It was a tremendous pleasure sharing with each of the women in this chapter.

Auntie Kath Nichols, who lived in what was destined to be a ghost town in the northern South Australia with Twiggy Minupus, a kitty Aunty Kath claimed was affected with radiation from atomic tests to the west.

Maud Close, with stories of woking in tin mines with the Chinese in 1907, the Top End railway, and the bombing of Darwin.

And The Goat Lady of Bulong, Hilda Jarvis, living with hundreds of goats in Western Australia in what, without her, would be another ghost town.

Now I want to present to you a time capsule.

It’s a radio documentary I prepared in 1972, for the ABC.

Back then it’s title was, ‘The Urban Aborigine’ , and you’ll find the word 'aborigine' features strongly thoughout

For many Aboriginal people, that word is no longer considered appropriate.

Because of historical connotations, to use that word for indigenous Australians seems to lengthen the distance between ‘them’ and ‘us’, between me the white person, and you the black person. It’s considered dehumanising.

Personally, since it was the common term right up until the 50’s and 60’s when I grew up, I still have to remind myself to be more considerate.

I witnessed so many appalling interactions between our two races in the bush. And I’m dismayed in recent years, sensing the undercurrent of disinterest through to outright dismissal from so many of my fellow Australians.

So I feel it’s increasingly important for every step that I can take to be more in keeping with the feelings of my brothers and sisters, the descendants of the oldest living culture on earth.

But yes, keeping this 1972 time capsule historically accurate, the word aborigine does feature.

My subjects were reflecting what they saw as a change coming, back then in 1972, to how the larger Australian society perceived the Aboriginal people.

The voices yo’ll hear are: Mrs Olga Fudge, who moved to Adelaide from Point McLeay mission, in 1912; Mrs Elphick from Point Pearce, who was then working with the Adelaide Aboriginal Cultural Centre; Adelaide born Mrs Natasha McNamara; a lecturer in Business Studies; Bert Clarke, former stockman, then with the Adelaide Aboriginal Cultural Centre; university student Gloria Brennan, born outback Western Australia; Mrs Lela Rankin, formerly of Point McLeay Reserve, who was researching Aboriginal music at the University of Adelaide.

And weaving throughout this presentation was the work of singer-songwriter Bob Randall, otherwise known as Uncle Bob.

Bob, an elder of the Yankuny-tjatjara people of Central Australia, was widely respected for his vigorous community work, in various parts of Australia, most especially in education.

This episode has everything:

A road trip. (Well, on mainly dusty tracks) across three quarters of Australia.

Memorable encounters with remnants of Aboriginal tribes – two of whom were the last speakers of a number of ancient languages.

The horrifying squalor of a fringe dwellers' camp, and the grief of young parents whose children were taken.

The endless, almost bendless Nullabour Railway,

A fascinating interview with an anthropologist – Kato Muir – who is also the descendant of some of the last Aboriginal people to emerge from the desert, into the world of white man.

Ah, but there’s more! And it’s bizarre! In the same spot where the last of the Aboriginal people emerged into the 20th Century, a Japanese terror group would later prepare for their deadly nerve gas attack on a Tokyo subway.

So this episode of Red Dust Tapes stretches you from cultures going back to the Iast Ice Age, to malevolent use of modern technology.

Ned Conroy, the craggy-browed Scotsman with the missing teeth and a dusty face the colour of the red earth he dug in, loved the bush, and the chase for floaters – those bits of gold on the surface – and then the dig-down search for the hidden reef.

And he wasn’t perturbed by the near-miss when, in the pitch black after his lamp snuffed out, several tons of earth collapsed right in front of him.

Or the time when a large snake tumbled down the mine shaft and landed on his shoulder.

When I visited them in 1970, Ned and his mate Banjo were two of the last three prospectors at Darlot, in Western Australia’s northern goldfields, where once there had been something like 5,000 people.

Ned was an alcoholic. He said working remotely in the bush suited him, keeping him on the task of the search for the yellow stuff, and away from the hotels.

Ned talks widely of the joys of life in isolation, the routine of a bushman, the challenges of surviving when you’re not finding much, and the beauty of a harsh landscape.

From the age of 12 Les Craigie was a professional boxer. In our interview he compared an easily bruised apple with the delicacy of a pummelled human brain. At 21 he’d had enough of the risks, and for the next 25 years he worked deep underground in the Broken Hill silver-lead mines – to face different but equally real dangers.

In 1948 Les climbed up out of the deep shafts and headed west, taking up his own silver-gold claim in the Barratta Ranges. From miner, he became a prospector.

Oh sure, that still meant picking and blasting his way beneath the surface, but with more time up top to gaze and to wander, taking in the beauty of the trees, the wildflowers, and to breathe unpolluted fresh air.

Twenty three years later, in 1970 when I interviewed him, Les Craigie was still his own man, content in the serenity.

Woops. Once again, we’re a long way from the usual Red Dust Tapes Outback territory.

This is the second of the two-part anecdotes of John ’Snow’ Williams, who first went to the Antarctic in 1958, at the end of the International Geophysical Year.

In this era the world was gripped with the fear of nuclear war, with the United States and Russia flinging threats at each other. So it was remarkable that a year of scientific co-operation was achieved, that had many significant, and shared, outcomes.

In this second episode, John talks of expeditions to count fleas on seals and Emperor penguins, one mechanical problem after another, escaping from crevasses, and a brief boozy encounter with the Russians.

Welcome to Season 2 of Red Dust Tapes.

We commence this second season as far as you can possibly get from the usual Red Dust Tapes territory, in The Land of the Blizzard, Antarctica.

It’s also just 67 years ago – so far more recent than most of my tales.

But John ’Snow’ Williams is a great storyteller. In this case recalling his time at Wilkes Station, in 1958, during the International Geophysical Year.

This was deep into the Cold War era, with the US and Russia trading frightening threats. But among other things, John talks of convivial encounters with the Russians.

John's early days in the Deep South were also filled with high drama.

THIS IS THE FINAL EPISODE OF SEASON 1.

Whoah! It seems I achieved something that the great television interviewer and self-confessed cricket nut Sir Michael Parkinson longed for, but never managed – to not just meet, but to interview the legendary, world-beating cricketer, Sir Donald Bradman.

It was said that Don Bradman was ‘elusive’. Like a lyrebird in the bush, perhaps? But there was the great Don, graciously opening his office door to me, welcoming me in, and cheerfully sharing so many stories from his illustrious sporting life.

This was in about 1972, when Sir Donald was a stockbroker batting share prices rather than a cricket ball, having played his final Test game against England 24 years earlier. In that match the great man was just four runs short of a 7,000-run career, but was sent walking with a duck.

With a what?

In this episode of Red Dust Tapes I offer a brief introduction to this weirdest of games, that in it’s ‘first class’ form can keep going for six hours a day for three, four, and in present times, five days.

But we’re really here for the anecdotes and musings of the man many regard not just as the greatest cricketer of all time, but possibly the greatest sportsperson.

Sir Donald was a delight to sit with, freely sharing on career highlights, the lows of the dangerous bodyline era, and tales of other legendary cricket characters.

So no, this edition of Red Dust Tapes is not about the Outback. And yes, it is all about cricket. But offered to you in a way that I hope you will enjoy regardless of your interest in sport.

By the way it’s also the end of the first season of Red Dust Tapes. I guarantee you’ll be delighted with the content and variety of the next season, when we spend time with cattlemen, railway workers, isolated Aboriginal people, prospectors, paddlesteamer captains; when we hear more anecdotes from our first airmen, and meet assorted Outback loners.

All of these characters were born towards the end of the 19th century or early in the 20th, so all are long, long gone.

My interviews are Australian oral history you won’t hear anywhere else.

To stay informed, and to be alerted when the new season starts, please subscribe, at www.reddusttapes.au