I have returned triumphant, relatively in one piece and rather soggily from the very top of the Australian continent! I've tried to keep this update brief although it's still pretty damn long. I'll post as many pictures as I can, as apparently each one of those is worth at least 1000 words. So I can cheat and pretend I've got a massive word count.
Heading north from Cairns with new tyres front and rear, I stuck close to the coast up to the Daintree National Park and Cape Tribulation, in the heart of the 'wet tropics'. Who would've thought that with a name like that, it would actually be bloody wet?! Spent two nights camping at Cape Tribulation waiting for the rain to stop, as my route north would be impassable in the wet. (Due to lots of mud and hefty inclines)
Heading north from Cairns with new tyres front and rear, I stuck close to the coast up to the Daintree National Park and Cape Tribulation, in the heart of the 'wet tropics'. Who would've thought that with a name like that, it would actually be bloody wet?! Spent two nights camping at Cape Tribulation waiting for the rain to stop, as my route north would be impassable in the wet. (Due to lots of mud and hefty inclines)
With the rain finally letting up it was north along the 'Bloomfield Track' to Cooktown, past the Black Mountain National Park, and then west along 'Battle Camp Road' (a 4wd track) to join the Peninsula Development Road. 'Road' is a term which is open to much debate; the route was mainly sand, gravel, mud and some very large potholes. One of which, just outside the Archer River Roadhouse, I didn't spot in time to slow down or avoid. Cue a suspension testing, bone rattling, arse numbing descent into said pothole. Luckily, no damage done (or so I thought)
Rolling to a stop outside the fuel pumps I noticed quite a lot of oil dripping into the dust under fuel tank. Now I usually like my oil on the INSIDE of my motorcycle, so I was somewhat concerned at this development. Turned out the shock of the impact had cracked the frame just in front of the fuel tank, causing the oil (which is kept, normally, inside the frame) to leak at an alarming rate. Cue a large number of words not really repeatable in polite company, and a quick trip to the roadhouse workshop and a date with a welder. Of course the day was not quite done dishing out a beating. The welder managed to crack one of the fuel lines; so instead of oil leaking everywhere I was now faced with a fuel leak. Managed to fix it all together again though with the use of some 'quiksteel' and a few cable ties. (the motorcycle riders wonder-gadget) So I was now all set to get back on the track.
Just glancing down at the km reading for that part of the trip, and I kid you not, the readout was 066 6 as I rolled into the roadhouse. Signs of satanic influence? Who can say? Me, I can reasonably imagine the staff of the roadhouse out with shovels in the dead of night, deepening the pothole some more.
Headed north the next day to Bramwell Junction, where after hearing a few motorcycle riding horror stories from the proprietor (why do people think you want to hear that stuff?), I started up the infamous Telegraph Track. Now unless you've actually seen the track, or been along it yourself, it will be impossible for you to get an accurate impression of what it was like. Hopefully some of the pictures will help, but basically just think of the worst sort of surface imaginable, drop a few bombs on it, flood it, add liberal buckets of thick mud, fell some trees across it and crack the route into an intricate network of bike swallowing crevices; and you may have a close approximation.
In short, worst sort of road to ride along imaginable, and therefore quite a lot of fun! Took a lot of concentrating, and was pretty much soaked through for the entire trip, as there are many, many creeks and rivers to cross.
Came off on one creek crossing after hitting a submerged log. Of course motorcycles don't really like lying down in thigh-deep water that much, so this caused a few problems. Wouldn't start in the water, so I had to get it to the opposite bank somehow. Unfortunately the bottom of the crossing was sand and mud, which refused to relinquish it's grip on the wheels. So the only option for getting to dry land was to lay the bike down in the water, and haul it forcibly round, first by the rear wheel, then the front, then the rear, ad infinitum.
Once on some relatively firmer soil, but still in the water, I still had to push to the opposite bank. Words cannot describe how completely knackered I was at this point, as a water-soaked 180kg motorcycle is not the easiest object to manhandle through mud, sand and deep water. Luckily for me, just as I was about to commence pushing again, the support team rolled up!
I say support team, but it was in fact a group of two families I had met a few hours back along the track in their two 4x4s. Steve, Kerryn and Ashleigh, Robyn, Barry, Leanne and a little later also joined by Manny and Veronica. With a hand from this lot I was soon reunited with terra-firma, and could begin the task of getting all the water back on the outside of Gosling 1, and getting the engine back into working order.
Long story short, it took about four and a half hours of draining water, spraying WD40 over almost everything, and push starting up and down a small hill. The latter task was uncomplainingly undertaken by my new friends, for which I shall be ever grateful. It surely would have been an even longer and more odious task, had I been forced to do it alone.
Luckily for me, the bike finally fired back into life, albeit sounding a little unwell, and with cappuchino coloured engine oil (never a good sign).
Nolans Brook would be the final barrier before a turnoff onto a bypass road to join the ferry to cross the Jardine River. Unfortunately by the time I set off again, with the now officially official support team following a few KM behind, it had started to really belt it down with rain. I don't mean a light drizzle either, I mean headache inducing sized drops of rain and lots of 'em. This had the combined effects of a) making it very hard to see, and b) turning the track into thick sloppy mud.
A precarious 30mins or so had me finally arriving at Nolans Brook, a very picturesque and rather annoyingly waist deep, wide 'brook'. According to the map there was an alternate log 'bridge', not recommended for heavy vehicles, and a quick glance around showed what I thought to be the ruins of said bridge, lying in the brook. So the only option for crossing was to push across the water with the engine off, as it was definitely too deep for riding.
Between the support crew and myself we managed to get safely across to the other side, although this second drenching had the effect of stopping the bike from starting on the other side. I decided to set up camp for the night, try and let Gosling 1 dry out a bit and then attempt to carry on in the morning. Bidding my new friends farewell (with the promise that they would check back in a day to make sure I had made it out), I set up camp, and they continued up along the track. Of course it was at this point that I spotted the fecking bridge! It had been hidden from the opposite bank by a fallen tree, har bloody har mother nature.
The rain continued to pelt down, with me collecting the water for drinking and at the same time trying to keep the bike dry. Perhaps half an hour after leaving, I spotted headlights coming towards my camp from the direction that the support crew had left in, lo and behold they had returned! Apparently a few km up the track, the track had pretty much disappeared, now being closer to an ocean than a track. So, not being able to get through they had resolved to return and set up camp for the night with me. By this point we had also been joined by another couple (busy day on the track this!), Ronaldo and Sue. So we had a very cosy night in a rather cramped and damp campsite.
I have to admit, that for all the misfortune of the day, it worked out very well in the end; and I ended up meeting some great people and even spending more time with them once we reached the 'tip'. An 'up' side to every 'down' and all that.
The next day the track had dried out sufficiently for us to continue on, and it was the work of about 45mins to get off the Telegraph Track and up to the Jardine River Ferry.
Spent a few days recuperating, drying out and generally enjoying the company of my new chums. Definitely worth the trip up, met some great people, and now know how to re-start a completely sodden Yamaha XT. Although with any luck, I shan't need to use that knowledge again any time soon.
Thanks again to the 'support team' and all the new friends I made along the route up to the 'tip'.
See you later!
Oh yes, I managed to get the whole 'falling off in the water' incident on video, so as soon as I have time and a decent internet connection, I shall upload it for all the world to chuckle at.
For now, more pics!
Desperate measures to combat the fly menace
