William Miles

The wind had a voice that evening, soft but firm, brushing against the eucalyptus trees that bordered the land I once called my livelihood. I sat on the porch of my modest home, a tin-roofed relic of my farming days, with a mug of strong tea in hand. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, their light piercing the velvety darkness with a clarity you only find in the outback, Australia. This was my ritual, one I hadn’t broken in years.

It’s been a while since the accident—nearly a decade, though time has a way of blending out here. I was mustering cattle on horseback, pushing the boundaries of my own endurance as if to prove something to myself. Then it happened—one wrong move, one skittish horse, and I was thrown, my back landing hard on an unforgiving patch of earth. I lay there for hours, staring at the same stars that now keep me company. By the time I was found, I’d made my peace with dying.

But God, or fate, had other plans. I survived, though I lost the strength to keep the farm running. I sold off the cattle, let go of the horses, and settled into this slower existence. No wife, no kids—never had the knack for permanence in relationships. Maybe I’m too much like the wind: here one moment, gone the next.

The Birdsville Races bring a flicker of human connection each year. They call on me for advice, knowing my history with horses. It’s strange, the way people respect what you’ve done, even when it feels like another lifetime. For a few days, I’m not the solitary man on the edge of the desert but a part of something bigger. Then they leave, and the stillness returns.

I don’t mind the term “hermit.” At 59, I’ve earned the right to live life on my terms. The quiet is my companion now, the stars my confidants. They remind me that solitude isn’t emptiness. It’s a choice—and one I’ve come to embrace.