All That Glitters

Brrrrrrr! It’s so bloody freezing!

It’s our very last night on the Bibbulman Track, and, just to give us the perfect sendoff, tonight is up there with the coldest of any we’ve had.

I’m wrapped up in everything I can lay my frozen fingers on - T-shirts, thermals, my fleece, woollen socks, beanie, scarf, gloves - and I’m inside my silk sleeping sheet inside my down sleeping bag inside my tent, all zipped up - and I’m still cold! (Well, my tent isn’t really zipped up - it’s safety-pinned up, in a very ad hoc way, because both zips are stuffed - it’s annoying.

I’ll warm up eventuallly, although it’ll take awhile. I’ve been outside, hangin out, having dinner, chatting, and getting more and more frozen.

But tomorrow the world changes.

We’ll be back in civilisation. Back to the world of buildings, streets, traffic, cafés, shops, people. Back to plans, schedules and deadlines - although I definitely know my deadlines are significantly looser than for most of you guys.

Four whole weeks of hiking in the bush.

Sleeping long. Listening to the sounds of the ocean from my tent bed. Or rivers, or creeks, or the wind in the trees, the storms, the birds, reptiles, insects, and all the little critters.

Eating well, and not too much.

Reading, writing.

Carrying a heavy pack, legs arms and back working out every day. Lungs clean from weeks of breathing in pristine, fresh air. Skin and brain acclimatised, better able to deal with the elements.

A mind that’s had all the silence it’s needed.

Climbing hills, trudging through soft sand along expansive beaches, dodging waves, crossing creeks and inlets, wading through floodwaters, climbing granite peaks and sand dune cliffs, negotiating around, under or over fallen trees and thorny bushes, mushing through black mud and mossy wet forest floors, scratching through thick scrub, powering through ocean gales and horizontal rain, or meandering along super easy paths and boardwalks.

This world, this natural one, is so so precious. And, after a time, it seems so far away from the other one. I’m gonna miss this madly.

I can’t tell you how good it’s been, such feelings don’t translate easily into wordish.

All I can do right now is break out into the biggest most grateful smile ever.

The last few days on the track have been stunningly beautiful, as we’ve headed east along the tumultuous unpredictable Southern Ocean, through hilly dunes, along wild beaches and cliffs, and through patches of stunning flowering shrubby forest.

The smells are amazing. So many flowers means so many smells, some flowers have been so prolific I can now recognise their smells, even before I see them. Having a big hooter is super handy, even if the end of it is missing.

Hiker remains

Hiding from the Dementors

Speaking of hooting, we totally had one with the Kelder family, Caleb (13), Haylie (12), Jaden (9), and their dad Mark (young). They’re the nicest kids ever, hiking a few days of the track with their awesome dad - the kids are cheery, chatty, funny, energetic, and happy to amuse themselves by playing around in the bush or throwing a stuff bag around, instead of zombieing out on their phones.

But, way more importantly, their minds were absolutely jam packed with dad jokes! At last! People I can properly relate to!

Jaden started the ball rolling:

Jaden: How do you keep a kid in suspense?”

Me: I don’t know, how?

Jaden: [looks at me and says nothing]

[All the kids laugh their heads off, me too]

Then Caleb got in on the action:

Caleb: Three men walked into a bar. You’d think the last one would’ve ducked.

[More hysterical laughter]

Jaden: What’s orange and sounds like a parrot?

Me: I don’t know, what?

Jaden: A carrot

Of course, I instinctively immediately lowered the bar:

Me: Did you hear about the Maths teacher with constipation?

Kids: No.

Me: She worked it out with a pencil.

[Kids oooh-yukking]

Then the kids did the “no-eye deer” thing and a million Knock Knock jokes. The banter happily went on for ages, such important talk never bores me.

We sat around at the lookout while they ate their dinner, (which they said was tasteless), telling jokes and chatting about life.

They’re complete nature bums, and have a YouTube channel, Kelders Outdoors. We all watched Brenda the quenda and her son Patrick hopping around the hut in the evening. It was very bonding.

Pocket Rockets

What is it about long distance hiking trails that seems to attract young dynamic women in their droves? And what makes them want to hike the trails in crazily short time frames on their own? And why do they drink so much coffee?

We’ve met a bunch of these types of women on the track, way more than single young men. It’s been so interesting to talk with them - although tbh some of them sort of talked at us, rather than with us. But it’s still been fascinating.

Simone recently finished hiking the whole of the 1000km trail, and then turned around and started all over again, in the other direction. It’s her fifth time. Fifth. She’s super friendly, and not neurotypical. Staying on the track seems to help her stay on track.

Simone once walked from the very tip of northern Queensland (Cape York), to the very toe of southern Tasmania, a distance of well over 5000km. Alone. A curious idea. What a feat though. What a pair of feet.

When she goes to town she orders quadruple-shot coffees, and also drinks coffee prolifically on the track. She carries small amounts of dense nutrient rich foods and a tiny pack. Her conversation style seems to follow her crash-through approach to life - I had loads to ask her but I simply couldn’t get one single word in. Literally. And for an attention-seeker like myself that required huge amounts of patience and slow breathing.

Jo (pronounced Yo, for Johanna), is also a dynamic powerhouse, and an amazingly motivated hiker. By some weird coincidence I’d already met her once, at a hut in the Snowy Mountains last summer. She was doing the super difficult Australian Alpine Walking Track, a torturous hike through the Vic and NSW alps. It was really nice to meet up with her again. She was powering through the track, and powering through the caffeine to boot.

And then, the pocket-est of the rockets, Joeleen, rocked up late one night, soaked to the bone, wired and ready for action.

We chatted for ages. She was walking the track in 30 days, an average of 33kms a day. That’s a lot guys, with a pack on your back - nearly double what our daily average hiking day has been.

Hiking the Bibbulmun is one of many things on Joeleen’s bucketlist. Another is making an EP of her own songs. She’s a big fan of Robert Johnson and Bonnie Rait, has worked as an assistant stagey at Bluesfest, so I’m taking all of that as good signs that her own music will be awesome.

The saddest thing about Joeleen is that she hates people singing the song Jolene to her, which created an absolutely complete struggle for me the whole time. As soon as I met her the song invaded my music-head as an ear worm, and it refused to go away. I even accidentally softly hummed the last bit once - but she didn’t notice (luckily), the bit right at the end Joleeeene, Joleeeene…

Anyway I tried to convince her that the song is amazing, and that Dolly Parton is actually an incredible musician and songwriter (which of course she already knew).

Fun fact(s). Did you know that Dolly Parton wrote “I Will Always Love You,” the Whitney Houston mega-hit, as well as loads of songs that Kenny Rogers and other big artists released? What a legend! And that she’s won 11 Grammys, had 25 Billboard Country No 1 songs and won hundreds of other music awards? Not bad huh. Just as well she’s been well-endowed with loads of exhibition space to display all of her medallions.

But it’s the please don’t take my man bit of the Jolene song that the real Joeleen hates. Yeah I get it Joeleen. We know you’re not like that.

Dolly Parton at 75 (Remixed)

Bye bye Bibby, Bibby goodbye 😢

Albany

And so, Miranda and I actually made it to the very end of our hike, the southern terminus of the Bibb, at Albany. (It’s Albany, like Albo, not Allbany).

But we didn’t even actually think about any of that at all, because as soon as we hit Albany our minds were consumed with all the serious eating we had to do. First there was the Alkaline vegan café, for hot drinks and apple cider cake. Then the Turkish café for gözleme (me), and a bento box at the Japanese next door for Meander-thal. Then we walked all the way up the busy highway and set up our tents in a caravan park, laundered our clothes and fumigated our bodies, (and vice versa), then went out for more food, of course.

Miranda doggedly refusing to smile

The land around Albany is Minang land, the traditional owners have been there for at least 20,000 years. When Europeans first arrived in 1791 they reported finding a village with a large group of huts in the area. Contact between the Europeans and the indigenous locals was initially quite friendly, and a well known leader, Mokare, often helped to sort out difficulties between the two groups. However he died of a European disease within the first few years of white settlement - a common cause of death for indigenous locals in those days. The first white governor of the area was so enamoured with Mokare that when the governor died, he left instructions for his body to be buried next to Mokare’s, which it was.

Albany’s a cute historic town. It began to boom in the late 1800s, when tens of thousands of people passed through here on their way to the goldfields around Kalgoorlie. There’s loads of historic buildings, hotels and guesthouses, churches, they all went up at that time.

Street dwellers

We attempted to do all there was to do on a Friday night in the town. It wasn’t too hard. First we had Vietnamese snacks in a French bar/restaurant called Liberté.

Très wannabe-chic, mon cherie

Then we had Punjabi food at a restaurant called “The Indian Tandoori Restaurant” (so creative).

An upper caste Indian dinner guest insisted his private rickshaw be parked inside.

Then we went to a pub close to the waterfront called Six Degrees, where we saw a band play really good versions of really bad songs. We drank beer. We danced. This guy was eyeing off Miranda:

While we were dancing the dude came up to ask me about Miranda, and said “where did ya find her?” I said “in the forest!” He looked at me strangely while I laughed.

Actually he was a pretty iffy guy. He told us that the older lady he was dancing with, “mutton dressed as mutton,” fancied him. But he fancied the younger women in the table across from us (they were probs in their late 20s, he was in his 50s).

He said to me “we all know what they want,” (pointing at the women), “they’re just too scared to ask for it.” I said to him “what do you think they actually want?” He said, “we all know what they want.” Errghyuk. Slime city.

I’m pretty certain that if any of those women were interested in anyone there, it wouldn’t have been him, not if he opened his mouth. If I was his psychotherapist I’d suggest to him that he spend a year or two  reading feminist books, reflect on his own attitudes to women, and then seriously think about reworking his lines.

So that was the end of that.

The next morning we caught an early bus to Northcliffe, it was so weird to be in a vehicle again, it made me dizzy. We picked up my car and spent the afternoon collecting our food tubs and revisiting some of the places we’d walked through on the hike. Then it was Korean in Margaret River, and back to our delicious friends in their delectable Gracetown palace.

My sweet darling guitar!! I’d missed her so much! Towards the end of the hike I’d taken to singing and playing percussion on my cooking pots because there was absolutely nothing else to play.

The pain!

But there she was again, in the palace, waiting like a loyal corgi. But way leaner and much better smelling.

The bliss!

Luckily I could still remember to play things on her that sounded like music. That baby’s def had a workout since then, me too, we’ve been working out together, my love and me.

Also, Miranda and I both disappeared into blissland on a fancy electric hydraulic robotic massage chair in the evening, one after the other. It was seriously like having five Thai massage masters going for it on your body, all at once. Seriously amazing.

Afterwards I floated to my cloudbed and dreamt that I was being fed steamed coconut-flavoured sweets by a heavenful of winged Thai angels, who were whispering things in my ears in Thai that I couldn’t understand, so I just smiled blissfully at them and pretended I actually understood exactly what they were saying.

Just like I normally do whilst conversing in Thailand.

The next morning we drove all the way to Perth. Light traffic. Traffic lights. Heavy traffic. Heavy. Stinky fumes.

The markets in Freo were packed, and super fun. If you want Covid just go there. I got a serve of real samosas! We drank fresh juice. We ate Balinese food, enak enak!

And then we said our goodbyes, Miranda’s on her way to assist on a yoga retreat in Bali, I’m on my way to the goldfields of WA.

We had a super fun time hiking together, we only had one fight the whole time (surprisingly), of course that was all Miranda’s fault, but in my infinite compassion and wisdom I made her see her mistakes and repent for them for a few days by making me hot chocolates and miso soups and the like. If she tells you any different, don’t believe her. Btw all that was before she punched me in the face to get even, which she now is. My stubnose art feature is excelling at the moment.

Unposed market action bustle shot, Miranda doggedly refusing not to smile

Gold Diggers

I just burped in Indonesian.

I guess you probably didn’t need to know that.

My nasi campur (combination rice) from the Balinese food stall was so delicious that it’s been letting me relive its unforgettable flavours all afternoon. I’d blow my fragrant burpfume your way if you were here.

Oooh I’m so excited to go back to Indonesia soon! I love it there. I’ve spent chunks of time there over the years, travelled to many of the provinces, it feels a bit like home.

Actually I think the only reason I travel at all is because I love food so much. All those other way more woke reasons I often give for travelling are just a load of codswallop. Everyone knows that the true way to a man’s heart is through his burp-hole.

So now I’m in Southern Cross, a tiny town about 400km east of Perth. It was named, believe it or not, after the Southern Cross star constellation, which makes it pretty unique, because I don’t know any other Australian towns named after stars. Do you?

The town was founded during the gold rush of the late 1800s, there’s a few grand buildings around, like the one I’m in right now, the Palace Hotel, which is huge, and definitely palace-esque.

There’s a whopping 74 rooms for accommodation in this building and adjoining buildings, all managed by a wonderful Irish woman, Carolyn, who happens to be yet another pocket rocket, but a little more rocket than pocket. She told me she’s spent $2m of the owner’s money renovating the place over the past three years, and business is booming. There’s miners, highway workers and tourists all over this district - all of them emptying their loaded pockets in the only happening place in town.

Carolyn also told me she’s hiked many trails in Europe, especially in France and Spain. She loved Corsica and Crete most of all. Well there ya go. Southern Cross is probably as far as you could physically and culturally get from those places. Lucky her.

The Palace

Woah ….. the silence here is totally complete. It’s deafening, and a little disconcerting, it’s like a pressure on the ears, a high-ish pitched hum that doesn’t go away.

Maybe it’s the sound of my brain working.

I’m camped in the bush somewhere between Belladonia and Caiguna, way out in the middle of somewhere, heading out towards the Nullarbor. You’d think, after all the bush time I’ve had lately, that I’d be used to the silence.

But surprisingly, I’m not. It wasn’t silent at the Bibbulmun at night at all. There was always sound - the ocean, the wind, raindrops, owls, bats, critters, frogs. Rustling through the bushes. The sound of Miranda snoring from her tent hundreds of metres away , or making her hot chocolate at 4.45am every bloody morning. Or the sound of someone in my own tent loudly snoring, even though I was alone.

But here it’s completely, utterly sound-less. It’s amazing.

Kalgoorlie

I’ve been digging around the goldfields over the last couple of days, in Southern Cross, in Coolgardie and in Kalgoorlie.

They really balls-ed up this town name

WA police leave these wrecks lying around on the side of the highways to remind people about the dangers of drink dying

Wyalkatchem buggers and give ‘em a good hidin,’ the bleedin’ rascals

Kalgoorlie, or Kal, as the locals like to call it, is the jewel in the miners’ crown. It lies in Wangkatja country, and is named after the silky pear tree, the kalkurla.

In 1893 Paddy Hannan, Tom Flanagan and Dan Shea were travelling through the area when their horse lost a shoe. As there were no shoe shops around they stopped to sort it out themselves, and suddenly they found gold in them thar hills!, 100oz. in fact (nearly 3 whole kg).

Immediately Hannan laid a claim to the land (as if it hadn’t already been leased for 50,000 years, the dingbat), word got out about the find, and thousands of people turned up hoping to get in on the action. They initially called the town Hannan’s Find, I don’t really know why.

The area around the original discovery is jam packed full of gold, and is known as the Golden Mile. It’s sometimes referred to as the richest square mile of land on the planet.

The largest open cut gold mine in Australia

This guy was so desperately searching for gold that he scratched away his fingers, poor sod

On International Women’s Day, they blew the shit out of the land, as usual, but added pink smoke. Well that makes it better doesn’t it. That’s actually true.

International Women’s Day Fairy Goldmother spreading her dust to the masses, before getting back to the kitchen and the bedroom where she belongs

Kalgoorlie absolutely went ballistic as a result of the goldrush in the 1890s - not unlike Ballarat and Bendigo in the 1850s. In its heyday, despite the fact that no one even grew hay there, the white population of the WA goldfields area exceeded 200,000, comprised mainly of prospectors.

It had a reputation for being a pretty lawless place. Gambling, especially two-up, and gold stealing were commonplace. All that cash brought a huge demand for other services, most notably for alcohol and prostitution, and many men lost their nuggets that way.

Grand ornate stone buildings went up all over the place, the most stunning of which were huge hotels. There seems to be one on every corner, and there’s a helluva lot of corners in the town. Hay St was full of brothels, there were huge markets, fountains and memorials.

Even the town hall spire is gold tipped

19 yr old local Kevin came over to talk with me while I was taking photos of the now deserted magnificent old market building.

It’s pretty unusual for a 19 yr old to do that, which he himself later noted. He told me Kal’s nothing like it used to be when he was a kid. He remembers walking through the main street, Hannan St, with his mum, and the place was absolutely jam packed, people everywhere.

Businesses were booming, cafes and restaurants were full, the pubs had live music and were full of punters, the brothels were pumping, in all sorts of ways.

I asked him what happened? He replied, “FIFO.” He said that when the mines decided to employ fly-in fly-out workers instead of locals (because it’s cheaper), the town just died-in-the-arse. Coles moved out of the city centre and took all the shoppers with them.

Now there’s closed businesses everywhere in town. It’s sad to see. WA has no legislation requiring mining companies to hire locally, unlike some other states, such as Queensland.

For mines in the middle of nowhere obviously FIFO is the only real option for mining companies, but for those mines near large towns, continuing to hire locally is the socially responsible thing to do. But since when did that come into it?

Corporate social responsibility? What are ya bloody on about now?! It’s about shareholder profits ya bloody bleeding heart. Mines aren’t welfare agencies. Get with the program ya hippie.

All too typical street scene

Antithetical art

Across the Bight

So, next up on my unforgettable death-defying journey I’m gonna sit on my unfat arse and cruise-control a coupla thousand clicks along the south coast, to visit my dear family and friends in Adelaide.

Those sort of distances are just a hop skip and a jump for me (especially with my legs).

And guess what?? I’m gonna sleep in a bed! A real bed! I’ve been in my tent for all but 4 nights for the past 3 months, so I hope I don’t have some sort of reaction. Well, I’m sure I’ll have some sort of reaction, I’m predicting unthinkable unceasing pleasure.❤️