I recall back in the late 1990s, facing a bit of an ultimatum from my housemate. My tall tabby, Prince, was having a standoff with Stanley, a much smaller black and white cat. While Stanley lounged peacefully, Prince was fiercely marking his territory—specifically on the new carpet by the cat flap. Soon enough, the house was filled with the unmistakable odor of cat urine, wet carpets, and the whirring of industrial fans drying everything out.
So, I took Prince and moved to another shared house, a charming Katoumba place in the Blue Mountains, just west of Sydney. This was around 25 years ago, and there was one woman in the area who was quite interesting—though she hadn’t quite managed to buy her own place.
My weekdays were exhausting; I’d work in Sydney, getting home around 9:30 PM and waking up at 6 AM to do it all over again. I managed to hit my goals, but, oh, the fatigue was immense.
I really should have focused on finding a job closer to home, but, oddly enough, I got sidetracked by online dating.
That’s where I met Steve, a national park ranger from Bathurst, about an hour further west from me. Our initial meeting at Katoomba Cafe felt like a big secret; this was back in 2002 when online dating still carried a bit of stigma.
I had noted that he didn’t have much of a profile—no photos or descriptions—just a pair of thick glasses and a quirky self-introduction that made me chuckle. It was refreshing, really, and I remember scrolling through his profile while strolling on the beach, feeling quite exhilarated.
On our second date, we went for a bushwalk, and I couldn’t help but notice his well-defined calves.
Later, we sat on my verandah as dusk fell. I thought he seemed impressed by my little garden, complete with some charming native birds perched nearby. But Steve’s focus was elsewhere—he was worried about the fire risks from the nearby bushland.
Just weeks later, a fire broke out not far from my home. I had a backpack ready by the door and a cat cage—was I going to evacuate? I found myself hesitating. Should I stay or should I leave?
Then came a knock at the door. I assumed it was emergency services with some advice. To my surprise, it was Steve in his ranger uniform. He wasn’t on duty there, but he was clearly taking the initiative—my own personal firefighter!
It turned out my cat and I didn’t need to evacuate. Steve jumped in to clear the ditches and used hoses around the house, keeping the fire at bay, something my neighbor and I had been quite anxious about.
Not long afterward, Steve showed up again at my place. By then, I had four pet chickens, and one of them was battling a pesky leg mite issue. My beautiful black chicken had developed some nasty crust on her legs, which needed treatment—petroleum jelly was the solution.
When I told Steve about the issue, he sprang into action. I held my black chook to keep her calm while he applied the jelly to her legs to clear out the mites. It was messy work, not really glamorous, but it really showed me that Steve was someone I could rely on—whether wielding a bottle of jelly or a fire hose. I found myself drawn to him.
A year after we first met, in late 2003, we moved in together.
Steve continued his work as a ranger, and I got used to receiving reassuring messages stating “all Ops Normal” whenever he was involved in something risky, like battling fires. One time, I accidentally discovered a possum in our freezer; he’d found it as roadkill and wanted to send it to a taxidermist—such interesting experiences! I learned so much from him; he may have been sensible, but he was anything but dull. He started writing for a local newspaper and even taught journalism at a nearby university. We traveled together in places like Europe, South America, and India, while also camping around Australia.
Then, in 2010, I found out I had a BRCA1 gene mutation. I opted for risk-reducing surgery, removing my breasts and ovaries, but still ended up with ovarian cancer. It was a tough time, but I was reminded of a moment when Steve helped that distressed chicken—he’s always been there in my life.
As for Prince, he sadly passed away from kidney failure a few months after I moved to Bathurst. He was a little rascal, but I always appreciated how he nudged me in that new direction.
