Nick coming in to the finish point, following cooees and the car horn

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.

Helen Keller

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Nick heading towards The Narrows

It is the third and final day of my solo crossing of Island Lagoon, a vast salt lake in the heart of South Australia and my home for the last three days. If all goes well, I will find more solid land and sand dunes beyond the lake.

I will have achieved my personal goal of navigating and enjoying the solitude of a vast desert environment. Completely alone for the first time in my life.

I roll up my sleeping mat, brushing sand away from its surface, feeling each side, trying to keep it even. I hear Sarah’s voice in my head, “Nice, keep rolling, doing well, stay even". I tuck the mat into the two loops on the outside of my heavy green backpack. Sarah’s constant reminder to “Check everything is secured properly” stays in my mind as I systematically pack. Sarah is one of my two wonderful support crew. She was part of my Simpson Desert trek in 2015. I respect her and appreciate her advice. I am deliberate and methodical ensuring everything is placed in the right spot so that I do not leave anything behind. Carefully, I pack my water bottles, toiletries, medical bag, food supply, clothing, radios and place the black lanyard, which holds the two compasses, around my neck. They bump into each other as if they are announcing, “We’re ready, we are going to make it”. Everything is packed, with the exception of my sleeping bag. It’s more than a sleeping bag, as it stores all of the other bags in numerous places that are easy for me to find. I pause, as it is not my favourite task. I grab it by the feet and start pushing the air out of it. It protests with a whoosh, finding its own voice. “Settle down," it says. “You slept with me and now you’re crushing me.”

I start shoving it into its sack. Pushing, turning, pushing, turning and finally with one big shove it is contained. I quickly pull the string before it unravels like my mind the moment I thought the storm would defeat me and my attempt to cross the lake. Perhaps the first blind person to do it solo. A dumping of 20 milimetres threatened to put an end to my dream.

The nights alone in the desert are everything I craved, a kind of silence where you hear imaginary noises just to feel alive and part of the universe. No noisy neighbours and none of that awful deodorised air freshener of dull hotel rooms. Instead I sleep on a comfortable, five-star, powder-soft bed of sand. It’s as if my bedroom door is open wide inviting the world in. I feel that I am literally a tiny spot, in this vast desert that has existed for millions of years. I listen to my heart, my breathing and sigh heavy and loud with appreciation for life, family and friends who have helped me get here. I lie on my back and I feel as if it is very dark but for all I

Monique, Nick and Sarah before the start of the walk

Sunset over the salt lake

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know there may well be a sky full of shining, twinkling and shooting stars, but I see pitch black. I feel totally safe, cradled in the arms of a land that means no harm, despite its harsh environment. On the last night on Island Lagoon I had climbed into my sleeping bag at 5pm, totally exhausted. The sun was hot and shining on my back as I forced myself to drink from my bottle, to make up for the water I had not drunk during the day. In my somewhat confused, dehydrated brain, I hear Monique’s words, “You need to drink lots, Honey.” Along with Sarah, she has been an absolute angel, a modern day, Aussie Mary Poppins. She has always loved the outdoors and I discover that whenever the wind changes Monique will take off and land feet first into another adventure. Her journey has taken her across deserts, into rarely visited Australian outback and a recent adventure on a fishing boat with four men.

After the water and a small meal of a boiled egg, tasty cheese and salad, I quickly fell into an exhausted sleep. But soon I awake, force myself to drink more water, in the silence, feeling an occasional slight breeze moving

across my uncovered face. Its voice is telling me, nothing stands still and life will move on. Wide awake, I take out my one luxury item, the one thing I was prepared to carry despite its extra weight. My iPhone. Lodged inside a clip bag to protect it from the grains of sand. I’m out of range but I don’t want to speak to anyone. Instead I listen to my favourite book. I double tap the play button and smile as I read Charles Dickens, Great Expectations. Did Dickens ever dream that his audible book would be read in the desert wilderness of Australia? As Pip, the main character, is looking at the notorious Newgate prison, the lost souls within, trapped like an insect in a web, I hit the pause button and call out, thank you. I am so fortunate to have so much freedom and there are no walls within a hundred kilometres.

Later as I try again to sleep I think of the tremendous descriptions Sarah and Monique have provided for me so I can see the desert, the vast landscape, the bones of a dead kangaroo that seemed to be digging in vain for water and succumbs to death. We came across several other sad sandy roo graves.

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On the final morning, I slowly stand up as it takes an effort with my ageing and sore knees. I grab my backpack and exhale audibly as I lift it onto my back, swinging my left arm through the strap, followed by my right arm. It is a new pack and although I have carried it for three days and looked at it in detail with Sarah, it is still quite a challenge to ensure I position it properly on my back. Tightening straps, sliding zips and fastening clips across my lower, mid and upper torso. Finally, it’s done. The weight is becoming part of my body. I am about to start my last walk and I pause. I tilt my head back and, as if I can see, look into the sky. I thank those in my life that have had such an enormous impact and who enabled me to live these glorious fifty years - almost to the day of the accident that took my sight when I was seven years old.

I had several sessions with a psychologist prior to coming to Island Lagoon. This was offered to me as an option and although, at first, I was reluctant, I agreed, as I wanted to see if it actually made a difference. It did. On day two, when I was faced with the enormous challenge, with varying levels of water on the lake, I was able to apply my learning. It is the only time I feel afraid. I hear her words, “Breathe in, breathe out”, I focus on what I am thinking and where I am standing. I have been walking five hours without taking my heavy backpack off. I

have been eating some nuts and dried fruit, however, I was concentrating on the world about me and forgot to drink. The wind was blowing quite strongly from right to left. The sand was mostly mushy and then conditions deteriorated suddenly and the water was almost at my knee. I radioed Monique for a location update, “Nick, do not panic. The tracking device is not working.” My heart sank as she continued, “We are sorting it out. I think you should keep heading north-east. Over”.

Next thing I hear a plane above me and I’m annoyed. Frustrated, as it seems to be circling me and trying to make radio contact. I am confused and dehydrated and definitely not in the mood to be interviewed by anyone. I yell out to the wind, “Go away, leave me alone". Monique is on the radio again, “Nick, great news. The plane above you is Rob, the Station Manager, he can see you and he is tilting the wings of his plane, so that I can see the direction you need to go. Head north, to find dryer sand”. I apologise to the wind and the desert, calling “Sorry. Thank you".

It is 20 minutes later that I am back into mushy sand and feeling happier with a new goal to find the island that sits on the lake, as this will be my sleeping spot. It takes many chats with my lifeline, Monique, lots of reassurance and praise before I finally can collapse to the sand, having walked without a stop for over seven hours.

On my final morning I am reluctant to start out. I feel the gentle breeze upon me, I feel the warming chill of a cold night and a

Nick with his gear prior to the trip

Sarah's camp near the start. Nick's camps would be similar but with no fire

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Nick and Sarah at the finish

solitary bird is somewhere in the far distance. I say aloud, “Thank you all for loving me, for caring and being willing to encourage me in my journey". I am slow to start because I sense this could well be my last major adventure. Fifty years of absolute adventure. Adventures that include Paralympic running, long distance running, stair racing, mountain climbing, team sports like international blind competitive cricket and goal ball (an indoor Paralympic sport for vision impaired athletes) and desert and river crossings. I hold both compasses above my heart. Slowly, smiling, then almost laughing, I take the Braille compass in my left hand. Braille has been part of my life almost from the day the retina tore away behind my eyes. I feel I owe it to Louis Braille, the man who created the code, to use the Braille compass before taking my first steps to the next chapter in my life. I repeat the words Louis used over two hundred years ago: “Braille is knowledge, and knowledge is power”.

I am facing north-east. I turn slightly right and the compass is now showing east. I look down, I look up and finally, I look straight ahead at my future and start the walk home.

The ground is firm and everything seems well enough, however, 57 years of life has taught me to be prepared for change. My left foot slips and I plunge my white cane into the sand to regain balance. The ground is very slippery. I am concentrating on my balance, focusing on my compass direction and wondering if I will hear the voices I heard (in the wind) yesterday.

The radio crackles alive in my front left backpack pocket. “Hi Nick, it is Sarah. You are heading in the correct direction. Monique is in deeper water to the south, so, we think you should veer north-east to avoid deeper water.” I smile and head slightly more north. “Nick, we are all so very proud of you," she said. It is almost impossible to say in words my appreciation to Sarah and Monique, who have supported me in the desert. They are using all their incredible knowledge and their amazing outdoor skills to help me find the lake edge.

I feel as if I am powering along quite quickly and this is confirmed by Sarah in her next radio contact. “Nick, you are moving quite quickly, covering the ground very fast.” Shortly afterwards, I sink into deeper wet sand and my speed slows. I am now working much harder. Bang, I kick a “ridge”. A ridge is a wind formed accumulation of sand which often forms repeating, horizontal lines in a certain area. The ridge is about ten centimetres, maybe five or six inches high and collapses under my feet. It does come as a bit of a surprise as the rest of the desert floor is quite flat. The radio is chirping again, “Nick, you are drifting south". The water is above my ankles. “Keep a north-east line.” I answer, okay and turn my body slightly left.

I am reminded by Sarah not to drift south and to drink more water. The previous day I had experienced dehydration due to my own stupidity and fortunately, Monique kept reminding me, calmly stopping me and saying, “Now, take the bottle from your pack and drink. Take the bag of nuts and mixed fruit and eat.”

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Island Lagoon footprints. The hill is is Nedlebutanyie, the island refuge that enabled Nick to complete his crossing after rain flooded the lake. It is where NIck spent his last night.

I walk on.

Several hours pass and I have moved through dry, slippery and very deep muddy surfaces. I smile as I move, push and urge myself on as I know, this is symbolic of life. I just need to keep moving.

Suddenly, the voices have gone and it is the Land Cruiser horn, bellowing its welcome to me. I rush forward, an involuntary reaction to joy, before steadying. I remove my fly net that has covered my face and the sun glasses that have protected my eyes from the flying sand. I show my smile and call out aloud, “Thank you to all those who have helped me and to the desert for its comfort.”

I walk on.

The horn is getting closer and that familiar tinge of sadness mixed with joy is welling inside me. I want it to end, I don’t want it to end. I smile. I can hear my heart beating against my rib cage and know this is a very special ending to an extraordinary solo,

desert adventure. The horn is replaced by the “cooee” by two beautiful women waiting for me. Naturally my smile broadens. I breathe in deeply and feel my human frailty, my connection with life carrying me on to them.

Finally, I am walking on firmer ground. I know I am off the lake because I am brushing against small shrubs and grass. Sarah and Monique are hugging me. We are all laughing and relieved. I remove the wall of concentration that has been necessary over the last three days. I almost fall into the fold up chair and I cannot believe how comfortable it feels. Later, I ask Sarah, how I looked when I walked off the desert lake.

“You looked strong, independent and capable.” Similar words my mother used when I headed off to the local shops with my cane, walking alone for the first time since my accident. “There was also a sense of satisfaction that you had done it and a look of relief that as a team we were all safe and happy."

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Nick after finishing