could thus only send me his position or contact me every four or five days, at best. As it turned out, he didn’t have any phone reception for thirteen days after leaving Eucla. Cad had put together a rough map, or master plan, of his walk from Ceduna to Norseman – 1200 kilometres on the knocker – and listed the locations where he would have food parcels dropped off, and the distances and days between each roadhouse; this was our only guide to where he might be during this period.
The trouble was, as he found to his great frustration after a few days, that his calculations of distances between roadhouses (one of which no longer even existed) were incorrect in places; he blamed the inaccuracy of Google Maps. The fact was, however, that he hadn’t done any detailed preparation until he reached Ceduna, and then he’d only used his smartphone for information. A more preventable reason was that he’d decided to ‘blitz it’ and walk far quicker and further than he had planned, including a 100-kilometre day on 28 May, to mark a year since Chris Simpson’s death.
His mud map, which he’d posted on Facebook, showed that he would walk the 1200 kilometres along the Eyre Highway from Ceduna to Norseman in twenty-eight days, including four days off; that’s an average of 50 kilometres of walking a day, which is a very fair effort. By the time he passed through Caiguna, about 750 kilometres into the Nullarbor trek, he had no network coverage and could not make contact with anyone.
Initially, I wasn’t too concerned about the lack of contact as I knew there was a reasonable amount of traffic on the Eyre Highway, although no facilities in between the roadhouses, which were up to 200 kilometres apart. But coinciding with my gathering anxiousness were calls from some of his friends asking if I knew where he was. I didn’t. So, sitting at the NRL office while working as the player agent accreditation scheme operations manager with Paul Heptonstall next to me – who, coincidentally, had met Andrew just a few days into his walk – I started to call the roadhouses to try to piece together Cad’s movements.
I had no idea he’d walked 100 kilometres in a day for Simmo (he only posted the blog for this day, and others, when he reached Norseman weeks later), or that he’d had only one day off – well, he walked five kilometres that day before collapsing with exhaustion. So I referred to his mud map and called Cocklebiddy, Caiguna and Balladonia roadhouses, asking if they’d seen Andrew. At Cocklebiddy they said he’d passed through the previous week, picked up his food parcels and kept going; they thought it was on the Thursday about lunchtime. But those I spoke to at the other roadhouses (who, while I was on the phone, would ask others working there or truckies having meals if they’d seen Andrew) had no memory of him, and this was the following Friday, eight days later. Caiguna was 107 kilometres past Cocklebiddy, and Balladonia was 51 kilometres further west again, so even with a day off he should have been there by then; certainly he should have been well past Caiguna.
I called Fraser Range Station, a further 91 kilometres to the west, and they hadn’t seen him either. I was stumped; he had to have passed through one of those places. I started to wonder if he’d met some strife.
I knew it was very cold. I knew he would have been bush bashing to get off the road to camp, and it may have been easy to have a fall as there were hidden caves aplenty. I knew he was the middle of nowhere and if he let out any cries of distress there would most likely be no one to hear him. He should have absolutely been sighted at Caiguna or Balladonia – who could not notice a young bloke strolling along in with a pram, wearing pyjama pants and an orange high-vis vest?
A woman at the Balladonia roadhouse, who could sense my concern, was very good and said she’d ask, as they called in, the road train drivers coming from the west if they’d seen Andrew en route, which was a relief.
An hour later I headed towards home in my car, with an overnight trip to Western Australia on my mind. About fifteen minutes later the woman from Balladonia called and said another staff member had told her that Andrew had indeed come through a couple of days earlier and picked up his food parcel, and one of the truckies had seen him the next day safe and sound. The panic drained from me instantly. As it turned out, he made it to Fraser Range Station the following day, had his first full day off in three weeks, and was four days ahead of the schedule he had sent me!
Typically, when he hit civilisation at Norseman – sixteen days since he’d last posted a video blog or been in contact with anyone – and found there had been dozens of frantic calls and texts, he wondered what all the fuss was about. ‘Just coming into Norseman – that’s the Nullarbor done and dusted; 1200 kays in twenty-five days, better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick,’ he said on his video blog. ‘I’ve harped on before about some boxes in life that you want to tick over and over again, like beer, pizza and sex, two of which I’m going to get now – not sure if there is a pizza shop in town for the third. I tell you, the old Nullarbor is not in that category, I won’t be ticking that box again. Boring as bat-shite. I thought I would be all excited getting into town but I guess I’m more proud, like a young bloke who’s just wet his iron for the first time. But anyways, inundated with emails and voicemails and text messages and comments from people who were concerned for my safety these previous two weeks when I have been out of reception. It’s nice to know I’m loved and missed, people, but c’mon, I’m a big boy, it’s not like I didn’t get off the primary school bus. I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything but … anyways, I have a hot date with a sparkling redhead at the pub. See youse tomorrow.’
With Every Step Page 9