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 …

Whisky, Art, and Wet Farts - Tasmania part 4

"Oh bugger!" I groaned. Clenching, I rushed from bed to just make the bathroom. An explosion echoed through the room. What the hell had caused this? Was anyone else unwell? Back in bed, the cramps twisted my body.

I lay there, looking across to the side table. Street lights refracting through a myriad of spirit bottles. The mere thought of whisky triggered something. "Here we go again," I thought. This time the explosion was vomit. Exhausted! This had been going on for hours. I knew I couldn’t do the planned ferry ride to the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA). I hoped that it would pass and I could join in later in the morning.

As late morning arrived my tormented innards had started to settle. Walking from the hotel to the ferry berth I was confident that I would survive without incident. The weather was wet, cool, yet not cold. It was refreshing and seemed to help. I couldn’t eat, didn’t even want to trust water.

Carpark at MONA, says a lot about the man who created it!

Aboard the MONA ferry, adorned in outlandish décor I felt warm and secure. I shared the ‘Passion Pit’ area at the front of the boat with just another couple. This was ideal considering the circumstances. The crew had been warned about my late arrival and the condition I might be in. They seemed worried when I decided to order an antipasto platter and latte. Rich foods and dairy, I was certainly living life on the edge, pushing all boundaries.

Feeling queasy, a sensation fizzed in my rectum. Shit! It was here again. I hung on, taking in the view through the misty rain, trying to avoid thoughts of illness. It worked. The sensation passed. We reached MONA and departed, whatever had brought on the illness seemed to be gone.

Some of the art at MONA was to my liking

MONA is a bloody odd place. As the name suggests it is filled with Old and New art. I won’t pass judgement. It’s certainly interesting, some great, some not so. The building is brilliant and the concept unique. Wandering around for hours, I couldn’t help but think we the patrons were also part of the art installation? One exhibit, which I must say wasn’t great at all, had a queue that took 40 minutes to get through … no doubt, we were the art.

It was an interesting day and I’m certainly glad I went to MONA. There’s no doubt it has done amazing things for tourism in Tasmania and especially Hobart but I honestly can’t see myself returning. The ferry trip back to the Hobart foreshore was impressive, now feeling much better I was able to take it all in and see just what an amazing little city it is.

Departing the boat we headed straight for the Lark Distillery. Located in the main area of the town it was a popular place. This could have something to do with the wall of whisky, literally hundreds of whiskies from all over the world and all available for tasting. We took on the task of consuming a few, had dinner then decided on an early night. Tomorrow we would head up, and north.

Damp and humid was the morning that greeted us. It was market day and we were early to Salamanca Place. Enjoying breakfast, we marvelled at how big this market is. Little wonder it was regarded as one of the best in Australia. Fresh produce, unique crafts, and almost every strange item you could think of. A joy for the senses it took us considerable time to walk the length and return of the market. Amazingly, in all the places, I stumbled across Sarah, a friend from Frontier Touring (The Mushroom Group) a long time sponsor of my Long Rides. I know Tasmania is a small place but seriously, Sarah is from the mainland.

We needed to get going, Mount Wellington was the next point of interest. At just under 1,300 metres it is no giant of a mountain yet surprisingly it is one of the tallest in Australia. It is often covered with snow, even in summer. We weren’t so lucky on this day however, the temperature plummeted, rain drizzled, and soon the road to the summit became icy. The 22km ride to the peak was treacherous; visibility was down to just a few metres. We braved the cold and wet to continue on, no doubt wishing we hadn’t taken on this challenge.

Mount Wellington’s summit promised magnificent views, it didn’t deliver. The entire peak was shrouded in mist. The temperature was now below zero (Celsius). Disappointed, not surprised, we turned around and made the decent. At the bottom I realised while Mount Wellington is high, by mainland standards, it is only the 49^th tallest on the island state – I’d need to get back and see some of the others. It is an indication to how flat the mainland of Australia is, the flattest continent on Earth.

The last day in Tasmania. We had to make it to Devonport before nightfall. Just 350km, it shouldn’t be a problem, there was a lot to take in. We headed in roughly a north easterly direction. Seventy kilometres of low, flat farmland to the town of Melton Mowbray. Turning from the main road the first thing you notice is that the town is disappearing, becoming a ghost town. The large hotel being the first victim. Such a pity, it’s a beautiful old building. We couldn’t stay too long.

Thirty kilometres further on we were looking for what is regarded as one of the state’s best distilleries. Just outside the town of Bothwell, amongst green pastures and flowing creeks, is Nant Estate. Approaching from a long dirt track you are greeted by a scene straight from the 1800’s English countryside. Not surprising. The original buildings were constructed in 1821. Convict labour constructed the flour mill (no longer for flour), which is still used to this day and is in the process of the meticulous restoration.

Nant Distillery ... one of Tasmania's highlights

In 2008 Nant began producing whisky and were quickly regarded as one of the finest, so much so that just 4 years later their American Oak Whisky was scored 95.5 out of 100, instantly giving it a worldwide status of a superior product. It still remains one of the top 50 whiskies in the world. I couldn’t resist the tour and tasting. Expecting just the tiniest of samples I thought I’d be ok to continue riding. I was shocked (pleasantly) when I realised the samples were a full 30ml nip. The full gamut of the Nant range warmed from the inside out. I didn’t want to leave this place. Could we please stay?

We had to press on. We were crossing the central high country and a somewhat unknown route. The road was the A5, a main road yet many had told us it could be rough and dangerous in places. It sounded like a perfect challenge.

Reaching the town of Miena, we were greeted with the site of the bitumen A5 becoming a gravel road. It looked to be in great condition, in fact it was, all the way through to Doctors Point. We were able to cruise along at a reasonable speed; for the most part 100kph was easily achieved. I couldn’t work out why this 30km section of a main road was in fact dirt. Skirting the western side of the Great Lake and at an average altitude of around 1100

The central plains, one of Tasmania's magical places

metres perhaps had something to do with it. It was evident from the landscape that this area, in winter, would be under snow. Perhaps the conditions meant it was often damaged by the weather. I didn’t mind. It was great to be on gravel again.

The environment was impressive in a very strange way. Small, scrubby trees were abundant. The land almost had the appearance of some of the higher altitude semi desert areas of South America. I regretted not spending more time exploring this region of Tasmania. I will be back.

Continuing on, we skirted the eastern regions of the Great Western Tiers. Massive gum trees grew in the ancient forests. It was spectacular with amazing scenery. The temptation to pull over on every twist of the road was just too much and in some places quite a challenge. A lifetime could be spent just looking at the one scene, here there were too many to take in at once.

Reaching a highest altitude of almost the 1300 metres, the road soon plummeted down in an ever tightening spiral of turns and twists. It was a dream to ride. Very different to most roads on the mainland. I can’t recall how many times I ran wide in bends, stunned by the beauty of the land around me. Massive trees, huge waterfalls spewing the very essence of life from cliff tops. Surely this wasn’t really Australia.

The trees thinned and the road straightened. Damn! It was all over. I was very tempted to turn around and take on the opposite route. This too would have to wait for next time. We soon reached the town of Deloraine, the point where we would turn left and head directly west, following the Gog Range until a suitable gap could be found, the aptly named Paradise Road. The gap took us back through forests with a small incline, this then opened to the most spectacular view of a waterfall. It seemed to be coming from within the side of the mountain, cascading well below and out of sight … another area that would need to be revisited. Paradise was just a little further up the road. I could see why it was named.

Every closer to Devonport, the towns were taking on more of a northern English / Scottish appeal, with names such as Aberdeen, Forthside, and Sheffield we could’ve been looking at a British map. I guess it was the early settler’s way of keeping a little piece of the home country with them. I had to stop at my birthplaces namesake and have the obligatory photo. Looking at the map I did realise I would need to come back to this area too and have a greater explore. Who could not check out places like; Mole Creek, Promised Land and my favourite, Nowhere Else!

Devonport was the destination, we arrived just on nightfall. No Vacancy signs dominated the streets. It was looking dire, the ferry was leaving at 6am, we didn’t want to sleep in tents. It looked like we would have to, I was resigned with having to pitch the tent on someone’s grass verge to be ready for the ferry first thing in the morning.

Playing innocent we entered the Edgewater Hotel and tried for a room. Laughed at, we put on our best despondent faces and stood around, discussing the possibility of sleeping rough. It worked, the lady on reception quickly started checking a few things, made a phone call and then told us we could have a room that the Spirit of Tasmania crew usually use although, it would be very small. It was perfect.

Outward appearances make the Edgewater look 1960’s Norman Bates. It’s far from, with very clean, modern rooms. The restaurant offers great food and drinks. We ate, we drank, we went to bed early. Our Tasmania adventure was sadly over. It had wetted our appetite, we would be back …

The view of Port Phillip Heads from the Spirit of Tasmania

A postscript to the four part Tasmania adventure is that to get your bike there from the mainland the easiest and most direct way is by the Spirit of Tasmania service. I’d recommend spending a little more and taking the overnight passage (either direction) with a sleeper cabin. It takes between 8 and 10 hours so allows for decent overnight rest and then an early start to exploring. Prices are dependent on the season.

Stunning Beauty, In A Brutal Past - Tasmania part 3

Morning dawned resplendent. The sun rose above the ocean drying the remnants of last night’s rain. The view from the room in the Blue Waters Motel was stunning. I’d like to have spent more time exploring Orford.

 

Blue Waters Motel ... brilliant views

Ignoring warnings that this was only for the most adventurous 4x4 enthusiasts we ventured into the Three Thumbs State Reserve. Smooth and wide, there was no way this was a track just suited to 4x4 vehicles. This has become a theme across Australia, people buy ‘softroaders’ and then think that a well maintained country road is something to only be tackled by the most extreme of vehicles. We laughed about it and continued on.
 

The bushland within the forest was inspiring, the higher we climbed the more beautiful it became however, like most things in Tasmania the distance wasn’t great and we soon found ourselves on the other side and into farm land. This too had its appeal. We came off the dirt and were soon joining onto the Arthur Highway, one of Tasmania’s main roads. It was an opportunity to refuel, albeit at a service station that was 100% self-serve – you put your card into the bowser, fill your bike, then remove the card. It all seemed a little too much like the future.
 

The Arthur Highway (A9) took us south, through rolling green hills until we reached a small town called Dunalley, stealing a chance to get something to eat at the local bakery. We were surrounded by the unique view of the swing bridge that allows traffic across a hand built canal, providing a passage for boats to move between two bays. It was here that we were struck by the realisation that this was one of the towns ravaged by the January 2013 bushfires. Sixty five buildings in the town had been destroyed, considerable when you consider the population is only 300. It was a stark realisation just how severe the Australian landscape can be.
 

The bridge and canal at Dunalley are an engineering marvel; it certainly made scoffing a huge wagon wheel worthwhile. We crossed the isthmus that connects the Forestier and Tasman peninsulas from the rest of Tasmania and headed towards one of the world’s most unique modern historical sites. It came not before a visit to a very unique natural site – the Tessellated Pavement at Eagle Hawk Neck.
 

Looking from the bikes we could see the rugged and spectacular coastline. Looking over the steep cliff we saw the amazing site of the ‘pavement’. Appearing almost manmade the relatively flat rock surface is broken (or seems to be) into smaller rectangular shapes, all created by the forces of nature. The perfect geometry of the surface was stunning. I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder on the way back to the bikes to make sure that it was real.
 

Tessellated Pavement, a wonder of nature

A horrified realisation struck me halfway up the path. A group of international tourists were prodding sticks into a hole about the size of a football. Closer inspection revealed they were literally trying to beat an echidna from its burrow. Appalled I was about to step in when they realised that I was watching and abruptly stopped. They walked down the path muttering something; I watched to ensure they were well away. I could no longer see the creature, I hoped it had got away safely.
 

The Arthur Highway took us into Port Arthur and our accommodation for the night, Stewarts Bay Lodge. Nestled in amongst the natural beauty of Stewarts Bay and surrounding bushland it seemed like a perfect place to base ourselves to explore the history and tyranny of what is now a UNESCO World Heritage site – the Port Arthur Historical Sites.
 

The site is often referred to as the Port Arthur Convict Settlement, and while this is partly true, the history of the area is much more than that. Originally founded in 1830 as a timber camp its importance quickly grew as the authorities realised how it could benefit the penal colonies. During the 1840’s industry was quickly added to the area, with a convict population of over 1100 being reached.

Port Arthur ... its beauty hides the brutal past

 

Buildings were constructed and the area started to resemble a town of sorts. 1848 saw a separate prison begin construction and it was at this time that the form of punishment went from physical to mental, a much crueller form of torture.

 

Now well established, the population were mostly men who had been transported from other settlements around the colonies, one in five were women, and many were children who had been transported with their parents – by this very nature they would never see freedom.

Although a profitable settlement by the 1860’s many of the convicts were now old and sick, a decline in productivity occurred to the point where the authorities were forced to sell to private enterprise. Upon until this point in 1877, the area was a hive of industrial activity.

 

Logging was the main concern while numerous satellite industries supported the whole complex. More than 50 large size ships were built in Port Arthur. The last convict was moved from the area in 1877, at its peak the whole complex housed 3500 convicts at once. Conditions at Port Arthur were considered some of the toughest in the whole of the British penal system, it was said that if you were sent to Port Arthur you were considered the worst of the worst. Often these convicts were just trying to survive.
 

Nightfall brings a ghostly feel to Port Arthur

The 1890’s saw the area become a ‘free’ settlement and the population tried to make it as homely as possible. Struggling to survive the locals realised that they could eek a living by relying on tourism. Many people came to the area to see what a real penal settlement looked like. This continued in one form or another until the 1970’s when the authorities tried to interpret the history and occurrences of the site. To preserve the integrity of the area, all working (and lived in) facets were removed, essentially it became a mid-1800’s site again. Archaeological work revealed a number of other key sites including the Point Puer boys prison and the Island of the Dead ‘cemetery’. 
 

In 2010, the whole area was awarded World Heritage Listing and with it came hordes of tourists. Yes, there is a need for tourists to maintain and preserve a site such as Port Arthur however, when there’s a large cruise ship anchored just off shore it ruins a little of the mystique. The bellowing, obnoxious demands of swathes of people not interested in the significance of the area but rather just to say they have been there is appalling. Like swarming ants they scurried from one building to the next, snapping a photo, then onto the next building. I was just about to give in when the heavens opened, the rain fell heavily and washed the tourist aspect away. They ran for their buses and tender boats and soon the area was almost void of all life, a cleansing of sorts. It was cold, wet and miserable – the Port Arthur Penal Colony began to shine through. This is what life must’ve been like for most living here … bloody miserable!
 

Island of the Dead ... seemed fitting that a cruise ship was
close by.

Rain continued until nightfall, perfect timing as the ghost tour began. Yes, this was 100% tourist but I’m a sucker for a good ghost tour and it’s the perfect way to learn a lot about the real people of an area without the history book fluff. The tour came with a dinner, a nice touch. The tour took us into areas we hadn’t been during the day adding to the mystic, it made one realise just how tough and cruel a place Port Arthur really was. At the end of it all a lady working the administration reception offered to drive us to our accommodation. A lovely gesture. Only small but again demonstrating the kindness of strangers.

I fell asleep immediately. There were no visitors in the night, not real or in my dreams.

Morning dawned to the most magnificent blue skies and a warmth that would quickly dry the rain of the day before. It bode well. We quickly ate breakfast, the plan being to take in a few sights before we headed to the Tasmanian capital city of Hobart. Packing the bikes I was greeted by a man from Victoria. We chatted about Tasmania and bikes. He was a casual rider and seemed quite envious of what we were all up to. We discussed the merits of different bikes, he quickly realised I currently or previously had owned many and varied machines and not surprisingly he agreed that the BMW F800GS is one of the best all round travelling machines. We parted company, I continued packing.

The morning’s destination was Lime Bay State Reserve on the western side of Norfolk Bay. I was determined to see more ruins. The coal mine historic site.

The Coal Mine Convict Settlement ruins, more impressive
than Port Arthur.

Like the larger Port Arthur this site is entrenched in a brutal past. At any one time up to 600 convicts were housed here. If the ‘worst’ in the colonies were sent to Port Arthur then the worst of those were sent to the coal mines. The year 1833 saw coal discovered in the area and by 1839 the first mine in Tasmania was opened here. Buildings had already been built for the 150 prisoners and 29 officers. In many ways it became a fully operational town with a bakery, chapel, surgery and quarters for all of the men living there.

The prisoner’s cells were constructed underground. They were extremely dark and damp. As a further way of punishment those breaking the rules were sentenced to cells even further underground. It must’ve been bloody awful, like Port Arthur the mental punishment being the worst. The prison mine reached its peak in 1847 when 25 tonnes of coal were being extracted each day by two shifts of eight hours. Amazingly, just a year later the prison was closed due to ‘moral and financial’ reasons.

Today the area is protected for its rich contribution to Tasmanian and Australian historic, scientific, aesthetic, and social values. For me, these ruins are much more impressive than those at Port Arthur, and away from the tourist masses you get a much greater appreciation of the impact that convict (slave) labour had on early European Australian history. 

Riding the road to the Lime Bay coal mines I had noticed a sign for a distillery, William McHenry & Sons. A detour had to be made on the way back, after all whisky is one of the things Tasmania is famous for. We found the turn off and took to the dirt. It soon turned into a small one lane track, winding its way through tall gum trees. I couldn’t help think that perhaps we had stumbled across a moonshiner’s camp, it added to the mystic.

Wiliam McHenry Distillery, a great place to make whisky ...
and gin.

Pulling up at two large sheds the place seemed deserted. Was it closed? We stood and looked, it seemed odd, a little disconcerting.

"Hey," boomed a voiced. We turned and saw a man walking from the closest shed. "Are you guys lost?"

Perhaps we weren’t supposed to be here. I’m sure the sign on the main road had said ‘open’.

"Ah, sorry," I exclaimed. "We saw an open sign down on the road, I couldn’t give up the chance for a whisky."
 

"Good man," the man beamed. "Come this way, my name’s John." We introduced ourselves and soon discovered that the distillery wasn’t currently in the process of producing whisky. They only had gin. It wasn’t a disaster, I’ve been known to enjoy a gin or three.

We were taken through the whole gamut of products. It taste like gin I had never experienced before, each one different to the last and yet all completely satisfying. When asked what made this gin so good I was told to get on my bike and follow John up one of the steepest tracks I have ever been on. We wound our way to the top of a mountain. As soon as I was off the bike I was directed to a path in amongst the ferns and there it was, a spring bubbling the clearest of water from well within the mountain. Enriched with minerals from deep within the mountain I was enjoying the purest, sweetest water I had ever had. I felt I had reached spiritual enlightenment by a sacred elixir.

We left the mountain, bikes loaded with the finest gin and continued on to Hobart, vowing to return and sample the whisky and take in one of the workshops.

Richmond bridge ... the oldest used bridge in Australia

Following the waters of Frederick Henry Bay we soon found ourselves in the town of Richmond. Instantly we were transported back to the 1800’s. The buildings, the streets, the atmosphere was all ‘old world’. It was delightful. Famous for the stone arch bridge that more or less sits in the centre of town and is the oldest bridge still in use in Australia. I marvelled at the engineering that keeps such an old and simple construction upright under modern loads. We enjoyed a simple lunch of fresh oysters from a roadside vendor with a German couple we’d befriended the previous day. They were on their way to Melbourne and Victoria, we gave them our details. Sadly, we never heard from them again.
 

Our last stop before reaching our destination for the day was Sullivan’s Cove Distillery on the outskirts of Hobart. It was perfect timing as the rains had returned and this time seemed set for the day. Sullivan’s Cove, if you enjoy a whisky, is well worth a visit, despite being set in an industrial estate however, be prepared to spend money, lots of money.
 

Surprisingly, you are given three options of how much you want to spend just for a tasting. This turned me off a little, as it did a small group that had followed us in. They immediately turned around and when elsewhere. I remained, enjoyed a few sips then left with an expensive bottle of Single Cask Whisky. I hate being ripped off and tried to convince myself that it was a small batch and something to be savoured. It was worth it, it was worth it …