This is being written on Thursday evening in Halls Creek W.A.
I limped into Darwin on Sunday afternoon with oil covering the left hand side of the bike. Darwin BMW kindly agreed to look at the bike first thing on Monday despite their mechanics being fully booked for weeks ahead. This necessitated their mechanic Cameron working after hours to finish other jobs. It turns out the rocker cover had a hairline crack where the spark plug passes through it. Parts required were available in Sydney. They were ordered Monday morning and air-freighted to Darwin overnight. Cameron fitted them on Tuesday (and changed the oil and filter at my request), and I was up and running again mid Tuesday afternoon. I rode out of Darwin heading west early Wednesday morning. When the bike was ready, Arthur the service manager drove to where I was staying and picked me up so I could collect the bike. They even got the degreaser, pressure washer and soap onto the bike and returned it to me clean as a whistle. A big thanks to the Darwin BMW crew, in particular Cameron.
I had a scrumptious breakfast on Monday with David and Jean (it was very nice to see them both), and their dog Millie. Being part heeler and a few other things, Millie kept coming to my side with an old tennis ball to be thrown. I continued to eat my paw-paw and croissants and jam, while throwing the ball into what I thought would be increasingly difficult spots in shrubs and the like, as you do. Millie always brought it back, albeit with delay at times and would reappear at my feet for the next throw. After some time I looked down at Millie and gave her a pat, and noticed that she in fact had no eyes – the result of glaucoma some time ago I was told. Yes I felt bad – very bad. I felt that I should go and chase balls thrown to tricky spots as the beginning of my penance. Millie negotiated her familiar environment with surefootedness and confidence.
The house where I was staying in Darwin had Rusty the dark brown kelpie in charge of security. Rusty was a springy tallish dog, very full of beans. But his most endearing feature was a fully fledged, utterly polished, unmistakeable and utterly engaging smile. Rusty has lovely front teeth which are on display when he chooses to smile, which is often. This is a winning trick of Rusty’s. Max and Minnie, I still love you both, but I did take Rusty for a few walks, and he did get a lot of pats.
Now this photo is not me playing Victorian motorcycle cop. It is me sharing with you one of the secrets of the long distance rider. You see, with the tank bag sitting up as it does right in front of me, if I park the bike on slightly sloping ground on its side stand, it sits nearly upright. I can then lean forward with the chin of my helmet on my folded hands on the tank bag, feet on the pegs, eyes closed, and have a nap. I am a third dan black belt in the restorative 10 minute nap. Then upon the eyes opening again, the view is as above. One must be vigilant though not to head off in the direction in which one is pointing unless that direction coincides with the direction one was going before the nap (Noel!).
The ground in the N.T. is generally most uninviting to stretch out on for a rest. What with bull ants, scorpions, snakes, buffalo and long distance inland dry-country-specialist salties, you just don’t do it.
Speaking of ants, on an earlier post on this blog I attached a photo of what I identified as anthills, and it is alleged that I suggested that ants built these anthills. It has been brought to my attention (thank you Tanned Nomad of Townsville) that these were in fact constructed by termites. I find it remarkable that termites would do that for ants.
Hunto has mischievously requested a photo of your humble blogger, knowing full well that I do not have a photo crew with me. Borrowing from a portrait technique perfected by my daughters and it would appear all their friends (the arms-length self-portrait), here I am.
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| I needed a breather after doing a couple of donuts – see lower left of frame. |
Not booking ahead for accommodation, and not knowing anything about where you are going, can lead to surprises in the two available categories. While heading for Timber Creek yesterday, I stopped for petrol at Victoria River. I had planned to stay in Timber Creek, which would have been a big mistake. Victoria River was beautiful and so I stayed.
It is surrounded by rugged battlements on high (I sense a hymn or perhaps an anthem coming on), and unbeknownst to me (such words are the privilege of the hymn and ahthem writer) when I took the next photo, the ridge in it was part of the eastern fortification of the Victoria River valley.
Nestled in a huge natural amphitheatre of long rugged escarpments was the Victoria River roadhouse and camping ground with of course the mighty Victoria River flowing through the middle of it.
There may be better places to pitch a tent and park your GS, but none came to mind around 3pm yesterday.
Now some of you know that I do like aeroplanes. After 31/2 weeks of essentially high speed taxying, I was ready to take to the air – even in this tired old Kwakka.
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| The black line is for fuel. It is not a remote control, and the pilot was prepared to get airborne with us - always a comforting feature. |
As with all aircraft, this collection of bolts and bits, once airborne, was so much more than the sum of its parts.
As soon as it slipped the surly bonds of earth (pilotspeak for getting airborne) it became a thing of beauty.
Then it took us to beautiful places as the curvature of the earth was about to take the sun from us for the night. It rose at first in slow motion then dipped its nose and sped off through the trees with insect-like alacrity.
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| The Victoria River |
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| A rugged battlement on high. |
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| There were no doors. I did check my seatbelt twice before takeoff. |
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| That’s our shadow in the middle of the wall. |
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| It goes without saying that |
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| The pilot’s name was Clancy (I do NOT make this stuff up). He was a good bloke and a good pilot, except that it took him 20 minutes to complete the 10 minute flight which was all I had paid for. Good work Clancy. |
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| The cameo can be more captivating than the full canvas. |
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| Just because the sun has set does not mean the light show is over. |
If you are spatially challenged, please move straight to the less demanding description below of Des’s mobile washing machine.
I was asked this evening if after 31/2 weeks I still look forward to riding each day. I answered that this morning I arose in the dark, packed my bike under the light of a torch on a band around my head, and was ready to head off after I had watched the sun rise. I had no particular requirement to leave early, but upon waking up in the tent in the cool of the pre-dawn darkness I realised that I wanted to be heading off on the bike more than I wanted further sleep. The timing worked out neatly. As soon as the bike was packed (I left the tent up for the sun to dry the moisture on it), the pale eastern sky which had been threatening sunrise for a protracted period suddenly intensified and brightened, then the first of its rays flashed over the eastern escarpment with science-fiction speed to light up the top of the western escarpment. (Are you sure you shouldn’t be reading about Des’s washing machine? You were warned).
Then as the sun climbed in the east, the deep reds of the cliff to the west were revealed as the shadow line slid silently down them. The shadow progressed down the cliffs at a stately measure pace as if recognising the majesty of the spectacle being revealed. Then when the shadow got to the edge of the flat plains beneath the cliff lines, the shadow line raced across the plains giving in quick time bright hue and dark shadow to every tree and blade of grass, with a speed which seemed to recognise that lighting the plains was merely a necessary formality after the main act.
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| Waiting for the tent to dry. |
Alright, Des’s washing machine. Des is a truckie on long service leave, driving his neatly setup 4WD with boat and tent etc around the outback as the whim takes him, with nobody to please but himself.
He had offered me a cup of tea before I departed, which is when I spotted the plastic drum in the milk crate. Des explained that he puts his dirty washing in there with some water and detergent, and that the rough roads do the rest. They come out very clean he assured me, and I have no reason to doubt him. I am considering converting one of my panniers for this purpose.
After rounding the first few bends which followed the Victoria River, the sparkle of a new morning had the landscape positively shining.
An hour or two later I entered the land of the boab tree.
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| The boab is a social tree. This is a picture of a regrettable incident in which a boab tree old enough to know better was scaring one of the little ones with the frightening limbs-in-the-air self defence display. |
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| The boab has a character-building shape. |
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| If a tree grew entirely upside down, it might look something like this. |
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| There are also caring boab trees. “Come on, it’s safe to cross now.” |
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| En route to Halls Creek, I rode through Kununurra. This is what you walk past on your way to work in Kununurra. Nice. (Give me a break, ordinary adjectives need to get out once in a while). |
I have homes to stay in for the next two nights, with Ian and Deb in Fitzroy Crossing, and Ness and Adam in Derby. Could tonight be my last night in a donga on this trip? I certainly hope so.
Liz is flying to Broome to meet me on Sunday, bringing with her the pillion seat for the GS, and her motorbike gear. We will be doing some local touring. Liz has inexplicably chosen QANTAS over the back seat of the GS for the return trip.
