Thriving Solo: A Decade in the Australian Rainforest by Choice

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What happens when someone vanishes and what questions do they leave behind? Insight explores why some might choose to go missing, while also asking what it’s like for those left wondering — families, friends, police. Watch Insight episode Gone Missing on SBS On Demand.

There were a series of unfortunate events that led to me living on a lava rock in a rainforest when I was a middle-aged man.

Even before I’d formed my first memories, I’d already developed an innate awareness around my own safety. My father was the most dangerous person in my life.

When I was 10 years old in 1965, my mother took me and four of my siblings to visit our aunty. Where we actually ended up that day was an orphanage.

It was a cruel trick; one that led me to mistrust the world, and everyone in it, from that point on.

I hated society, and from what I could tell, society hated me. Acting out and contempt for the world saw me in and out of juvenile detention centres until I was 19 years old.

Then, that was that. I was apparently fit to be released into society.

Having spent most of my life locked up until then, I knew very little about the world I’d just been let loose in.

I couldn’t read or write that well; a combination of lack of skills and an unsavoury attitude meant that I was great for the labouring jobs nobody else wanted.

I also had developed an unquenchable thirst for alcohol and drugs. Anything to kill the pain. Anything to forget.

There is a lot more to my story, but I was mostly homeless throughout my 20s, and all my 30s and 40s.

Making a home of the rainforest

When I finally wandered into the Goonengerry National Park near Mullumbimby, northern NSW at age 35, something struck me.

For the first time, I felt at peace. Not knowing what home felt like, I questioned if this was it.

I decided to stay the night, then another. Before I knew it, I was working out how to live in a rainforest.

a vintage photo of a young man in a blue tshirt sitting on a brown velvet sofa

Gregory aged 25, a decade before he entered the rainforest. Source: Supplied

I made my camp on a lava rock where I always kept a roaring fire; I did not have shelter nor swag, and I slept on ferns.

“What did you eat up there?” is a question I’ve often been asked. The answer: anything I could catch.

I ate bats that I shot from trees with slingshots fashioned from a T-shirt. I ate worms. Food was scarce.

‘Those aliens were real to me’

Finally, after eating all the critters around my camp, it had become apparent that if I wanted to stay on the mountain, I needed to find something to trade with the townsfolk nearby.

I grew a small crop of marijuana, made wood carvings and collected the skins of lizards and snakes. It was a three-day walk from the mountain to the closest town.

I only ventured near people when I absolutely had to. Sometimes it would be six months between trips.

People were quite aware that there was a highly questionable, wild-looking man living somewhere up in the mountain. Nobody found my camp.

On the trips to town, I’d also buy tea, tobacco, rolling papers, powdered milk, rice and other basics. But over time, general malnutrition and the ravaging effects of drugs and alcohol had taken their toll.

a close up shot of a man in a black felt hat with a long beard standing in front of forestry

Gregory during the decade he spent living in the rainforest. Source: Supplied

By the end of 1999, I was 42kg and dying.

I became resigned to the idea of dying on that mountain until one evening, a couple of thin white aliens joined me by my campfire. They convinced me to leave my mountain home.

The idea that I debated my next move with a couple of aliens is usually met with mixed reactions from others.

In simple terms — actual or a figment of my mind — those aliens were real to me. I owe them my life.

Returning to society

By the time I decided to return, I had not seen my family in more than 10 years. Apparently, I was considered missing.

After removing all traces of my existence from the mountain, I left the forest at age 45.

On the day I left, I was hit by a car. This was possibly a blessing as I entered the hospital system — albeit as an unidentified middle-aged man who didn’t know who he was.

I was treated for my illnesses, and I slowly began to remember.

A few months later, I experienced an epiphany that made me turn away from drugs and alcohol.

Now with a clear mind and a new attitude to life, was it possible that society might let me back in?

Something very special happened over the next few years. I had decided that if I was going to live in society, I’d need to learn the rules. So began my education journey.

I went to TAFE, where I learned foundational skills needed for further training. At 48, I decided to study sociology at university in Queensland.

Becoming an academic

I studied in my makeshift camp in the sand dunes of Surfers Paradise. Many of my essay drafts were handwritten on the beach by candlelight.

Halfway through my undergrad degree, I moved to Coffs Harbour. It was my first time renting a place since my late 20s.

I finished my degree with first class honours and went on to my PhD — becoming Dr Gregory P. Smith and an academic lecturer in 2016.

I had found somewhere to belong with people who understood.

Through education and writing about my time at the orphanage, I found my tribe.

I had found somewhere to belong with people who understood what these large and enduring emotions all were about.

I’d since learned that upwards of 500,000 children, like me, were placed in out-of-home care, particularly during the period between 1920 and 1970. This group is now known as the Forgotten Australians.

In the past decade, I’ve received a lot of media attention about my rough entry into education.

A documentary about my life caught the interest of a lifestyle magazine in 2019. I became best friends and then romantic partners with the journalist, Catherine, who had been sent to write my story.

I moved in with her and her two young sons the next year, and in 2022, we welcomed our son William — completing our little blended family.

‘It was not my fault’

It’s been 26 years since I left my forest home, and I have had lots of time to consider what it all meant.

It was in the forest that I learned to see my parents, not as my tormentors, but as people who knew no better due to their own traumatic childhoods. I learned to forgive them and see them from a different perspective.

I also learned not to hate myself for the things that had happened to me; it was not my fault.

But the most valuable thing that the forest taught me was that I was now responsible for making the necessary changes to myself for a better tomorrow.

It wasn’t by magic or science; it was simply by doing what needed to be done each day.

an older man in a sun hat, sunglasses and a grey beard smiles in front of a beach with a younger blonde woman who wears a sun hat and sunglasses

Gregory and his partner Catherine Player have been together since 2019. Source: Supplied

Now, as a 70-year-old man with arthritis in most joints, it all feels like a blur.

I have written two books about my life and survival, and I’ve received an Order of Australia medal for my charity work in the homelessness sector.

I am still filled with energy and continue to thrive on all the work I do as co-leader of my family, senior lecturer at Southern Cross University, co-chair of The End Street Sleeping Collaboration and in the homelessness sector at large — generally as an adviser to government bodies and non-government organisations.

This month, Catherine and I have just registered a charity, Home Address Australia Ltd, which seeks to professionalise the voice of lived experience in the homelessness sector.

Ultimately, if our work can save just one person from the shame and pain that I felt as a person experiencing homelessness, my discomfort in asking for help will all be worth it.

If you or someone else is in immediate danger, call 000.

If you or someone you know is experiencing family violence, phone 1800 RESPECT. For counselling, advice and support for men who have anger, relationship or parenting issues, call the Men’s Referral Service on 1300 766 491.

For addiction support, contact National Alcohol & Other Drug Hotline (1800 250 015).

For crisis and mental health support, contact Lifeline (13 11 14), SANE Australia (1800 187 263) or 13Yarn (139 276), a 24/7 Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islanders crisis support line.