Jacks Story - Travelling by Motorcycle in Australia's Outback

Jack Nelsons Trip
Around Australia

After having arrived in the land Down Under for the first time – the land that always seems to stuff the Poms at everything – I felt a sense of wonder as to what lay ahead for the next 4 months or so. Was I to see the Australia as presented by the beer drinking Aussies I had met in London, was Neighbours a true reflection of Aussie culture and how representative were Bill Bryson’s travel stories? All I knew was - I had 50 bucks in my pocket - a school leaving present for my trip, and I was in the right place to find out!

The wedding I came out to in Victoria was a ripper – a beautiful marquee on a farm with the most lovely people a person could ever want to meet. I’d already seen they were a fair dinkum vegemite eating lot so I knew they were bonza! Any thoughts I had of emulating David Boon however were over after the 4th stubbie as I found myself taking on board water whilst boogying on down to Cold Chisel’s Khe Sanh – I had fallen miserably at the first fence! In spite of this lame Pommie effort, I seized the opportunity to steer small talk conversations around to street wising myself about what lay in wait for me in the unknown vastness of Australia…
“Oh have you seen Wolf Creek?” or “Did you hear about that bloke who pulled his wife free from that saltie a couple of days ago?” came the typical sort of responses.
I was not deterred! This was the land of “fair go!” How to get about and where to go? Umm….

The obvious crazy choice was a motorbike trip – after all my LP guide had informed me of a plethora of dangers to encounter in outback Australia and I was in no mood for having a safe and organised tourist experience. It had been a considerable while since I last rode a motorbike (the last time was on a 250 in Cambodia 5 years ago) and I had fallen off even then!

After surfing the Internet to find a suitable machine for the journey, I stumbled across Eddy Trapp’s Motorbike Tours site. I immediately liked the tone of it, the superbly modified bikes, the alternativeness, and the passion for the adventure. I knew this was the place to go to - they knew what they were on about! I agreed to buy a second hand Suzuki DR650 with all the gear, Eddy would sort me out a tent, billies, spare tools etc - then I flew up to Brisbane.

Eddy was the most likeable bloke ever. After feeding me he proceeded to give me lots of invaluable advice as to how to motorbike outback Australia. This was just the inspiration I needed. I now had top tips on creek crossing, bush camping, bike maintenance, corrugation riding and the Aussie obsession ….fishing. I even was given loads of suggestions as to where to go. And what a bike!

Byron Bay was destination number one. It felt fantastic, my new gear, new bike, sun shining. I roared into beautiful Byron Bay feeling on top of the world. The scuba diving alongside basking sharks was memorable not least for rattling to the dive site in Toyota stump jumpers. I also had to suffer the indignity as an Instructor of having to do a refresher course as my last dive had been over 18 months ago!

With the wind in my sails I snaked my way across Queensland heading for the Great Barrier. The leading Aussie school of thought thus far seemed to suggest that the best way to see Australia was to have no plan. With this in mind I headed loosely for the Dividing Ranges. Random encounters to date had equipped me with a stove, a book about AB Patterson and a wealth of knowledge about all things Aussie and gee was it getting hot!

So far offroad, bush experiences had been quite tame, dusty, corrugated and long but that was about to change. My limbering up days were over now – My hour had come -it was time to fly the nest! I’d seen a dirt track route that on the map appeared quite simple – 350km long somewhere south of Charters Towers. With a Steve McQueen style wiggle of the tank –shorts on – shirt off – a couple of beers at the pub, a fill up with water, some food and I was off. I was loving it – the middle of nowhere and I was with emus, iguanas, vultures and snakes. Dry river beds were crossed with ease, if not without the odd wiggle of the back wheel as it danced across the soft sand. I’d gone about 65 km down the track when I observed in the distance a sign, a road sign at that! Up to this stage the only indication of any recent human presence had been the faintly disappearing tyre tracks of a possible vehicle so such a sighting seemed quite abrupt. As I squinted to read it I could see the letters shouting out ROAD CLOSED. “What! There’s no way I’m turning back – no ones going to think of me as some pathetic Pom” I thought (even though there was no one about). I could see that the concrete causeway across the river had been washed away and that the water was deep in places. Let’s push it across in first gear and try not to drop it. I summoned up all my energy after first walking a path and cutting back a few branches. With considerable effort, a few grazes and bashing my shin on the foot peg I made it!

As the sun set and the starry southern sky swept into view, I pitched my tent (well away from any potential crocodile encounters). I’d checked there were no dangerous animals underneath first! The sound of the bush was a constant all night, crickets rattling, dingoes howling, wallabies hopping.

Eventually I meandered my way to Cairns and did my Barrier Reef dive. I’d met many interesting people along the way, informing me about Aborigines, how to light a bush fire, Aussie adventurers – but no one on a dirt bike doing what I was doing!

The road to Cape Tribulation was a stunner, a glorious coastal road followed by forests. I was fascinated by the James Cook place names, coming from Whitby, and it was great to trace some of the places he had passed by with the Endeavour. With this in mind I continued on the Bloomfield Track to Cooktown even though no one seemed sure that the creek crossings were passable. The road had some of the steepest ascents and descents I’ve ever been on and the creek crossings were deep but the Suzuki made mincemeat of it. The James Cook museum at Cooktown had some fascinating exhibits including a salvaged canon and anchor, jettisoned when the endeavour became impaled on the Great Barrier. Cooktown was as far north as I went as I was told that Cape York’s creeks’ water levels were too high.

The next part of the journey was a slog. I’d been unreliably informed at a gold museum that the Barkley Highway was a worthwhile venture and would be a memorable journey to the Stuart Highway. It was about 200km of scrub land between places each with absolutely no reason to stop other than to fill up with fuel or buy some junk food. As Queensland became Northern Territory, the flies were everywhere. I’d seen people wafting themselves with branches and soon found out why when I stopped to pay a call. A cloud of flies descended on me in a swarm – they were everywhere – it was like they’d been waiting for me!

Somewhere around here, I got a good insight into Bushman outback life after buying a book “101 jobs which got me absolutely nowhere” this painted a vivid picture of life in the outback and was a thoroughly good read. It was also about now that I invested in some Bushman insect repellent – it did the job!

Australia’s vastness stretched itself beyond my handlebars along the Stuart Highway, where the bull barred road trains rattled along. Memorable stopping off places included Daly Waters, Mataranka and Kakadu National Park. The latter had breath taking scenery, gorges and waterfalls. The rangers claimed to have cleared the rivers of salt water crocodiles but I never saw any rangers swimming in them. It was a peculiar feeling swimming out to waterfalls wondering if they had done their job properly, hoping the freshies were as harmless as was claimed. Although I felt an overwhelming urge to swim in these places, I was nevertheless relieved when I was out of the water to the safety of my motorbike!

After mud crabbing, sailing, meeting Aborigines, and doing ANZAC day in tropical Darwin I headed for my next outback adventure – The Gibb River road. This was a dirt road about 650km long. Talk about punctures! Most people finishing this route had had more than their fair share and there were countless others doing running repairs to their well equipped 4x4’s. On top of this I found out that the roadside assistance or recovery which I had taken out would not cover 4x4 tracks – even if my Optus mobile would get a signal!

I’d ridden about 60km on a freshly graded road when I came to the brow of a hill. As I gazed before me, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d crossed some creeks but nothing in this league! A 4x4 overland bus thing with its experienced driver was wading its way across, bobbling and waddling as its passengers gazed on, enjoying the view from the safety of their seats. I gingerly approached my challenge, forcing myself to remain positive. Eddy’s advice of “walk it first” was echoing around my head so I did and it was deep and holey with a good deal of current! By the time I came back to my bike some of the sensible travellers from the bus were already at the water’s edge with their cameras, sensing an opportunity, as I braced myself awaiting my fate. I gave my camera to a German tourist and he obliged me with a few snaps of my crossing. Job completed, I walked back to get my camera only to find this half cut Aussie couple telling me I should not walk through the Pentecost river as it was full of salt water crocodiles. They’d arrived in their Ute earlier that morning when the tide was higher and pointed out the crocodile warning signs on entry to the river. It gave me a hell of a shudder and as I hurriedly crossed it once more they were uttering cheery little comments like “Don’t worry we’ll look after your bike if they get you!”

I’d been on this outback track now for about three days. The people I’d met had kept me supplied with beers and lots of information to assist my survival as we exchanged stories around the campfire. I’d also fallen off a couple of times in the bull dust as I meandered my way to various gorges.

This particular morning in May, I woke up to the usual sound of birds squawking, had a wash in the river and made myself some billy tea – it was like “home among the gum trees!” A few precautionary bike checks and lubrications and I was off. My night’s sleep had been interrupted by the sound of an ailing vehicle limping along the lonely road and I soon realised why! Anyone could suffer the misfortune of hitting a startled bush animal at night but this vehicle had collided with a bull, head on, and the poor animals remains were scattered over the dusty road as the unforgiving outback claimed another victim.

As I ambled steadily on, moving from the edge of nowhere to the middle of it, there was a disconcerting clunk with an immediate loss of power. This was the moment I hadn’t prepared for and of all the places for it to happen. I’d managed to equip myself with a few tools and spares for the unforeseen eventuality, spare throttle and clutch cables – inner tubes but I had nothing for getting me out of this predicament - a broken chain. I took stock of things – I had some water, food, cap to cover my bald head from the sun and I knew the problem was mendable. As the sun blazed and the flies hovered I took cover under a nearby coolabah tree waiting for a vehicle to pass.

After what seemed like an eternity, one eventually did, a 4x4 travelling in a fleet equipped with all the tools, UHF radios and lots of knowhow. I suffered their wrath of disbelief that I didn’t have a spare chain link as they set about an emergency repair with some pliers and stainless steel fencing wire. With the advice to ride gently and some spare wire, I set off for my destination – the nearest cattle station 25km away. The makeshift chain and my subsequent attempts at repairs didn’t last long and I was soon pushing. It was hard thirsty work, the mileometer gradually moving round as I tried to imagine I was doing something else. Clouds of dust in the distance slowly revealed advancing vehicles all of which gave me water and food – when your chips are down even the smallest things are a major comfort!

Eventually a lame, blistered, sunburnt, fly bothered hopeless character trudged down the 1km red track to the cattle station. Upon arrival I was met with a cry to move out of the way as the cattle were coming. Sure enough the weary herd arrived, mustered on either side by horses followed by a swirling helicopter. When they were secured for the night with the gate firmly bolted, the cowmen and jackaroos were mulling their tiresome day’s events over as they rhythmically fanned themselves with their hats. Was this a good time to flag up my problem? “No worries mate!” My fortune was quickly reversed! My bike was fixed, I had a cold beer in my hand, I was given a bed for the night and a steak dinner, and my clothes were washed! Howz about that for Aussie mateship!

With a detour to observe the crocs at Windjana Gorge, the Gibb River road adventure came to an end and I route oned it to Derby and Broome. Next up was the lonely and beautiful ride to Exmouth. This place was a Mecca for the ubiquitous Bushtracker caravanner grey nomad, babyboomer type equipped with a boat capped 4x4. It was always a comfort to know these guys were about as they had an abundance of tools and were chips off the “Len Beadell” old block when it came to bushcraft. After once more dropping my bike to avoid a large spider in the middle of a web, I crafted my way through the kangaroos and sneaked my tent behind some bushes, carefully out of sight from the road in the Cape Range National Park.

Next day I awoke looking like a swagman from a Fredrick McCubbin painting. As I stared out at the beautiful Ningaloo reef under the crystal clear opal sea, I remembered I’d booked myself onto a dive of the US navy pier. The pier saw little boat traffic activity and was consequently the home to a rich variety of marine life. However, due to the strong current that afternoon, this memorable dive was delayed and consequently finished shortly before the sun slipped behind the horizon. The Aussie advice was thumping around my head reminding me of the golden rule – “DON’T TRAVEL AT NIGHT!” Although I was insured for personal injury from bike accidents, I had no plan to use it or make use of the Royal Flying Doctor service so I proceeded with great caution. The remote road back to my reef side camp was lined with both the coy and the brave kangaroos (and joeys), bouncing in all sorts of unpredictable directions as my motorbike beam seemed to panic a reaction from the otherwise docile creatures. “No dramas” I thought as I’d only used the brakes a couple of times as a precautionary measure and had taken the opportunity to take lots of photos. Then as I neared the camp – out of my eye corner something sprung into view. It was moving fast – SMACK ! – my left leg, the front wheel, the kangaroo all came together at about 50kmh. Miraculously we all survived unscathed and I was subsequently told that in spite of Australia’s highways being littered with carcasses at varying stages of decomposition, kangaroos are nevertheless pretty tough animals!

A random encounter the next day led to a trip out in a small outboard motored boat to free dive for cray fish – After chasing a few about the sea bottom we ended up with a couple and they certainly made fine eating along with the Spanish mackerel which had been caught the previous day. The next few days were spent beaching and snorkelling the Ningaloo reef which really is an absolute Australian jewel.

The lush pasture terrain of the more southerly regions of WA had an ominous inevitability about them and once I’d crossed the Tropic of Capricorn I was apprehensive as to what lay ahead. After a couple of drenchings, with disintegrating maps and guidebooks I neared Perth. I was eager to get back on the tracks and after viewing the famous Pinnacles, I headed for the remotely sand duned coastal track that lead from Cervantes to Lancelin. Local informants had advised against this venture as the track was rough and I would have to go on the beach. It proved to be a stunner! Tiny winding sandy paths hugged the coastline and it felt more like being on a toboggan than a bike. The sand dune section was a challenge as was the beach particularly with my somewhat bald back tyre. One particular beach section went through the sea and I found myself turning round a steeply contoured shore which involved digging and pushing as the tide crept in. After about 50km I stumbled upon some cray fishing shanty town and shadowed a cray lorry along what was left of the rough tracks towards Lancelin.

Luckily my first night in Perth I was given a room for the night by a Brit who had emigrated to Australia in the 60s and was working at a bike shop. Then the rains came! And was it cold and miserable? My only thought was to head north to warmer climates – direction Alice Springs. I had a feeling of unfinished business as I bypassed the South West Australian gems of Albany, Esperance etc and followed the gold trail towards Kalgoolie. My wardrobe, cut out for tropical Australia, was faltering and I empathised with the prospectors of yesteryear as I warmed myself next to the comforting glow of my hearty campfire. I’d met someone who’d recently had the misfortune to be bitten by a scorpion and I was as careful as I could be when selecting wood for my fire, not wanting to suffer a similar fate. I took particular care in getting well off the road into the bush before I lit a fire as I was unsure about different state and local laws and did not want to encourage any unwelcome attention.

After crossing the famous “Rabbit Proof Fence,”I soon rattled into the wild west delights of Kalgoolie, a throwback to another era with scattered remnants reminding us of a time of former glories. I was poised now to do the Great Central Highway – a desert track of about 1100km from Laverton to Ayers Rock with a section incorporating part of the famous Gunbarrel Highway . I’d been putting out feelers for some time about this loosely pencilled in and dashed route on the map and was most unsure about it. “Yeah that road goes straight up the guts of Australia” one silver tongued native commented! Others had also suggested you couldn’t get fuel or it was too dangerous to do on your own or indeed that it was impassable in places. I spent a few days exploring Kalgoolie, sorted out my travel permit for crossing Aboriginal territories and pioneered my way up to Laverton.

The Great Central seemed to be interspersed with about 4 Aborigine owned road stations linking the long lonely desert stages together and after reading the warning signs at the track’s entrance, the traveller was in no doubt about the gravity of their ensuing ordeal. The highway was a mixed bag of rutted and graded stages and the verges were littered with the burnt out remains of crashed and broken down vehicles. 60km in, I was rolling along comfortably, doing about 70kmh when suddenly graded road merged with rutted road - I dropped in a hole - lost the front wheel in some bull dust and – THUD – hit the deck! I felt it! I hadn’t seen any traffic all day and as I lay trapped under my machine I was fearing the worst. I’d never broken any bones before and as I attempted to lift my bike off my trapped leg I was more than a little worried. Eventually I stood and as I gradually transferred my weight onto my right leg, was I relieved it was only my knee that was twisted! A small price to pay for a faux pas in such a hostile environment although it did compromise my riding agility for the next few days. While the auburn sun started to slip away and after I’d exchanged traveller style greetings with a camel and van walking wonderer, my body began to suggest that it was time to light a fire for the night!

Next morning I arrived at my first stage post – Tjukayirla station. This doubled as a Royal Flying Doctor outpost and part of the highway in front formed the runway! Not being allowed to sell unleaded fuel, (the Aborigines allegedly sniffed it) I was served with the substitute Opal from the securely locked pumps. Still thawing out, the proprietor told me this was their winter and a good time to travel as summer had temperatures of above 40 degrees which created havoc on tyres and ill prepared travellers.

Apart from its vastness, most of the Great Central was unremarkable other than its obvious riding challenges, as well as the camaraderie and empathy one had with ones fellow travellers in tackling such a crazy route. After encounters with snakes, feral camels and dingoes I wiggled my way through the soft sandy section I’d been warned about, with its huge ruts and bogged trucks, and arrived at Docker River. Unowned packs of mongrel dogs, broken down vehicles and a general unloved mess seemed to greet the traveller upon arrival here. Before I’d even removed my helmet, the Piped Piper effect of my bike had brought out the local Aboriginal children who were far from shy in their inquisitiveness. As I surveyed the scene of these now housed formerly nomadic people, struggling to cope in a relatively new world which had introduced to them, alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, gambling machines, junk food and technology.

Eventually I hit the bitumen road and arrived at the Olgas, then onto Ayers rock. Although both are only rocks, they do have a majestic feel and I enjoyed the deceptively steep climb up to the top of Ayers rock. Yulara was a tourist hovel and as I ventured onto the night road seeking refuge, I was soon drawn to the flickering light of a camp fire and shared food and tales with other like minded travellers.

Next up was the iconic city of Alice Springs, with its famous Ghan railway, School of the Air and home of the Royal Flying Doctor. I was just in time to catch the final stages of the Finke desert motorbike race, a lunatic chase over sand dunes – the local hospital had plenty of customers that weekend I think! Alice had a lovely Aboriginal feel to it, lying isolated and adjacent to the McDonnell ranges. Bush camping here, no matter how hard I tried not to, sent flickers across my mind of the events of 2001 just up the road near Barrow Creek! As I motorbiked the surrounding scenery and walked the hills I got a feeling of the hardship John McDouall Stuart and other adventurers had had to cope with as they traversed the land from one watering stage to the next.

I headed off towards the Oodnadatta track for my next outback adventure which traversed a somewhat desserty and lunar barren terrain. A farmer on a motorbike, with dog on the back, took time out from his team mustering duties to tell me that the land hadn’t seen rain for 3 years! Still his cattle seemed reasonably fat! A good night was spent in William Creek outback pub eating Kangaroo and knocking back beers with the locals, then after crossing the famous dog fence, I took a detour to the underground town of Coober Pedy. I was on a schedule though now! Winter solstice was nigh and there was to be a hippie style gathering which would include the burning of a Wicker man somewhere along the Oodnadatta track. I wasn’t going to miss this! Flower power hippie buses and “fried out combies” all descended on this remote site, their occupants seemingly at one with mother earth as they partied through the night. It was a fun filled do and the wooden man met his doom amid loud cheers as we revellers proceeded to warm ourselves against his collapsed remains. Brilliant!

As the climate dilemmered between cold and cold and wet, I intertwined may way along the winding tracks of the Flinder’s Ranges. The wonderful folk of South Australia seemed to ceaselessly bail me out with verandas, floors hot chocolate and beers as the lowly biker seeked refuge while embracing the final stages of his trip! The South Australian wine region was beautiful as was Adelaide and I could only imagine what it must be like in the summer!

The money was running out now as I headed back towards Melbourne. The strong Aussie dollar and increasing fuel prices had taken their toll on my purse, in spite of my thrifty Yorkshire efforts to contain expenses. As I warmed my hands around my hot chocolate mug in a roadhouse café, I was swept along with the banter of some fellow bikers and was soon on my way with them to their intended bike rally. After a stop to buy the evening’s beer we hit the road again. I was pleased to arrive at the rally as the convoy of bikes travelled at a speed greater than my comfort zone and it was an unnerving feeling seeing the yellow triangular warning signs indicating the presence of wild boar, possums and koalas. The rally was wonderful, conversation effortless and the banquet style merriment went on late into the night as I tucked into wood barbecued rabbit, kangaroo and beef. Whilst the tree trunk fires roared, I found myself in the unlikely position of being chosen to arbitrate between the superiorities of South Australian and Victorian beers. How could a pom, from a country supposedly famous for warm beer, have an opinion of worth? It was a close call and I concluded the coldest was best!

Eventually the last day of the journey arrived and the scenic Great Ocean Road ride completed the journey. It was a fantastic feeling arriving back at my friends Brett and Tamika’s house in Melbourne, with the prospect of sharing a few cold ones and knowing I would be sleeping in a bed. Phil the biker, whom I’d met on the Great Central and who lived locally, volunteered to sell my bike for me and Eddy placed it on his Trapp Tours website. A few weeks after my return to the UK the bike was sold to the next adventurer!

Australia had been an eye openingly awesome 4 month trip of wonderful experiences - meeting fantastically warm, friendly, outgoing and helpful people. Enduro bike was a great way of travelling and the Aussie recommended “no worries” planless itinerary proved to be as reliable a formula as that of a Don Bradman century!

Story by Jack Nelson

Forget Ewin and Charlie, Jack is the real deal thanks for the fantastic story it was worth the wait.

Cheers Eddy

amcr.com.au

Content on this page requires a newer version of Adobe Flash Player.