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 …

Victorian Border: A Lap of Self Discovery (part 1)

A lap of Victoria, so what?  It’s only around 5000 kilometres but that is in fact the size of the entire United Kingdom and larger than most of states of the USA.  Given the weather conditions at the time it became a journey of discovery, physically and metaphorically, a discovery of untraveled roads and personal fears.

The lap started in Melbourne and finished at the same place, right in the middle of the coast line, for that reason, in this four-part article, I’ll leave that until last.  The greatest discoveries were made in areas unexplored.

I’d slept restlessly, waking at 2am to take a pee.  The wind had settled, yet a chill had settled throughout the Nelson Hotel.  Green paint flaking from the concrete walkway back to my room felt lonely, sad.  Nelson seemed to be captured in this walkway, the town felt alone, unloved.  I drifted back to sleep, dreaming that the weather had improved.  I saw stars in the slit between the blinds protecting me from the outside world.

The machine gun rattle of rain on the tin roof snapped me into consciousness.  It’s 7am, the weather has returned to the way I’d left it the previous day.  I’m going to get wet again.  I can’t see this changing.  No point complaining, it won’t alter anything, I have to push on or wait.  I choose the former.

Nelson, the most western town along Victoria’s coastline is the turning point, I’ll turn right and head north.  There’s a road, or more to the point, a track that follows almost the entire length of the border between Victoria and the neighbouring state of South Australia. Sounds like a great plan.

Following Border Road, I soon reach the township of Donovan’s Landing.  The Glenelg River plays host to a number of boats and sheds associated with them.  It’s something from an 18^th century landscape.  Beautiful.  It hides a danger.  Kangaroos and wallabies, thousands of them.  The Kangaroos play Russian roulette with the bike, trying to jump across in front of me, the wallabies a little smarter and more agile leap away.  I need to keep the speed down and be watchful.

I need to make a detour, head towards the South Australian town of Mount Gambier, no other reason than to check my phone, I’ll get coverage there.  The first taste of dirt track appears, apprehension sets in, I’m worried.  Didn’t need to be, it’s in good condition despite the recent weather.

Mount Gambier is typically South Australia, beautiful old sandstone buildings, strong looking, beautiful design, there’s an underlying industrial feel to everything. I get a coffee, check my phone and take care of my business … not work, that ended four days earlier.  Redundant, that’s what I’d been told.  It made sense purely from a cost perspective, not from the point of view of long term planning.  I was no longer angry.  Now confused and disheartened.  How could such a large business have such short term vision?  Perhaps this is why I was disgruntled with Computershare before the decision was even made.

Mount Gambier's Blue Lake, the blue is natural and not just a reflection

Completing a circuit of Mount Gambier’s famous Blue Lake, I was impressed.  The blue is quite vivid.  The whole scene is something from Jurassic Park, prehistoric and powerful.  Apparently this was an active volcano just 4000 years ago.  It seemed logical.

Back on the road, the Border Road and heading north.  Giant pines line either side of the road.  Forestry is the prime business around here, it’s an impressive site, a necessary evil.  The weather is starting to get annoying.  Strong winds are making the riding tiring; rain is making it very cold.  Why am I doing this?  It would be much easier to turn around and head home.  Flooding is a serious problem across this region.  Heavy rains have turned the flat, low laying land into a giant inland sea, cows are the only indication that there’s land under the water. I’m forced to detour.

The Coonawarra region offers very little respite from the weather, in many ways it’s worse, there’s no shelter offered by the trees.  This is wine country, one of Australia’s best, grape vines are the only vegetation, they won’t stop the wind.  I’m forced to rest in Naracoorte.  It’s a chance to have lunch, I chose a café called Sweet Espresso.  Both coffee and food are good, very good.  I’m sated and warm, ready to move on.

Riding north I laugh about the conversation with an elderly man I’d had before leaving Naracoorte.  He had been admiring my bike from afar, the stickers on the paniers giving away I was a traveller.  He’d told me about his ‘crazy’ son who does Iron Butt rides.  We’d laughed.  He’d wished me safe travels.

I now rode towards Bordertown, a town I had visited many times, it’s on the main road to Adelaide, the capital of South Australia.  I was scared, terrified.  The weather had become worse.  Strong winds had become gale force.  Trees were being felled all around me.  Dark rain cells would drift across the land, I could see them coming and had no choice but to hope for the best.  With them the temperature would drop dramatically, a clear sign things were about to change.  The wind would pick up, the rain or even hail would fall.  I’d had a few close calls with the wind almost blowing me from the road. 

Shaking, I pulled over in Bordertown and climbed from my bike.  I needed to use the bathroom.  Was this genuine or nerves?  I didn’t care, I just needed to feel solid ground under my feet.

Speaking to a man from ‘down the road’ he told me about the damage the weather had caused and what it would mean to local farmers.  I felt some guilt, I seemed to care more about the poor sheep and cows in the paddocks, huddled together for protection.  The cows were always curious when I passed by.  I enjoyed this.  He’d mentioned to me that a tornado had been reported in McLaren Vale.  I knew this was not near me, but had no doubt that there was possibly one in a cloud burst I’d experience.

No sooner had I finished chatting to the man that a lady approached me.

“You look like a long distance traveller, if ever I’ve seen one,” she beamed.

“I guess so,” I replied, taking the opportunity to postpone getting back on the bike.  She enthusiastically told me about her son.  He owns a few Vincent’s and an old BMW.  I marvelled at how it always seems to be the older people who appreciate what it means to travel by bike.  Perhaps they have experienced something similar, before modern technology made things easier.

Leaving Bordertown, I noticed that the land changed and so did the weather.  The land was no longer large treed bush, rather the low laying woody scrub of the Mallee.  Along these roads I even saw a feral pig, eating roadkill I was saddened at the destruction these creatures cause.

There was no chance I could pick up the border track now, it was closed even to 4wd vehicles.  I had no option but to continue on to the closest town to the border that I could find, it would be the stop for the night.  I pulled into town, surprised to see so many people in Pinnaroo I enquired at the motel, to be told that it was the 100^th anniversary of the Pinnaroo Agricultural Show.  I was lucky to get a room.  The room was nice, the shower was exquisite, it felt heavenly.

After 431km and 8.5 hours on the road I was exhausted, more emotionally than anything else.  The weather had been a real challenge, I’d struggled.  I ate at the Golden Grain Hotel, perfectly cooked steak.  I thought about my gear, everything had worked extremely well, the Triumph branded pants perhaps they only let down, not 100% waterproof.

Sleep came easy as I thought about required changes to the route, perhaps this was a metaphor for life, we need to often change route to cope with barriers placed in our path.  The shortest way is often not always the quickest …

Pinnaroo, very proud of it's history, especially agricultural

Morning in Pinnaroo dawned beautiful, sunny and warm.  I packed the bike and headed for the local bakery for breakfast, I was keen to find out more about this town of just 500 people.  I waited for the Mallee Heritage and Tourist Centre to open, enjoying a coffee in the sun.  A BMW R1150RT rode past, I caught the riders eye, we nodded a greeting to each other.  The rider pulled in and dismounted.  He introduced himself as Jeff, we chatted for an hour or so, I learned that he was on a day ride from Adelaide.  Jeff suggested I was crazy for taking on some of this area after the recent rains.  Perhaps he was right.

 

We parted as the heritage centred opened.  I was immediately made welcome by a group of older present and former residents of the town, all keen to proudly show me the history of Pinnaroo and the Mallee region.  Their enthusiasm was refreshing, I was glad I’d made the effort, they seemed to appreciate that someone was genuinely interested in their history.

Heading north on Browns Well Road I soon came to the dirt, it’s remote out here and the nervous butterflies started to flutter, I felt anxiety starting to boil in the pit of my stomach, almost certain there would be sand and possibly bulldust on these tracks.  I remembered the question, is the “risk worth the reward?”, in this instance I told myself it was.

I ventured on and after an hour or so, the road was surprisingly very good, my confidence on dirt was coming back in leaps and bounds but all the time at the back of my mind was the adage of not becoming over confident, that had almost cost me my life not that long ago.  I reached Peebinga, now just a region, the former town now well and truly in ruins with little more than ghost inhabiting the area of the former railway terminus.

As if spooked by the prospect of a ghost town my TomTom GPS became lost, telling there were streets that no longer existed or others that were not listed when in fact they did exist.  I became anxious, which way was I supposed to go?  My maps too weren’t detailed enough to show the direction I needed.  I found what I thought was the right way and headed off, the road conditions very good, the riding was great, the land so green, blue tongued lizards strolled from one side of the road to the other.  I thought how cruel nature could be, these little creatures just starting to warm in the sun after a winter enforced sleep, desperately trying to cross roads with their dumpy little legs carrying fat, round bodies, they were almost destined to fail.  I admired their determination.

Meribah, another ghost town soon appeared and yet again the GPS was lost, bugger, so was I to a lesser extent.  I continued on and soon found Browns Well Road.  Damn! This is not where I wanted to be, cursing, I did see the positive in it and realised I would be able to save some time. 

 

Passing through the Berri-Renmark area I came to be aware of just how big this part of Australia is, rich land from the meandering Murray River supports thousands of citrus orchards, it no longer felt like remote country, I needed to find a greater challenge and headed further north towards the very top of the border between South Australia and Victoria.  Reaching the top, I felt an overwhelming sense of deja vu, I had no doubt that I had taken this road some time before, the ruins on the right felt familiar, the carpark for the houseboats even seemed to have been a part of my past.  I have never been here before. 

This feeling felt as strange as that of the border dispute between the two states which, lasted for most of the 1800’s and into the early 1900’s.  Early surveyors had got the placement of the border hopelessly wrong, to the point that Victoria was extended westward much to the consternation of

Border Fence Road ... very tough in places, very rewarding

the South Australian government.  I was given the impression by the people of Pinnaroo that this dispute is still very much alive.  As I began riding south I saw firsthand that perhaps this is still the case.

Border Fence Road, little more than a rough track, sits in a weird sort of no man’s land, fenced on either side between Victoria and South Australia.  The track is obviously used but seemed that neither state takes responsibility for it, this would be a challenge, one I was looking forward to.  The rains had made the track very muddy in places, to the point of getting the bike bogged a number of times.  Where the mud had dried it had turned to holes full of bulldust, please give me mud any day I thought.  I was now starting to shit myself, if I came off out here it could be a while before I was found.  I pressed on, albeit at a very slow pace, eventually I came to a gate, I’d reached the end.  Mentally exhausted I rode through the gate, smiling at myself, I’d completed the toughest track since my accident.  I’d proven to the only person that it mattered too that I could still ride track s like this.  I thought to myself, “Never say you can’t”.

I now had to head in a north easterly direction to meet up with the Victorian border with New South Wales, the Murray River and soon found that this was a futile effort, the river was in flood and the road was blocked.  I return to the Border Fence Road to continue south and found that this too was flooded, I had no option, I had to head back into South Australia and loop around on main roads, it was a bitter disappointment.

Riding east along the Sturt Highway towards Mildura, I marvelled at how the past two days riding had been challenging, a number of dead ends and detours had forced me to reassess the situation and find alternatives, it seemed that this was poetically following life.  Had I been shafted by the conditions?  I don’t think so.  I certainly never went the way I’d intended, yet I had found alternatives and made new discoveries.  Had I been shafted by my former employee, Computershare, whom I had been loyal to for ten years?

That night, I lay in bed thinking about how Mildura has a great smell at this time of the year, sweat, aromatic, perfumed … yes, I was itchy and sneezing … I smiled and drifted off …