I’ve been hearing about the Nullarbor since I first came to Australia, nearly twenty years ago. The vast treeless plain got its name from the Latin—nullus (no) arbor (tree). Some people dread the drive; others cycle across the Nullarbor. I didn’t know what to expect.
Then, there we were, last week—the four of us—driving across the Nullarbor. Scrub stretched out in all directions as we headed down a dead straight road: Highway One.
In the back seat K read Harry Potter for the sixth time. R drew endless maps. Lee drove, mostly, and I stared out the window at shades of green and brown. Occasionally a wedge-tailed eagle soared overhead, or came down to feast on dead kangaroo at the side of the road. And I had nothing to do except stare out the window and contemplate half a life gone by.