So Much Wheat

First of all, I want to thank those of you who have left comments or e-mailed me. I'm sorry for not responding to you all. It thrills me to no end to receive responses to this blog. It's hard to believe that people are reading this blather, but it's so nice to know that you are. The more feedback the better, so by all means, tell me what you think, and ask questions if you have them, and I will try to answer!

If I had had more time to get to Melbourne, I would have chosen a different route. For about a thousand kilometers, most of what I saw were wheat fields. There were short parts when I would see pastures with sheep or cattle, but wheat is the big business out here on the plains. Here's how it went according to my scribblings and already fading memory:

When I left Lightning Ridge, Gwen and Athol told me not to stop in Walgett, and that the road between Walgett and Coonamble was boring. They were right. Walgett was a dump, and the road south of it was abysmal. Somewhere in the middle of that road, the sun was setting. It was difficult to find a patch of trees dense enough to set up a hidden camp. When I did, I veered off and pushed the bike though knee-deep thistles, nettles, briars, thickets, and other various prickly things. And would you look at this! Yes they have them here! They call them "cat heads," but I think they look more like a goat. The plant looks the same, and the thorns are the same except for a light fuzz on some of them. My tires were covered in them by the time I made it to my fly infested patch of dirt under a half dead gum tree. I shared the site with two trap door spiders, hundreds of mosquitoes, and an overwhelming hum in the air from million of flies. All I could do was set up my tent, get in, seal it up, and sit there out of the bugs. I was forced to put my tent over one of the spider burrows, and after lying down for the night, I heard it tapping against the floor of my tent.

The next morning, much to my surprise, my tires were not flat. Dozens of cat heads had stabbed their sharp points into the rubber, but none were long enough to poke the inner tube. So if you cyclists out there want a good tire to resist thorns, get the Schwalbe Marathon Plus. Also, after the first thousand kilometers, they showed very little wear. My first flat of the trip was eventually caused by a long piece of wire, probably from one of the many shredded truck tires along the road.

So my second day heading south turned out much nicer than the first. Passing through Coonamble, the stinky flat fields and carpet of thorns gave way to pastures, more trees, and the smell of wild flowers. I was riding along side the Casterleigh River, and off a bend in the road I found an untraveled two-track heading down to the sandy banks. It was the best bush campsite yet. I staked the tent into the grass roots of a soft sand mound, grabbed my tea and notebook, and climbed up onto a huge fallen tree overlooking the calm river. It was a sort of natural recliner, and I spent the whole evening relaxing in complete solitude under the warm setting sun. It was also the first night with no clouds and no chance of rain, so I left the rainfly off and stayed up late staring at the cosmos.

The farther south I went, the more trucks passed me. There was a nice smooth shoulder most of the way, but the hot sandy blasts of air from the road trains made me yearn for the quietude of camp. I decided to make it to Dubbo for a rest day and clean up at a caravan park. My rest day also gave me a chance to visit the Taronga Zoo. This place is the way all zoos should be. More like Jurassic park than a typical zoo, all the animals have huge enclosures to roam in, and there is very little separating you from them. There are almost no fences, just steep ditches around the harmless animals, and moats for the big cats. Much to my delight, I was able to ride my bike through the front gate, all around the zoo, and right up to the berms surrounding the exhibits. It made me feel like a kid in a candy store, and I had the place largely to myself. The Primates here all have there own islands with trees and big vines and ropes to swing on. Before I left the U.S. I visited the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo In Colorado Springs, and all the primates there were cooped up in drab little cells, hunched over with sullen looks. One little monkey was actually covering his head with both hands, rocking back and forth, and banging his forehead against a wall. The gorilla was lying on his side, vomiting onto the concrete floor, eating the vomit, and repeating this in a cycle. I doubt it was natural behavior. So it was nice to see all the apes here in Dubbo swinging around with glee, whooping and bellowing to each other from their tall island trees.

There is a bike path leading directly into the city from the zoo, and I decided to find some lunch at the end of it. Let me tell you about the lunch I found at the Pastoral Bar and Grill situated on the balcony of an old rickety hotel. My Mom told me to try barrimundi if I had the chance, so I ordered it. It was the best piece of fish I have ever had. The texture was incredible. Each bite from my fork burst into little buttery smooth flakes when compressed with the slightest pressure between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The outside was lightly golden and sprinkled with big flakes of peppercorn. The salad had probably been picked minutes before it hit the plate, and it had mache and arugula. Combined with two schooners of ice cold Tooheys, this meal put me in a state of bliss. I gazed out of the second-story balcony at the old buildings lining the street with one hand on my belly, the other on my glistening beer, and I thought everything was just fine. The waitress had liquid eyes too.

South out of Dubbo, I felt like I was hauling ass for the first time on the trip. A stiff tailwind was pushing me along at a 25km/h average, and the kilometers were whizzing by. I came upon some sad little signs for fruit, and stopped to give the poor fruit vendor my business. The old man was just selling fruit out of his station wagon next to the freeway. I bought a huge bag of plump cherries from him for three bucks. For those that are not aware, an Australian dollar is worth about 65 U.S. cents, so I made out like a cherry bandit.

Farther south I went, and trucks, trucks, trucks! By the time I was approaching Parkes, I was getting sick to death of the trucks blasting me, and the assault of noise. I took a much needed detour to visit the Parkes radio telescope. This is where the Apollo 11 television pictures were relayed from, beaming the pictures of spacemen on the moon to millions of people. There is only one dish, but it is impressive in size, and the little museum is free to walk through.

Back on the road for a short trip to the town of Parkes where I found a crummy little caravan park to sleep at. The only good thing about the establishment was the one sheep they used to mow the grass. I huddled in my tent watching the sheep go about his grass-eating business. I had to put my tent next to the north wall of the amenities building because there was a flurry of locusts streaming through the town from the south. Millions of the little beasts were on their way somewhere.

The next day, I rode down into a headwind, through the stinky town of Forbes, and into the locusts. As I mentioned before, the locusts were rather like a snow flurry with big fat flakes, though it wasn't quite thick enough for a good photograph. They never really bothered me very much and never landed on me, but there were sufficient numbers of them to compel me to keep my mouth shut. With a passing car, I could hear the little death slaps they made on the grilles and windshields, and their little squished bodies covered the road surface. As I rode, I would scare up a cloud of them. Some of them would leap into my spokes mangling themselves with a "TING!" Others flew in front of me for a considerable time, like tiny dolphins in front of a massive ship.

Somewhere along the way I see a white station wagon pass me in the opposite direction. Moments later, the same wagon passes me from behind, slows to a stop, begins a u-turn, and is nearly t-boned by a following truck. I see a toothless leathery face with wiry black hair jabbering at me from behind the drivers window. The woman said, "If you put all your heavy stuff up front, it will be easier!"

"Well, I have all of my food up front, so that's kind of what I've done." I said.

"But if you put all your heavy stuff up front, it will be easier, trust me! You know when you're turning the pedals? It's hard isn't it?

"Yes."

"I know because I carried my son on a seat on the back, then I put him up front and it was easier. Try it, you'll see."

"Okay, I will. Thanks for the tip."

I know she meant well and was trying to be affable, but I just hope she doesn't ever risk her life again to give any more useless cycling tips.

I had the most wonderful fortune on they day I passed through Young, the cherry capital of Australia. There was a cherry festival going on, but I didn't stop since I was used to paying three bucks a kilo, and the prices there were all jacked up for the tourists. I just blew through town. The festival traffic became quite thick on the road south of town, so I pulled off into a rest area for a lunch on the grass. Before long, three fourbies pulled up and six Portuguese people from Canberra began setting up an elaborate picnic arrangement. They said "Come have lunch with us! We are having barbecue!" And so, there I sat with these wonderful people as they showered me with pork chops, veal steaks, spicy sausages, salad, homemade bread, homemade red wine, and homemade cookies and cake. I knew it was bad for riding a bike, but I stuffed myself and drank four glasses of delicious wine. The barbecue hissed, they told me about Portugal, and I told them about New Mexico. The older fellow Antonio told me about his theories on the life-lengthening properties of red wine and pork fat, and jolly Pinto laughed loudly with a wide smile and served me big slices of meat. Before they left, they gave me a huge tub of leftover meat, a bag of bread, and a pile of cookies to take with me. They dismantled the picnic items as efficiently as they had set it up, and they were off. I had to sit there on the grass for an hour and a half, dozing in the shade and letting the food digest. Then, with my head all warm and fuzzy with wine, I set off to the south again. I had a headwind and painful acidy burps tasting of various meats, but damn I was happy. Somewhere I passed a cherry stand that made me laugh out loud. I swung back around to take a photo. It was deserted by the tourists, but a life-size mechanical Santa was still there, endlessly waving one arm and emitting a portly voice singing "Good tidings we bring to you and your king, good tidings for Christmas, and a happy new year." Standing there in the hot sun with the sound of the distant Santa and the wind whistling through my spokes was surreal, and surrealism makes me happy.

That evening, I passed through Cootamundra. It's a nice little town, but is seemed a little too quiet and deserted, almost like something out of a movie where some disease outbreak forces everyone to evacuate. I glided down the silent streets and pulled into an abandoned Shell station. All the glass was smashed out of the dials on the old pumps and shards littered the concrete. The water tap still worked though, so I tanked up. An old man in his 80s ambled by with a cane, asked me the usual questions, and ambled on again. Further south I went with my load of water, looking for an unfenced area to camp in. I came to a rest area just as my legs were starting to feel a bit flimsy and sat on the picnic bench trying to decide what to do. It was there that Susie found me and invited me up the road to her and her husband Alistair's farmhouse. They welcomed me in, let me shower, made me dinner, and made a bed for me. Alistair even shared his beer with me, made hot cocoa, and photocopied some maps which turned out to be immensely helpful later on. Their three kids were very polite, and had all sorts of questions about my trip and my bike. As I fell asleep that night looking at the stars through the window and listening to the soft crickets, I daresay I envied Susie and Alistair a bit. I am so fortunate to have met them, and it was humbling to receive so much welcoming generosity from such a lovely family.

In the morning I joined Susie and the kids back at the picnic bench where they found me the previous night and the school bus picked them up. I had a race with their daughter to the mailbox and back, me on my bike, and her on foot. I didn't stand a chance. The cat and the little dog ran down the road to join us for a photo, and then I was off again feeling like a million bucks.

But that day was to be a bit ill-fated. I made it about ten kilometers before my rear tire exploded in a fury of hissing. I suspect that I ran over a large piece of glass, probably the jagged base of a broken beer bottle. I probably rolled over it at one of my "natural breaks." The gash lay dormant for the next 10k, the fibers tearing a ever more with each little bump, letting the tube bulge further and further. Finally one last bump in the tarmac, and BLAM! After the initial stupefying cloud of anger subsided, I decided to try and patch the slice in the tire from the inside, and reinforce it with some roadside trash. I cut a piece of plasitc from a drink bottle, sanded the sharp edges down, and slid it in between the tube and tire. This did the trick, and I was soon on my way again. I didn't dare put more than 60psi in the tire though, and later down the road, the plastic wore into the tube causing a slow leak, so I had to modify my fix by gluing a swath of rubber cut from an old tube over the plastic patch. This prevented the plastic piece from cutting into the new tube, and my gashed tire was ready for the next 6ook.

December 9th found me back in the mountains. Finally! What a relief to be out of the damn wheat fields and rolling through the cool trees and hillside vineyards! You might think it would be easier to ride in the flatlands, but not for me. Riding on the plains made my ass, wrists, and neck sore because the riding position changes very little. In the mountains, I can stand up for long climbing stretches, tap out a rhythm, then relax for the downhills. The climb up to the old goldrush town of Beechworth was a steamy one even though it was starting to sprinkle. Beechworth is a spectacular town perched high in the hills, and there I found the best caravan park ever. At the Silver Creek Caravan Park, I had a grassy terrace all to myself. In the towering gum trees around my tent, koalas clung to the trees, one of which was a mother with a baby clinging to her back. A few meters away, a bridge led over the creek and up some steps to a hiking track. It was on this track where I heard some rusting in the shrubs. I found a basketball-sized lump of spines burying its head in some sticks, the sides raising and lowering slowly as it breathed. It was a wild echidna, and I think they are my new favorite Australian creature. One of only two monotremes in the world, they are incredibly bizarre, and not to mention cute. I decided to sit motionless near him and wait to see what would happen. After a few minutes, the head emerged and the snout waved around in the air, nostrils working to try and smell danger. It blinked its little black orbs, but it couldn't seem to see me. It actually came toward me for a moment, my foot made a twig snap, and it slammed its head into the sticks again. A few more minutes of stillness, and the head was raised again for more sniffing. I wanted to pick him up and squeeze him, but I wasn't sure about the spines, so I let him turn and waddle into the dense shrubs. What a treat to see a wild one up close!

On the second night in Beechworth, I met an intrepid couple, Gordo and Lisa. They were fed up with busy Brisbane, so they loaded up thier old ford station wagon, grabbed the two dogs, and headed south for Hobart. Gordo says that Hobart is more like how Brisbane used to be back in the 70s and 80s. Much to my delight, he is a beer conisseur, and he shared some local Beechworth brews with me. I told him the IPA reminded me of home, and he handed me another icy cold one. He also gave me some good tips for trekking in Tassie. Apparently, the crows on the Overland Track will peck holes in backpacks to get at the food and goodies inside. Also, tasmanian devils have been known to steal hiking boots and eat them, so I'll have to sleep next to my stinky boots. I must say, I got a bit tipsy that night as we talked till long after dark.

From beautiful Beechworth I headed south through the King Valley wine region, so I had to tote along a bottle of local cabernet and some goat cheese for a couple hundred kilometers. At the foggy mountain town of Jamieson I had a warm breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee before turing west and climbing to Lake Eildon National Park. This was the most spectacular day of the trip so far. The road is smooth, steep, full of switchbacks, and I only saw one car in the few hours of climbing. I found an area called Burnt Bridge Camping Area, and I set up my tent on the soft grass and moss near Big River. I had the whole area to myself. I filtered cool water from the rapids at the river bank, and strolled around taking photos of all the bizzare miniature plants on the damp forest floor. I might have to return to that spot later in the trip, as I had to stay in my tent for a good portion of the time due to heavy rain.

The heavy rain continued into the next day, and I was planning a 160k ride into Melbourne though it. I didn't quite make it. I picked a senic, but terrible road leading towards Melbourne. The busy traffic and entire lack of a shoulder forced me into the muddy shoulder for about 25 kilometers. The end of that came as I jumped from the frying pan into the fire at a pass called The Black Spur about 60k north of the city. I didn't realize how bad it ws going to be until I got half way up. There is absolutely no room for a bike in between the guardrail and the lane, and the drivers weren't making me feel welcome. I had to use every vehicle pullout available to rest beween mad uphill sprints. The only thing in my favor were the raging winds and bucketing rain, as it was causing the cars to drive more slowly. At the top of the Black Spur, I stopped to rest. The gum trees up there are nothing short of enormous, and the wind was causing them to heel over, bending them down the trunks as they resisted with a deep roar. It was mid-day, but it was black alright. The heavy clouds blotted out the sun, and the big raindrops shone in the headlights of passing cars. Down I went at 55km/h, tires hissing and disc brakes steaming. Shaking from exhaustion, I pulled into the first motel I could find in Healsville, turned on the heater in the room, and slowly began to dry out. It was expensive, but I ordered a heap of food from the kitchen delivered to my room. I didn't care, I was just glad to have survived the Black Spur.

In Melbourne, I was scheduled to meet my Tassie hiking partner Bonnie. Well, thank goodness for Bonnie. She came to Healsville in her little white Subaru and picked me up at the motel. It felt SO good to be picked up and wisked along through all the quagmire of suburbs into the city. Since then, I have met some of her friends, and had a relaxing time hanging out in the city. This afternoon, we fly to Launceston in Tassie and head for the Overland Track. After 7 days on the Overland, we have a Christmas rest in Hobart before embarking on a 14-18 day epic trek through the Arthurs in the south of Tassie. It will be remote and rugged, hiking over razorbacks and camping near high mountain lakes. It will be something big, maybe bigger and tougher than my 23 days and 2400 kilometer journey from Brisbane. I am ready though. I've outfitted meyself with good gear from the Melbourne outdoor shops, and Bonnie has tirelessly planned the trip out, poured over maps, and dehydrated heaps of food for us all. She is really the catalyst behind the next month of mountaineering adventure. Without her, I wouldn't have tackled it.

I won't have my computer with me until January 15th, so there will be no blog posts until then. Farewell to all, and I hope everything is well back in the States.

Lightning Ridge

I am so privileged to know Gwen, Athol, and their son Raymond. My visit to Kangaroo Hill was far more than I ever could have asked for. Gwen is sweet, kind, generous, with a heart as big as a pumpkin and a memory like an elephant. She was always going somewhere around the little house with a smile, tirelessly making tea or heaping, delicious meals of meat, gravy, potatoes and steamed vegetables. If I tried to do the dishes in return, she would put up a fight, and a strong fight at that. One time, she successfully wrestled my arms away from the sink. She is also a spectacular story teller, and she has hundreds of them. When she tells them, she becomes enveloped by the memory, her blue eyes shine like jewels, and she laughs like a school girl during the funny bits.

Athol is a feisty old chap, still sharp as a tack after 88 years. He used to be a great track cyclist, winning a plethora of medals and accolades right up into his 80s. He's been of the bike for a while due to hip pain, but he says after a hip replacement in January, he will be back on the bike. I have no doubt he will. He proudly showed me photo albums and scrapbooks from his racing days filled with sepia photos of blurred racers on dirt tracks and old open-fendered motor cars covered with bikes and wheels on the way to a new adventure. He and I went on jolly trips into town to get groceries and scoff at the unruly youths that cause mischief in town. One day at the supermarket, the little brats were riding down the street on shopping carts, knocking them over, and jumping on them like trampolines. Athol also spied one of them shoplift a coke, but the store staff didn't care. We also went to the butcher shop a couple of times where we got delicious meats for Gwen's dinners. As we walked into the shop Athol said with a devilish grin, "The girl behind the counter here has liquid brown eyes!" True enough, she did.

Gwen and athol are real life pioneers. It is something that has long since passed and been forgotten in the U.S., but when they came out to the dusty ridge, they lived in a hut with a dirt floor. They have since made everything on their small opal mining claim with their bare hands. Thy now have a comfortable life, and everything in their home seems to work better than in most modern suburban homes because they have had to innovate, create, and fix everything themselves. Their home is simple, but with that simplicity comes a peace that is seldom found in the chaotic modern suburbs. There is no need to lock the doors, and the loudest noise in the night is a possum walking across the metal roof.

They have constructed a small, fully furnished bungalow next to the house, complete with a bathroom and a kitchen chopped out of a caravan. It was like having my own private cozy house to live in for my five-day visit. I couldn't possibly ask for more.

But wait, there's more. The second day of my visit was Thanksgiving day back in the States, and Gwen cooked up a big chicken for me in a pot on the wood stove. Raymond came over, Gwen got out her best crystal, and we all sat around the big table, ate like royalty, drank wine, and laughed for hours.

The Wedge-tailed Eagle

A great wedge-tailed eagle, the size of a crouched person, was brought to Gwen with a gnarled brass bullet in her wing. The eagle was terrified of Gwen in the beginning, but an old aborigine told her to whisper to it, and soon the eagle would be tame. So Gwen made soft whistling whispers to the eagle, and soon she was able to sit next to her, stroke the feathers, and massage the lump of metal out of her wing. Soon after, the cage door could be left open. The eagle came and went for a while before returning permanently to the wild. Some time later, the same eagle returned to Kangaroo Hill to swirl and dive with her mate over the house.

Gravelia the Wombat

Gravelia was taken in and could not be released into the wild again, so she was kept as a pet. She grew to a massive size, something like a large hog, and when she wasn't waddling around the house, she insisted on being carried over Gwen's shoulder. Wombats are burrowing creatures, and one day whilst hanging the wash, the clothesline suddenly went plunging into the earth and on top of Gwen. Gravelia had undermined it. Gravelia also hated books. Something in her little wombat mind told her that every book needed to be destroyed. If a book were left out in the house, she would seize it in her teeth and shake it, send it flying across the room, pursue it, and shake some more until nothing was left but bits.

Jasper the Red Kangaroo

Jasper was a six-foot tall red Kangaroo who live with Gwen and Athol for many years. Jasper thought that he was human, and would come inside to stretch out on the sofa. Gwen had company over one day, and her friend came in to find Jasper lounging on his back with his hind legs spread and all of his unmentionables on display. Another time, Athol was working in the yard hammering steel fence posts into the ground with a big post-setter (basically a big pipe with a blunt ram inside and two handles). Jasper hopped over, placed his hands on top of Athol's hands, and helped Athol thrust the tool downward with each stroke.

And to think Gwen and Athol were worried that I wouldn't like the Ridge! I had a great time going on bike rides with Gwen and Raymond, going into town with Athol, chasing lizards, drinking tea, looking though the little museum that they have constructed, and just chatting in the afternoons over sherry. Here are a few more photos of my stay there:

This is an Italian fellow named Victorio. He has single-handedly built a huge castle out of hand-collected rocks. He carries them home, and heaves them up into the walls.

Kangaroos are sweet little creatures. This is an orphan that Gwen took in.

Bearded dragons are not so sweet. This one wanted me dead. It leaped up in the air and hissed its little head off.

This chap kept me company while I typed on the computer.

Here's an innovative use for an old track frame. It's a human powered opal grinder!

Charlie, I think you should change your logo. This place was hoppin!

Athol and I on the day of my departure

Through the rainforest and into the west

Brisbane was an impressive city; a bit European, full of gardens, pubs, clean streets, and modern buildings. A lovely girl named Jasmin was my host there, and she and her two flatmates made me feel right at home. Wewent for a river walk past a man-made, chlorinated lagoon packed with people baking themselves, went to the contemporary art exhibit and saw some puffy white structures, ate lamb wraps, strolled though the botanical gardens scaring bearded dragons off the sidewalk, went to a ripper of a barbecue at her friend's house, made spaghetti polonaise with my special spices from Savory Spice Shop in Boulder Colorado, and watched "There's Something About Mary." She even went out of her way to help me get a mobile phone, and try to fix my inexplicable and mysterious laptop computer problem. 

I had constant rain for two days after the storm in Brisbane that flattened a bunch of houses. Rain Rain Rain. The 80k ride down to Lamington national park was a splash-o-matic. It pissed on me all day and into the night. Dampness crept into every part of me, and everything in my bags. Impediments abound on the way out of the city, but I only got myself lost once. The rewards were the calm rolling hills and country roads south of the city and the burning ascent to the cold and foggy crest of Tambourine Mountain. The descent down the other side plunged down at 14%, and I got the rig up to 65km/h through sideways rain and stinging ice pellets. The storm that pummeled Brissie had also hit Tambourine Mountain, and left the roadsides strewn with little 1-inch diameter sticks. Glistening in the wet, these presented a heightened challenge.

After a grocery stop in the quaint little town of Canungra, I made my way up to the caravan park in the forest below Binna Burra. On my way, my front tire rolled off a 1-inch lip of tarmac, and began an unrecoverable sideways slide. Slam! Down on the cold black road with my forearm and palm. The truck driver approaching in his rig from behind me probably heard me proclaim my dissatisfaction, as I heard his big diesel lug down as though a surprised foot had been jerked away from the gas pedal. Stung, and finally reaching my soggy camp, I fell asleep writing while the sound of raindrops popped like popcorn on my rainfly. Every so often, one would hit the spot opposite where a ball of condensation had gathered on the ceiling. The ball would be thrust off and blasted into mist by the interior tent mesh to dampen everything below, just a little more.

I woke up to blue sky and rode 23k up to the foggy

entrance to Lamington. I wanted a good hike in the rainforest, and that's what I got. Dense, tropical, rays of light in the mist, a dripping canopy, deep gorges and hundreds of waterfalls. The heavy scent of green life hung, and frogs grunted

from dark hollows. I imitated a grunt, and a half dozen tiny replies followed. Hundreds of thin spider webs crossed the path. Some I ducked under, but most wrapped around my arms and face. A plethora of bright birds shrieked, chirped, and pierced the humid air with punctuated song. Under the

soaked leaves, the leeches lay in wait. When ashoe passed, they latched on, and began theirupward inching. Finally, past the top of the sock and onto warm skin for a feast! I tried to fend them off for the first half of the trek, but alas, there were just too many. So I let them have their fill and waited for the end of the hike to serve my revenge cold. Around the midpoint, there were no less than fourteen crossings of deep whitewater rapids. A relief to the sting of the leeches, but a challenge to stay afoot over slippery smooth boulders and rushing water up to the thighs. I never saw another soul on the whole track.

After 16k, wearily reaching my bike with bloody ankles, and screaming back down the mountain to camp, I found Rick and Candy. From across the campground, they approached me and absolutely humbled me with generosity. They prepared a feast from their little camper van, and offered me everything they had. New Zealand wine, roast chicken, baked potatoes, carrots with honey, sweet potatoes with spicy sauce (my favorite), and tender pumpkin was all mine to savor. Candy even had little chocolate s'mores wrapped in foil which she cooked in the coals of the campfire. We talked into the night until an approaching storm forced us all to take cover. 

I huddled in my tent and dozed as the lightning came. With each bright flash, my eyes would pop open and dart around waiting for the tearing crash and the rippling of the earth under my back. Morning brought more blue sky, and Rick came over with a hot cup of coffee, and invited me to the van for toast and pineapple jam. After photos and goodbyes, and with a full heart and a full belly, I propelled myself west to Boonah.

After 90k, and with more ominous green storms looming, I checked myself into the "Australia Pub" in Boonah where I got a spacious room, three schooners (pints)  of Tooheys, and an "Australia Burger." for forty bucks. The layers of the Australia burger are as follows: Bun, beef, thick Aussie bacon, onion, fried egg, lettuce, tomato, cheese, slice of beet, bun. The steak fries on the side were seasoned with chicken salt, and they soaked up the drippings from the burger. I dipped them in white vinegar, tomato sauce, barbecue sauce, and savored every morsel. The storm that hit Boonah was another booming violent one. I watched it all from the old wood porch of the pub. Unfortunately for the Boonahans, they were having a parade of classic cars when it struck. That was the end of that.

The road out of Boonah was fine until reaching "Cunningham's Gap." Here, the shoulder disappeared, the road trains downshifted and accelerated, and the sun baked me as I crawled up 8 kilometers of 18% grade. I took a well deserved rest for tea and cookies in the bit of rainforest at the top before setting off into the headwinds and vastness of the west.

Decending into the farmlands, I came across a speedo check. Nervously pulling up to the checking booth, I asked if my lycra cycling shorts counted, and they let me go with a warning.

The days that followed were the most trying. I fought for three days, averaging 10km/h into stiff westerlies and camping in the bush. When a road train passes at just the right speed and distance from my handlebars, and the wind is just right, something curious happens; I get sucked towards the last passing axles of the last trailer, and over the white line into the wash of flying pebbles behind the truck. Unpleasant to say the least, and each time warranting a loud curse. Comfort came at the end of one of the windy days though. I stopped in the sleepy empty streets of Inglewood for a cheap burger and coke. The cafe owner chatted with me about my journey, and before he closed the shop with a case of beer in his hands, he gave me two free beef pies and wished me "all the best." The pies, made by the "Outback Pie Company" were quite satisfying as I settled into my bush campsite. Their motto is "Pies so beefy we brand 'em!" Sure enough, they are branded with a logo, and were quite beefy. As I settled in and dozed off that night, my eyes shot open to the sound of a gargling belch a few feet away from my tent. I have now found out, it was probably a koala startled by my rustlings in my tent. Who would have thought a cuddly little thing would make such a foul noise? I was also kept a wake for some time that night by the squabbling of two koalas across the river. they produced the most shrill, choking, screams, something akin to swine were being tortured. By comparison, the sound of the passing road trains was soothing. The combination of the engine, and all fifty-some tires humming down the pavement sounds like a quad-engine turboprop cargo plane coming in for a landing.

A cold morning followed, and I set off into the wind again at 6am. Another day hunched over and struggling to make a joggers pace. At one point, I stopped at a deserted roadside rest area and huddled behind a big plastic rainwater tank for a snack. It was the first time, sitting out of the wind on the warmth of the asphalt, that I dreaded getting on my bike. I had to ask myself, why?The answer: You have to take the bad moments along with the good ones if you want the overall experience to be a rich one. Wind is only temporary, cold is only temporary, and my hestiation was only temporary. It wasn't long before I was comfortable again. After this day, making it to 

Goodiwindi, I broke down and forked over the plastic for a modern motel. I don't regret it. I took two showers, washing the particles out of my puffy eyes, lounged on the bed watching Australian news, strolled down to "Crazy Clark's" (a store much like Big Lots in the U.S.) to load up on goodies to eat, and slept like the dead on a nice firm mattress. The winds died down a bit after my stop in Goondiwindi, and I managed to make 140k, to a delightful camp in the bush the following night. The red earth was perfectly flat amongst the gums and shrubs, and I watched the orange sunset and birds playfully swooping between the trees. After dinner, I dozed to the sound of kangaroos hopping past my tent in the dark.

Almost to my friends at Lightning Ridge, but not quite, I made a 180k haul through the calm flatlands along the southern border of Queensland. It was at the Diran Pub in Diranbandi where I stopped after120k for a steak sandwich and a schooner of Victoria Bitter before making the next 60k to Hebel. When I walked into the general store in Hebel (One of about five buildings), I felt like a kid for a moment. Sunburned and legs aching, I salivated at the cold drinks gleaming behind glass and the big gummy candies in jars. Along with my goodies, I procured a tent site at the same store and had a peaceful night.

Now, I'm finally in Lightning Ridge for a few days of rest, and I am enjoying the warm hospitality of my good friends Gwen and Athol. This is an amazing place, and Gwen and Athol have so much wisdom to learn from. I will tell all about it next time.

Arrival

I had a knot in my belly the whole way over, and I still do. What did I get myself into? How am I going to make it? The knot is from anticipation of adventure, but also because I am eight thousand miles from everything familiar, and making it to Melbourne in a month is looking quite daunting. Brisbane just had it's worst cyclone-strength thunderstorm in a generation. Luckily, it didn't blow down the house I am staying in, but it did blow down a few around here. A bad omen perhaps. But I don't believe in omens.

I was sunburned after about a half hour of riding in partly cloudy weather. The landing was great though. I love hard landings. I love watching the wings flex wildly, and feeling the gears compress low. This one in Brisbane was a good one, good enough to make the big 747 shudder loudly and to make one woman scream. After 47 kilometers of jet-lagged riding, I made it to Stradbroke Island, affectionately known as "Straddie." I had a little trouble getting ahold of my host there, but fortunately I was forced to wait on the grass of a small beach with water birds striding around, and crabs peering at me with stalky eyes.

Zoe, my warm and inviting host, brought me in from the drizzle and cooked fresh fish and chips for me. After this savory meal, we had a stroll down to the "Little Ships Club" for a Tooheys. Here, I met an old Aboriginal fellow, speech a bit slurred from beer, but still barely articulate enough to voice his opinions about land stewardship, American westerns, and the scariness of certain man-eating beasts. He argued that, to be a true steward of the land, one must continually be on the move, so as not to spoil one location too much. Makes sense. However, when I mentioned I grew up in Colorado, he had a bit of an unclear picture of my homeland. He imagines some kind of 1880s wild west shoot-em-up place. He hung his head a bit when I told him it was full of modern sprawling civilization, including all the malls and cars and spoilers of paradise. And this lead to our discussion of wild beasts. I argued that the salt water croc is one of the most fearsome predators, since they will mindlessly leap out of a placid billabong, clamp down on a part of your body (most likely your head), and drag you under water for a live eating. He seemed to think that the Grizzly bear is the most frightening, simply because of the ferociousness of its claws and teeth. We had to disagree.

On Thursday, Zoe and I rode our bikes to a fresh water lake on Straddie called Brown Lake. The water is quite pristine, but is colored brown by the tea trees in the area. We went for a walk down the sandy shore path shrouded by gum trees, and at the terminus, we found a couple getting it on in the water. We burst into laughter, much to the dismay and embarrassment of the lustful couple, I am sure. After a ride back and a homemade lunch at a flower market, we shed our shoes shoes and walked out over the exposed seabed of low tide toward the rusted hulk of an old ship. On the way, sea cucumbers squirmed in pools, and hundreds of blue soldier crabs evaded us in herds, carrying their little round bodies on the sound of a thousand clicking legs. When overtaken, they quickly bury themselves sideways in the sand. The bottom of the ship's hull has rusted away, allowing a mini mangrove to grow inside, and the sea has reduced the sides to a flaking mess. How wonderful to see nature so completely overwhelm a man made object.

Straddie has a beautiful town called Point Lookout, and on Friday, Zoe and I hitchhiked there. We sat on a 20-kilometer long beach, and there wasn't another soul there. The sand of low tide was perfectly smooth, extending out fifty yards from our feet. We also took a walk along the cliffs, and spied some of the sea turtles that Zoe so dearly loves. I toughened up my feet a little by walking barefoot down the road to a pub where I ate a huge pizza covered in five kinds of meat and barbecue sauce.

I spent the last day on Straddie exploring a 4x4 track through the marsh and lagoons behind the east beach. I popped out a mile or so south of Point Lookout, and pushed my bike up the beach for another pass though the ice cream shop and a rolling ride back into Dunwich. Thank goodness for Zoe and her warm generosity. My memories of her and her home are already fond.

Now I'm in Brisbane, and have been exploring this sunny, modern city. Well, it was sunny until last night when the storm came. The forecast is for more storms, storms for another week, and tomorrow I will head south into them.

Prelude to Flight

It begins on a sweet day. New bike day is always a sweet day, but this one is even sweeter. As this bike is lifted from the box, I know it will be the bringer of adventure. 

The idea had been growing in my mind for some time; travel with no obligations, no plan, no car, no hotels, and very little money. This green beast of a bike is the first step. It is made for this purpose, and I'm sure it will serve me well. I will travel with only it, and a set of four panniers attached to the bike containing everything I need to live for five months. Australia is the destination, and the roads will be those of rain forests, flat desert plains, high mountains, island beaches, and primitive forests. I will start in Brisbane. Hopefully, I will meet some great peoplein each major city I travel to. From Brisbane, I have no detailed plan. I will just take recommendations from locals, or simply head off in some direction and see what I find. I know that I will also pass through Melbourne at least twice. Once on my way to Tasmania, and on my way back to the States. I will try to be in Sydney for the festivities of Australia Day, and I might take on the immense Nullarbor Plain, and try to cross it twice to Perth and back. I would also like to find a way to get to New Zealand without dismantling my bike for air travel. Maybe there is a way to travel by sea on a freighter. No matter what happens, my travels will be expansive, distances will be vast, my legs will ache, and the sun will burn me. Why, you ask? Because I can. I'm not on a mission, I'm not searching for anything profound, and I'm not expecting to find inner peace or enlightenment (although that would be nice to have). I just want to ride my bike, see beautiful things, and meet good people. So there you go, this is the beginning, and hopefully you will read on as I ride and get something good from these posts. Maybe I can convince one person to go do something like this, because I believe it will be worth it.