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 …