travellingbennetts

The plan was simple. Ride to The Rock a.k.a Uluru a.k.a Ayers in late April 2022. Could we leave earlier? Too wet and hot up north. Could we leave later? Too many grey nomads a.k.a Gomads. Late April decided as close to perfect, and the grand send-off aligned beautifully with the Cane Toad Rally. So Rally Ho!

Plenty said about the Rally already in the BMWMCQ Journal. Up early-ish on the 24^th April with the other 250-odd campers, wait for tent to dry off enough to pack it, clear out a mystery large ant invasion of Cindy’s Camelbak, and hit the road for the relatively big first day of +500km to Carnarvon Gorge. The weather had been a bit rainy and patchy at the Rally, however the assumption was that it must improve as we headed out into the reddening lands that are western Queensland. There was no reddening sighted; as usual on our trips the green was relentless but the weight of the grey sky didn’t seem to increase too much either as we bitumened through Eidsvold, Cracow, Theodore, Moura and eventually reached the totally unknown Rolleston. The plan had been to stock up in Moura to suit our extravagant needs in the totally unknown Carnarvon Gorge, but even a big town can totally shut down on a Sunday – nothing was open, so groceries (Pringles, salted peanuts, jerky) were purchased from the servo. The Rolleston servo was a nirvana of consumables by comparison, and there was even a pub. When wine was asked for, the bar staff exclaimed “we don’t sell much of that here!” but they managed to locate some dusty reds from a display to add to the luggage.

The weather held off as we pulled into Carnarvon Gorge, with an exciting creek crossing to get into the camping ground. We were in a glamping tent with an ensuite, a decision that would later to be proven very sensible. The shop contained a full selection of wines, and more Pringles, salted peanuts, and jerky so we didn’t need to buy anything, but the dinner options were looking a bit sodium enriched. We pulled up to the glamp tent, deciding that no-one had specifically said we couldn’t take the bikes through the fence and parked them alongside.

That night the rain started, but it was the sort of rain that you can wander about in for a few minutes without getting very wet. A four hour walk the 10km in to see the Amphitheatre is a totally different matter though, especially for those members of the party who had assumed that it didn’t rain in May and whose umbrella therefore hadn’t made the final packing list. The only waterproof gear available was the Gore-Tex riding stuff, so a bold decision was made to do the 10km in motorcycle pants and boots. The light puffy jacket was “light spray resistant” so was drenched 100m in, making the whole experience pretty jolly miserable. At least the Amphitheatre provided an opportunity to wring every sodden thing out and re-charge the electrolytes with chilli jerky. The rising water levels on the three creek crossings were noted on the way back, and it was some very foot-sore and dripping but relieved hikers who found themselves back in the glamp. The Jetboil was a saviour that evening.

That night the rain decided to take it up a notch – the likely thinking was we don’t rain in May but now that we’ve started, we might as well avoid doing a half-arsed job. Around 1am the fact that we’d had to do a creek crossing to get into the camp was remembered and combined with the observed rising water levels during the hike, the remaining sleep-inducing atmosphere evaporated. At very first light an anxious scout borrowed the one umbrella for an inspection, luckily the water level had only come up a couple of inches but was flowing much faster. Both bikes side stands had pierced the mud and Cindy’s bike was leaning up against the glamp while mine was leaning against a stump. Getting Cindy’s upright again burned ½ a pack of jerky, but eventually we managed to get everything packed and headed off. The feared creek crossing barely noticed, we headed north back through relentless rain to Rolleston for a coffee, and up to Emerald for a lunch, with the rain ending around Springsure.

We were now in uncharted coal country and knowing how fickle accommodation can be in these sorts of places the ring around motels in the night’s planned town of Clermont started in Emerald. The first option was a failure, but they kindly gave us the name of the only motel option likely to still have a room available. This set a trend for the rest of the trip, the ring-around was very scary for two not-particularly-weary-but-not-interested-in-putting-up-a-tent travellers.

First plan in Clermont was to buy an umbrella, which guaranteed we’d never see rain for the rest of the trip. The most memorable thing about Clermont was dinner that night in the motel, with the world’s most formal waiter complete with bow-tie apologising for anything that wasn’t absolutely perfect to people who were thrilled just not to be having to eat chilli jerky.

The commute north continued, with the expectation we’d cross the Tropic of Capricorn just out of Clermont and get the mandatory photo. No signs appeared, then the realisation dawned that we had actually crossed it just out of Emerald. Too late to turn back. The Gregory Highway is not dripping with major population centres, in fact there is only one at Belyando Crossing, which has no population. The coffee was right up there with the best in any major population centre though, and the presence of two other Triumph riders resulted in a very long break chatting and sipping lattes. Into Charters Towers for a late lunch and a visit to the outdoor shop to try to replace a silicone camping cup with a hole in it, and we had one of the better nights of the trip at the Charters Towers Motel cooking up a feast on the BBQ. We had a few beers with the laid-back owners, a surer sign we were in the tropics than any Tropic of Capricorn crossing ritual.

More northerly commute the next day to our first tourist experience since Carnarvon Gorge – the Undara Lave Tubes. Distances are fairly large up in this neck of the woods, it was still nearly 400km. Fortunately, we passed through two major population centres – Greenvale and the Lynd Oasis Roadhouse. Greenvale was once a big nickel mine feeding a refinery we worked at in Townsville, shut down in the 1990’s but the town has survived. The subject of a “popular with Cindy” Slim Dusty song, the pub was a necessary photo stop.

Two miracles occurred at the Undara Lava Tubes. The first was a large tour group had been delayed, so we scored an upgrade into luxury converted train carriage accommodation, and the second was a triumph of nature over wet clothes. The rising heat had demanded a swim while the washing went on in the communal laundry. No dryers, a clothes line, but no pegs. Most Gomads believe that the Black Death started when Beryl Harris borrowed Mavis Jones’ pegs to string up her smalls outside the Jayco at the Cotton Tree van park in 1973, so little hope of borrowing any. Then a passing chap mentioned that Mother Nature herself had visited Undara at the end of her clean clothes cycle and had the same problem, so created the peg tree. The trees are everywhere, and the round nuts with a big spilt are basically a clothes peg. Perfect.

The Undara lava tubes tour after the humungous bush breakfast was a great experience – geology, a ribbon of ancient flora, and bats. A learning was shown by the odd unfortunate kangaroo skeleton, apparently they cannot jump up broken rock slopes so if they end up in the tubes they simply die in there. The age of the tubes is surprising at only 190,000 years ago, by Australian standards this is very recent volcanic activity. The afternoon was spent at a more recognisably volcanic scene – the Kalkani crater, which was the top of a large volcano. Numerous volcano-looking hills that even a rank beginner Volcanology cadet could recognise dotted the landscape.

Pushing on the next day, we surprised Mt Surprise for the first stop and a light refreshment. Proceeding to Georgetown, a sign was noted coming in that said something about a mineral collection. After a spot of early lunch through the agency of servo dimmies, we rode through the back streets with the intention of just getting back to the highway and happened upon the Ted Elliot Mineral Collection. Expectation was overwhelmed by reality; this was not a dusty corrugated iron shed with a few rocks and an old Ford ute taking up half the space, this was a major and modern facility housing 4,500 specimens and a staff of two. Cindy loves mineral collections, and I could not stop her racing into the car park and into the building, although some names may have been changed there to protect the interested.

The Gulf Development Road turned out to be dripping with population centres, a second lunch had to be taken at the old gold mining town of Croydon simply because towns of that size cannot be ignored when travelling that far north. Riding motorcycles with all our equipment strapped and stuffed on, we parked near an RV named Migaloo (the white whale). It was a proper full-sized luxury bus with no doubt extensive living areas for the two people seen getting in and out, but that wasn’t all. It was towing a fair-dinkum 4WD so that the bus could be parked, creating a new apartment complex and driving up local real estate prices, and the 4WD driven around like every other tourist’s out there. Given the price of diesel was around $2.50/l out in the scrub, all eyes staring at Migaloo began watering when someone mentioned refuelling.

Into Normanton, it immediately became obvious that we’d beaten the mass of Gomads north when we checked into a mainly empty Normanton Tourist Park. The pool was once again priority 1, it was still rather bordering on very warm out on the highway. Refreshed, we decided a wander through town was in order to get a feel for Normanton, of which our collective knowledge was nearly zero. We had a drink in the Purple Pub to quench the heat-induced thirst while learning a lot about the current staffing challenges in Normanton from the barman, then thought about having a meal. A visit to the life-sized statue of Krys, the largest crocodile ever taken, then had us thinking about being a meal, but for an 8.63m (28 ft 4 inches in the old money) crocodile we’d only be a small part of a seven course degustation. A real understanding of what the people in Jurassic Park experienced.

Existing mainly because of cows, and on a coastal area swarming with Barramundi, the dinner potential in Normanton was looking pretty good. The Albion Hotel was the recommendation, and indeed the Barramundi with chips was some of the best. Ever. Not exaggerating.

We’d booked the next night in Burketown off to the west. There are quite a few options available to get to Burketown from Normanton, with one falling into “the short way” category and the rest falling into “the long ways” category. Due to recent rain events “the short way” a.k.a. the Savannah Way road status was very confused on the QLD roads website – it seemed to be closed but that may have just been side roads. As we were gearing up to leave, some friendly pre-Gomads (they weren’t very grey) came over for a chat. They described many of the roads out west but hadn’t done the Savannah Way from Burketown. Lots of indecisiveness rampant, until the pre-Gomad clarifying statement – just go for it. Made sense, as it was “the short way” we had time to recover in case it went pear-shaped. At the turn-off onto the Savannah Way just out of town there was no road closed sign, but there wasn’t one of those permanent road status signs either. Just keeping going for it. No problems early with about 40km of bitumen, and an interesting place; Burke and Wills Camp No.119, the final camp from which they tried to reach the Gulf through impassable mangrove swamp, probably falling between 5 and 10km short of open water.

Off the bitchyouman, the Savannah Way was dry, smooth-ish between ruts, and good riding. Road works is happening to upgrade it, and as it is Highway 1 time is ticking for remaining as dirt. The stressful bit was near the end. The QLD roads website was a bit like a WhatsApp High School group chat, it had very vaguely indicated that things might be happening around the Leichhardt River, but no-one had actually seen Wayne and Cheryl pash, so everything was just wild speculation. And then over a rise the “golly gosh we might have to turn around” situation; a 30m wide water crossing. Possibly the more confronting form of golly gosh was used, the version not tolerated in primary school discussion. Hmmm, could be way deep, insane to ride straight in. Hmmm, we are in saltwater crocodile country, Angry Son of Krys possibly in the ‘hood. Worth the risk to wade in and check it out? Or just ride back 140km to Normanton and start again? Luckily I knew that no-one carrying a  stick had ever been attacked by a crocodile, so the risk was practically zero-ish. Off with pants and boots, stick held in the stabbin’ position, I walked back and forth a few times to make certain there were no big holes. Nothing over knee deep, out I came. There would be no turning around yet.

Naturally whilst I was strolling around “sans pant” two 4WDs complete with young-ish ladies came from the other side. I gave the international indication of approximate depth/length, hoping they understood I was indicating depth, and not being a total creep. They came through no troubles giving the thumbs up, likewise hopefully not indicating approximate length.

The next crossing was only just down the road at the Alexandra River, a major tributary of the Leichhardt. This was the crossing that the QLD roads website had tried to suggest may be closed, but as we’d seen vehicles coming from that direction while pantless, it was obviously open. A bit like the Carnarvon Gorge camp creek crossing, it was flowing very fast over the concrete causeway but was shallow. A quick stop to check it out, then through. A freshwater crocodile raced over the causeway in front of me, this calmed any fear of saltwater crocodiles as the two don’t usually occupy the same areas. Still didn’t get too close to the water’s edge though.

Into Burketown, happily right on lunchtime as it is only 230km between Normanton and Burketown. As it was a Sunday, everything was shut except the pub and the take-away across the road. Lunch consumed, we checked in at the Savannah Lodge. Reviews for the Savannah Lodge are almost suspiciously good, but in fact really don’t do it justice. For example – early check in? No problems, we’ve had the air con on since this morning so it should be nice and cool. Just park right outside the room so you don’t have to cart your stuff far. No problems with security, besides your bikes will be out of sight.

Into the pool, then a walk down to the Burketown bore. Drilled in 1897, and running ever since, the water is very hot at 68°C and unfortunately only drinkable by adult cattle who probably prefer something else as none were sighted. Cindy decided a wander into the wetlands was in order, oblivious to the danger of wearing plugged thongs in hot slimy mud.

The pub shut at 5pm so dinner was back at the take-away after a few refreshing beverages with our host. Up the next morning for a nice breakfast, it was a true pity to have to leave, Burketown was definitely an unexpected highlight. It was a public holiday so still little open, but we managed to get fuel and get to the boat ramp on the Albert River, about as close to the gulf as Burke & Wills got. South the mere 120km to Gregory Downs, where hopes were very high for coffee. The Gregory Downs races and the annual canoe marathon had only just been held on the Saturday, and a sign saying “Best Coffee in the Gulf” had us swarming in. Shame we missed the disclaimer sign just below.

Off to Lawn Hill un-caffeined and therefore a bit angry, I was nervous because I’ve driven this road twice for work, and it was a nightmare of corrugation the first time and only slightly better the second. Perhaps because we were early in the season lots of grading had been done to prepare for the Gomad swarms, and it was smooth and beautiful. Out to Adels Grove coincidentally reached at lunchtime, we were surprised to find the gate locked. Never mind, there was a work-around and we found a minimalist site reception/shop. The lady at the counter said they were rebuilding, and still had some time to go before opening. Never mind, we managed to score a tin of stew, eaten cold out the front, before heading into the Lawn Hill camping area. Advertised in some places as first come, first served, it isn’t. Booking is essential, and we’d booked the only “bicycle accessible” spot, which means you can’t park where the tent is.

With the camp set up, there are only two things to do at Lawn Hill; swimming, and floating. There are canoes available, but cunningly the paddles are only available at Adels Grove. Discussion about carrying paddles on the bike was held but discounted as fundamentally stupid. So floating was off, swimming was the go. There are lots of fish in Lawn Hill gorge, including archer fish. The trick with these fish is to poke a toe just over the edge of the bottom step – they think it is food and will direct a high pressure blast of water to try to knock it into the water to eat it. They get a shock when their water jet brings down +90 kegs of sub-prime, and scatter to avoid concussion injury, before re-grouping with mates to claim archer fish legendary status.

There is a third thing at Lawn Hill; walking. So we did that up to the falls via the hard way, sweaty work that needed a swim or two to recover. The preceding week a motorcyclist had been attacked by a freshwater crocodile at the falls, but no-one seemed to be put off, especially more sweaty motorcyclists. After walking back the hard way again because we’d forgotten to bring the map, there was more swimming during the afternoon interspersed with relaxation under a shady tree. The neighbours were excellent at Lawn Hill, even offering beers in abundance to supplement our small stock of red wine.

The journey north had been completed with four camping nights, no breakdowns, no bike drops, and no injuries except temporary wrinkled skin syndrome from spending too much time swimming in Lawn Hill gorge. Time to head south back to where it all began for us – into the Northern Territory.

End of Part 1