Cycling the Darling River

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Rode out of Wilcannia after deciding to take my detour to see where Mad Max 2 was filmed. The road to Broken Hill was exciting red rocky hill country with some green shrubbery and even thin clumps of grass bespeckling the martian landscape. You could see the trucks and cars from a great distance tracking the road and imagine the great Humongous was in treacherous pursuit.

Plenty of rest areas with good facilities (one at about 76km from Wilcannia had a water tank, though not sure if drinkable). Camped at a rest area beside the Little Topar roadhouse (77km from Broken Hill) which had reasonable prices for a remote place.

A few hills into Broken Hill. 25km out there were signs for Hungry Jacks, KFC and McDonalds! Civilisation at last, but a good thing? Ice is a good thing at least.

Eww.

Left the next morning for some very tough riding into a headwind on a poor sandy road with one car or truck passing every few hours. Took the North-western side of the Darling River for a change.

Was exhausted after gaining only 50km for the day and I was about to place camp for the night after reassessing my water supply for a possible two night camp. However, then an amazing sunset appeared with diverse clouds shooting off into crazy spirals like the paths of subatomic particles. I set out to ride some more and the wind turned to tailwind right as I passed a sign indicating the Paroo-Darling River National Park and also as the atmosphere changed to some cosmic hues of blue and red. Another 20km of some very enjoyable riding for the night. I woke up to a tailwind and rolled the last 50km into Wilcannia quickly but still exhausted after pushing through and stabilising the bike on the dirt.

Rode into Tilpa physically shattered after a galeforce headwind and crappy road surface.

Entered the General Store and bought a Coke Zero, some chips and long-life milk. The store lady also cooked me up a hamburger with the lot for a nominal fee (there was no menu). It was delicious and she came outside where I was eating and had a good yarn about her goats and the shearer's dog that attacked one of them.

Got a very cheap room at the Tilpa Hotel, a proper motel room with a very classy share bathroom (toilet seat was see-through plastic with barbed wire and a redback spider embedded).

Rode out from Louth about 2am Saturday morning but after 20 km I felt content with my efforts and rolled out my mat on the sloping bank of the road for a few hours sleep before dawn.

The road condition was very difficult for riding. The surface of the road alternated between loose golf ball sized stones on a compacted tiny gravel, and red desert or murky gray river sand with sometimes only a 10 centimetre wide track of firm surface.

The wind was also a headwind and only two cars passed in the whole day, but the camp that night was extremely peaceful away from human habitation, about 20 km out from from Tilpa.

Left Bourke Friday morning about 9am instead of the Thursday as storms had closed segments of the dirt road I was going on.

Apart from the ubiquitous burrs and the constant headwind, the riverside country was quite pretty, changing every 10 kilometres to a new landscape. I was feeling so refreshed after lazing in Bourke for so long that I rode all through the day during some mild heat, reaching Louth in the mid-afternoon.

The Louth pub is a nice old building with a laconic but friendly and unassuming barman. After quickly drinking a can of cool lemonade, I walked across the road to the free shower block where only a donation to the Royal Flying Doctor Service is requested. Returning to the pub, I ordered some 'coke zero' and the barman put some long life milk (fresh unavailable) in the fridge for me.

A local drinker came and sat at my table table and put in a great performance of cursing everything about me from my bike to my red hair. I soon realised there was no malice in the venom spraying from his mouth, just a threadbare pursuit of an identity of courageous 'truth talker'. The lack of malice was proved by his later demand that I stay at his place that night or he would 'slit my throat'. I did not, camping in the park across the road, and he forgot about it.

Waited in Bourke from Monday until Thursday for a camera that never came to the local post office - it was sent to my home address despite the sender assuring me a few times that he would send it to Bourke instead of the regular address. I think he was one of those fast, dismissive types who believe slow types are never tricky.

While in Bourke I camped on the small gravel in the carpark of the Back O Bourke centre, a modern museum/infomation place surrounded by a large flat field. Other camping sites were either prone to prowlers near the town or burrs in the bushland. These hardcore burrs stick into your mat, tyres and skin by the tens. Anyway, the camping was good as the carpark gravel was comfortable and one night the cops turned up just to see if I was okay.

Outside the illustrious Bourke supermarket I met someone from the local paper who took my number and the next day 'Johno the Journo' interviewed and photographed me for an article. I could not think of anything interesting to say at all.