Rick Anderson - Little Bit Different: Confessions of a Burnt Out Baby Boomer

To my darling Denise for her inspiration, dedication, encouragement and general cracking-of-the-whip to see this book reach its completion. In particular for her time spent transforming my original hand-written draft.

To my dear sister Linda for supplying important snippets
of family history.

To my colleagues from my time in the printing and
rail industries for all their help.

To friends and acquaintances made during my time as a
self-employed businessman.

In particular, to my bushwalking friends made over 50 plus years especially to those of Maroondah Bushwalkers who inspired in my recollections of the Alpine Track Expedition.

Finally, and by no means last, to my dear Mum, I dedicate this tale
of my baby boomer journey. Also, no relatives were harmed during
the writing of this book.

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About the author

Rick has been an active bushwalker in Victoria and Tasmania for well over 50 years. He organised and led the 31 day expedition along the 400 km Alpine Walking Track between Walhalla and Mount Koscuiszko for the Maroondah Bushwalking Club in 1986. Rick has also completed several multi-day bicycle rides in three States and was an active cross-country skier during the 1970s.

As an accomplished watercolour artist, Rick has sold paintings in Hobart and Melbourne at the Herald-Sun art exhibition and is the published author of Stopping All Stations: Melbournes unfinished rail network .

Rick has been married three times, has two adult children, has had 16 jobs over 48 years and has lived at 26 different addresses in various States. Except for a medical emergency in 2013 he is enjoying retirement in the north west of Tasmania.

Chapter 1

Oh Shit!

Suddenly, I was awake. I dared to open my eyes and was relieved to find them above water, but appalled to find that the rest of me wasnt. My sleeping bag, with me in it, was lying in a good six inches of water inside my tent. My precious dried food had been prematurely submerged. Matches were floating about like flotsam. The box they came in was saturated but doubling as a life raft for a few unlucky ants that had missed-the-cut when the storm struck.

My companion had fared only slightly better. We had survived the night with the nagging realisation that we were already lost. Now we were cold, wet and lost. Boiling the billy wasnt going to be an option.

Nobody knew where we were and we had absolutely no way of getting a message out. While mobile phones had been invented, they were not yet commonplace; they wouldnt have worked in that remote and wild location in any event. Even if we had managed to find the track in the enveloping fog, wed be at least two days walk, including a flooded river crossing, away from the nearest road. Hypothermia was setting in. Our situation appeared dire indeed. It was, in our thus far short lives, the ultimate Oh Shit moment.

So how did we get ourselves into this predicament? In a word: inexperience. Wed been bushwalking for barely two years and had obviously bitten off more than we could chew. We certainly werent tree huggers or environmental fanatics. Who was in 1964? Outside of a very small number of dedicated clubs, bushwalking wasnt flavour of the month and there were no role-models or guide books to help us. We were on our own and our next move had to be the right one or it couldve been our last.

We certainly werent ready for tombstones to be erected in our honour with epitaphs reading: But they were only 19.

To find out what we were up to and what happened next, I suggest you strap yourself in, it could be a bumpy ride.

Chapter 10

Married With Kids

I was still commuting by bicycle to and from my little place in Prahran but I wasnt the only one pedalling at that time. I speak of Roy Busby, a fascinating gentleman with whom I had walked on several occasions. He was a mad keen cyclist as well, with a particular interest in map surveying in those years before bushwalking areas had become popular enough to warrant properly drawn government maps. When I first met Roy, he had already ridden thousands of kilometres to all corners of Victoria.

But for me his special claim to fame was an incident involving Melbournes well known West Gate Bridge. This important structure was built to span the lower Yarra River to help expand the neglected western suburbs. To help pay for it toll gates had been put in place on the city side of the bridge.

On the day prior to its opening, Roy planned to cycle across before it was swamped with motor vehicles. But he found his progress abruptly halted at the toll gate by a very stroppy official, who refused to let Roy pass as the bridge wont open til tomorra. Roy immediately got back on his bike and rode several kilometres, the long way round through Footscray, eventually arriving at the western end of the bridge. There were never any barriers at this end, so Roy rode up the steep side of the deserted approach ramp, completely unhindered and paused at the apex to admire the impressive view of Melbourne and its river, before freewheeling all the way down the eastern side to the said toll gate. The very same official was there and wouldnt let Roy off the bridge. So Roy simply turned around and did it all again. It was indeed special as cycling on the bridge is normally banned.

While Roy would remain single in his great big empty house for the rest of his days, my own days of peace and quiet were coming to an end. Not three weeks after getting back from my big round trip by rail, a chance meeting on a club day walk to Lorne Waterfalls would seriously affect my life for the next 18 years.

Susan was a country girl from Gippsland, leaving behind four sisters and two brothers to work in Melbourne as an accounting machinist. She was staying at a womens hostel in South Yarra. To fill her leisure time and maybe meet a suitable man, she had joined a bushwalking club, the one I was with. So it was inevitable that wed eventually meet and as it turned out we lived in adjoining suburbs. With good public transport and lots of eateries, especially along Chapel Street, we spent many hours in each others company.

While our relationship was fairly tempestuous to start with, it was Susan who seemed keener to see it continue. However, I let her know that I was growing restless with city life and had begun applying for enginemens vacancies in rural areas. When I was offered a permanent transfer to Traralgon, I grabbed it with both hands, not thinking as to why it had been so easy. Susan was not happy about the prospect of not being close to me.