With Every Step Page 4

  DAYS 5–6, NEW YEAR’S EVE 2010 AND NEW YEAR’S DAY 2011

  KIAMA TO BOLONG (32.8 KM), THEN A REST DAY

  Cad chatted to a few people in the town of Kiama, including a long talk with one gentleman, who mentioned that he worked for the National Rugby League. Andrew asked if he knew me and it emerged that he was talking to Paul Heptonstall, welfare and education manager at the NRL. Small world. At the time I was working as operations manager for rugby league’s player agent accreditation scheme and often used a desk next to Paul’s when in the city between appointments.

  In Gerringong a local walked up and asked Andrew what he was doing, then donated $10. Suddenly it was contagious and donations came from others in the café. He had $150 by the end of the day (‘I don’t think that will happen again,’ he wrote). Further down the road along Seven Mile Beach, a couple of locals, Dick and Frankie, asked him into their home for a cold drink, sandwiches and a shower; Cad was taken aback by their hospitality. Fortunately, it was one of many such gestures he would encounter over the next eighteen months.

  That evening Adam Martin, who was his best mate at primary school, and his partner, Natasha, drove four hours to see in the New Year with Cad and camp the night in a bush clearing.

  DAY 7, 2 JANUARY 2011

  BOLONG TO BEWONG (37 KM)

  The big event of the day was the tantrum Cad had when his straw hat kept blowing off every time a truck or caravan whizzed past, an embarrassing ‘show’ witnessed by a cyclist, who stopped to ask if he was okay. It was a spat that saw him badly scratch his $190 sunglasses. At least he had a win with a three-day shop at Nowra that cost only $21.35. Despite hating oats and tuna, they had become his daily staples. ‘I’ve fully stopped eating for pleasure or enjoyment, just to try to quench my eternal hunger,’ he wrote. ‘I shovelled peanut butter sanga after sanga in my gob today like they were going out of fashion but I was still starving all day.’

  Cad decided to name his rig ‘Redge’ after his dog – ‘because it is always trying to run away from me’. His love affair with P-plater drivers continued when one threw a fifty-cent coin at him from a window. A bigger find was a computer bag on the roadside that Andrew assumed was empty until he hurt his toe when he kicked it. Inside was a Mac-Book laptop computer that worked fine.

  As Andrew said on his blog, this wasn’t consistent with the odd array of items he’d noticed on the roadside so far: ‘Top of the list, ockey straps, followed by kids toys, followed by CDs, which I just can’t help checking, which normally entails me clambering up or down a muddy embankment to get to, the occasional dildo and a few bottles of urine thrown in for good measure.’

  DAYS 8–10, 3–5 JANUARY 2011

  BEWONG TO BATEMAN’S BAY (102.3 KM)

  Cad had his first taste of ‘fame’ when a lady at the driver-reviver station treated him like a celebrity and gave him a free bacon-and-egg sandwich. He was wearing an Australian Olympic wet-weather tracksuit top (one of mine from the Beijing Olympics) and was asked if he was an Olympian – ‘too funny’. Mandy from Stanwell Park and her husband, Mark, turned up and gave him an array of gear for his travels – ‘everything but the kitchen sink – legends!’

  Cad had worked out that the best way to try to locate the owner of the MacBook was to email everyone in the owner’s contacts and it worked: he received a call from Richard, who lived a couple of hours south; he told Cad the computer had been stolen from the back seat of his car when he was having a coffee in Nowra. He found Andrew later that day and was happy to donate $100 to the cause as a reward.

  Cad’s diary entry that day was prophetic: ‘Was sore all day from the big day in the hills yesterday, I can’t wait to have a day when I’m not in pain although I honestly reckon that may never eventuate.’ It certainly didn’t.

  That pain was relieved somewhat by my phone call, telling him I’d sold his car for the $1200 he wanted. ‘WOO HOO!!! Fish and chips for lunch tomorrow, might even break the bank with a prawn cutlet and crab stick.’ He shared his culinary critique with hundreds on his video blog: ‘I nearly had an erection when I saw the crabstick.’

  Less orgasmic was the next line of his diary: ‘I’ve got to stop farting in my tent, it’s like a gas chamber, must be the tuna and pasta.’ He added (not related, I assume): ‘Nearly passed out today. I got some wicked head spins and felt light-headed for about an hour and a half and had to stop and lay down for half an hour – weird!! I was getting bad visions of me hitting the deck and my pram rolling onto the road and getting cleaned up by a car.’

  He woke at 9 am next day to voices and leapt out of the tent with only his undies on, to be confronted by a group of young girls on horseback, with two women who were obviously their instructors. He had camped in the middle of their riding track. ‘They were debating whether to pass … I yelled out “good morning” and jumped back in to throw on some shorts. I said hello again as they warily passed but the ladies looked straight ahead as if I was invisible while the girls didn’t stop giggling.’

  Coyness wasn’t an issue with Joanne, sister-in-law of his new friend Mandy, who worked at the local pharmacy at Batemans Bay. Andrew was on a $50 donation dare from Mandy if he could get Joanne to show him the turtle tattoo on her arse; ‘She’s as mad as a gum tree full of galahs,’ he wrote of Mandy. Joanne was expecting him, as were the other girls in the pharmacy who passed the hat around and bought him some chocolate. ‘Jo showed me her tattoo, it was a tiny little thing.’

  As he passed McDonald’s on the way out of town, a woman with her family asked if she could buy him lunch. ‘I said thanks but I’ve already eaten. What was I thinking, I’ve got to get on board this freeloading shit. I don’t know what the go is, I’ve always had a problem with getting a hand, or handout, unless it’s from close friends or family.’

  While Cad was filling his water bottles at a service station, a bloke in his sixties introduced himself as Owen and offered him a roof over his head for the night and a shower at his place further down the road; it was to become the first of many such overnight stays courtesy of generous people along the route. ‘He was a nice old bloke, probably late sixties, he had a face of sun and hard work with deep crows-feet and a big old smile – probably what I’m going to look like when I’m done.’

  It’s hard for me to record the following diary entry, considering Andrew’s fate, but I have to in order to provide an insight into his character. ‘Not long after I was walking in the shoulder into the traffic when a white station wagon crosses the white line and starts driving towards at 100+ kays, narrowly swerving back into his lane at the last minute and gave me a toot on the way passed. I turned and flipped the prick the bird. It gave me quite a scare and got my heart beating. I started thinking if that was someone who had fallen asleep I wouldn’t have reacted in time and I’d be dead, but I still reckon when your time’s up your time’s up, so there’s no use worrying about that shit.’

  On reaching Owen’s, he was presented with his own three-bed guesthouse in the back paddock of a 100-acre property that Owen shared with wife Trish. After dinner and a few beers, Cad and Owen were off to the shed to see Owen’s potty and chainsaw collection. ‘The potties were all hanging off his rafters – what a character! This bloke’s too funny, what a nice guy, I’ve had a smile on my face the whole time and my cheeks hurt.’ A great photo of Owen’s range of bed pans and potties, hanging from the shed ceiling, was posted on Cad’s website next day.

  DAY 11, 6 JANUARY 2011

  RUNNYFORD RD TO BERGALIA (35 KM)

  A reporter and photographer from the Canberra Times were driving past and stopped Cad for an interview and to take a snap, Cad’s fourth media encounter in a week, which he was delighted about, hoping it would help the donations. But what made his day even more was when he encountered a Spanish woman and he successfully communicated in her language. ‘I picked up the accent and said “habla español” {you speak Spanish?] She asked me the same, I said un poco {a little]. I managed to tell her in my pigeon Spanish th
at I’m walking from Sydney to Perth for cancer and it will take me about six months and it’s about 5000 kilometres and that I had travelled a lot of Spain. She told me that I have good Spanish and her English is terrible. I said goodbye and have a good day. I walked up the road with a massive smile on my face, WOW! I was so surprised I remembered all that having not spoken a word for over eighteen months, now I’m keen as mustard to get into my Spanish lessons I put on my iPod.’ It was another insight into the many talents and interests of Andrew Cadigan.

  The first of many running repairs over the ensuing months was required later in the day when the pin on the front axle of the pram snapped; luckily he was able to get a lift back to the nearest town of Moruya and pick up a new one, and a spare, from a bicycle shop.

  Once back on the road Cad came across a tree that had been hit by lightning, sparking the first of many journeys back into his life that would become regular occurrences during long, lonesome stints on the highways. ‘It triggered this vivid random memory I didn’t even know I had of me and my sister sitting in the back of the olds’ car, driving through suburbia in a storm, and seeing a tree on fire that had just been hit by lightning. It was really weird, don’t know where that came from?’

  DAYS 12–13, 7–8 JANUARY 2011

  BERGALIA TO NAROOMA (33 KM), THEN A REST DAY

  Andrew camped just behind the rear roller door of the fire station in Narooma, but worried that if there was a fire in the middle of the night he’d be woken and probably in trouble if in the way of the fireman facing an emergency. The irony was that he woke to relieve himself and zipped open the tent, forgetting he had set his ‘alarm’. He eloquently described the event this way: ‘Woke up in the middle of the night half asleep with the urge to drop the kids off and forgot the alarm … It was ear-piercing, I couldn’t believe how loud it was for such a little key ring. The cord had ripped clean out of it so I couldn’t push it back in to shut it up. I’m standing there with it cupped in my hands trying to muffle it, trying not to wake anyone in the houses nearby. I ended up having to smash it into the corner of the brick wall, it took six big hits and wailed my hand in the process – what a debacle!!’

  DAYS 14–15, 9–10 JANUARY 2011

  NAROOMA TO TATHRA (77.6 KM)

  After climbing the rising, winding highway south of Narooma, Cad decided to leave the Pacific Highway and head along the coastal scenic route from Bermagui as the rain pelted down. It was breathtakingly pretty and there was far less traffic on that road than the highway. A local called Judy invited him to pitch his tent on a property she was staying at, overlooking the ocean on a headland with wonderful views.

  Cad made it to Tathra in the driving rain and heavy winds, and he was shivering uncontrollably as he crossed the Bega River with the wind whipping straight of the ocean. He was in a café having a cup of tea to warm up when three young guys approached and invited him to the pub. That was the start of an eventful night with the locals (one of many others to come) that Andrew could only remember the first half of come morning. ‘They had geed the new owner Mark up to sort me out with a bed … he came out for a chat when I arrived and gave me a $100 donation. The boys were all mad dogs and were buying me beers quicker than I could drink them. They called their mate who had seen me in Batemans Bay and had told the boys about me. He rocked up for a few and turned out he worked for the same Fit Out company in the UK [which Andrew had worked for in 2005–06].’

  They ended up moving on to the comfortable home of Toby, who was wheelchair-bound, where the boys started mixing cocktails. Cad was soon very much the worse for wear. But he insisted on sleeping outside in his tent despite an offer of a bed and the fact he was hardly in any condition to work out the intricacies of its construction. On his blog next day he explained his undoing as he moped on his air mattress: ‘It was a pretty big night … I remember spewing, I’ve got bark off me everywhere so I’ve obviously come a gutser but don’t remember that … it’s 9.30 and I’m still rolling around in the tent so I won’t be walking today.’

  DAYS 16–17, 11–12 JANUARY 2011

  TATHRA TO KIAH (67.4 KM)

  Well, he did walk, about half an hour after posting his sorry video blog. A potato-chip sandwich perked him up a little, but not nearly as much as the sight of a beautiful blonde girl called Nina, who was riding past on the other side of the road. The young woman was the first of many European backpackers he would meet, all with their varying tales. ‘She stopped to ask where I was going, I yelled out Perth. She crossed over for a chat, a beautiful blonde Austrian girl with amazing green eyes. She was bumming at some property around here and sleeping in a hammock, she was a feral hippie chick and was covered in dirt, didn’t look like she had had a shower in a while. She was riding to Tathra for a look and still had a long way to go, she had no water so I gave her a drink. She gave me a scabby piece of kangaroo skin that she had cut into the shape of a love heart and had written in pen on the back – “all you need”. She said it can be my good luck charm. She gave me $10 which made me feel bad because she was on a shoestring budget.’

  Cad reached Eden at about 2 pm the next day, just as it started to pour, and headed for the Westpac Bank, which doubled as a real-estate agent, to deposit the loose change and notes from his donations; it amounted to $752. This was also the momentous day that he agreed on a sale price for his North Avoca home. He was soon to be free of debt and have a kitty to fund his walk, which was a massive relief just over two weeks into his mission.

  DAYS 18–19, 13–14 JANUARY 2011

  KIAH TO MALLACOOTA (71.6 KM)

  The dead blue-tongue lizards had by now become dead red-bellied black snakes, which unnerved Cad. And persistent march flies became his bane, forcing him to walk with a pine needle branch in each hand to keep swatting them away. ‘Stopped at a rest area for a bite and a couple of blokes pulled up on those silly sit-down bikes with every bell and whistle imaginable,’ he wrote. ‘They were as queer as a row of pink tepees and looked like idiots in their lycra get-ups. They were riding to Sydney and had been on the road for a week, and had two left. I thought, You’re kidding, aren’t you? I nearly walked it that quickly.’

  He was hoping to have a day off the next day, but with food running short he had to press on. He set up camp at dusk and was instantly attacked by march flies that he reckoned were as big as $2 coins. ‘They felt like they were taking chunks out of me, it was painful. I wound myself up in such a panic, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I finally got in my tent and waited until dark so I could cook but the mozzies were at me. My shirt was still wet with sweat and stuck to me so I was getting flogged on my back, then the icing on the cake came in the form of hoppy-joes, and hundreds of them. I must have disturbed a nest. I got bitten on the leg and as I jumped around in pain I kicked a heap of dirt and sand into my dinner. I lost it, I went ballistic and carried on like a psycho. I gave up, left everything where it lay and crawled into my tent, sweaty and physically and mentally exhausted. I’ve got no clean clothes because they all got wet and smell. I give up and go to bed a broken man, not before smearing Bushmans all over my zippers; last thing I need is another hoppy-joe bite in the middle of the night.’

  I’ll let his diary notes describe the start to the next day: ‘Woke up and could hardly find the energy to move. I was in no hurry because I could hear the flies waiting for me outside, it sounded like I was in a helicopter. I finally crawled out of the tent about ten to the worst onslaught yet. I put my putrid-smelling long-sleeve shirt on, wrapped another around my neck, covered myself in repellent and made a run for it. I stopped up the road to try and eat breakfast but could only manage a banana and muesli bar on the run because they were that bad.’

  He’d crossed his first state border, from New South Wales to Victoria, and decided to head into Mallacoota for the weekend. It’s a quaint little fishing village, but 24 kilometres off the highway to the east, via a winding, hilly road. ‘Dad had told me it was worth heading in and was an easy walk; he was
full of shit [about the easy walk].’ Making it harder was rain that got heavier as the day went on. He settled into the caravan park, not happy with paying $27 for an unpowered site, but at least he could have his first hot shower for nineteen days. He headed to the pub for a feed and a couple of beers and decided he’d spend the weekend in the town and rest up, and maybe throw a line in and catch some fish.

  DAYS 20–21, 15–16 JANUARY 2011

  REST DAYS, MALLACOOTA

  A passer-by outside the local noodle bar had suggested Andrew try to raise money at the Saturday markets. He bought a sheet of cardboard and made a sign that said ‘walking from Sydney to Perth for Cancer Council, donations welcome’ and was given permission to use a spot at the markets near the entrance, where the entering pedestrian traffic would be hard-pressed not to notice him. After an hour he’d received nothing until a local called Nancy came over and dropped $50 into his straw hat. He had $200 when he decided to finish up early afternoon.

  Next day Andrew fished, unsuccessfully, for a few hours. He was soon bored and thinking about what his mates were doing back on the Central Coast, while sitting on the wharf ‘like a lonely dog with no home’. The first, but certainly not last, onset of the solitude of his task was evident. ‘I got lonelier. If I feel like this is now how am I going to feel down the track? I thought about the last couple of hours hanging out with oldies [in the caravan park] and trying to sound half-educated and not swear, it’s just not me. I wish I was hanging out with the boys being myself, but I’d take the oldies any day of the week rather than being alone. I went and got my diary and buried my head in it with my iPod on … went back and read my book, I was bored senseless, all these happy families around weren’t helping. I became reclusive and didn’t want to talk to anyone … I got another offer for lunch and steak for dinner but declined both; I don’t know what my problem is about accepting food from people.’