We also were fortunate as our bliss over Marcus’s birth was without the usual stresses of a first baby. I was already a dedicated and experienced fulltime mother who enjoyed running her home like a well-oiled machine that supported everyone’s activities: our bushwalking, Lloyd’s day job, his part-time work as a musician, Ava’s school and ballet classes, Scott’s preschool and the music lessons given to Ava and Scott by Lloyd.
What enabled me to run the household so smoothly was neither routine, nor the gift of an orderly mind. It was because my mind naturally thinks ahead: about how to get necessary tasks completed in the most efficient manner, and about the implications of today’s happenings on the future development of my children. We didn’t have television because I regarded their precious childhood better spent on creative pursuits like drawing, dancing, reading, learning music, playing sport. For the sake of their future health, I did not keep any sugary, non-nutritious food in the house and discouraged grandparents and others from giving the children lollies and biscuits. My thoughts driving home after a bushwalking weekend would be about getting our tired children into bed as quickly as possible and readying the household for smooth sailing on Monday morning. By the time we turned into the driveway I had tasks allocated between us and never went to bed worrying about what needed to be done the next day.
My husband was so supportive that I felt it was our teamwork made our family life so effortless but, in later years, a friend told me that Lloyd used to say, “When it came to running a household when the children were little, Liz is the most capable and inventive woman I’ve known. Nothing ever flusters her; and there is no household problem she can’t solve.”
Our little family unit not only expanded with Marcus’s birth when the other two were six and four; it consolidated. Since Lloyd was Marcus’s dad, Ava and Scott soon started to call him ‘Daddy’, instead of by his name. With the five of us linked as a unit by Marcus’s presence, my sense of self was identified by the family. Without my family there was no ‘me’. But within my family, I felt needed, loved and complete.
We continued to go bushwalking, at least a day-walk every weekend until we could manage overnight gear for five. Lloyd and I occasionally left the children with his mother so we could do an overnight walk on our own; and sometimes Marcus stayed with his grandmother while we did an overnight walk with Ava and Scott. We had lots of wonderful adventures although I admit to often covering distances and terrain that were tough on the older children. But as soon as we stopped for a break or camp for the night, they would cheer up and find plenty of ways to enjoy themselves.
Carrying a child bushwalking adds an element of interest beyond that of a backpack full of gear. You can be sure that just when you are balancing on a narrow log to cross a fast-flowing river, the child will move suddenly. When one of the other children came running up behind us—usually for the sheer enjoyment of being able to run on a flat, easy path after rock-hopping down a river or negotiating a difficult steep slope—Marcus would turn to watch them coming, then spin his head so fast to see them in front that I would be nearly thrown off my feet.
Marcus grew up in that backpack. It was how I transported him whenever I walked anywhere, shopping, attending school or preschool functions, or bushwalking. He never, ever cried when he was in the backpack. I could almost touch and breathe his happiness when he was on my back. He could see and talk to people; and nearby adults invariably smiled and talked to him. As he grew up, Marcus had a remarkable sense of security and confidence with people of all ages; maybe because of spending much of his first three years relating to adults at eye level.
I can still remember, too, the feeling of Marcus comfortable on my back with my hands free to hold Ava’s hand in one and Scott’s in the other. Encountering the social world in this way was like venturing out for the first time, uplifted, ready to explore new horizons.
Enter Cassandra. When Marcus was almost three, the darling of us all was born. Cassie was the sweetest little baby who hardly ever cried; she smiled and laughed whenever anyone was holding or talking to her. My happiness knew no bounds. Not only did four children seem like the right number to make a family complete, but she was a girl! Her birth was long and exhausting; when it was over I couldn’t even reach out for her. But when they told me she was a girl, a big smile came across my face, How wonderful! I thought, Ava has a sister! My life is perfect now. At that, I fell into a deep sleep.
And still, weekend after weekend, whatever the weather, we escaped suburban life to bushwalk and camp nights in the rugged beauty of Australia’s wilderness. As little ones the children travelled on our backs, packed amongst sleeping bags, tents and dehydrated food. Once able to walk strongly all four children carried their own raingear, woollen jumper, drinking water and nibbles in backpacks made-to-measure by Lloyd and me. Bushwalking shops in the ’70s did not cater for children, but what little extra money we had was spent on high-quality adult size gear.
Cassie was a year old when Lloyd got another promotion, this time to Marketing Manager for which we relocated to Sydney with its new bushwalking horizons. At first the predominantly dry sclerophyll surrounds seemed harsh compared with the tall timber forests in Victoria. But the Sydney sandstone basin became the region where our outdoor adventures matured. Today I never feel more at home than somewhere, anywhere, in the vast tracts of pristine bush in the Sydney basin.
When physically able to carry a full overnight pack our teenage children usually brought friends along too. As we gradually updated our gear, there were sufficient, spare, overnight rucksacks, tents and sleeping bags to equip their numerous friends who joined us. Ava’s teenage friends used to tease her about how often she showed someone through the Byron family album, full of bushwalking photos. Lloyd was the photographer, though, not me.
Rather than snapping pictures, I prefer to reflect on experiences through writing. For this Queensland donkey trek, I deliberately planned periodic breaks where I could write comfortably in ‘proper’ accommodation. The ideal situation had a veranda on which to unload and store my gear, table and chairs in pleasant surroundings and space close by for the donkeys to browse untethered. After writing in my journal at Farmstay, I inquired as to how I might rejoin the BNT, which I’d left in order to avoid the impassable CREB track that would have taken me directly to Daintree without going through Cape Tribulation. I found out that the only route to Daintree was 50 kilometres of narrow, winding, busy road, through rainforest growing right up to the bitumen; dangerous to walk with two loaded donkeys and nowhere to camp. To further complicate matters, the BNT was closed between Daintree and the next town of Mossman where I had supplies waiting at the post office.
I managed to find someone to float the donkeys and me the 70 kilometres to Mossman. The owner of the float had lots of experience coaxing hesitant horses. Her jaw literally dropped seeing the enthusiasm with which Grace and Charley clambered aboard—they obviously knew it would save some walking.
Mossman showground had good feed and plenty of spots to tether one donkey at a time while the other free-ranged. I slept under a nice sheltered area which provided daytime shade while I restocked dehydrated fruit and vegetables, nuts, various grains (rice, millet, quinoa, oats), and dairy and soya milk in powdered form; supplemented with Vitamin C and Spirulina. For fresh food, I carried as many oranges as would last and bought other fresh fare whenever possible.
The donkeys rested and ate while I did plenty of walking the kilometre to and from the Post Office. I had purchased and packed my first six weeks’ dried food supplies in two separate boxes: one I took with me for the first three weeks; the other posted to Mossman for collection along with a third box containing bulk foods such as Vegemite, cooking oil, salt and tamari. Obtaining the type of food I needed as a vegetarian could not be certain in rural Queensland so, for restocking, I had an arrangement with a wonderful shop in Canberra, Mountain Wholefoods. The owner John and I worked out a system whereby I would fax my order for about three weeks’ supplies, making sure it arrived in plenty of time for his staff to pack and mail to my nominated post office.
My ordering system was recorded on three A4-size spreadsheets, one for breakfasts, one for dinners and the third for lunches, drinks, snacks, non-food consumables and supplements for the donkeys. John stored at his shop various consumables I’d purchased that were not products he stocked but were packed with