Aboard the Indian Pacific

It was the summer of 2000 and Sydney was hosting the Olympics when I first heard about the Indian Pacific. Somewhere between gymnastics and the hurdles, a story broke about the train that make its way across the desert, rolling from Sydney to Perth. I called my mom. 'Did you see that?'

I've been a train nut for as long as I can remember. I'm pretty sure I get that from her. My first train trip happened in the summer of 1979 with my mom and her cousins. We took the Amtrak from Illinois to see visit family in Arkansas. I don't remember a lot about that trip. I was only five.

I do remember a string art train hanging on our wall. The background was black; the engine was made in a tangle of red, blue and rich yellow string. I got my first train set years a few later and then another. Trains were always a part of my life.

An abandoned building in Cook. 862km to the next fuel stop.

I'd always wanted to go to Australia when I was young. As a school girl in rural America, it seemed so exotic, so far. I begged and pleaded for a semester abroad, but we didn't have the dosh for that sort of adventure. When Sydney hosted the Olympics, my Australian dream was rekindled. There was a train. My mom and I were going to take it.

A rare house in the Nullarbor glimpsed from the train window.

I moved to Australia in late 2003 with the Indian Pacific still bubbling in the back of my mind. My mom would come to visit, and one day we'd take that train together. She made it to Sydney a year later, but we didn't have time for the journey then. The next year she unexpectedly passed away.

I wasn't left with much in the way of inheritance, but I was blessed with so many happy memories. I used the little money that I did receive to help with school, to pay for my wedding and to take a train trip across Australia.

By that time, Great Southern Rail had opened their second transcontinental route. Instead of taking the Indian Pacific through to Perth, I parted the train in Adelaide and boarded the Ghan traveling up through Alice Springs to Darwin. It was an amazing trip, but I always regretted parting the Indian Pacific midway through and vowed one day to complete the journey.

When Craig announced he'd taken the month of February off work, we bounced around ideas. I mentioned that we could put our truck on the train and that quickly sealed the deal. Together, we'd finish the journey I started and then we would make our way back home.

An abandoned building in Cook, a near ghost town along the train lines.

When I saw the special during the Olympics, it featured gold- and platinum-class travel. Neither Craig, nor I are luxury travel people though. We'd much rather ride in the coach car saving money for more rides in the future. So on all the Australian trains I travelled, I went in red service. It may sound miserable to some, but the GSR red coach cars are quite comfy compared to other means of travel. The seats recline 45 degrees and there's enough leg room that both Craig and I kept our bags at our feet instead of using the overhead space available.

In truth though, I spent most of those journeys in the lounge car. The best thing about red service travel is the people you meet on board - everyone has a story, everyone is going somewhere. The red service diner is a great place to talk to a bush firefighter moving across the country, an artist setting up a new home on the coast or a pilot who just wanted to do something different with his time off.

Sunrise from the Indian Pacific

Train people are an interesting lot. There's no clear thread that connects them. We travelled with a guy we called Willie Nelson. He wore a pale blue singlet topped with a safari vest. His sagging arms gave hints of better days. A hand-knit headband and a pair of aviators completed the ensemble. He was going places. I'm just not sure where.

Two young cowboys left the train at Rawlinna, a sheep station on the eastern edge of Western Australia where 60,000 sheep are grazed and sheared annually. The boys were a mixed pair - one tall and gaunt in an oversized red Wrangler shirt that sagged off of him like a loose kaftan. It would be years before he filled out that shirt.

His travel companion was nearly two feet shorter with one gold earring and a large No Fear logo emblazoned across his shoulders. Music bellowed from his phone flooding our coach car with rough, grainy tones of west-coast rap. The old Nokia phone sounded more shrill, than bass. I had words with him.

They were on their way to jackeroo school. Neither seemed up to the task. Making men of these boys would be tough.

An abandoned basketball court in Cook

Each passenger had a story as we crossed the Nullarbor Plains. As the trees disappeared from the landscape leaving only ragged scrub on the desert, a weight lifted from my shoulders and a peace settled around me. My story was a simple one. I needed to finish the journey and I was nearly there.

This is part 3 of my dual Nullarbor crossing and camping journey. Part 4 will look at Big Things.