This blog post contains journal entries leading up to the start of my Australian long ride. It is updated randomly.
It’s meant to reflect my every day thoughts-without excess sugarcoating, and without the benefit of hindsight- for an honest,
unhinged“unfiltered” look into how things are going in my life. If you have a 10 second TikTok attention span and don’t care for a deep-dive into my psyche nor some dark humor, stay clear! I will post more concise, easy-to-read blog posts summarizing my preparations in the future.
February 14th, 2025, four days before takeoff to Australia
As my flight nears, I am feeling more apprehensive, but the fear that tingles my skin is revitalizing, too. It’s like an old friend, come to visit again. I remember feeling this way before the start of my previous adventures, versions of myself I look back on so fondly now.
I have spent the last month stagnant. Cooped indoors, staring at a screen, letting my brain rot in place. Laziness is my worst vice. I’m always threatened by its pull to do nothing or, at least, not enough. I let go of myself too easily when left to my own devices (which I mean in both a literal and figurative sense). This applies even when I’m “staying busy” with a 9-to-5 job. I convince myself that I’ll accomplish so much outside of work when I get home, only to sit in bed, or on the couch, and scroll on my phone mindlessly. I waste a lot of time, and then I feel bad about it, a vicious and self-imposed cycle. Comfort is a hard trap to break free of when, by definition, it’s designed to keep one complicit. Getting up in the morning if I don’t have work scheduled early is arguably one of my worst skills. Today, I did not leave my bed until noon. I didn’t want to get up. Far too often, I would rather lounge in bed and fantasize about a fictitious life as I drift in-and-out of sleep than bother trying to live my own. I play through story ideas in my head repetitively, but without the motivation to put them on paper. Though it should be noted that Daytime Gin and Morning Gin are two entirely different creatures. Daytime Gin is absolutely delighted at the idea of waking up bright and early every morning, but then rumpled, half-dressed and barely-conscious Morning Gin cracks open a bleary eyes to read what time it is, and thinks “no way, I’m not getting up yet, it’s better in bed” and sometimes the pretty little lie, “I’ll just rest for a few more minutes” … until it’s noon.
Later, Daytime Gin is like, “what the heck was that?”
But by then Morning Gin isn’t around to answer.
***
I am ready to wake up.
I cannot bear to wallow in place any longer.
Already, my spirit has been bottled up for long enough that the possibility of failure does not seem like a barrier-to-entry to me, what’s holding me back, but rather what’s propelling me forward towards the most welcoming door to something more.
I like to do things that I’m not certain I can.
I would rather roll the dice and jump into something that I believe very well might fail, but that I will find a greater sense of accomplishment for having tried, than do what’s easy and safe to the point of being almost certain. That’s boring. How will I grow as a person if I stay in my comfort zone?
Don’t get me wrong, no one in their right mind would attempt a black diamond ski slope on their first outing. Jumping to extremes, taking unnecessary risks, not preparing properly–all that’s wrong, absolutely. I’m advocating for no such thing.
What I’m saying is that, with all the experience I now have under my belt (a collective 14,000 miles / 22000 km on the road, whether walking, cycling, riding, or kayaking), I’m quickly made bored of the bunny hills, and am constantly after new, worthy challenges. With just the right amount of risk, not too much, not too little. I don’t want to be in over my head, but I also don’t want to be held back by limitations I set myself.
***
I have never traveled internationally before. I’m intrigued by other cultures but also deeply uncomfortable with leaving my domestic bubble. I quietly fear that so long as I’m somewhere else I will always have that “stranger in a strange place” itch under my skin, a chronic unease, but I think it will be good for me to confront this assumption too.
I’m quickly becoming a chubby goldfish in a too-small glass bowl. I like trans-continental expeditions, large-scale, multi-month, ocean-to-ocean style stuff, and I’ve almost exhausted my options for such adventure in the continental USA. It’s about time I start conquering other continents, in the hippy-dippy way (which is much more fun than in the dictatorial way).
Anyway, with this desire established, my train of thought went:
Well, South America would probably kill me. Africa would definitely kill me, a great option for a swift assisted suicide. Europe is a logistical and linguistic nightmare, with the multitude of border crossings. I couldn’t afford the cost alone. Asia interests me the most but … would probably kill me too. (Being a solo female accounts entirely for my shortcomings in the tempting death department, femicidal world that we live in. If I were a man, I could have my gaze set on the whole of Eurasia, China to Spain.)
Then, a glimmer of light, Australia! The entire continent is one country. Everyone speaks my language, English. It’s only 2,600 miles across. It’s basically like America, except the people have funny accents (err, I mean sexy accents, if any Australians are reading this), and there’s kangaroos! It will let me dip my toes into international waters without having to dive head first into too uncharted of territory. Perfect!
Process of elimination, hey! Even if it essentially boils down to “where am I least likely to die?” Professionally, it would be better phrased as “what continent is the most achievable to cross [after North America]?”
Which is ironic because Australia often comes with the tagline “where everything is trying to kill you!” Snakes and spiders especially … but also sharks … kangaroos that will roundhouse kick you and then put your dog in a headlock … the vegimite that must be poisonous but that the locals have curiously developed a natural immunity to …
But, rest assured, none of the above are the most dangerous animal in Australia!
So you can breath a sigh of relief, knowing that it is actually the
horse.
Oh, wait!
March 2025
In my search for a partner …
The truth is that I would rather take a chance on a horse that’s unwanted, and unloved, and have my journey serve a purpose in saving a life, than buy a horse that’s already a polished, bombproof trail mount.
I’ll happily settle for the latter if they dropped into my lap, but in my mind, that would be a concession. What any reasonable person would think of as a dream-come-true, I see as “Plan B.” I’ve said it before, but to me that would be like babysitting someone else’s kid when what I really want is to have and to raise my own.
Naturally, this “quirk” of mine makes all the sensible, pragmatic adults in my life want to absolutely throttle me. “Why would you intentionally make things harder for yourself? As if riding across Australia isn’t hard enough?!”
Make no mistake, I recognize that this could be my Achilles heel, the very thing that dashes my dreams of making it coast to coast successfully.
I see the writing on the wall. I just don’t care.
I’ve put it there, because that’s the kind of love I want. Going the distance doesn’t matter to me as much.
Give me your brumby on the brink of being machine gunned via helicopter. Give me your auction horse a trailer ride away from the slaughterhouse. Give me your neglected backyard pony withering away in this year’s drought. Your throwaways, left behind and/or overlooked—that’s who I want. Somewhere in there is the horse for me. Provided they meet my six core characteristics: they’re of a suitable age and size, an easy keeper, with solid hooves, a strong conformation, and of a sane mind. These traits are nonnegotiable, and any charity case that does not meet them must be soundly rejected. But so long as the are met, I take great pleasure in being able to bring a horse up from the bottom, nurturing them to greatness. When preparing for my U.S. long ride, it felt like Finley and I were in the trenches together, and those were dark, uncertain times, but we got through it and rose to greater things, hand in hand, and this strengthened our bond in a way that being handed the “perfect,” ready-to-go horse never would allow. I love the process.
What can I say, I’ve just got a thing for the wild ones. That’s what this really comes down to, isn’t it?
In the horse world, nearly everyone’s got that one discipline they’re really into. You’ve got your dressage riders … your barrel racers … your barn witches … your keyboard trainers … etc. I’m very much a long rider first and foremost, but a wild horse enthusiast secondly. So that colors my entire perspective, in no small part because they nicely compliment one another. Wild horses are known for having stone hooves and iron guts and living off the land–the pinnacles of a good road horse.
Yet acquiring a good looking brumby fresh-off-the-range is not easy, which is hilariously ironic (or should I say moronic)?
A brief backstory into why …
In the United States, mustangs are a federally protected species, esteemed by citizens, and managed by the government. When numbers get too high, herds are rounded up by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and adopted out for $125 USD. There are hundreds, thousands of horses in corrals to choose from at any given time, and they are all vaccinated and desexed (if male) prior to adoption. Thus, if I were in America, I could readily drive to a corral and pick out 2-3 solid prospects to bring home for training. It would be downright easy to find 1 to be my next road horse.
But in Australia? The system is disastrous, dysfunctional. The brumbies are invasive and hated for it. There is a scattering of remote, isolated herds in the north, west, and interior of the country, but with no formal communication channel to go about sourcing one.
The most prominent herds, those officially, regularly managed by the government, are on the east coast in Kosuskio National Park and Guy Fawkes National Park. When the government rounds them up, they do so with little to no warning, only agreeing to adopt out to select rescues who must pick up horses within a few days, otherwise they are shipped to slaughter. Rescues have NO say in which horses they take beyond sex and must agree to a certain number per load. Horses are not vetted, vaccinated, desexed, or even aged. Cooperation places little part in these affairs.
No matter. Kosuskio National Park switched to ariel culling in mid 2024, with approximately ~7,000+ horses having been machine gunned in the last year. Naturally, all the big, beautiful stallions, the most desirable horses lucky enough to be saved by rescues in the last roundup 10 months ago, have been snatched up already. Long gone.
Which leaves me in my current predicament. I’m in a country with so many invasive wild horses that they’re blowing their brains out with bullets en masse, yet somehow, ridiculously, getting my hands on ONE of a suitable age, size, and conformation is proving difficult.
It’s exasperating. As I type this, I am lying in bed, all pissed off by the reality of the situation.
This is where the grasshopper on my shoulder would say, “ah, Gin, this is why you shouldn’t get pigeon-holed into pursing just one breed.” And, really, I am trying not to. My mind is open
March 9th, 2025
More to come …