By 
Elliot Underwood packed too much camping gear, too many tools, not enough hygiene products (just a toothbrush, actually) and headed north from Perth.
I travel without a plan on purpose.
I have a vague idea of what’s in the area and there are bits and pieces I want to see, but I never know where I’m going until the bike fires up and starts moving. I’d love to have a GPS and simply follow waypoints, but that wasn’t the point of this exercise. The point was to reclaim my time.
I quit my job, sold everything and started riding.
The author quit his job, sold everything and started riding. As far as we know, he’s still riding.
Set up
The steed of choice was a black DR650, the starting point was Perth and the destination was unknown. Riding out your driveway is an odd experience when you know you won’t be back for a long time. It’s even odder to think that when you do get back, you won’t be the same.
Leaving Perth was an all-day riding affair to make Geraldton.
Camp was in a farmer’s field behind a stand of trees.
Finding camp for the first night is always an exercise of impossible optimism being steadily reduced to the point of looking at a potential site and thinking, “Fine, then.” Local advice steered me towards a creek about 25km north of Northhampton, and after negotiating deep sand at the end of the track, the bike went down. Much heaving brought the 220kg lump shiny-side up, only to have another lie down further along on what turned out to be a sandy hill climb.
I’d spotted a small, unfenced field on the way to the track and returned to check it out. With drastically lowered standards, I set up camp in a farmer’s field behind a stand of trees.
Riding out your driveway is an odd experience when you know you won’t be back for a long time.
Horn
The next day’s ride was a rolling landscape of gorges through the Kalbarri National Park, still tracking north along the coast.
A distant fire gave the early morning sun an orange tinge and the landscape took on a hellish appearance. The weather grew hotter as I flew through the bush until Denham and, caring little for the well-worn path, backtracked to Hamelin Station to stay the night. Paying money – even a small sum – for a camp irked, and at that early point in the trip the comfort of a hot shower and barbeque was lost on me.
The bike sung until I hit Canarvon and, having little reason to stay, kept riding.
The steed of choice was a black DR650, the starting point was Perth and the destination was unknown.
About 50km from the nearest road-house I looked down and saw oil all over the engine and my boot. Inspecting the damage confirmed the oil leak was coming from a rear line connecting the head, crankcase and gearbox. There was still oil in the sump but the level was low and I got on the UHF to try and signal a passing motorist. After a few failed attempts, I managed to get hold of a couple of litres of diesel oil for $10. I rode off, checking the level regularly, and decided the leak wasn’t big enough to halt progress at the roadhouse. I bought a few litres of oil and made for Fortescue River, about 120km away.
After 80km, topping up at intervals, I eventually put in at a roadside parking bay frequented by caravaners, but between the van-load of backpackers who decided to set up right next to me and the road trains passing less than 40m from my tent at all hours, some finding it necessary to keep their horns blaring the whole time they passed the camp, I didn’t sleep well.
A five-day wait for spares.
Hideaway
I was off before dawn.
The ride through the valley into Fortescue River Roadhouse from the south is one not to be missed. Once through a pass, red outcrops of stone stretching up to the heavens flank a plain of immense reach and it’s hard not to feel dwarfed by the expanse of nothingness.
Karatha and Port Headland flew by with a short stop to call the Broome motorcycle shop and order ahead for a new oil line.
I continued on through stunning landscapes and was soon passing along the northwest of the Great Sandy Desert where my only companions were stray cattle and friendly truckies.
As the twilight descended I settled into a concealed bush camp.
Clean sweep
I awoke with a start as a howl issued a few metres behind my head.
I sat up and found a dingo standing at attention. I shooed him off but he kept howling, and as I packed I heard more howling returns from the opposite side of camp.
I hit the road and didn’t stop until Broome, where I found a caravan park a few kilometres from town. The place was surrounded by bush and, with a five-day wait for the bike spares to arrive, I sat most afternoons watching the wallabies feed, the young ones poking out of their pouches to look around while robins perched on the mothers’ backs.
Broome was an interesting place, but I couldn’t imagine staying there for months on end as a lot of backpackers do. The racial tension combined with the heat and mozzies made it far from comfortable. Still, it has its charm.
By the time the spares showed up I was well and truly ready to move on. I hit the road and didn’t stop until Derby, where I fuelled up and continued on towards the start of the Gibb River Road.
Easy street
The first 100km or so of the Gibb River Road was well-paved with brief patches of red dirt, eventually becoming gravel with light corrugations. The grassy wetlands morphed into light, undulating hills and eventually became the King Leopold Ranges whose splendour is difficult to describe.
Belly full and bike loaded, I turned the music up and sped away from the Mount Barnett roadhouse, ready for another day of great bush riding and spectacular scenery. Less than a kilometre down the track I rode into the Barnett River without a second thought and it came as a bit of a shock when the river was almost as deep as the bike itself. Pulling up afterwards I opened the drain on the airbox and was greeted with a stream of water that poured out for several seconds.
The bike kept running and I was mightily impressed by that.
No snap
Crossing the Barnett signalled the start of a slew of deep crossings that had me repeatedly draining the airbox, but nothing prepared me for the King Edward River.
I could see the start of the crossing was about 60cm deep with big boulders scattered around and the current was strong. I plunged in. I could see the rocks about a metre in front of the bike, but the river got much deeper in the middle and the force of the current pushed me down-stream hard. I lost my balance, dabbed a foot to stay upright and was rewarded with a boot full of water.
Once across the bike died. When I started it again it produced an alarming amount of pops and crackles, but I took the plug out of the airbox and it soldiered on.
Slip up
The next day started with a 76km ride to Mitchell Falls over a very corrugated bush track. With boundless energy on my side from the cooked meal and beers given to me by a very kind couple in camp the previous night I flew along as the track became similar to the tracks around the Perth hills. It was the type of terrain I was used to and I was at the falls walking track in no time – apart from a small stack on the only slippery clay patch of the whole section.
The walk to the falls was 8.6km and the trail wound through mangroves, past ancient rock art, along the edges of waterfalls and eventually crossed a river to offer a breathtaking view of Mitchell Falls.
Spent from the walk and dirt ride in, I slowed down on the way out to check the previous crash site and promptly stacked it again. The wet clay caught me both times.
Maintenance time
Breakfast the next morning was at the Drysdale Station. I sat, eating a bacon-and-egg roll, looking at the bike in silent wonder at how it managed to keep plod-ding along. It was in a rough state by this stage. The air filter was probably soaking and filthy, the chain had stretched and was hanging loose, the left Barkbuster was in a pannier after falling off in one of the crashes and the whole bike was covered in red dirt.
In short, I was impressed it was still running.
The Pentecost River gave little trouble, although I was getting used to wet feet. I blasted through to Kunanurra and onwards to Lake Argyle where I managed to give the bike an oil change and order some parts to Katherine.
The next morning I headed south through the Bungle Bungles and onwards to Whipsnake Gully before packing up and leaving for the Keep River National Park in the Northern Territory – a stunning place to bed down for the night and with no ban on fires, just signs reminding people to be responsible.
In Katherine I managed to get a new set of hand guards, a fresh clutch lever and decided to hit up the local machine shop for a license-plate reinforcement (it was cracking around the mounts) and a new mount for the snapped light bar.
While I sat around waiting I decided to camp at Katherine Gorge National Park for the night, a mere 20km out of town.
Springs
With the repairs done I sped away towards Mataranka and turned east to find myself at Roper Bar, about to enter the Limmen National Park.
What a place!
Flogging along at 90kph through twisting gravel roads and the occasional creek crossing, it was easily the most enjoyable riding of the trip so far.
On two of the crossings I saw my first crocodiles. They were only small freshies, but crocs nonetheless!
Butterfly Springs was paradise. A serene pond full of lilies and blooming purple flowers, butterflies everywhere and a little waterfall added to the ambiance – and not a soul around. I swam and sat there reading on the edge of the pond for a while before moving on and walking the track around the Lost Cities, a collection of rock pillars leftover from ages of weathering. The only other person I’d seen in the park so far had mentioned Lorella Springs so I headed there for the night. The signs on approach promised cold beers and food so I was sold.
Beer generator
Entering the homestead, I was surprised to find their plot of land had so much on it. I was encouraged to check out the hot springs, emerald-green swimming holes and swamps full of flying foxes, so with a cooler bag full of beers I rode towards Nudie Hot Springs along tracks of soft sand.
To my dismay, there were no German backpackers at the destination and the name is just that: a name. It was a pleasant soak though, and a lovely couple offered me dinner while another camper provided additional beer as an apology for his running a generator about 30m away. Needless to say, I slept well and it was nice to wake up and swim in the hot pools at dawn.
Chill
Onwards I rode through the final stretch of park, a roller coaster of soft sand, river crossings and hard tracks. There’s nothing like flying along at 100kph and trying not to pop the tyres as sharp bedrock rises up from the track, all the while dodging stray cattle and keeping the bike steady through the tankslappers. In short, it was magnificent, adrenaline-fuelled riding.
I popped out at Cape Crawford and decided to head south along the highway to Mount Isa where I’d lined up a new rear tyre. From Isa I backtracked to Lawn Hill National Park, and it was an odd experience to ride through hundreds of kilometres of scrub and suddenly emerge at a gorge full of life.
Lawn Hill is a permanent water source of emerald hue which houses a healthy pop-ulation of freshwater crocs and snapping turtles. I spent a couple of contented days swimming under waterfalls, walking the tracks through the park and enjoying the aboriginal artwork in the area.
Onwards through Georgetown I rode, and over the next 200km the terrain changed dramatically. By the time I made Ravenshoe I was shivering and riding into a rainforest.
After a chilly camp I had breakfast in Atherton and rode through the most stunning landscape of intense-green,fog-shrouded hills. The road had turned into a series of sharp bends and switch-backs, and in a small town I saw a group of bikes outside a cafe and decided to stop in.
I was greeted like a celebrity.
Everyone wanted to know if I’d been to this park or that spot on the way over.
It turned out it was a ride for a club devoted to raising funds for Alzheimer’s research so I was somewhat out of place, but it was nice to chat to fellow bike enthusiasts regardless.
it was an odd experience to ride through hundreds of kilometres of scrub and suddenly emerge at a gorge full of life.
Back in town
Through a mountain pass down to the lowlands fraught with bends threatening to overheat my struggling brakes and overextend my dirt-biased tyres, I arrived in Cairns.
To say it was a shock to go from seeing a handful of cars, a scattering of build-ings and speak to one or two people throughout each day to dodging all of it in incredible numbers is an under-statement. Cairns is a major city, a veritable maze for someone unaccustomed to its roads. I managed to find a likeable caravan park for a couple of nights in order to get the bike sorted, then moved to a cheap camp at a national park to use as a base while I explored.
As for Cairns, I can say I’ve never before seen such a conglomeration of stunning females. However, as fate is a cruel mistress, I’ve also not seen before a population of males of such statuesque perfection. Bronzed, muscled and wearing the latest fashion, they wander around with supermodels on their arms and ruined any chance I may have had at finding companionship. Where in the bush I was one of the rare men under 60, I was invisible in Cairns’ sea of urban gods.
My brake pedal had been bent so many times it had lost its identity completely, so after ordering a replacement and a fresh set of waterproof riding boots, I pointed the bike north towards Cape Tribulation, on the coast of the Daintree rainforest.
Warm reception
Getting away from the city traffic was a relief. The cars grew more sparse and the sugarcane plantations gave way to the oldest surviving rainforest in the world. It towered above with ancient indifference.
While having a chat to someone at a van park in Cairns, I mentioned I was heading north and was taken aback when his response was, “Yeah, watch your bike up north mate. Those blackfellas got sticky fingers.”
At first I didn’t understand what he meant, but when it dawned on me I was angry for a couple of reasons. First because racism is still rife in Australia, and second there’s enough truth in it for it to continue.
My next move was uncertain. I could go north towards Cooktown or start making my way south. After a night of inebriation and sweat I decided to again seek a cooler climate.
The bike needed some attention, so the next morning was spent cleaning the air filter, installing the new brake pedal, adjusting the front suspension and changing over the front sprocket. I wandered around the Atherton Tablelands for the day, bought a jumper to combat the chill and made for Lake Tinaroo for the night.
Fresh
I rode to the lake, found some tracks leading off into the bush and set up camp.
The next day I stopped for a coffee at Australia’s oldest coffee plantation and headed towards the delightful little town of Kuranda, supposedly the ‘original’ rainforest markets.
I camped at another spot in the bush just outside town and wandered in for breakfast the next morning. As I picked my way through tie-dyed shirts and beaded necklaces I saw a Wolfmother concert was in town that night. That was an opportunity too good to miss.
The concert was awesome.
Riding south the next day had the first rain I’d seen on the trip and I’d posted my waterproofs home way back in Broome, but I was quickly dry once the rain subsided. I continued on through Ingham, past the original Pub With No Beer and ended up weaving my way up through the Paluma Ranges.
After a long day’s riding I settled in for the night at another well-hidden spot out of the way of any likely traffic. It was a cold night’s sleep, but much preferred to writhing around in a pool of sweat. In the morning, I sat in front of a fire with a cup of tea having just polished off a mushroom, smoked-salmon and camembert omelette on toast. Little yellow-breasted birds fluttered through the undergrowth picking at insects and whistling to their counterparts. The sun was shining through the trees as it made its steady ascent but there was a bite to the breeze thanks to the 850m of elevation. I had nowhere to be so I just sat and enjoyed the symphony that nature so unselfishly offered.
Camp cuisine
From Paluma I beelined to Townsville and ended up at Ayr for the night after much time spent failing to find a camp on the way. The next day’s destination was Airlie Beach, which showed some national park camping in the Whitsundays.
On arrival I found it was somewhat of a backpacker haven so decided to spend the night in town. As usual, I regretted the decision instantly and my illusions of a night of partying such as I used to do a few years ago were quickly dashed.
Instead, I was in bed by 7.00pm, falling asleep to the thumping of the bars and clubs in the next street. Never again.
In Mackay I fitted a new rear tyre and front sprocket and headed west to Eungella. The whole area is dairy country and beautiful riding through lush pastures with little cottages on the hills.
I found a perfect camp right next to a river and settled in for what turned out to be a two-degree night. Luckily I had a roaring fire and sat with tea and a fire-cooked pan full of bacon, eggs, mushrooms and tomato, enjoying the peace of the quiet forest.
Luxury
Having stopped in town for a coffee and cake, I continued on dirt roads to Nebo.
The country was stunning and the weather prefect. Onwards I wound my way through the low hills, zig-zagging along the coast towards Noosa where an aunt of mine lived. Warm greetings made me feel right at home and she wasted no time getting me settled in to the spare bedroom. I slept in an actual bed for the first time since leaving Perth.
Hours spent catching up and trading stories saw me stay another night in comfort. It was nice to stop moving for a moment, not have to pack up camp and constantly consider logistics for the next move. I decided to find some work and ended up staying for a few weeks explor-ing the area.
Movin’ on
After a very pleasant break I set off southward again and took stock.
I’d been on the road for four months and was just about to roll over the 20,000km mark. There was no magnificent view to accompany the milestone and I found myself with a banging headache sifting through the dense suburbs of Brisbane.
Once away from the maze, I settled into the slow, easy pace of travel again. Down through the Glasshouse Mountains and into the Northern Rivers area of northern NSW where twisty roads are the norm.
Coming into Nimbin from the west was an exercise in brake control as every twist in the mountain passes threatened nasty vertical drops. Apart from the cannabis culture, there wasn’t much to the fabled natural retreat of Nimbin and I quickly slabbed it south to Grafton.
Camp was 80km west in the Gibraltar Range at a place called Mulligans Hut.
With water on tap, rainforest hikes and a quiet camping ground, I decided to spend a couple of days enjoying the area before moving on.
Conglomeration
Arriving at Inverell I saw a bike shop and it wasn’t until I pulled over to check out the tricked-up DR650 out the front I realised it was Vince Strang Motorcycles.
DRs were everywhere and I rode with a fellow named Peter to the Adventure Rider Magazine meet up at Green Valley Farm,roughly 30km southeast of Inverell and through boarded-up Tingha.
We were among the first there and watched the bikes roll in, everything from XT250s to KTM 1290s, but in the end the DR650 was the bike of choice.
There were over 80 of them. Saturday night included a few beers, yarns and a prize giveaway which saw me with a free T-shirt and mag subscription for the furthest distance ridden to the event.
On top of that, Vince Strang was kind enough to supply a set of Pirelli MT21s in support of my adventure.
Answer the call
A healthy balance of twisty bitumen and graded dirt roads saw me through the New England National Park and at a nice bush camp around 50km east of Armidale. The Dutton River Trout Hatchery was on the way, so a fillet of smoked trout made an excellent dinner.
More glorious riding the next morn-ing led me to Comboyne just southwest of Port Macquarie. With plans to camp in the Tapin Tops National Park, the bike flew along the dirt until we came to a stop at Dingo Flats campsite.
I’m not sure what happened that night, but the next morning I knew I had to get away. The clean, signposted and neatly trimmed site put me in a dark mood and I yearned to be far away from the well-ordered society that spurned it.
And so, with the open road drawing me like a moth to a flame, I turned west and rode.
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