I was waiting for it to kick in. A double dump of discharge delight and backpacking bliss. It happened the moment I clicked the lock shut on the shed door. With the worldly possessions I didn’t need firmly secured and all the worldly possessions I required contained in a pack, I felt as free as a bird. As free as a bird with 20 kilos on its back can be.
Having spent the last four nights on the block I woke yesterday with plan of attack. From the friendly ladies at the local bakery I was told it reached as low as 2 degrees celcius. So the sting in my nostrils that woke me during the night was a true indicator. While my brain was registering the sensation in my nostrils my eyes were sending their own message. The moon must have set, exiting stage left, allowing the stars to, well, shine. The scene was enough to cause me to emit an involuntary and audible ‘fuck.’
The next major population centre north of Stanthorpe is Warwick. After breakfast in town I started the half hour drive there. Warwick has twice as many residents as Stanthorpe. It rode to early prominence on the sheep’s back. The district is the birth place of Jackie Howe, recording breaking sheep shearer and dapper singlet wearing man about town. The burghers of the town decided to flaunt the wealth of the settlement and erected sandstone buildings befitting the growing status of the shire.It is a pleasant place.
Back in Stanthorpe I booked a taxi to collect me from the storage sheds. I washed the ute and prepared it for a long rest. It was symbolic to wash any remaining salt from the vehicle, a cleansing that provided a close to the chapter that had been open for six years and the beginning of the next.
It was arresting to see only a backpack lying there. When I think of the head long rush many people are under to insulate their lives with things and the contrast of how little we really need to sustain us, I felt good to be on the side of less is more.
The lock clicked shut and there I was….a back, a pack and a dream.
Having spent the last four nights on the block I woke yesterday with plan of attack. From the friendly ladies at the local bakery I was told it reached as low as 2 degrees celcius. So the sting in my nostrils that woke me during the night was a true indicator. While my brain was registering the sensation in my nostrils my eyes were sending their own message. The moon must have set, exiting stage left, allowing the stars to, well, shine. The scene was enough to cause me to emit an involuntary and audible ‘fuck.’
The next major population centre north of Stanthorpe is Warwick. After breakfast in town I started the half hour drive there. Warwick has twice as many residents as Stanthorpe. It rode to early prominence on the sheep’s back. The district is the birth place of Jackie Howe, recording breaking sheep shearer and dapper singlet wearing man about town. The burghers of the town decided to flaunt the wealth of the settlement and erected sandstone buildings befitting the growing status of the shire.It is a pleasant place.
Back in Stanthorpe I booked a taxi to collect me from the storage sheds. I washed the ute and prepared it for a long rest. It was symbolic to wash any remaining salt from the vehicle, a cleansing that provided a close to the chapter that had been open for six years and the beginning of the next.
It was arresting to see only a backpack lying there. When I think of the head long rush many people are under to insulate their lives with things and the contrast of how little we really need to sustain us, I felt good to be on the side of less is more.
The lock clicked shut and there I was….a back, a pack and a dream.
No comments:
Post a Comment