By 2 pm, Andrew was exhausted: ‘I stopped about two to give up and sat under a tree. I was fucked and could hardly keep my eyes open. I didn’t even have the energy to shoo the flies away. I made myself keep going and finally the storms that had been brewing on all four horizons moved close enough to block the sun. It was so good! … I finally made it to the 40-kilometre mark at five o’clock and could have my shirt off because the sun was buried behind a mass of black cloud … I had to tie my shirt around my neck to keep the flies off my back, it was gross.’
The hazards of walking solo along the narrow highway, where a pedestrian would be the last thing truck drivers would expect to confront, became evident just on dark when Cad hit a series of five one-lane bridges over rivers and creeks; at the last one he had to wait for a road train to pass before gingerly scurrying over the bridge. He made it to Willare River roadhouse about 6 pm and there asked a young Irish woman named Jeanette (who he recorded as being ‘hot’) if his food parcel had arrived; she told him she was getting worried about when he would appear and that she was going to send a car out to find him if he hadn’t by tonight. Jeanette gave him the camp spot for free. Cad reckoned he’d found another piece of heaven in that the camping area had lush green grass and ample shade (and a pool), a far cry from the bare dirt he’d become used to. ‘Had the world’s longest shower and crashed at nine.’
DAY 326, 17 NOVEMBER 2011
REST DAY, WILLARE BRIDGE ROADHOUSE
After waking at 4 am and rushing to the toilet, his system feeling like it was rebelling against what it had been put through, Andrew went back to sleep until seven before waking and ‘feeling like I had been hit in the head by a sledgehammer … I’d drunk fourteen litres of water yesterday, the most in my life, then two more last night, but was still pissing yellow this morning [suggesting he was dehydrated].’ He decided he desperately needed a day off.
Mid-morning, ‘PK’, an associate of Phil Browne’s who owned an electrical business in the region and had been told to look out for Andrew, pulled in from the highway for a break sat next to him for a chat and revealed he had lost his son at age nineteen just fifteen days earlier; he’d drowned after jumping in the water at Dubbo when his dog fell from a boat. Andrew was obviously deeply affected by the news and relayed in his diary the story of PK’s son and how PK needed to get back into work to take his mind off the tragedy.
Soon after, I received a call from Andrew that I still vividly remember. He spilled out how down he was and so over the walk, and I almost begged him to give up and come home after he reached Darwin. That in itself was an amazing achievement, and he’d also raised a good amount in honour of Simmo so no one would think any less of him, especially considering he had initially committed to walking only to Perth. It was his wellbeing that was most important, and if he was hating it that much, why torture himself? But he said he wouldn’t cut the walk short. After we hung up, I seriously considered dropping everything, flying to Broome, hitching out to meet him and walking to Darwin with him, but then considered how I’d only slow him down and would not be able to physically handle the heat and distance involved.
Only when I read his diary notes after his death did I fully understand what he was going through. He wrote of our conversation: ‘Spoke to the old boy on my sat phone about shit I need and he got me a fan, so hopefully it will help me sleep. I told him I’m fucked up, he said to just come home and no one will think any less of me. He just doesn’t get it – I’ll think less of me. I’m locked in now. I’m not going home until I walk home, me and Simmo all the way.’
My concern was that he’d be too determined for his own good.
DAYS 327–330, 18–21 NOVEMBER 2011
EAST OF WILLARE (177 KM)
The diary entries of that day provide another insight into Andrew’s attitude towards people of so many different walks of life that he met. Three people had warned him about the Aboriginals in Fitzroy Crossing and Halls Creek, and that he should be wary carrying his cash donations. ‘Personally, I think the chances of a blackfella, or anyone else for that matter, pulling up to rob me doesn’t even warrant the thought involved. After five carloads of Aboriginals pulled up today to see if I needed water and to donate, it makes me think less of the matter again. It’s funny how the three people that told me to be careful are all east coast crew, spoon-fed the same crap and brought up with the same mentality as me. I don’t doubt for a second that crime is rife in the towns, and the fact you can’t get full-strength takeaway [beer] anywhere from Derby to Kununurra says there is an underlying problem with alcohol, but I think I’ve more concern for my own safety in the cities when it comes to being mugged.’
He decided in the end that only individuals could be judged, and it was folly to generalise: there was good and bad in all sectors of society, and so that was how he would treat people of all races and nationalities during his travels.
Armed with a tea towel that he used to wipe his forehead every two minutes, Cad enjoyed the cloudy day. When he saw an oversized load accompanied by a lead and rear vehicle and police escort go by, ‘as always’ he was looking for his mate ‘Dinkum’ from Broome. Lo and behold, he was in the vehicle behind the truck. ‘We had a quick chat and he slung me $50 and asked me how Fiji was.’
His other visitors during the day weren’t so welcomed – a flock of crows who circled him constantly all day. ‘It started with a couple and the gang steadily picked up numbers throughout the day. It was unnerving watching their shadows continually sweeping across in front of me. “Not today, boys,” I kept saying when I looked up. They would come down lower with a bit of attitude when I stopped for a break, to see if I’d dropped dead I’d guess.’
He also encountered the first of the wild bulls he’d been warned about. ‘It was making a deep roaring noise like a lion but in just short bursts. I could hear it but couldn’t see it. I switched off my music and shit myself … it followed me for kilometres making that noise. Thankfully, it was behind a fence. I got a glimpse of it once as it trotted along but only its hind – I was screaming “yah!” as loud as I could but didn’t deter it – it was weird. I don’t know why it followed me.’
It began raining heavily next day and Cad’s knees were playing up badly by late afternoon. ‘My left knee has always been fucked but my right jumped on the bandwagon today and they both started pinching real hard late arvo and making me miss a step and have to kind of skip to recover, they were just buckling under me. Looks like I’m up for some more X-rays and physio in Darwin.’
His knees were soon forgotten when dark came and he’d camped for the night just a few metres off the road in a sandy water run-off channel. Insects took over his attention. It was a hazard he again had to get used to.
‘When I camped I got flogged by mozzies as I stretched, they nailed me through my shirt as it pressed taunt against my skin. I took my shoes off because my feet were killing me but got pumped through my socks. I covered myself in Aerogard but it did little to help – welcome back, mozzies! The bugs were unreal – it was impossible to use my head torch, instead I had to put my torch ten metres away and tried to cook in the shadows. My pot still filled with bugs – who knows how many I ate. I’ve been eating hundreds of ants every morning after they set up camp in my packet of oats, they all float when I put the milk in and I can usually lose a few dozen but I’m over it and just eat them now. Between the bulls, the bugs and the mozzies and the flies still up past their bedtime, they sucked the remaining life out of me. I retreated to my tent a broken man … I woke up several times with shitloads of bites on my hands … I think I am getting bitten through the fly as I sprawl against it.’
After rejoicing at waking only five times and being able to go back to sleep rather than lie awake for hours, Cad was awake at 4 am and away at 7 am after completing his diary entries, but with a case of chronic diarrhoea.
John from Fitzroy Crossing pulled up in a four-wheel drive and gave Cad three mangoes and, when asked if there were any waterho
les ahead, gave great detail about one 30 kilometres to the east and that Cad couldn’t miss it, but he suggested it was better to use water from the tank under the windmill. Andrew scoured for hours as he walked but couldn’t find any windmill. He pitched his tent on a cement slab next to a picnic table as other campers looked on unimpressed.
Cad recorded that he passed the 9000-kilometre milestone the next day (I logged it as four days later), but otherwise it was just another long, tough day that began with his first steps at 5.30 am after he realised ants had broken into every unsealed packet of food and he had to turf his nuts and fruit. He kept the equally invaded oats as he couldn’t replace them until he reached Fitzroy Crossing, about 88 kilometres away; he had nothing else for breakfast.
If there was any day when his body may have collapsed and succumbed to heatstroke and he may even have died, this was it. He stopped under the shade of a boab tree after just two hours on the road.
‘I was so tired it was impossible to keep my eyes open. I straight passed out sitting up. I was probably out for an hour and woke up feeling worse. I made myself drink a cup of rehydration powder then passed out again with my head on my solar panel. Was out again for a while then I had another cup. I had a sore neck so I grabbed my tarp out and just collapsed on the rocks and shit, no pillow, no mattress. I remember being really uncomfortable but didn’t have the strength to get up. I was out for probably another halfa [hour] again and I woke up in a pile of sweat and started vomiting. I felt like I was zonked out on downers. I drank some more rehydration tablets and powder until there was none left.
‘I was so out of it I was trying to put the wrong lid back on the wrong bottle and tried about half a dozen times until I realised what I was doing. I sat there staring into space for at least an hour and then I snapped out of it all of a sudden – mentally not physically.’
He became very hungry and ate much of the next day’s rations. Fortunately, he had the benefit of a tailwind and incredibly knocked out 44 kilometres through sheer determination. That evening Andrew fathomed that he should be averaging a day off every four to survive.
DAYS 331–332, 22–23 NOVEMBER 2011
TO FITZROY CROSSING (44 KM), THEN A REST DAY
Fortunately, the word had spread far and wide throughout the region that Andrew was pacing the Great Northern Highway alone. There were many people who took it upon themselves to ensure he had voluntary support, some obviously concerned about a misguided young bloke out in the wilderness by himself in ridiculously oppressive heat.
One of PK’s workers, a guy from Nelson Bay in New South Wales, dropped off some water, a tub of ice and a bottle of Powerade, enlarging Andrew’s water supply to eight litres, but that was still not nearly enough to last him two days. A woman pulled up in a 4WD while he was having lunch and said John had given her a message to pass on: drop into the Shell roadhouse at Fitzroy Crossing and grab some nibbles, then go to the lodge for dinner, bed and shower. Andrew scratched his head to think of who this John was.
When he had phone reception shortly after, there was an email saying another random traveller – Linda, who had earlier pulled over to donate money – had also arranged a night’s accommodation at the BP roadhouse.
He later joined PK and his workers for dinner on the other side of the highway at the Shell service station. One of the workers, called ‘Irish’, put the mysterious John on the phone and Cad still didn’t know who it was until he mentioned mangoes – it was the farmer he passed two days earlier. He also discovered John had a cattle property of about a million acres nearby.
Andrew asked PK to bank his donations collected since Broome – $1565, which was amazing, considering how little traffic was on the road. He spent the day relaxing, did a $195 shop to last him a week, and talked to electricians Yarny and Milo, who were sharing the donga next to his. Most of the day was spent getting much-needed rest.
DAY 333–339, 24–30 NOVEMBER 2011
FITZROY CROSSING TO HALLS CREEK (288 KM)
After Cad left Fitzroy Crossing, not one person stopped to talk to him the whole day. The temperature was a ‘cool’ 37 degrees Celsius, with lower humidity than he’d encountered, flat roads and grassy cattle country. He was able to sleep without sweating and in fact was cold during the night for the first time in months.
Cad was on the road by 7 am, walking into a headwind that persisted all day, the scenery endless grassy plains but no more boab trees in sight. The soaring hot wind burnt his eyes and made them water constantly, forcing him to walk with his head down. Later in the day he came across some ranges with sheer red cliffs dotted with caves, which impressed him.
Kevin and Digger (‘a couple of characters who asked if I’d met “John the fossil”’) stopped and offered Cad a beer and, upon refusal, a sip of Sambuca liqueur. Digger, a helicopter pilot, was working on local cattle stations. They mentioned a waterhole about 30 kilometres ahead, and this was one Cad could find, surrounded by a clump of trees; he lifted Redge over a barbed-wire fence to get closer. ‘It wasn’t what I had expected. I had pictured crystal waters in a sort of stone walled gorge but it was more of a black swampy set-up half-full of reeds. But there was plenty of room to swim around. There were probably threemetre-high rock walls to two sides and just reedy banks to the others. The boys said it was deep, but after hearing PK’s tragic story I wasn’t diving into black water, so I climbed down and belly-flopped into it. It was nice and cold and refreshing.’
Clint, a guy in his thirties from Melbourne who was working as a welfare officer in Aboriginal communities, had also driven in to use the waterhole, and he chatted with Cad for a while, leaving him about $60 worth of donations in gold coins. Clint said the water was much murkier than usual, and a small waterfall often flowed through the rocks. Andrew asked him about the stone under the arm advice he’d received and Clint explained it was to protect him from a serpent dragging him under, not a snakebite. While he may not have been convinced by their traditional beliefs, Cad had really endeared himself to the Indigenous majority in these parts. He wrote: ‘The blackfellas crack me up, they all slow right down and go around me and beep, and I see hands come out of every window to wave. I always give them a huge wave, they make me laugh. I wave to the farmers and the crew in the four-wheel-drive utes and they just ignore me, which shits me to tears when I make an effort.’
After a second skinny-dip, Cad pitched his tent next to the waterhole, filled his water bottles and was asleep by 9 pm.
Next day he was taken by the sight of the Ngumban Cliffs, which he encountered early in the day. ‘The road weaved through the Ngumban Cliffs which were quite impressive. They were rich red ranges covered in boulders and spinifex with sheer cliffs poking out of the tops of its steep banks, it was same as the Pilbara.’
The hot dry headwind really sapped his energy and he pulled up early, setting up camp at the entrance of a road to an Aboriginal community and sleeping like a baby for once. When he woke, Cad realised he’d drunk thirteen litres of water the previous day, leaving him just five litres, so he didn’t wash up or wash his teeth, conserving what supplies he had. He was on the road by 7 am, again into a dry headwind. Fortunately, Graham and Jeff, who had just painted the Halls Creek roadhouse and were returning to Broome, stopped and gave him a litre and a half of water (and a $50 donation), and soon after another car stopped and he landed a further half a litre and $45 in donations.
He’d walked 45 kilometres by 2.30 pm and had tried to conserve water by sipping little amounts regularly. At 4.30 pm he reached a rest area with just half a litre of water in his stocks and desperate to find a water tank; Cad thought he’d have to flag down cars for the first time to survive, with Halls Creek 108 kilometres away.
He left the pram on the road and walked down the dirt track to the rest area, finding a car parked there belonging to two women. He went back to fetch Redge and went in and found some more inhabitants, so he did the rounds scabbing water – one bottle from ‘an old hermit’, four ‘goon bags’ from
a young couple who’d just pulled in, and eight litres from an elderly couple. It was now safe to camp for the night and walk for another day.
In order to not have to rely solely on the generosity of passing motorists, he contacted the roadhouse just past Halls Creek where he’d had supplies dropped off to see if they could arrange for some water and food to be relayed to him by any travellers heading west. The woman at the roadhouse, either ignorant to how dire his situation was just unsympathetic, was hardly co-operative. After establishing his food and water supplies were there, Cad explained what he was up to and asked if someone could be organised to transport a portion and leave it at the entrance to the rest area.
‘I’m getting low on food and water and I really need it [one of his bags of supplies}. “Yeah, well, all we can do is ask the truckies and they will drop it off at Halls Creek for you,” she replied. “No, it’s no good to me at Halls, I need it out here.” Then the rude bitch starts getting narky at me down the phone. I said: “You don’t understand, I have no support crew, I’m walking from Fitzroy to Halls, I need to get it here.” “Well, there’s nothing I can do about that, I can only ask the truckies and they won’t stop for you.” “Well, that’s just it. I don’t think truckies are the answer; you need to ask anyone but truckies. Is Matthew [who Cad had arranged his supplies to be sent to} there?” “No, he starts at twelve tomorrow.” I gave up after ten minutes of painful conversation. I can’t believe I kept my cool and kept telling her I appreciate it and thanks and please. I just wanted to scream down the phone at her.’
With Every Step Page 17