The argument could be made (has been made) that I was raised in the back of a van.

Of course this isn’t entirely true. I was also raised in a series of log cabins, tents, and a chicken coop (sans poulets) but who’s splitting hairs?

We road tripped when I was a kid: a lot. 

A girl learns, early on, to always keep a book in her back pocket. There’s no sense in asking a father, who’s been known to drive the family to Indiana for Christmas, then make a fatal left turn that takes the tribe to the coast of the Yucatan Peninsula instead of home to an island winter, “Are we there yet?” The answer is always precise, and ever nebulous. We’re always “there,” and “there” is continually under negotiation.

A lot of the world has whirled through my little brain from behind car window glass. Five continents worth. 

I’ve always dreamed of Australia: red deserts, kangaroos, koalas, dusty aboriginal men staring at the horizon, enormous cattle stations, sheep musters, crocodiles sliding slyly down swollen rivers, wide brimmed hats being drummed by torrential rains in the wet, gold and opal mines, tired convicts redeeming their souls and their social standing by the sweat of their brows, building a country that echoes another boot-strap-built colony on the other side of the world.

This morning we set out on a real Australian walkabout.

Something I’ve always dreamt of doing. Even better than doing it on our own, we get to do it with our Australian best buddies. There is little that rivals the excitement of loads of little kids setting out on their first epic road trip, and little that reopens well traveled eyes to the wonder of it all than the privilege of helping tuck them all in the van. Getting ten kids sorted into two groups and into the right vans, car seats fastened, and toy bags organized it a bit like trying to get the same number of garden snakes into a five gallon pail; they’re slippery little suckers.

We’re going to miss Drysdale. Norm and Margaret Cheale hugged us hard and invited us back; I told them to be careful what they wished for! I hope, sincerely that they’ll come and see us in Canada one of these days; they assured me they’d do their best. Saying goodbye to fantastic adventurers is one of the hard parts. When we grow up, we’d kind of like to be like them!

But… the road is calling, as she always does.

The first sound that greeted us when we pulled into the Rickard yard was little Elijah, hopping up and down, his tumble of curls bouncing like springs, shouting, “THE BIG GUY! THE BIG GUY IS HERE!!!” The Big Guy is Gabe. He’s a celebrity, to the four year old way of thinking. The Big Guy picked Curly up under one arm and we let the wild, wonderful, wave of Rickard children wash over us. We meet a lot of people. We travel with a few of them for periods of time. Few and far between are the families we’ve spent months with and crossed continents arm in arm with. They’re a pretty special tribe. You’ll enjoy getting to know them; they’re aware of the occupational hazard of hanging out with us: showing up in print!

Want to feel the excitement?

We made some video for you: