bikeperthtosydney

I Finish This Trip

2008-05-11T13:59:00.003-10:00

May 6th 2008

I Finish This Trip

I have been home for two weeks at my Albuquerque home with my parents as we wait for my younger brother Douglas to graduate. I have not spent much time at home over the past few years and despite missing my home in Seattle, it is energizing to spend time with my family. There is nothing quite like having those you love pick you up at the airport. It does not matter if you have been gone a weekend, three and a half months, or a year. My brother and Mom were waiting, and as is our custom when I come home, we headed to the Frontier restaurant. This diner-like egalitarian institution across from the University of New Mexico serves New Mexican green chili on just about everything - a taste I can find no where else, and crave mightily when I travel.

This past weekend I drove down to visit my family in the southen half of the state in Las Cruces. It was here where I realized that this particular trip now ended for me. It was where it began. If you have been following this blog the whole time, you will know my grandfather died on December 30th 2007. He had been sick over Christmas and that was my last physical memory of him. I had planned on heading out to Australia earlier in that week, but there was no way I would not come to Las Cruces with the rest of my family to pay our last respects. We did so on Picacho Peak, the well-shaped mountain behind his and my grandmother’s house. We all climbed the 1000ft peak, even my grandmother. On the summit we scattered his ashes, and drank red wine in his honor. A hawk appeared, rode the thermals for nearly a minute, and flew off into the distance. Before I left I took his passport with me. It never left my side.

That was three and a half months ago. I knew that this trip and any subsequent trip to Las Cruces would involve climbing the Peak. My grandmother’s house sits on a ridge below the mountain. The house and those around it are xeroscaped into the desert surroundings and are in the adobe style typical of the area. I woke early to avoid the heat and snakes that would follow a later start. Besides, my grandmother was an early riser and I did not want to miss her classic pancakes she had promised me. Despite being among many deserts over the past few months, I was happy to be in the desert of my childhood. I love the smell of the gum trees, but the smell that rises to my nose when I crush the creosote between my fingers reminds me of a home I can never recapture. Like Australia's, this is a harsh landscape. The bright green leaves of the mesquite hide the inch long spikes. On the other hand, the slim fingers of the Ocatillo make no bones about the gauntlet of spikes that run from the base to the top ceasing only at the delicate clusters of bell-shaped flame-red flowers that crown it. I hiked through the sand, bathing in the rich smells of the Chihuahua Desert and thinking to myself what a good idea it was to have waited a little after dawn broke as the mountain was spectacular in the first rays of light. My route was directly up the mountain in a straight line. The rocks were slick against each other and I took my time so as not to fall on the abundant spiky things that grew around me. The mountain has two summits connected by a short ridge. My path took me to the shorter one. As I topped it, I looked out over the rolling fabric of shallow hills, the early shadows enunciated their shapes. The wind was light but it was enough at least for the hawk that greeted me. It looked like the same hawk that greeted us after our toast to Grumpa Stan on January 5. Grumpa's passport was in my backpack. The hawk rode the thermals for several seconds and then leaned away from Picacho Peak until his molted brown wings disappeared into the landscape. I smiled and walked to the powder coated cross on top of the small cairn on the higher summit. I noticed with renewed interest the lime green lichen on the several of the rocks. Combined with the cross, it reminded me of the Wilson’s Prom cross and the equally spectacular orange lichen. I pulled out Grumpa's passport and looked at it. His eyes were bright and his head slightly cocked to the side with a smile. As with any long trip, what it ends up really meaning takes time. The morning sun was bright. This was a good place to finish.

I don’t really know how many people actually read this blog. If you got this far I truly hoped you enjoyed my observations and like to think that I could perhaps take you some place a little different for a few minutes every time you dropped in. This is by no means my last trip. If you want to keep informed of my next travels check http://www.oarnothrwest.com/. My movements will be there. I also understand a few of my readers were not privy to the pictures I took. Those are avalable at http://bikeperthtosydney.googlepages.com/.

A quick thank you to my parents who checked the majority of my blogs and kept my website updated when I could not get to it. I could not have posted a blog a day (which was my goal) without them. Thank you for your time. Goodbye for now, and as a lovely woman I met in Darwin on one warm wet tropical downpour of a night said to me: "Enjoy Safe Travels."

-Jordan Hanssen

The Long Flight Home

2008-05-11T13:58:00.002-10:00

April 22nd

The Long Flight Home.

I bid adieu to the Emmetts. Anthony dropped me at the airport. There is a chance I may see him later this summer. I know I will see Banksy, but the plans are not quite set. I find a lot of satisfaction in having friends in different countries and, in those countries, friends who travel. On the odd occasions they come through my neck of the woods, it's good and refreshing to repay the kindness shown as a traveler by being a good host. I find a guest in my house brings the same kind of energy I enjoy as a traveler.

I enjoyed one last well-crafted cappuccino; even at the airport it was good. I had an odd premonition I would soon be drinking a certain brand of crappy coffee that spends more on pithy aphorisms and inspirational quotes on their cups than on decent brewing techniques. Lucky for me, I now packed my mini-espresso machine from Melbourne.

I had psyched myself up for the painful 14-hour flight. I got a book about the ANZACs and was looking forward to free drinks on the international flights. After finding my seat well in the back of the plane, one of the stewards came up to me and asked if I was Mr. Hanssen. I replied I was, and he told me that they had been instructed to take very good care of me on this flight. Apparently a friend of mine, a certain stewardess I had met at the very start of my trip from Seattle to LA, had caught my flight number and called in a favor for me - of which I was eternally grateful. They asked me to discretely move myself up to the economy-plus seats where my legs enjoyed a luxurious six extra inches. In addition to that, the row they put me in was all to myself. During the flight they continued to ask me if I was being taken care of. For as many times they asked me, I really don’t know what else I could have asked for. The fact was that with all this room and ample drink service (didn’t even have to ask), I was cruising at 35,000 feet. I try not to sleep on a long-haul flight. I find that I would rather be tired the whole day that I land than deal with jet lag the next day. Usually I am uncomfortable enough to pull this off, but I managed a solid five hours stretched out in the most blissful sleep I have ever enjoyed on a plane.

Downtown coffee snobbing

2008-05-11T13:56:00.001-10:00

April 21st

Downtown coffee snobbing

It was Monday, and Anthony had the interview downtown. With his new haircut he shined-up like a new penny and was certainly dressed to impress. As he got out of the car, he blended well with the other suited young professionals on their way to work - a huge change from the unshaven grimy companion from the Nullarbor. I caught a ride with him and his dad, squeezing my long frame into the small back of his BMW. I was heading back to the Di Croco to buy some gifts for my family. I figured I could do that while Anthony made his first impression to his potential employer. Heather was happy to see me again; I think she thought I might be coming back for the 650$AUD belly skin dress belt, and I no doubt disappointed her with my smaller purchases of leather clad pen, change purse and credit card wallet for my Father, Mother and Brother respectively.

Anthony’s father was quite keen to hear how his son faired and had us meet him at his local coffee shop below his office. It had an upscale counterculture feel to it. In the same breath incongruent and completely at home with the well-dressed businessmen who clearly favored its brew. Mr. Emmett treated us to a few cups of coffee as Anthony related how he thought he faired. I had two cappuccinos and looked happily at them as they were set down in front of me. The coffee and foam were mixed in such a way to create a remarkably smooth image of a heart with dark sprinkles of chocolate on top. In the cities at least, this was pretty typical of any coffee shop I went to. Coffee here is in the Italian tradition where it ceases to be a vehicle of caffeine and becomes a work of art. I am a firm believer that presentation makes food taste better, and thus really savored what I knew to be some of the last physically attractive cappuccinos I would have in a while. Even in Seattle, despite the heavy volume of coffee consumed per capita I have come across far too few baristas that really take the time to create a consumable work of art.
I listened to Anthony relate his story while silently lamenting my lot as a coffee snob and was pleased to hear that our three-week trip on the Nullarbor had made his resume or curriculum vitae (CV). Until Australia, I had never heard this term. It is clearly Latin and translates to the course of life. This sounds much more interesting than resume, and I added my lack of Latin knowledge to things I was lamenting about.

After giving his dad a report, (it was clear Mr. Emmett was very proud of him) we caught the bus back to Middle Harbor. I headed down to the Fish Camp to finish up my packing. That night was my last night out, and it was hard not to have high expectations. However, the reality was that it was a Monday night and despite the bustle of the restaurant that Anthony, Dave and I went to, the city was pretty dead. We headed to the Scubar, the local backpackers haunt. Even its small size (greatly enhanced by a wall-wide mirror) could not hide the fact that it was at about half its capacity. Despite this, the slimjim bouncer made us wait outside. Dave, in typical Aussie fashion, started taking the piss out of him, citing heavily the real lack of action around the place. Our bouncer gave us a nasty look and commented that "everyone’s a joker." I reserved a comment that if he were this grumpy on a dead Monday night that he might circulate his CV elsewhere to find a job that would complement his sensitive humors. If two nights ago stepped it up a notch, then this one stepped it down - no girls of particular note, or particular antics worth writing. The fact is that if you go out with too much of an expectation to find a good time, you are inevitably disappointed. Better plan to take that good time with you, thus where ever you end up, it ends up being a ball. It was good to spend the time with Anthony and great to spend one last night in the relaxing atmosphere of the Fish Camp, with all doors and windows open, and the Sydney breeze blowing over me.

Morning After

2008-05-11T12:29:00.001-10:00

April 19th

Morning After

I awoke most pleasantly to the masts in the bay in front of the Fish Camp leaning back and forth in a light early morning breeze. I gave Anthony a text and asked him to join me at the Fish Camp for some coffee on the deck. He wandered down in a controlled stumble in a jumper (hoodie), asked for a cuppa tea, and lay down on the couch. I think we talked about some surpassingly complex world issues, but I really can’t be sure. At eleven the Manly Daily, the local paper, was sending someone to take some pictures. This came rather quickly, and Anthony and I made our way upstairs to meet him. Our bikes, now unloaded of their gear, just looked like road bikes and it was a stretch to make a suitably adventuresome looking picture. We told him we had a ton of great shots from the bush, but he did not seem convinced.

The rest of the day was a great effort at relaxation. Anthony had to rest up for another mate’s 21st Birthday party, and I was quite happy to stay at the house with Mr. and Mrs. Emmett. We had a great evening eating curry and drinking some of the Margaret River wines that I sent to them months before. I was even more pleased that they were as good as I remembered and that both Mr. and Mrs. Emmett liked them. It was refreshing to go to bed with nothing to do.

April 20th

More of the same

Today was more of the same - relaxing at the Emmett household, which, with its inclinator that served that garage, main house, pool and fish camp reminds me a whole lot of Fantasy Island. Anthony and I went to the mall. He had an interview the next day and needed a hair cut, and I needed my bike box. Our trip proved successful. That afternoon Anthony worked on his resume and prepped for the interview. I packed, watched some AFL (Australian Rules Football), and pulled an erg.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

2008-05-09T18:14:00.001-10:00

April 18th

Peanut Butter Jelly Time.

High on the elation of my new purchase, I made my way back to Circular Quay to take the ferry to Manly Beach. It was cloudy and threatened of rain - as of late quite typical weather for Sydney. If I had not made my way through the country and seen the arid evidence, I would not have believed the country to be in a drought. Even on the grayest of days, Sydney Harbor is spectacular. No other harbor in the world has such recognizable character. I met a Canadian from Winnipeg who had been on the road for eight months, and chatting with her passed the time. After the ferry docked in Manly, I walked the 500 meters to the Pacific Ocean and stared out at the edge of the continent and thought briefly of Forrest Gump as he stared out over the oceans on either side of the US. I had no intention of turning around and heading back to Perth. I felt contacting Anthony for a ride and getting a fed was a much better idea. Anthony had just finished his exam and felt pretty average about it. However, he was done with mid-terms, and it really felt like it was going to turn into a night of celebrating endings. We went to his local with several of his friends, ate a meal, generally caught up with Anthony, Banks and Hamish (the guys from the fishing at the start of the trip). Turns out Banks will make it to Seattle this summer. I think we’ll have a good time. Most of the lads went home after this, leaving Anthony, Banks and I.

It was that point in every evening where you either head home or continue to go out. Having had a nice chunk of sleep the night before, a croc skin belt, and not yet having suitably celebrated the end of the trip, it was easy to predict my vote. Anthony and Banks were just as keen. We headed to the Rocks and a bar set inside one of the old stone buildings of the area. It was packed with the typical twenty-somethings of the city. Banks called some attractive American exchange students that he knew. I felt it strange my last few nights in Australia that I would hang out with the 7th and 8th yanks that I had met over the past three and a half months. Their names were Kelly and Courtney, and they were at the New School in Sydney; I think both for design. It was strange hearing the American accents. Banks and Anthony knew someone behind the bar, and we got our drinks for the reasonable price of free. This facilitated a night of dancing. Large, white men that we are, this went as well as you could expect. Later that evening we found real, but overpriced, American pancakes at a 24-hour pancake spot on the Rocks. I had crepes. It was a bad choice. Around the table, Banks and Anthony were the only Australians in a group of myself and the American exchange students. At this point in the trip, I really didn't feel like I was either.

Turns out that the cab's switch over around 3 or 4 in the morning, and this was about the time we all stumbled out of the pancake parlor. On our way to the cabs, Banks, Anthony, I and a yank named Scottie, who was willingly tormented the entire night by randomly shouted banal phases of "Scottie do!" or "Scottie doesn't know," began to sing the oddly catchy ballad of "Peanut Butter Jelly Time," while Kelly filmed it on her phone, much to Anthonys chagrin as he is rather phobic about being caught doing stupid things on film. For some reason, I don’t have this phobia. I do not know if "Peanut Butter Jelly Time" was ever a good idea. But at 3:30 am on the Rocks, it seemed like a bright, energy-saving lightbulb of an idea. We got the girls soundly off to their place on Bondi Beach, and we wandered the winding streets of Sydney until we finally found another cab willing to take us back to Anthony’s place at Middle Harbor. I was quite happy to find my soft bed in the loft of the fish camp.

I Gain My Reward

2008-05-09T18:12:00.002-10:00

April 18th

I gain my reward.

I awoke in a railroad car. This sounds much worse than it was. The YHA I stayed at was an old railroad depot, and several cars had been turned into eight-person dorms. As usual, I was the one American among a smorgasbord of European and Asian travelers. The night before, I had been treated to three dollar snags (hot dog/ braut) and beer. I had three snags, but gave two beers away, as it was some pretty average Portuguese swill. However, the snags were of higher quality than expected. A German girl was handing out buns and cheese. She was pretty damn cute, but I was too tired to make the effort with anyone. I stank and so did my clothing. Washing both and going to bed was foremost in my mind.

The morning came with hard rain on the corrugated roof. At least it sounded hard; all rain sounds hard on a corrugated roof. I was excited. No, I was bloody ecstatic. Today was the day. Sure, getting to Sydney was great and all, but today was the reward. I had for the past several weeks been in correspondence with Heather of Di Croco. Di Croco is the homegrown couture creator of Saltwater Crocodiles skin products. Since my last trip to Australia, I had wanted, nay - coveted, no…. needed a croc belt to complete myself. Five long years I had waited for this moment. I eagerly got on my bike and wound my way through Sydney to number 7 Double Bay, critically aware of the traffic, as I did not want anything to interfere with my mission. The store opened at nine, and I grabbed a cup off coffee to kill time. I also made sure my credit card was in order, not wanting to suffer the embarrassment of a declined card with a woman I had already exchanged roughly a dozen emails. I also went to the facilities. Nothing was going to interfere with my extravagance that morning.

For those of you who are concerned, salt-water croc is not an endangered species - however, some populations in Asia are certainly at risk. In a sick twist of irony Australian Saltwater Crocs were rescued from extinction by their lovely, lovely skin. They are the top predator in their environment and were nearly hunted to extinction because they were both a pest and in high demand for their skin. Once they became scarce, the local government woke up and realized that they were destroying a lucrative resource with bad management, and they protected the animals. In Australia, they are almost up to pre-colonial levels. Any croc that is used for its skin is bred at a croc farm - one of which I had the pleasure of going to on my last trip to Darwin. In this croc compound, crocs are bred. Problem crocs are found in the wild and taken to the farm as studs. A few of these animals are in solitary confinement, having become far too cantankerous to even breed with the females. Thus, due to the virtue of its skin’s use as a leather, the 'saltie' has saved its collective species' skin. Incidentally, as the planet gets warmer, its possible habitat will increase.

Thus I have no moral dilemma with wearing one of these old dinosaurs. I was the first customer of the day, and Heather addressed me by name as she swiped her security card and let me in. It was a very fine store with several croc products of her design all around it. She only had third and fourth generation leather workers touch her skins. She lay out the belts she had set aside for me. I was enthralled. For a young (and still) lover of everything dinosaur, it was hard not to make the comparison of wearing a bit of Tyrannosaurus Rex. The belt of back-strap was what I wanted most. The dual ridges of the scales were stiff with character. I chose the silver belt buckle. Gold and brass do not suite me as well. Wrapping it around me, I felt absolutely complete - completely at home with my shallow side. My jeans were well worn, and my shirt was old, but at least they were clean. More importantly, with this belt on they were very much improved.
The belt was the whopping sum of 400AUD - double the price it was 5 years ago. I know it's a lot. In fact I would agree with you and state that it was far too much to ever pay for a belt. Yet, I could not let it go this time around. I needed it, and while a huge lump in my throat formed when she gave me the bill, I did not and still do not have a gram of buyer’s regret.

While the credit card ran, a sizable gray-topped gentleman in fine casual clothing walked in with what I first mistook to be his daughter, until I noticed the considerably-sized diamond on her hand, as well as other Cleopatrian style adornments, that led me to believe she must be his wife, and not Daddy's little girl. They were an interesting couple. He assumed the belts on the table had been set out for him. It turns out that this gent is also a fan of the croc belt, and every time he heads to Australia, he buys a belt for one of his friends as a souvenir. I judged from the casual way he picked out the belt that we were most likely not in the same tax bracket. They were quite kind. He told me how much they loved Sydney and how much they wished they had the choice of living here; this was followed by a quick pause and followed with the afterthought: "I suppose we do have the choice, we just love Dallas!"

I was confused. The man had what I believed to have once been a queen’s English accent, but it was very subtle. The revelation of his Texan home cleared this up. He then proceeded to tell me about the racehorse that he bought the last time he was here. Unfortunately, despite the young stallion’s quality bloodlines, he was not performing and was quite rambunctious - going as far as to actually have bitten the hand (well at least that hand that wrote the checks) that fed him. I really did empathize with him best I could. I bid them all adieu with the devil on my shoulder telling me to buy the 650AUD dress belt and the angel telling me to get the hell out of that place before I bought something that might give me buyers remorse.

The Suburban Walls of Sydney

2008-05-08T13:52:00.005-10:00

April 17th

The suburban walls of Sydney.

I had 80 km to go till the Harbor Bridge and Opera House. The first 50 km on the highway went without any drama. Towards the end the traffic piled up, and I was tickled that I was passing cars on the way into the city. However, gridlock quickly piled up, and I was detoured off the highway to the suburb of Liverpool. Unfortunately, I have had the following impressions of the city suburbs:

In the city and in the country cyclists are recognized and, I have found that if polite and law abiding, are generally respected by both city and country drivers. In the 5000 km of cycling on this trip, the only places I have gotten dirty looks, heckling and close calls has been in the burbs. I don't know what it is about this eco-tone of civilization that buffers the city from the country, but it seems to breed some malice towards those inclined to ride bikes. This is perhaps because the burbs were built at a time when gas and cars were cheap, and thus the infrastructure was created only to accommodate cars. However, this does not explain the heckling.

I dodged traffic, changed two flats, generally made up my mind to be patient and took it as safely and as easily as I could, mainly riding the curb. My round-about route did take me through one of the industrial parks of Sydney where I stopped for lunch. It was a large complex with a deli and large portions. Having only eaten spartanly since breakfast, I was eager for a large meal and a respite from dogging traffic. It gave me both.

My trip through industry proved the final hump into the city. Half an hour later, I was in sight of the magnificent harbor and soon after that the Harbor Bridge. I took it slow, still quite aware I did not want to make it this far only to become a tragic asterisk in the back pages of the Sydney Morning Herald. Sydney, as I was now quite aware, was a sprawling city. As I approached the CBD, it was clear that, despite the masses of people and housing that now covered the every inch of the harbor, when this colony was first established ease of docking and defense were first on the city father's minds. From the base of the bridge and the old quarter of town called the "Rocks," the sandstone cliffs upon which the city was built are still quite visible. I rode under the Harbor Bridge; a smile appeared that grew broader as I realized where I was. Above me the pylons of the bridge stood like massive sentinels. Around the west pylon and directly in front of me was the Circular Quay. Across the water was the iconic Sydney Opera House; its sail-shaped edifice doing its best to shine in the waning cloudy sun.

I rolled casually along The Rocks, looking for a bar to fit my celebratory mood. I settled on one that made up for its lack of personality with its grand view. I had Coopers and shot the breeze with the bartender. He asked me if I had been biking. An obvious question from the way I looked, so I told him - nothing flashy, just the start and finish point. I walked to a seat with a fine view and sat down with my beer and studied the pale golden liquid with the Opera House in the background. It had not yet settled in, but I was slowly starting to grasp the distance I had covered. What was here in Sydney was pretty much what I expected. I thought back to before the start of my trip when Melbourne and Sydney were really the only two places I could visualize. Now, roughly three and a half months later, I had filled in a fair amount of the blanks with some pretty rich memories. I drained my beer and ordered another. It tasted just as good as the first. It was getting late, and I was staying at one of the two YHA's in town. Anthony’s place was across the harbor, and I had some business in the city that I wanted to take care of first thing the next day. With a regretful last swig, I set the empty glass down. The bartender came around, picked up the glass, and sat another full one in front of me. "We talked it over and figured your effort deserved a beer." I laughed and thanked him.

Hell, my effort did deserve a beer.

My Last Night in Bush Camp

2008-05-08T12:56:00.002-10:00

April 16 through the morning of the 17

My last night in bush camp.

One thing I realize I have not spoken of, yet remains a vivid image of sleeping on the side of the road these past few months, is folding up of my sleeping mat. Depending on the ground two things happen. If the ground is a somewhat grassy vegetation, my form compresses the grass in the rectangular outline of the mat. If the ground is dirt, then I’m left with the waffley impression of the pad. Either way, this is all the evidence I leave behind of my bed. I always wonder how long it will last undisturbed. It reminds me of deer and the beds they make for themselves. I know that in human history and in nomadic tribes today, this is and was the status quo. But, coming from a background of a roof and a bed, I can not help but be fascinated with this brief evidence of my slumber.

Last night was my last night in a bush camp, sleeping on the side of the road. It was a particularly good one. I slept just off an on-ramp and in a grove of gum trees that provided ample cover without the claustrophobic nature of the thicket I slept in the night before. The ground was covered with the thin and comfortable ever-shedding bark of the gums, and despite the proximity and hum of traffic on the busy highway, I felt most comfortable. It has been a long time since my first roadside bush camp in WA where, when I look back, was probably the easiest place to find a bush camp. A mere eighty-km outside of Sydney along a busy highway, it would have been a much harder place to start looking for an evening camp. There is still the sense of foreboding that accompanies the last hour or so before I pull off to the side of the road. Ahead of me is nothing but an educated guess of what the terrain might be. I still get a thrill pretending to mess with or drink water on the side of the road while waiting for a lull in traffic to dive into the bush in order to avoid any nosey eyes who might be annoying enough to call in what they would consider a "transient." I like instead to think of myself, in a small way perhaps, as channeling a little bit of the "Jolly Swagman" of Aussie lore.

It was certainly not without a little sadness that I left that last camp. Once I’m on the road, the next set of cars along the road just assume that I slept in a town somewhere. At least, I think most would assume that. Tonight I did not know where I would sleep, but I knew it would be in a bed without the satisfaction of self-sufficiency.

Large Sheep Testicles and the coffee/bike/produce store

2008-05-07T19:13:00.002-10:00

April 16th

Large sheep Testicles and the coffee/bike/produce store.

It was foggy on my way into Goulburn, and I was exceedingly pleased to find a large bakery with a large fire going in the back. I had to double check my flight tickets for back home and knew that I would be waiting in Goulburn till at least nine or ten that morning as the internet café/ library opened. I ordered breakfast and casually read the paper as the fire snapped and cracked to my great satisfaction. Goulburn is known for its Merino wool production, and if you don't believe them you can take it up with the two story concrete sheep that lords over the exit next to the bakery. I imagine this anatomically correct (its huge) beast is Goulburn's protection when Godzilla comes to town.

For some reason I really had not doubted Ray's statement yesterday when he said that I would see him in Goulburn. Thus I was only slightly surprised to see him waving in much the same frantic way on Goulburn's main street as he had on the highway. I pulled up on the sidewalk, and Ray commenced a talking.

"See, I thought I would run into you again. Where did you end up sleeping?"
"A few miles out of town on the side of the road." I had no problem admitting this after the fact.
"You’re keen, aren’t you? Have you had your coffee yet? I’m heading to bike store. It’s just down the street and to the left; it has the best coffee in town."
I had actually just come from the information center and was heading there anyway after finding out the Internet café did not open till 11. My thread-bare bike gloves had committed hari kari, and I was in need of a new pair. I told Ray.
"If I had a pair in the back of the car, I would give them to you." He paused. "If you head to the bike store, I’ll see if I can get you a discount. See you there."

Who was I to argue with that offer? I had wanted to chat more with my new interesting friend, but he had to make a phone call, and I rode the two blocks to the 'Green Grocer Café & Cyclery.' The sign was black with thin sea green letters. It was quite a name for the place that, had I lived in Goulburn, would be my favorite 9am to 5pm haunt. It's hard to beat a combination of a café (with all the extra bakery trimmings) arranged around a large isle of fresh fruit, fresh roses by the front door, the day's paper neatly stacked next to them and a well stocked cycle shop right in the back. Like many combinations, you might think this is asking too much of a store, yet nothing about the Green Grocer Café felt unduly cluttered or incongruent. Despite having had two cups at the large sheep genitalia bakery earlier that morning, I would have had to sample this store's beans even without Ray's recommendation.

I was looking over the gloves and settled on a $20 pair of Fox gloves. My previous $8 pair had lasted a long time, and it seems that no matter how much I spend on cycle gloves, they all last the same amount of miles. Ray had walked in by this point and approved of my choice.

"This man just biked from Perth, give him a discount." Ray said to the salt-and-pepper athletic looking man behind the counter.
"How’s $15?" he replied.

I wasn't arguing. Ray seemed like a wheeler-dealer anyway and clearly quite familiar with the man behind the counter. The man behind the counter was one of the best cyclists in the area, and as Ray so politely put it, had been working on bikes for "300 years." It was about 9:45 and this gentleman had already put on 80km from his house to work today, and I felt glad I did not have to race the guy when Ray started comparing the kind of shape we were both in. Not that I have any doubt in my ability to go, I just felt that for this trip at least, I was really wasn’t a speedy kinda guy. The chitchat went back and forth as it does, and more of Ray's life bubbled to the surface. He was originally English. Moved to the US to become and engineer. When he arrived, he picked the Boston Red Socks as his team as they were the closest team geographically to England. He had been married and drafted, went to Vietnam in an American uniform, and had made his way to Australia for some R and R. Somewhere along the way he had been married three times, had one American son and two aussie daughters. Ray ask me if I had seen the expiration date on the power bars. I replied I had not.

"Not to worry, my wife bikes and I feed them to her. She hasn't died yet."
I laughed. Genuinely entertained but a little disturbed. I asked him to join me for coffee. He declined the offer for coffee, but said he would join me directly.
My eyes and gut were bemoaning the lack of fresh fruit in my diet, and I took advantage of the café's eclectic nature and, along with my Long Black (Americano), purchased 2 bananas, 2 pears, and 3 satsumas. I took it outside, pulled out my journal and began to put down my experience with the Curious Mr. English.
It was not long before he joined me, and in his restless fashion told me he could not stay long, but that he had one… no two questions to ask of me.

Question 1. If I could have breakfast with anyone in the world, who would it be and why?
I chose Theodore Roosevelt. He solidified his place as my favorite president when, as a young boy, I found out that myself and 'Teddy Rose's Belt" shared an interest in bears, of which at the time, I had a blue bear (whose name just happened to be "Teddy") that I was rather attached to. As I grew up and learned more about the man, my general interest in him increased. He was a jack of all trades with an interest in everything. This was combined with the work ethic, intellect and means to become a huge force and presence at home and abroad. He was a capitalist to be sure, but was the driving force behind the creation of National Parks to protect the intrinsic value of our America’s natural wonders. Later in life, upon reading Upton Sinclair’s "The Jungle" that described the appalling conditions of immigrants and its pro-socialism slant (TR was passionately anti-socialist), he created the FDA to try to find some solutions to the food quality problem in order to keep socialism at bay. I don't want to give away any of my politics. However, what fascinates me most was this man’s energy and willingness to take up the challenge. That, in a nutshell, is why I would love to have brekki with TR.

Question 2. If I could relive any day of the trip what would it be?
I realized once I answered this that it was in keeping with the previous question. I chose the day/ night Anthony and I rode to Adelaide. It was the hardest day, and I felt I did not pull as much of the weight as I should have. I have had some amazing days on this trip; why would I want to try and replace already amazing memories. I think I would have a better chance at reliving and redoing the most terrible day because, while it may be hard, it would also need the least to become an overall improvement of the situation.

Thus ended my interesting meeting with the Curious Mr. English.

I am sent a few Angels

2008-05-06T18:29:00.003-10:00

April 15th

I am sent a few Angels.

Anthony and Dave arrived at 11 the night before, and we stayed up till around one catching up in the cold underneath the heat lamps that the bartender was kind enough to leave on for us. I am still amazed at how cold Canberra can be, even though I know from the browning leaves of imported deciduous trees that it must be some time in the fall. Our lodgings were, with the exception of white crown-molding, quite unadorned. Fortunately this sterility seemed to also extend to the rooms, sheets and bathrooms. A short six hours later, Dave, Anthony and I were up. 15 min later they were already out the door heading back towards Sydney and midterm exams. A wave of depression hit me as I pulled up his bike back into the hostel and began re-packing my bags. Something about being so close to finishing made this 299 km seem longer than it should have been. I was alone, and for the first time since the start of the trip, it troubled me. I think that perhaps it was the juxtaposition of solitary cycling and intense socializing that had characterized my riding since Adelaide. But, once again, throwing myself to the task at hand proved a ready salve. Despite my melancholic disposition, I felt better with my hands back on my gear.

A girl in modest sleepwear (pink shirt and penguin dotted pajama bottoms), walked out of her room with bread and canned spaghetti. I am not a picky eater in the least, but the white bread/ chef boy-r-d brekki combo was the least appetizing thing I could think of. She was cute; an olive complexion with short, bobbed black hair. We exchanged polite smiles, but were both focused on our tasks at hand, and this precluded any polite chitchat. I gave her no other thoughts before a shudder of the door and some English accented swearing brought me to attention.

"I locked myself out of my room." She stated, staring at me blankly. This was clearly aimed at me because I was the only other person in the hallway. I starred blankly back at her waiting for a little bit more information.
"I have to get to work by nine." She stated in a hopelessly pleading voice.
"I’m sure this happens all the time, just give them a call."
"My phones in my room."
"You can use mine."
"I don't have their number, it's in my phone." The crutch of technology crumbles once again through a human error.
"There has got to be a phone book close by."
She looked at her clothing, again, quite unrevealing, but most certainly sleep clothes.
"I can’t go out in my pajamas."
I took a deep breath and threw on my beanie.
"There has got to be a news agent close by, they will have a phone book. What am I looking up?"
"The National Zoo and Aquarium."

This piqued my interest. I had assumed she was doing some backpacker job, one of which could not be worth stressing about. I assured her I would be back in less than ten minutes and stomped down stairs and out to the cold pavement of a Tuesday morning in Canberra. Not surprisingly, the sleepy city was still waking up at 7:30, even in the CBD, traffic seemed terrifically light. After walking five hundred meters into the CBD, I found that none the newsagents were open, but I suspected (correctly) that the coffee shop I passed would no doubt have a phone book. With six hours of sleep, the idea of coffee seemed like top idea. I also reckoned that it would be rude to ask for a phone book and not get coffee. I continued this line of reckoning - that if I showed up with a phone number and just a cup of coffee for myself that it, well, just might not have seemed as nice as it could have been, so I got pajama girl one as well.

No one was at the zoo yet and she left a message. I planned on riding into Sydney between 2 and 4 am on Friday morning, and thus had some time to kill. Having a cup with this girl seemed a good way to kill time. It seemed like we were both in need of some company. I felt suprisingly relaxed and asked her questions to get her mind off the fact she was late for work. Turns out her name was Charlotte, she was 20 years old, from England, and was here on her own steam doing an internship for the National Zoo an Aquarium. It was a $15 cab ride for the nine miles between her room above the pub and the Zoo. I tried to convince her that nine miles was a pretty easy ride, even out of shape. Then again I was looking through a slightly different lens. Charlotte impressed me. She had a serious relationship back in England, and had told him that she had to go out and do this on her own terms. Not that 20 is particularly young, but this seemed to be an act that took a bit of gumption and self-confidence. We ended up killing time until 10am when the bar staff showed up to prepare lunch. It was only when we exchangd a hurried goodbye that I realized that the simple act of company and conversing kindly with a stranger had done a great deal to lift my mood.

I had to run various errands around town; I was in no particular rush and ended up leaving around 2pm. I felt much more confident and at home with a bike between my legs. Traffic was light and I was quite glad I had a roughly 1000 meters of altitude to drop on my way into Sydney. I was making good time when a vast golden field opened up before me. After my weeks in the high country with its hills and mountains, this golden monochromatic flatness before me was breathtaking. This was Lake George, or what was left of it. I was going fast. Less dead weight, slight downhill and comfortable wind conditions helped me eat up the kilometers. Up ahead of me in the at a rest area, a small white haired man was waving what appeared to be a high performance cycling rim in one hand and what I assumed were power bars in another. I wondered if there was some sort of race or charity ride going on, but no, this gentleman was stopping just for me.

"You’re moving at a good rate mate. I saw you five km back and you haven’t kept me waiting."
The words flew out of his mouth as he shoved five large generic brand apple power bars in my hand.

"Where did you start?"
"I’m heading Perth to Sydney."
"Why are you doing it?"
"This ones just for kicks; thank you for the bars. I'm Jordan Hanssen." I thrust out my hand in introduction.
"My names Ray English." He took my hand firmly. "You wouldn’t know it by my accent, but I’m a naturalized American. My name gets confusing when I’m at hotels when they ask me for my name. I say 'English', and they look at me like I’m taken the piss."
I judged from the unused racing rim in his hand and new VW van with dealer stickers on it that he must deal in bikes and that at this juncture in his life, he must now live in Australia.
"How did you end up in Australia?"
"Spent some time as a GI in Vietnam and married and Aussie girl… I've been around."
This seemed an understatement.
"Where you headed tonight – Goulburn – would you like a ride?"
"Probably Goulburn or thereabouts. I'll have to decline the ride. I have made it this far without a ride." I never liked to admit to strangers that I sleep on the side of the road.
"I won’t keep you, you mustn’t get cold. Good to meet you. Perhaps I will see you in Goulburn."
He turned, and I called out thanks and followed his orders. The exchange took perhaps less than a minute. Only moments before, this ride was pretty damn boring and with the addition of a random, kindly Pom-Yank-Aussie, it had given me 5 energy bars, restored my faith in mankind and threw a huge grin on my face. Just as important was that now I did not need to stop for dinner. That night I would make a decent meal of power bars and avoid riding the highway in the dark on the way to Goulburn.

My patch of grass was in a thicket of densely-packed trees that reminded me of Aspens. They certainly did not look native, as their leaves were rather round and all quite yellow in the late fall cold. It was the dense cover that is easy to hide in, and in the same breath, always gives me the impression that a dead body will be hiding in it. I like to think this is an encounter I will avoid, but I always try to mentally prepare myself for such an unpleasant contingency... just in case. This has to be the tour cycling equivalent of checking the closet for monsters. I read some of my Icelandic Sagas, alone, but after today, not particularly lonely. I slept soundly.

Back to Canberra

2008-05-05T20:45:00.001-10:00

April 14th
Back to Canberra

After the hustle and bustle of my life as a Melbourne socialite, I found myself quite lonely in Canberra with just my broken bike for company. I held off on getting a place to stay, as I was hoping that Anthony and his friend Dave might have found some connections in the city, and sat outside most of the day watching my bike and reading. That evening Anthony called and had found no joy in terms of a free place to stay. The YHA (Youth Hostel Australia) that I had been loitering around had no beds available. Fortunately a local pub, the Public Bar, just north of the CBD and 10-min walk away did. It was a roll of the dice in terms of what to expect, but we were not really in the position to be choosers at this time of night. I secured beds for three at the Public Bar, grabbed a beer and waited outside in the heat-lamps reading and reflecting on my position.

I had realized that last week, for roughly 24 hours, I had completely given up finishing my ride to Sydney. With such a catastrophic break in my bike, it was just not in the cards to replace, or fix. While I did think briefly of Anthony’s bike in Sydney, I felt that calling him up to bring it down would be asking too much. That being said, Anthony did not hesitate to offer to bring the bike to Canberra when he found out. I was floored by his generosity, but what I continue to learn, is typical of Aussie mateship. "No dramas," as they say.

Success in anything we do depends in large part to those around you. In turn the success of others depends on you. My success, or at this point with 299 km to go, potential success depends and has depended on several things. Without Lats and Jonno, I would have never meet Jonno's dad, Frank Stone. Without Frank, I could not have found Ross Ford who kept my bike safe for a week while I went to Melbourne to go to Lats' wedding, Jonno's 30th birthday party or hiked Wilson’s prom. Now, without Anthony and his generosity and belief in me to get his bike and myself in one piece to Sydney, I would never have the chance to finish my ride. I am humbled.

A More Perfect Union

2008-05-04T17:39:00.001-10:00

April 14th

A More Perfect Union

An image at the Airport lounge after Jonno dropped me off for my flight to Canberra:

I sit in the Tiger Airways Departure lounge in Melbourne airport -daily service to Canberra. It’s 8:14 am. Either the efforts of pure exhaustion or pure love have created the image of perfect slumber on the hard-grated airport benches. He wears a striped turquoise and blue shirt. She wears a cream colored top. His back lay against the backrest. She faces him. Long black hair cascades messily over the edge of the seat. Both of them are svelte in form, giving the image they are quite tall as they stretch out on this uncomfortable public furniture. A jacket covers their feet. They face each other in almost a kiss. His nose rests ever so on her cheek; her lips are close to his eyes. His left arm curves firmly around her back keeping her secure in her perch. Her heads rests upon his right arm, and his forearm curves with the wrist and fingers hanging in a perfect relaxation.

My Old Stomping Grounds

2008-05-04T17:37:00.001-10:00

April 13th

My Old Stomping Grounds

I took advantage of this unplanned Sunday to march through the old neighborhood on Lygon Street next to Melbourne University where I had studied five years ago. Nothing of note had changed. The hallowed walls of learning at the Uni were still impressive in there neo-gothic grace. Lygon Steet, home of many Italian immigrants, still bustled with wall-to-wall Italian restaurants, café's, gelaterias, and the occasional books shop. In one of these, I got a little light reading: HG Wells "The War of the Worlds" some Icelandic Sagas and Swifts "Gulliver's Travels." To be fair, my reading list on this trip has, with a few exceptions, been less than distinguished. I found my time alone in WA to be filled of a liking of trashy romance novels of no particular note. It didn't get much better with Josh from Strath’s loan of Jordan Belfont's "The Wolf of Wall Street," but gradually improved. My favorite thus far was a local author, Robert G. Barrettes, "Les Norton and the case of the talking pie crust." This book had me laughing out loud in the middle of Wilson’s prom.

I stopped for some gelato and moseyed through the Victoria Market serendipitously finding a Turkish festival. I find the relationship between Turkey and Australia a very interesting one. In 1915 the Australians and Turks fought each other in Gallipoli in Turkey. This was the incident that created the ANZAC (Australia New Zealand Army Corps) legend and that is credited in large part to creating a national identity of hard work, bravery, mateship and just about everything positive that you would associate with Aussies. It was an exceptionally bloody eight-month battle with horrific losses on both sides. It was a defeat for the Aussies, although the Turks did lose more men. At the twenty year anniversary of the battle, the founder of modern Turkey, Kemal Ataturk, also a highly decorated leader and solider of the Turkish troops, left this poignant memorial in ANZAC cove:

You heroes that shed your blood and lost your lives, you are
Now lying in the soil of a friendly country, therefore rest in
Peace. There is no difference between Johnnies and the
Mehmets to us, where they lie side by side, here in this
Country of ours. You their mothers who sent your sons from
Far away countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now
Lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their
Lives on this land they have become our sons as well.

Total forgiveness is a real tearjerker. In many ANZAC parades, the Turkish flag is flown - the only flag of an enemy to be given that respect. The relationship continued after World War II when Turkish Cypriots with British passports immigrated to Australia. In 1968 they came en mass after an assisted migration agreement was signed. One of the many signs around the fair was, "we came as workers and stayed as citizens." Seeing such pride of people who are proud of where they came from and where they are now reminds me how important immigrants are to any population. Their will to work and energy renews each generation, and in my humble opinion ,makes a country stronger and richer in the long run.

All this thought of Turkey brought me to my friend, Erden Eruc, born in on the Turkish side of Cyprus, who is currently rowing across the Pacific. He had originally planned to row to Australia. Nature had other plans for him and, nearly 300 days later; he is still at sea. He is the first Turkish man to row an ocean. Erden is an adventurer. He makes my trip look like a vacation. If he is any example of his countrymen, it is easy to see why the Turks have been successful in Australia.

My feet gradually got me back to Kensington. I stopped at Flemington Kebabs, incidentally run by Turks, and my favorite kebab shop in Melbourne. It has gained my lunch business for roughly 3/4ths of the days I have spent in the city. I blame it on the secret spices they put in their meat as well as $3 Turkish bread and the most generous servings of baklava that I have encountered on three continents. The food was the standard goodness, and I was sad for both my last kebab and for my last day in this amazing city, but despite a tinge of road weariness, I am eager to get back on the road.

Jonno's Birthday Party

2008-05-02T16:13:00.001-10:00

April 12th

Jonnos Birthday Party

In the morning I went with Suse to what could be considered a salvage store. However, it hardly lived up to its name, as there was nary a speck of dust among the cleanly-removed doors, windows, mantles and other older house bits. The front door was in need of a handle. Up until now, it had taken some dexterity to use the key in the deadbolt to pull the front door of 34 Parsons Street closed. Suse choose a clean, lined brass handle that fit below the deadbolt as if it had been attached since the house was built. There is nothing more satisfying than a neatly completed home improvement task. This was sadly my last task I got to do at the house.

In the afternoon, Jonno, rower that he is, decided that for his birthday he would take half his rowing friends and half his non-rowing friends and throw them in the same boats down on the banks of the muddy Yarra - the river that runs right though the heart of the skyscrapered downtown. As a competitor and medalist in two U23 World Rowing championships, Jonno has several unisuits (in Aussie, 'zooties') from several countries, and the ten of us in the two coxed quad wherries looked like a rowing United Nations as the rowers taught the non-rowers how to handle the oars. Most of the rowers in the boats had at one time or another coached rowing, and the general consensus among them was that these non-rowers actually did a pretty good job. In addition, the high caliber of trash-talking between boats was something to behold. Our last effort was a 500 meter race in which three crabs were caught, one seat was lost, and the three seat in Jonno's boat removed his oars because he felt they would go faster without his efforts. Let's just say that everyone left the water a winner.

In the evening I found myself back at the Leviton with the Usual Suspects. At this point me, the random Yank had been seen on the Melbourne social circuit for the past four out of five weekends, and the faces of those around me were no longer strangers. Frank and Prue were there as well with the good news that they had figured out that Amelia’s ailment was a hernia, and she was scheduled for surgery early that next week. Naturally she was still pretty gutted that she had to miss her big brother's 30th.

It being mostly a couple’s night, the men felt no need to go to the dance floor; however, the women did. The DJ that came with the rented space seemed like he would be more comfortable if the cliental had been barely legal and eager for the latest techno mix. It was clear he was insulted when I told him to play “Sweet Home Alabama” and or other classic hits, and he continued to pay me lip service until I started to just pass my requests through Suse. She felt my music choice was spot on, and since she and Jonno held the purse strings, his will was broken and “Sweet Home Alabama” played to everyone's but his delight. I managed to find the only single girl at the party.

Days in Melbourne

2008-05-02T16:02:00.002-10:00

April 11th
Days in Melbourne

Friday is Jonno’s Saturday, and I was under strict orders from Suse that Jonno should take this day before his birthday party to relax and read the paper for a minimum of two hours. Jonno’s pace is, at least around me, a constant yet relaxed movement. We putzed around the house; he did some light cleaning, and we put up a hose rack in the brick outside his back yard. I had never drilled into masonry before, but Jonno had enough faith in my handyman skills that I could figure it out. Afterwards we watered the veggie garden, which in my absence had been cleared and replanted, and was growing (according to Jonno) at a rate of "at least eight inches a day."

We headed to lunch at the Leviton, the pub to which we would be heading to the next day for Jonno’s 30th birthday party. They were closed until noon, and we killed time at a one of Jonno’s favorite coffee shops whose name regretfully escapes me. In addition to the typically good Italian inspired Melbournian coffee, the shop sells an arsenal of coffee brewing contraptions. A bit of this was a "mini express" stove-top espresso that looked a lot like drug paraphernalia. Jonno and I both thought (in our manly way) that it was adorable, and he insisted I buy it. Unfortunately, I find it quite hard to not treat myself, and his threat of buying it for me was more than enough motivation. Our barista was an American girl with a oval shaved out of her head; in this oval, the Batman symbol was tattooed. I reckon that for as hard core a look as it provided, it is actually an easy tat to cover up. Even so, she will still have to come to terms with always having the Chief looking for Batman on her head. She was angry that Jonno was reading the Business Times, stating that it was a worse habit than heroin. This statement surprised me, considering that Bruce Wayne was himself a successful businessman.

The afternoon commenced with excessive relaxation. I was pleased that I could tell Suse that Jonno had relaxed the whole day. We enjoyed a beer and potato wedges at the Leviton. Eating continued with sandwiches and the fixings of a ravioli dinner at the local Kensington Italian deli. Movies were rented, and the afternoon floated slowly by. That evening, I bustled into the kitchen, boiled some water, grilled some Iserno sausage, cut fresh basil and parsley from the veggie patch, and using some leftover fresh bread from the bread-maker plus some of the leftover sauce Suse had made for the cous-cous, managed to put together a rustic, but filling dinner for my Lovely host and hostess. This most simple of days was amazing.

Stomach Trouble

2008-05-01T02:42:00.002-10:00

April 10th Stomach Trouble

I awoke to perhaps the least pretty day in a while. Amelia and I were leaving Wilson’s Prom. She had a doctor’s appointment, and her malaise that had kept her from hiking with me was acting up. It seemed a good time to get on the road. It turned out to be more than just stomach trouble, and she was admitted to the ER that day in order to figure out just what ailed her. Frank and Prue were both at work, and I was very glad I was available to drive Amelia around as she was hurting pretty badly. Frank came to the hospital just as Amelia was getting settled in. Once she was admitted, he took me to lunch - completely unnecessary of him, but typical Stone generosity. I did have a very pleasing steak sandwich, perhaps the best of the trip. We talked a bit of rowing, and I drove back to drop off Amelia’s things and wait for Prue to take me to the train that evening while Frank went back to check on Amelia.

The three of us met back at the house around 4:30pm, well and truly in need of a drink after what had become an unexpectedly dramatic day. Frank and Prue were in what I thought remarkably good spirit despite the circumstances. I believe they were just happy that Amelia was in the process of finally being diagnosed. As we chatted, Frank turned to me in a serious tone and said, "Mate, there is one problem that I have with you." I froze. I had, I thought, endeavored in every way to be a good houseguest and was a little shocked and eager to know what I had done wrong in Frank’s eyes. I looked a question at him. "You just don't take good enough care of yourself" picking up his bottle of beer and motioning with his pinky at my now empty one. I sighed and rose to my feet. "You want one too, Frank?"

A half-hour later I found myself at the train station after Prue had dropped me off. I love traveling by train. Something about the expectation of waiting on the platform and the classic squeal of metal on metal provided a conducive environment to reflect on my trip until now. I had finished just about everything I had set out to do. With Wilson’s Prom now finally under my belt, I had a few days in Melbourne before heading back to Canberra. The morning Jonno picked me up for the Lats' wedding, I got a call from Anthony. He had seen my facebook message about my broken bike and offered to switch bikes with me. I was absolutely floored that he would do this, and asked him again if he was sure. He had midterms that week, and it would take a bit of logistical juggling to make it happen. Either way, it was now looking like I might just be able to bike all the way to Sydney. With completion of my trip now once again an option, I was starting to feel how much I had really wanted to finish in Sydney and not Canberra. Anthony had laid it out pretty clearly when he said, "I was going to be pretty disappointed if you didn't make it to Sydney. No one in the States knows where Canberra is, and as far as they’re concerned, it could be 100 km from Perth." As of late the logistics and constant movement, while exciting, had started to wear on me. However, if Anthony was willing to go this far for me, I knew that I could sure as hell make it to Sydney. The train pulled back into Southern Cross, and Jonno and Suse had cooked eggplant and couscous.

I wake up this morning upon a beach

2008-05-01T02:40:00.002-10:00

April 9th
I wake up this morning upon a beach

I dreamt of private things last night and thus awoke in a thoughtful mood. The waves marched in the twilight, and the faintest pink began to convert the black waves to first cobalt-laced with mercury, followed by a subtle green-turquoise trimmed with mica.

I find the first light of day brings out the most delicious smells of nature – a measure of salt and ocean with the unmistakable sweet and sour of the forest. Fortunately this overpowered my own un-showered scent. At some point during the night, the waves got within 30 feet of my spot on the edge of the forest. As the heat of the first rays poked over the point, the marine smell became nearly overwhelming. In the not-so-distant campsite I smelled the school kids cooking. I made breakfast on some granite rocks next to another tea tree stained stream. In a delightful, and what some would no doubt consider immature manner, I decided to race my stove pots from the top of the stream to the ocean waves. It was a close race, but Slightly Scuffed beat out Crusty Burn Marks by a wide margin in the last quarter of a race. For a few brief seconds I went back in time to my childhood memories on the beach and the hours of joy spent playing in the sand.

I packed up and continued up and down the valleys and ridges of a lost world. Upon reaching Sealers Cove, I took a break, unlaced the boots, grabbed an apple and walked into the surf munching the crisp fruit with great satisfaction. Gum-green bluffs surrounded me, and the water continued to be its insatiable turquoise blue. My feet hurt, but I felt I had exorcised the ghosts of my previous, trying trip to Wilson’s Prom. I turned regretful, but happy, and marched the last 10 km through swamp and foothills to the car park in which Amelia waited to pick me up. I was told I looked remarkably well for covering 60 km in 49 hours and 25 min.

Things of note my first day at the Prom

2008-04-28T16:14:00.002-10:00

April 8th

Some things of note that happened today

I awoke from the best night's sleep I have yet had in the bush. I attribute this to A. not freezing - the temperature here next to the coast, (despite being father south) is a great deal warmer. B. No Alarm. With no urgent place to be or any reason to get an early start on the road, there was no need for a wake up call. My body woke comfortably with the light to a morning on the verge of crisp. It was perfect weather for my bivy sack. My muscles were pleasantly sore from a different kind of work, and I putzed around the camp delighting at this pace of life. The last time I camped here (over 4 years ago) it was in an early wet spring with no good food or flashlight. Then, my hiking partner and I hit the road early and had forgone the actually 3.7 km hike to the physical southern-most tip of the antipodean continent. This seemed just the occasion to see it. Hiking in the Prom is primarily a pleasant tunnel of bush interspersed with mighty views of deserted beaches and smooth granite islands. The southern most tip is much the same. Granite boulders, wave-hewn over years, sit like a giant's toys. Above the salt spray line is brilliant orange lichen that grows, and in some cases nearly encases, the boulders in a rustic version of "hunter orange." Among the rocks lays a lumber yard's worth of wood, each piece touched by human hand – a brutal testament to the destructive nature of Bass Strait. On the far end sits a tilted cross made of the same wood and lashed together with rope that had also washed ashore. I was moved my the shipwrecked detritus, but still found myself delighted to jump like a child from boulder to boulder.

My next stop of note was the Promontory Lighthouse. It has been in continuous operation since it was completed 1859. This is still a remote location, and it is hard to imagine it when the only communication was one galvanized telegraph wire (that was interrupted the first day when a tree fell across it). The lighthouse sits on a tiny peninsula on the same kind of orange-covered granite. On approach from the east, it reminds me of the town of Cinque Terra in Italy. It appears a town in miniature with roads and neatly hewn stone cottages that held, at one point, the families of the lighthouse keeper and his two assistants. For one short year this included 14 children, enough that the state of Victoria sent them their own school teacher. Over the years less and less people were needed to keep this sailor's joy alight. Today it is all automated. A stark contrast to the barely-weathered 140 year old lighthouse, still as solid as the day it was built. The existing houses are well-taken care of with neatly cut grass and flowers. A ranger still lives here. Duties for the light are far less, and the assistants' cottages are now a strange luxury to savvy campers willing to pay the 70$ AUD a night for the rather historical privilege of staying in one of the white-washed stone cottages. I feel that some day this will be me, but for now, I still must put 11 more kilometers on and leave this wind-swept spot for my campsite in Waterloo Bay. In the valleys, I walked though a wet forest with a soggy carpet of leaves, and on the ridges past scrubby, dry bushes and granite. Today’s journeys ended at the beach. None too soon as my feet were hot and hurting. It was delicious to feel the sand through my toes and downright blissful when rolled over by the cold, salty waves.

The campsite was overrun by younguns from the city. Not in the mood to deal with them, I moved past the camp to a lookout just above the beach. The waves crashed and kept me company. In the distance, a lighthouse flashed red. I see my breath but am not at all cold – no doubt the humidity. My dinner is good, and I have a cup of coffee to have with my tim tam cookies. I bite off each end of the chocolate-covered treats and suck the hot coffee through it before sucking the java logged treat into my mouth in what I find out later is a "tim-tam slammer." This made me smile, as did the starlight that rained above me through the branches.

To the Prom

2008-04-28T16:12:00.003-10:00

April 7th

The best laid plans are sometimes best lain in. A 4:45 start crept thankfully to 6:15. Amelia put on coffee while we packed the car leaving for the Prom at a respectable 7:30ish. “Ish” was the world that day. We stopped just outside the Prom in the town of Foster and dug into some meat pies. Meat pies are, depending on your point of view, a good or a bad thing that we Americans did not inherit from our British heritage, and after watching Sweeny Todd this winter, I just do see them going off. However, for cheap, tasty and heart-clogging energy, a meat pie has no equal. Steak, bacon, and egg in a pie crust. It's called a "Ned Kelly" the famous armor-wearing bushranger (outlaw) of the these parts in the late nineteenth century. I also had a lamakin, another treat America should import. It's a square cake coved in a light layer of chocolate followed by a romp in shaved coconut. Forgive me, I digress into my hunger pants.

The Prom(ontory) is rather like a rough isosceles triangle attached to continental Australia by a slight isthmus. It would be, and from many sides appears like, you would imagine a picturesque, temperate, deserted island to look like. Among its square millage are mountains up to 1500ft, rolling hills, swamps, bays, bushland, temperate rain forest and miles and miles of white beach interrupted with shallow freshwater streams colored light brown from the Tea tree leaves that fall into them. It is a most Robinson Crusoesque experience to take your shoes off and hike barefoot through these beachy streams. Amelia was unfortunately sick and not up to the roughly 60 km of hiking over three days that was planned, and she stayed at the main campsites in Tidal River with its generous access to a range of day hikes and fine sandy beaches, one of which, Squeaky Beach, is named as such because your feet squeak on its evenly-shaped and sized grains of sand. The hike began on the beach next to this whose name escapes me. I quickly climbed the lower exposed granite bluffs of Mt. Oberon, the Proms' highest mountain. The climb increased steadily to a view of a rocky distant island reminiscent of Esperance. Two more sets of beaches and bluffs later, I passed some school children. I was somewhat put out that one of the little darlings had a radio, and, I felt for a second was missing the point. Then again, who was I to judge? It was nice to hear music when it comes my way. Would I have had a problem with it if he was making is own? Is bringing a radio different than bringing a book? Either way, I was not staying at their campground and moved on.

I scared two wallabies - shorter and stumpier cousins of kangaroos. They taste the same (not these particular two). The first jumped from the road and watched me with suspicious curiosity as I took pictures and tried to speak to in it what can be best described as an unintentional Mickey Mouse voice. I don't know why I and others feel the need to talk to animals in strange voices. The second wallaby crashed through the trees down a steep incline. I heard his gravity-enhanced scamper for nearly ten seconds.

I am at the Roaring Meg campsite. Just me and a couple from Melbourne who were very excited when I told them there was a loo on the other side of the campsite where we were staying. The Meg, roaring as it were, seemed to be an overstatement. However, the trees atop the ridges in this protected valley do whisper loudly as the wind blows by. In my valley for the night the air is calm. A possum comes to look at me reminding me to store my food properly. A mosquito lands on my shirt. I slap him and am surprised by the amazing amount of gore (probably mine) that stains my shirt. Bedtime.

To Sale once again

2008-04-27T19:48:00.001-10:00

April 6th

Ok, so I admit I might have woke up with a little headache, but I imagine I’m not the first person to wake up with a little head throb after a wedding at the Melbourne Club drinking some of the old vino de Latreille. Even then, I did wake up at a respectable 7:30 am to check email and do some blogging. Jonno’s wife, Suse, felt great. I like the fact that she is a morning person; it gives me hope that I’m not the only one. Jonno admitted that he was struggling and went through his usual routine of saying he was running late while still moving around in a most unhurried fashion. I have never met a person so relaxed while in a hurry. I’m sure the hangover helped.

At ten a.m., I made my way to the Southern Cross station with a hodgepodge of camping gear from my bike bags and Jonno’s closet. I was heading back to the Family Stone in Sale and eventualy to Wilson’s Promontory with Jonno’s sister, Amelia, the next day. I grabbed a large cuppa coffee and settled in for the two hour train ride wishing I had grabbed a copy of the Sunday Morning Herald, but settled for catching up in my journal. Amelia picked me up from the station in Taralgon (I never dreamed in my life that I would spend so much time in Taralgon), and we shopped for our camp food. On my last trip to the Promontory, my pack was raided by a wombat that left me half a block of cheese and half a jar of peanut butter as my sole sustenance for the next 24 hours. I now have a rather irrational hatred of these mostly benign, stumpy pig-dog creatures. An hour later, I sat once again in the sublimely relaxing atmosphere of the Stone's kitchen. There is something about their ready hospitality and kindness that makes me think of home.

That night Prue made roast of lamb, a meat we both share a great affinity for. Frank whipped up a chili relish with fresh veggies from the garden. This mixed in completely different, yet complementary, ways with both the lamb and the pumpkin (what Aussies call butternut squash). The lamb fell easily off the bone and tasted of salty rosemary. In the not so distant field outside their house, cows rustled and mooed. Dessert was pineapple and watermelon diced and topped with ice cream. I was out before my head hit the pillow in the Harry Potter bed beneath the stairs. I dreamt, but nothing important, and my slumber remained unperturbed.

Kookaburra at the wedding

2008-04-27T19:46:00.001-10:00

April 5th

A kookaburra wedding crasher.

Could a bride look lovelier?

Could a groom look more comely?

I like to think every bride and groom does but then again I am a rank sentimentalist with a streak of the hopeless romantic. The venue was the "Melbourne Club" (no qualification required) at which Lat's father is one of roughly 1,000 invitation only members. The sumptuous marble, tile and mahogany (even in the head) was made second rate only by the 113 year old English Live Oak whose branches stretched in regal manner above the courtyard and below the shadows the sky scrapers in this exclusive downtown setting. Lord knows the cost of a square foot; however, I have a hunch that this venerable Victorian building is in absolutely no danger of ever being bought. It was an intimate setting below the oak. A few lines of chairs faced the old trunk for family as the rest of the friends stood closely by. I could not have been happier to say yes to Lat’s and Elka’s wedding only six days before.

I love a wedding. I think love and the optimism of a wedding are well worth celebrating and thus I am only slightly ashamed that even in my most callused moments I get teary. When/ if I ever get married I reckon I’ll leak like a first semester cordon bleu student cutting onions.

The ceremony was non-denominational with a "celebrant" instead of a priest. She was kind faced and wore her hair in such a way that reminded me of a Victorian schoolmistress minus the implied emotional abuse. The readings made by several friends were worth sharing. I have transcribed them below.

In order to complete the setting of a perfect Australian wedding a professional kookaburra was hired to sit at the wrought iron bench next to the wedding party, interrupting only at the most opportune moments. The cerimony was short and sweet and the chairs were moved making way for the reception to commence immediately amoung the columns and oak tree.

Peter Latreille in his deep booming voice (that judging by Lat’s similar deep booming voice is genetic) told Elks father, in a voice heard round the coutyard "we did it" and there was a gerneral shaking of hands and clapping of backs. In the resplendant dining room with its two story ceiling the meal was served. Christopher Watkins "Watty" was master of ceremonies and with the professorial voice of a Phd in history, conducted the evning of speaches and toasts. Lat's and Elka danced into the room, absolutly radiant, a most becoming center of attention. The food was excellent, complementing the oppulence of the dinning room. I enjoyed a cigar and some man time in the coutyard befor heading back in to enjoy some of Peter's home made muscat from the seemingly inexaustable Latreille cellar. The band began to play "Proud Mary" and it seemed an appropriate note to start my dancing for the evening. Lats and Elka had left the building, and it was clear our lease on the Melbourne Club was running out and it was time to find a late night venue. This was the Champagne room a block away. They were checking Ids at the door, they just ask us if we were from the Melbourne Club and let us in. Oh, what a night.

Some readings from the wedding:

Untitled
By Michael Leunig

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle
A man needs a sushi when a woman is an icicle
A man needs a car to zip across town
To order a tuna and gobble it down.
The tuna needs cars to be partially banned
And bicycles reintroduced to the land;
To pedal for miles in the rain for a sushi;
Better to stay at home with noodles for dinner;
The man and the tuna would both be a winner
The world needs to get it self out of a pickle
A woman needs a man like a fish needs bicycle.

This is pretty unothodox for a reading but one has to understand that Elka is clearly an independent woman, althought they do share the same profession (architects). Lat’s is also a cycle phile and is the owner of eight or nine bikes, much to Elka's increasing chagrin, but I think she still loves him.

How to Get There
By Michael Leunig

Go to the end of the path until you get to the gate.
Go through the gate and head straight out
Towards the horizon
Keep going towards the horizon
Sit down and have a rest every now and again
But keep on going.
Just keep with it.
Keep on going as far as you can
That's how you get there.

I don't really feel like I have to explain why I like this.

April 4th, I accept Canberra

2008-04-26T12:21:00.000-10:00

April 4th Afternoon, I accept Canberra as my final destination.

Sometimes you have to look at a situation, accept the facts and go with plan B. My bike was grievously broken. This was not a part that could easily be replaced nor fixed. I ride a very large frame and the chance that one would be easily available in Canberra were slim to nil, besides, I have no desire to make a $1000 to $2000 purchase under duress. It just wasn’t worth the cost. Either way I had a wedding to go to and needed a place to keep my bike while I went to Melbourne the next week to: A. Go to Lat’s wedding. B. Hike Wilson’s Promontory and C. Go to Jonnos 30th birthday party. The hostel I planned to stay at had no place to secure my bike and thus I called up Frank Stone to call in a favor for me through the IFR (international fraternity of rowers) Fortunately a background in this sport breeds uncommon camaraderie among aficionados and I suspected that Frank might know a coach in Canberra who might be willing to let me put my broken bike and bags in one of the boat sheds. He did. His name was Ross Ford, and in typical aussie/rower fashion was more than willing to help, picking me up, taking me to the sheds and then offering me a ticket with him to the Rugby Union game that night.

April 4th Evening, Rugby Union. Canberra Brumbys vs. The Waikato Chiefs (NZ)

I will qualify this by saying that it would be hard to classify me as a sports fan. Despite growing up in the states I have absolutely no affinity to baseball, basketball, or football (however, I am a fair weather fan of the Sea Hawks) For the most part I find them pretty dull and hard to watch. Rugby is a different story. It doesn’t stop. These large and largely unpadded men beat the tar out of each other and keep the ball in play in a poetic madness that kept my eyes focused on the field. "Footie" is the generic term given to Australian Rules Football, Rugby League and Rugby Union. These games would best be described to Americans as various mixes of soccer, football and hockey, and in my humble opinion are more fun to watch as the ball, like the hockey puck, is almost always in play and stoppages are kept to a minimum. The footie I was watching that night was Union, this differentiated from League in number of players (15 to 13) and is considered the most pure form of the game, as league developed roughly 100 years ago as the working mans professional game. These days all the players of both codes are professional, the only differences being the number of players and variations in the rules. Ross provided running commentary filling me in on the particulars and the specific skills, and towards the end of the game I could began to see the art within it. It was a little disappointing as Rose’s team; the Brumby's were being run all over the field by the crisp plays of the Chiefs. For someone use to the hard hits and pads of American Football it is incredible to see men o similar size and strength take the same effort out of each other with out the protection of pads. Perhaps most satisfying was the Brumby's final effort for one last goal despite being several goals behind. In many sports a complete rout will result in a visible lack of effort in the waning seconds of the game. No so for the Bumby's who battled the final minute of play on the goal line finally scoring one more. It felt good to see the physical manifestation of pride out on the pitch. A great end to what really could have been a most depressing day. But for now I have a plain to catch and a wedding to go to.

A Rough Day to Canberra

2008-04-25T16:33:00.000-10:00

April 4th
A Rough Day

I was acutely aware that my sleeping set up was not up to the task this morning. I awoke colder than in the bush camps in the mountains despite being 1000 meters closer to sea level. I would find out later that this is typical of Canberra. Fortunately I still had the plastic bags and threw on my homeless man mittens for the 40km into Australia’s capitol city. On my way I passed a dead deer. One of the many animals the Europeans brought with them that were suited well for this environment. Its head was freshly caved in and was perhaps the most gruesome roadkill to date. Canberra is a sleepy town of 300,000 and is a planned city. It having the virtue of being neither Sydney nor Melbourne as it was these cities that have always competed with each other. Thus Canberra was chosen as a compromise and this sleepy hilly farmland became the decision making center for the continent. I stopped at a chic outdoor shopping mall for breakfast. More meat pies, read the paper and was quite pleased with the time that I made it to the city. Only one week before at this time I had been in Omeo and had put a lot of ups and downs in-between. I was now assured of making it to my flight to Melbourne and hence Lat’s wedding.
These happy thoughts and the last 3 k to the city center were all the filled my mind as I stepped back on the bike. Pressing my full weight into the pedal I heard the satisfying click of the cleat and a sickening bend as the pedal crank curved most unnaturally. I looked down and was stunned, shocked. And not a little bit suprised that my bike frame was cracked. Not a micro crack in the weld but a fill on 10 cm crack that curved all around the crank and into the meat of the aluminum frame. In a daze I gently peddled/ pushed my bike to the CBD. I was too aghast to be angry. It being early enough to call the states and really needing some moral support I did what I believe a lot of people, especially momma boys like myself might do. I called mom.
Unfortunately, my brother had not gotten into his first choice for University and was pretty crushed and thus had a monopoly on Mom’s sympathy. She wished she could help, really did, but today was not it. So I talked to my brother who had sat in silence for the past three hours after the news. I told him about the bike and then just started laughing. 299km from my destination with a broken bike. My mirthless laughter seemed to get him going and he replied that it was clearly a dark day for the Hanssen-wood clan. It was quite clear we were going to have to rethink our efforts.

A Cold, Wet Nose Means a Healthy Dog

2008-04-24T17:21:00.001-10:00

April 3rd

My nose has been cold for the entire day. I left Jindabyne late, around 9:30 but with a rare and fine breakfast of eggs. As of late, I have not cooked brekki for myself, and in my worn down state I figured I should be at least well-fueled. Yesterday’s forecast was correct, and as I rounded Lake Jindabyne, I could see the Snowy Mountains with a dusting of its namesake. The taller peaks were still crowned with clouds, and I could only assume more snow. I had an epiphany today. I have been riding with the misconception that it’s still the summer in Australia. In fact, it is more like there late fall. This explains the cold nose and red swollen fingers as I write in my bush camp just inside the ACT (Australian Capitol Territory). 40 km from the capitol of Australia - Canberra - my destination. Omeo to Mt. Hotham, and then on to Kosciuszko and Canberra in one week was not bad, especially budgeting 2 days for the bucks party. I was quite miserable today. It was manageable for the first half of the day, but the wind that brought the storm in yesterday (and, as I later found out, uprooted trees, knocked down walls and killed a woman) was still blowing in the clear sun. It was blowing hard enough that it seemed to suck the air from my mouth.

Today I sat at a rest area resting, reading a book and eating some cold lunch. I could not get away from the wind. It howled and made me cold despite the sun. A woman in a yellow car offered me a ride to Canberra, and I said “no, thanks” (rather weakly). I was not thinking that clearly, and the way I said it (despite my attraction to the offer), seemed to offend. I was sad. I really could have used that ride, and my bike seemed to agree. The front tire picked up two goat-heads (first of the trip) just as I was rolling off the grass at the rest area. It seemed to be saying, "Mate, I need a rest, too."

Ah well, we suffered through it, and my whole body hurt. It was mostly downhill on the way to Canberra, but the wind would not let me enjoy it. I was even peddling hard downhill to keep up time. I was so annoyed, and it was not until the last few km that I bothered to notice the beauty of the knobby foothills of the mountains. Now I do, and the birds make their last calls. My bush camp has the remains of a roo it in. It is not the first time I’m glad I’m not in croc country.

I climb Kosciuszko

2008-04-23T17:28:00.001-10:00

April 2nd

I woke up early for a meat pie and carrot cake fuel-up at the local bakery. I took the bridge past the ski lifts and began a walk up varying degrees of forest to the top of the treeless alpine of Australia. Those words, “treeless alpine,” paired to me seemed like the words “jumbo shrimp” – simply a conflict in terms. But it’s a fact, and without the gum trees, this landscape has remarkable similarity to craggy Scotland with bastions of granite atop every protrusion but the one I seek - Kosciuszko - named after the Polish freedom-fighting general because it reminded the Pole who named it of the general’s grave in Krakow.

Small delicate plants and the remnants of spectacular glacier surround me as I walk the 20-year-old rusty grating that serves as a protective track to this fragile alpine environment. The wind is fierce, my eyes water and my face hurts bad enough to wrap my bandana around it. I am on top of the continent, and there has been nothing since the ocean to slow this wind down. The winds have reached at least 70 kph pushing my considerable bulk around.

I summit, and while it may be the shortest of the continents, it still feels spectacular to stand at its highest point. There is a short, shallow lake on the way up, and the gusts blaze waves across its surface sending spray into the air. I stand up there for a few minutes and then head back down. I was happy with my decision to climb early. The wind pushed me uncomfortably down the track. When I reached the bottom, I stared into many determined, but unhappy faces planning on making the climb. I grab some hot cocoa at the highest restaurant in Australia – the only one of the seven highest continental summits to have one. The staff tells me a storm is coming and there are winds over 120 kph in Melbourne. Snow is coming, too, and I need to blaze down the trail to escape it. I was quite tired and nearly delirious when I rolled into Jindabyne.

At the ski bar at Thredbo village

2008-04-22T16:36:00.001-10:00

April 1st

Today I climbed from bush camp still with mountain cold about 5 km outside of Khancoban. My last night ended with a climb and the day with more of the same. I can’t lie, today intimidated the hell out of me. Yesterday I had passed through Corryong right into the heart of Man from Snowy River country. My altitude there was roughly 300 meters, and I knew that I would be climbing a least 1280 meters more to Dead Horse Gap. Five km past Khancoban, I was in the middle of climbing my second ridge and had enough downhill in between that I had a feeling that despite my efforts I was no where closer (height wise) to my final goal of the day. I didn’t know how many ridges lay in between and with 75 km to ride, there were a lot of unknowns. I really had no idea how much of an ascent I was really in for.

My first climb brought me to the Murray 1 dam and its power station. This is part of a huge system of dams and power stations that provides 70% of the power needed for the greater southeast part of the country (the most populated). The tropical dull green of the gum trees and the power house complex and concrete make it look like a set from a James Bond movie. In the early light, it looks like a lair that the most nefarious of Drs. Evil could hide. I regretted not being able to stick around till nine when the visitor center opened up, but I could not justify the wait. I pushed along up the hills praying I would not turn a corner and start coasting downhill again and thus loose all the sweat equity I had put into this set of mountains. It was a ripper of a decent for seven km and roughly a third of the way into my day’s ride. It seemed as good a place as any for break. It was a gentle gold and green valley with a cold rippling stream running through it. My body shifted form hot to cold as I moved in and out of the shade. I lingered and finished H.G. Wells’ "The Island of Dr. Moreau." From that point on, it was hard not to put human attributes to any animal I saw.

I continued to the cattle station of Tom Groggin - home of the Man from Snowy River. The hills were quick and undulating, and the mass of valley was wide enough that one view could not soak it all in. After this, the pain set in, and my bike went slowly up and along the mountain. Small lizards barely an inch long scurried from there invisible spots on the road to avoid getting crushed. I learned the meaning of sweating bullets. I struggled, pulling my handlebars involuntary from side to side swaying like I was punch drunk. I climbed like a man possessed and prayed for no more down-hills. An old bastard passed me downhill in his truck and yelled at me to peddle harder. I wanted to strangle him with my bike chain. Then came another descent and another uphill. Fortunately, a stream lay in between them, and I tapped out for a late lunch. Rested one hour and got some dodgy intelligence from a man who had no idea what I was asking for when I asked him what the road was like up ahead. Turns out it was just one last uphill to Dead Horse Gap and then a last 7 km to Thredbo. I saw my challenge from a distance and felt like yelling. So, I did – He-Man style.

On to Khancoban

2008-04-21T17:10:00.000-10:00

March 31st

Road maps just don’t tell you the ups and downs and what you will really see. Today was a treat. It was one of the physically hardest, yet beautiful days as I headed over ridges and valleys filled with cattle and gum trees to the land of The Man From Snowy River. It is filled with many ups and downs, verdant with life and secrets. I saw a bison, an American bison sitting in a paddock, and I slammed on the brakes. All I could think to myself was "jumping jumbuck, that’s a bison." Well actually, I didn’t say that. I felt like a bison was so damn strange in this land that it needed an exclamation of some sort, and a jumbuck is a large, untamed sheep. So I spent about 15 km rolling this stupid phrase around in my head, and now you have to suffer through it. I slept 5 km past Khancoban, well into the mountains. I had a 200 meter climb over 70 km to go. Tomorrow will be a slog. Found a great bush camp well above the road and looking out over a valley. I’m making good time. This trip looks possible. I am powered by meat pies, and my mantra is “H.T.F.U.” To find out more about this mantra, click on the hyperlink.

Back on the Road.

2008-04-21T05:57:00.000-10:00

March 30

Lats, Benny, Rowie, and I were the last to leave. It had snowed that night, but the roads were fortunately clear. Lats approached me just as we were clearing out. He asked me to come to his wedding. I could not have been more honored. The only question was this. The wedding was 6 days away in Melbourne, and I had my ride to think about. I had already got a ticket to leave Canberra on the 8th to go back for Jonno’s birthday party and to hike Wilson’s prom. Along the way, I had planned on climbing Kosciuszko, Australia’s tallest mountain. There were a fair bit of hills in between where I needed to be. But hell, it was a challenge, and I was totally in. We ate bacon and grits and coffee at the scene of last night’s crime, now back as a coffee shop and restaurant. As we left Lats’ picture was on the General’s Facebook page.

It was cold and windy. The lads were jealous of the ride I was on, but not this part. They left. I went back in to ask for a newspaper and some plastic bags. I stuffed my jacket with the paper and put the bags over my hands, and into the clouds I went. It was steep, cold and felt like winter. I felt hardcore, and imagined I looked crazy to the cars heading up ahead of me. The descent took me from alpine to forests. Nothing but up and down from here to Canberra. No flats. Found a lovely country road that night. No lines, just creeks and cows. I rolled off the road after nightfall and made my bed.

The Night of the Buck

2008-04-20T14:11:00.001-10:00

March 29th

Up late. Slept late. Imagine that. Cooked up eggs while people still struggled out of bed. Made McMuffins. Drank lots of coffee. Around noon as Lats recovered, he was put in a rowing unisuit and ski goggles, and physical challenges were handed out amongst the lads as we sat around the fire. Jonno juggled. I handed out leg lifts. Earl gave him dips. Josh held logs and then the picture frame came out. It’s just an empty frame that, well... frames pictures. Once Lats was suitably worked, we moseyed out to the ski town and grey skies. We picked up some spuds at The General to add some carbs to our meat-fest that night. The General sits a km down from the main ski village. It’s the worker’s bar. It’s got flavor. During the day, it’s a restaurant, coffee shop, general store, post office, has a wireless café, and manages to be comfortable in all of these. We would find its moonlight personality later that night.

Walked back to the warmth of the chalet. Cooking began and meat fest part deaux, this time with potatoes on the open fire and even some greens (not a lot). We sat together at a long table and lit candles for earth hour. I found out then from Lats and Peter (his dad) that his mom is very superstitious and would always set a 14th spot if only 13 came. I was the 14th. Lats and Peter figured it was a good omen. We drank wine and port that had been aged over 35 years right from the bowels of the Latreille cellar. Dessert was cheese and pistachios.

It was just about the time for sleep or action when, as you must on a night celebrating the Buck, we chose action and headed to the General. It was snowing, and I was cold in my light clothes. A large group of local girls had heard a rumor that Bucks might appear that night and decided to make a showing. Lats was required to wear his unisuit, and the staff insisted they take a picture of him in front of the store in an old time strong man pose. It took a bit of time to achieve the right balance of boys to girls to good times, but eventually the night just stepped it up a notch. The frame came out. I felt accepted by the Aussie tribe.

1st Evening at the chalet

2008-04-18T04:02:00.000-10:00

March 28th

It was clear from the unloading of Jonno’s car that we were meant to eat well this Buck’s weekend. It amounted to 2 sides of beef, aged, and what seemed like nearly 20 lbs. of lamb freshly butchered in the abattoir. The crew arrived in waves. We sat down to await the arrival of the man of the hour. Lats didn’t know I was coming, and we were discussing the best way to surprise him when the back of the chair broke taking me to the ground, and we had our plan. We would prop up the chair. Hide me behind the couch. Lats would arrive. We would tell him to take a rest, hand him a beer and sit him down. When he fell, Watty would stand up, point at him and say "ha, ha, ha, Lats, you’re a dickhead, but for a second opinion ..." and I would hop out behind the couch and, of course, agree.

Lats arrived, and energetic lad that he is, would not sit down and quickly became suspicious. So I sat behind the couch and drank my beer. Finally I hear Watty, over everyone, say, "get this man a beer ... but for a second opinion ..." And I appeared. Not quite the chummy male good-natured maliciousness we had hoped for. But he was happy to see me. Wine was poured, and we set ourselves to the first night’s meat fest – lamb and beef and little else, perfectly aged or perfectly fresh. You just don’t get meat like this from the grocer.

That night we gave Lats his "Vancouver" test, as he and his bride-to-be will be moving to Vancouver in six weeks. A sample of some questions are below.

What is a “Vancouver Cougar?”

A. Predatory older woman who’s prey is younger men
B. Bourbon and coke
C. a wild animal

Wolverines were responsible for how many amputations in British Columbia last year?

What animal did the most recent serial killer feed his victims too?

What is the most populated state in Canada?

These are just a few of the questions. I would put the other ones up, but they are either too vulgar or too boring. Lats failed miserably, and thereby jeopardized his visa.

The answers are below

A
371
pigs
boredom

Pre-Bucking it

2008-04-16T17:11:00.000-10:00

March 28th

So the problem I have hanging out with the locals is that they usually tend to overestimate the roads ahead, especially if they don’t bike. That being said, it’s usually wise to listen to them, and that being said, listening to them tends to lean towards feeling intimidated of the road ahead. Don’t get me wrong. The 58 km to Mt. Hotham had some good ups and downs with a final tally of 3000 ft difference in height between Omeo and Mt. Hotham. Not easy, but not the impossibility I had contemplated as I approached the climb this morning. There is that mountain chill to the air that completely challenges my conception of this continent, especially in summer. Of the 6 permanently inhabited continents, Australia has the smallest set of mountains. Their smaller kiwi cousins have more mountains and world-renowned snow, yet despite their relatively short height, Oz is no doubt alpine country. Not a pine tree in sight. The cover is gum trees. Still the turns, valleys and gullies remind me of the big mountains in Europe and North America.

Australia is huge. I had, and to some extent still have, this misconception that the whole continent is one big desert edged with killer beaches. Yes, the deserts are huge, and the beaches are amazing, but between Victoria and NSW there are considerable hills. It’s midsummer, and like any high country, it’s in a permanent state of brisk, especially in the shade.

Dinner Plain is the 21-year-old spa village below Hotham, and I stopped for a quick look and got stuck into some resort-priced gnocci, cappuccino and the best damn muffins I’ve had outside my mom’s kitchen. Good enough that I had two. I may have mentioned this before, but without their Italian immigrants, Aussie food (bush tucker excepted as my experience with it is limited) would be dreadfully English and boring.

It was a surprising short 14 km before the spill-out parking lots for skiing appeared. The University Ski club was closed, and I had a few hours to kill in the strong but not hot alpine sun. Fixed tubes, changed break pads and sewed up my bike gloves that are now in a pretty sorry state of affairs. I hope they make it to Sydney. Being up here makes me miss skiing and the snow. Each ski resort is some predictable combination of the same things – an architectural nod in some way to Swiss Alps with some local touches. In this case a lot of corrugated iron. Hotham has two watering holes. One is closed. I sit at “The General," named after General Store – that founding father who started so many retail outlets all over the world. I’m no clairvoyant, but I expect to spend a fair amount of time here over the next two days. I’m drinking water in preparation, and hell, that 3000 feet took it out of me.

I love the high country. Nothing beats high, clean mountain air.

I tool around Omeo

2008-04-15T17:24:00.000-10:00

March 27th

Waking up in my comfy bed at the Hilltop Hotel, I hemmed and hawed over what I should do. I was a day’s ride from Hotham - smaller and more expensive than Omeo, and it was getting too cold for my meager bivy and light-weight sleeping bag. Sharon cooked me a damn good brekkie – two eggs on toast, two slices of salty bacon plus all the cold cereal I could eat. I finished and joined Sharon and Tom for a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but enjoyed their company. We threw the ball to an eager "Dude". Dude nearly got shot for being to afraid of sheep and cattle and thus not worth his weight in food. I reckon he earns his keep here at the pub by being so damn sweet.

I walked around and around the town trying the bakery, trying the coffee at the local coffee shop which makes a killer burger, the kind of lean fresh ground beef that makes it live up to the name of burger. I had a beer at the 5th Golden Age Hotel. Since the 1850s, the building has burned that many times, and in its most recent incarnation, it exists as a 1939 art deco style building. Strangely at home, yet completely out of place in this town. The Hilltop is half as expensive as the Golden Age and the breakfast is free. It sits on the hill (obviously) on the other side of town with a high view of the mountains. It’s a bit gritty, but still kind - I like that.

Tom took me around in his car this arvo. We rode down the valley. Spaces and distance become real when hills and mountains fill them. Golden hills and gum green mountains fill our vision, and Tom tells me the best thing his "parents did for me was have me in Australia." Tom has been many things in his life. In the past 24 hours, he has worked his recycling yard, built part of a deck, and worked behind the bar. In his youth, he traveled and ended up in Basque country and endeared himself to their locals by diffusing a hot situation in a local pub when a piss-filled Aussie refused to pay for his meal after his advances on the publican’s daughter were rebuffed.

The Basques had just locked the door when Tom walked between the warring parties and insisted he would pay for the man’s meal and collect his money from him the next day. They initially balked, but Tom insisted - diffusing a situation in which no one would win. They took good care of him after that. They gave him work, and he surfed Basque country. Tom is kind. He gave me a line of credit and showed me around his home. He even shouted me some drinks – he said because he had been taken care of when he traveled. Tom is 58. 34 years ago he traveled and hopes to go again. I am sure I’m not the first traveler to encounter his kindness. Still, two continents and 34 years and a kindness remembered inspired kindness towards me. I am humbled.

The Hilltop Hotel

2008-04-14T17:37:00.000-10:00

March 26th.

I submerged my head. It had been ages since I last took a proper bath, especially one that could fit my reasonably large 6'5" frame. The water was too hot, just the way it should be. I changed positions, either scooting forward to submerge myself to the neck and thus exposing my knees, or submerging my knees at the cost of exposing my chest. The high and much cooler mountain air was now humid in the small, shared bathroom on the second floor of the Hilltop Hotel in Omeo. Seems like a lot of mountain towns are four-letter words. Maybe that’s just me. The blood pounded in my ears as my body temperature rose with the hot water. Omeo in its lawless gold rush days 150 years ago had been referred to as "the mud, the blood and the beer." Granted, my mate at the end of the barstool was a few beers down when he told me that earlier in the night as happenstance put me at the Hilltop. I had not planned to stay at the Hilltop Hotel. I had not planned to run out of cash in the high country of Victoria, either. Who was to know that the only ATM for 50 km in either direction and available after 7 p.m. would not have money it?

I had not panned to stay at the Hilltop Hotel, but that last 27 km through Cassillis hadn’t been the icing on a cake, but rather the unforgiving stretch in what was already a long, hard day of climbing - especially the unforgiving Kilometers 17 and 18 from the turnoff in Swifts Creek. The country was high and getting higher as I plowed through Long Gully. Distance seemed variable as I climbed through a valley into the mountains. Each gully, stream, and ridge created troughs on the hillside that draw your eyes towards the center in vertigo. My eyes wanted to pop out of my head. This was the hardest physical riding of the trip. Unencumbered by bags, I may have enjoyed it. I wasn’t either – unencumbered nor enjoying it. Joy, however, was reaching the crest. It seemed I was in another world on a high plateau with mountains stretching off into the distance – a thousand feet closer to the dark and ominous clouds appearing behind the now visible peaks.

I had planned to stay in the bush, but my legs jellied and were asking for some love. It was a request I could have ignored if the freezing rain had not started to fall quickly, chilling me in my perspiring state. Dry-shirt, jacket, hat and a mostly downhill run still did not keep me from the cold as I rolled into Omeo. I had no cash and knew an ATM would be hard to find in a small mountain town late in the evening, and thus I daydreamed I would find a publican with a kind heart willing to take my passport as collateral until whatever store that had an ATM opened in the morning.

The publican’s name was Tom - 58, glasses, flannel shirt and a trim frame from a lifetime of outside physical labor. He worked the pub part-time for Sharon and Pat - 18 months the owners of this old pub. It had a white edifice with bars on the window and a solid steel bar to keep the rowdy drunks out when it’s time to be out. Sharon tells me of the locals that come in and relate to her of "the time they paid for a window when they 'put so-and-so's head through it.'"

On that windy Wednesday night that I arrived, there was no sign of the roughness. Just a cheerful "we’ll take care of you; she’ll be right" attitude that got me an open line of credit at the hotel. This coincided with a "mate your f***ing crazy; there’s two inches of snow at Mt. Hotham (my destination that week)," from the locals.

There was no doubt I’d get to Hotham, but they were not convinced I would do it on my bike. This remains to be seen. Either way, rides were offered all around. My mate at the end of the bar sat and shot the breeze. Mostly he spoke, and I listened and heartily agreed. I put a lamb shank on the tab. It was only 2 bucks more than the chicken parma. The meat fell off the bone, and I guiltlessly ate some of the fat.

He asked me to join him outside as he "hadda fag." Dude, the Kelpie dog, was outside plowing trough a mountain of scraps from the kitchen. His girth revealed that he ate from the top paddock. He brought me a broken and slobbery tennis ball, and my friend rolled his eyes.
"Don’t start that shit," he said.

Despite this, he was a good, if inebriated, bloke with a touch of the curmudgeon to him. I threw the ball anyway, and Dude, "Cool Dude" by Sharon’s reckoning, ran into the wall of steel kegs in the back and returned it, dropping it gently on the turned-over styrofoam eskie next to me.

We go back inside and converse with Sharon and Tom. I switch from beer (four pots = 2 pints) for candy. I eat three. Tom goes to bed saying he would meet me next morning for “brekkie” and get my passport out of the safe. My mate gets a six-pack of VB (Victoria Bitter) and heads back to his place to sit in his spa and have a rare "lie in." Sharon and I talk a bit more. Two months after coming to the Hilltop, the bush fires came, and firefighters from all the old colonies (Canada, NZ and USA) came to Omeo. It was 130 breakfasts a day and 200 meals a night. Sharon got 4 hours of sleep a night and lost 50 lbs. She pours a glass of Kahlua splashed with mild and four ice cubes. I help her put up the stools and note with amusement that the felt of the pool table is decorated in bikini-clad woman. I am informed there are more risqué ones. I see cigarette burns in the felt. Sharon locks up the joint, placing the large steel bar on the door. We are now safe from errant drunks and Mongol hordes alike.

The hotel and the characters that come with it hint of a time not so long ago - the mud, the blood and the beer. The doors are old and thick, and the hallways are narrow. It’s a mountain, high country feeling – the Wild West. The hot bath in the hotel and the fact that I am the only guest completes this image. The towel is red, and neatly folded on the lavender doona. It’s crisp from being line-dried, and it scratches my back with great satisfaction. I hadn’t planned on staying at the Hilltop Hotel - but I’m glad I did.

I enter the foothills to a strange encounter.

2008-04-13T17:52:00.002-10:00

March 25th.

Amelia made me pancakes to start my journey. Real pancakes. Not crepes. Not savory skinny cakes. Real thick pancakes. Dan was amazed that I kept eating them. She just kept bringing them out, so I ate 14. After that, it was 100 km of flat road to the foothills past the town of Stratford upon Avon - the name of the town I lived in when in England growing up - the original, and birthplace of the bard, Bill Shakespeare. I stopped in Bairnsdale after two flats. This was the town that connected the beaches to the mountains.

I went into a used book store where a lovely lady sold me three books for a $1. She noted my bike gear and asked about my trip. Her pleasant friendliness contrasted with the creepiness of a Hobbit of a man with formal shirtsleeves, shirt buttoned up to the neck, too tight beige corduroys and muddy socks pulled up and over the edges of his pants. I don’t like to judge, and he approached me and asked briefly about my bike. I am happy to talk about what I’m doing, but he had a strange note of over-kindness to his voice. My warning bells went off when he implied that the lovely lady with the bargain books was intrusive and nosy by asking about my bike trip. I laughed and said “no, I didn’t think so.” He then proceeded to ask me if I was a Christian. I smiled and vaguely replied that I came from a Judeo-Christian background. He then asked me if I was married, and when I laughed and said “no,” he asked, “why not?”

Now this little Hobbitey man was looking a little bit more Gollumish to me and was starting to piss me off. I replied, with as much kindness as I could muster, that I wasn’t ready. I don’t think this got through to him. He then invited me to come stay at his place. I said that I was quite happy staying in the bush. I was thinking that if I went with him that I might get offered the old “koolaide.” He then asked for my address, and inside my head I made the game day decision to be nice while lying to him, and I wrote down a fake name and address. He proceeded to tell me that President Bush was part of a conspiracy to kill all "real" Christians, whatever that means (probably not me), and in his attempts to save me, he (despite my protests that I didn’t need another book to carry) tried to hand me a book. I was now pissed off at myself that I had not told this guy to bugger off and had instead lied to him. He insisted I take his book, "Mark of the Beast," and when handing it to me, scratched his head and said, "there’s usually a suggested donation of $14.95." I handed it back to him firmly, but he refused.

Later, I tried to read part of the book anyway, but it seemed full of unsubstantiated fear, and was hard to read. I can’t seem to bring myself to throw away any book, but I did not want to be encumbered by a tome of fear and guilt, so I left it in a public bathroom for some other poor, unsuspecting soul. It was a strange situation, and I could have handled it better. I spent the last part of my ride angry at this little man, but more so at myself and my handling of it. Live and learn.

Easter with friends.

2008-04-11T17:27:00.000-10:00

March 23rd

Today was Easter. For Steve Plunkett, it meant it was time for Steve’s Easter meat-fest. He has a great old house just outside of Traralgon. It is actually newer than it looks. He and his wife, Merl, remodeled it in the "federation" style. Federation being roughly one hundred years ago and the name of the era when Australia became a nation, and not a English colony. Steve has a pool, a fat pony in a paddock out back, three excitable dogs, a claw foot tub, and crown molding. I am insanely jealous. There were heaps of family, and the house buzzed of the fixing of food and excessive relaxation. After much motivation, Steve got Guns, and his brother, Tom, and I to jump in the pool which, despite the warm day, just seemed like a lot of effort; but once in, it was the right kind of refreshing. The dogs and the kids and the man children (Guns, myself and Tom) played while the adults had wine and ate. Exhausted with the effort, it was time for cake, and as it was also Merl’s mother’s birthday, we had two. I regretted leaving so soon, but it was time to head on the road and got back to my bike in Sale.

March 24th

I realized today that Mt. Hotham and the bucks party were five days away, and I could afford to lounge one more day at the Stone’s. I relaxed and caught up on considerable emails. Dan, Amelia and I dined on the back deck and watched the thunderclouds in the mountains. I thought ominously about what this meant for me as I knew those very mountains were my next few days’ destination. I really was in no mood for constant rain. We took in a movie that night – “Run Fatboy, Run.” It was ok, but I just like the act of going to the movies.

Uncompromising Hospitality

2008-04-10T17:27:00.003-10:00

March 21st

Nothing particularly exceptional happened today. I woke up pleased with my night’s performance and lounged a bit before helping Frank cut the lawn. Threw on the hat, glasses and earplugs and fired up the lawnmower. It had a strong motor on it, and I felt like I more guided it as it ate up the grass rather than pushed it around. It was hot, and the grass smelled rightly fresh. Prue served up some lunch. Chicken and salad followed by some good bottles Frank had got last night as a coaching present. Sitting outside in the shade of the gazebo with the wine and freshly barbequed chicken smelling the orange and lemon scent of the gum trees made me want to mow nearly and acre of lawn every day if this was what was waiting at the end of the mowing rainbow. The afternoon moseyed on by, and soon it was time to head back to Traralgon and Guns’ place where I was tricked into watching “Saw 4.” It was as good as you might imagine. Fortunately, I managed a nightmare-free sleep.

March 22nd

Woke up late once again, but not unhappy for doing so. On my travel schedule I find it hard to sleep late and take any chance of it I may. It was another loungey, lazy day until 4:30 when Guns and I got nostalgic for our days at the gym at Melbourne University as occasional lifting partners. This of course prompted a move of the home gym out into the back yard into the afternoon sun where we proceeded to pump iron.

I find lifting hunks of metal to be one of the most stupidly satisfying and cathartic activities that humanity in all its wisdom has ever contrived. With his broad shoulders and midsection, Guns resembled a beer keg. We chatted with the usual bravado and self-deprecation that accompanies any male endeavor. That evening we headed to town to have a drink with Guns’ dad, Steve Plunkett, and his friends, and we ended up with dinner. This was an understatement as plate after plate of food that was ordered kept getting handed down to me – meant, no doubt, to counter any possible loss of weight that could have happened on the bike. Steak, prawns, lamb risotto and veggies. Quite the feast.

After thanking Steve for a lovely meal and assuring him I would be there for his Easter barbie tomorrow, Guns and I headed to the Cargo Lounge (same one from St. Patty’s Day) to meet Gun's cousin, Georgie, for a drink. Georgie is a lovely girl, small and petite, and like so many pint-sized people, more than willing to take the piss, especially if it’s her cousin. Guns flexed his guns a lot that night, and we drank really, really girly drinks like Cosmos and Irish margaritas. Someone asked me to sell them drugs on the way to the bathroom. Couldn't help the guy.

Do clothes make the man?

2008-04-09T17:36:00.001-10:00

March 20th

It took all parties involved, myself, the family Stone, and all the resources of the Gippsland Grammar Rowing Club community to suitably attire me for the occasion. Fortunately, Dan, while somewhere between 7 and 10 inches shorter than me, has quite broad shoulders, and I could just fit into one of his dress shits with the sleeves rolled up and the neck open, thus forgoing the tie and going for the more casual look. I felt kinda like an Iranian businessman. The rest of the suit was provided by another GG rowing coach, and last but not least, the shoes were provided by Frank himself. It was, as they say, "no dramas" – a mantra much to my liking. It is an absurdly simple joy of mine to walk into a dressy occasion. It’s strange how a few bits of cloth can change personalities. School boys and girls I had seen on the campus and rowing club earlier that day were transformed that evening into young men and women. Their suits and dresses appearing, at least, to bring out something extra in them.

I don’t eat before a presentation, but depending on the lead up time, I have a glass or two of red wine. Thank God I’m at an Aussie high school function that involves parents and condones the presence of a few drops. If they don’t have wine, I drink coffee. Unfortunately my presentation materials had not arrived from Seattle, and thus I was more than pleased with myself that I had built and, at least briefly, practiced another presentation. Still the voice and the timing were a bit rusty, and I felt the best antidote to this was to go with gusto. After all, I did know the story .... It’s nice to know I’ve still got it. The applause at least sounded genuine. I find a presentation exhilarating and exhausting and a pleasure that I have begun to cultivate. This one reminded me of that.

I sat back and enjoyed with interest the customs of an Aussie awards banquet. Songs, speeches. Dan stands out in my mind. The boys he coached were initially what he classified as difficult, but it was hard not to hear the warmth in his voice as he spoke of the charisma these five boys had and how, at the end, it was a privilege to have coached them.

The value of Adventure

2008-04-08T17:37:00.002-10:00

March 20th

Several things happened today which I did not imagine could have happened on this trip. Frank took me to the local ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) affiliate to be interviewed. I had just found out about it last night, and it seemed as good an idea as any to shoot from the hip. What exactly we were going to discuss I was not sure, although I assumed it was something to do with biking or rowing. The man who interviewed me was jarred; he was no slouch having cycled from Europe to part of the Middle East before tapping out when the road got too hot – from bullets, I assume, not heat. Thus I was surprised when he implied I was crazy in, of course, a good-natured way. However, the question I enjoyed most was this:
“What is the responsibility of Adventuring?” I.e., what happens when someone has to risk themselves to rescue you?

One side of this can be boiled down to what is the intrinsic value of an adventure or.... is it worth the risk? I think it is. I believe that accepting and accomplishing a challenge is part of human nature. When we explore for the first time, for ourselves, or even re-explore, we learn. What is learned is different for each person. Anything worth doing involves a certain amount of risk, however you may define it. A life without risk is boring and far too easy. The responsibility of an adventure is to make those risks calculated risks. Being reckless, irresponsible, and uneducated is asking for trouble. That is the principle my mates and I in OAR Northwest followed as we approached it.

To adventure well, one needs to research first. Research, research, research – hunt down the people in the fields you need and those smarter than yourself. Go in humble with enormous respect for your environment and what you want to try and accomplish. Prepare. Have Plan A, have Plan B, and always be working on a Plan C. Despite all this, know that you will make mistakes and prepare to take a beating for it. But, even the best laid plans can and do end in tragedy. It’s easy to dismiss this and say, “well, they were unprepared.” Sometimes this is true, sometimes not. Sometimes your luck runs out. Sometimes it’s time for you to go. What it comes down to is that you can die anywhere and at any time. You don’t need an adventure for that. I think an adventure on any scale enriches our lives and reminds us that there is a huge world out there and that sometimes we can reach beyond what we thought we were capable of.

Last, but most certainly not least, is having just one more story to share amongst friends. That is never a bad thing.

Never abandon a fallen comrade.

2008-04-07T18:11:00.004-10:00

March 19th

I spent the morning putting together a back-up presentation in case the one I had sent for from Seattle was a non-arrival. The highlight of my day was a row out of the G.G.B.C. It felt great to get oars in my hand once again and even better to ply them through the water. I always reckon the first row back is a honeymoon – the boat and the body seem to move surprisingly well. It’s got to be the lack of expectation. Despite being landlocked, Sale has a port. No doubt developed when the roads were not as good, and the most efficient transport of goods from the interior was a barge. It was at first refreshing, then laborious to pull the rowing muscles. The water was clean, but silted brown. Gum trees reached over the river, and it threatened rain, going as far to dust a few refreshing drops on me. Then the sun came out, and my bike-callused hands were hard in all the wrong spots. I was developing blisters despite what I thought was a light grip on the oar. Catch. Drive. Release. Nothing is more physically satisfying and flummoxing as plying yourself through the water.

I stepped it up for the last 500 meters. I figured correctly that Dan would be watching from shore, and I, of course, wanted to give a satisfactory accounting of myself. I did not want to him to think the only boat I could row was an ocean boat.

I was pleased with my performance until I looked around and saw a long branch grab my head and, in slow motion, pull my $200 pair of glasses from my head and drop them into the silty drink. I laughed, but not really with a lot of humor.

I looked at Dan. "That is a loyal piece of equipment. I can’t leave it behind enemy lines." He shrugged and made a dubious comment on just how clean he thought the water was. I would not be dissuaded and docked the boat and climbed into the water. I waded, hoping to keep my head above water. It came up to my neck. I felt, nervously, with my feet. Nothing. "In for a penny in for a pound," I thought as I submerged my head and shut my eyes to the cooties that were no doubt infesting me at this very moment. Nothing. I went back to the feet, not to give up so easily, pulling up stick after muddy stick until ... I did not believe it. Thank God for a slow current. Dan looked at me and my ascending and vocal happiness and shook his head. I took a shower.

Shave and haircut, two bits!

2008-04-06T16:55:00.002-10:00

March 18th

I woke around 7:30. James had just come back slightly worse for wear after 5 hours of sleep to make the spin class with the cute girl. We shared a cuppa, and in the emerging heat of day, I rode to Sale. It was flat and uneventful. I was lost in no thoughts in particular and scolded myself for not looking around at the countryside as much. Sale's main street had lovely verandas, trees and the pleasant bustle of a country town midweek.

I got my ears lowered from a pretty girl with a strangely lopsided haircut. I am not sure if this is in fashion or not. Either way, it looked highly impractical and high maintenance in a way that contrasted with the country farm girl she claimed to be. Far be it from me to judge, as I have never worked a farm. She cut my hair slowly and carefully, which gave me the impression she was new to the barber business. But, as they say here, “No dramas.” Ears lowered and no split ends on my lustrous locks made me feel like a new man. (You bet your ass I just wrote that). I moseyed and relaxed around town for a bit before making my way to Frank and Prue Stone’s (Jonno’s parents) house around cocktail hour. I was here in Sale to make good to my promises to speak about the North Atlantic trip at Frank’s end-of-the-year rowing party at Gippsland Grammar School.

Frank and Prue are lucky enough to sit right above the flood plain that surrounds the river that runs through Sale. This means that, in a land of drought, they look over a green and verdant prairie in which cattle graze and moo freely. The gum trees smelled strong of citronella, and I was offered a bottle of beer and a pint of water. We sat on the deck and watched a neon pink sunset. Amelia (“Meals”) Stone is living at home. She is saving some money to go teach English in Vietnam. Dan Moore lives here, too. He is one of Frank’s "rent-a-roomers" that he gets one or two of each year from the old country. Usually they are young and in their gap year (between HS and UNI). Dan is 19 and carries himself much older. Frank is quite a chef, and we eat well – lots of meat. I sleep even better in the Harry Potter bed below the stairs.

Maybe he should have driven the lawyers out - oh, that's right, he did.

2008-04-05T16:12:00.003-10:00

March 17th

I head to Traralgon today to meet James Plunkett or “Plunks,” or “Guns,” as we called him back at MUBC (Ahem, that would be my rowing days . . . harrrumph). Guns is funny. He does not look like a rower. He is built like linebacker with broad shoulders and huge arms... Guns. He is now a Lawyer in his home town of Traralgon, where as he says 90% of lawyers give the last 10% a bad name. A desk job has added some padding to his waistline, but he retains the boyish features and massive arms. In fact, if it wasn’t for these attributes, he might seem intimidating. He’s a master of self-deprecating humor and an aficionado of superman – a fact proven as he wore a Superman shirt out to dinner that night.

That night was St. Patty’s day. We hit the local hot spot - Cargo lounge - to find that on this glorious day for drinking dark beer, it was anything but. Our arrival now necessitated that the staff count the number of customers on two hands. Turns out they had their party on Friday night, and Traralgon was now party-pooped. However, the bartender, in heroic attempt to bring back the sprite of that snake-smiting saint (and no doubt to get rid of the cheap and crappy beer scwag that Guinness no doubt peppered the world with), gave us hats that looked like Frankenstein’s monster ... if Frankenstein’s monster had been a shamrock . . . and a pint of Guinness. It was, in a word, low key, and we sipped our beer in the waning heat of a late summer night, chatting of memories past and the past five years while wearing our Franken-shamy-pinty hats.

As I stated before, James is a lawyer, and while I date myself when I say this, he pulled a "Van Wilder" in College. I should explain first that "colleges" in Australia are, in the roughest American translation, a "fratority" (fraternity + sorority). Guns, using a mix of undergrad, grad school, tutoring and internships, managed to spend 4/5ths of a decade in this dream world that was Queens College at Melbourne University. After spending nearly a year at an office in Melbourne, he came to the realization that as "low lawyer on the legal brief" [I’m proud of that one], his career was better served if he traded country for city and went to work for Steve Plunkett - his dad. In their medium-sized country town it made the paper, and on their refrigerator is a clipping with an almost Jimmy-Stewartesque image of a proud father leaning over his sharply-dressed son with many leather-bound volumes of legal nandies and dandies behind them. I’m not sure what nandies and dandies are. It’s late.

Traralgon

2008-04-04T18:57:00.000-10:00

March 17th

My destination today was yet another rowing friend named James Plunkett in the town of Traralgon. The flat country I had used to escape Melbourne was turning quite hilly, and by ten o’clock I was in the middle of spectacular hills that if stone fences were added to them would look like a dry Ireland. It was furiously hot, and I was melting into the pavement. This provided ample excuse to stop at Grand Ridge Brewery along the way. A completely serendipitous stop, but one absolutely necessary in the 37 degree going on 40 degree heat at 10:30 that morning.

Outside the brewery was a huge fake beer, that in the heat, was easy to imagine was a large beer swimming pool that I could dive into to cool off. I settled for a taste test. Hailing from Seattle, it’s hard not to want to try the local brews. Australia, for the most part, has a few big breweries that make, what I would consider, better beer than the Millers and Budweisers of the States. Even so, a mass-produced beer lacks the personality of something built locally out of the local produce. This was in all ways the local drop. Despite the proximity of the big city, this beer had only made a showing at the beer festivals in the city and outside of Victoria. The various shades of golden liquid were well-balanced and refreshing. Fortunately, I had done most of my climbing for the day by the time I got to Grand Ridge and had lovely downhill back roads to coast on while the day continued to heat. I made it to Traralgon around two.

Adventures with bovines, and the boy who cried "woof."

2008-04-03T19:29:00.002-10:00

March 16th and 17th

That night I broke one of my rules. I never jump fences to find a spot to sleep. Only this time the pines looked so safe and inviting that when I walked around them I was crushed to see a fence that was built right up next to them. I was tired, and the thought of going back on the road was not particularly exciting. Just this once I told myself and jumped the fence. The pine had gone well over the fence and provided ample cover. 30 feet towards the paddock was another fence.

"Great" I thought, "a double fence to keep the cattle well away from me." And I proceeded to make my bed and dinner. In the middle of laying out my bed, a hum of a four-wheeler caught my attention. I froze and hid my lights. I was more than willing to admit wrong if found, but if they could not find me, then it probably wasn't worth standing up and confessing. I waited, convinced they had seen me and were about to call me out. I hoped they were unarmed and not that angry. I lucked out. The spotlight missed me, and they drove away.

At this point, I felt it imprudent to make dinner or spend some time reading with a light, and resigned myself to being hungry and bored before I went to sleep. I had just zipped my bivy and closed my eyes, when a soft but large footsteps hit the ground. No lights visible, but a large four legged outline. Shit, a cow. Clearly the double fence was to keep cows in it and not out of it. Hmmm. I rustled and the cow froze, then snorted, walked about 10 feet from me, absorbed the situation and started making baying noises that sounded suggestive and angry at the same time.

At roughly 200 lbs, I’m a large person, but this well-fed beast was at the very least 10 times my size. While I am quite aware that most cattle will run from a human if scared, I also know a motivated cow is quite capable of taking on an unarmed human. Not knowing what to do in this situation and not wanting to yell out “go away cow” or something human sounding of that nature in my precarious position, I decided to cry "woof” – and could have not sounded more human. It worked. My bovine buddy jumped and snorted cautiously off into the night. I slept terribly despite the bed of pine needles. This no doubt had to do with the fact that my bovine girlfriend came back to repeat the same drama twice more that night. This was the worst night’s sleep on the trip. On the bright side, I did not get trampled.

A tough time getting out of the city.

2008-04-02T18:31:00.000-10:00

March 15th

Today was my last full day in Melbourne. Jonno and I drove to see the regatta that Lats was coaching for just outside of town. It was a low-key day. Jonno and I have decided that I will surprise Lats at his bucks party on the 28th of March up at Mt. Hotham. It sounds like a good time. Tonight we b-b-q'ed. Jonno and Suze invited more friends over and are already filling into their role as the Lord and Lady mayor of Kensington with the amount of entertaining they have accomplished in 9 days at their house. I fill up on half a farm of meat and am happy to ride the next day as I can feel the weight coming back on, eating as I have from the top paddock in this wonderful city. I will miss this city and my lovely host and hostess.

March 16th

As in most cases I procrastinate when I have to leave a place I like. After all, it doesn't really matter where I end up if I’m sleeping on the road. Thus I coasted through the city to meet Jonno for a breakfast of pancakes. I was excited to dine on pancakes, something I have not had nor found in Australia thus far. They were excellent, but they were not American pancakes. That I think is something I’ll just have to hold out for till I get back to North America. However, I did eat chili, hot chocolate, and my pancake (more of a crepe) was covered in honey and ice cream that was in no way bad at all. Jonno is quite a traveler himself and will be covering his seventh continent in the next year or so (Antarctica). He’s a travelling kindred sprit, and we exchanged stories and new ideas. I find that it is best to throw out as many travel ideas as possible because 99% of them will not work out, but without a steady flow of them you will never hit the right inspiration. We shall see what happens.

I left rather unenthused to bike through the suburbs and out into the country. Burb ridding is not exciting and is very stressful. Once out of the burbs and into the country, I found myself on country roads with city traffic. I was happy when I found my spot for the night

Private stock.

2008-04-01T17:34:00.001-10:00

March 14th evening

I walk through the streets of Melbourne to the corner of Queen’s Street and Colleens where Jonno will pick me up. On my way, I see faces from porcelain to pecan to ebony. Some speak no English, some with heavy accents, some with that unmistakable Aussie lilt, but something extra. The city buzzes with it. This is no outback.

Jonno and I are headed to a drinks party for Lats and Elka at Lats's parents place. Lats is getting married soon, and this party is for those who could not make it to the wedding. Lats's father is quite a wine connoisseur, and in an endeavor to pass this vinophilic love to his son (something not hard, I think) has asked all the guests to bring a good bottle of wine that the new couple can cellar. I have a case sent to them from Margaret River.

Walking in the door, it is clear they will have a good start to the cellar. As the night wears on, I end up in the cellar of the house. The cellar is roughly 20 years old, but the house was built right around the time Lincoln was inaugurated, and thus the arched brick supports that make the roof of the cellar are in sharp contrast to the poured cement. Huge barrels and hundreds of bottles of wines and ports and Muskats find their home in the cool beneath the house. All of us under 35 look impressed with envy at the lifetime that built this well-stocked establishment. Lats comes down, taking a break from hosting, and we open up a home-brewed 1998 (turn of the century!) stout. It cracks with a satisfying hiss, and the bottle seems to smoke with the change in air pressure. It has less head than a Guinness, but the it’s rich in flavor, almost coffee and chocolate, and it is hard to liken it to any beer I have ever had.

More on Pellegrini’s

2008-03-31T17:43:00.002-10:00

March 14th

Today I spent more time in the city. I spent a frustrating day searching for a crocodile skin belt only to find what I need is only available in Sydney and Darwin. Thus I went to Pellegrini’s Espresso Bar, to eat my frustrations away.

The restaurant is quite narrow, and the long espresso bar takes up half the restaurant. Between the seats at the bar, there is a long narrow table attached to the wall that runs parallel to it, forcing customers to sidestep to the kitchen/dining room in the back.

In the "dinning room" sits a long wood table 10 feet long and three inches thick. It is one piece of wood. An arm’s length away stand the cook and her kitchen. It has been five years since I last ate here, and the gray-topped lady who used to cook and swear in Italian has been replaced by a younger version - second generation, whom I would imagine would be beautiful if she smiled. She speaks in a heavy Australian/Italian accent. This time I understand the swearing. The staff does not smile, with the exception of Nick, the owner, whom I recognize from the many awards, articles, old country ads, and autographs (Billy Joel’s is conspicuous) that cover the wall. I think Nick smiles because he does no visible work but sip espresso, read the paper, and shoot the bull with customers. He walks in to the kitchen, a man from a different time - "Rocky and Gnocchi. Gnocchi and Rocky, you could switch the names and it would not make any difference to us."

I only caught the tail end of the conversation, but I got the gist. Nick turned to the beleaguered cook and said something in Italian, teasing her, and then walked back for "an important phone call." She muttered " Nick, the dick" under her breath and served up my Gnocchi. Nearly a dozen dishes are either cooking or warming in the kitchen on one old stove that looks like it could barely boil water. The food cooks all day and thus is far past "al dente", but it’s still "deliciouco." The gnocchi is hand made, each piece is similar in shape, but not precise. I ask about the old lady who used to work here, and I am told she broke her leg. I was glad to find she was still alive. The cook continued "us old wogs, we don't want our kids to work as hard as us" ("wog" is a derogatory term for Italians in Australia). She continued, "it’s hard because the staff is getting old, and it’s hard to get good help that sticks around."

I was crushed at the idea of this restaurant disappearing to old age, but that can’t be stopped. At least for now, I could enjoy my gnocchi, washing it down with the grapefruit granita. They keep it in big plastic buckets in the back, pulling it out as needed into a large stainless steel tank behind the bar. It is sweet and tangy, and the ice fine and grainy. Little slivers of grapefruit float in it. You drink it through a black straw that gets you 3/4ths of the drink and a teaspoon that lets you go after the icy, watered-down fourth.

I finish and make my way from the kitchen to the espresso bar and order a double espresso.
The cook comes out with a causal flourish holding a plate of Marinara.

"Marinara" she calls out in what might be described as a downright pleasant Italian accent. It is clear it was her first language. "Marinara?" she calls out again. Her irritation is becoming quite visible, and she calls out once more. I quietly hope that a customer will pipe up. My lady seems likes she lives in a world of not enough good days. She turns to one of the men behind the counter and questions him in harsh English.

I finish my coffee. I have had better food and been served by more friendly staff, but the granita and coffee are superb. It’s the character I crave and keep coming back for. I pay the man behind the counter and get a "thanks" with no smile and hardly a look in my direction. He picks up his towel to dry dishes and starts singing something softly in Italian. I would imagine it was the same 56 years ago when it opened.

If the women don't find you handsome...

2008-03-29T18:09:00.002-10:00

March 13th

They might as well find you handy (thank you to the "Red Green Show"). Today Jonno and I tackled a few of the dozen house chores that come and continue to come with any house in any condition. These chores are of late an exercise in frustration that I have actually come to appreciate, and working with Jonno, it has become a downright pleasure. We moved slowly into the day, starting with coffee at Café Stone underneath the orange tree. Breakfast of poached eggs, sausage and toast at his local on Race Course Road which, in addition to races, seems to provide courses for a wide range of appetites, as this two-block stretch holds cuisine of at least four continents. Australia is fortunate to have a large immigrant population, especially Greeks, Turks and Italians that brought with them their various Mediterranean foods that are a much better fit for Australia’s summers than the meat pies and stews (good winter food as it is) of their English and Irish heritage.

There was a fair bit to do, and in his relaxed yet energetic way, Jonno casually laid out more than we could possibly do in a day. He had interspersed so many breaks and diversions into the plan that you could work non-stop for a week on this kind of schedule and not feel ruffled. We repaired the roof on his shed and planned other small tasks, but the biggest task, one that Jonno did not want to face alone (but very well could have), was the creation of a Pot and Pan rack out of an old green ladder that could be raised and lowered on a set of pulleys.

I could see exactly what he was talking about and felt like it was a great idea. I had done nothing of the sort before, but felt confident in my ability to figure it out. Jonno's faith in me was encouraging as I spent his money on various blocks and tackle to make this rack move smoothly. As with most jobs, the first half of the day was spent finding supplies. As the last half unfolded, to my great joy and surprise, this pot rack was actually starting to look like what I had imagined in my head and not the 1st grade quality drawing I had sketched in my journal. The actual blocking device went together smoothly. My greatest fear was the unknown of where exactly the joist was in the 14-foot ceilings in the kitchen. After putting both our heads together, we managed to find it and only put two extra holes in the ceiling.

As a child, one of my favorite books was "The Sorcerers Scrapbook." One of the many asides woven into the narrative is the sorcerer’s satisfaction of a neatly cast spell. While my effort was far from magic, myself and Jonno could not help but have a beer and proudly stare at our effort the rest of the evening, while taking every opportunity we could to raise and lower our rustically efficient device to display the ease of which the pans were now available.

Maximo Park

2008-03-28T19:05:00.002-10:00

March 12th

It was great contrast from the warm open cobbles to the dark loud inside of the club that we walked into. Our schedules had met up serendipitously. Another friend could not make a concert, and now John was stuck with an extra ticket and a Yank. John assured me that the band, "Maximo Park," was worth it for the lead singer whom he described as an absolute "nutter" in a bowler hat. We packed into the floor, and a well-dressed young man in a red shirt and bowler hat came on stage. Sweat was already starting to glisten on his forehead, and the crowed packed a little closer.

He looked straight out of "A Clockwork Orange." Digital cameras and cell phones rose above the crowd, and everyone behind them could now view Maximo Park though a dozen tiny screens. Each song brought the hum of the crowd higher and higher. I wished I had earplugs and immediately thought to myself what an old dork I am at 25. I was later gratified when, at the end of this rollicking set, the lead singer, shirt now crimson from the sweat, told the crowd to hold on while he put in his earplugs. I was close enough to see they were the high-quality, small and discrete latex kind, not the standard yellow or orange foam ones from a factory that would no doubt clash with the message Maximo Park was trying to send. He had an uncontrollable ease of movement, a charisma of complete abandon that, as far as I can see, is the best reason to go to a live show. Unlike a studio-perfected recorded song, a live show has just that: life with all its imperfections, and because of that, it exists only once - for the audience and band. That combination of people and place and sound will never exist again.

I love this city. I love this city. I love this city.

2008-03-27T20:30:00.001-10:00

March 12th

As I walk down the low arcades on Swanson Street in Melbourne my ears are filled with at least a dozen languages. You could get the same mix on a tram and half the streets of the city. I see a dark gray-eyed girl in the tram. Our eyes meet, and she speaks French into her cell phone. I dine at Pellegrini’s Espresso Bar, the only restaurant that I wanted to ensure I came back too. I will write more on them later.

After a fine meal, I headed back down the streets that clash the classic Victorian with everlasting class and the super modern skyscrapers with strange angles. I wait for my friend, John Acton or Coach "Action." I know John from the MUBC when I was there last. He no longer coaches, but takes care of trusts. He’s heading to India for three weeks in three days. Our meeting spot is Federation Square, an ultra modern steel and glass complex next to the Yarra.

They have incorporated cobble stones into the path. They are modern and cut with machines and even, but still retain the day’s heat. Eyes are glued to the huge TV screen. It looks at first glance like a SciFi movie – a perfect night and hundreds outside watching TV. But on second glance, you see the wine, food and blankets. I didn’t even bother with a first glance. The TV, or more accurately the speakers, called me. They were playing Carmen and blasting the opera across the square. It was free. It was music. I planted myself on the warm cobbles and waited for John.

International Cuisine

2008-03-26T18:27:00.001-10:00

March 11th

Jonno and Suze went back to work today. I occupied myself in their neighborhood of Kensington which, in terms of nationalities represented on the two block section of Racecourse Road, gives the United Nations a run for it’s money. Everything from Ethiopian food, Italian sandwiches, Halal butchers, Chinese food, Greek and Korean grocers, and last but not least, an incredible kebab shop with flaky baklava and $3 Turkish bread so light and big you could rig the Santa Maria with it.

I had coffee at the Verb Café at a table with shellacked book jackets of trashy western novels, ate some kebab and caught up on my journal. It being the first day back to work after moving into their house, I decided it would be nice to cook them dinner. Jambalaya is a pretty easy dish if you have good fresh ingredients. I scoured the block and was pleased to find everything I needed in about 30 minutes.

The key to any Cajun cooking is celery, onion and green pepper. This, with the ability to boil water, gets you halfway there. I was pleased to see it turn out as I imagined and even happier when Jonno said, "the Yank can cook."

That night I went to the local, the Dootna Gotta Hotel, to meet "Lats" (Andrew Latrielle) and Condor (Jonno Conn), two more mates from the same MUBC crew. Lats is getting marred soon and is moving to Vancouver, B.C. where I hope to see him. Condor came to visit me in 2006 in Seattle, and will soon move to England. Five years has passed since we all rowed in a boat that punched well above its weight at the Intervasity races up in Queensland. We took fourth with a ragtag group, unusual for the usually well-polished MUBC crew, but with only 3 practice rows before the race, it was not a bad result. It was a pleasure being the token Yank.

Sweat Equity

2008-03-25T17:23:00.001-10:00

March 10th

Jonno is an exceptional rower, having meddled in the Australian quad at the under 23 world championships. This means he is a hard worker. With a year of marriage and a new house, he has turned his efforts towards work and has not been quite as physically active as he would care to be. That being said, an out-of-shape Jonno is quite capable of a brusque 60 km ride down the beach.

Again, it was great to have the bags off and enjoy some city riding. We lunched with Suze, again at St. Kilda before heading home and making a list of small house chores and getting some supplies from the hardware store. Sadly, it was the Australian equivalent of "Home Depot." I chastised him for not going local and promised him I would check out his local store the next day. The biggest accomplishment that day was the finding and putting up the old brass house number, "#34", found in the corrugated iron garage in the back yard. Old wood filled the hole in the brick where the number used to be. It was brittle, and we cut it out, created a new shim from some newer wood, and screwed it into place. It was a simple, satisfying task. Despite the minimum of manual labor, we were sweating profusely as the sun got ready to set and warmed the brick walls in the front of his house.

We cracked a cold beer and admired our work. The house had a number and looked all the better for it. Suze and Oscar, a mix breed of poodle (a snickerdoodle, I think), came outside, and we lounged in the day’s last bits saying "G'day" to the neighbors as they passed by. I love watching a house turn into a home.

Hospitality beyond compare.

2008-03-24T19:21:00.001-10:00

Mar. 9th

I relaxed excessively today. Jonno makes his own great espresso from a Gaggia brand machine, and I sipped my cafe latte under the shade of the orange tree at "Cafe Stone." Having only moved in for 4 nights at this point in time, Jonno and Suze are already in love with their house (incidentally I am, too), and it already has the feel of a home, something more than walls and a roof - this is probably through the Herculean efforts they put in the week before.

I drove to the beach at St. Kilda for lunch at the "London" and had their "famous" Chicken Parma (a somewhat Aussiefied version of chicken parmesan – think an Italian-type theme but served with chips (fries) and more meat, lots more meat). I had a Campari on the rocks – a drink I have been curious about since Bill Murray had it in "The Life Aquatic." It is sweet, and something I have never tasted before, good for a summer day, also Italian. I like anything Italian. Anyway, they were not lying about the Parma, it deserves the "famous" moniker, but Hell, Melbourne has killer food; I would not have expected less.

Jonno took me to the second best coffee in Melbourne; the best of course being served at 34 Parsons St. That night we had another barbie; I cooked butternut squash and zucchini to great acclaim. Met Frank Stone, Jonno’s dad, and he asked me to speak about my ocean row to his rowers at their end-of-the-season dinner. I was honored by his request and most certainly will. Life continues to be good.

A final country stop

2008-03-23T19:45:00.002-10:00

March 8th, sometime after noon

Bacchus Marsh

It’s really not a very flattering name for the little country town 45 km outside Melbourne. It was hot – big surprise. You have no idea how much I was hankering for a watermelon. Past the main town, the road continued into a tunnel of an oak-lined road, giving me the impression that I was no longer in Australia. Beside these ran several fruit stands. I picked one, probably like many fruit stands in this area, run by first or second generation Italians. The fruit was well ordered, and Mediterranean ingredients grown here in Australia filled the shelves. I picked my watermelon, plus nectarines and grapes, and lounged silently beneath the shade tree and fed myself grapes and thought of Bacchus and olive-skinned toga-clad women feeding them to me. But . . . I digress.

March 8th - Melbourne late arvo

It’s as easy as a city could be to get into by bike. A city I lived in for six months in university, and one I could easily live in again. Melbourne to me is fine Italian coffee (sorry Seattle), Turkish and Greek kebabs, and the MUBC (Melbourne University Boat Club) mates I met during my time here. I am the guest of the Right Honorable Jonno Stone (one of the rowing mates from the eight) and his lovely wife, Suze Stone, in their early 1900, new to them, two-story brick house complete with red grate-work and cobbles. Inside this Victorian/Edwardian edifice are old scared wood floors, high ceilings, crown molding, and character oozing out the yin-yang. We barbecued that evening on the red brick patio under the shade of an orange tree. I had the pleasure of also meeting his mom and sister and felt privileged and honored that they would open their new house to a wayward traveler such as myself.

A few more notes on Ballarat.

2008-03-22T18:08:00.001-10:00

March 8 -6:30 am

Ballarat was home of the 1956 rowing and canoeing course for the 1956 Melbourne Olympics, and until recent years, the courses were still in use. Due to drought, the lake could now be the site of a steeplechase, but no rowing. With a few green marshy exceptions, this not quite picturesque lake was now a prairie, but this did not seem to keep the walkers, runners and cyclists from still talking advantage of its nonexistent shores. The boathouses were still well maintained, and an occasional boat sat outside this meadow waiting expectantly for water. This was most certainly the most visible sign of drought I had seen so far. No sails, no puddles, no ripple of oars, just the smell of damp earth. I wondered how many sets of keys and wallets could be found by walking across this old lakebed. The lake’s name is Wendouree, and a small memorial to the games still exists on its shores. On the stone edifice is a quote:

"The most important thing in the Olympic games is not to win, but to take part. Just as the most important thing is life is not to triumph, but to struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered, but to have fought well."

This rolled into my mind, and for a second, I was brought in black-and-white imagination to a lake filled with water 52 years ago. Smaller trees and cotton uniforms with the all too familiar smell of wet and sweat and the rhythm of the oars. I was sad to see this lake, home of struggles, go now through its own struggle for existence.

Some things are universal.

2008-03-21T17:31:00.002-10:00

March 7th

I wanted a bit more time at Sovereign Hill, and my night at the Sovereign Hill Lodge entitled me to one extra day’s entry to the hill and the adjacent gold museum. I left a little too late to get out of town but was quite satisfied with my time there. It was certainly worth the extra paid night at the cheery "A Welcome Stranger" caravan park on the edge of town.

Traveling on bike invites people to speak with you - such was the case when I met Andrew just walking out of the caravan park office. He looked at my bike with curiosity, exclaimed something as to the effort entailed and promptly invited me to meet his mates 30 feet over at the electric barbie. My new friends were Andrew and his wife Deb, his mates Darrin and Shawn and their respective wives Virginia and Sam(antha).

I like to think mate-ship is a quality in every culture, and I certainly feel that way with my friends. However, while sitting round the table talking the piss (teasing each other) and learning about one another, it’s easy to see the camaraderie Aussies are famous for manifest itself in ripping on one another. The more you are teased, and the more you can tease yourself, the more you are accepted and liked.

I had stumbled on quite a crew. The boys had known each other for over 20 years playing footie. Aussie rules in this case; however, any sport that involves a ball and a foot is casually referred to in this way, leaving all sorts of openings for a foreigner to impart insult by making assumptions as to what sport is actually being referred to. In most cases you just listen and catch as catch can.

Darrin and Andrew met Virginia on a whirlwind tour of the States, and then, back in Melbourne, met back up with Virginia and her long time friend, Deb. Boys meet girls, and their weddings were three months apart. Sam was a newer addition to the group, and she and Shawn had been married four months, three days and twenty-six hours. Not that anyone was counting.

Thus, life goes on. People grow up or at least fake it. D and V have three kids, and A and D have two, and the whole mob of them are thick as thieves at the long weekend (Aussie labor day). Friendship, Mateship, whatever you call it, you’re rich if you have it.

PS: The women liked my accent. This was the first time in my travels that someone has said that. It felt great finally being at the other end. Virginia told me, "Don’t ruin it" by joining her husband and Andrew in a farting competition. It’s nice to know that joy of fine audible flatulence is a cross-culture common denominator.

Blood on the Southern Cross

2008-03-20T16:46:00.001-10:00

March 6th 7 pm

This is the name of the evening show that describes the events leading up and including the Eureka Uprising. Much has been written about this, and I will endeavor to write a brief synopsis.

To curb absolute lawlessness and mayhem that would ensue in any ungoverned gold rush town, the Victorian government issued licenses to miners to pay for administration, construction, and to try and keep any Tom, Dick or Harry from walking off their jobs (some of them quite important) to seek their fortune in the gold. These licenses were overpriced, and penalties for not having them were stiff. The under-funded and under-manned police force soon became corrupt and began to resemble uniformed thugs rather than the rule of law. They would go on license hunts and abuse miners ("diggers", now a common term for Australian soldiers) until it became intolerable. The miners organized under the Ballarat Improvement League whose banner was a deep blue flag with a large white cross tipped in stars - the flag of the Southern Cross. They demanded their human rights as well as representation in the government that made the laws they were governed by. This was not a cry for republic, despite the fact that many of the ringleaders were from America (a fact I took great delight in), but instead for justice.

Meetings of up to 10,000 were held on Bakery Hill (home now to McDonalds and a roundabout). Naturally this would upset the police and local government. Both sides anticipated trouble, with the miners at the Eureka diggings acting first by building a stockade around their camp. The commander of the police was on orders to pick a fight, and in the wee hours of the morning roughly 300 soldiers and police raided and burned the camp, which was also home to many of the miner's wives and children. Over 30 miners and 4 solders were killed. Once the main battle was over, soldiers continued to fire towards the hill causing several more casualties. 13 ringleaders were arrested and tried for treason. A year later, in Victoria’s highest court, all 13 were pronounced innocent to cheering crowds in Melbourne and Ballarat.

Frontierland, this is not.

2008-03-19T18:16:00.004-10:00

March 6th

I slept 20 km outside Ballarat. A larger town than I expected. Having spent the past two months among small country towns, I was a tad bewildered and not a little bit irritated that I could not find a local bakery. I was feeling a bit country mouse and unjustifiably vexed that I had to settle for "Maccers" (McDonalds) on the ironically named "Bakery Hill."

Like many of my countrymen 150 years ago, I was in Ballarat for the gold. In my case, it was my curiosity of the history that the gold produced. Ballarat is home to the richest alluvial (surface gold) deposits the world has yet found. In a few cases, inches below the surface nuggets of up to 60 kg and more were found. This was not the norm, however, it only takes a few of these to get a gold rush started. The surface gold quickly ran out, and from the late 1850s to WW I, the miners went deep underground. Lack of manpower stopped the mining when the manpower went overseas for war. The unmanned mines quickly filled with water, submerging the 60% of the gold still estimated to be under Ballarat. Even with modern mining equipment, it would take over 20 years to pull it out. You will be hearing of Ballarat soon.

Sovereign Hill is the historic recreation of the 1850s gold town (think "Wild West") and the Eureka Uprising that occurred during those years over miners rights and what they saw as unjust government laws regarding their work.

I was somewhat unsure of what to expect, but I saw this wild west town from the streets of Ballarat in 2008, and the historian inside me had made my decision – I would treat myself to a room at the adjacent Sovereign Hill Lodge.

Mar. 6th - 11 a.m.

Nothing in the world can keep a historic recreation from being slightly hokey, but until humanity develops a time-machine, Sovereign Hill will be the closest thing to it. Nowhere in the States would liability insurance or personal injury lawyers allow you to get finger- (or arm-) losing distance from an actual 1850s steam engine that still works and still powers a town in which wagon wheels, tin products, candles, candy and other traditional crafts are still made with all traditional equipment.

It’s a fine balance of charades, old time dress, theater, museum and modern media; but make no mistake, this is a completely functional 1850s town powered all by wood. The workers spend their days half-acting, half-running the logistics of the town. Where appropriate and discrete, sound and touch-screen LCDs built cleverly into crates tell the stories and dreams of the people who came to seek their fortune in Ballarat.

A few buildings are original, but the rest are recreated – a few sizes smaller than original, but are still excellent copies of descriptions, lithographs, and sketches of the old town.

The rush happened in ‘51, two years after the California ‘49 rush, and many experienced American miners came here to try their luck here. Some with money and an eye for business started shops to cater to miners and gave them names like "the United States Hotel" and "New York Bakery". I enjoyed a beer at the United States Hotel before walking 30 meters underground to an old quartz gold mine found accidentally as Sovereign Hill was being built. I saw $80,000 ASD of gold being poured, saw candy made, wagon hubs crafted and gold pans lathed. I also witnessed the lovely singer and dancer, Lola Montez, furiously address her detractor, the editor of the Ballarat times, with a riding crop after he would not take back the slanderous things he wrote about her. It was just a day in the life of a good old mining town.

Loving it.

I ride upon a tragic grove.

2008-03-18T18:03:00.000-10:00

March 5th

I don’t make a habit of stopping at the many crosses, flowers, and memorials on the side of the road. Most of them are not situated in safe and assessable groves of gums. Nor are these burned black, but healing trees spray painted with pink hearts, names and confessions of love. On a large stone was a place, the following words were engraved and encircled with flames:

"Tragedy of the 2006 Grampians fires
Took the lives of Milky and Zeke ----------
Ending two generations on their fatal
journey home
May we all learn from this
Our love for you will burn forever
in our hearts
Sharon, Kayla, Jacinta (4 musketeers)"

I had seen the blackened trunks throughout my two days in the Grampians, but the re-growth and life was so readily apparent that it was easy to discount the fires. Forests will always burn. It’s part of their cycle. It’s a part of life. I thought of Milky and Zeke for many miles, still at rest in there pink grove of gum trees.

A Questa by any other name.

2008-03-17T17:56:00.001-10:00

March 4

I am sure at least a few of you may wonder why I took the inland route as opposed to the celebrated Great Ocean Road. I assure you it was not because it’s shorter. I have been down the GOR three times already, once by helicopter.

I had been to Halls Gap once before, but it was in late winter and not its best month. The summer is much better. I wanted a day in Halls Gap, not for rest, but to enjoy the freedom that can be attained from climbing its hills unencumbered. My first climb was Mt. William: bitumen (asphalt), rock, dirt, plants and an average of a 13% grade for 10 km. Even turns carved nicely into the mountain. It reminded me of the climb behind Sandia Peak outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Upon reaching the top, I met Laura from Wyoming and Stephanie from France. A PhD student and intern from Melbourne University respectively. Laura is a botanist collecting samples, and Stephanie helps her. I brought up the similarities of Sandia Peak and Mt. William, and she confirmed my speculation. Both are "Questa" formations. I can only assume a similar formation sits on or close to Questa, New Mexico by Taos and must be the name sake of this formation.

Forgive me if I get this wrong, but a Questa formation is when sand, silt and dust settle on an ocean floor. The ocean dries up, and the land is compacted into sandstone. Later, tectonic action lifts the ground creating on one side a steep section with exposed layers. The other side slopes less steeply back down, creating the hill I just climbed. On the steep side, the view of patchy bush and tree-lined roads among the golden grass gives the impression of an ordered savannah. Hills, small from up here, dot the landscape. In the distance lies Ballarat, home of some of the richest gold deposits in the world. Behind me the land slopes green into a valley before towering up again into another ridge. This rough patch of land was so unlike anything I had yet passed through on this trip – replace the gum trees with Douglas fir, and this would be like my childhood camping in New Mexico. I zipped down through town, chilled with the help of gravity taking me downhill. I raided a bakery and climbed back towards Horsham, this time stopping at the lookouts to admire these Questas.

A visitor in the night.

2008-03-16T19:21:00.001-10:00

March 3rd

Horsham provided me with a picturesque bush camp in a grove of large gum trees well off the road. Contrary to the usual dense underbrush I use for cover, it was refreshing to take advantage of the large tree trunks and fallen logs (checked for snakes) to obscure my camp. I was too tired to sleep well, and something small and light tramped around my camp. It looked too large and lean for a fox, but still much too small for a dingo. He crept towards me with curious eyes that glowed when I turned on my flashlight. He came close, less than a meter. There was no malice in his posture. Having just awoken, my body seemed incapable of being startled. It took me a minute to realize what a good photo this could be. I moved slowly, pulling my camera from its box and hoping its curiosity would overcome my now awake and moving body. It did. Its eyes continued to glow in the flash, and I managed some good if slightly fuzzy pictures. Dawn broke suddenly, and he left.

The dark green silhouettes of the Grampians had revealed themselves to me yesterday afternoon. Now in the early morning light, the crags of gray and black rock revealed themselves. I took the back roads -quiet country roads lined with trees. I saw few people, but felt the vibe of the mountains - that tangible knowledge of place and identity that comes from proximity to large and distinct rock. They were hills, but on the verge of being mountains. Pines, a recent addition to this landscape, had found a ready home, and my nose would quietly switch gears from Australia to America when the pine reached my nostrils. Water, running water, my namesake (in Hebrew Jordan = running water) rippled in my ears. I had not heard this sound the entire trip. The simplicity of the babble was enough to entice me to breakfast by it. I did this and then climbed over the mountain to the village of Halls Gap.

A surprisingly eventful day.

2008-03-15T16:25:00.002-10:00

March 2nd

Destination: Horsham
Road: M1 highway to Melbourne

I had a rough time getting started this morning. It was no doubt the fitful sleep from the high pitched go-carts, different from the road and rain sounds I have become used to. Expectations on an exciting or eventful day were pretty low. No towns of consequence, just a slogging day that gets you to a destination before your real destination.

I was wrong.

Kaniva was a smart town with wide streets and an evident pride of place with neat store fronts and carefully watered gardens and flower pots that could have only been watered using water that was either unfit for humans or collected in one of the many rain storage tanks that are rapidly becoming a regular fixture on all the houses in this drought-beleaguered land.

I am a total sucker for a country bakery and was appropriately delighted to find a small doughnut machine warming up as I walked into Kaniva's bakery. As bready sweets go, I would not claim to be a doughnut man. However, when warm and fresh, they are a force few can resist. I got six. They were 60 cents each, and by far the best deal in the house.

The proprietor apologized. This was a new machine, one week old from America, and he and his wife were just perfecting the dough. As a Yank, in his eyes at least, I was no doubt an expert on such doughy matters, and he was eager for my input. Fried dough rolled in cinnamon and brown sugar - what kind of expert do you need to be. I told him they were excellent, and he gave me one more, making my total 7. Lacking any real skill or constructive criticism to give to the creation process, I suggested he follow the lead of the Southern American doughnut designer - Krispy Kreme, and put out a sign when hot, fresh doughnuts were available. It is a scientific fact that doughnuts are 22.5 times better when eaten hot and fresh. In a town of this size I expect it would take three weeks to have the locals trained on the times hot doughnuts were available. He looked at me like it was the best idea he had ever heard and handed me two more for the road. I burped doughnut for the next 30 km. It was a good problem.

The day was starting to bake, necessitating a watermelon "refuelment" at the town of Nhill - a country town with a street going either direction! The refueling went down with the sticky and refreshing red taste of summer. This was, of course, followed by a relief stop. I spoke earlier of not traveling with music and the joy that I find when fate brings me two it. So it went with the Bach piped into the bathroom. I’m not the kind of guy that lingers in a restroom, but the melody certainly slowed my actions.

70 km to go, and the bake was well and truly on. I wished to be in Horsham before sundown and did not want to stop. This did not prevent me from fantasizing about murdering a milkshake. In the middle of this fantasy, a white van rolled up, and a nice looking woman thrust her hand towards me. It gripped a Solo (lemonade-type beverage).

She spoke franticly, "Would you like a Solo?"
My mind was slow from the heat.
"Yes?" I replied slowly, following quickly with a "god bless you guys" when I figured out what was happening.
"Have some South Australian almonds!"
Her husband spoke, "we got traffic coming."
The almonds were tossed at me, and they sped away.
I called out to the exhaust - "thank you!"

The can was cold and sweating - pulled right from the eski (ice cooler). It hissed commercial-quality refreshment as a I cracked it open. This was the spinach to my Popeye. I peddled on into Horsham.

Bordertown

2008-03-14T17:41:00.001-10:00

March 1st

The moment between walking out of the bush and peddling off on my bike is exhilarating. Should a car roll by to catch that moment, my guilt is proven. If not, I am no doubt just a cyclist that started in the last town - most would assume that. The only record of my roadside transgression is this blog and the imprints of my waffled foam sleeping pad on the sand and fallen gum tree leaves.

My goal this day was Bordertown, 15 km from the Victoria Border. Towns and settlements along the way were more prevalent, giving me the impression that I traveled further than I actually did. The high-pitched whine of go-carts greeted my arrival in Bordertown. Clearly this Saturday was race night for local young aspiring race car drivers that whipped around the track at 35 to 45 mph. Their oversized helmets on their small bodies made them look like seriously competitive modern-day hobbits.

One of my great joys on this ride has been buying a quarter or eighth of a watermelon at the end of the day. It’s certainly not practical or possible on the Nullarbor, but a must when in a town of any size. I had one in Bordertown. I also took advantage of fresh lamb, butternut squash and zucchini. I had nothing that came from a can or that could keep indefinitely that night.

Leasurely departing Strath.

2008-03-13T16:42:00.001-10:00

Feb 29th

Took until one in the afternoon the next day to leave Strath. Josh had to be at work at 1:30, but with four hours of sleep, he decided to go in an hour late. We sat on the couch watching South Park. Like YouTube, it was awesome. Like McDonalds, I’m not going to apologize.

I was quite taken with Strath and took my sweet time among its well-shaped parks, churches and shops and stopped for a pasty and coffee overlooking the river. Josh stopped by on his way to the bank and sat down. Having just finished my coffee and with Josh due back at work (the bank is a 1 min walk from the real estate office, and it’s pretty apparent if he procrastinates), he invited me back to the office for tea. I felt comfortably out of place in my spandex among Josh and his nicely dressed workmates. We talked a little real estate and property management. They don’t make any more land, and what’s around is booming. Despite Australia’s size (think slightly larger than the USA), the twenty or so million people who live here are not too keen to move to the dirt pieces of Nullarbor land to set up shop. Said "goodbye" once more and walked to another bakery.

It was justifiably lunchtime, and the meat pies had been recommended. Josh walked in five minutes after me, and we easily avoided the sometimes awkward situation that develops when "goodbyes" are drawn out over hours. We picked up right where we left off, shook hands once more, both pleased at a new and serendipitous friendship.

This time for real, I rode out of town and the last few hills of Adelaide into a flat and well-ordered wine country where the vines were capped at each end with red flowers. My last link with this picturesque wine and farmland was a short river ferry across the brown Murray River. Five km later, my country dream was rudely awoken with the sounds of a freeway. This was my road, and it was still close enough to the big city to be unattractive and busy. I slept between the road and the train tracks, neatly obscured from both, but still vulnerable to their noise. The rumble of the train woke me up that night, yet, instead of startling me, the creaks, screeches and moans of metal on metal were comforting. I lay lazy and comfortable in my bivy, looking at the stars and listening to the sound of Rail and Road. This was a far cry from my first roadside bush camp. This was starting to feel normal

Left Adelaide watered, fed and rested.

2008-03-12T18:20:00.001-10:00

Feb 28th

I love the elegant patchwork quilt of country hills. The land elegantly divided into living sections of cattle, bush, farm and home.

I took the train out of Adelaide @ 3:00 p.m. today to avoid the frustration and danger of escaping the city. The end of the line was Belair. Not quite a suburb, not quite country. The train dropped me next to a school. Uniformed children foreign to my west coast eyes mobbed the street. I was feeling peckish, and perhaps that little unidentifiable sadness that comes with the opening and closing of chapters, in this case the end of my travels with a mate and the challenge of the Eyre highway. Now the challenge is again solo. Although I find when around a town, it is anything but. Seeing a lone man on a bike laden with gear seems to spark a lot of curiosity. Perhaps no more than two bikes, but one seems more approachable. The traffic was still heavy till Clarendon, but soon work began as, for the first time since Margaret River, I cycled hills. I was delighted. I love hills. The work of hills is honest, not fickle like wind, and it is always followed by the reward of a raving descent. It’s far more than the thrill of easy speed. The height and angles create a lens, in this case a one of farm, cows and bush, that reminded me of the agrarian quilts of central Italy. I passed Kangarilla - briefly wondered what an animal of that name would look like – and climbed and coasted through Meadows and ended up in Strathalbyn.
I found this town immediately appealing. Lovely stone pubs, hotels, churches, and a park with a river running through town - just so. I wished to treat myself to a pub stay at one of the many hotels, but the gods of frugalness were watching out for me, and everything but the caravan park was full. After my last enquiry at the Robin Hood Hotel in which I was promised a spot on their floor if nothing else worked out, I crossed the street to Cafe Ruffino. Along the way, I passed the town library, a somewhat art novo type edifice. Behind its locked doors, the big sounds of brass piped out big band music from the 30s and 40s. Not a song I could recognize, but a sound I found intimately familiar. I leaned on my bike. Five minutes of music was not going to make a difference, and if it did, I was not supposed to stay at the caravan park in the first place. I leaned on my bike and smiled, closed my eyes, and tapped time with my fingers and feet.

The caravan did have a spot, but the owner was out, and I did not stay to pay. Josh, working back at Cafe Ruffino had a better offer of a free couch bed. He had noticed my yellow Lance Armstrong "Livestrong" bracelet. He had one too, and this quickly turned into a conversation of travel. I ordered ravioli and a beer, and he followed me outside to look at my rig. Josh has designs of a motor bike trip from Alaska to NYC. He works two jobs - managing the Ruffino, a job he has worked since he was 14 (he is 22 now), and in the past year a job in real estate, and at that young age has already invested in property. It was readily apparent that Josh is both smart and motivated. After finding out he has taken off four days in four years, I am shocked that he can appear so laid back. I feel his lifestyle will start to pay dividends in a few short years, but I only hope he does not get caught up in his success and put off the travel he seems so keen for. I followed him home on my bike, changed shirts, and we went out to the Victoria Hotel and met some of the locals, including his house and workmate, Tessa. She wants to get into nursing. We stayed up late shooting bull on politics and life back at his place and looked up funny videos on You Tube, a much too regular pastime at home, but a welcome diversion on the road. The only internet I have used I had to pay for, thus I am efficient.

I found it strange using this medium of instant availability. SNL skits that run through my friends like wildfire are unknown here even though they are on You Tube. I showed him such favorites as "My box in a box" and "Iran", and he showed me an Australian comedy team that had managed to used a few black SUVs and guys in suits to infiltrate the security the last time President Bush was in Australia with a man dressed as Osama Bin Laden. The price tag for this Swiss-cheese security? $150,000,000 AUD. Good on ya.

Concerning events of these days in Adelaide.

2008-03-11T17:25:00.005-10:00

25th - 27th

Forgive me if I lump these days together. Compared to the daily grind of riding, these were relaxed, rest days catching up with emails and replacing worn bits of bike. Incidentally, I have run through one set of shoes (they were five years old when I arrived), one set of cleats, one chain, and three touring tyres.

We stayed with Sharon Emmett. She lives in a house built by her late husband, Don, a master builder, and if walls talked, as they sometimes do through Mrs. Emmett’s stories, they told of a house created with every whim and then some she did not know she had in mind. We quickly fell into a routine of breakfast on Australia’s own Wheet-Bix , toast with gum tree honey from her son’s place on Kangaroo Island, and fruit followed by tea.

Talk often shifted to Don, Anthony’s grandfather. It told of stories and memories of life that make up a family’s mythology. Having lost my own grandfather recently, it felt good to see Anthony’s come to life through Mrs. Emmett’s words. He was a big man; when young, he was tall, dark and handsome - clearly a presence of a man. I gather he was pragmatic. Mrs. Emmett, when in her new house, she suffered from a downsizing of kitchen space. Upon spying a kitchen cutting board on wheels that could act at a kitchen island, Don measured it. After outlining the size in tape on the kitchen floor, he assured Mrs. Emmett that she would have one if she avoided stepping on the tape for the week. Needless to say she now has that lovely cutting board.

No doubt, he was strong-willed, only dying after several years of enduring difficult illnesses. My grandfather was lucky; he suffered only mild illness, if any, throughout his life. When death came, it was quite sudden. Nothing about death is good, but I’m glad he did not spend his final years in a nursing home. With the exception of a short few weeks at the hospital and hospice, he went out traveling.

He would be tickled to know that in Mrs. Emmett’s house, on the far side of the world in her small workshop adjacent to the garage, sits a Hanson bathroom scale, faded green in color, its measurements in kg and stone (14lbs = 1 stone, it’s an older form of measurement still used by older generations in England Ireland and Australia). It was made in the "Republic of Ireland." For those of you who don’t know, my family made scales for nearly five generations. In the 1960s, my grandfather made a bold move by taking the whole family to the west coast of Ireland to the little town of Sligo where "Hanson Scales" became the major employer for over 40 years. One of the places they exported to was Australia. This scale, now with a few rust spots, is still keeping weight for Mrs. Emmett. They were imported by a gentleman named Peter Marich. He also died recently. On my last trip to Australia, I was the guest of his son, Rob, and Rob’s wife, Jan. We went surfing at the Palm Beach Surf Club where Rob and his family are members.
To come so far and to see something that my grandfather designed and manufactured in an unexpected place brought him vividly back to me. I held the scale and then stepped on it. It still kept weight. I thought of Grumpa Stan. He would be proud that his work is still around and keeping weight.

I did not want to talk of death with Mrs. Emmett. I don’t know if I mentioned that my grandfather had died, but I was happy with her stories of Don, her memories of the man who meant so much to her just felt good. She did not know she was giving me more than food and shelter, so much more.

But at night I'm a junk-food junkie, Lord have mercy on me.

2008-03-10T16:23:00.001-10:00

Night of the 25th to 1030 am on the 26th

Once on the Adelaide side of the ferry, we still had the country roads, but with the city traffic. It continued to be a stressful ride. Its only redeeming factor was the bright moon, nearly full that presented itself to us in ripe orange glory. Unfortunately, like so many natural phenomena, it could not be done justice by our cameras. The last 98 km were on a busy highway, much smoother quality of road and at night, hardly any traffic.

However, as a cyclist, you can sense a dangerous road, and this was certainly it. 25 km outside the city we had to jump a fence to the suburbs and seek refuge in a local café; you might have heard of it - McDonalds. No, I’m not going to apologize for eating there. It was all things good, bad and familiar – yes, I read Fast Food Nation - I know the food is designed to be that way. But, after riding through the night and dealing with highway traffic, I was just hankering for an Egg McMuffin®, hotcakes, and some hash browns. The familiar packaging assured me it was all Australian potatoes and that they got their eggs from the same place I did. Whoopty-do. And yes, in answer to your question, I was indeed loving it.

At this point all credit for toughness goes to Anthony. There was only one road into town from the north, and half the locals told us they hated getting on it in a car. Our options were getting a big cab or a train. In my beleaguered condition, my vote was for the cab. Trooper that Anthony was, he pushed for the train. As exhausted as I was, he did not have to push hard. I just needed to move to stay awake.

So we combined one part local knowledge, one part determination on Anthony’s part, and one part lucky spotting and finally found a train. Anthony got our tickets. I fell asleep standing up, then followed Anthony the last few km from the city center to the oasis of his lovely grandmother’s house. We ate. I showered. We slept. I woke up with a genuine dislike for the fur on my face. Shaved - felt somewhat civilized again.

Reptiles and a ferry ride.

2008-03-09T15:46:00.002-10:00

Feb 25th

Dirt roads on road tyres are always eventful. Makes it more so when on the way to catch a ferry and dodging traffic. Just before we hit those dirt roads, Anthony and I ran into some uncommon roadkill - well, mostly killed, and on it’s way to all killed. It was a snake, and in a land that holds the top ten deadliest snakes, the prudent assumption is that this is one of them. However, its was pretty clear that with the unhealthy-looking flat spot a few inches behind his head, he was not going to do any biting anytime soon. Not that we planned on getting that close so as to test it. The reason I said "mostly killed" was that the last two and a half feet of him flicked and twitched with disturbing regularity. Like the dead wedgetail eagle, it was the kind of thing that boys just have to stare at for a bit. So we stared. It was just about the coolest thing ever.

About 100 meters later and perhaps a few notches up the reptile IQ ladder sat an 18 inch bearded dragon, just off the road as opposed to on it. While I would not chose that spot to sun myself, I was delighted that he/she did because it meant Anthony and I could do our best Steve Irwin impression. You can take it from both of us, he/she was a beut. It also didn’t like how close we were getting, and to our great delight postured up displaying its namesake brilliant spiky throat.

It was a stressful ride to Lucky Bay, but we managed to avoid any mishaps making it with just minutes to spare. Lucky Bay is nothing but a ferry terminal, and even this is glorifying it. Right now, it’s little more than a breakwater for the twin hulled cat that makes the run 2 to 3 times daily. I expect Lucky Bay will change a great deal in the next few years.

Cowell - quite a cute little town.

2008-03-08T15:06:00.003-10:00

Feb. 25th

Woke up under the mesh in my bivy - covered in flies. One fly in particular had my attention - a blow fly - a biting fly. This presumptuous little fella bit me through the mesh. I unzipped my bivy, caught the SOB, pulled off a wing, and flicked him to the bush. Two days – 400 km and no shower in between was really wearing on my karmic feelings towards the lowest forms of wildlife.

Fortunately, Cowell provided the shower and much more. It could best be described (and is we were told) as the kind of town that lends itself to movies set in Australia’s past. Cowell’s buildings are wonderful, tan, solid-stone, and are surrounded by large corrugated, iron verandas that are typical of classic Australian homes. It is the kind of town with two pubs and a town monument (in addition to the requisite ANZAC monument in every Australian town no matter the size) - a large and ugly black stump. It exists in memory to that time, some 40-odd years ago, of the Great New Year’s Prank of Cowell when someone put this stump in the middle of the street between the two pubs with the ambiguous sign of "best pub this side of the stump." I suppose they still talk of that day. Incidentally, the actual stump monument is not the original stump. It was stolen years ago and was replaced with an equally large and ugly black stump. No one knows what happened to the original. I suspect it sits in someone’s back yard.

The proprietor of the caravan park took pity on us and let us shower despite our not staying the night. The bathroom had music. David Bowie was playing. When you don’t travel with an i-pod, it makes all the music you hear that much sweeter. I threw in a load of laundry and explored the town.

The Ebb and Flow Cafe earned our business that morning. This up-market joint has, no doubt, been built in response to the ferry from Lucky Bay -14 km north that cuts off several hours of drive time from Adelaide; this was the ferry we planned to catch. Cowell has and will continue to have an influx of Adelaide’s money, and places like the Ebb and Flow will continue to be built. It was a classy establishment, still honest to the old building style charm with worn wood planks, classic molding and well-done country murals on the way to the bathroom out the back. We ate well and lingered a bit to long. We rushed, well-washed, towards the ferry.

Followed by a Moonshadow

2008-03-07T20:58:00.000-10:00

23rd - evening

I had not realized how high we had climbed from Ceduna to Cleve, but I now blessed those slow, subtle rollers as we coiled cleanly through the well-shaped hills. It did rain, but only very light and not for long. The red lights of the wind farms revealed themselves, and if not for our young friends at Cleve, we would have wondered what these bright red dots were on the gray, but clearly visible hills. It was a gorgeous, gray descent, and despite the light clouds, moonshadows still covered the road. We bush-camped just out of Cowell, cooked a feed and slept.

Cleve – South Park of the Eyre Peninsula

2008-03-06T17:26:00.002-10:00

Feb 23 - noon

I did not expect the heat to wake us at noon. When it did, it was harsh, immediate and stifling. However, I felt surprisingly good. A shower would have gone a long way to making me feel human. Yet, sweating on the bike, a camp meal of cheese and rice, and two ice cream bars were enough to get us through the sheep and wheat fields (they look silver at night) to the well-manicured country town of Cleve. It was roughly eight at night, and we had 40 km before Cowell, our destination for the night. Each of us was hankering for a beer and, hell, a pub meal was sounding pretty good at this point as well. We scanned the streets eagerly for the town pub. No joy. Cleve is so big that the pub is not on the main street - gasp! - but on a side street. Some local kids were wandering around - that’s what you do in a small country town as a kid - and we asked them. Two turns later we could see our liquid salvation. But yet, mere meters from our destination we were accosted by a group of 15 children between the ages of 11 and 15. I admit that as they fanned across the road between us and the pub, I briefly imagined the headline of the local rag: "Cyclists detained after confrontation with local school children on way to pub." Then one of them yelled out, "Roadblock!" followed by 14 other echoes of the same thing.

"Where did you come from?" "Esperance."

"Where is Esperance?" "What are they teaching you in school?" I thought.

"Do you play footy?" Nine out of every 10 males have played, or still play, footy. This always seemed like a silly question, but kids see our bike shoes and run with it. I had to answer, "no."

This was perhaps a tenth of the questions that bombarded us. In the background, four-letter words and other less obvious dirty words were whispered and sniggered at to no one in particular as the leaders continued with our interrogation.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" "No," said I. "Yes," said Anthony.
"Why not?"

"Can we ride you bike?"
"Are you gay?"
"No" and "no."
"He’s gay," the leader – Tim - pointed to one boy in the pack. The boy shrugged; "I am," he said cheerfully (this was either a progressive town or he could take a hell of a joke for a kid in the middle of puberty).

They proceeded to ask Anthony questions relating to the physical qualities of his girlfriend, which he deftly parried, and all of the sudden they parted. We had passed this test, and at least for a short time, were accepted as part of their troop, and received an honor guard to the pub, at which more children were running in and out of.

We leaned our bikes against the wall, threw on some jeans, and a rather inebriated man wearing his cricket whites from a match earlier that day flung open the pub door.

"Where you lads from? Across the Nullarbor? Jesus let me buy you a beer."

This was an offer we could not refuse. Inside they had stopped serving food, but we made do with leftover pizza and some meager, but warm, toasted ham sandwiches. Inside were some more good folks who had clearly been holding down the fort for quite a while. A man named "Snook" introduced himself. He and his mate were impressed with our efforts; however, Snook’s friends did make scissor-hands to pretend to cut my hair.

"We don’t like that kind of hair around here."

"But", Snook replied, "he’s got a fair bit of chops" (you’ve seen the pictures; damn right I do).

The conversation with Snook and his mate was one in which I would need to drink a few beers to really get into. A young man who had spent the past eight months on farm exchange in the States introduced himself, and we finished our beer with him. He was coming down hard after his eight months away, and I think he was pretty happy to talk to some fellow travelers. Alas we left him, still 40 km to go, and the Cleve kids had a few more rounds of questions.

"What happens when it rains?" "We get wet," and it was looking like it was getting ready to rain, too. They also gave us some advice, "Watch out for the boogie man!" and some good advice, "Take care on the road to Lucky Bay; it’s about half dirt."
"Those red flashing lights on the way down to Cowell, those are wind farm lights."

I was about to be impressed at the with-it-ness of these kids, when one of the kid’s older sisters walked across the street and yelled out to one of the little darlings, "Mom wants you home."

"Suck me off!" he replied.

With that ringing in our ears and a grin I could not stifle, we rode into the night.

Discretion is the better part of valor.

2008-03-05T17:57:00.000-10:00

Feb 22 @ 7:30 a.m. to Feb 23rd @ 4:30 a.m.

Sometimes you can get the feeling that you’re more rested than you really are. That’s how I felt the day we decided to try and push the whole way across the Eyre peninsula, roughly 400 km, in one go. Two nights in a bed had us revved up, and with six hours under our belt we were feeling like we could go forever. It was enough to get us 270 km or to about 4:30 a.m. on the 23rd.

Two things:

At Kyancutta we said goodbye to the Eyre Highway. This was our first fork in the road since Norseman nearly 2000 km ago. This meant that for at least a short time we said goodbye to the road trains that dominated the road.

And gradually on the 50 km to Lock, with each peddle over peddle and crank over crank, the bike wore down our determination to try and get to the ferry by 1 a.m. the next day.

It was a short talk of our options before Anthony asked if I would think less of him if we stopped for the night. I told him it was great idea, in fact I said, I think more of him. We laid our bikes on the deserted country road and pealed open tuna and crackers, laying down gingerly on our sides to avoid our battered backsides. We rolled our bikes to the bush and didn’t set the alarm. The heat would no doubt wake us.

Big enough to have a salad bar!

2008-03-04T18:19:00.006-10:00

Feb 20th -22nd

Ceduna - In our minds for the past 11 days we had seen it as the end to our Eyre Highway adventure. This was the biggest town since Esperance - smaller than Esperance, but still bigger than Norseman; at this point, it seemed downright cosmopolitan.

It is situated on the coast and has a long jetty that is a regular fixture on all of these towns in western and southern Australia that are built on shallow bays. We spent roughly 36 hours in Ceduna before our big push to Adelaide. Our time here was thankfully uneventful, with of course the following exceptions:

Food: my, what a surprise. Both days found us repeat customers at both Bill’s Fish and Chips for lunch and the Ceduna Hotel/Motel right on the beachfront for dinner. They earned our business for the following reasons:
1) Bill’s fish are as fresh as they could come; some, if not all, are line, not net, caught. The silver, pink and gold fillets are laid out in small quantities in the display case. When that day’s fish are gone, you just have to wait for the fisherman.
2) The batter is tasty, but light. I felt like I was eating a fish fried in batter, not a batter-ball with a fishy center.
3) The hotel serves a decent feed. What brought us back was the diverse, fresh and unlimited salad bar. Good for the fresh veggies we had been missing, plus we could eat to our full volume, which is considerable.

The second reason Ceduna was of note was that our dear Austrian cyclists, Phillipp and Valeska, rolled into town a few hours after us. We both stayed at the same caravan park. It was just 10 bucks extra for our own self-contained trailer over a campsite, and after a lot of time outside it’s hard to put a price on your own enclosed space. We shared some beers, commiserated over cycling, and I was delighted to find out that they planning to head through Seattle to Alaska. I hope to put them up.

Push to Ceduna, Goodbye to the Nullarbor; Hello Eyre Peninsula

2008-03-03T17:35:00.001-10:00

Feb 19th

We slept. We ate. The weather changed with the wind bringing cool air and the threat of rain. We got ready and checked the weather. Nothing conclusive. We had locked our room as the proprietor had asked, but after looking at the wind and weather we decided to wait and leave at midnight.

Nundroo is owner operated. There is something to be said about this. On a road like the Eyre Highway, you just don’t have to be nice if you don’t want to. That morning I had been immediately put off by the sour looks and pinched face of the landlord, but had held back judgment until we spoke to him about the room. We said we needed it for the day, and he charged us the full $77 AUD. This made sense, as he would be unable to rent the room that evening. I left thinking that despite his constipatidly-pained appearance, he was just a no BS kinda guy. No worries right? That evening, after deciding we would wait on the weather for three more hours, I asked him if we could get back in our room – having paid the full price for 24 hours of occupancy. He leaned back in his stool, crossed his arms and looked at me with disdain through glasses that made his eyes seems rather large, "Well, you’re entitled to it. Do you have your key?"

That morning he had told us to leave the key on the dresser and lock the door behind us. "No" I replied, "I locked the door like you said I should."

"Well, I don’t have a key; there’s nothing I can do for you." Behind this charmer was a wall of keys, and it really defied logic that after each tenant left they would not have a means of opening the room again. I like to think the best of people, but this gentleman was doing his best to make me pay for those assumptions. Fortunately a recent hire, and English bloke, who had been watching the whole episode unfold, piped in.

"What about those keys?" he gestured to the wall, covered as it was in keys.

'They probably don’t work. If they do, it might be this one," he said and pulled off a key ring that looked suspiciously like the key ring that a maid might use as she made her rounds to change the bedding.

Our Limey hero, probably earning a tail-chewing in the process, grabbed the keys and led us back to our room. Trying several keys, he found the correct one. We slept. I believe I am better at napping than Anthony. I think this might irritate him a little. We had instant coffee in the room to wake up and made our way onto the road.

75 km down the road in Penong at the local roadhouse there, we met a kindred spirit of our landlord. She served us terrible coffee and under-heated pastries, but it was really the frown that gave it the vitriolic taste that I really enjoy.

Except for rain, nothing happened on the way to Ceduna. However, I was somewhat disappointed that the lady at the information center who gave us our Nullarbor Completion Certificates was so nice. I was hoping for a hat-trick of nasty people. You just can’t always get what you want.

The Nullarbor fades.

2008-03-02T18:35:00.001-10:00

Feb 18th*

At sunset we left this Tarantino-inspired landscape for Nundroo – flat road and a sunset that set quickly on the unobstructed horizon. The heat still broiled the air despite the sunless sky. We powered up on Tim Tams (like Oreos but 10 times better – chocolate filling dipped in chocolate) and Redbulls before rolling away.

I soon decided to ride shirtless, a rare treat as it has usually been quite brusque at night. Riding without a shirt in the daytime is out of the question with my Northern European pigmentation. Besides, I would hate to ruin my Seattle tan - what would the neighbors think? Within 15 km, the land began its transformation from the desolation of the Nullarbor back into, as the lady at Nullarbor Roadhouse said, "good old Australian bush." Scrubby skeletons gave way to fuller salt brush and, eventually, actual gum trees.

Thankfully there was no wind. The road began to show some shape again with the rolling hills that breed speed – something Anthony and I were grateful for after the last few days of slogging it out. In between the heat were pockets of cold, refreshing air that whipped pleasantly across my bare skin.

We arrived at Nundroo a half hour after sunrise. I was more exhausted than I realized. The heat was already up, and the flies were coming with it. Dirty with dust and salt, they went right for our eyes and mouth. It was not an option to ride in the upcoming heat. We got a room for the day.

* Note: My dear readers, by this time you will have realized that these blogs are quite postdated. I did this because the internet between Norseman and Adelaide was very spotty. I am now in Hall's Gap in the Grampians and have a terrible confession to make - since leaving the Nullarbor Roadhouse, I have only made brief notes on the days, and for February 18th through the 28th will have to rely on these and my memory. I will do my best. Please enjoy.

Miles and miles of bugger all.

2008-03-01T15:57:00.001-10:00

Feb 18

Woke from a deep sleep, and the wind that had shifted from the east to the north – a crosswind. Still tiring, but it was a wind that let us keep up a pretty high speed.

The Nullarbor Plain proper was not the shrubby land we had rode through so far. The actual plain only comes to the coast for 15 km. The majority of the plain is farther inland and nearly the size of England. It is quite treeless; they don’t lie; there’s not even a shrub higher than my knee. The locals say, "miles and miles of bugger all." Translated, this is means a lot of excessive amounts of nothing. Everything is either gray or straw colored and looks dead; yet a few hardy settlers chose this harsh land to make their home.

15 km out, we spotted the Nullarbor Roadhouse – a one-story building that stood out like a sore thumb on the horizon. Too hot to ride, we took a pink trailer room that was too hot to sleep in. We dozed, had beer and burgers, and planned our ride into the night. "Good old Australian bush" was said to be coming up. Having not seen any for 400 km, I was quite happy in anticipation of this.

The Kindness of Strangers.

2008-02-28T17:30:00.001-10:00

Night of the 17th

I told Anthony we should probably head to the biggest camper van, and indeed this machine was huge. Really, it was a house on wheels. It was not too hard to put on our best pathetic faces, and we knocked on the door with our bikes and empty-handed, but not wanting to give off the idea that we expected anything. Kay opened the door, looked us up and down, and pretty much knew what we needed before we asked.

"Is there any chance we could have some water? We have run out."

It was kind of embarrassing after so many km on the Eyre highway with plenty of water to have finally run out, but the Nullarbor National Park had no shade, no water, and we had doubled our consumption. I followed Anthony’s plea with the justification that, "We haven’t had a problem until now. Usually what we have is plenty."

She was kind and gave us two water bottles to drink while we fetched our water bladders that held six liters each and would get us the next 50 km to Nullarbor Roadhouse. She filled, and we thanked her.

We walked briefly to stretch off the bike, re-hydrating and coming down off a hot and miserable day. We sat gingerly on the stone table provided by the national park and put our heads down trying to build up motivation to start dinner.

Kay approached us from behind and in a modest, but most generous fashion, and invited us to dinner. "There’ll be too much for the four of us, and we can’t let it go to waste." Kay is married to Trevor, and they traveled with Diane and Keith. I think Diane and Trevor are brother an sister; either way, both couples took us in with open arms, offered us water, and grouper that had been speared by Keith only days before and was kept quite fresh in the trailer’s refrigerator. It was excellent – white, flaky and breaded; never would I have imagined this treat in the middle of this barren plain.

"It’s a cruel stretch of road," said Keith. He spoke with authority; it was clear he had made the drive many times. Now with their caravan setup, they could live quite nicely on the Nullarbor for some time.

We finished the night with ice cream and apple crumble and talked of shooting kangaroos and Emu. Australia is probably the only country where they have to fight the national symbols in order to not be overrun by them. Both are hearty animals in absolutely no danger of extinction.
We thanked our hosts profusely, offered to help clean, but they would have none of it. This is what Australian hospitality is.

We slept that night using the short salt brush as a windbreak. It was a good four hours of sleep.

Out of Water.

2008-02-27T17:40:00.001-10:00

Feb 15th -16th

Shower, air conditioning, it seemed decadent, but we were zombies. We took a four-hour afternoon nap and another 12 that night. Overpriced food was par for the course, but since our food drop did not arrive in Cocklebiddy we had to make our camp food stretch. Not that it was hard to order a steak burger that we did not have to cook.

As for the post office and grand reason for our 240 km push, it turned out there was none. Our first ask to see if my package had arrived was a "no." However, the next day, incidentally a Saturday, they told me a package had arrived last Wednesday for a "Hayden." I had a look at it just in case, and sure enough, it was our PLB. It was odd to think that one of the many trucks that passed us had been carrying our mail.

Eucla, like most of these settlements, is a 70s and 80s re-do of the original settlements from the early 20th century when camels, boats and telegraph lines were the only ways of travel and communication.

That afternoon we crossed the SA border into the 200 km of the Nullarbor National Park and home of the stunning limestone cliffs of the Great Australian Bight. It seems that once you cross the border, you are in the Nullarbor proper. There are nothing but bushes, and not that many of them, with the largest ones still less that 6 feet. However, they are still quite green. We slept till 12 and woke up to an east wind and lots of road trains. Between both, it halved our speed to 10 km per hour, a real morale killer. We kept pushing; it was all we could do.

Great sunrise. I always take five to enjoy those, a calm before the heat and wind that inevitably kick up. We were now cycling right along the Great Australian Bight, a place I had looked at on maps since I was a kid. Now I can tell you what it looks like. Vertical limestone cliffs, 40 meters high that mark an abrupt end to the country and continent of Australia. The Great Southern Ocean is at once immediately accessible, yet distant below. The limestone is white on the bottom and changes to a stained tea-brown as it reaches the ground we stand on. It is topped in dark green salt brush and small succulent plants. Small, well-shaped, white flowers dot the ground in hopes that the rough environment won’t notice them and stamp them out. It is a barren and spectacular landscape.

The sun continued to rise, and we looked for a place to eat and sleep. None could be found. No awning we had would stand up to the wind. We covered ourselves in long sleeves and hats and tried beat the heat. It was a futile effort. We were sweating buckets and going nowhere.
We decided to continue in the wind, but we had now consumed more than half our water. It would hurt more to ration, so we continued to drink normally hoping to make the next marked water stop 52 km from the Nullarbor roadhouse. The wind continued. So did the heat and so did we. We arrived dreaming of water. I was going to drink and eat my fill, but there was none. It was time to play the pity card; one I feel we deserved. 2 km behind the alleged water stop was a lookout to the Bight. Around the car park was an instant community of caravans that had sprung up for the night. We were about an hour from being in a bad way. My face was covered in salt, and we made our way for the biggest one, hoping for some charity.

Working on the night moves.

2008-02-26T20:03:00.002-10:00

Feb 14th-15th

Every Police station, guidebook, and information center will tell you not to ride the Nullarbor or any outback road at night. But really, what are the three terrors of the Nullarbor?

Kangaroos - These remarkably dense animals (physically and mentally) are primarily nocturnal. Their relatively high speed and reflexes combined with the disorientating lights of cars and, especially, road trains make them consistent victims of cars and trucks. This is a minor mishap to truckers who sit nearly 7 feet above the ground in huge trucks with armored grills aptly named "roo bars." They do not slow down for roos. Don’t need to. Cars on the other hand, especially cars without roo bars on the front, can be completely totaled. Hit a roo mid-hop, and this 70 to 120 lb. animal will go right through the windshield. At 20 km an hour, our bikes have no chance of sneaking up on a roo. However, that night we did both manage to run over the body of a dead one.

Road trains - These oversized semi-trucks are allowed to pull up to 36.5 meters of cargo – over a third of the length of a football field (or pitch). They travel at roughly 110 kph, and if anyone has driven a trailer in the wind, one can get an idea of how much skill it would take to drive this through a land known for high winds. Judging from what they do to roos and any other stray animals that happen on the road, it is pretty clear what they could do to a cyclist. However, at night they ride with huge high-beams visible from up to 10 km away. Having slightly more sense that a roo, this gives us plenty of time to get well off the side of the road.

Last of all is the heat and the wind – terrible during the day and sometimes a crap shoot at night. This means that, with the exception of the road trains, a bicycle is probably the safest vehicle on a dark night.

However, these conclusions did not mean we took our night ride lightly. We lit ourselves up, threw on neon green vests with reflective tape, and rode into the night.

It seems cliche to say that the stars were brilliant. How could they be anything but? As dusk leveled into dark, our world shrunk to the immediate area around us. The moon set at midnight, and total dark gave us the impression of flying. We talked constantly to stay alert, sometimes singing - very loud and quite badly, and our other conversations did not start at a particularly high level and descended as the night wore on.

60 km in, we stopped for dinner on the side of the road. The dirt was pink and was mixed with well-persevered fossilized shells that betrayed this land’s aquatic past. No car passed as we cooked and "coffeed" our way back to alertness.

The night had now turned cold. Not cool, but uncomfortably cold, and we layered on the clothes. 10 km later, heavy dew and light fog appeared – soaking through our clothing. It was a surreal landscape – pitch black with pinholes of light above us. Wisps of cloud and the light at the end of the tunnel that was an approaching car. I thought briefly of Odysseus’ decent into Hades. Anthony thought of the Polar Express.

Another 60 km later we arrived at Mundrabilla. We fueled up again on coffee and cake for the final push to Eucla. Like clockwork, the wind picked up at 7 a.m., but the sunrise and heat managed to keep us awake and miserable as we made the final push up Eucla Pass – counterpart to Madura Pass that was 180 km behind us.

We stumbled in sweaty and had to snack before we could even think about lunch. Anthony’s parents said they would treat us for a night in a hotel. 240 km since our last sleep, we figure this was a good spot.

Run for the Border - Part two.

2008-02-25T17:13:00.001-10:00

Feb 14th

The mishap had really begun in Norseman when we forgot to pick up our Personal Locator Beacon (a safety device that would send out a distress signal in the event of an emergency; a bit of an overkill on a road with steady traffic and plenty of truckers with UHF radios, however, I rather err on the side of caution). The Norseman Post Office was closed for the weekend, and we left on Sunday. That Monday in Balladonia, we called Norseman, and with a quick "no worries love", the lovely post attendant sent it on to what she described as the post office in Eucla.
Eucla is the largest settlement on the Eyre Highway, and it made sense that if they had a police station, they would probably have a post office, and if they had one, it would probably be open 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. These were the facts on hand as we arrived in Madura on Thursday.

What it came down to was the realization that if we showed up in Eucla two days from now, it would again be on a Saturday, and we would miss the mail. Anthony came to this conclusion while speaking with his mum. He relayed the situation to me and followed it up with the most logical option – forgo sleep, leave at 7 p.m. when the wind and heat died down, and ride through the night to Eucla 180 km away, on top of the 60 we had done that morning.

When the opportunity for a challenge comes around, especially one of this nature, it’s really hard for me to say "no." What it came down to was that it would be a hassle to get that PLB if we did not pick it up the second chance we got, and 180 km with no sleep was really a small price to pay. On top of that, the idea of riding in the wind and heat the next day made the no sleep option a lot more appealing.

Anthony smiled the question, "you up for it, mate?"

I grinned, nodded in acceptance, and we spent the next hour and a half preparing for our run for the WA/SA border under the shaking heads of the other travelers with beers in hand who seemed somewhat dumbfounded by our life choices.

Our run for the border.

2008-02-24T17:49:00.001-10:00

Feb 14th

Madura roadhouse stood in a thick and shady grove of gum trees at the end of the only real downhill we have seen since Norseman. This is Madura Pass. On top of the pass are green gums that end quite suddenly with a grayish, lavender scrub brush that seems to extend into the distance to the horizon, but really will drop off soon into the ocean. That morning, as we took our first stretch break, two cyclist appeared out of the bush. They were Phillipp and Valeska. They are on a considerably longer trip than we are. We were pleased to find out that they had as little sense as us and were going into the wind as we were.

For the next five years they will bike around the world. Thus far, they have biked across Europe and Africa from north to south. They and their bikes looked as if they had gone trough a crucible of hard travel, and they carried nothing but what they absolutely needed making ourselves look somewhat ungainly by comparison.

Judging from our style of bikes (our road bikes to their mountain hybrids), it was like comparing racehorses to hardy welsh ponies. They did not travel as quickly as us, but they also went longer and with fewer stops, and they could keep this up indefinitely. We, on the other hand, had been stopping every 20 km to stretch my knee, and Anthony had become quite used to this.

We met up with them in Madura, lunched with them, and they headed off towards the hottest part of the day. Conversely, we decided to take two easy days to Eucla in order to keep our steady pace with no rest day. Then we had a mishap in communication, and we had to pull out Plan B.

Apologies.

2008-02-23T18:58:00.002-10:00

Feb 13th

As Anthony and I see it, we gained some "tough points" (as opposed to "weenie points") last night as we slept in the rain (one of the few times it rains here in the summer). I am pleased to say that Anthony and I travel like two joeys in a pouch (I don’t know the biology, but for the sake of metaphor, I shall assume this is a good thing). Rain sounds much louder in a bivy sack.
We fought a hard wind during the 60 km to Cocklebiddy. It gets its name from the piles of shells around the coast (cockles) and "biddy" is the aboriginal word for "water" in this area.

Today Australia apologized to the stolen generation and for other acts of injustice done to Aboriginal people under the authority of the Australian government since white settlers arrived. This is like the US government apologizing to African and Native Americans for all injustices done since 1776.

I’m not going to pick a side, nor will I discuss reparations, but in my personal life I have usually found that an unequivocal, unqualified apology can usually bring smoother relations down the road. It seems hard, but it's free. Most importantly, it seems to make both parities feel pretty damn good in the long run, as well as making people more willing to work together. I imagine (and hope) it will do the same for Australia.

90-mile Straight.

2008-02-22T19:13:00.002-10:00

Feb 12

The road solidified in front of us as we pushed the liquid horizon in a landscape that, as Anthony aptly put it, "was a few melting clocks away from a Salvador Dali painting". This asphalt line on the dirt gave a Sisyphean flavor to our ride. No turns, just what seemed a slow, steady climb and a consistently strong east wind that appeared after noon.

The roadside was a charnel house of kangaroo bits in various states of decomposition. Arms, legs, fresh kills, smelly corpses, sun-bleached bones and the occasional viscera so baked by the sun that the flies would have nothing to do with it. Ironically, this carnage on the road means that beyond it there is a very healthy population of roos in that harsh land. They come to the road in the rain. we saw this today when a squall added wet to our spent bodies.

Little black and brown furry bodies appeared on the side of the road to lick the scarce water that collected on the road. As we approached, they would sit up on their tails and judge our threat level. Unfamiliar as we were, they would hop away. The cars and huge trucks that rumbled by would have to honk their horns, thus explaining the excessive amounts of road kill. In another sick twist of irony, excessive road kill then feeds the crows and the wedgetail eagles that live here.

The eagles eat so much that when approached by a car, they will often linger over the meat a bit too long. When they take off, their swollen stomachs keep them down for a few crucial seconds. This, no doubt, is what caused the demise of the eagle I saw on the road. I was dismayed to see such a creature in a broken state, yet at the same time, boyishly delighted at a chance to see it up close. It was brown, but trimmed in black and white, with a large head the size of a grapefruit and a huge curved beak. Its talons were nearly the size of my hand and were still covered with chunks of relatively fresh meat. Its eyes, once sharp, were now cloudy with death. I picked him up by both wings. He was heavy, nearly 15 lbs., and had a wingspan of at least six feet.

This road gives and takes life. Water bring roos, and dead roos bring birds. Death by car or truck instead of lack of water seems unnatural, but it fits this strange and brutal landscape.

Road trains bring the world to western Australia – boats, huge mining dump trucks, fiberglass pools and hot tubs, to mention just a few of the endless contents that sweep past us down the road.

Preparing to go straight.

2008-02-21T19:33:00.002-10:00

Feb 11

We’re at a kinda bush camp, actually a rest stop we are sharing with some surfers.

We are now on the 90 miles (miles not km) of dead straight road. There was a long, hard wind out of Balladonia. Anthony broke it, Tour de France style, all the way to help ease the strain on my knee. I hope to soon return the favor. We got a preview of the actual Nullabor plain at the old telegraph station ruin. Old stone and tin roof with skinny skeletons of dead telegraphy poles that still eagerly described the days not too long ago when this lonely stretch of road was even longer. Further on we stopped to stretch, and I looked straight up into the blue evening sky with a few wisps of clouds. Only a few rocks and scrub brush edged into my peripheral vision. There was a gated road, no doubt a cattle station, that was using an old 1950s gas refrigerator as a mailbox. Curious, I opened it to find an orange flag to hold out during the road train deliveries. There was also some baking soda. I assume it was to keep it fresh.

Dusk came with brilliant shades of powder blue, purple and neon yellow. The kangaroos became active, and a mob of ten or so jumped parallel to us for nearly 300 meters in what looked like a very unhurried stride of 20 kph.

Now we eat and sleep. Tomorrow we ride for 90 miles, 146.6 km, without turning the handlebars.

S 32.03.070 E122.58.203

2008-02-20T18:03:00.000-10:00

Feb 10th Ten till ten p.m.
Now

I lay beneath the Southern Cross. Mars is a brilliant red. Bugs hum. Dinner was rice and tuna. Anthony and I sit in our bush camp content and optimistic after nearly 125 km. We sleep in an open spot among young gum trees. My knee seems on the mend – knock on wood. Sleeping under the stars on a cool, clear night with no artificial light brings me delight in the brilliance of an unknown antipodal Milky Way.

Feb 11

I am at the Balladonia roadhouse. I am caked in sweat, dirt and sunscreen. To be frank, I love it. There is absolutely nothing more satisfying that earning your dirt. I could shower, but its $ 3.50 for ten minutes, and I think I can make it another day to the next one. For now though, I am loving the dirt.

"Now"

2008-02-20T02:45:00.000-10:00

Feb 10 Ten till 5 p.m.

I find a melancholic joy in submitting to the bush. We are roughly 100 km out of Norseman and are just about to get back on the road for another 30 or so km. We chose a well-shaded spot; something I expect to become more rare as we head east and the trees become shrubbier towards the plain. It is just off the road perhaps 20 yards. It is peaceful, as the traffic is light and does not disturb the birds. Bugs hum, and the gum leaves blow; we also hear an occasional squeak of bark on bark as the sinewy trees rub one another in the wind. The ground is either red dirt or twigs (dry eucalypti leaves still retain that distinct smell, albeit with some dust).

I lunched on canned white beans and Greek dolmathes, a heavy treat at nearly 1 lb. of weight between them. I was happy to carry it 100 km but no further. The highlight was the Damper bread Anthony cooked up on our stove - self-rising flour and water mixed into a dough and cooked till dark and hard on the outside and white and warm in the center. This was topped with honey.

I took a nap; Anthony read. The temperature is luxurious in the shade. The sun is still uncomfortably strong for any real action until 5:30 p.m. The ground is covered with tiny black ants delighted with the feast of crumbs we leave them. They are too small to be of any concern, and I feel like a Gulliver of some sort when I flick them off my feet. I boil up cowboy coffee instead of tea to wake me up. It tastes, as you might expect, great.

A norseman in Norseman.

2008-02-17T12:40:00.002-10:00

Feb 8-9

As it says on the stubby holders that they sell in the bar (foam beer holders), "wear the fox hat." Say that fast and you might get an idea of where this is. Norseman got its name for the following reason: the Prospector that first found a bit of gold here did so through his horse, Norseman. Norseman pawed the ground one night and woke up lame with a large chunk of gold-bearing quartz in his hoof. Over 100 years later, they are still producing gold in the town named in his honor. Today the gold is a little harder to get to, as the mine shafts reach roughly three km below the surface of the town's lovely pub. The streets here are remarkably wide; it first looks like a fair bit of foresight in a town that has road trains pass through it on a daily basis, however, it was the camel trains that serviced the town until the 1940s that needed the extra room. The population has evened out through the booms and busts to about 1100 – enough to keep the old pub busy on the Friday and Saturday night we were there.

My knee hurt, and I needed a day, so this trumped the need to move. We stayed at Lodge 101 – a small yellow house with green trim. Toilet, showers, rooms and kitchens were all separate rooms with doors out to a small verandah and courtyard. The yellow walls were panted and decorated with what looked like African masks, and over them were grapes growing that gave the place a warm and inviting feel. This was enhanced by our lovely host and hostess, Allen and Eileen. They are an older couple originally from England who have been running the hostel for ten years. Again, as with the proprietors at the Esperance guesthouse, I felt far more like a family friend than a weary traveler. We joined Allen and his mate, Jim, at the pub for what I consider one of the top 5 burgers I have ever had.

Leaving Esperance.

2008-02-16T15:37:00.002-10:00

Feb. 7

For whatever reason I was much more confident leaving Esperance. Things just seemed to go smoother. Better weather and out the door. However 7 days of not that much activity had taken down the old fitness and its toll on the knee, and by the time we got to Salmon Gums, I was hurting pretty bad. Fortunately we found a cool spot in the Hotel/motel/pub/bank and icehouse to stay out of the heat. (More so it’s the sun, not the heat, that’s unbearable after noon). Water consumption jumps up about three times after noon. It’s funny how expectations can be smashed . Anthony and I had expected an uneventful ride from Esperance to Salmon Gums (so called for the color of the bark). Once in the pub, I iced my knee, and we had a beer and some burgers. Built in 1926, the pub was one thick floor; it was meant to have two, but the girls behind the bar said the builders probably got too drunk after the first floor was built and could provide the farms with a drinking establishment that they didn't go on to the second. There was a pet kangaroo named Lele and a bar dog named Charlie who was shaved into a buzz cut except for his head making him look rather ridiculous. Both animals seemed quite happy with their station in life in the shade of the bar. In the four hours we spent there, it seemed that one person at a time came in and left. All exchanged stories and shook their head in, not so much wonder, but "tank god it’s not me." Farmers, fertilizer salesmen and sheep shearers fresh from the shed came here to grab a case of beer that had been cooling all day for them. Charlie, not hte dog, but the regular, has emphysema, and his wife drops him off with the oxygen and leaves him for an hour. Five glasses of ice wine later, he is no worse the wear and no doubt a little happier. I am troubled with my knee and suspect we will have to rest in Norseman.

Pieces parts.

2008-02-15T18:27:00.001-10:00

Feb 6.

Anthony’s part came today, and we should be on the road tomorrow as planned. However, we took advantage of the extra day and took a boat ride to Woody Island 14 km offshore. On the way, we stopped at the various granite islands – huge lumps of igneous rock made smooth through the weather. There are very few trees, and what do exist are all windblown to a small size. There are huge sea lions and seals that bask among the rocks. Geese flock around them, as well as a few feral goats left over from the pervious century. Most impressive were the two very territorial sea eagles that jump from island to island feeding on birds and fish. It was one of these that made a spectacular crash off the port bow of our catamaran as it dove for a fish.

Once on the island, we enjoyed some tea and finished with a glass-bottom boat ride. There were lots of yellow flowery cold water coral and a host of fish and sea grass. It has been a good use of what could have been some very frustrating days. I now feel fully rested and am certain we will be on the road tomorrow.

Surfboat adventures.

2008-02-13T18:12:00.000-10:00

Feb 5th

If you have looked around my website, you may have found I have a certain attraction to boats moved by oars. Claire, our angel that took Anthony back into town two days ago, suggested we take a look at the local surfboat club where her oldest son, Tom, is a first year rower. As Anthony and I are both rowers, we were pretty keen to do so. It wasn’t like we had any pressing plans other than a gin and tonic later that night.
These surfboats are 26 feet long, open and crewed by four plus a cox, who steers the boat using a long wooden scull as a tiller. The boats were traditionally part of the Surf Life Saving clubs (Australia’s life guards). In the past, it was these boats that would crash through the breakers to rescue swimmers. With the invention of outboard motors, these boats would have become obsolete if it were not for the spectacular exercise and completion they foster. No Surf Life Saving club is complete with out a surfboat team.

Around 5:30 in the evening, we strolled to the beach to a crowd of three boats and a mix of twenty girls, boys and coaches. The boats are a sporty version of a very classic shape of rowboat. Each rower is given one symmetrical sweep blade, or Macon blade, that is much longer and far more stout than traditional flat water boats. There was a mix of carbon and wood oars as the completion the previous weekend had provided big enough surf (hence the name) to tumble the boat end-over-end causing some breakage, but fortunately not any arms or legs. Unlike flat water boats, the seats are staggered from side to side, instead of one behind the other, making use of the boat’s large and more stable platform. I am always interested in the customs of different rowing cultures, so similar in the discipline and demand of teamwork. In this case, what stood out was the star in which they laid out their oars while prepping the boat. The Sweep rudder, always made of wood and far more stout than the other oars, is laid down first perpendicular to the surf. Each succeeding oar is laid on top at varying angles making a ten-pointed star on the ground that keeps the handles out of the sand. The stroke used is a sliding seat stroke, however, no sliding seats are used; instead, a long smooth fiberglass seat is placed down. The expectation is that each rower will slide their rear over it. Because the lycra of the swimsuit will not slip as well, the custom is to wet the seat, give yourself a spectacular wedgie, dip your business end in the water, and on the command, jump into the boat together.

I was delighted when they asked Anthony and I to row. I was perhaps a little apprehensive about the wedgie, but it was certainly not the first time I had done near-naked rowing. Rowing a new type of boat is a delightful experience. It is such a simple device, and the combinations are always the same, just different ratios of each. This was a large upper-body stroke, unlike flat water which requires more leg. Again, the oars were the largest I have used, and I was told to look at my blade, a faux pas in flat water, but a requirement in a rowing sport where the water, even on a good day, is constantly changing. Still, form applies, and it is not the strength of the rower, but his applied strength through the water that makes a fast crew. It just felt right being in a boat again. I was somewhat worried of a nagging shoulder injury that had kept me out of the water in the fall, but was satisfied that I could still lay some strong strokes down. The roll of the waves and the hint of salt spray, fighting the breeze out to the ocean, and listening to the crash of the fiberglass and wood down the backs of the waves, all reintroduced me with rowing the ocean once again. With a quick turn, we were going with the waves and wind skating down the waves, small ones, roughly two to three feet, but it was still a rush to feel the boat pick up speed on the way down the face of the wave. In larger surf, a command will be given, and the oarsmen will let the oars flow over the tops of their heads to drag in the water and run to the back of the boat to lighten the bow and let the Cox steer down waves of up to three meters.

Remarkably your butt does not chafe, or mine didn’t in the half hour I got to row. It was a good row, and I hoped I acquitted myself reasonably well. The boats move wel; it would take some time to feel the set in such conditions. I am sad there are no surf boat clubs in Seattle. I was grateful for the row and was on a rush the whole way back to the hostel.

Esperance + 1

2008-02-12T18:34:00.000-10:00

Feb. 5th

So mates, where may I begin? Luck. I believe has several faces, and the luckiest amount us are the ones who have a flexible perspective. This was an emotion in demand after a relatively soft fall about 5 km out of town going up the one and only hill to Norseman. Anthony’s bike shuddered briefly, stopping him completely. I ran into his back wheel and fell in an inelegant heap to the side of the road. Despite a bruised ego, a quick look at the bike and rearranging of gear seemed to be the only setback. However, 30 seconds later it was clear that there was far more wrong. Further inspection revealed that Anthony’s front right fork was completely cracked. It was a carbon fork – strong, if not stronger than steel, but less resistant to impact which we believe might have happened on the plane ride over. Carbon forks are probably not the best for touring, and I had chosen a steel touring fork myself. However, Anthony had asked the same questions all over the bike shops in Sydney, and all had assured him that "Mate, she'll be right." Impact or perhaps an imperfection in the lay up of the carbon itself. Just luck. Either way this was a very uncommon bike injury and not one you plan for, take spares for, or can fix on the road.

This is where Lady Luck smiled on us. When carbon fiber fails, it fails with little warning and catastrophically – meaning that what has turned into about 48 hours of set back could have revealed itself further down the road and become a real trip killer. Fortunately, it revealed itself 5 km out of a lovely seaside town where the first car heading into town stopped with a quick raise of the old thumb. Inside was our Angel – Claire – taking her daughter to school; she also happened to have a bike rack in the back. She took a total stranger (Anthony; I rode back into town) back into town with all our gear to the Dempster Sporting Shop, one of two well equipped bike shops in about 1000 km. As it was early and there were no forks in stock. We had to wait until 10 a.m. to start calling. We took this opportunity to take Claire to coffee. We had a lovely chat about the virtues of Esperance, crop dusting (her and her husband’s job), the virtues of coffeehouses, some token American politics, and a little about rowing. We hunted down a fork by 11 a.m. and were having a lovely lunch at what has become our regular stop, "Cafe on the Rock" in which we have become the regulars. In a trip that forces you to find something new every day, it is nice to enjoy some consistency when you can take it.

Good food. Cold beer. A good bike shop. Pleasant accommodation. White beaches. Blue water. Not a bad place to spend a few unplanned days. Under the circumstances, it was as good as it can get, and frankly this is what a little adventure is all about. No one wants to hear about the trip in which every thing went by the book. Right?

On a more sober note, I shudder to think of how bad this could have been. We could have been 100 km from any town, and this is the kind of breakage that could have caused a much more serious human injury had we been going any faster.

Thus... it comes down to luck. We have some, and if it continues, we might just make it to Adelaide.

The Eve Before We Leave

2008-02-11T16:23:00.000-10:00

Feb 3rd, 10:30 pm

The rain beats white noise onto the tin roof. It’s muggy. My apprehension that was with me the night before I left Perth is back; I think in large part due to the heavy rain. My window is open, and my cotton sheets are damp – not that I mind the cool in this warmth. Thunder growls in the distance. Our bikes are mostly packed save the last checks that must wait till morning. The rain is forecast in Esperance and in Kalgoorlie-Boulder, 500 miles north of us. Norseman is 200 km north; this probably means we will see some rain tomorrow. Time will tell, and it will be what it will be. It’s strange that such brief respite from travel allows the rise of fears that were shed so quickly two weeks ago. I am sure they will leave just as soon as we head to the road tomorrow.

Preparations

2008-02-09T19:42:00.000-10:00

Feb 3

Esperance, Western Australia

I feel well prepared for this next and hardest part of the trip. However, I am very sad to leave such a good place with such good people. That is just the way when you travel. Each moment tends to be fleeting, so you take notice when it happens to you. Anthony and I treated ourselves to an easy ride to the beaches and a swim in this amazingly clear water. The wind was down, the sun was up, and it’s easy to feel clean and free on the beach. The water was cold and refreshing, something we’re going to miss very quickly very soon. Again, I am very glad for the company and eager, and a bit apprehensive, to see how this first short two-day run to Norseman will go. However, our bikes are ready, and our food packages have been sent ahead. Now we just go ride to meet them.

Anthony Arrives Today

2008-02-09T19:41:00.000-10:00

Feb 2

Anthony Arrives today

I am thankful for this company. Have I been lonely on this trip? Yes, I have, but I have not regretted a moment of it. It has been good to have this solitude to contemplate, when I am overwhelmed by the want for human company, it usually finds me. When it does not, there is always work to turn to. Writing, cleaning, maintaining, and of course more miles on the bike. However, I will be very happy to share the next part of the adventure with someone else. The lows will not be so low, and the highs inevitably different. Different, but just as good. Conversation, consistent conversation of a shared experience, will be good. I have known Anthony for almost three years now. We both coached rowing at LWRC for a summer. He is a rower, so I know I can trust him. This will be a great adventure.

I go for a quick spin.

2008-02-08T04:13:00.000-10:00

Feb. 1 - Esperance

There is a 40 km tourist drive around Esperance; it seemed a good idea to give my sore muscles a little workout to keep them loose and strong. It takes you past the front of town and to the top of the biggest hill for miles. From this lookout, the beaches appear white, blue and gorgeous. Yet, as I sweep down the hill on my bike, stopping 5 times along the way, I realize that words and pictures just will not do them justice. White sand with easy smooth shells on the feet, clear, clean water that darkens to turquoise close to the shore before turning into a deeper ocean blue. A fan of green salt shrubs holds the dunes together, and when viewed from the hill brings out the best of both the plants and the water. Large rocks of granite jut out into the sea, kissed long by the sea into sensually curved formations. I seemed to stop every 100 meters to take a picture. The bike trail was beautifully maintained, and it treated me to a roller-coaster of hills. This would be the place I would wish to be shipwrecked. On these deserted beaches, it was easy to imagine.

Crossroads to the World.

2008-02-06T19:23:00.000-10:00

Feb 1

I must admit that the ghosts of my last hostel experience are long gone after my three nights at the Esperance guesthouse. Really, it is more like a B & B, and it’s cheaper than the hostel in Perth. In the morning there is cereal and fresh baked bread with brewed (not instant) coffee. Perhaps I am just lucky this time, but the guesthouse seems to attract a wide range of people. There is an Argentine student, a Japanese abalone diver (he is fishing today and hopes to bring home fish for all), a young Swiss couple, a French Canadian couple from Saskatoon, the token Brit, an Austrian kite-boarder, a Kiwi photographer, a whale diver from Tonga, and of course a sprinkling of Aussies. Most important is the light and friendly atmosphere that fosters the camaraderie of travel that is shared by all. Inevitably I linger longer at breakfast and dinner when I should be resting or preparing, but I find it hard to tear myself away from the accented chatter and ideas from people all over the world. There is also a fresh fig tree close by, and they are delicious.

P.S. Readers, thank you very much for following me on the blog I am glad I can provide you with an update every day. As you have probably noticed I am a bit ahead of the blog and for good reason. The internet on the nullarbor will be quite spotty and I would still like to have a new update every day. I promis once I get to the other side I will put up the blogs a little quicker and get us all back on the same page timeline wise. Again, thanks for reading, i hope you enjoy my observations and pictures.

Always,
Jordan

The Esperance guest house.

2008-02-05T18:36:00.000-10:00

Jan 31st

No flies in the kitchen. It is open and bright. A few beers and two large pizzas came after a hot shower. I had not realized how the past few days taxed me. I was also pleased to find out that January has 31 days and not 30. I reckon the extra day will go a long way for preparation. My fellow lodgers were kind and curious, and I regretted that I did not have the energy to stay up and talk.

The afternoon to Esperance.

2008-02-05T07:41:00.000-10:00

January 30th

Nature in every way is unbeatable. With hard work and technology, we can fight it or work with it. Yet what it comes down to is that nature holds more power than any one human or any one civilization full of humans. I left Munglinup with the intention of fighting nature. The head wind was 15 to 25, the hills were long, and the rain stinging, but intermittent. I was only cold if I stopped moving.

Twenty minutes into the ride, I was reminded of nature’s power; not through some profound event or realization, but by the steady work of my legs that reminded me I needed to accept the weather, submit to it and work with it.

The road however was manmade and rose up to meet me with its challenge. The only thing I was going to beat to get to Esperance was myself. So it was on to my work. When the wind blew, I peddled slower. When it rained, I zipped my jacket. In another 45 km, I sat down behind a tree for lunch and used it as a windbreak. I wanted to sustain the energy I had. The flame of the stove whipped with the wind, and the road trains pummeled past - somewhat more terrifying when viewed from the side of the road and not on it.

60 km seemed like a hop, skip and a jump, but I still committed to resting and stretching every 20 km to keep from stiffening up.

With the rain, I had rolled around the idea of where I should sleep for the last 40 km – hotel, motel, hostel or bush camp? Each held its own appeal. I decided that if it stopped raining and I found a beach, I would bush camp. "No" on both counts, and I was grateful that my first call to the Esperance guest house was successful.

The facial hair gets serious.

2008-02-04T15:59:00.000-10:00

Munglinup Road House. January 30th 10:55 am

Breezed through Ravensthorpe, road train country; more on that later. I pushed a hard 20 km that afternoon into an east wind towards Munglinup. Still clouds. A very shallow bush camp. Gray skies passed me and the wizened looking fingers that stood in for trees on this bushy plain. I pulled my jacket out. It was getting surprisingly cold. I made another fine meal and cleaned up. To my slight dismay, a spattering of raindrops began to appear. They were of the fine consistency that could increase or stay light all night. I hoped for the latter.

I was pleased to find out my bivy sack and tarp worked exactly as I imagined. They kept me warm, but were a bit stuffy. Tonight the ground was hard. There were no leaves to add to my pad’s light cushion.

I woke at five again, then slept in till six. I had the unclean feeling that lifts with the light that reveals world and purpose.

I broke camp.

60 km to Munglinup, and I was in no mood to stop. The rain picked up as did the wind, and then the hills. This 60 km was hard fought, and it was not with a little relief that I pulled into the roadhouse. I ate a ham and cheese sandwich, half a quart of milk, a cappuccino, and a bacon and egg burger with a beet.

Fueled up and this being the last stop till Esperance, I thought about what I could do to make this 110 km more comfortable. Perhaps a shower, a change of spandex? This idea had some merit. I also decided to do a little beard maintenance. There is nothing like a shave to make one feel renewed. In the shower, which had most of the cast of "A Bug’s Life" showering with me, I decided that if I was going to beat this next 110 km of road, hills and wind, I better look the part. Only the chin was going. The beard would stay. I left sideburn to the corner of my mouth, up over the top of my lip and mirrored on the other side. This seemed appropriate. The road had no idea of the fury I was going to bring it. Water fun. Sunscreen was optimistically on and the beat of "Jessie’s Girl" rocking in my ears from the road house as I got back to the road.

My neighbors for the evening.

2008-02-03T13:29:00.000-10:00

Jan 28th - evening.

In addition to the kangaroo, which I am watching right now, there is a lovely, old, and both somewhat scantily clad in green, German couple cavorting with it. Incidentally, the same German lady generously brought me an apple, a kiwi and a cup of coffee as I awoke from my nap this afternoon. I would like to have thought it was my rugged Scandinavian good looks that motivated her to do this kindness, but after watching her affection with the kangaroo, it’s quite clear she just has sympathy for hairy, rangy animals.

This little roo knows a good thing when he sees it. I know they are a dime a dozen out here, but they are truly remarkable animals. Their thigh bones are nearly as long as mine, and it is incredible to see the ease and distance that they hop.

My other neighbor was Peter from Sweden. He had just finished cycling the Nullarbor. From his description, he carries roughly a third of what I carry. This increases his dependence on roadhouses and civilization. While I carry more and for the most part ride from one inhabited area to another, I can choose not to. Also, Peter does not drink a lot of water – sometimes 5 liters over a 200 km distance. I don’t really want to increase my risk that much. I would rather my bike resemble a dromedary than a faster equine, considering that there are wild camels on the Nullabor, but no wild mustangs.

Peter definitely travels faster than I do, and his skin is tanned to a reddish brown. Luckily, I have avoided this so far and believe I have just got a healthy glow. Different customs, I guess.

What Australia Day means to me.

2008-02-02T19:30:00.000-10:00

January 28th afternoon.

Today was Australia Day weekend. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but I feel like it is a mixture of our July 4th and Columbus day. The pomp, patriotism, flag-waving, and fireworks of independence day and the controversy, as with Columbus day, of the choice of first peoples and the descended of the first whites to arrive, to view this as a day of discovery and settlement, or as an invasion and the end of a way of life.

My uninformed guesswork aside, Australia Day, and the days leading up to it, meant the whipping of the Southern Cross and the Union Jack on most cars heading out (and back) from the long weekend. The same flag was draped over every fourth person in Albany, where I was that Saturday, the actual holiday.

Now that Australia Day is over, I am still feeling the aftereffects and its not a dull headache that I imagine many enthusiastic Australians have. No, as Australia Day was Saturday, it mean that Monday, today, the 28th was the public holiday. This means that only the roadhouse and, fortunately, the caravan park are open.

When arranging my patch of grass for the night, the Proprietress gave me a hard look and said,
"We have a tame kangaroo in the park. He won’t hurt ya; just shoo him away if he comes around."

I hoped I would have to.