It was 1970 and I was 17 years old. I had decided to “go west” and seek adventure and fortune in Western Australia’s mineral boom, so I set out hitchhiking from Melbourne to Kalgoorlie, where a lot of mining companies had their offices. I’d heard labour was in short supply and was assured if I knocked on a few doors I’d get a job. I just had to travel almost 3,000km to get there first.
With nothing but the $10 I’d borrowed from my brother in my pocket, I was picked up by a truck driver delivering potatoes to every pub along the way to Bendigo, then a priest with his collar on. The priest dropped me off at a big intersection in Adelaide, which he said was a good spot to get a ride. But not long after he left me it started to pour with rain and I’m not sure any of the passing drivers could so much as see me standing there. Or, if they could, they probably didn’t want a muddy young man hopping in their car.
