More Gulf Country

There is a lot of Gulf Country. There are a lot of things in it, but no Telstra 3G towers.  I have been out of mobile and internet range for 5 days.


The saying ‘every man and his dog’ possibly originated in this part of the world.   30kms or so out of Burketown on my way to Lawn Hill National Park I rode across Beame Brook.  There was a workman with his dog.   Apparently no self-respecting local in these parts is ever seen without a dog.

The bridge.

The brook.
Mostly there are creeks out here, so it was a privilege to come across a brook.

 

The dog.

Service stations in the cities are a little overdone.

Tirranna Roadhouse, west of Burketown.

I have a recently developed interest in gravel roads. The dirt road between Gregory Downs and Lawn Hill starts off magnificently because it is maintained by a mining company for road trains. It is kept well graded, but the 60-70 tyre road trains turn the dust to talcum powder. The roads are wide, but there is no escaping the dust when a road train approaches. I pulled over and stopped as a road train approached from the west in the late afternoon. It must have been doing 90-100kph and was in the standard road train position on the road – dead centre. It was a true juggernaut and it approached as if on rails. The wind was slightly across the road, which meant I would cop it. The dust was a relentlessly replenished brown cumulus cloud billowing explosively from the wheels of the prime mover. The image is fixed in my mind of the advancing white prime mover, the clearly defined billows of dust, the deep blue sky, the low sun bathing it all in gold. Road trains on dusty roads in the late afternoon are very impressive.

As it thundered past me I could see nothing. Then the dust settled and drifted off the road, and visibility and peace was restored.

After the turnoff to the mine the road condition deteriorates markedly. Minerals are better catered for than tourists out here when it comes to roads. The basic features of the roads which do not lead to mines are sand, corrugations and gravel. They appear in all possible combinations.

If the Dakar Rally is your idea of a good 10 days, then these conditions could probably be ridden no hands and standing on the seat with one leg in the air.

The rest of us just face the constant prospect of various limbs in the air as rider and bike part company and assume the sliding horizontal position in a small cloud of dust and oaths.

On the worst of the corrugations it was not advisable (or indeed possible) to stay on the seat of the bike. Standing on the footpegs though made it quite manageable. My instrument cluster is mounted flexibly, but I had no idea it could shake vigorously up and down through a range of several inches, as it did over the corrugations. It was entirely unreadable at such times.

I had muscle stiffness in my thighs after a few days of this sort of riding.

This was 2nd, 3rd and occasionally 4th gear terrain. Speeds were often as low as 30kph, and 80kph was possible on the good bits. The road to Adels Grove could not be negotiated by looking over the front wheel and taking it ‘stone by stone’. You had to look ahead and take the best line varying the gear and speed as required by the surface.

I rode the 85kms from Gregory Downs to Adels Grove, and after an overnight stay there rode the 10kms further to Lawn Hill. I then turned to retrace my steps back to Gregory Downs. I have ridden on a lot of dirt this week and was feeling increasingly comfortable up on the footpegs, knees hugging the tank, with the bike moving around quite a bit under me in the gravel and sand sections.

With 76kms to go to Gregory Downs, I rounded a corner and was confronted with deep banks of gravel with a single wheel track with shallower gravel the only way through and the only option I had to aim for. I was standing on the pegs in 3rd gear doing about 60kph. Then I wasn’t.

The front wheel found the deep gravel bank, and after a series of increasing left and right movements of the handlebar (not as a result of any input by me I might add) we went down on our left sides.   Because I was standing on the pegs the bike and I quickly parted company. I slid what felt like a fair way, but probably wasn’t far. I slid on my hip, ribs, left elbow and left side of my helmet.

Didn’t hit my head – the helmet just lightly scraped the road.

The three left pannier mounting brackets were all broken off.

I have been wearing the Dainese jacket since this. It’s not the tears in the Dri Rider jacket I mind, it’s that the next layer was me.

The protective fibreglass cup in the left elbow of my DriRider jacket (not great gear) turned out to be work-shy when the call came. The Dainese protective pants (great gear) did their job very well. Only a bruise on the left hip. You get the protection you pay for.

While disappointing, a good result in all. Grazed elbow, rattled the rib cage a bit, and a bruised hip. Michelle at Adels Grove kindly re-dressed the graze.

Passers-by stopped to offer assistance. Tony N, your gift of the first aid kit (as more usefully re-stocked by Liz) was most useful on site. Whenever you stop on the roadside in this part of the world, motorists slow down or stop to offer assistance unless you wave them on. I was rather dismissively waving on slowing vehicles without even looking at drivers, not being in any mood to discuss just how good things were as I stood beside my bike it and parts of it waiting for Rod and Doug.

I was therefore surprised to hear a voice from a vehicle I had waved on, announcing it was cup of tea time. It was Gary and Merry, who had kindly provided me with a roadside cuppa the other day between Normanton and Burketown. Gary produced a couple of chairs in the shade, and Merry produced a cup of tea, and provided chocolate ripple biscuits. (Where were the chocolate biscuits in your first aid kit Tony?!) It was a much appreciated cup of tea.

Rod and Doug from Adels Grove came out to retrieve the bike if necessary, but I was able to start it and ride it back to their workshop. They had to take the left pannier which had parted company with the bike.

Rod on the left, and Doug.

Rod claims to be ‘just a ringer mate’. Entirely modest and misleading. He is an ingenious and highly skilled bush mechanic. In a couple of hours he and Doug had the left pannier patched up sufficiently to remount it. I t survived the 85kms on dirt back to Gregory Downs, and 2,000 kms since to Darwin. Great work boys.

By the way, both Rod and Doug are pilots. Rod flies a Jabiru 190 from the strip opposite his resort at Adels Grove. Rod and Michelle manage the Adels Grove camping and caravan park, complete with cabins, restaurant and croc-free (saltie-free that is) swimming hole.

For bringing out the retrieve vehicle, and about 3 hours of highly creative work, Rod apologetically said he would have to charge $60, if I was happy with that. I wasn’t, and quickly re-negotiated a figure of $100.  Done.

The ingenious and surprisingly strong and durable repair on the central pannier bracket on the bike.

This is John, who I met at a gate on the road from Adels Grove to Gregory Downs after the temporary repairs at Adels Grove. In this part of the world any two solo motorbike riders would have stopped and said g’day, but he was on a BMW GS like mine, so a chat was inevitable. Remarkably, just a short time before we met, he had come off his bike in gravel at the very same spot that my bike had its little lie down. He did some superficial damage to his bike, but nothing that would stop his big trip. He did however twist his knee in the fall, and was limping. He is also heading to Darwin for repairs.

I would have liked it if John turned out to be a 3 time Dakar winner, on a BMW sponsored GSA, with 40 years of dirt riding under his belt. But he wasn’t. I will have to search for solace elsewhere.

We agreed to ride together to Gregory Downs. The average speed was well down in our shared gravel-averse state. It was late afternoon when we arrived and the motel was a welcome sight. We had dinner together, John limping around, and me moving gingerly as a result of my protesting rib. Neither of us wanted to abandon our solo travel, and we agreed to head off alone.



Now Markus, I have witnessed you in Germany using an airstrip as a road. Well you should try this.

The Wills Developmental Road east of Gregory Downs. Airstrip markings on a section of road, for aircraft use in an emergency.

I later saw similar almost identical signs, except they advertised road trains 53 and 53.3 metres long. It’s tough keeping up with the Joneses out here.

And so Tuesday ended at Camooweal, with petrol top-up and a $55 bed in a donga (donger? whatever, it’s a word only to be said, never intended to be spelt) which is an outback term for stifling undersized overpriced little box in which humans will pay to sleep if desperate enough. Each has a non-suite (an Angus  of  Nowra pun for a bathroom remote from a bedroom), usually hundreds of metres away.


 

Sunset at Camooweal.

My bike has developed a light oil leak from the left cylinder,  obviously caused by the contact with the road. 

It was a low point for my morale on the ride as I endeavoured to sleep on my right side in the donga at Camooweal, only a sheet in the room to cover me as the temp dropped into single digits, my left elbow and rib bruising (or whatever) a nuisance, the GS outside with damage which could end the trip, dust on me and my belongings. I set my alarm for 0600 and slept in the clothes in which I had ridden. I arose before 0600 mainly to fend off the pre-dawn cold by putting my motorbike gear on. I put on my head torch and packed the bike in the dark, then had breakfast in the adjacent roadhouse (4 weet-bix and sugar), then headed west.

The dawn touched the eastern horizon with pastel pink while there were still stars to the west. With my bike packed and fuelled, a long straight road out of town, the sitting position on the bike very comfortably accommodating my rib and the sun behind me, the newness of another day worked its magic on me. I rode out of town in increasingly good spirits.

I had under-dressed and rode for some distance under-warm as the temp struggled from 10C or so upwards. I had a chill quartering so’easterly tail wind. I warmed up as soon as the sun climbed a little.

I was now checking my oil very regularly. My left boot and trouser cuff were handy indicators while on the move that my engine was constantly losing oil, albeit only as a light misting spray.

The only way to check oil on the GS is to look at a 50c sized sight glass hidden underneath the left cylinder. The bike must be upright for a reading to be taken. There are only two ways for a GS to be upright – sit on it and hold it there, or put it on its centre stand. Loaded as it was, the second option was out. But while sitting on it, the sight glass was entirely unviewable. The Boldrick-worthy plan I devised was to hold the Nikon in my left hand below the left cylinder while leaning forward, take a photo of the sight glass, and then use the photo as my oil check. All without getting off the bike.

This is what I wanted to see, again and again. Topping up is required if the level falls below the bottom of the red inner circle.

The bike appears not to be using oil, and the leak may be coming from the seal between the rocker cover and the cylinder. A cracked component is a possibility.

I rang the BMW dealer in Darwin from Barkly Homestead Roadhouse, and booked the bike in for a check on Monday morning. I rang my brother Noel who knows all about these things, and we discussed the wisdom of heading north to Cape Crawford, which is 379kms without anything along the way. I was carrying some oil for top-ups, but not enough to replace a major oil loss. We decided it was worth proceeding, so I turned right off the Barkly Highway and up the Tablelands Highway headed for Cape Crawford.

After the word ‘fuel’ could be added, ‘or anything else’.

I was carrying 10 litres of water, an extra 8 litres of fuel in the flexible bag, and my camping gear with food for a couple of days. If the oil loss became worse and forced me to stop, I could summon assistance with the spot satellite messenger. It has a message dedicated to the situation of me being OK but the bike being otherwise, to summon BMW Roadside Assist.




About 70kms north of Barkly Homestead, I realised that the horizon was flat and featureless in every direction. I was on the face of the earth.

North

 
 

East

South

West

An Australian Icon

I eventually rode out of the featureless grass plains to country with features.

On safari on the GS.
Whisper and try to sound like David Attenborough when you say that, and add something like, ‘No lions here at the moment.’

Ghostly Gums.

Truth be known, if accommodation at Camooweal or Cape Crawford had been half tolerable, I would have taken a lay day in either of them. Having ridden for too many days in a row, I needed a day to rest and let my few minor aches and pains settle. But accommodation in both Camooweal and Cape Crawford was such that riding on was an easy choice. I am glad I did, because Mataranka turned out to be the perfect place for a day of relaxation. I arrived there Friday, and booked in for two nights. I had a motel with an en-suite. Luxury I tell you, sheer luxury.


Mataranka is a spacious place of palm trees, ghost gums, and a hot thermal spring which daily produces 30 million litres of perfectly clear water at a temp of 35C. The spring itself is an insignificant looking water hole a couple of metres in diameter and about 12 feet deep. It flows into a pool which is 5-6 feet deep, quite long and wide, and surrounded by palm trees. The water in it is perfectly clear and of course perpetually replenished.

The spring water which feeds the pool.

The thermal pool is totally croc-free, although it regularly hosts frogs, and occasionally a harmless rock python.

Other swimming options are available at Mataranka for those looking for risk management opportunities.

You will note that the sign is not headed ‘Swimmer Safety’

I have taken the vow never to interfere with a freshwater crocodile or a saltwater crocodile, tempting as it must obviously be to warrant such a warning.

Inviting isn’t it, if you put that croc thing out of your mind for a moment.

So you made your decision and it is to swim. Well done, Let us provide you with some steps and handrails. Good luck.

On grounds of aesthetics alone, I swam in the thermal pool many times during my 36 hours at Mataranka. I was rather hoping to see the halt, the lame and the withered leaping out of the pool like finely tuned athletes, throwing away crutches and leg irons. But alas, it is heating not healing that is its forte.

But that is not to say that I didn’t feel a whole lot better after repeated immersion in its waters......and I wasn't even thinking of mother Mary Mckillop.


The Mataranka Homestead provides Friday night entertainment on a stage which looks out over a huge courtyard surrounded by ghost gums and palm trees on three sides, and a beer garden on the other. There is a big fire in a 3mx3m wire mesh enclosure in the middle of all the tables. Directly in front of the stage is a paved dance area.

A young local woman graced the stage with microphone and backing tapes. She had a very good voice, and belted out everything from Mustang Sally to Paul Kelly. At one point, the unoccupied dance stage was taken by a very large roundish local known to the singer and all other locals as ‘Boof’. Boof sauntered out confidently (having just had his turn at pool in the beer garden) sporting long baggy shorts, a ringer’s shirt worn outside his shorts, a can of XXXX Gold in his hand for hydration, a large round topped black cowboy hat, and thongs. Boof’s footwork was certainly fancy, and I detected in the piece he did for us elements of Michael Flatley, the young Baryshnikov and Russell Coight. Boof had to cut his performance short as it was his turn at the pool table again. As he walked off the singer asked the crowd to thank Boof which they did generously, and Boof asked the singer to keep an eye on his thongs which he had left on the dance floor, hinting of his return.



Rode 420kms from Mataranka to Darwin today.  In Victoria, at 130kph the police take your licence off you.  Up here the police will wave and smile as you pass them doing that speed.

Thanks Adrian W for the magnificent hospitality. Adrian rides motorbikes and flies aeroplanes. Tonight he has kindly provided accommodation to a young pilot (who starts work up here tomorrow flying a Cessna 206 and a Cessna 210) and a motorbike rider, neither of whom he has ever met before and solely on the recommendation of a common friend. Three pilots on a first floor Darwin verandah, surrounded by tropical foliage in every direction, a gentle evening breeze, excellent Chinese takeaway and everyone with a drink to their liking, and talking about aeroplanes and flying.

I find out in the morning if the GS can be quickly repaired.