the trip (back)
It is more than 4,300kms from the tip of Cape York to Cairns, across to
The Gulf of Carpentaria, and back down to Maroochydore.
Northwest Queensland is hard country and The Lone Postie has conquered its dust, road trains, and endless horizons on a motorcycle that has a top speed of 75kmph. There is nothing like a 1,300km detour through some of the most remote areas in Australia to keep things interesting.
day thirtyfour
Punsand Bay to Bramwell Junction (broken speedo)
My old mate Tom blogged me the other day. He congratulated me on reaching The Tip, and warned me to be careful on the return trip. An accomplished climber, he noted that most mountaineering accidents happen on the way back down. It would seem his comments were somewhat prophetic. I had a big off today and both Pronto and I are very banged up.
It happened quickly. The air was clouded with dust from some passing traffic. I was bombing into a left hand bend when a white, late model (Nissan?), shot around the corner on my side of the track. I was pushed into the deep sand that skirts the edges of the road, Pronto lurched sideways, then flipped, and I landed head first in the scrub.
The tool that ran me off didn't even stop. Either he failed to see me come off in his rearview mirror, or he did see me crash and didn't want any hiccups in his travel itinerary. Cheers Mate.
I had injured my neck and left kidney and was in mild shock. But after a few stunned moments I eventually regained my senses and staggered over to lift Pronto up and take stock of the damage. All of the bike's instrumentation was smashed to pieces and so was the ignition switch assembly that I had taken so much care to relocate and waterproof. Both mirrors were broken and the handlebars were badly bent.
I wheeled Pronto off the track and under the shade of some nearby trees. I had a big drink from my camelback and began to unpack my kit to get access to some tools.
I removed the speedo completely, salvaged the one instrument bulb that wasn't smashed and fitted it back into the wiring loom so that I would still have a light to let me know when the gearbox was in neutral. I then hot wired the ignition and secured it, the instrumentation loom, and the speedo cable with electrical tape. I managed to repair the right hand mirror and straightened the handle bars as best I could.
I drugged myself with four 500mg tabs of ibuprofen to numb the pain in my neck and lower back, repacked my gear, then gingerly remounted Pronto. He started very first kick - a genuine hardcore dirt bike warrior.
I had to travel slow for the remainder of the day, the corrugations in the track where hell on my injuries. I also had to stop twice along the way - once to let an enormous Taipan slither across my path, and once to give plenty of space to a large and aggressive razor back.
I rode into Bramwell Junction just after dark. A kind family of fellow travellers helped me to pitch my tent and I collapsed into it for a troubled night's sleep.
day thirtyfive
Bramwell Junction to Moreton Telegraph Station (broken speedo)
On my way up to The Cape, my attention to the task of recording my daily kilometers was admittedly hit and miss. While pottering around Punsand Bay, I had decided that I should try to keep a more accurate record of the distances that I travelled each day on the way back down. I must apologise kind reader, but circumstance has foiled my good intentions.
I had ridden past Moreton on the way up and so rode in to have a look. Kath, one of the managers, was lovely. She took a genuine interest in my injuries and insisted that I park up early to rest for the afternoon. She led me to a wonderful campsite under a broad and shady tree, lent me an opera house trap, and even gave me a small can of tuna with which to bait it.
I spent the afternoon in rehab Cape York style - exploring the cool banks of the mighty Wenlock, casting a lure into a few promising barra holes, and finding a suitable location in which to set the trap overnight.
If you are travelling to The Cape, make sure that you call in to stay with Brett and Kath at Moreton. They are lovely and genuine people, and you would be a fool to pass up the opportunity to camp on the banks of the Wenlock.
day thirtysix
Moreton Telegraph Station to Charlie's Mine (broken speedo)
Dawn saw me with two fat cherubin in my trap. I invited them for breakfast, examined the dark bruise emerging on my left side, broke camp, thanked Brett and Kath, and headed south for Coen.
I arrived at the (S)Exchange Hotel and made some enquires regarding the best location to park up for the night. It was suggested that I visit Charlie, and so I rode the short distance out to his camp in the hills.
Charlie is the real deal. A true privateer. Originally from Malta, he has worked his claim for more than two decades and even built his own gold processing plant out of salvaged bits and pieces. He runs a tight ship and the little camping ground next to his mine has a perfect aspect facing north-east into the surrounding hillsides. It is shaded with mature fruit trees and visited by dozens of wallabies and all kinds of native birds.
I made camp next to Vortec and Anna - a young polish couple out of Sydney travelling in a rental 4wd to the Cape. They kindly gifted me a usb cable for my digital camera. I had lost mine after unpacking my gear in the scrub after the accident.
Charlie invited the three of us up the hill to his house made of bottles for a chat and a cup of tea. The old miner's bare feet, ragged clothing, and weather beaten appearance belies his considerable intelligence. He is politically savvy, a great conversationalist, and a witty jokester. I have worked on a good many mining projects over the years and so was impressed with the gold scratch Charlie has built for himself out here in the middle of nowhere.
Charlie is deservedly proud of his little mine and he told us, in a hushed voice, that he would like nothing more than to be visited by the Premier Anna Bligh. He is dying to show her his shaft.
day thirtyseven
Charlie's Mine to Port Stewart (broken speedo)
I bid farewell to Vortec and Anna, broke camp and then walked up the hill to thank Charlie for his hospitality. I enjoy being in the company of those who work in mining. They present themselves with a frank honesty that is always refreshing, and even more so if one has spent any time working in law.
Charlie offered me some of his freshly picked passion fruit and gave me the best imaginable souvenir for my trip - a genuine old Folwer penis pot insulator from the Old Telegraph Line. It is even date stamped. Cheers Mate.
I had checked out my map the night before and decided that the trip east into Port Stewart was my closest shot to again visit the east coast of The Cape. The road in was in great condition but when I arrived there was very little infrastructure and not one person. Perhaps everybody was scared off by the "recent crocodile sighting in this area" warning signs that were posted all around the waterline.
I made camp in the dry scrub by the bank of the river and walked over its vast mud flats while the massive tide was at bay.
day thirtyeight
Port Stewart to Laura (broken speedo)
I woke at dawn and again walked the course of the river. I then broke camp and went in search of some water to replenish my dwindled supply. I was fortunate to find an abandoned building that still had some water in its' rain tank. Leaning against the back of the shed was a massive sea turtle shell.
I rode west and back out to the development road. I made a left turn and headed for Laura. My back is getting worse each day now, and I fear that the constant bashing from travelling upon the corrugations of the dirt track has aggravated my injuries.
I arrived in Laura after a long and painful ride and called into the Quinkan Hotel to see if I could camp out back. The owner, Kevin, was very generous and even provided me with a free, and very large, bowl of spaghetti for my dinner.
days thirtynine, Forty, and fortyone
Parked up in Laura (0kms)
With the exception of a few small stretches between Laura and Lakeland, I had finally ridden off the dirt and so I decided to park up in Laura for a few days of rest and recuperation. My backside was just too tender to keep riding.
Laura is a satisfyingly tiny town. Its' civic centre consists of a community hall, pub, and a general store. On the southern outskirts of town one will find the Quinkan Cultural Centre and I went there hoping to get access to the internet.
The Centre is well managed by John Farrington and while there I had the honour of meeting the regions' oldest Aboriginal elder, Tommy George. I was subsequently invited on a guided tour of some of the rarely seen sacred Quinkan rock art sites.
My guide the following day was Steve Trezise. He is a bright man who knows a good deal about the Quinkan rock art sites - his father was the first to discover and document them back in the sixties.
If ever you have the opportunity to travel to The Cape you must, MUST, spend a couple of days in Laura so that you can have a proper look at the Quinkan rock art. And don't just visit the Split Rock galleries. The real treasures lie secreted in the sprawling sandstone escarpments that surround the town and you will need an experienced guide to find them.
The following rock art images were taken by me and are published on this web site with the kind permission of the Quinkan Cultural Centre.
day Fortytwo
Laura to Port Douglas (broken speedo)
With mixed feelings, I bumped off the last stretch of dirt and onto the blacktop heading into Lakelands. It was nice to again be able to look around at the passing countryside, not have to concentrate on every detail of the track ahead to avoid a catastrophic corrugation or dust hole, and relax into some easy riding on the bitumen. The trade off was that I was now back on the inside. Sealed roads inevitably lead to suburbia.
It was a glorious day and I had fun riding through the ranges. The countryside changes quickly and dramatically as one travels from Mt Molloy east toward the coast. Arid empty space is suddenly filled with the lush vegetation of the rainforest. The air around me moistened and cooled and I breathed deeply to savour the salty perfume from the coast.
day Fortythree, fortyfour , fortyfive, fortysix, and fortyseven
Parked up in Port Douglas (with plenty of day tripping)
Port Douglas is a great spot to flop. I have been taking it easy for a few days and have afforded myself the slack to have a good look around. On day fortyfour I rode back up the coast through Mossman for the second time to arrive once again on the banks of the Daintree. However, instead of crossing the ferry, on this occasion I made a left and rode up into the forest hinterland. There is some breathtaking dairy country up there that is largely off the mass tourism radar. I was blessed with another glorious clear day and a dreamy ride though rolling hills and lush pastures. Quite a contrast from the arid country less than 100kms up over the ranges to the west.
No North-Queensland adventure would be complete without a trip to the outer reef. I had the good fortunate of riding on the Silver Sonic out to the Agincourt ribbon reefs some 35kms east of Cape Tribulation. The boat is a state-of-the-art power cat and it blasts out to the dive site at an astounding pace. I removed my cap, sat at the very tip of the bow, let the wind rip through my hair, and smiled - the same big, sloppy, tongue hanging out smile that Rex wears when he sticks his furry melon out of the window of the family sedan.
I completed my PADI open water certification back in 1983 and still carry the original licence that was issued to me in my wallet. It is made of paper and on the back are my details, typed by hand, and a cut out and glued in place passport style photograph. When one of the crew on the boat inspected it, he took it away briefly to show his colleagues, and confer with them, I assume, as to whether or not it was a fake.
After diving for more than 25 years I still don't have the words to properly describe how enjoyable a swim on a healthy reef can be. God was on his game the day he made coral and the creatures that inhabit it. I swam with a shark, patted a giant cod, was memerised by the ever changing colouration of a cuttlefish, sat on a sandy bottom with a stingray, hovered over a barracuda, and played peek-a-boo with countless damsels, clowns and chaetadons.
There are so many joyously odd things down there and just so much colour. I had three dives back-to-back. Each one more enjoyable than the next. The Quicksilver Group run a very tight operation - a seamless experience from end to end.
day Fortyeight
Port Douglas to Cairns to Port Douglas (broken speedo - for half of the trip anyway...)
I decided that it was easier to leave my camp in place at Port Douglas and not have to unpack my gear to work on Pronto at Cairns Honda. I enjoyed the early morning ride back down the rocky coastline into the city.
There was quite a bit of work to be done on the bike and I was very fortunate that Richard again pitched in to help. He knows his stuff and without his valuable assistance I doubt whether I would have been able to complete all of the necessary work in a single day.
Thanks Mate.
I would also like to thank Mr and Mrs Cook for allowing me work on Pronto in the back of their busy shop. Having access to a workshop in Cairns was great. I hope that I did not leave too much red dust on your concrete.
Pronto had been given an oil change, new tires, mirrors, valve cover o-rings, speedo and instrumentation. I had repaired the ignition and bent the handlebars back to somewhere near to square. Richard had kindly adjusted the valve clearances and the cam chain tension.
On the way back up to Port I stopped in at the shopping centre at Smithfield to restock my provisions. I had repaired my bike and refilled my tucker bag with food - I was again ready to drop off the grid...
day Fortynine
Port Douglas to Cape Tribulation (83kms)
While parked up in Port I made friends with a sixtythree year old Canadian gentleman from Ontario. He had just lost his wife to a rare illness after nursing her for more than three years. He had flown out to Australia for a break and, I would assume, to find the space in which to have a good think about how to move forward with his life from here on in.
One night while sharing a camp ground picnic table (Glen Renn...yep I checked his licence) told me that he was a crack cyclist in his youth. I thought about this later in the evening and, the following morning, suggested to Mr Renn that if he wanted to rent a bike, he could attempt the ride up through Mossman and the Daintree to Cape Tribulation, and I would ride along behind him on Pronto for support. He leapt at the opportunity, and when I arrived back from Cairns yesterday evening, Mr Renn had obtained a Cannondale bike and was all primed for an early morning departure.
He pedalled the eighty or so kilometers up to Cape Tribulation like a champion. Life had taken much from Mr Renn - but certainly not his courage or passion.
day Fifty
Cape Tribulation to somewhere just east of Innot Hot Springs (251kms)
It was dangerous riding Pronto up the East coast through towns such as Mackay and Townsville. Too many trucks, too much haste, and a relentless onshore crosswind blowing in from the North East. My plan coming back therefore, was to travel inland a bit and then turn south down through Charters Towers and Emerald. I rode up and over the northern end of the Atherton tablelands and found myself gazing east along the start of the Savannah Way. In a brief moment my plan changed dramatically. I smiled to myself, twisted Pronto's throttle open as far as it would go, leant forward into the hot dry air, and headed west for The Gulf.
day Fiftyone
Somewhere just east of Innot Hot Springs to somewhere east of Croydon (378kms)
Fear is a facile preoccupation. We spend much of our lives worrying about things that will never eventuate. Incarcerated within our baseless ruminations, we are precluded from innumerable opportunities for joy and self-fulfillment.
day Fiftytwo
Somewhere east of Croydon to Karumba Point (225kms)
It would seem that a curious truism of life is that the harder one searches for something, the less likely he is to find it. I had poked around in the most isolated of spots while on The Cape in the hope of obtaining, for your benefit kind reader, some good shots of a crocodile. Although I had sighted several in my travels, none were positioned in a manner that afforded the opportunity for a decent photograph.
Today however, I was buzzing over a long bridge that spans the Norman River. It was stinking hot and as I gazed out at the deep green water of the river my first thoughts were of the possibility for a swim. I then spotted several fat crocs sunning themselves in the shallows. I parked up on the western side of the river and ran back to the centre of the bridge with my camera.
The river was lousy with crocs. The larger ones took off as soon as they saw me approaching on foot - and then floated around mid-stream to keep an eye on me - however the smaller ones continued with their sunbaking. I hope that you enjoy the shots.
I spent an hour or so spying on crocodiles along the banks of the Norman and then rode west through Normanton to arrive just after dark at Karumba Point.
days fiftythree and fiftyfour
Parked up in Karumba
Karumba is very unique. It is one of just three places in the world that only gets one tide a day and each dawn there is an unusual weather phenomenon called "The Morning Glory". On my first morning in Karumba, I was awoken by a strong wind rattling my little tent. I unzipped the fly and peered out at a dark grey sky overhead. I thought I was in for a beating from a violent storm. But after twenty minutes or so, the wind subsided and the dark clouds moved out over the sea to form a long white tube the profiled the shape of the coast.
Karumba was once a hot spot for the prawn industry, and the local pub made (in)famous by the brawling "prawnies" that drank there. But many of the fishing licenses have been bought by the government and so Karumba now has a bit of a ghost town feel to it.
Regardless of the town's changing fortunes, one thing will always remain the same. Karumba has the best sunset in Australia - by far - and I had the unique fortune of shooting it during the worst dust storm in the history of our country.
day fiftyfive
Karumba to somewhere north of the Burke and Wills Roadhouse (253kms)
The evening I arrived at Karumba Point, I was befriended by another bloke called Aaron. I asked him whether his mum was into Elvis or the Bible.
"Elvis", he confirmed.
The morning following my arrival, Aaron's crew kindly invited me over to their camp for a breakfast of bacon and eggs during which I was required to attend to a raft of urgent questions. Apparently a wager had been made between Aaron and his good mate, who had also seen me ride in the night before, as to whether Pronto was a postie bike or an XR100.
Over from Townsville for a holiday with his family, Aaron was originally from Alice Springs. He had told me that he still participates in the occasional desert bike race, and so, after I had broken camp and packed my gear, and took some photographs of the wallabies feeding nearby, I demanded that he take Pronto for a spin to show me his form.
While using the internet at Normanton Public Library, I mentioned to one of the staff my suprise that the Morning Glory was not more of a tourist draw card in these parts. She laughed out loud and then took care to explain that she moved here over three years ago and that this was the very first occasion in that time that she had witnessed the phenomena.
I must therefore, apologise for my naivety. Yesterday I wrote, kind reader, that the Morning Glory occurs each dawn here on The Gulf. What I should have written was that it occurred each dawn that I spent on The Gulf.
Apparently a champion Australian hang glider rode the very cloud formations I was so very privileged to witness. There are some amazing photographs of his efforts here:
http://news.ninemsn.com.au/glance/869276/surfing-with-a-tsunami-in-the-sky
The road from Normanton to the Burke and Wills Junction is a lonely and desolate strip. It consists of a single lane of rough bitumen that knifes its way through some of the hardest country in Australia. I was riding south, only a 100kms or so from were the explorers met their end, when, in the distant heat haze, a small black dot appeared.
At first I entertained the notion that it was a mirage, but then, as I rode closer, the dot grew large enough for me to realise, to my complete amazement, that it was PEDALLING. My dear God, someone was out here on a push bike.
Kay explained to me, in very broken English, that he is from Tokyo and eight months in on a clockwise circumnavigation of Australia. He started his ride in Sydney. We shook hands, tried each other's bike on for size, and laughed hysterically at each other amidst the dust and blistering heat.
I am very glad that there are people like Kay in this world.
day fiftysix
Somewhere north of Burke and Wills Roadhouse to Kynuna (400 kms)
I was visited, during my breakfast, by a flock of a dozen or so birds. They were incredibly noisy and quite fearless. I was sitting side-saddle on Pronto drinking my tea and several of the creatures landed on the handlebars and other appendages of the bike to inspect me. The racket they made was deafening and they were unperturbed by my efforts to move them on. So there I sat, this lonely man, on his little red bike, in the middle of nowhere, being bullied by some outrageous birds. If only someone was filming. Upon reaching the Burke and Wills Roadhouse, I discovered that my avine tormentors were apostle birds. Apparently they are notorious in these parts for their gregarious antics.
I made a left at the junction and headed for Sedan Dip. The vegetation around me thinned completely until I was riding through country with no features and very few reference points. It is rewarding being in such an empty space. The superfluity and petty desires and urgencies of consumerism are leached away by the nothingness. Technology and fashion are rendered meaningless in this setting and the true cornerstones of existence are reaffirmed - water, food, shelter, and community. One does not have an epiphany in a shopping mall; and so, kind reader, I must humbly submit to you that the world would be a much better place if each of us was required to spend a day, alone in the scrub, somewhere hereabouts.
day fiftyseven
Kynuna to the ruins of the Royal Mail Hotel (405kms)
It was a dangerous and difficult ride today; there was a strong and cold headwind, dust in the air reduced visibility considerably, and I was blasted repeatedly by walls of dirty air from passing double decker road trains. By mid morning I was in poor spirits and pulled off the bitumen to rest at a stop somewhere west of Winton. I had dust in the back of my throat and exposure to the relentless wind was grinding me down.
I parked Pronto up, then walked over to a dirty concrete picnic table. Like a dejected school kid on detention I sat slumped at the table, contemplating my lot, and picking at its flaking paint. I leant back to stretch and saw, scrawled by a fellow traveller in black felt tipped pen, the words of the sixteenth century French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal:
"Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death."
I stood up and walked over and mounted my bike. After jumping on the starter, I pointed Pronto once more into the cruel wind. Inspiration can appear in the oddest of places; take care not to overlook it.
I stopped briefly in Longreach to collect some trophy photographs, then dropped down off the main highway to head south on a back road to Isisford. The wind had not waned one bit, but it was easier going across rather than straight into it, and the absence of road trains was a welcome blessing. I was exhausted by the end of the day and started to search for a spot to camp. I took a left down a small dirt side track and discovered the ruins of the Royal Mail Hotel.
The "Twelve Mile", as it was more commonly know in its heyday, was built in the mid-eighteen hundreds to provide support along the Cobb and Co. coach route. It was essential that there was a permanent all seasons water supply for both people and horses and so a pitched stone dam was constructed by Chinese labourers at the back of the hotel. The dam wall and spillway is quite remarkable - thousands of stones carefully sorted and then interlocked together without mortar - and I climbed atop it to take some photographs and to better appreciate this historic monument to bush craftsmanship.
The sun was now setting and so I looked over to where I had parked Pronto and turned my mind to the task of making camp. And in that brief moment, I found myself unexplainably frightened. A sense of dread engulfed me, and so powerful was it that I scuttled off those pitched stones back to my bike and rode as far from the Twelve Mile as the failing daylight permitted. I don't believe in ghosts, and perhaps my mind was just muddled by fatigue, but something deep inside urged me to get out of that place.
Travel serves to hone intuition; a fool is the seasoned traveller that ignores it.
day fiftyeight
The ruins of the Royal Mail Hotel to the Barcoo River south of Blackall (254kms)
I had a fitful night's sleep there by the Twelve Mile. A broken-down windmill at the site rattled and banged all night as it flogged itself to pieces in the wind. I was grateful for the first light of dawn and forewent breakfast to quickly get away and put some distance between me and my haunted imaginings.
A little ways down the road I ran into John Macmillan, two of his girls, and Rosie The Wonder Dog. With them was a young high school lad, Nick, who was doing some work experience as a farmhand.
John took an immediate interest in The Crusade and he was genuinely impressed where I had taken the little bike. He asked me where I had camped the previous night and I was compelled to launch into my Twelve Mile ghost story. John enquired if I had actually seen a ghost, no doubt to check if I had in fact lost my mind, and appeared relieved when I answered, "No...the place just had a bad feel to it". He then took some pleasure in informing me about the old unmarked graves that are located in the scrub over behind the dam wall. He chuckled as he watched me squirm.
John then invited me back for morning tea, but, before accepting the invitation, I thought it prudent to check if the driveway to his homestead was more than 100km long - some out this way are.
My short morning with the Macmillan family of Evanston Station is one of the most pleasurable memories of this trip. I was welcomed wholeheartedly by John's wife Maree, and treated to freshly brewed tea (with milk) and some lovely home baked scones. John and Maree have four lovely children, three girls and a boy and, upon my departure, the youngest, little Phoebe, yelled, "Start my bike Da Da", then screamed around the house block terrorising Pronto on her Pee Wee 50. What a joy to have met such a vibrant Aussie family.
From Evanston Station I rode south into the little town of Isisford. The community had made some effort to restore the historic streetscape and so I decided to explore some of the old shops and examine the antique curios displayed within.
From Isisford I rode southeast over the Barcoo and on to the famous town of Blackall. I visited the site where the Black Stump once sat (until some larrikin burned it), inspected some of the wonderful examples of early Queensland bush architecture, then rode south to set up camp "On the outer Barcoo...". On the way out of town I saw a mother emu with a half-dozen or so chicks scrabbling, rather hilariously, behind her. I just managed to get a quick photo before they disappeared into the bush.
day fiftynine
The Barcoo River to the Clyde River west of Springsure (197kms)
I rode through the Wild Dog Fence and into the town of Tambo. I was welcomed by a handsome rose garden in full spring bloom and the friendly staff of Fanny Mae's. The business is well run and has been in the same hands for more than twelve years. The owners are currently trying to sell up to retire so give Joan Noonan a call on 07 4654 6137 if you are interested.
There is a dirt track that starts north of Tambo and cuts across the top of Carnarvon National Park. It is notorious for being in poor condition but I was keen, after thousands of kilometres of bitumen, to have another crack at some dirt.
The track was poor and in spots at least as bad as the worst I have encountered while on The Cape, but it was great to be well off the grid once more and the views across the valley to Carnarvon were nothing short of spectacular. When I reached the Clyde River I discovered it still had some good waterholes, and so set up camp early to toss some lures for a yellowbelly.
In planning this trip, I knew the ride would be hard, more so on a tiny bike with only 7.5 horsepower and 30mm of suspension. What I didn't give sufficient weight to however, was the significant effort required to continuously make and break camp.
Some days I have arrived at my camp site exhausted, but still needed to summon the energy to unpack a bike, pitch a tent, make a bed, and prepare a meal (often my only meal for the day). Packing up each morning is just as demanding, requiring much effort, time, and careful attention. Each piece of my kit must be stored in its correct place - I have a good deal of gear and limited space in which to stow it.
The rigors of my routine over the last two months have taken their toll. I estimate that I have lost more than 15 kilograms in weight. I broke camp slowly this morning. I will let you decide whether my sluggishness is attributable to my run down state, or to the melancholy that arises from the realisation that a genuine adventure is drawing to an end.
day sixty
The Clyde River to Cracow (445kms)
I arrived in Springsure on a glorious spring morning. The tiny town is quite scenic due to its position at the base of a prominent escarpment. I purchased some morning tea from a local shop, then sat in the street to eat my victual and watch the townsfolk attend to their workaday lives.
On the road to Rolleston, a rider on a very tough sounding road bike roared past me like I was standing still. When I arrived at a service station a few minutes later, the same rider was there filling the tank on a black race kitted Buell. The front of the bike was layered with the remains of hundreds of grasshoppers and other dead insects.
The rider is a girl named Amber. An anti-Barbie if ever there was one. Petite, quite beautiful, and clad in black leather, she is on the return leg of a solo trip from Melbourne to Birdsville. I'll wager she turned more than a few heads out there in the scrub.
Amber suggested that Fred Brophy's pub at Cracow was a good spot to park up for a night and so with that target in mind I took off and rode east along the Dawson Highway. It was late afternoon by the time I reached Moura.
While refueling, a lad at the service station gave me the heads up on a shortcut down to Theodore. Night fell while I was on that back road, but upon reaching town, I made the decision to keep riding through to Cracow. Riding after dark on a postie bike out here is just plain stupid, the light cast by Pronto's headlamp is lacklustre at best and in the wake of some recent spring rain the roadside is well populated with kangaroos and wallabies chasing green pick, but the evening was clear and cool, with a bright moon overhead, and I felt some obligation to complete at least one night leg during The Crusade.
I arrived safely at the Hotel Cracow and found it quite busy. The boys from the local gold mine had just finished their shift and were in for a beverage. I walked through the old pub and out back to its courtyard and there, beside his boxing troupe vehicles and equipment, I found Mr Brophy enjoying, by an open fire, his evening meal and a glass of wine.
I introduced myself and Fred responded with immediate generosity. He arranged for me a fresh towel, bar of soap, and a huge plate of roast pork with gravy and veggies. I woofed down the meal, savoured my first shower since Karumba, pitched my tent at the back of the pub, then settled in for a wonderful night around the fire.
day sixtyone
Cracow to Maroochydore (539kms...Pronto's personal best...)
Mr Brophy continued with his generosity this morning by inviting me for breakfast to sample one of his salmon patties. I was packing up Pronto and arrived late to the table - quite rude on my behalf really - and so I sat, wholeheartedly enjoying the tasty patty, but just a little worried I was also going to be served up a boxing tent style flogging from Fred as a second course.
I spent the remainder of the morning exploring the old abandoned buildings around town and then set out from Cracow just before lunch with the intention of riding through to stay a night at Fred's other pub at Kilkivan. I navigated over a small section of rough dirt on the way through to Eidsvold, then turned south onto the Burnett Highway.
It was night by the time I reached Tansey and the air was thick with smoke. I had caught glimpses of a huge fire on a ridge off to the east and as a result the road through to Kilkivan was closed. I rode further south to the town of Goomeri, which also has a road up to Kilkivan, but after carefully scrutinising my map and wincing at the prospect of making camp this late in the evening, I decided to make a run for the coast.
At Nanango I filled Pronto with fuel, and myself with coffee and chocolate, and then rode full-throttle east through Yarraman, Blackall, Kilcoy, Peachester, and then down the hill to Caloundra. I arrived home around midnight.
day sixtytwo
Parked up in Maroochydore
Today, I visited my favourite surf spot at Point Cartwright. I find the sea an enduring source of joy and I love to be in it.
Tomorrow, I will remove my spontaneity and hang it in the back of the closet behind my riding gear, commence weaning myself off the drug of adventure, and attempt to readopt the sterile routines of an urban proletariat.
Wish me luck.
