Yesterday was a short trip from Katherine to Darwin. Sadly I'd woken up that morning with a runny nose and a sore throat so it was a miserable ride as far as I was concerned. Darwin has a miniature CBD with cafes and shops that I would probably appreciate more if I wasn't sneezing. As it stands I currently hate the world and everything in it - a natural reaction to being sick I suppose - so I had crawled into my sweltering tent before sunset to get some sleep.
This is about the time when I learn that Darwin's 24-hour international airport is directly opposite the camp site. Planes are taking off and landing well past midnight and the noise is deafening. As if that wasn't bad enough the Germans in the nearby tent cope with the impossibility of sleeping by partying all night. The music is bad enough but do they have to sing along? I gleefully imagine one of the jumbos crashlanding on the Germans, which would solve two immediate problems. Unfortunately that doesn't happen so I'm forced to endure euro pop and roaring jets, until ...
... the sun rises. It's morning already and I haven't slept a wink. Dave and I agree that this sucks - Darwin might be alright but the campsite is crap - so we move the schedule forward a day. We're going to Litchfield National Park.
It's a brief ride to the park but what a difference! The flora has a tropical appearance and the smells are clean and refreshing, even through my blocked sinuses. Darwin was stinking hot yet it's pleasantly warm at the park. Best of all.... it's so quiet. The campsite is spectacular; lush green grounds, great facilities, and a licensed bar!
I drink several bottles of full strength medication to help get to sleep. I'm taking no chances tonight!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Crocodile Rock
My draw card for Katherine is the nearby Nitmiluk National Park. The park has some impressive gorges and hiking trails. Hiking sounds like too much effort so I've booked for the riverboat tour.
It's another obnoxiously early start so I'm surprised to see at least 100 people at the park's boat ramp. Half of them hire kayaks - that's madness; the water is ice cold and full of freshwater crocodiles - while the other half have some common sense. The sensible half are herded onto feeding platforms for crocodiles aka aluminium riverboats.
Our tour guide is a confident and charismatic local called Russel. He shows us the aboriginal rock art, local wildlife, river flora, rock formations, and makes the tour interesting with stories and jokes. Some of the jokes seem a little too well polished; I suspect he's done this tour more than once or twice.
There are five gorges on my tour and the boat cannot pass the shallow water between them in the dry season. At the end of each gorge we leave the boat and go "rock hopping" to another boat in the next gorge. The first two hoppings are easy but the difficulty increases as we move further into the park. Some of the older tourists are having trouble. I think it's fun, especially when rocks slip out from under my feet. Our guide warns that injuries do occur from time to time. But I've got air ambulance cover and an injury means another helicopter ride. That would be awesome!
Along the way our guide has been pointing out freshwater crocodiles swimming near the boat or sunbaking on the rocks. I'm terrified of crocs - they're carnivorous beartraps with legs - so I'm gobsmacked when at the fifth gorge he tells us we can go swimming. He assures us the crocs are more frightened of us than we are of them. Bullshit. I stay back on the shore, my limbs safe from evil eyed predators.
After a barbecue lunch we head back the way we came. A combination of the heat and the lunch makes the return trip more exhausting. I'm delighted to reach the final boat and enjoy the relaxing cruise back to the park's boat ramp. This was without doubt the best tour I've been on for this trip.
It's another obnoxiously early start so I'm surprised to see at least 100 people at the park's boat ramp. Half of them hire kayaks - that's madness; the water is ice cold and full of freshwater crocodiles - while the other half have some common sense. The sensible half are herded onto feeding platforms for crocodiles aka aluminium riverboats.
Our tour guide is a confident and charismatic local called Russel. He shows us the aboriginal rock art, local wildlife, river flora, rock formations, and makes the tour interesting with stories and jokes. Some of the jokes seem a little too well polished; I suspect he's done this tour more than once or twice.
There are five gorges on my tour and the boat cannot pass the shallow water between them in the dry season. At the end of each gorge we leave the boat and go "rock hopping" to another boat in the next gorge. The first two hoppings are easy but the difficulty increases as we move further into the park. Some of the older tourists are having trouble. I think it's fun, especially when rocks slip out from under my feet. Our guide warns that injuries do occur from time to time. But I've got air ambulance cover and an injury means another helicopter ride. That would be awesome!
Along the way our guide has been pointing out freshwater crocodiles swimming near the boat or sunbaking on the rocks. I'm terrified of crocs - they're carnivorous beartraps with legs - so I'm gobsmacked when at the fifth gorge he tells us we can go swimming. He assures us the crocs are more frightened of us than we are of them. Bullshit. I stay back on the shore, my limbs safe from evil eyed predators.
After a barbecue lunch we head back the way we came. A combination of the heat and the lunch makes the return trip more exhausting. I'm delighted to reach the final boat and enjoy the relaxing cruise back to the park's boat ramp. This was without doubt the best tour I've been on for this trip.
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Early Bird
There's one last thing to do before leaving Kununurra; I've booked a scenic flight over the Bungle Bungle Ranges. The flight is scheduled for 6am which is an obnoxiously early time to be awake. It's still pitch black when I stagger, bleary eyed, onto the courtesy bus.
The airplane is a Cessna Caravan and it's an ugly looking thing; it looks like a minibus with wings. The pilot offers the copilot seat to one lucky passenger. Dave and I both shoot our hands up... but I was that much quicker. Whee. Banks and banks of humming machinery. I've never seen so many knobs. I resist the urge to play with them.
The flight takes us over Lake Argyle and the view is all the more impressive because I can now see the shoreline in all directions. Flying at over 300kph it takes about an hour to get across the lake to our destination; the Bungle Bungle.
The Bungle Bungle stand between the featureless desert of the interior and the rugged ranges to the north. Millions of years of erosion have shaped the ranges into beehive like domes. Bacteria has eaten the rocks to create horizontal stripes of alternating colours. Deep gorges cleave through the landscape and separate the beehive domes into tiny clusters. The odd scenery looks like an alien world. I can almost imagine the domes are homes for the aliens.
The plane flies back to Kununurra and there's no reason to stick around, so we waste no time racing to Katherine. We cross the Northern Territory border at noon then the speed limit increases to 130kph. The roads seem ill suited for the higher speeds; they're narrow and very rough. However I'm dripping sweat inside my gear and I can't wait to finish this section. I belt along the road as fast as I can.
When I reach Katherine it's the hottest part of the day and I think I'm suffering heatstroke. I can barely think. It takes nearly an hour to find accommodation before I can strip off the heavy gear. I collapse, exhausted.
And this is winter!
The airplane is a Cessna Caravan and it's an ugly looking thing; it looks like a minibus with wings. The pilot offers the copilot seat to one lucky passenger. Dave and I both shoot our hands up... but I was that much quicker. Whee. Banks and banks of humming machinery. I've never seen so many knobs. I resist the urge to play with them.
The flight takes us over Lake Argyle and the view is all the more impressive because I can now see the shoreline in all directions. Flying at over 300kph it takes about an hour to get across the lake to our destination; the Bungle Bungle.
The Bungle Bungle stand between the featureless desert of the interior and the rugged ranges to the north. Millions of years of erosion have shaped the ranges into beehive like domes. Bacteria has eaten the rocks to create horizontal stripes of alternating colours. Deep gorges cleave through the landscape and separate the beehive domes into tiny clusters. The odd scenery looks like an alien world. I can almost imagine the domes are homes for the aliens.
The plane flies back to Kununurra and there's no reason to stick around, so we waste no time racing to Katherine. We cross the Northern Territory border at noon then the speed limit increases to 130kph. The roads seem ill suited for the higher speeds; they're narrow and very rough. However I'm dripping sweat inside my gear and I can't wait to finish this section. I belt along the road as fast as I can.
When I reach Katherine it's the hottest part of the day and I think I'm suffering heatstroke. I can barely think. It takes nearly an hour to find accommodation before I can strip off the heavy gear. I collapse, exhausted.
And this is winter!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Once Bitten
I'm not willing to risk life and limb on the Gibb River Road again so in the morning I tell Dave I'm going straight to Kununurra. He's still keen to visit El Questro, no matter the road conditions. I wish I had his confidence. We agree to meet in Kununurra in two days time; if he isn't there by then I alert the authorities! Dave sets off early. It's a short ride from Wyndham to Kununurra so despite my relaxed start I'm there before lunchtime.
Kununurra is famous for the Ord River Dam which created an enormous man-made lake, Lake Argyle. I have to see this so I take the 70km (!) scenic drive to the lookout. It's an absolutely brilliant road leading off the highway. It winds through gigantic stone formations, towering above me like skyscrapers. In the distance I see the faces of the ranges surrounding the lake, though I still haven't seen any water. I pull into the Lake Argyle caravan park and there's a sign pointing up an extremely steep incline, promising a lookout of the lake and dam.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but I wasn't prepared for this. It looks like an ocean. The water stretches beyond the horizon, perfectly calm, an irridescent blue. The dam is so tiny! It's a mere pile of pebbles compared to the lake. The Ord River flows out beyond the dam, snaking through the steep gorges. It's quite a sight. It doesn't feel like an ocean though; there are no waves, no sand, no noise. It's sterile. I'm impressed but I don't feel like hanging around.
I roll back into town and head for the caravan park. Dave walks out of reception just as I pull into the driveway. He found the corrugations and river crossings into El Questro to be too much, so he turned back after visiting Emma's Gorge. This works out great; I've seen everything I want to see in Kununurra so tomorrow we can get moving again.
Kununurra is famous for the Ord River Dam which created an enormous man-made lake, Lake Argyle. I have to see this so I take the 70km (!) scenic drive to the lookout. It's an absolutely brilliant road leading off the highway. It winds through gigantic stone formations, towering above me like skyscrapers. In the distance I see the faces of the ranges surrounding the lake, though I still haven't seen any water. I pull into the Lake Argyle caravan park and there's a sign pointing up an extremely steep incline, promising a lookout of the lake and dam.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but I wasn't prepared for this. It looks like an ocean. The water stretches beyond the horizon, perfectly calm, an irridescent blue. The dam is so tiny! It's a mere pile of pebbles compared to the lake. The Ord River flows out beyond the dam, snaking through the steep gorges. It's quite a sight. It doesn't feel like an ocean though; there are no waves, no sand, no noise. It's sterile. I'm impressed but I don't feel like hanging around.
I roll back into town and head for the caravan park. Dave walks out of reception just as I pull into the driveway. He found the corrugations and river crossings into El Questro to be too much, so he turned back after visiting Emma's Gorge. This works out great; I've seen everything I want to see in Kununurra so tomorrow we can get moving again.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
If I Had A Hammer
Yesterday we spent the whole day in Fitzroy Crossing. I'm not pleased with the location - this is an unpleasant town - but I appreciate the necessity. Dave needs to get his badly mangled pannier bent back into shape so he wanders off in search of a panel beater. I start chatting to some fellow travellers; they snapped a leaf spring and bent an axle on their trailer driving the same road we'd taken. I realise how lucky we are to have suffered such minor damage.
Several hours later Dave wanders back into camp looking pretty pleased with himself. Although he didn't find any panel beaters he did meet a mechanic who had lent him a hammer. Dave has beaten the pannier back into a rough box shape. That's good news because it means we can get back on the road.
To make up for lost time we are riding straight to Wyndham which is at the opposite end of the Gibb River Road. It's a full day's ride and I know it will be exhausting. The morning is fine but by the afternoon I'm flagging. My seat has turned into an instrument of torture. The motorcycle gear traps the sun's heat and threatens to cook me alive. I stand into the rushing wind in an attempt to cool down but it feels like the convection from an oven against my body. I hide behind my puny windshield and think cold thoughts instead. It's times like these I wish I had a more convincing imagination.
The sun is setting when I reach Wyndham, bringing some welcome relief from the heat. It's an uninspiring town with many shops boarded closed and houses in various states of disrepair. The big tourist attraction here is the hill which overlooks the convergence of five rivers before they flow into the sea. Somebody invested serious effort into naming this attraction The Five Rivers Lookout.
However the real attraction to me isn't the lookout, it's the hill climb. After weeks of long, dull, flat, straight highways, punctuated only by the offroad insanity of the Gibb River Road, I'm enjoying this short section immensely. It's fairly steep and twists back onto itself so tightly that I can look over the sheer drop and see the road from mere seconds ago. The corners aren't well signposted which results in a hair raising moment as I barrel over a crest into a hairpin turn, going far too fast, so I brake hard while downshifting, blipping the throttle to keep it smooth. I power through the hairpin on a perfect line and I feel like a motorcycle racing champion. I'm not disillusioned in the slightest when a bus overtakes me; it's probably a turbocharged racing bus.
The lookout itself is a disappointment. One side overlooks the tired gray town. Another side overlooks the abandoned abattoir. The rivers are visible but it's still not high enough to get a bird's eye view. The busload of aging tourists that passed me earlier are standing on rocks and on benches, attempting to get better views, but I don't think another half metre is going to make all the difference. I stick around for the sunset before leaving.
The descent down the hill is made all the more exciting by the lack of light. I pull into the campsite in darkness and find Dave. He's talking about camping at El Questro resort tomorrow. That means riding the Gibb River Road again. I'm not keen on the idea. I'll have to sleep on it.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Gibbering Idiots
Yesterday we rode from Broome to Derby. There's not a lot to see or do in Derby but it's a stepping stone to the next stage of the odyssey; the Gibb River Road.
The Gibb River Road is a 660 kilometre bush track through the Kimberley. It's reknowned as an exciting adventure trail for 4WD enthusiasts. Many people have warned us against
doing the road on our bikes but we are brave and fearless!
The first 60 kilometres is sealed and quite dull but then the fun begins. Mud, sand, dirt, gravel, rock; it's all here on the Gibb. My initial apprehension fades away. This is so much easier than I had expected. I pick up the speed - 50, 60, 70 - and pretty soon I'm hurtling along at 80kph.
Then without warning I nearly have a disaster. The surface looks like the compacted dirt I've been riding all day but it is actually deep ruts filled with dust. The dust doesn't support any weight and the front tyre sinks up to the rim. I'm bucked violently and it's only by sheer luck that the dust section is very short. The momentum of the bike carries me through, the rear wheel finds traction, and with heavy application of power I regain control.
That was a wakeup call. I greatly reduce my speed and I pick my lines more cautiously. Despite my carefulness the same thing happens again. However this time I have less momentum so the bike bucks even harder. Only with the rush of adrenaline do I have enough strength to hold the bike upright.
Now I'm shaken and the Gibb heaps insult onto injury by shaking me further; the corrugations have just begun. Each corrugation hammers through the handlebars and into my palms which are soon aching. The front wheel has almost no traction such that even the lightest pressure on the front brake sets off the ABS. Going faster is dangerous because that reduces steering control but going slower makes the corrugations even more pronounced. My brain is shaking out my earholes and there's 550 kilometres remaining!
Dave has stopped at the next intersection. He's not enjoying this either. He says the dust we're finding is called Pindan dust and he expects more of it on the Gibb. He suggests we take an escape route back to the highway. Along the way we can stop at Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek Gorge. That sounds good to me.
Windjana Gorge is spectacular. It runs through an ancient coral reef (Napier Range) and reaches 100 metres into the air. The Lennard River runs through the gorge and native wildlife flocks to the water; birds, fish, bats, and freshwater crocodiles! Several crocs are lazing by the sands so Dave sneaks up on one, hoping to snap a photo, but he gets too close and it leaps into the air before diving into the water. Dave shits a brick and I burst out laughing.
Heading on towards Tunnel Creek Gorge the road starts to deteriorate. The corrugations are much worse and there is even more Pindan dust. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to handle the bike and several times I nearly lose control. This is beginning to worry me; I could get seriously hurt on this road. Only a short distance before Tunnel Creek Gorge I hit another section of dust and the bike starts sliding. Here's where the inevitable happens.
Man down.
No, not me. I ride the pegs and slide my bike sideways to a stop and I'm still upright. That was really close. Then I look ahead and see Dave's luggage strewn through the bushes and Dave standing near his bike. He rode into a big section of dust in front of me and his bike went down, spun around, tore off the right pannier, and threw Dave down the road.
The pannier is a mangled mess but thankfully Dave is not hurt and his bike is alright. The crash happened twenty minutes previously - I was riding relatively slow - and the pannier hadn't burst open as I'd first thought; Dave had emptied the contents so he could inspect the damage. It's pretty bad and we need straps to reattach it to his bike.
Dave is still shaken and it's another half hour before we start moving again. Our confidence is shot and we crawl along at a snail's pace. The road manages to get worse with water crossings, gigantic rocks, and long sections of agonisingly unrideable dust. Passing cars throw up huge choking clouds that sting the eyes. Several times I nearly drop the bike and I maintain control only by the skin of my teeth. This is just horrible.
We ride the last 10 kilometres in darkness, our headlights providing almost no clues of the surface ahead. When we reach the highway it has taken 8 taxing hours to travel 250 measly kilometres. We were idiots for riding that road with such minimal offroad experience. The outcome could have been so much worse. It was an utterly awful day of riding.
But I am enjoying the warm glow of accomplishment.
The Gibb River Road is a 660 kilometre bush track through the Kimberley. It's reknowned as an exciting adventure trail for 4WD enthusiasts. Many people have warned us against
doing the road on our bikes but we are brave and fearless!
The first 60 kilometres is sealed and quite dull but then the fun begins. Mud, sand, dirt, gravel, rock; it's all here on the Gibb. My initial apprehension fades away. This is so much easier than I had expected. I pick up the speed - 50, 60, 70 - and pretty soon I'm hurtling along at 80kph.
Then without warning I nearly have a disaster. The surface looks like the compacted dirt I've been riding all day but it is actually deep ruts filled with dust. The dust doesn't support any weight and the front tyre sinks up to the rim. I'm bucked violently and it's only by sheer luck that the dust section is very short. The momentum of the bike carries me through, the rear wheel finds traction, and with heavy application of power I regain control.
That was a wakeup call. I greatly reduce my speed and I pick my lines more cautiously. Despite my carefulness the same thing happens again. However this time I have less momentum so the bike bucks even harder. Only with the rush of adrenaline do I have enough strength to hold the bike upright.
Now I'm shaken and the Gibb heaps insult onto injury by shaking me further; the corrugations have just begun. Each corrugation hammers through the handlebars and into my palms which are soon aching. The front wheel has almost no traction such that even the lightest pressure on the front brake sets off the ABS. Going faster is dangerous because that reduces steering control but going slower makes the corrugations even more pronounced. My brain is shaking out my earholes and there's 550 kilometres remaining!
Dave has stopped at the next intersection. He's not enjoying this either. He says the dust we're finding is called Pindan dust and he expects more of it on the Gibb. He suggests we take an escape route back to the highway. Along the way we can stop at Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek Gorge. That sounds good to me.
Windjana Gorge is spectacular. It runs through an ancient coral reef (Napier Range) and reaches 100 metres into the air. The Lennard River runs through the gorge and native wildlife flocks to the water; birds, fish, bats, and freshwater crocodiles! Several crocs are lazing by the sands so Dave sneaks up on one, hoping to snap a photo, but he gets too close and it leaps into the air before diving into the water. Dave shits a brick and I burst out laughing.
Heading on towards Tunnel Creek Gorge the road starts to deteriorate. The corrugations are much worse and there is even more Pindan dust. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to handle the bike and several times I nearly lose control. This is beginning to worry me; I could get seriously hurt on this road. Only a short distance before Tunnel Creek Gorge I hit another section of dust and the bike starts sliding. Here's where the inevitable happens.
Man down.
No, not me. I ride the pegs and slide my bike sideways to a stop and I'm still upright. That was really close. Then I look ahead and see Dave's luggage strewn through the bushes and Dave standing near his bike. He rode into a big section of dust in front of me and his bike went down, spun around, tore off the right pannier, and threw Dave down the road.
The pannier is a mangled mess but thankfully Dave is not hurt and his bike is alright. The crash happened twenty minutes previously - I was riding relatively slow - and the pannier hadn't burst open as I'd first thought; Dave had emptied the contents so he could inspect the damage. It's pretty bad and we need straps to reattach it to his bike.
Dave is still shaken and it's another half hour before we start moving again. Our confidence is shot and we crawl along at a snail's pace. The road manages to get worse with water crossings, gigantic rocks, and long sections of agonisingly unrideable dust. Passing cars throw up huge choking clouds that sting the eyes. Several times I nearly drop the bike and I maintain control only by the skin of my teeth. This is just horrible.
We ride the last 10 kilometres in darkness, our headlights providing almost no clues of the surface ahead. When we reach the highway it has taken 8 taxing hours to travel 250 measly kilometres. We were idiots for riding that road with such minimal offroad experience. The outcome could have been so much worse. It was an utterly awful day of riding.
But I am enjoying the warm glow of accomplishment.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Hold On Tight
Yesterday we left 80 Mile Beach and rode into Broome. Now this is a tourist town! There are restaurants, shops, attractions, tours and beaches everywhere. Unfortunately that means it's incredibly popular, especially because it's school holidays, so accommodation is scarce and I don't have anything booked. At the visitor's centre a sandwich board lists about a dozen local caravan parks and they're all full. Luckily they find me a motel room due to a recent cancellation and I merely needed a third mortgage on my house to pay the astronomical charges.
Kirsten is flying home today so I leave Dave and Kirsten to their own devices. I have my bike booked in for a service which means I need entertainment within walking distance. I've found just the thing; an ultralight flight!
The pilot is a mad Englishman called Charles. He spent 10 years riding a Honda Goldwing around the world; crossed the Sahara desert on the same bike; drove a double decker bus through outback Australia; and now he's saving up for the next adventure by selling joyrides on his flexible wing ultralight. He straps me into the passenger seat, tells me to hold on tight, then he guns the engine down the runway.
!
I'm speechless. I've flown in fixed wing light aircraft once or twice and this is altogether different. There is no feeling of enclosure, just a deep void of space all around. Visibility is not obscured by windows or pillars. The wind blasts over my body. It's like stepping out of a car and onto a bike. This is the closest I've ever felt to flying without a vehicle: I can almost imagine the ultralight isn't here. Charles is obviously a professional; he swoops low over Cable Beach, giving me the best photo opportunities imaginable. The landing at Broome airport is smooth and unbelievably slow.
Back on the ground I can't wipe the ear to ear grin off my face. Later that night I'm still reliving the experience; that is something I definitely need to do more often.
Kirsten is flying home today so I leave Dave and Kirsten to their own devices. I have my bike booked in for a service which means I need entertainment within walking distance. I've found just the thing; an ultralight flight!
The pilot is a mad Englishman called Charles. He spent 10 years riding a Honda Goldwing around the world; crossed the Sahara desert on the same bike; drove a double decker bus through outback Australia; and now he's saving up for the next adventure by selling joyrides on his flexible wing ultralight. He straps me into the passenger seat, tells me to hold on tight, then he guns the engine down the runway.
!
I'm speechless. I've flown in fixed wing light aircraft once or twice and this is altogether different. There is no feeling of enclosure, just a deep void of space all around. Visibility is not obscured by windows or pillars. The wind blasts over my body. It's like stepping out of a car and onto a bike. This is the closest I've ever felt to flying without a vehicle: I can almost imagine the ultralight isn't here. Charles is obviously a professional; he swoops low over Cable Beach, giving me the best photo opportunities imaginable. The landing at Broome airport is smooth and unbelievably slow.
Back on the ground I can't wipe the ear to ear grin off my face. Later that night I'm still reliving the experience; that is something I definitely need to do more often.
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