the trip (up)

 

It is more than 3,000kms from Maroochydore to the tip of Cape York. Travelling such a large distance on a motorcycle that has a top speed of 75kmph is a challenge in itself, but the real test for The Lone Postie was navigating through the vast expanse of corrugated red dirt, dust holes, and creek crossing that lie between Cairns and the northern most tip of the Australian continent. The wilderness of the Cape York Peninsula is tough country and home to a myriad of spiders, snakes, and salt water crocodiles.

 

 

day one

Maroochydore to Gladstone (430 km)

I fashioned a hole in the briar of suburbia and squeezed through it, into the light, taking great care that not one thorn of responsibility snagged upon my freedom. Pronto darted north through the warm winter sunshine, and perched proudly upon his back, I revelled in the joy of infinite possibilities.

The trip to Gladstone was uneventful, save for a brief delay at a roadside grass fire at Gin Gin, and a chance encounter with a lovely young girl working at The Star Roadhouse at Miriam Vale. I paid for my fuel and handed Amy Newell a Lone Postie business card. We chatted briefly about the Cape Crusade and then, without hesitation, she gave me a ten-dollar note from her handbag. Thank you for your immediate generosity and for giving The Lone Postie his very first cash donation.

 

 

day two

Gladstone to Kalarka (312km)

I camped rough last night in dry and rocky scrub somewhere between Rockhampton and Clairview. I simply ran out of daylight. As darkness fell I was overcome with a sense of urgency to make it to the next town, but what may be done when riding upon a motorcycle with a top speed of 75km/h.

Although the sequence with which I carry out the tasks required to make camp needs refinement, it would seem that my equipment is fit for purpose. Last night I prepared a feast of spaghetti bolognaise followed by dried fruit and a cup of tea for afters.

This bright clear dawn I sit, pen in hand, sipping a warm brew from my beloved stainless steel mug. I am entirely satisfied by the magnificence of the big old flooded gum that frames my breakfast vista. I trust it cares little for the matters of man. I met a North Queensland cattleman yesterday. Mr Olive gave me some good practical advice and a cheque for fifty dollars. Thank you for your generous donation and genuine interest in The Cape Crusade.

 

 

 

 

 

day three

Kalarka to Airlie Beach (278km)

The ride past Mackay was exhausting. I had to cut my way through both a howling crosswind and the palpable earnestness of those working in coal or cane.

Pronto, looking rather splendid in his Cape York battle amour, is proving to be quite an attraction.

Fellow traveller: "My God, is that a postie bike. You must be insane."

The Lone Postie: "Not completely, I am on a charity ride to raise money for the children's ward at Nambour Hospital. Would you like to make a donation?"

Fellow traveller: "Er...umm...aahhh..."

The Lone Postie: "Would you like a Lone Postie business card? It includes a web address so that you can keep track of my adventures. They are right here in my pocket next to my receipt book."

Fellow traveller: "aaaahhhhhh....." (consults with wife)

I headed to Airlie with vague notions of a beer and a chat in a friendly pub. But after unpacking pronto, making camp, cooking dinner, and savouring my first shower in days, I was well and truly spent. A pair of ring-tailed possums rummaged around my little tent as I drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 

 

day Four

Airlie Beach to Ayr (187km)

Some twenty two years have past since I was last in Airlie. Back then it was a fun and friendly boat ramp town full of curious people and even more curious activities. I vaguely recall winning a beer skulling competition and then losing most of my spare cash on a mud crab race.

A good deal has changed. Airlie is now frenetic and full of its own self importance. And so are its denizens. The Great Barrier Reef tourism industry is hell bent upon killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.

I rode Pronto north and stopped in at Bowen to have lunch at a pub. After subjecting them to my increasingly well rehearsed Lone Postie introduction, a few of the patrons were kind enough to make donations. Upon returning to the spot where I had parked in the main street, I found a local gentleman subjecting Pronto to close examination.

Gentleman: "Is this a postie bike?"

The Lone Postie: "Yes. I am on a charity ride to raise money for the children's ward at Nambour hospital..." (and so on...)

On the road to Ayr I stopped for fuel. I had a rather amusing moment at the register. The large, grey bearded, and tattooed truckie in front of me handed over more than one thousand dollars for diesel. When my turn came to pay, I stepped up to the counter, did my best to look the roadhouse owner straight-in-the-eye, and then handed over $4.20 in loose change.

When I walked back out to the bowser, a fellow motorcyclist was busy taking photographs of Pronto. I extracted the requisite donation and he invited me to a rest area across the road to have a cup of his freshly stove-brewed coffee. He was an interesting bloke, making a return trip from Sydney to Cooktown on his brand new top-of-the-line bimmer. In his early fifties, he worked in aviation engineering for Qantas.

We talked freely of life and death, and of the importance of maintaining passion in one's life. As a parting gift, he gave me some shortbread, hand-made by his girl back home.

 

 

 

day Five

Parked up at Ayr (0km)

I am resting for a day in Ayr. This morning I changed the oil in Pronto, washed some clothes, and attended to a handful of other housekeeping chores. The camp ground here is peaceful, grassy, and home to several sprawling and stately fig trees. It is pleasant to linger hereabouts.

I am camped next to a kind lad out of Redcliffe. He is on his way back from the Cape and he gave me some sound advice for the Old Telegraph Road and a herring jig for my tackle box. I look on with envy at the comforts afforded to him by his truck - twin fridge freezers, a thick swag, house-sized kitchen facilities, and a kick arse stereo for cranking out AC/DC tunes along the highway.

I lay here in warm sunshine, on a lovely green patch of lawn beside my tent, wholly enjoying my rostered day off.

 

 

day six

Ayr to Murray Falls (237km)

An axiom of long distance motorcycle riding is that the body changes. Muscular tone in the arms and legs is lost, the posterior flattens, and the mind expands. Hypnotised by the harmonic drone of wind and motor, the rider hurtles towards his questions and, if lucky, along the road he is jolted, from time to time, by the arrival of an answer.

 

 

 

day seven

Parked up in Murray Falls (0km)

I lay atop a cool grey stone that arches, whale like, out of the tinkling waters of a clear and splendid creek. Dawn has just broken here at Murray Falls and I am visited, periodically, by kingfishers and other gifts from the bush. I am facing westward and, some ways off in the distance, an ancient crag arises from the blue-green canopy of the Atherton escarpment to yawn and stretch in the warmth of morning light. Thoreau once warned that civilisation will kill a man. As I lay here, completely overwhelmed by the beauty of my surroundings, I can do little but concur. Rise early kind reader! There is hope, strength, and courage in those first precious moments of the day. Rise early kind reader and, whenever possible, spend your day in the company of nature.

In the evening, I was invited to dinner by Mr and Mrs Hodge. They had prepared a roast out here in the bush in their beloved Cobb oven. I sat at their table, beside a roaring campfire, and was served a fine restaurant quality dish of roast beef, baked and steamed vegetables, and lashings of gravy. The North Queensland stars blazed brightly overhead and, a little ways off in the darkness, the falls continued with its timeless rumblings. What a splendid evening.

 

 

 

 

day eight

Murray Falls to Yungaburra (172km)

I awoke this morning with a nosebleed. There was a pool of blood on the tent floor and my hands looked like I had just dressed a rabbit. I cleaned my bedding and myself and then broke camp. When I started Pronto, he had a random noise coming from somewhere around the cylinder head. It would seem that we both have developed intermittent faults.

I pulled into Tully for breakfast. Upon entering the five-star supermarket and briefly explaining The Cape Crusade, I was set upon by its elderly Greek owner, Mr Villianous. He showered me with generosity, a free apple, orange juice, cup of tea and, two toasted salami sandwiches. He also took great care to ensure that I carry one of his onions on my journey, advising me in detail of the apparent medicinal qualities.

We chatted briefly over my unexpectedly lavish breakfast and he showed me some ragged old photographs of him carrying the Olympic torch through the Tully district in 1956. Back then, Mr Villianous was lithe and tanned from cutting cane. With steely blue eyes and a shock of blonde hair, other girls must have thought Mrs Villianous had made quite a catch. History has proved them correct. Her husband is a quintessential example of the shrewd and hardworking immigrants that played an immense and yet often uncredited role in making Australia what it is today. It was an honour to have met him.

 

 

 

 

day nine

Yungaburra to Palm Cove (172km)

Yungaburra was a hospitable little town and I should give a special thank you to the Husband and Wife owners of the Pitt Stop service station. Former crayfishing operators from Thursday Island, they went to great lengths to get me hooked up to the internet, and made a fifty dollar donation - great people.

Many had warned me to avoid the Gillies Highway that wriggles down the hill to Cairns. I had a pleasant morning however, carefully negotiating the many sharp bends on my little red bike. The views through the rainforest canopy down to the coast were spectacular. I pulled off the road in one spot to have a brief rest and to chat with a scruffy old white horse that was sunning himself in a nearby clearing.

He looked rather surly and prompted me to recall the observations once made to me by Alan Burge, a farmer, my uncle, and the man who first taught me to ride a motorbike:

"Motorbikes are safer than horses. If you fall off a bike it is your own bloody fault."

As a boy, I worked for Alan in the school holidays picking carrots, turnips, and the other crops he grew on his property at Singleton. A wonderful man and male role model, Alan also gave me my very first bike - a beat up old Honda 90 step through that ran second-hand tractor differential oil in its crankcase. I used to thrash that old bike up and down the carrot rows like it was stolen. And never wore a helmet.

Lost amongst the maddening peak hour traffic in the centre of Cairns, I pulled alongside a delivery truck driver to ask for directions. He kindly suggested that I follow him as he was driving past the road I wanted to find.

Cairns Honda is a vibrant business and after introducing myself to the owner, he swiftly delegated me on to Richard, his spare parts manager. Richard is a great bloke. He took care to help me select the right mix of dirt tires for Pronto (we settled upon a full motocross pattern for the front and a Kings 6 ply trials for the rear), made some very wise and valuable suggestions, and used up all of his lunch break helping me out on the tools.

Pronto's front mudguard had to be widened a little to accommodate the motocross tire. In the spirit of true bush mechanics, I insisted that we attended to the task at hand using a tomahawk that I have brought along on The Crusade. Richard held Pronto's forks steady as I bashed at the mudguard with my axe, much to the horror of Speedy, the shop mechanic.

In the afternoon, Sean Davey, a photographer for the Cairns Post, arrived to take some pictures. He was a affable young lad and we had a lot of fun doing the shoot. I let him ride Pronto and took some photographs that he will email back down to his friends and family in Habberfield. In addition to his job at The Post, Sean is doing some amazing freelance photo-documentary work up in Papua. Take a moment to have a look at:


www.pidgin.com.au
www.brokenbench.com.au
www.8milesettlement.com

I fled Cairns amidst the afternoon traffic and headed north to Palm Cove. I arrived totally exhausted and it was all I could do to pitch my tent. I passed out on my self-inflating mattress, without dinner, and still fully clothed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

days ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen

Parked up in Palm Cove (0km)

The camp ground here at Palm Cove is a gem. It is the only spot along this entire strip that has not been subjected to the five-star "brass and glass" treatment in order to cater (exclusively?) to high paying international guests.

I am thankful to the now deceased lady who, with much foresight and compassion, created this enduring tropical bastion of the proletariat by gifting her land to the local Shire Council upon the condition that it may only be used to provide budget accommodation.

I fear that in the not-too-distant future however, the same soul will have cause to turn in her grave when some rat-faced bureaucrat slithers around the philanthropic intentions embodied in her will to sign off on a lucrative redevelopment contract.

I have spent the last few days tinkering with Pronto, getting some more provisions (including a 100lb fishing line and some 9/0 hooks), and just having a good rest.

I have decided to take the Bloomfield track to Cooktown to give Pronto his first big off-road challenge. If he fails the test, at least I will still be within striking range of civilisation. If, as I suspect, there are no major problems on the dirt, we will be set to have a crack at the 1000 or so kms of rough tracks up to Cape York.

Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, I will ride north to Cape Tribulation. It has been more than twenty years since I was last there as a young tramp and it will be interesting to see how things have changed.

If you have followed my adventures to this point, I must now take a moment to remind you, kind reader, that I embarked upon The Cape Crusade to raise money for the Children's ward at Nambour General Hospital. If you have not yet made a donation, please give whatever you can to help the sick kids.

You can donate online by clicking on the "Yes I want to help the kids" link located at the top of this page. Alternatively, cheques or money orders should be made out to the Sunshine Coast Health Foundation and sent to:

 

The Lone Postie

Po Box 2610

Nambour West QLD 4560

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day fifteen

Palm Cove to Cape Tribulation (114km)

In my early twenties, I hitched up to Cape Tribulation and one of my fond memories is riding along in the back of someone's old ute, lounging back on my rolled up swag, and looking out over the azure blue waters, rocky coastline, and coconut palms. It was a clear and beautiful day back then and I recall thinking that life was good.

Today, more than two decades later, I find myself steering Pronto along the same coastal road. I reflect upon the many difficulties I have encountered in my adult life to date, breath in the warm air flooding through my helmet, and conclude that life is still good.

After catching the ferry across the Daintree river, I completed the pleasant little ride to Cape Tribulation amidst the shards of sunlight filtering through the rainforest. Tomorrow, I will attempt the Bloomfield track. I am not sure where I will be able to access the internet as I move into the more remote areas north from here. So sit tight kind reader, and I will provide you with my updates as soon as possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

day sixteen

Cape Tibulation to Bloomfield (49km)

Pronto went well making his first water crossing at Emmagen Creek. The ford was shallow but rather bumpy - a mere sponge bath for the bike, but waterlogged boots for me.

Getting over the Cowie Range however, was almost a showstopper. On the first attempt, Pronto petered out about one third of the way up. Too step, too much weight, and not enough horsepower. I made the dangerous turn around mid-climb on the narrow track, headed back down, and pulled off the road into the rainforest to reassess.

I was ill-prepared for this leg of The Crusade. Many had advised me how steep parts of the Bloomfield track are, but I assumed that traction would be the primary issue rather than Pronto's lack of ponies. I did penance for my naivety.

I unpacked Pronto and changed down to a fourteen tooth front sprocket. I was covered in grease by the end of the job and had to use dead leaves from the humus to clean my hands. I repacked the bike, roped up the load, and then had another crack at the hill. I rode up about half-way this time, and once again had to make the frightening u-turn to head back down. Back where I had started, I unpacked Pronto for the second time.

Two older women pulled up in a Landcruiser, thinking that the bike had given up the ghost. I explained my situation and they offered to drive my gear over the range so that I could attempt the steep climb without any load. I contemplated their generous offer for a moment and then declined it. I have claimed that I would endeavour to complete The Crusade without a support crew, and so I thought it better to remain true to my word.

On my third attempt at Cowie, I carried only my pannier loads, tent and mattress. I hid the remainder of my kit behind a log. I finally made the ascent...JUST. Towards the top I had to zig-zag across the track to keep Pronto from stalling. I travelled on a bit further to a flat spot on the road, unloaded the bike and hid the gear, rode back down the hill, recovered and reloaded the barrel bag and my tucker bag, then attempted the climb a fourth time. I made it up, recovered my gear from its secret spot in the forest, packed and roped up Pronto for the fifth time, and headed north.

The ride to Wobadda Creek was relatively easy but the water across the ford was thigh-deep. I idled for a few moments on the southern side of the crossing to let Pronto cool down. I then fitted the brass cap to my patented Postie Snorkel™ and rode with some trepidation into the water. I was very worried as the waters of the creek flooded up to just below Pronto's seat, but his tiny motor chugged away without missing a single beat.

ALL HAIL PRONTO!

The occupants of a seventy-thousand dollar Landcruiser greeted Pronto and I on the other side and I noticed them, to my amusement, looking at me like I was from outer-space. I rode along a saddle in the ranges that skirted the magnificent Bloomfield river. Night was approaching, so I ascended down to the water and made camp. Before dinner, I put together my fishing rod and clambered down through the riparian vegetation to cast a lure.

I was standing on the flat roots of a tree that juts out from the muddy bank when, a few feet out in the blackness of the evening water, a large turtle burst to the surface. Beneath the terrified creature a gigantic angry swirl evidenced the presence of some monstrous predator. The turtle lept desperately for its life twice more, then disappeared forever into the inky river. I fled back to the safety of my camp.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day seventeen

Bloomfield to Ayton and back (22km)

It would appear that the gallant efforts of the turtle last night, to avoid being dinner, were in vain. This morning I found one of his flippers strewn by the receding tide upon the mangrove below my camp. One need be careful when fishing in these parts.

What a tiny place the internet has made our world. I am in a very remote part of Australia and today I received an email from my good friend Peter. He is currently travelling through Italy with Hayley, his girlfriend. Peter has just proposed and Hayley has accepted. So here I sit, beside a river filled with giant saltwater crocodiles, looking at a PowerPoint slideshow of Pete and Hayley riding in a Gondola through the canals of Venice, while they, on the other side of this blue planet, are perusing The Lone Postie website to keep abreast of my adventures.

Technology is a wonderful mistress. But, mindful of the adumbrations of Alvin Toffler, we must ensure that it does not become our master.

I left my camp in place today and rode a little north to the Aboriginal settlement of Ayton. I did a spot of fishing along the way without success. It is an interesting area hereabouts and so I have decided that tomorrow I will again leave my tent where it is and complete an additional day of reconnaissance.

 

 

 

 

day eighteen

Bloomfield to Roaring Meg Falls and back (82km)

I had a dawn fish in the river, again without success. I stood (rather nervously) atop a rock jutting up near the edge of the water. Although there were a good many large fish to be seen smashing at the surface, I was unable to raise their interest with the various lures I used from the small selection that I am carrying with me.

After breakfast, I donned my full bike kit and headed for Bloomfield falls. The dirt road in was in good condition. The falls where running well and in the centre of the main dash pool lay a large saltwater crocodile. I tried to get a decent photograph of him but due to the lack of light in the gorge and the size of the pool, I was not successful.

I left Bloomfield falls and made the long and very rough ride up the Creb track to Roaring Meg. There were several deep-ish and rocky creek crossings along the way so I had more opportunities to test my Postie Snorkel™.

Pronto met each challenge comfortably and after an hour of hard riding we arrived at the falls. Roaring Meg is nothing short of spectacular and to get a better look at the main drop one must walk out on a narrow saddle of granite that skirts out on the northern side of the watercourse. Scary stuff, and probably not something I should have done when way out here by myself. But hey, I got you your shots.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day nineteen

Bloomfield to the Normanby River (135km)

I enjoyed my brief stay in the Bloomfield valley. I had a good rest, look around, and was befriended by Caz, the new owner of the Middleshop. Upon learning of The Crusade, this young entrepreneur quickly concluded that I was insane, but, nonetheless, provided a generous $100 donation. I rode north along the track and stopped by at The Lion’s Den for lunch. The Den is a very old Aussie tavern that is still trading from the original wriggle-tin structure that was built in the 1800’s during the height of the gold rush that provided much of the catalyst for the initial development in this region. We often hear stories of the early station owners that forged out a living up here in the North, but, my dear God, how hard were the blokes that scratched around here in the scrub looking to find alluvial gold; true bushman that clung to a fragile thread of existence amidst poisonous spiders and snakes, crocodiles, starvation and cannibalism.

After lunch, I rode off the Bloomfiled track and into Cooktown. I called in to “The Croc Shop” to ask for some advice regarding the condition of the road ahead. One of the ladies working behind the counter was kind enough to donate her old map of Cape York. Because the shop was busy, I did not get a chance to get her name, but apparently, she has, in her younger days, lived off the land for a number of years up on The Cape and recently written a book entitled “Paradise Found”. Look it up if you get a chance.

Battlecamp road is a nightmare. It consists of several fords, endless corrugations, and large and dangerous dust holes. Hitting the later unexpectedly sent Pronto lurching sideways and it was all I could do to prevent having an off.

Late in the day along the track I met Team Top Dream. Graham and Karen had already ridden to The Tip and were on their way back down. They were a lovely couple and together we made camp on the bank of the Normanby river and then had a pleasant evening spotlighting for crocodiles and watching the bush television.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day twenty

The Normanby River to Musgrave Roadhouse (217km)

The northern section of Battlecamp improved a little as I rode in to have a look at the Old Laura Homestead. The main building is still in good condition and under its high floor is a collection of bucolic relics, old photographs, and some informative commentary.

Apparently, the floor in the homestead consisted of earth from termite mounds mixed with ox blood. The resulting surface was then washed over with water mixed with white campfire ash to produce a shiny marble like finish. It would seem that Australia’s enduring preoccupation with home renovation has some odd, but rather ingenious, origins.

Around lunchtime, I was happy to finally ride on to some bitumen and into the little town of Laura for some food, fuel and water. The owners of the general store were very kind. They provided me with fruit and milk and encouraged me to fill my water bottles from the rainwater tank attached to their residence-great people.


 

 

 

 

 

 

day twentyone

Musgrave to somewhere south of Moreton (254km)

I started my morning by securing the obligatory shot of the fuel tank at Musgrave, topped up with two or three dollars worth of fuel, and then headed off with the objective of reaching the Moreton Telegraph Station by nightfall.

Along the track, I encountered a wedge tail eagle lunching upon some road kill. As I rode up on him, he spread his massive wings to take flight. What an impressive sight. I must apologise, as I was unable to obtain a photograph:

EAGLES ARE IRREFUTABLY COOL.

I fell short of my targeted distance (as is often the case when riding upon a postie bike) and as the daylight faltered, was forced to park up somewhere in the scrub south of Batavia Downs.

When camping alone in an isolated area, it is my policy to get well off the main track – out of sight…out of mind – and so I rode along a dry creek bed for a kilometre or so to find a suitable campsite. I put up my tent and was boiling the billy when I heard something rustling in the scrub nearby. I rose to my feet and found myself face to face with my first North Queensland dingo. We both stood our ground for a brief moment, sizing one another up, and then he turned tail and vanished into the tall dry grass that blankets his territory. He was a fine specimen with a pure sandy coat not tainted by the genetics of more recently introduced wild dogs.

I went to bed a little anxious about my isolation, yet fell quickly into a deep sleep induced rapidly by complete physical exhaustion.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day twentytwo

Somewhere south of Moreton to Heathlands (146kms)

I did not get much sleep.

In the depth of the night, I awoke to the crack of a nearby gunshot. Fuelled by adrenalin, I initially panicked and started to get up out of my sleeping bag. It then dawned on me that, in my present situation, the wisest option was to remain laying as flat as possible on the ground.

Two more shots rang out into the blackness that surrounded me and then, in the distance, I heard the steady growl of a four-wheel drive in low gear. A minute or so later, I started to see flashes of light from a spotlight panning through the bush. The vehicle crawled closer and eventually pulled up just a few feet away from where I huddled in my bed.

The spotlight swung back and forth a few times from my tent to Pronto and back and then settled on the bike. I heard a heated exchange of words in an Aboriginal dialect, all of which I did not understand, with the exception of one small phrase:

“F_cking mail man bike.”

Although, quite clearly, The Lone Postie had been given his cue, I remained in my tent far too frightened to ask for a donation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day twentyTHREE

Heathlands to Elliot Falls (53kms)

The deep sand and rugged creek crossings along the Old Telegraph Road were a challenge. I trust that my self-portraits provide more detail than I could ever hope to pen.

I bumped into a few other motorcycle riders along the way and found that one may categorise them into two groups. Those that are here in search of the purity of adventure applauded Pronto and The Crusade. While the other group, those that are riding to show off their toys, despise me. The knowledge that the abilities of your forty-thousand dollar BMW have been matched by those of a second-hand postie bike, purchased for less than $1000, is not an easy pill to swallow for some.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day twentyfour

Elliot Falls to Seisia (121kms)

Camped up in Elliot, I was awoken by something rummaging through the gear that I had stored under the fly of my tent. I put on my headlamp and, upon switching it on, caught a fleeting glimpse of a dingo retreating into the night with something in its mouth. I got up and combed the nearby bush without success, then went back to bed.

In the morning, I found my tuckerbag had been torn open and, after conducting a more detailed search around the perimeter of my camp, discovered the sealable plastic bag that had contained my knife, fork, and spoon abandoned on the ground.

In the presence of a nearby clutch of still sleeping grey nomads, I was seized momentarily by the jester within, and screamed, at the very top of my lungs:

“HELP…A DINGO’S GOT MY CUTLERY…”


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

days twentyfive and twentysix

Parked up at Seisia (0kms)

Two quite unrelated, unexpected, but very pleasurable things have happened to me while here at Seisia. The first is that, upon accessing The Lone Postie blog, I found that I had received a message from Susan Hull. She is the cracking good sort who accompanied me on much of my motorbike riding through South-East and Middle Asia as a lad. Cheers Hully.

The second thing was frankly hilarious. I had just ridden up to the little local supermarket and parked Pronto in the last available space in front of the shop. A huge and cranky local went to swing his truck into the spot that I was occupying and then subjected me to the “I AM GOING TO RIP YOUR F_CKING HEAD OFF..” death stare when he realised that the parking space was filled by my little red bike. The bloke got out of his truck and stormed into the market. I waited patiently outside for him to return. When he finally came back out with his groceries, I stepped up to this Cape York Wild Man, looked him straight in the face and said:

“You know me…”

He immediately burst out in a roar of laughter, shook my hand and invited me for a beer. I had just run into Wombat, an old mate from my university days that I have not heard from for more than two decades. We parked up on a sandy beach, sank some tinnies and caught up on old times.

Now somewhat of a local identity in these parts, Wombat is now referred to as just “BAT”. His explanation is that a two syllable name is considered unnecessarily complicated for life here on The Tip.

 

day twentyseven to day thirtytwo

Exploring The Tip (lots of kms)

I am happy to report, kind reader, that with a little determination and a good deal of sweat, one may ride a postie bike, without fellow riders, assistance, or support crew, from Maroochydore to the Northern most point of the Australian continent. If one is ambitious, or perhaps just a little mad, the journey may also include the Bloomfield Track, Battlecamp Road, and the the Old Telegraph Track. The distance in the saddle is more than 3,000kms.

As serendipity would have it, my long lost college mate Bat now owns a local blue water fishing charter operating out of Punsand Bay, and so with his help, and that of his good mate Craig, on the twentyeighth day of my adventure, I had the enviable privilege of waking at dawn, fishing Alpha Rock, visiting The Tip by sea, returning to Punsand to devour an amazing breakfast cooked up by Bat, and then in the afternoon, returning to revisit The Tip once more overland.

Bat's detailed knowledge of The Cape, coupled with Craig's considerable offroading skills, have enabled me to explore some stunning and rarely seen wilderness. The trip from Somerset down the coast into the Jacky Jacky was amazing - thanks guys.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day thirtyThree

Punsand Bay to The Tip to Seisia to Punsand Bay (lots of kms)

Four or five years ago, I was working on a project down in Sydney. I was staying at a hotel in Darling Harbour and one afternoon made the long drive out to the far western suburb of St Marys to put some flowers on my Mum's grave. She is buried in the public cemetery on the Northern side of the Great Western Highway. I arrived at her grave to find that some bastard had vandalised her headstone. I collected the small piece of marble broken from the top right-hand corner of the stone and put it in my coat pocket. Upon arriving back at the hotel, I carefully wrapped the fragment in tissue paper and put it in my laptop bag.

A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since that day. And...I may be accused by some as being too hard of heart...but, I forgot about that fragment of marble entirely.

The laptop I am typing on at present is the same one that I had with me all those years ago in Sydney. I figured that any computer I brought along on The Crusade would be smashed, vibrated to pieces by corrugations, or just drowned during one of the many creek crossings, and so I dusted off this old machine and reformatted it in preparation for the trip.

On the night before my departure, I was ratting through the old laptop bag looking for a cable, when I discovered a wad of scrunched up tissue paper. I grabbed it out of the bag, and went to throw it in the bin, then noticed that it was wrapped around a small and hard object. I had forgotten about that piece of marble entirely and its rediscovery came as quite a shock. For those of you that believe in spirits, the timing of this event is perhaps unsurprising.

I put the piece of marble in the top pocket of my bike jacket and carried it close to my heart throughout The Crusade. Today, I awoke early and took Pronto on the short ride back out to The Tip. I walked out to the very end of the rocky headland and sat for a good while rolling the piece of stone around in my hand and reflecting on my dear Mother and the unconditional love that she had given me.

I then rose to my feet and flung the piece of her headstone into the clear blue waters of the sea.

I rode back into Seisia and met up with Craig. He had just finished work. I jumped in his truck, grabbed some provisions from the local shop, and then we headed back out to Bat's camp for an amazing meal of rump steak topped with lobster sized banana prawns cooked in a white wine cream sauce...yee haaa...

Although Sea Swift had been kind enough to offer to ship Pronto back around to Cairns on their barge, late in the evening I made the decision to stick with my original plan and ride back out. I hope that I do not have cause to regret my choice.

NOW FOR THE TRIP BACK DOWN...

If you have followed my adventures to this point, I must again take a moment to remind you, kind reader, that I embarked upon The Cape Crusade to raise money for the Children's ward at Nambour General Hospital. If you have not yet made a donation, please give whatever you can to help the sick kids.

You can donate online by clicking on the "Yes I want to help the kids" link located at the top of this page. Alternatively, cheques or money orders should be made out to the Sunshine Coast Health Foundation and sent to:

 

The Lone Postie

Po Box 2610

Nambour West QLD 4560