A simple lunch in Queensland turned into an unexpected three-month stay.

What was meant to be a quick trip for the Australian Society of Travel Writers’ lunch in Ipswich, just outside Brisbane, quickly became more than I bargained for.

The timing was perfect—state border restrictions had just lifted after months of limited movement. Eager to travel, I booked a 90-minute flight on July 29 and planned to stay with a friend.

But the business trip soon turned into a disaster. No sooner had I crossed from New South Wales into Queensland than the border slammed shut. As Sydney was declared a Covid-19 hotspot, entry into Queensland was prohibited from 1 a.m. that night.

Though technically I could leave, I wouldn’t be allowed back in. The thought of being stuck at home for the rest of the year didn’t sit well with me—it was a travel writer’s worst nightmare. So, the choice was clear: I would stay in Queensland, enjoying the sunshine of an Australian winter.

I faced a few minor challenges: no warm clothes, no car, no laptop, no income, and nowhere to stay. But on the bright side, I also had no partner, kids, pets, plants, or work obligations. No worries!

The generosity of strangers.

Danielle Lancaster, a fellow writer at the lunch, kindly offered me her house after she moved to Charleville, a remote outback town. Her adventurous escape inspired me to plan a road trip in roughly the same direction.

With her hiking boots left behind in a half-packed wardrobe, I rented a camper van and set off for Carnarvon Gorge, a national park deep in Queensland. My first stop was a charity shop for second-hand adventure gear, followed by Target for a hat, socks, and fresh underwear.

Most campgrounds were closed due to the pandemic, but Takarakka Resort—a bush resort and caravan park—had one available site. I claimed it for four nights, hiking through the gorge to uncover ancient Aboriginal rock art, spotting platypuses, echidnas, and kangaroos, and cooling off in an icy creek.

I drove aimlessly, without a map or plan, exploring country towns by day and camping for free at night. I felt like a fugitive with no destination. Along the way, I met many Aussies doing the same—using the chance to explore their own country while overseas travel was off the table.

As I pondered my next move, my friend Mel offered me a month’s stay at her new apartment in Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley. After two weeks in a cramped vehicle, having a proper bedroom felt like a slice of heaven.

Determined not to overstay my welcome, I used Mel’s place as a base and set off up and down the coast, catching up with every Queenslander I’d ever known.

It was time to call in some favors. No one was safe. I reached out to my sister-in-law’s sister on the Gold Coast, my brother’s school friend in Surfers Paradise, an old work colleague in Noosa, and my godfather at a small beach town nearby.

Other freelancers, now back on the road, also stepped in—one asked me to look after her cat, another handed me the keys to his Airbnb studio.

The steady stream of couch surfing continued smoothly through August and September. It wasn’t exactly a vacation, but more of a logistical challenge and a chance to reconnect with old friends. What I saved on hotel rooms, I spent on taxis, trains, and socializing with everyone who offered me a place to stay.

The bumps in the road.

In October, an expedition company invited me to the Great Barrier Reef to cover its first cruise since the global suspension of the industry. The return of cruising, along with a job offer, made me think that normal life was on its way back. My quick escape for freedom no longer felt quite so rebellious.

But things quickly took a turn. Upon landing at Cairns Airport, I showed my ID—a driver’s license with my Sydney address—and was immediately escorted to the Australian Federal Police to prove my status as a Queensland resident.

My boarding pass from July wasn’t enough to clear me; it didn’t prove I hadn’t left and returned in the past 14 days. And since I had no receipts from accommodation, having stayed with friends for three months, I was in a bind. Fortunately, they accepted my bank statements showing local purchases, and I was finally allowed to go.

On my final day in Brisbane, to mark the end of my epic interstate adventure, I threw a farewell party at a brewery called Felon’s, inviting the same group who had attended the Ipswich event. After 88 days, on October 24, it was time to wrap up what could only be called the world’s longest lunch.