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The pair always had to be careful they had enough food but with Sanitarium’s sponsorship came a handy supply of Weet-Bix. ‘Having said that, I can’t eat Weet-Bix anymore,’ Mark said. ‘I think I had many lifetimes’ worth that year.
13 Pairs of Boots by Mark Howison is published by Bad Apple Press and will be available from August. RRP: $32
‘Water was the big thing, but lucky for us everybody in the bush carries water and we asked everyone who stopped to give us water when they could.’
The Howisons were befriended by truckies and the locals they met in small communities.
‘Aussies in the bush are very gracious,’ Mark said. MINZY in The Darkest Hour When The Demons Come Poster
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Mark doesn’t remember how many dollars they raised for their proposed wildlife sanctuary but it wasn’t much and after a while they didn’t even bother asking for donations.
The Howisons got back to Sydney in December, 1974, almost exactly a year after they left. They pursued the idea of an animal sanctuary until 1977. David died in 2009, a week short of his 72nd birthday.
Mark is now 64 and works in the family’s transport company in Sydney. His attitude towards kangaroos has changed over the past 47 years.
‘There are a lot of kangaroos in Australia and I am in total agreement with the commercial farming of kangaroos,’ he said.
‘After all, we will eat just about anything as a race and at least kangaroos are sympathetic to the Australian landscape.’
Mark described the walk as a ‘life changer’.
‘It took me away from my friends, my sport and it generally had a very detrimental effect on my life,’ he said.
‘That’s one of the reasons that the book too so long to write.
‘The other reason was that I didn’t want to have to have Dad vet every word. I was as truthful as I could be, but there were some things that Dad would have wanted changed. Like his smoking habit.’
The following is an extract from 13 Pairs of Boots by Mark Howison, published by Bad Apple Press:
Here I was stuck up a tree, about 20 feet off the ground, with an apparent madman slowly circling around the trunk below. Why was I up here? What had I done? A few minutes before it had been simply me and Dad walking across the Nullarbor and all I had said to the old man was, ‘Maybe it would be a good time for you to give up the fags.’ This was not meant as anything other than a desire to make conversation, but the old man just exploded.
‘Give up smokes, yeah why not? I have given up every bloody thing else. I’ve given up rooting, I’ve given up bathing, I’ve given up drinking… I’ve even given up living and now you want me to give up smoking!’
Well, as I thought this was just Dad being Dad, the bloke with all the gags and the quick wit, I once more offered my opinion.
Mark Howison (pictured) was inspired to write 13 Pairs of Boots during a short holiday with his brother Brett at the tiny town of Walwa in north-east Victoria near the Murray River
‘All I’m saying is that it’s been three days since you had your last smoke and if you gave up, you wouldn’t have to send me into town anymore to buy them anymore.’
‘Look!’ Dad screamed, with a glint of madness in his eyes. ‘I could no sooner give up cigarettes, than you could give up wanking, so I’m gunna give you three choices: pull a packet of smokes out of your arse, get up that fucking tree there or bloody well fight me.’
Now Dad had never been violent and I can’t ever recall him striking anybody in anger. Sure there had been the childhood threats of the belt and sometimes even a couple of whacks across the backside, but this was a demonstration of real fury.
In hindsight I should have seen it coming. He had been snakey for three days now since running out of smokes and was only getting crankier. At this stage we were three and a half months into our planned twelve-month walk around Australia to raise funds to build a wildlife sanctuary. As we crossed the Nullarbor the walk had taken on a humdrum routine of getting up at the break of day, walking till 1.00pm and then having a break until 4.00pm to escape the real heat of the afternoon. We would then start walking into the night or until we both agreed we were rooted. Blow up the airbeds, have a leak and sleep until the first light of day then get up and do it again.
Dad had run out of cigarettes a couple of times before and it had not been a big deal; he usually just put the bite on a passing motorist or sent me into the nearest town to get a couple of packets. This time though, we were on the Nullarbor and the nearest town was a bloody long distance away and passing motorists were few and far between.
Of the three choices given me, I chose the second and climbed the tree. Now people think the Nullarbor doesn’t have any trees, as the name would imply, but the Western Nullarbor does have some. They are sparsely placed and not very tall, but when Dad and I were having our moment of unpleasantness, there was a particularly tall Mulga tree and I was perched on the top branch. I was shaking violently from the fear of heights, but also shaking from a fear that I might really hurt Dad in a fight. Not quite understanding what was going on and not willing to beat him up, I stayed put for two hours. During this time I started thinking about Dad, pondering on my strange life with him and his various adventures.
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