Last week I went on my first solo camping trip.

For months I squirreled away a few dollars here, a few more there, scouring thrift stores and sale bins to get a tent, backpack, gas bottles for cooking, all the little bits and pieces needed to make a home away from home in the rainforest.

I worked long hours getting all my writing and photography assignments done ahead of time, spent hours outside making sure all the plants were well-watered and mulched, stocked up on animal feed, and secured my campsite.

Bear made me hardcore tent pegs that would keep me securely tethered in any sort of gale, gave me solar lights to place at the tent entrance so I would always have a beacon to home, and armed me with knives and a walking/beat-off-wild-beasts-and-bad-guys stick to make me feel safe and protected.

I was feeling brave and adventurous, nary a trace of fear, until a misguided soul decided it would be an excellent idea to tell me the gory details of rape/torture/murder-in-national-park stories they’d heard. Thanks for that. So, in spite of those niggling fear-based stories in the back of my mind, I loaded my little car to the gills, kissed Bear good-bye, and set off for adventure.

The fear hit me like a tidal wave at my first stop, Ravensbourne National Park. I swallowed it down, determined to enjoy the spectacular view, gloriously cool winds, and stunning wildflowers that tumbled through the meadow and over fence posts.

Then a car pulled up, and out came two old ladies, grinning from ear to ear as they strolled up to me and started chatting. They were out for adventure too, just the two of them, and when I told them what I was doing, their faces lit up like Christmas trees. “Oh! How wonderful! We’re SO proud of you! That’s fantastic! You’re going to have such an amazing time.”

Their support and belief in me sent those silly fears hurtling away. We cheered each other on, bid farewell as if we were old friends, and I went on my first solo hike down a steep, winding path into the rainforest. I loved it. Streaks of sunlight shimmering down through gaps in the canopy, glistening on lush ferns and verdant palms. I hiked as far as my courage would allow, spoke aloud, “I’m safe! I’m loved!” until I believed it, and finished my hike filled with pride that fear had lost the battle.

My next stop was Crow’s Nest National Park, and again, the fear came like a wave. But I got out, grabbed my camera and water bottle, and headed out onto the trail, only to run into another old lady. She was all alone too, wandering the trails with her trusty camera, having a marvellous time scouting for birds and getting close-ups of tree bark and teensy wildflowers. I smiled so big, and felt a big whoosh of courage and excitement fill my soul. Off I went, discovering water pools and waterfalls, amazing rock formations, and the prettiest little birds flitting along beside me on the trail. I got back to my car after stopping to chat with my hero old lady, filled with pride yet again that fear had not won.

I made it up to the Bunya Mountains, set up camp, and slept like a log. No fear, no nightmares, not even a tremor when wallabies snuffled around my tent in the dark nibbling grass.

The next morning, I headed out for my first big solo hike – 14 km through rainforest, meadow, and up and down innumerable mountain trails.

It was stunningly beautiful with great swathes of ferns, massive vines twisting up into the treetops, and wallabies bounding off into the undergrowth. I hiked and hiked, stopping to take pictures of fallen bunya nuts and colourful fungi, heading deeper and deeper into the mountains.

About half an hour in, the fear started up again. Thanks in no small part to not meeting a single soul on the trail and the appearance of birds whose calls literally sound like the scream of a newborn baby. There’s nothing quite so creepy as hiking alone through the forest with random baby cries echoing out of the bushes.

The fear burbled up, but I pressed on, speaking truth aloud, patting my trusty weapons for reassurance, and plotting out how I’d defend myself if a bad guy really did jump out of the bushes to drag me off to his evil lair. And suddenly, I was angry.

Angry that this beautiful moment was scarred by fear. Angry that bad guys weren’t afraid at all. They just merrily went along creating fear, pain, and mayhem, while us good guys have to plan defensive manoeuvres just to go for a walk in the woods. I was angry that to do something I loved, I had to plan for the possibility of evil. It didn’t seem fair.

Then I was angry at all males. (Sorry, good males) Angry that if a guy wants to go camping by himself, travel by himself, hike by himself, he literally just goes. He’s not worried about getting raped, murdered, assaulted, or harassed. He’s not worried about wearing the right thing so he won’t be blamed for any bad thing that might happen. He’s not worried about telling people what he’s up to, for fear that some creep will track him down and harm him. He just does it.

Fear. Anger. They took turns bursting to the surface, while I kept trying to yank my thoughts back to, “Oh look! Pretty flower!”

And then I rounded a bend and saw her. Another old lady. This one was at least 80-years-old. She wore pink and white striped socks, a jaunty hat, and wore a massive camera around her neck. She didn’t have knives or a knobbly walking stick that could double as a club, she didn’t have defensive manoeuvres worked out in her head just in case I was a bad guy instead of me, and there was no way she could outrun anyone. No, she was happily and peacefully doing what she loved. That’s it.

I stopped and we chatted about birds and the forest, and as we bid each other good day and I headed back down the trail, I started to cry, for I finally understood these amazing, brave, wonderful old ladies.

They lived in love, not fear.

They didn’t hike alone because they were strong enough to take on any bad guys they might encounter, they hiked alone because they loved it.

They didn’t hike alone because they were swift enough to run away from any bad thing that might happen, they hiked alone because they loved it.

They didn’t hike alone because they’d worked out every possible bad situation and had a plan to deal with it, they hiked alone because they loved it.

In that moment, my fear and anger disappeared. It was like someone had scrubbed me clean of all those awful feelings and thrown away the scouring pad.

For the next 5 days, I had no fear. Not one smidgen. I hiked all over that park by myself, slept in a tent by myself, cooked meals, watched the sunrise and sunset, and created art and read books under the trees all by myself. I chatted with men and women alike as I met them on the trail, I gave directions to German tourists, and listened to the cute elderly couple camping next to me sing Beatles songs in perfect harmony.

By the time my friend Sallie arrived to hang out with me for the last couple of days, I felt like a new woman, a strong and fearless and filled-to-bursting-with-love-for-life woman. I will treasure those days forever.

In the days to come I’ll take you along on some of my adventures, but I couldn’t begin a record of this trip without paying homage to the beautiful old ladies who were lights of courage to me along the way. May we all be those lights to each other, spreading courage, hope, and support like fabulous, cheerful lighthouses wherever we go. xo