From Ipswich to Gayndah, Queensland

Friendly homes to stay in.  Rail trails.  Paddock trails.  Solo camps.  Bug bites.  More friendly caravaners.  Ducks in trees.  Forest living.  An old friend, a new friend, and a campfire.  Outdoor bathtub.  A labyrinth, prayers, and courage.  One too many fear mongerers, strangers met upon the road, full of condescending tones.  Moon setting, rising full.  Horse hooves.   And rainbow bee-eaters swooping over the pond.

And sometimes it looks like this:

"I hate this right now," she said.
"You hate this right now," he said.
"I FUCKING HATE THIS RIGHT NOW," she said.
"What do you hate?" he asked.
"I hate that I am so tired.  That I can't take a shower.  That I can't fully relax.  I hate the loneliness that's here and the flies and the gusts of wind.  I hate the hot and that stupid look I get sometimes.  The one that comes with a tilt and a shake of the head.  From people in their cars or workers on the street.  The look that seems to say, 'you bloody idiot...'"
"What else?" he asked.
"The sound of the trucks.  The brakes.  Them speeding up.  The halting gush of wind when they're coming from the opposing direction.  I hate doing this alone.  Right now.  Right now, I hate being alone.  I hate that I'm out of chocolate.  I hate that there is no easy way to get from here to Cairns.  I hate that a part of me wants to give up.  I hate the smell of the cattle trucks.  That cattle have to be jam packed into and zoomed around in huge trucks.  I hate that I'm fucking writing a conversation like this as if its a suitable substitute for real company."
"Is there anything you don't hate right now?" he asked.  "It's okay if there isn't, some moments are like that."
"Well.  I don't hate the birds calling.  Don't hate that I have a skirt to wear.  Don't hate that there are other campers at this rest stop.  That I bought ingredients for a fun dinner tonight that doesn't involve lentils, rice, or quinoa.  Don't hate those tiny yellow butterflies that were flying all along the highway today.  Don't hate any of the butterflies, actually.  Don't hate the friendly road construction workers.  Don't hate my bike.  Can't hate my bike.  Because it's carrying me so far.  Same for my body.  Can't hate my body.  Don't hate the view to my right.  The grassland and the gum trees.  Don't hate knowing that I'll see my friends again.  That this bike trip isn't going to go on forever.  Don't hate this bike trip most of the time, you know?" she said.
"I know," he said.
"Don't hate you," she said.
"I don't hate you either," he said.
"I feel a tiny bit better," she said.
"See, its as good as having a friend right there!" he laughed.
"Pff..." she said, rolling her eyes and giving him a 1/4 smile.

And sometimes the world of bicycle touring looks completely different after a solid cry and a restful afternoon writing, watching birds, and having a positive chat with the neighboring caravaners.  And the next day, I land in the home of a friend's sister where I get to take a shower and wash off three days of biking/camping grime and then play stuffed animal catch with a three year old.  Sun setting over the flowering grasses and cattle fields.