Mostly, I didn’t even know what I wanted. At age 60, the only way to find out was to forgo all reliance on a partner for physical or emotional support. If I didn’t know who I was and what I wanted out of life, I needed to live on my own. I might not be able to turn back the clock and be a better mother, but I could be a positive force in the lives of my grandchildren.
The long-planned trek through Queensland with two donkeys emerged as my transition to living solo. I was ready to say to myself and the world: This is it. This is me, like it or not.
I gratefully accepted Lloyd’s offer to help iron out any practical glitches before setting out on my own. He accompanied me on some short introductory treks: in Namadgi National Park near Canberra, the Snowy Mountains and in eastern Victoria, where we once found our way blocked by a huge, recently fallen tree. The trunk’s diameter was more than waist high. While Lloyd and I could clamber over, it looked like a major obstacle for the donkeys. On one side of the track a steep drop made it impossible to get around the tree roots, while the other side would involve bashing through thick scrub for up to an hour to get around the enormous tree branches, with likely damage to the saddle bags. I thought about what I had seen of Charley’s capacity to jump. Grace would happily walk through water, but Charley was more likely to jump across a creek up to three metres wide. Everything on top of Charley’s saddle had to be tied down because I never knew when she was going to jump over water or difficult terrain. Maybe I could make use of this ability.
We all walked back the way we’d come for about 20 metres where I said to Lloyd, “You wait here with Grace. I’m going to see what Charley can do.”
Charley walked calmly on the lead beside me as I focused my eyes and intention on the track beyond the tree trunk. To make it seem that the log was no impediment I did not slow down as I found toe and handholds to climb up and over. Just as I reached the top, Charley flew over the enormous tree trunk!
Lloyd said it was a beautiful sight; from a standing jump, fully loaded, the donkey soaring over the full diameter of the massive fallen tree to land gracefully on the other side. I excitedly jumped down and gave her a hug, congratulations and some banana chip treats from my pocket. Lloyd approached the log with Grace pulling hard in the direction of the thick bush. I left Charley tied to a tree and clambered back over the log to take over from Lloyd. Grace and I stood together in front of the tree trunk, with Grace looking at me as if I was stupid. She then forcefully indicated that her way was through the bush. So I left her tethered close to the fallen tree while Lloyd, Charley and I walked on as if to leave her behind. A worried sounding donkey call soon rose above the musical cry of the black cockatoos flying through the trees. I returned to untie Grace and firmly signify that we were going over the log, not around it. She anxiously paced back and forth alongside it as I squatted on top of the tree trunk, giving her as much lead as possible without letting her leave the track.
When she stopped pacing, I climbed down the side away from her and leaned over, coaxing, “Come on, sweetie, you can do it.”
Grace looked over my shoulder, along the track where Lloyd and Charley were now out of sight. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment before breathing out hard, Alright. I’ll try. She then scrambled up and over the enormous tree trunk with just enough firm footholds to prevent her from slipping, until reaching the top, from where she jumped down onto the track beside me. What a gutsy girl!
After a big hug and the last of the banana chips in my pocket, she almost skipped along, her sparkling eyes and lightness of step communicating that she was really pleased with herself. I suddenly felt truly ready to start trekking on my own with donkeys; time for a new life as a single woman.
Chapter 2: SETTING OUT
Bungendore to Cooktown
I elected to trek the Bicentennial National Trail (BNT). It runs from Cooktown in North Queensland to roughly follow the Great Dividing Range as far as Healesville on the outskirts of Melbourne. As something different from years of bushwalking in the southern States, I opted for the Queensland portion of the route, descriptions of which are contained in seven of the 12 official BNT guidebooks. It took six months of planning and organising before I was ready to embark on a trek that I expected to take nine months. This would be the gestation to my single life. By the time I left, I felt as prepared as I could be to survive a journey into the unknown. The rest would be up to the forces of nature and my karma.
I would leave Lloyd to complete all the finishing touches on the beautiful home we had constructed in keeping with its pristine bush setting. Our Bungendore property was called Gurrewee, an Aboriginal word for white cockatoo. It was tough for both of us to leave this place that had served our family so well. The best Lloyd and I could hope for was that it would sell at the price we needed to pursue our separate lives.
Prior to departure I had to decide where in the world I would like to live after the trek. I had come to know and love the Northern Rivers region of NSW during visits to my son Scott, his children and their mother, Alison. My ideal was a little locality called Koonorigan, high on a ridge and roughly midway between Scott’s house where my grandsons lived and Alison’s, where they mostly spent weekends. And if they all left the area I liked it enough to be happy there anyway. It only took a couple of visits to Northern Rivers to find five beautiful acres on Koonorigan Ridge, with a small, simple house overlooking Nimbin Rocks; perfect for me and my donkeys. I took the gamble and bought it with bridging finance which I funded by renting it out until Gurrewee sold.
Despite the 10-year anguish about whether to stay or leave, letting go of my marriage was ultimately easier than quitting my intellectually challenging job as a consultant to the Attorney-General’s Department. I had been commissioned for a particularly demanding assignment that took six months. Four years later I was still working for the Family Law Division where they kept giving me other difficult projects. I loved the work and was tempted to just get out of my marriage and continue working in Canberra where I also had the benefit of spiritual guidance from my two wise and experienced tai chi teachers. As hard as it was to leave though, some stronger force demanded that I literally walk away, walking on and on, with only my donkeys for companionship.
I needed to let my daughters Ava and Cassie know about my plans. They were both married, with careers of their own. I wanted to tell them face-to-face. I set out for the 3-hour drive to Sydney in my practical, reliable Nissan Navara ute. As I turned from the Gurrewee driveway onto the gravel road a magnificent wedge-tailed eagle swooped right over my bonnet. Its wingspan was wider than my car and momentarily obscured my vision before grabbing an unsuspecting little creature from the shaded roadside. In another moment the massive bird was high in the air where its mate floated weightlessly under a clear blue sky. The Kalahari Bushmen prophesise good fortune at seeing an eagle. In ten years at Bungendore—whether on the roads or at home —the biggest birds I had seen were black cockatoos. From that day forth, until departing for my trek, I lost count of the number of times I witnessed eagles soaring on the currents above the treetops, usually in pairs—above our house or on the road between home and work. Every eagle I saw felt like another tick for the aptness of my plans.
My idea was to walk just over 3,000 kilometres to my new home in Northern NSW, starting from Cooktown. Getting the donkeys, my gear and myself to Cooktown, six days by road from Bungendore, constituted a logistical problem. I was nervous about trusting my donkeys to anyone else and called a donkey-owning friend who had recently relocated to Herberton in North Queensland. His nine donkeys were still in the care of friends at Oberon because of the same transport concerns. Our ideal was to find a horse transporter willing to take me as well, so that I could supervise loading each day.
I rang just about every horse transport business in the eastern States. Quotes came in between $16,000 and $20,000 to transport 11 donkeys from Oberon to Herberton. Responses to my request to accompany them ranged from laughter to long, convoluted explanations about their insurance. I was down to trawling systematically through the smaller outfits in the