The Crossing Second day on the Eyre Highway
Power, Heat And A Shower
Day 23 settled into the new Eyre Highway rhythm: 46.1 km through cold, fog, roadside kindness, a familiar Perth Glory face, and the small luxury of sleeping at Fraser Range Station.
The second morning on the Eyre Highway started with me in a hood, in the campervan, holding a bowl of porridge like it was a tiny personal heater.
It was about 10 degrees, which is not exactly Antarctic explorer territory, but it feels fairly rude when you are awake before 5am and trying to convince your body that another 40-plus kilometres is a sensible thing to do. The plan was to be moving by about 5:15 again. I was already thinking about the prize at the other end: Fraser Range Station Caravan Park, which meant power, heat, and a shower.
It is funny how quickly the definition of luxury changes. A few weeks earlier, power and a shower would have been basic accommodation. By Day 23 they sounded like a spa package.
The first part of the day was cold and dark, but it did not stay that way for long. The sky began to lift. Then the fog came through the trees and the sun started pushing orange light into it, and suddenly the early start made complete sense.
That was one of the strange little bargains of the crossing. The hard part often came first. Waking up in the dark. Putting sore feet back into shoes. Eating because I had to, not because I wanted to. Stepping out before the day looked remotely inviting.
Then, every so often, you got something like that sunrise.
The new routine was starting to settle. Day 22 had been the first proper Eyre Highway day, and this was the second. We were trying to make the Nullarbor stretch work by aiming for steadier days rather than huge efforts followed by rest. The surfaces were flatter and kinder than the earlier rough tracks and verges, and my body was beginning to adapt to the rhythm. Not magically. Not pain-free. But there was a sense that the crossing had shifted into another mode.
Walk. Break. Walk. Find the crew. Eat. Keep going. Finish at a reasonable hour if possible. Sleep somewhere practical. Repeat.
That sounds dull written down. It was not dull to live. It was a lot of tiny decisions and small negotiations with my feet, the weather, the traffic, my own mood, and whatever Ben and Ols were solving in the support vehicle. But after the chaos and pressure of the first three weeks, there was something calming about having a shape to the day.
And then people appeared.
By this stage I was starting to get used to cars pulling over, which is a strange thing to be able to say. On most days of normal life, a random car stopping on the verge would not be a particularly relaxing development. Out there, it often meant someone had seen the signs, worked out what we were doing, and wanted to say hello.
Kris and Gemma were the big surprise of the morning. Kris was a mate from my days going to Perth Glory matches, and he and Gemma were heading east to Melbourne. Sensibly, they had chosen to use a motor vehicle for the trip, and not just as somewhere to sleep after walking all day.
Seeing a familiar face out there gave me a proper lift. It did not have to be a long stop. It did not have to be dramatic. Just someone from another part of my life appearing beside the Eyre Highway, smiling, donating, and reminding me that this odd thing we were doing was still connected to the world I had come from.
A couple called Mike and Wendy stopped too. They pulled in on the verge just to say hello and ask if we were taking donations. Those moments mattered more than I probably knew how to explain at the time. The distance was mine to walk, but the crossing never felt like mine alone. Every wave, donation, message, roadside chat, and shared photo helped keep it alive.
The walking itself was still the walking. There was plenty of blue sky, plenty of scrub, plenty of red dirt, and plenty of that particular Eyre Highway repetition where the view changes slowly enough that you can start to wonder whether you are moving at all. Then a sign or a bend or a patch of trees would prove that you were.
By late afternoon I had reached the point about 10 kilometres short of Fraser Range Station. That was the finish point for the walking day. From there, we went in to Fraser Range Station for the night, with the standard drive back the next morning.
Fraser Range felt different from the roadhouses. It was a little drive off the highway and had more of a farm feel to it. I wish I could say I took it all in properly, but the truth is that most places at the end of those days arrived through a fog of tiredness. I would get there, shower, eat, do whatever needed doing, and go to sleep.
One day I would like to drive the same route in a more conscious state and pay proper attention to the places where we stayed. Back then, the priority was simpler: get clean, get warm, get fed, get horizontal.
Before that, there was still one last little marker for the day. The Balladonia sign said 100 kilometres.
Naturally, I decided that meant I was just 100 kilometres from the People’s Republic of Balladonia.
Day 23 was not one of the famous milestone days. It was not a capital city, a border, a big media moment, or a finish line. It was another 46.1 kilometres, another cold start, another set of Strava sessions, another night organised by the crew, another day of my body quietly learning the demands of the crossing.
But that is why it matters. The crossing was built out of days like this. Foggy mornings. Porridge in the dark. Friends appearing from nowhere. Strangers pulling over to help. The promise of a shower. The comfort of a routine beginning to hold.
And just enough absurdity to make Balladonia sound like its own republic.
Images From The Day
