A THOUSAND UP A THOUSAND DOWN

 Listening to CAPE YORKE PENNINSULAR John Williamson 2002

OK,  if you must, find it on Spotify and wack it on. Hmm OK

Listen to the words while trying to avoid joining a conga line!

Not exactly a musical milestone but erm, it does have a xylophone....

A thousand up

a thousand down

I've ridden to the tip

 north of Bamaga town

conquered dust corrugations heat and sand

just to stand at the top

of great southern land

Dean

Corrugations, you made it!

It's late afternoon and I'm heading south east with my shadow hovering before me and the sun warming my back. The DR vibes away contentedly below at 95k's carrying it's newly acquired war paint of red dust and mud with pride. We buzz through a huge green wonderland of ridges and escarpments ever fading into a distant warm golden haze from the setting sun. I'm  between Lakeland and Mount Molloy with the tip of Cape Yorke now eight hundred K's behind me, done finished sorted. 

Am I glad I did it....Oh Yeh! 

Would I do it again...No Way!

                                            Fear Facing

Easy...don't fall off!

Back in 2014 on my first big trip I had a particularly nasty accident on a back road in Russia near the Caspian Sea. I hit a patch of sand while hurrying to keep up with a taxi showing us the way. I cartwheeled the bike slamming me into the road and injuring me pretty badly. Luckily my mate Ron was there and I scraped myself together and rode another two hundred K's to Astrakhan where I patched myself up. It was a long time ago but the surprise, severity, and consequences  of the crash is forever locked into my DNA...sand and corrugations will always bother me.

Going up.

It's 7.30 and the Cairns morning drizzle has turned to rain. I sit outside my park unit fully kitted up hoping the rain might stop. For !@#$s sake the forecast said it's gonna be fine. OK let's do it. It's almost exactly a thousands K's to the tip, I'm ready. I nervously thumb the start button and head out into the rain. The road to Mareeba winds through the rainforest and as I teeter through the slippery curves the rain just buckets down. I've forgotten to put my earplugs in, my jacket leaks straight away, and I'm caught in busy traffic. I pass through Mareeba and stop by a park on the outskirts to put some earplugs in. My pockets have leaked and the earplugs are all wet and ruined and my wallet's wet as well...

aaaah !!@#z do I really need to be doing this? 

I sit forlornly on a wet park bench thinking this is all stupid, what am I doing. 

Aaaaah !@@#$ it, I'm going to the tip. 

Bye bye bitumen I gonna miss you!

My goal today is the town of Coen about five hundred and fifty kilometres north which to be honest, is a little optimistic given the road conditions.  The rough roads should start after Laura about three hundred kilometres up. As I flog the DR along my trepidation grows every kilometre and I just want to get it done. I fuel up at Lakeland which is humming with adventurers in 4wds festooned with the latest suspensions and all manner of gadgets to tackle the roads ahead. I finally pass my first "gravel and drive to conditions sign' and fly into the red dusty corrugated tunnel that goes all the way go the tip. It's immediately ultra 

Still lots of water crossings.

loose and corrugated and I steadily feel out the bike's reactions while my guts turns into a knot. The DR steps up and sails over the corrugations and seems to say "Hey Deano I've got this!" The wide road winds back and forth through the low bush constantly changing from deep red corrugations to soft white sand  always heavy with red dust. There are numerous shallow water crossings often severely potholed from wet vehicles accelerating up out of the dip. The corners are a corrugated nightmare with sand built up on the outside of corners and corrugated holes on the inside. I run off the road several times

Cmon then, cover me in dust.

hitting deep sand and every oncoming vehicle completely blinds me and covers me in layers of red dust and flying stones. My stomach is a mess and my brain keeps sending surely this can't go on forever signals. There are a couple of kilometres of bitumen every fifty or so kilometres and they are a god send (I don't believe in god but this was the day to give me a sign!). I finally get into Coen late afternoon and pull up outside the pub. I get off the bike and stagger backwards onto the pub fence...oh dear...I'm totally knackered...but, I'm here. Stage one tick!

                                                       

                                                        Target fixation

The campground at Coen.

I camp that night behind the pub next to a tour group of bicycle riders riding to the cape. They all want to swap their bicycle for my bike but look confused when I agree...c'mon let's do this, gimme your treddly! That night the guy in the tent next to mine snores so loudly I put my earplugs back in and then I sleep in a bit thinking how quiet it is! It's getting pretty humid as I go north and I sweat my ass off packing up and waiting for fuel. Urgh...OK let's do it again. I'm headed to Bramwell Junction about two thirty  kilometres up the track and not looking forward to the ride. The road straightens a little for a while though and the corrugations ride a little easier. The DR and I begin to gel and bomb the corrugations and skim over the sand. There is no scenery, just a long dust filled tunnel lined with sad vegetation coated with whatever colour the adjacent road surface is. I pull into the servo at Bramwell Junction at about twelve thirty with new found confidence and park up next to a couple of other bikes in the carpark. I meet a couple of fellow travellers heading to the tip, Dave and Ian and we team up. 

In the carpark at Bramwell Junction.

Red road red dust red bike red trees red red red...

Dave is sixty one and Ian is...seventy one...say what...seventy one...!@#$ I gotta stop whinging...this man is a freak and I am humbled. 

The guys are pushing on to Bamaga after lunch and as I'm the junior in the group I'd better

tag along with no excuses. Straight away the road turns to crap and convoys of vehicles coming down the track in the afternoon constantly pummel us with dust and stones. As we approach the Jardine ferry the corrugations turn seriously evil. The poor DR becomes a two wheeled jackhammer smashing into deep wide corrugations for which there is no safe speed to cross. Aaaaaaaaargh...the vibration and mechanical noise is jarringly intense as the road puts metallurgy and engineering to the test and I curse everything and everyone who ever built, repaired, worked on, or even thought about this road...ever. We finally reach the Jardine ferry abut forty K's from Bamaga, pay our forty buck return ticket, and zoom on. I dismount on the ferry to get some pics aaaaand the DR falls over...oh great...hmm...I'm already buggered, we've probably got one good back between all of us, and we have to get the DR up and get off the ferry. We get her up and limp the last dusty kilometres into Bamaga, tired filthy and hungry. There's not much in Bamaga so we carry on to Seisia Caravan Park, put up our tents and attempt to clean ourselves up. 

We're about thirty five K's from the tip, we're gonna get that photo tomorrow......and we earnt it!

Ian boarding the Jardine River ferry.

In the busy Siesia campground.

Beautiful beach at Siesia, just for looking...no swimming!

What a lovely place to get eaten!

Mates on the road.

The caravan park is packed and humming with travellers. It has the most beautiful beach which, after being enclosed in a dust filled tunnel for the past eight hours, is hard to comprehend. Also hard to comprehend is no one is in the water...aaah crocodiles right...imagine living here and not being able to swim! The infrastructure up here seems to be struggling with the onslaught of a zillion Ozzies holidaying at home and hitting the road. That night the store in the park has some sort of maintenance or staff failure and we are unable to get any food at all...oh oh. We all chuck in and the boys get their stoves going. Dave cooks some rice, Ian breaks out some fish and coffee and I...erm...offer muesli bars from my extensive collection. The three of us gel instantly and with nearly two hundred years of living experience between us the 

stories flow freely.

I love this!

I'm yarning with Ian, who is an ex Vietnam vet, and Dave who drives trucks underground in a gold mine. Ian actually volunteered for the army in the sixties and served in the pioneers in Vietnam doing hair raising things in tunnels and building bridges and stuff. He has also travelled around and all over Australia in cars and on bikes and is a wealth of information. He's now a proper grey nomad chasing the sun between Victoria and Queensland. Dave has travelled extensively all over the world and drives ore trucks deep underground in a mine. Half way through the night he casually mentions he owns an original Vincent Black Shadow...aaarm say that again...the holy grail of classic motorbikes and you have one in your shed...oh yes had it thirty years or so, all original, always try to ride it when I'm home!

 Hmm, can't top that!

What could have been a shit dusty ride just to tick a silly box became a warm social event with lots of laughs and camaraderie,

 thanks lads.

                                                      Tip this.

Done sorted!

We were warned the final forty odd K's to the tip were a bit of a challenge.  The road starts as the usual dusty mess but at about half way it winds into a single lane rainforest track that was actually pretty cool. There were several water crossing with only one deep one before the road finally ends in a bushy carpark at the beach. As the tide was out we took a short cut along the beach stomping along in our bike gear before climbing up over a rocky path along the most beautiful coastline. It's sweaty work and there are many people lining up to get their photo with the famous tip sign. There's a buzz of relief and excitement amongst the crowd as they await their turn at the sign. It's a genuine Aussie vibe with lots of kids and families lining up with their best smiles and poses. I'm not sure many overseas visitors would pay to get the shit shaken out of them for days, then stand on a bunch of slippery rocks, just to get a picture next to a sign! The scenery is truly breathtaking with York Island and Eborac Island nearby and the tip is truly a tip you can walk or climb around. That night we toast ourselves at the Bamaga pub and contemplate going back south in the morning...hmm.

Mates on the road. Ian and Dave.

Oh oh how deep is it?

Carpark at the tip, seriously hot and sweaty.

York Island with the tip just round the corner.

Beautiful shoreline round the tip.

Siesia to Archer River to Lakeland.

We're lined up at the Jardine river ferry waiting to cross and continue south. There's caravans of all sizes, 4wds,

Waiting for the Jardine River ferry.

vans. a bus and...a bloody semi. Oh oh. We finally get across and smash into the roughest part of the road. Ian lets me get ahead and after passing a caravan I come up behind the semi. The dust is mental and he is bloody slow. Every time I pull out to pass I'm met with headlights barreling at me through the dust. Aaaaargh.  I hang in for a while, get totally covered with dust and give up. Too dangerous, not possible I'm gonna wait for a while. Ian carries on (legend!) while Dave and I hang back a while before starting again. I

Aah gotta get a pic. Pull up, run across the road,
take my picture Dave, cheers Mate.

 come up behind a fairly quick bus just as it begins to rain. The dust the bus is shoveling all over me mixes with the rain and suddenly turns to red mud...aaaargh..I rip up my visor but the bus just continues throwing red slimy crap into my helmet aaaaah I can't see. I wipe my glasses to find I'm suddenly bombing into a water crossing and almost up the buses ass. Shit! I gun it around the bus as it struggles out of the ford and get away. I'm free for a minute or so before I catch the up to the bloody semi again. 

For !@#$% sake they look faster on Outback Truckers!

 I attack the tail of the semi and finally slip up his inside at some roadworks which was...erm kinda silly. Woo hoo freedom! I finally get on the throttle and attack the corrugations at a safe speed when...what...!@#$ no...I'm up the ass of yet another !@#$ semi,

...aaaaaaaah not again!

Many 4wd folks head into the old Telegraph track
to test their vehicles and driving skills. Many fail!
Their were numerous damaged vehicles being 
repaired roadside and in the parks.

That night we stay at the Archer River Roadhouse which is super busy with multiple cars

This is what happens when you let
trucks and buses put your makeup on
...to much foundation?

and motorbikes all tackling the road. It's a pleasant place with good food and alive with the buzz of adventure.  This road to the Cape is really getting hammered this year considering the season has only just started. The next day we smash out the rest of the road and I get way ahead of the other two due to some lucky breaks while passing slower vehicles. Near the end of the dirt, just past some fresh roadworks I spot a smooth path outside the white posts that looks like something the roadworkers have been using and think, that'll do, I'll pull over. I zoom off the corrugations and plow into ultra deep soft sand...oh no...I start to sink immediately and just manage to keep moving. I gun the crap out of the bike but the font sinks and digs in and we fall over in slow motion. Crap! My leg is caught under the saddlebag and I can't pull it out. Aaaargh. I try to kick the bike away with my other leg but I'm stuck under the bike on my back the facing the wrong way round. 

Hmm what to do....start digging Deano. 

Oops!

I scrape away at the sand under my leg and finally get free. The wheels of the bike are still in soft sand and there's no way to get it up. I can hardly stand up in the sand without going ass over head. A road worker rolls up and together we only just manage to get the bike upright with the sand fighting us all the way. I get her going and set off back on the road to find...I'm only two hundred metres from the end of all the dirt, well done Deano!

Listening to TRUE BLUE  John Williamson 1982

Couldn't let John Williamson be represented by

 the song at the top of this post. A true blue Aussie songwriter

with a vast catalogue of great songs. Try Raining on the Rock,

Wrinkles, or Cootamundra Wattle just for a change of pace. 

REALITY CHECK

I'm back in Cairns in the same caravan park, in the same unit, which is a little weird. I've just spent two whole days cleaning and fixing stuff from only five days on the road to the tip. There's a new air cleaner and a new rear tyre for Precious and she runs OK. I've washed everything I own including the bike to almost no avail...red dust still leaks out of everything. The red stains everything and seems to use any effort to remove it to increase its permanency, like some never dead zombie dye. Precious did a great job but she looks very secondhand. Her rear spring seems to have gone saggy and the shocker needs it's rebound cranking...if there's any left. Her third gear howls even louder than before but she's ready to go again. I'm back on track timewise to get to Darwin which is good. I've had to grow up and amend my plans a bit for remotest part of the Savannah Way though. Time to be smart and accept the facts...solo rider,  elderly bike with dodgy gearbox, remote area with loose roads and changing conditions, river crossings and high numbers of animals on the road, no satellite phone, no epirb or emergency tracking device, no phone reception and so on and so on...ah no hugey...I can still figure a route to Normanton and back down around Cloncurry and across to Darwin which looks OK. 

Hmm, onwards and westwards!

NEXT BLOG.

TIME TO HEAD WEST THROUGH THE BACK OF QUEENSLAND.

PLEASE BANG IN YOUR COMMENTS, IT'S KINDA WEIRD KNOCKING THIS STUFF OUT AND NOT KNOWING WHERE IT'S GOING

CHEERS DEAN

LAP UNDER THE SUN