Across Australia – From the Indian to the Pacific

This entry is part 9 of 18 in the series Adventure Rider Issue #18

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The idea of shipping a bunch of bikes to Fremantle for an excuse to ride a short cut to Byron Bay seemed the most natural thing in the world to Andy Strapz and his newly prepped DRZ.

When publisher Kurt floated the idea of a ride across Australia it was at the worst (or best) possible moment in the rough and tumble of the 2015 Sydney Motorcycle Expo.

I committed there and then!

I’d had a massive year with more on the horizon, so what a fitting end and motivation…a ‘proper’ ride, not just a stolen two-nighter.

Hang overtake

The idea was to ship bikes to Fremantle in WA, use sister mag Adventure SUV’s gig as the backup vehicles, fly in and follow the pink line on a GPS to the Byron lighthouse. The schedule included 16 blokes who were mostly complete strangers, 6500km, 12 bikes and the Australian outback.

On the first weekend in May the crew lobbed in Perth, and while some of us caught up with family and friends, we kept a close eye on the rain radar as central Australia got a serious drink. Like a three-year-old on Christmas Eve, we could barely contain ourselves. Excitement bubbled over on the final night in Fremantle as we all gathered, ready to leave at first light. A feed and a couple of quiet drinks escalated, ambitions and abilities soon were awash in boutique beer, and a few rather seedy units lined up the next morning for a conga ride through a Sandgroper peak hour.

POI

Looking for a jump-off point from the WA coast?

Cervantes and the Pinnacles National Park are a must – jagged chunks of rock jut out of stark white sand. It’s a vivid, surreal, other-worldly landscape that loosens up the gob-smack glands for what’s to come. We got a chance to slither about on it as we did a quick lap of the tourist drive and it was the first quick squiz of the points of interest on this rapid continental transit.

Back on the pink line we struck out across the north of the Western Australian wheat belt as the afternoon waned behind us.

Evening light in that part of the world is unique. It’s sharp, yet full and crisp, light-ing the subtly changing landscape as we chewed through a few-hundred gravelly kilometres of farm roads.

Not quite making our planned first-night stop at Paynes Find due to cat-mustering difficulties, we descended on a country pub in the tiny town of Perenjori. From the outside it looked a basic outback boozer, but inside it was pumping, primed by an international melting pot of backpacker staff. Getting our travel companions to focus was somewhat difficult – a problem that was to recur again and again on ‘The Crossing’. Teams of young, vital travellers with accents and tints from lands far and wide abounded along the way, and long gone seemed the days when travellers were greeted by cranky, bored, take-it-or-f*#k-off local licensees.

Opportunity missed

Most days started before the chooks shook a feather.

Chilly bike packing and belly laughs were common as the days clicked into gear around us, many times with breakfast at the end of the first empty tank.

The aim was to cover an ambitious and dusty 700-ish kilometres. Settling into long days in the saddle (and on the ’pegs) took time to adapt to, and knocking over 300km or more between towns took a bit of adjustment. It’s a Zen-y sort of thing, especially on dirt. On the blacktop the mind can wander and solving the ills of the world can be done in a day. But not when over the next rise might be a patch of sand or a muddy puddle the size of a swimming pool.

So we climbed into a zone of high concentration, often in groups of two top-and-tailed to stay out of each other’s dust.

We headed through Paynes Find across the sparse farming country to Sandstone and made the call to push on to Leinster. A shock was waiting for us as we entered an industrial oasis run by large multinational companies where the residents were universally clad in safety yellow-and-silver reflective apparel.

A side trip through the gold ghost towns of the Leonora district was shelved because there were concerns we were starting to slip behind schedule. It was a shame. I’d been through there in the 1970s and was keen to see what it looked like 45 years on.

High steaks

To avoid the drudge of the Great Central Road we took the Old Laverton Road and committed the first offence of outback riding: stick with thy mates. We lost a couple of hours mustering again. Support vehicles went back looking for a rider who’d been left behind as the plan turned from liquid to fertiliser.

As dark wrapped around us at Tjukayirla Roadhouse we were short a bike and two SUVs.

Anxiety rose until we involved the Laverton coppers to help us make sure our companions were safe. The SUVs had the tucker, the shop was closed, and it was pitch dark. Luckily the roadhouse owners took pity on us and opened their freezers as we opened our wallets and bought them out of frozen barbie packs. We worried while we defrosted steak and snags in the camp-kitchen microwave with an eye on the western horizon for headlights.

As it was restricted Aboriginal country we had a dry night. Our host didn’t. He couldn’t sell it, but he sure could put it away! He lobbed on our campfire and astounded us with his views.

With impeccable timing the rest of the team rolled in just as the steaks had rested perfectly, and with a huge sigh of relief we fed our new mates and made pledges to take more care to stick together and work as a team.

Pushing on

Next morning bikes started while sparras farted. Some of the crew had Uluru in their bloodshot sights and hit the road at dawn.

There were now two groups with two different time constraints. Time away from the coal face was tight for some and they wanted to push harder than others.

The WA end of the Great Central Road is a broad, corrugated dirt highway that gets reasonably well groomed. It’s a very different story as it crosses into the Northern Territory to become the Tjukaruru Road. The road became rougher and less cared for as the landscape began to change from gentle, rolling desert. The Petermann Ranges grew on the horizon lit by a sun starting to put on its jim-jams. If you haven’t seen the way the sun paints the country out there add it to your bucket list. Now.

Go on, we’ll wait for you.

After camping at Docker River (Kaltukatjara) and a good dose of rain, the slower, less-driven tourist group decided an early start was smarter than pushing on later that evening. There was more sand and some massive puddles warning us to up stumps.

Riding into the rising sun with not a breath of a breeze was a magic experience.

It may not have been entirely pleasant, but it was memorable nonetheless. Dust hung across the road as the sun wove it into blockout blinds. The colours! That morning will stay with me for years to come. I felt like I was riding through a painting as we picked our way around muddy puddles and sandy patches with the Olgas looming out of the rising sun on our left.

It was gobsmacking!

Pushin’ the Springs

We had a tight schedule: get to the Big Boondy, have a look about, and then on to Kings Canyon by the end of that day.

Even the Chinese tourists weren’t being manoeuvred on and off their buses with the same precision.

By now churning out big kilometres was becoming a lot easier, and these were on tar so we caught up with the rest of the party late afternoon in a town that had only a couple of beds left. Camping in the caravan park was a bit like sleeping on the street – my head was only about 10 metres from the main road. It wasn’t the outback camping experience I’d anticipated.

The camp oven was produced from one of the SUVs along with the tucker we’d bought in Freo. It was eat-it-or-chuck-it time. Camp chef and Adventure SUV editor Andy cooked up a hearty stew in the camp kitchen that fortified us for the push into Alice Springs the next day.

Popeye

Another dualsport treat came our way as we headed north to the West McDonnell Ranges National Park and the Namatjira Drive.

Dirt and winding bitumen mountain passes were interspersed with stunning views, many of which were etched deep
in my brain by the great man’s paintings.

Riding through a Namatjira painting for real…how good was that!

From Larapinta Drive to the Sturt Highway, Namatjira Drive is one of the hidden gems of road riding. I’ll definitely be back there.

Kurt swung a deal at a flash resort in the Alice, initially for two nights, while we reshod some bikes and did some basic service on bikes and bodies. My speedo had long since given up the ghost so I dug deep into the bowels of the wiring only to find the earth wires had come off the circuit board. There was SFA I could do about that until I got home and could mount a warranty claim.

As I put it back together the majority of blokes were packing for the off.

We’d received news the road via Dalhousie Springs had been closed, so it was decided to head for Marla, not our planned Kulgera hop-off point. A few of the guys decided to stay on a second night and make their own way from the Alice to the lighthouse. Some made it to Kulgera and others Erldunda. I waited alongside the road until the sun properly set and trundled the last 90km at a bit over 80kph with my eyes on stalks, ever alert for wildlife.

Top-end end

A quick feed, a couple of beers and another night’s sleep on the floor of a motel room followed. Barney, Robin and I settled into our roles as the Three Snoring Tenors. Throwing shoes at the offender only meant they came back later.

It’s easy to see why local authorities have a hair trigger when it comes to closing roads. For a large part of the Oodnadatta Track a single vehicle had left a tortuous skidding track for 100km. A truck could trash the road in two shakes of bogey trailer.

With a snaking set of hard-dried, muddy, wheel ruts ready to flick a rider over the ’bars in a millisecond, concentration was at a premium.

Time was called at Maree. We’d had enough of after-dark finishes and Barney’s 690 had developed a top-end death rattle by Lyndurst and needed to be sent home in disgrace.

Cornered

Before hanging a left onto the Strzelecki we calculated we had 437km to ‘The Corner’.

Filling every available container with fuel, the plan was to ease off the right hand and sit below $1.00, which turned out to be just as well.

From Lyndhurst to the Merty Merty turn off the road was a mess. There was only one set of paired wheel tracks and the rest was rut after parallel rut of dry mud. The road hadn’t been closed soon enough.

Dealing with oncoming traffic often meant almost coming to a complete stop in the tram tracks. We all had seriously anxious moments as our bikes went wherever the tracks decided as we let by dozens of 4WDs on a charity run. Like a dust-wrapped millipede they snaked at us in a conga line from the horizon. The dentist – we’ll call him ‘Rob’ – reckoned he was gone for all money, but somehow his Tiger clawed its way back upright and straight.

From the Merty Merty turnoff to Cameron Corner the up-hill, down-dale rollercoaster had a surprise over every ascent. Mud, puddles and/or sand spoiled the chance of getting air over the humps. Some made it to The Corner while others pushed on to Tibooburra and another after-dark finish.

Only the depth varies

As if I hadn’t had enough of DRZs and friggin’ water!

We’d been told there was a big water crossing to negotiate on the road to Tibooburra. What I didn’t get was there was a sidetrack some 150 metres before the crossing.

It was late in the day as a bloody lake appeared ahead of me. I was mesmerised by the colours, light and sky while looking for the exit. I found myself staring at a track emerging from a lake. I kid you not, it was a f@rk!n lake!

There were tracks leading into it, and none of my mates were about ’cause I’d been taking photos as usual and getting further and further behind the group.

Not seeing any other option but to ford it, in I went.

It was only 30cm deep but like riding on grease. After 20 or 30 metres I was more tangled up and twisted than a Trump rally.

Out went the outriggers and the good ship Strapz sailed for the opposite shore like a water snake.

Fifteen minutes up the road I came across the crew tending to Ken Dark’s flat rear tyre. I’d had enough time to get steamed up about getting left behind…again! So I stormed up and announced they were a packa khans. Nonplussed, they gently pointed out that there was a sidetrack.

Ten points for hero cancelled out by 10 of dickhead.

Rim job

KD’s flat proved unpluggable and needed sorting, so we had a chance to regroup two of the three packs the next morning.

That left time to wander Tibooburra with a tourist map, and it was very welcome after the intensity of the last few days.

While Kurt dealt with a terminal SWM and roadside assist at Wanaaring, info about the road conditions didn’t go around the whole group and some set off for Thargomindah and Hungerford, unaware the police had just opened the Wanaaring Road. Sadly, Kurt climbed into a support vehicle, and echoing Arne, vowed, “I’ll be back!”

A few set off up the road to Wanaaring and Bourke. As we closed in on Bourke we started to come across ACP Rallyers. Some of the poor buggers were a bit confused as adventure bikes came in the opposite direction. We were stopped a couple of times and asked who was going the wrong way.

The Marlboro Man, always one to put his 990 into ‘interesting’ places, sacrificed a rim for the camera on a sweetly placed cattle grid.

Detour

Another caravan park, another RSL club and another tense evening followed as the SPOT trace of the other group was doing odd things. There had definitely been an incident around dusk sometime, but how significant it was we didn’t know. KD’s SPOT had stopped but the others were back on the road. This did not look good. We hoped it was just an 1190 breaking down.

It turned out it was a fall and a trip to The Big Smoke for the rider, with at least a broken scapula and a bang on the head.

A phone call to a mate who grew up in the area convinced us to take a detour from the pink line of the get-lost box. We headed via the Narran Lakes and Cumborah to Lightning Ridge and back to the pink GPS line to Mungandi and Goodawindi.

The Alice Springs group was still a day behind and Frequent Father points were rapidly expiring for some members of the group. It was becoming obvious the expected finish and party night was going to fizzle rather than sizzle.

Once more…with feeling

Robin ‘Tiger’ Box and I cast ourselves on and off the pink line. Our last day wound us along the Queensland/New South Wales border into country that was by now very unfamiliar to us.

Rolling green mountains, tall trees and steep, winding dirt roads surrounded Texas, Mole River and Tenterfield. The top end of the New England tablelands putting on its winter pyjamas was a bit of a reality check. There’d been no sign of it when we left home two weeks earlier.

We found our own way to the Byron Bay lighthouse, two days ahead of schedule and bumped into Rob, two of the SUVs and their passengers. The requisite photos taken, we buggered off to Lennox Head as Byron was infested with beautiful people – tourists pretending to be locals, locals, tourists, real hippies, fake hippies, rich pretenders…it was waaay too much of a culture shock.

My trip home is another yarn for another time. It took a week for the trip to start to gel and find a place in my life. It was 10 days and roughly 6500km through country dripping with water and amazingly green. I’ve seen water in the interior before, and great swathes of wildflowers in places usually bone dry. What a rare, once-in-a-lifetime privilege this madcap coast-to-coast dash was. To see it so green and with water by the road almost everywhere we went…wow!

Much of the time I felt a bit disappointed I was passing important landmarks and not stopping. I missed what I consider the real out-back – the part that can only be experienced by camping in its remoteness.

Having had time to think about it from my armchair, it’s a big thing to take to the Bank Of Experience. I now have a clear idea of where I want to go next time!

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