The only respite to the endless highways of the Northern Territory are the roadhouses that dot the landscape every few hundred kilometres.

They're a welcome sight for weary eyes, or for drivers with a flashing fuel light. And they're a reminder that there is life out there after all — even if the personalities inside them are not exactly run-of-the-mill.

For the past 40 years, Greg Dick has been holding the fort at Aileron Roadhouse, 200 kilometres north of Alice Springs.

Asking around before we pull in, there are a few smirks — we get the feeling we don't quite know what we're in for.

There's no beating around the bush when it comes to "Dicky": he's as straight-talking as they come, and has a penchant for all things outlandish — like the giant Aboriginal warrior statue looming up on the hill that he commissioned to try to attract tourists.

He doesn't suffer fools, and love him or loathe him, he doesn't really care either way.

This is his kingdom, and it's his way or the literal highway.

"Laughter is the best medicine; some people haven't got it in them but that's alright, I've told plenty to get out of here," he said.

Aileron's welcome sign and the Anmatjere man statue in the Northern Territory. ( Supplied: This Thursday's Child )

Namatjira paintings an outback lure

Mr Dick's pretty much seen life from one end to the other in his job.

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From delivering babies on the kitchen floor to taking up the pastor's robes at the last minute for funerals and weddings, he's delivered first aid, marriage counselling, and life advice, whether he was asked to or not.

He concedes he's archaic in some ways, with a passionate dislike for technology, refuses to own a computer, and don't dare ask about the wi-fi.

But this 73-year-old is obsessed with this part of Central Australia: he bought the roadhouse in the 1970s, capping off a lifelong infatuation that lured him north a decade earlier.

"When I went to school, the Women's Weekly was a very big paper, and used to always have pictures of [artist Albert] Namitjira's paintings," he said.

"My mother used to show them to me and I'd say, 'I'm going there one day, I'm going to go'. I loved the country just from those paintings."

His love for Namitjira and his family's work is such that he has more than 300 paintings by the family in what's almost a shrine at the pub, hung up around the bar.

"They should have kept painting," Mr Dick said.

"I could have sold them a thousand times over; I've been offered big money for them and things, but I won't — my sons will have a good time when I die!"

Greg Dick with one of his prized Albert Namatjira watercolours. ( ABC Alice Springs: Emma Haskin )

But that seems some way off: you'd be mistaken for thinking at 73 he might want to slow down and forgo the 3:00am wake-up calls for an easier life, but Dicky reckons he's got a bit left in him yet, despite the coffin that sits propped in the corner.

"I'm going to die at 100; when I get to 99 I might have a spare $10,000, I'll go out, start to have a good time, and then you drop dead!" he said.

"That coffin is built out of the old Ghan railway line, bit heavy to carry, so I'll build a frame and a funeral pyre and we'll have a party for three days while I burn away."

Finding your niche in life

A 700-kilometre hop up the road is another revered roadhouse, run by a much less outlandish personality but no less loved by the locals.

It's nearing midnight at Dunmarra's Wayside Inn, a Greyhound bus has just pulled away with its bleary travellers no doubt dreading the thousands of kilometres to go.

Greg Frost is elbow-deep in pastry, making around 100 pies for the morning, when he'll be back up before sunrise. He's also keeping one eye on the driveway for the fuel tanker.

Greg Frost prepares pies at the Wayside Inn in Dunmarra. ( ABC Landline: Ian Redfearn )

His diesel bowers have run dry due to serving the needs of a huge military convoy, with hundreds of tankers and trucks passing through from Darwin, where they've been engaged in war-training games.

It's just one of the many problems that crop up when you're the everything man. But you'd be hard-pressed to know it: his calm demeanour and softly-spoken manner is something you don't expect out here in such a harsh landscape.

"A lot of people go through life looking for something, that little niche," he said.

"I think I've found that niche; it took me a lot of years to find it, but I couldn't be happier than where I am now.

"If I can be here another 15 years you might be carrying me out," he laughs, "but I'll be staying here as long as I can."

His roadhouse is a favourite with the truckies, mostly in part because of the VIP treatment they say Mr Frost offers weary road warriors.

They tell us he'll cook up a feed pretty much any time of the night, doesn't stinge on his serves — and importantly, they don't feel like second-class citizens here.

"One of the guys had an issue last week and Gary had no problem here getting his forklift out and reloading the load for them," said one truckie travelling from Sydney to Darwin.

"On the Hume Highway and places like that, just wouldn't happen."

Publican Greg Frost at the Dunmarra Wayside Inn. ( ABC Landline: Kristy O'Brien )

Trauma on the highway

Dunmarra has a tragic past. It was the site of one of Australia's largest searches in 1993 when a little boy from a nearby station, Clinton Leibelt, went missing on his motorbike.

It ended tragically, but Mr Frost chooses to remember how the community pulled together.

"They came from nearly all over Australia to help search for that little boy," he said.

A road train on a highway. ( ABC Landline: Ian Redfearn )

"But even now the same thing still applies, especially for myself if I have a problem — I only have to look out the door and there is always someone willing to put their hand up and come and help you," he said.

"That's another good thing about the Territory, and I don't think you'd find that in a city area."

These remote roadhouses play a major role as first responders when things go wrong, as they so often do on these vast highways.

Mr Frost said it's the publicans and staff that provide that critical first assistance, and with it comes a share of trauma.

"There's a lot of things that happen out here in these remote areas that go by and nobody notices — bad accidents, and the medical centre is so far away," he said.

'They talk, you listen'

It's a burden another outback roadhouse manager is familiar with.

"I've been to two fatal car accidents and numerous road accidents," said Pauline Haseldine.

She runs Top Springs, at the crossroads of the Northern Territory's main stock routes in the middle of the Victoria River region, not far from the Western Australia border.

She emanates a Dolly Parton vibe and is like the slightly wild auntie you've always wanted, and you can immediately tell she's got a very big heart.

Pauline Haseldine from Top Spring road house in the NT. ( ABC Landline: Ian Redfearn )

But rest assured: this woman can more than hold her own amongst even the toughest of ringers.

"Oh, it gets a bit fiery sometimes, I get a bit cranky," she said.

"As I say to young ringers … 'come and enjoy yourselves but don't mess up'."

Ms Haseldine's the unofficial mayor of this part of the world; taking the job 10 years ago, she now acts as a psychologist, judge, and mediator, not just at the pub but also for the nearby Aboriginal community of Kalkarindji.

She says the key to solving pretty much any problem is simple.

"Station managers have been really down and depressed, and the best part is you get them to talk and you listen," she said.

"I'm not an expert, but at least they can unload, the young ringers or whoever, but listening is a key factor … It's about helping people, you can't do any more than that."

Camels in the outback Northern Territory. ( ABC Landline: Kristy O'Brien )

The common theme out at these roadhouses is lifelong service to the bush and its people.

Ms Haseldine is unequivocal: it's hard work, but it's also a duty.

"I'm getting a bit damn old, I think, 71; I don't know whether it's time to retire or whether they should kick me out and get someone new and fresh in," she said.

"It's not about kissing people's backsides, it's about listening, talking to people, enjoying it.

"And I still enjoy it — when I don't enjoy it, that's the time to go."