Hello! This one has been sitting on my laptop for ages. But not until now have I had a decent enough wifi to actually post it. Sorry! But better late than never I suppose.

No matter what our lives look like, we all have to deal with them. The inevitable annoyances that insist on making themselves part of our days, regardless of how much we might wish for them not to. By immersing myself in this roaming way of life I’ve escaped quite a few of them, and long gone are the days of alarm clocks and telemarketers. But then again – though the ones on the road take other shapes than those at home, they’re nevertheless there.

Headwinds and mechanicals. Lactic acid and saddle sores. Whatever they happen to look like, we better do our best to embrace them as they decide to come along – because there’s simply no way out. But while I can have patience with prevailing winds or poorly timed flats, there is one thing that I dislike above all else with this rolling life. Something that I seemingly can’t ever get used to, and won’t even try to turn into a positive.

I’ve already told you this time and time again. But fact is, I still hate them. All these stupid, never-ending Goodbyes.

My biggest difficulty with setting out on this adventure in the first place was kissing my loved ones farewell on that very first day. Still today I remember that odd feeling of relief as I actually rolled off. Ahead I had a world to peddle, but at least that first major hurdle was out of the way. Still unknowing of that I’d just had a mere taste of what would come to be a constant, unwanted companion during the years to come.

I would never ever claim that leaving my loved family and dearest friends was or is at all easier. But there is one significant difference. Even when talking years, a brother or a best friend will always, always be a ‘See you later’. Giving someone one last hug, and then take off without expecting to ever see them again is… different. And at times quite wearisome.

Which is the very reason why I was so happy rolling out of Alice Springs.

A super-dreamy week in the best of company wasn’t ending just yet. All I left behind was a house – not the people in it. (Though I still secretly mourn the cloud-like bed lovely Claire and Ben had set me up with). We ended up being 8 people setting camp outside Alice Springs that evening, and I got to be part of my first proper central Australia bush camp night. And yeah, it was one of those were you simply forget that you’ve ever owned a camera.

It was all there. The laughs around the big ass fire. The guitar. To-die-for roo camp oven. Wine in foldable camp mugs. Late night tea through TimTams. Swags under a picture perfect milky way. A month earlier I hadn’t even heard about half of these things, but I know I have a bunch of Aussies reading this blog that know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’d already been zigzagging my way halfway through the country, and saw no reason to continue in any other fashion. Once again I was headed west, up for a 800 km detour that’d take me past major natural wonders such as Wattarka/Kings Canyon and world renowned Uluru/Ayers Rock. And I was excited.

These were the places I’d dreamt of ever since Australia and it’s outback had first made it onto my route. And that the distances kept on being insane out there had never been less of an issue, as the days worth of road to get there would turn out to be my prettiest riding yet on this massive land.

Stunning cycling along the West Macdonnell Ranges. World class camping night after night. And a buffet of stunning gorges to hang out by along the way. All accompanied by constant tailwinds from heaven. Not too bad, not too bad.

Eventually came Kings Canyon, more than living up to the majestic nature Australia keeps throwing at me. I think I’ll let the photos do the talking on this one. Writing I’m weeks past it, but still equally blown away. There simply is no grasping the magnificence nature is capable of, is there?

If you ever have the opportunity. Go.

And afterwards. Do yourself a favor – and keep going.

Until next time,

Fredrika