Motorcycle Explorer - Issue 16

Want some inspiration?  Check out Issue 16 (March 2017) of Motorcycle Explorer magazine. 

 

Great stuff by Spencer Conway (South America); Lawrence Bransby (Russia); Norman Magowan; Egle Gurelaityte (Asia); and Jax Kennedy (Australia), plus plenty more, including a little piece by me following the 1836 expedition of Major Thomas Mitchell.

Find the magazine and other issues here - www.memrider.com

Of Limestone and Lakes

Pelicans swirled overhead in ever increasing circles, effortlessly soaring on thermals rising from the warming water.  We lay amongst sand dunes that held back the angry waves of the Southern Ocean, absorbing the views of this most wonderful of places.

Eclipsed for just a moment, the sun cast a giant shadow over us as one of the circling birds descended from squadron above.  Unfolding its legs, gracefully skimming the water’s surface, coming to rest not far from where we lay.  Mr Percival, ‘birds like him, never die’, I smiled with childhood memories of Colin Thieles’ Storm Boy.

Coorong National Park.  We’d followed South Australia’s Limestone Coast to its northern end and found ourselves amongst the dunes, the marshes and lagoons of this unique echo-system.  Birds from as far as Alaska and Siberia flocked to the dunes looking for a mate, the fresh water ponds stretching for 140 kilometres, parallel to the Southern Ocean, a great place to roost.  The wildlife of the Coorong is both unique and beautiful.

The Ngarrindjeri people, custodians of the karangk for over 6,000 years, saw that beauty, the uniqueness and made it their home.  Watching the life on the water, silence only broken by the squawks, tweets and hoots of hundreds of species of birds, I couldn’t think of a better place to call home.  Like ‘Storm Boys’ father, ‘Hideaway’ Tom, I wanted a life away from society, amongst the dunes, living on the water.  It seemed like heaven to me.

The fragile strip of dunes, barricading the lagoons from the Southern Ocean, are flanked at the northern end by the mouth of the mighty Murray River, Australia’s longest river, and the southern end by the treacherously magnificent limestone coast.  Inland of the system of lakes lay more dunes, as far as the eye can see, covered in vegetation, they are definitely there and create a unique contrast to the usual red dunes of outback Australia.

Accessing the Coorong is done in several ways, as easy as bitumen or as difficult as riding along the beach.  Australia’s national road, the Princes Highway, A1, runs parallel to most of the Coorong and allows easy access through a number of well-maintained dirt tracks.  Many of these tracks give way to much lesser tracks, nothing more than a narrow path through the sandy dunes.  Taking on some of these ribbons of sand, we were advised not to, as mid-summer, school holidays meant lots of 4x4 vehicles.  These guys wait or move for no-one. 

We’d entered the Coorong from the southern end, the town of Kingston SE, the northern tip of the Limestone Coast.  Starting from Portland, in our home state of Victoria, meant riding the Great Ocean Road in part.  This end of it is a dream, perhaps not as spectacular as the end closer to the cities of Geelong and Melbourne, yet away from the tourist hoards.  The riding was relaxed and enjoyable, the scenery impressive, the history of the ‘shipwreck coast’ even more so.  Passing through the sleepy village of Nelson, my third time here in as many months, provided access to the South Australian border and the Limestone Coast.  First stop Port Macdonnell.

Known to the locals as ‘Port Mac’ this is another sleepy little hamlet.  The main street was like stepping back into an 1880’s village, a town built around the prosperous industry of fishing.  We were proudly told that it has the highest number of fish shops per capita anywhere in Australia.  Looking around I believed it. 

Port Mac has a tranquil, welcoming feel, the locals quick to point out the many ‘unknown’ attractions.  Over numerous beers we discovered that Port Mac had an auto museum.  Convinced!  We made plans to take a look the following morning.  We weren’t disappointed.  Feast’s Classic Car Collection has one of the greatest collections of Valiant’s (Chrysler’s) I’d ever seen, every surviving R & S series car in Australia must be here.  Don, the owner of the collection, was quick to point out the regions other attractions.  Mount Schank, an extinct volcano, just east of the town was a sight we couldn’t miss.  I love the spectacle of volcanoes so couldn’t resist, it was added to the list, but would have to wait until next time.

Heading further north, we were quick to realise the extent of the Limestone Coast and the area associated with it.  Once under a great expanse of water, the limestone was created by billions of tiny sea creatures depositing their remains on the ocean floor.  These deposits have created the most beautiful white sand beaches, framed by perfect blue waters.  The beaches are some of Australia’s finest and yet remain relatively untouched.  Inland the limestone has been eroded in places to create spectacular caves, some of which are World Heritage Listed due to the unprecedented amount of fossil deposits.  Astounding, is the only way to comprehend that one of the caves at Naracoorte has over 4,000 pieces of ancient bone per cubic metre.  The reconstructed remains of extinct mega-fauna are astonishing.

The southern tip of Lake Bonney gave an idea as to what we could expect.  The track between the lake and the ocean was nothing more than 30 kilometres of fine, white, powdery sand.  I desperately wanted to head this way but thought otherwise when advised by a local that the track was in the worst condition he had ever seen and that many better suited machines were struggling with the deep sand.  We headed to the east of the lake then continued north through farming country, both cattle and turbine electricity generators were abundant.

Robe, on the southern shore of Guichen Bay, was the destination for the night and as soon as we got there I couldn’t wait to get away.  The town, with a permanent population of around 2,000 people is beautifully set with historic period buildings however, at this time of the year the population had swelled to over 20,000, mostly drunken tourists.  One night here would be more than enough, thank you.

The following morning vindicated our decision to spend no more time in Robe.  Over a delicious breakfast, at the Robe Bakery, we noticed that the streets were strewn with broken beer and wine bottles.  The partying had gotten out of hand the previous night.  We moved on and followed the coast to first Cape Jaffa and then Kingston SE, the two towns linked by the unlikeliest of reasons.

A striking feature of Kingston SE is a steel framed lighthouse that sits amongst the houses on the towns foreshore.  Keenly interested in this sort of history I ventured in for a closer look, quickly discovering that the lighthouse is not original to Kingston SE.  Known as the Cape Jaffa lighthouse it was originally placed on Margaret Brock Reef 13km offshore from Cape Jaffa after a ship was wrecked there in the 1870’s.  Unbelievably two lighthouse keepers and their families would live on the lighthouse and its platform at any one time, their only contact with the outside world being by rowboat.  I couldn’t quite get my head around the fact that at some point as many as 12 people lived in isolation on this tiny platform.

With more advanced technologies came the demise of the lighthouse and rather than leave it rotting in the ocean, the National Trust decided to have it dismantled and re-erected in the larger town of Kingston SE, where it resides today, a monument to much harder times.

Travelling further north we were amongst The Coorong by following Old Coorong Road, a well maintained, compacted limestone track.  The conditions of this road are so good that it rivals many bitumen roads although, there are the occasional corrugations and sand drifts.  The Old Coorong continues north for around 50 kilometres and eventually re-joins the Princes Highway, several tracks detour into the dunes to camping areas, the occasional beach access allowing for a ride all the way to the mouth of the Murray River.  At the right time of the day the beach sand is quite hard and forgiving but caution needs to be given as the occasional soft patch will suck you and bike in with disastrous affect.

Foregoing the beach route allowed for a circumnavigation of Lakes Albert and Alexandrina, the northern end of the Coorong and the mouth of Murray.  Keeping the coast on our left and Lake Albert on the right we found ourselves in an area rich in Aboriginal culture, the town of Point Macleay.  Known as Raukkan to the local inhabitants it holds great cultural significance as being a sort of parliament for the Ngarrindjeri people, a place where ‘clan’ leaders would converge and elect the Rupulle, or leader. 

Riding around Raukkan felt as if we were intruding, treating the 100 or so residents as museum pieces in their beautiful community.  Rather than voyeuristically looking on as an outsider, spending time with the community and learning about the traditions and culture of the Ngarrindjeri would be a much better option.  I added this to the list of places to return to.

Amongst the lakes and dunes there’s a number of water crossings that have a throwback to earlier times, none more so than the two punts and the many barrages.  On this occasion the barrages were closed due to the high levels of water flowing from the Murray, the punts were in full operation and surprisingly both (Narrung & Wellington) are in operation 24 hours per day.  It must cost the state government a fortune to keep them running although, it does add a nice touch to ride.

Following the eastern shore of Lake Alexandrina, the land gives way to rich farmland and impressive wineries.  The dunes and ruggedness of the Coorong behind, in the distance the low rolling hills that form the boundary to the South Australian capital city, Adelaide, could be seen.  The areas buildings are unique to the limestone coast, built from giant blocks of the said stone.  It gives the landscape a distinct South Australian frontier feeling, as if being back in time, none more so than the towns of Strathalbyn and Goolwa.  The latter forming a hub for the next few days before heading back home.

Seen as a major shipping port for both river and sea transport, Goolwa was originally planned as the state capital.  With the advent of the railways, the town quickly struggled to maintain its position of importance and faded into obscurity.  It now sits as a beautiful reminder of the past, and is a town of historical importance; natural, aboriginal and European.  We quickly discovered it was a great place to spend a few days, Motel Goolwa being the ideal place for a shower and decent bed after days of camping.

Exploring Goolwa was a perfect fit to what had been seen further upriver on the Murray, it connected with the riverboat history of Swan Hill and Echuca.  The buildings are beautiful, a blend of modern and old.  The town relies heavily on tourism yet hadn’t succumbed to the tackiness that tourists can often bring, there’s still a simple charm that was perfectly captured in the late 1970’s movie adaptation of Thieles’ Storm Boy.  For the umpteenth time on this ride through the Coorong I felt a touch nostalgia. 

All too suddenly it was time to leave Goolwa and head back west, to Victoria, following the Limestone Coast however, now inland through what seemed like never ending sand dunes.  Riding through the wine country of Langhorne Creek and Wellington we came to the northern tip of Lake Alexandrina, then headed south in an almost straight line for around 50 kilometres.  Completing a loop of Lake Albert and soon finding ourselves in Meningie, the point to turn slightly more east through the dunes.

At the very southern end of the range of dunes is a town called Lucindale.  Close your eyes, think of 1960’s Australia, open your eyes and you are there, Lucindale.  Struggling to cling to existence this town is one of those that most people would just turn to look the other way, not noticing one of the most hospitable places you’ll come across.  We stayed the night.  Like in Port Macdonnell, we were treated with warmth and respect, we weren’t a passing curiosity, we were ‘explorers’, someone the locals could share their community and experiences with.  With its many hidden gems, it is a town worth sharing.

Lucindale is one of those towns that would make a great hub for anyone wanting to explore the non-touristy areas of this part of Australia.  The tracks out here are like many in this part of South Australia; well groomed, hard packed, yet very rarely see transport making getting lost a joy. 

Eventually the Limestone Coast gives way to the Coonawarra wine region and the many affluent towns that go with it.  The wineries are worth checking with as many will allow travellers to camp amongst the vines, and for little or no cost.  Could life get any better?

As the Limestone Coast region began to fade and blend with the surrounding area it became apparent that this is another special part of Australia, an area rich with history of a living earth.  Amongst the vast plains are odd conical mounds, some just hills, others small mountains, all the remnants of volcanic activity.  The large border town of Mount Gambier is one such volcano and with its Blue Lake is well worth a visit, but that’s for another time.

 

Our ‘expedition’ along the rugged beauty of the south east South Australian coast had come to an end.  We’d discovered life amongst the dunes, lakes and beaches as diverse as anywhere on earth.  Discovered history dating back millennia, to a time when mankind shared the land with fire breathing hills and mammals as big as small cars.  Discovered a way that was proof that adventures don’t always need to be too far from the beaten track.  We’d discovered a land of limestone and lakes.

Victorian Border: A Lap of Self Discovery (part 4)

Rain! Torrential rain had been falling all night.  It was now 8am, the rain had stopped, yet a wind of gale strength had sprung up and was blowing right along the Victorian coastline. 

Lakes Entrance ... no longer a quaint little fishing village

I was ready to leave Lakes Entrance, reluctantly as the wind blew stronger.  My plan was to make it to Wilson’s Promontory today, Australia’s most southern point.  The wind would be stronger there, and blowing right off Antarctica it would be bitterly cold.

Like most of my lap of Victoria so far, I came across a number of road blocks.  Forced to find a detour these blockages indeed became more of a metaphor for my past 12 months.  I now realised that these blocks in my path weren’t something to be negative about but to rather find an alternative route and add to the adventure of life.  I was enjoying this.

Nestled on the banks of the Gippsland Lakes, I’d previously been to Metung but, never by land.  I soon discovered it to be one of the most beautiful towns in Victoria, if not the whole of Australia.  Unfortunately I soon found it to have that pompous feel, that many of Australia’s coastal towns that have become a playground for the wealthy, to have.  I decided to move on and get to places I knew fairly well.

Bairnsdale was the first of these and became the route for me to Paynesville.  I had no intention of staying on here, the wind was now so cold that it was becoming painful.  I braced against the cold and pushed on to Holland’s Landing, I was sure that I could find a way straight across from here to Loch Sport.

Arriving in this place I quickly realised it was the end of the line, one road in, one road out.  The town, or what passed as a town, was right on the water’s edge with no place else to go.  Why the hell would anyone want to come here?  It almost had a post-apocalyptic feel to it, deserted, baron, cold.  I rested briefly and sheltered from the wind before continuing on towards Loch Sport.

Also at the end of a road Loch Sport seemed to be the complete opposite to Holland’s Landing.  It still had a sleepy feel to it but at the same time had a life, albeit it a rested life.  I now understood why a friend of mine chose to have a holiday home down here.  I too was falling in love with the town at the end of the road.

Riding towards the west the weather was getting worse.  Hail had added to the cold winds, riding was not only uncomfortable but also dangerous, I had to get to Wilson’s Prom as soon as possible and make a decision regarding continuing.  The road to the southern tip of the Australian mainland was fine, I was really the only vehicle on the winding road, my only company were a few kangaroos and emus.  I’d reached my target for the day and the views were certainly worth it.

As I stood looking at the vast scene before me, mountains rising from the angry, grey sea, I couldn’t help but remember what the voyage of discovery had achieved.  Why had I taken it on?  To discover the boundaries of my home state or to discover my own personal boundaries. 

Life is like a lighthouse; stand up against
whatever is thrown at you!

I’d set off in a westerly direction 11 days earlier, following the iconic Great Ocean Road, with no particular destination in mind.  I’d ridden toward the setting sun with no knowledge of what to expect.  I’d completed my last days of work for Computershare, a firm I had given my all for the past nine and a half years.  I’d ridden away from home with a heart full of hate; resentful and disappointed by those who I thought were leading the company.

Eleven days and almost 3,900km later my heart had lifted.  I’d seen parts of this wonderful country that I never thought I would.  I’d been faced with numerous roadblocks due to storms and flooding.  These detours had made me realise that this is what life is all about, make the most of it.  I no longer cared about working at Computershare, I missed my friends and the teams we had built, I was hopeful that these friendships would last a lifetime.

I returned to Melbourne with a different perspective which, had been cemented after my accident earlier in the year.  Living life is far too important than worrying about a mismanaged business that has no care for individuals.  Life is an adventure, so start exploring …

Victorian Border: A Lap of Self Discovery (part 3)

“Bullshit!”, I mumbled to myself.  It seriously couldn’t be as cold as the thermometer on the wall was telling me.  The sun was already up and it was four degrees below zero (Celsius).  This was crazy.  Sliding out of bed I wondered if the New South Wales high plains were always this cold in the middle of spring. 

I dreaded riding in the cold but knew I had to do it if I was to make the coast in time to watch the latest instalment of the Formula One World Championship.  Fully layered, I packed the bike and took one last look at the thermometer, the temperature hadn’t risen, a fact confirmed by the GS’s warning lights indicating there could be ice on the roads.  Nice!

 

Heading off down the Monaro Highway, at an average altitude of around 750 metres, pretty high by Australian standards, I couldn’t help but admire the beautiful country.  I’d ridden this road a few times before, never taking time to notice the landscape.  Mental note!  Slow down, enjoy the journey.

 

Thick bushland soon began to line the roadside, I was riding through a plantation of hardwood forest, Eucalypts of some sort.  I was taken at how quickly the landscape changes in Australia, I was thankful that my determined route would take me through this land.  It was a Sunday morning; I was the only person around.  A perfect day.

 

Dropping in altitude, the landscape changed again, still hardwood forest only now old growth.  The size of some of the trees was truly impressive.  I realised that this was still logging country, the many humorous billboards telling the truck drivers to slow down, return home to their families were a dead give away.  The quality of the wide dirt road also had something to do with it.  Riding this area was a pure delight.  The only company I had were the occasional kangaroo or wallaby.  Most kept their distance, every now and then one would come closer.  I’d slow, enjoying the scene.

 

Sweeping around a bend, and dropping down a short hill, it hit me.  Full force!  Large enough to have been seen a distance back.  I slammed on the brakes, sliding the bike to a halt.  Breathlessly I climbed from my machine.  Hardly able to contain myself I walked back to the sign.  It was real, I hadn’t imagined it.  I burst out laughing again.  “Wog Way!”  What the hell?

The large wooden road sign did indeed read “Wog Way”.  How could this be allowed, I laughed.  Wog, a racist term for people of southern Europe.  I continued laughing, knowing exactly what my close Italian friends would think of this sign.  They would laugh too, Wog had become a term of endearment amongst us, just like Pom to the English … or ‘Captain Risky’, as seemed to be my new name after a couple of large accidents and my determination to not let them stop me from exploring the world by bike.  I laughed again, wondering if this was an acronym for something, it was obviously marking another track that joined from the left.

 

Continuing in roughly a south easterly direction on this great piece of road, more or less following the border with Victoria, eventually I would reach the A1, the Princes Highway, the road that follows the coast for most of the way around Australia.  I would turn right and be back in my home state, before that I knew I could turn off the main road and find some tracks that would lead me to my first stop for the day.

Giant gum trees grew either side of the track as I ventured into the heavily wooded land.  This track was less used but still in reasonable condition.  I smiled to myself.  This day was so far treating me well. 

 

Riding for a few kilometres through twists and turns I found that I had lost my sense of direction.  It didn’t matter, I reckoned that if I kept following this track I would eventually come out somewhere.  A fork soon presented itself, offering the choice of two paths to take, without a second thought I went down the track to the right, after all this would take me more to the west, the direction I needed to head.  The track soon narrowed as it twisted further into the dense bush.  The place felt darker, not only had the light diminished but I had a strange sense that someone, or thing, was watching me.  Maybe my hunger was just playing tricks on me, I was yet to have something to eat, and without breakfast I really struggle.  The track soon reached another fork.  The route to the left seemed to be in extremely poor condition, unused.  I went right and was soon upon an imposing homemade sign. 

 

“DO NOT ENTER!  THIS ROAD LEADS NOWHERE! PRIVATE PROPERTY – KEEP OUT”. 

 

“Shit!”, I thought.  “Could this sign be any more explicit?”

 

Had I stumbled into something I shouldn’t have?  Was I about to find myself in trouble?  I could hear voices; yet couldn’t determine from which direction they came.  Panicking I turned the bike around and rode away.  My underfed, overactive imagination was now running hyperactively, what the hell was this place?  I returned to where I had come from and was quickly back on the main road and headed towards the seaside town of Mallacoota. 

 

Attracted to a sign reading Lucy’s Homemade Ride Noodle House, I venture in for breakfast and was surprised to find one of the best morning meals I have ever had.  I gazed dreamily out of the window, wondering what I had just encountered out in the bush, internally I laughed at myself.  Idiot!  Through the window I noticed a small man looking very closely at my bike and gear.  He pulled out a camera and began taking varied photos of the bike and the many decals adorning my paniers.  Eating breakfast I kept a casual eye on the bike, I didn’t want to disturb this great meal.

 

Looking around, as if trying to find something, the man walked to the café and entered the main door, handed a coffee by the young man serving.  I watched on curiously.  He turned, and smiled in my direction, I returned the gesture.

 

“By the look of your dirty riding gear, that’s your GS,” he proclaimed.  I nodded.

 

“May I?”, he gestured to the seat at my table.  I nodded.

 

“I don’t mean to interrupt your meal,” the man announced.  I couldn’t pick his strong Germanic accent.  “You see, I have a hobby.  I collect motorbikes, and yours is one of the best I’ve seen around here for a while.  It’s a real traveller.”

 

I must’ve look confused.  He went on to explain he doesn’t collect the physical bikes, just photos of them and the accompanying tale.  They are added to a blog.  Interesting!  I couldn’t help be flattered, he must see a lot of good bikes down here at the end of such a great road.  We introduced ourselves and spoke about travelling, about bikes, about life in general.  My breakfast had suddenly become much better. 

 

Recounting my strange recent encounter to Gerard, he laughed and explained he had never seen that sign, but had witnessed a few odd things out there.  Nothing bad, just odd.  We laughed.  Gerard told me of a few tracks I could possibly take to head further west however, warned that some could be closed due to recent weather.  He warned not to take them if they are closed, they can be quite treacherous.

 

Chatting, an hour or so passed quite quickly, I had to keep moving.  We shook hands and parted company as friends.  Chance encounters like these were what travel by motorcycle was all about.  I left Mallacoota more enriched.

 

Following the road along the coast I came across a 4wd track.  Narrow, sandy and remote, yet not inaccessible.  It was a glorious ride through thick bushland.  Winding its way in a roughly south westerly direction I knew this would take longer but was the whole point of my circumnavigation of my home state, to explore unknown paths and challenge my very being.  My injuries and self-doubts were so far from the front of my mind that they seemed to be forgotten.

 

Above the comforting drone of the GS’s engine a loud pop broke through the silence of the bush.  “What the hell was that?” I thought.

 

I pulled off the track, wondering if the strange noise had been from my bike.  Enjoying the silent stillness of the bush, I could see no indication to what had caused the noise.

 

POP! POP! Two shots echoed through the trees.  Bloody hell! Someone was shooting.  Had I strayed into a ‘game’ area?  I got back on the bike and rode on as quick as I could, mindful that I could be mistaken for an animal or be the victim of stray bullets.  The track wound its way further into the bush and after a few kilometres I thought it safe to stop.

 

The silence was again blissful.  I stood enjoying it when a fallen branch snapped behind me.  I turned just as a pop rang out and the sound of air being split whooshed past my head.  “FUCK!” I yelped loud enough to startle something into running.  I’m sure it was a biped, the hunter.

 

I stood in silence, to the point of panicking.  Was that a mistaken shot? Or had someone deliberately taken aim at me?  I didn’t want to find out.  I was back on the bike and headed back the way I had come, the whole time wondering why the hell people feel the need to shoot animals.  Perhaps my experience had just given me some insight into the mindset of these people.

 

On the main road, my nerves began to calm a little.  Bugger the dirt for now, I headed straight for the highway, the tracks that follow the coast would have to wait for now, I’d be back.  In a daze, I was determined to get to Cann River, it couldn’t come soon enough.  I needed to take stock of what had just happened.  Hindsight says I probably should’ve reported it to the authorities.

 

Lunch was light and refreshing yet I couldn’t get the sound of ‘whoosh’ out of my mind.  Was it a bullet that had come so close that I could hear it?  Perhaps my imagination had been running berserk again.  The circumstances seemed to be too much of a coincidence.  Back on the bike I followed the coast as much as possible, sticking to bitumen.  I was soon in Lakes Entrance.  Settling into a motel that had pay television I began to watch the Malaysian Formula One Grand Prix, I’m glad I decided to do this, Daniel Ricciardo took his Red Bull to victory.  I didn’t celebrate, I fell asleep before the sun had even slipped below the horizon …

Victorian Border: A Lap of Self Discovery (part 2)

Bright, warm sunlight, streaming through the gap in the curtains.  I lay in bed watching the silhouette of a bird peck at the grass outside of my room.  The day felt like it might be warm, I should’ve been pleased, I felt out of sorts.  I’d woken with a headache despite a good night’s sleep.

There was no need to explore Mildura, I’d previously been here numerous times, it’s a nice city, gradually pulling itself out of the 1970’s, it feels vibrant.  The surrounding country is a patchwork of richly green vineyards and orchards.  The perfume of blossoms hung thick in the air.  A perfect day for riding.

The preceding day had seen the route meet up with the Murray River, it now formed the border with Australia’s first state, the original British name for this country, New South Wales.  The Murray, Australia’s longest river, one of the world’s longest, meandering for over 2,500 kilometres, forming part of the basin that drains water from Victoria, New South Wales and even Queensland, yet often looking dry to the point of having no flow.  Since European occupation it has dried completely a few times – a common sight for many of Australia’s rivers.  Get used to it if you plan on travelling this wide, brown land.  As I followed the river to its source in the Victorian high country I was about to discover the Murray in a state that I had never seen before, and doubt will ever again.

Following the banks of the grand river in roughly an easterly direction I realised that perhaps this day wouldn’t be as easy as I thought it would be.  Citrus fields flanked my route, the track was in good condition.  A road construction crew nodded incredulously as I passed.  I considered their looks and wondered what they were thinking.  Abruptly my progress was halted, the track now an ocean of thick brown mud.  I considered my options.  In the GS’s mirrors, I could see the group of men watching me.  I turned around.

“We were having bets on whether you’d take it on,” the man I thought to be the leader of the group grinned at me.  I smiled, searching for a response.

“I wouldn’t take it on,” another of the group added.  “Not even in a four-wheel drive.”

I nodded confirmation.  I understood.  I’m sure they wanted to see the outcome of me taking on the track.

“Yeah mate, the river has come up overnight.  It’s broken its banks,” the leader explained.  Bugger, I thought.  This would certainly change a few things.  Could cause a few problems.

A minor distraction, I returned to the main road and followed it through the lush agriculture.  This wasn’t ideal, I’d been detoured but it had opened an area of Mildura I had never seen before and for that I was thankful.  It was beautiful, I’d never considered this side of the country before.

I needed fuel.  Nangiloc, on the banks of the river looked like a good place, perhaps an opportunity to get some intel too.  I was told that the river was coming up quickly and many small communities were already preparing for the worst.  Take care, I was warned.  Told not to go down dirt tracks that have water crossings, I thought about it.  Apparently, many of the tracks end at the river’s edge and under these conditions it’s hard to tell where that is.  I was confused.

Where the track ends & the river starts, who would know?

Watt Bend Forest, this looked like it could be a good pace for a camp.  I took to a track and followed it for a few metres, suddenly ending, I now understood what the service station attendant had warned.  The track simply no longer existed, in its place a massive expanse of water.  Where water usually sits two metres below the top of the banks, it now spread out in hundreds of metres in all directions.  The bike stationary, I sat and just stared at what I was seeing.  There’d be no making camp here today.

Returning to the main track I searched in vain for a way through.  Futility forced me to reassess the situation.  I had little option, I had to return to the bitumen.  Bloody hell!  I was on the Calder Highway, THE main road in these parts.  This was far from ideal.  I needed to get off as soon as I could, the town of Hattah was probably the best option.

What's so hard to understand with this sign?

Turning east at Hattah had worked, I was back following the river, albeit on bitumen.  I took some consolation in the fact that it was a road I had never been on before and soon found myself in Robinvale.  Through the massive River Red Gums, I occasionally glimpsed the Murray, fields and forests alike were awash, looking more like a latte coloured swamp.

Wondering if I would ever get close to the banks of the river again I’d resigned myself to just making it to Swan Hill, another town dragging itself from the past, a favourite of mine.  I’d get lunch, look over the map, speak to the locals and see what the remainder of the day would bring.

Swan Hill, like many towns along the Murray River, is from a bygone era.  European settlement dates back to 1836 however, aboriginal history in the area could be as old as 13,000 years.  The town grew around a punt crossing in the area, the only river crossing for 100km, and by 1849 a post office was in place to service the growing agricultural industry.  In the 1850’s two paddle steamers navigated the river from the Murray’s mouth in South Australia, proving that it would be viable as a highway for river transport, the era of the paddle steamers had begun, opening up agriculture and transportation.

Paddle steamers became so prevalent in the area that soon Swan Hill and neighbouring Echuca were regarded as some of the busiest shipping ports in the world.  It’s a feature that exists to this day, on a lesser scale of course, in a tourism sense. 

Lunching at Café Allure in Swan Hill, I learnt that the river had not yet peaked however, many more roads and tracks were being closed.  I had no option, I had to continue following the Murray Valley Highway for a while.  This was a road I’d travelled numerous times.  I had never seen it so green.  Passing Lake Boga, a unique place in Australia’s military history, with direct links to both Darwin and Broome during World War II, I noticed that the lake was full.  I’d never seen this before.  I’d need to come back.  Marvelling at the full lake I turned off towards the small farming community of Murrabit.  The road was narrow, green fields flanking both sides, insects ricocheted of my helmet like bullets against a steel drum.  This period of serenity was highlighted by a group of young kids encouraging me to get the bike up on the back wheel.  It wasn’t going to happen.  I beeped the horn.  They jumped and waved excitedly.  I smiled.  Life was good.

Yep, the river is high.

Barham became the next stop; an opportunity to see the Murray River again.  It hadn’t quite broken the banks here, yet was so high that the water was almost touching the bottom of the bridge that crosses into New South Wales.  I’d never seen this before, usually there’s a drop of around 5 metres.  Wow!

The industry around this area had now become dairy farming, a beautiful sight.  I took to several tracks only to find that they were flooded.  In many ways, this was adding to the excitement of adventure travel.  I had no idea where the road would take me.  I just had a general plan to head towards Echuca, head east!

Hypnotised by the passing green fields and long straight roads, I drifted away to a world of work, still wondering how the decision had been made to let me go.  Redundant!  A terrible word, with terrible consequences.  Did it really?  I didn’t think so.  I was enjoying being away from the politics and the horrible way that people are treated in the corporate world.  Computershare had done me a massive favour.  I was enjoying the challenge.

The bike suddenly tightened.  The rear end became squat, something popped and the bike leapt sideways!  It was sudden!  It was aggressive!  It all felt normal again.  What the hell was that?  In an adrenalin fuelled fever I pulled off the road and into a rest area.  Two couples of caravaners ate lunch, sneaking the occasional glance, pretending to ignore me.  I assessed the situation.  One of the straps holding my Ortlieb dry bag to the bike had come loose, wrapping itself around the rear axle, wedged between the wheel and sprocket hubs.  There was no way I would get this out without taking the wheel off.  I cut it back so not to further the problem and left the remainder wedged into the mechanicals.  It would have to do.  Frustrated at another setback I continued.  I’d just continue without trying to get closer to the river, Echuca wasn’t far, and with it a cold beer.

Checking into a motel I wondered why I had done this.  In the depths of my mind I knew this had been the first choice because of the long day.  Five hundred kilometres, mostly due to dead ends and detours.  I was exhausted.  I began unpacking, only to be accosted by a man in the room next to me.  He seemed too keen to get out of his room.  His wife was on the telephone.  I understood.

Evan, he introduced himself as, from Queensland, on a road trip – in a rental car.  I got the impression he was keen to have a beer and discuss travel.  I don’t think his wife was.  I went to the Star Hotel, dinner on my own.  Bed early!

Living in the past! Echuca's 'main' street is a highlight

Screeching! Squawking! Chirping! The noise was deafening.  4:30am! I was in the middle of town not the bush.  Bloody hell this was loud.  The birdlife hadn’t broken my sleep, I’d awoken naturally.  Well rested I switched on the television to watch the Socceroos take on Saudi Arabia in the latest Football World Cup qualifier.  Perhaps this had been in the back of my mind when I’d checked in.

After breakfast, I went to the port precinct of Echuca, faithfully restored to its original condition.  Unbelievably the paddle steamers were well above the dock. Usually you would have to walk down stairs and ramps, now you had to go up.  The river was high. 

Planning to leave as early as possible was put aside as I met up with Evan and his wife, Sonya.  We chatted until almost 11am.  I hoped that the chat was enough to convince them that not all cultures are bad, and in fact there’s greater good in the world than bad.

Crossing over into New South Wales, the plan to follow the river further east seemed like it might work.  I’d settled into a rhythm of riding well maintained roads through magnificent red gum forests when the track came to an abrupt halt.  A sign proclaiming that the track was closed was well in the middle of what was now a lake.  This wasn’t going to be easy.  I turned around and looked for another option.  It didn’t take long to realise that almost every way through on this side of the border was closed.  Cursing this giant flood plain I was left with little option.  I returned to Victoria.

The southern side of the border posed a similar issue.  The Murray had come up more overnight.  With the river almost a kilometre wider than its banks in places I had to return to the Murray Valley Highway.  I was now heading away from the border and desperately searched for a route that would take me north.  I turned left at Kotupna and headed back in the direction I had just come from until I reached Barmah.  The tracks were brilliant here, despite the wet conditions.   I was in a good place and enjoying the challenge, even the tracks that were closed in wet weather were a joy to ride.  Oh, you rebel I laughed at myself.  The country was delightful.  I wondered if this is what it was like before we started damming the Murray River.  Were floods a natural part of the life of the great river?

Really? Could anyone resist this?

Reaching Yarrawonga, the opportunity was there to cross the border into New South Wales.  Back on main roads now, but at least following the border as closely as possible.  The ride was fantastic, the site of water lapping at the back door of houses was not.  Many caravan parks were well under water.  It put into perspective my problems.  I felt for these people.  Losing my job wasn’t important.

The occasional glimpse of mountains appeared on the far horizon.  The landscape would soon change.  The high country.  The source of the Murray River.  The end of the river border.

The water levels around the Albury-Wodonga region were the highest I had seen so far.  It looked as if many places would soon be cut off.  I found a hotel where I could wash clothes, have a decent meal and watch the opening match of the A-League.  It’s a special time, the start of football season.  Sleep came easy.

The thick curtains hid the bright sunlight that was already warming the land.  Enthusiastically I climbed from bed.  I knew today was going to be a great ride.  I circled Wodonga, looking for the road that would take me along the Murray River, this was a chance to ride the border closer than I had at any stage during this section of the ride so far.  I knew I would be heading into the mountains and while the roads would mostly be bitumen they would be tight and twisty.  I was excited.

The Hume Weir, unofficial cause of the flooding

The first stop was the Hume Weir.  Holding more than 10 times the amount of water than Sydney Harbour, the dam had more than half of its spill gates open.  It was the source of the flooding.  I was told that this would continue for a further five weeks.  The communities downstream were in for much more water.  I spoke with an older couple from Tasmania, they’re on their annual three month ‘adventure’.  They were amazed I was riding on my own, yet wanted to know all about my adventure.  We shared a few laughs and marvelled at what each of us were doing.  It was a pleasure meeting them.

I felt a tinge of melancholy as I followed the lake, here on the shores I could’ve camped.  The beauty of the scenery was stunning.  The sun warmed my riding gear.  Any feelings of sadness soon slipped away.  I laughed at the thought that any sizable body of water in Australia is compared to Sydney harbour.  Everything is bigger.  Perhaps the harbour is little more than a puddle.

Bethanga Bridge, Bellbridge ... quite an impressive structure

Crossing the Bethanga Bridge I found myself back in Victoria.  The structure was an engineering marvel.  I guess the bridges across the Murray River all were in their own way.  Skirting the Hume Weir, I was surprised at how large the thing is, it seemed to continue as far as I dared imagine. Perhaps it is much greater than Sydney Harbour.  I laughed again.  The ride was incredulous.  I was the only person out here amongst emerald green pastures.  Cows the only creatures following my progress.  I smiled.  I waved.  I laughed.

Towong marked the place where I would again cross the border into New South Wales.  You can’t be serious? The bridge no longer existed.  Washed away.  I grunted a sigh of disappointment as I walked along a small, rough track for around 100 metres only to find that this too was washed away.  Like many times on this ride I was forced to turn around and find another way.  It truly was a metaphor for life.

Like an old friend the Murray Valley Highway was back in my life.  I felt a sense of security.  The MVH would take me where I wanted, no, needed to go.  Khancoban, I’d been here before, from the opposite direction, on a day not so perfect.  I pulled into the service station to refuel, both bike and body, I desperately felt the need for chocolate.  Paying for my purchase I was pulled into a conversation with the lady serving and a local policeman.  We had a good laugh at the officer’s expense, he took it all in good humour.  I was grateful for this interaction.  Warned about a particularly rough patch on the Alpine Way.  The road was in fact open, I’d been told otherwise, but I need to be careful.  This news had brought good fortune; it could’ve cost me an extra four hours of riding.

The Alpine Way, a great piece of road

I began the climb into the highest part of the Australian continent.  The road certainly was rough in areas, but not too challenging.  I enjoyed the perfect beauty of the land, so very different from the last time I was here.  Five years ago, it had been snowing, cold and foggy.  With extremely low light it had taken me three hours to complete just 60 kilometres.

Enjoying the ride, I pulled into an area designated for camping.  This would be the spot.  I would set camp here for the night.  Just me, a mob of kangaroos and the sight of Australia’s highest peak, Kosciuszko, through the valley.  The night brought a restless sleep.  The kangaroos were curiously moving around my tent.  It wasn’t a worry just a nuisance I was kept awake.  As day break came I crawled from the tent, the kangaroos were still there, yet now didn’t seem to care about the intruder amongst their group.  I kept my eye on one large male, who would occasionally stand and look me over.  He was protecting several females that were carrying their young.  We had a mistrusting respect of each other.

Who couldn't resist waking to a view like this?

I slipped out of camp and was immediately startled by the honk of a horn.  A sudden burst of adrenalin made me feel ill, had I just pulled out in front of someone?  I pulled to the side of the road and looked around.  A Triumph Tiger was creeping towards me. 

“Hey, are you here for the rally,” the rider asked me.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  Explaining he was from Geelong and here for some sort of rally, he didn’t explain what the rally was even though he loved to chat.  Telling him I was headed east he decided to return to where he had come from.  We parted company.  I rode on.

Snow was now lining the side of the road, not a lot, just patches.  Then of all things, two emus were suddenly in the middle of the road.  They scattered as I got closer.  I laughed to myself, this ride had now had everything.  What the hell were emus doing at this altitude?

I made my way to Jindabyne to have it confirmed that the Barry Way, the main track over into Victoria, was closed due to a landslide.  Again, detours!  I rode on to Bombala, the motorcycle friendly town. 

I had been to Bombala numerous times, yet I was forced to take a route I had never been on before.  The Snowy River Way.  I was stunned to find that the northern side of the Great Dividing Range was not only treeless, but also dry, very dry.  The landscape on the high plains was barren.  The ride was amazing.  I was soon in Bombala and at the end of the Murray River section of the lap of Victoria.  Tomorrow I would head towards the coast.  A route very rarely taken …