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