Outback Opal Hunters

There I am — parked up in my daughter’s front room, in my wheelchair , trapped in this deranged body of mine, joints on strike, nerves belting out their usual death metal anthem, and the telly crackles to life with Outback Opal Hunters.

And suddenly… I’m free.

I’m out there in the dust-blasted Australian outback, surrounded by sweating maniacs digging up rocks like they’re mining the shattered dreams of the gods. And I bloody love it.

These lunatics aren’t digging for gold or fame. No, they’re chasing after fire trapped in stone opal. Shards of lightning frozen in rock. And what do they do to get it? Risk everything. Lose fingers. Melt in 45-degree heat. Spend 12 hours underground in a hole that’s one bad breath away from collapse just to find a flicker of green in a sea of grey. That’s not a job, mate. That’s madness with a purpose.

And that’s why I can’t get enough of it.

These people are broke, busted, broken, and burning up and they keep going. Why? Because maybe… just maybe… the next shovel-full might be their salvation. Or maybe it’s another week of living off tinned beans and borrowed hope. Sound familiar?

Yeah, I see a bit of myself in every single one of those dirty, half-mad opal chasers. Because when you’re battling a body that’s turned against you like mine has every step, every day, every moment is digging through pain for that one shimmering slice of meaning.

Watching Outback Opal Hunters isn’t just entertainment. It’s therapy. It’s watching people fight a silent war, and every now and then, win. It’s real, raw, dusty-as-hell life. And when those boys and girls hit pay dirt? When they hold up a stone that looks like it was carved from a rainbow by the devil himself? I feel it. Right down to the bone marrow.

👑 Rod Manning – The Man Then there’s Rod Manning. He’s not just another miner. He’s the man. A grizzled Aussie bloke whose face is as weathered as the outback itself. The quiet storm of the Bushmen crew. No flair, no ego – just relentless grit and that rare magic touch. When he finds good stones, it’s like watching a magician pull colour from dust. And when things go tits-up (which they always do)? He dusts off, spits in the dirt, and mutters:

“She’ll be right.”

And by all buggering chances, it bloody well is. He is awesome. He is the man.

If my MS was an opal mine, it’d be full of collapses, bad air, and a constant sense of “Why the hell am I even doing this?” But sometimes just sometimes you hit that flicker of colour that makes it all worth it.

So here’s to the mad bastards with pickaxes and faith. Outback Opal Hunters — you’re not just digging for rocks. You’re digging through my soul, and somehow, making me feel alive again.

Now pass me the remote and a cold one, I’ve got opal fever.

           “The views in this post are based on my personal   
         experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

          “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                     By storm and silence, I survive.”

           @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk