Rory's From Rains to Plains

06/09/2004

It was 1100 Km to Alice in my last message. I am now there, in a hostel with Lord of the Rings playing behind me and some dude showing off his whip cracking skills right outside the window while I type on a borrowed laptop. Not exactly peaceful but certainly full of life.

My departure from Katherine (a town) and Miriam (a lady) was long overdue. Miriam is that wonderful caring breed of woman. Her kitchen still had tins of powdered baby marsupial milk in the pantry since she had rescued a baby wallaby from death after its mother was killed and had nursed it through it’s teenage tantrums. It had gone to live in a rehabilitation centre to be conditioned for life in the wild but failed in the “dealing with wild snakes” class and was hugged to death by a python.

Well my stay had come to end and to “aid me on my way” I was driven 100 km, with bike to Mataranka where we visited the beautiful thermal springs complete with 1000’s of bats in the trees above.

During my stay I had cycled up to Katherine gorge. Helicopters are common in the Northern Territory and scenic flights are good value for money by English standards. Having never been in a chopper I had promised myself that this was the time to push the boat out and take to the skies. Unfortunately one company wouldn’t take me as I was alone and the minimum was 2. The other only had one late booking available and that would mean riding home (30km) in the dark. The Gorge was beautiful from the river, but I was still disappointed.

After a stretch of 80 km I happened upon the “Devonshire cream teas” café run by a lady somewhere in her early 50’s. I had been looking out for this place since I had first heard about it in Darwin and twice on the road. In addition, at a picnic rest stop area some miles earlier, a kindly traveller had considerately graffitied some comments about said lady. All comments and the graffiti had ranged from the negative to the obscene (apart from one comment that the pies were ok, if very over priced).

After riding for a good stretch (2-3 hours) in the heat, the first thing you need to do is rehydrate before really thinking about food. At times I have downed 3 litres (all retained). Now was just such an occasion, and I asked the woman for water.

“I don’t have any to spare” was the answer.

I pointed to the 5000 litre tank next to her hut and asked if it was empty.

“Oh no, it’s full, but its rain water which I need for making tea and coffee and its got to last me all season”

“I’ve just cycled 80km and I only need a litre” I said. “Have you no other water”

“I have bore water, but you can’t drink that”!

The elderly customers sitting at the table were by now looking most uncomfortable.

The bore water was drinkable, if slightly saline but I moved on down the road to the only alternative where I had a burger and large bottle of coke.

Next on the map was a place I had been hearing much about. Daly Waters was one of the oldest pubs in the NT and by all accounts was a fun place. It was a 100 miles away and I wanted to arrive in the evening since it wouldn’t possess the same charm at midday. This led to my first experiment with night riding, badly timed due to the complete lack of a moon. After the batteries began to fail on the front light I discovered that purely by the light of the stars I could see the white lines in the middle of the road and approaching traffic was brilliantly announced 10 minutes before it arrived.

Not having eaten properly I did what all good boys do and ordered a beer (that is after getting some very strange looks from foreigners when I approached a chicken which was gaily strutting across the road and repeatedly asked it why? Why?) The chook was in fact a pet of the campsite singer/comedian who took me very seriously when I suggested putting up a sign saying “Warning, Chook Crossing”

At 9:30 people were leaving and the pub with its slogans above the bar “We don’t serve women – bring your own” and “the liver is evil – it must be punished” began to quieten down, that is apart from a bunch of Germans and me. There was a strange contraption in one corner which had me puzzled, a cross between a wheelbarrow and a chair.

At midnight the Germans went to bed leaving just me and the barman. It started off with me buying just me a drink, then him buying me one and somehow progressed into just him buying the drinks. He was very knowledgeable about many countries but around one o-clock I discovered that he actually didn’t possess a passport and had never left Oz having gained all knowledge from visitors.

Around two-o’clock I learned that the wheelbarrow – chair contraption was just that and was used for returning people to their caravan’s when they could no longer walk. Some time around half two (I think) I remembered that I had actually cycled 100 miles and had forgotten to eat (or even put up my tent). I don’t think the barrow-chair was used on me but the next morning my tent was still standing and there was evidence of a meal being cooked.

I spent the day sitting under a tree reading and snoozing before a much more civilised and hilarious evening where the chook chap sang and recited poetry while balancing 2 chooks on his head, who still hadn’t explained why they crossed the road.

Mad with myself at losing yet another day, I hit the road early to face a fierce head wind. After a couple of hours fighting, the drudgery was lightened by the sight up ahead of a chopper rising, falling and pulling some quite impressive turns. It was cattle mustering and a sight I had hoped to see while here. The helicopter along with motorbikes and horses were gathering cattle so they could be driven across the highway and through a rather narrow gate.

I passed the point where the cattle were due to cross and pulled over to chat to a couple of ladies who had stopped in a pickup. They suggested I stay and watch the action as they were there to stop the traffic when the 2000 or so head were ready to cross.

“Have you cycled all the way from Darwin” Sally asked.

In an unusual moment of self-indulgence I replied “No, all the way from London” (a fact I usually withhold because of the repetitiveness of the questions which follow)

An invitation to Lunch at the cattle station soon followed and I was on the verge of politely declining (because of my schedule) when I learnt that Kay was the cook (and she had all the hall marks of a very good cook.)

“Um –Er” Too late, my bike was in the pickup which moments later was called upon to run another errand. After the little jaunt over to the mustering station with the head stockman, Lindsay (who I unfortunately referred to as the “chief ringer” to much amusement and mild consternation) I was back on the highway with Sally and Kay again. The Chopper had finished most of its suicidal flying (I saw it bumping a stubborn cow with its skids), Sally casually said “ever been in a chopper before”?

“Never” and I mentioned my failure at Katherine Gorge to get a flight.

That was all it took. I was asked my weight and the helicopter landed on the Stuart highway, I hopped in and off we went for the 20 min cruise back to the cattle station.

Lunch was everything I had dreamed of. Fresh salad with beautiful home made mayonnaise. Lots of Beef and veg. Well it would have been good had I had a chance to enjoy it. Questions were coming like bullets, evidently it was quite unusual for a stray cyclist to be picked off the highway and treated like this. As quickly as everything had unfolded, chairs were scraping and people started leaving, doing their washing up on the way out. Jack walked up, I had just started to eat. “Want to go flying” “Are you serious”? “Oh it’s not in the chopper, I’m the plane pilot” he said half apologetically like I might say no. I didn’t answer. The sight of me stuffing food into my face said it all. “Em, do you ever get air sick”? His face was a mixture of sudden regret and concern. “No, never before” I spluttered.

“Close the door well, and don’t worry if it fly’s open” Gulp. What had I let myself in for? I was sitting in a high wing Cessna, with a full stomach of rich food with a pilot who had the slightest hint of an evil glint in his eye.

We took off and for the first time I got a sense of the vastness of the countryside I had been riding through. The plane below appeared totally flat; the road cut a straight line through the scrub as it disappeared over the horizon. Our task for the afternoon was to round up stray cattle that had escaped the morning’s mustering. These were the naughty cows who broke away from the herd, stubborn and headstrong. Jack talked me through the tactics of fixed wing mustering. Basically you buzz around above the cows, letting them get used to the noise of the plane. Then, by changing the pitch of the propeller, the noise of the plane changes from a gentle hum to an aggressive roar and you literally dive-bomb the cows, banking hard right over their heads. This drives them towards the motorbikes and ringers on horses that guide them during the final stages.

This may sound straightforward but Jack, unbeknown to me was a stunt pilot and when I say “bank” and “dive bomb” it was unlike any experience I have ever had. Roller coasters, fairground rides and such adrenaline pumping activities are like mere children’s games compared to g-forces and sudden changes of direction this plane could produce. One minute the cows looked like ants. Seconds later you could actually see the ants (well I was close enough but at 130 miles and hour, ants are a little hard to make out). After one incident where Jack casually said “we’ll just drop over that tree” (where the cattle were trying to hide) and I had gone from negative gravity, where me and my harness were trying to rip the seat from its mountings, to probably 3 or 4 g where I could feel my cheeks stretching down around my lower jaw, I beggared the question “do you ever touch the ground”? “No, but I do collect grass on the wheels occasionally” Yep, we were really as close as I thought. Jack continued “I had a friend who lost his under-carriage on a cow once” “Lets not do that shall we” I commented helpfully. No I was NOT scared, it was just that glint in his eye was a tad disconcerting. Jack really was great chap, well respected for his ability to read cattle combined with superb piloting skills and we got along fabulously. Half the next day was spent combing fields with fewer trees, a perfect opportunity for me to get my hands on the controls, so at last, I got my first hours flying under my belt.

Another highlight was the vengeance wreaked on an aggressive bull by one of the motorbikes. Jack saw the bull charge the bike and banked so I could get a view. The bike rider responded by pulling donuts in a dust bowl. From the ground this would just have looked like a big cloud of dust appearing, but from above the dust really formed a huge ring donut with a little motor bike whizzing round and round in the middle. The bull fled. I was in hysterics.

Ken (the CEO of Newcastle Waters and several other stations) had to go to Mount Isa 500 miles away. I ironed and put on my best clothes and sticking my neck out a little, cheekily asked Sally (Kens girlfriend who had befriended me on the highway) if I could come. Jack and I had been up quite late and despite the 4 beer limit had somehow managed to be a little worse for wear. I was granted permission to go and quietly asked Jack if he was OK. He didn’t look it, despite the well ironed shirt. Ken Arrived and helped with the pre-flight check which must have included checking the pilot since after a few seconds thought he suggested taking the LH seat and getting a few hours in. Half way through, I became chief steward by passing forward coffee and sandwiches, (Jack, sitting in the back with me was asleep) but most of the time just gazed out of the window at the enormous vista 8000 feet below. The Plane was dirty so the only thing for it of course was to get a Taxi into Mt Isa to buy some polish, have lunch and em, generally just have a good look round.

Now not many people know this but, just like you get drive through car washes, there are fly through plane washes. These are called “clouds” and are great fun. I had, since my child hood days of reading Biggles always held a deep longing to fly among the clouds, over, under – through and now, suddenly, I was at the controls of a 200 knot, twin engine, 6 seat, 2 million dollar aircraft with the pilot casually saying “go for that one over there”. All my dreams were coming true, day after day and my emotions were scrambled. How do you thank people for such treats? The Icing on the cake? Well Miriam was driving 380 km to the cattle station to meet me when we got back.

Newcastle waters gave me their best accommodation for 4 days. The flying, was only part of it. I was driven out into the bush for a “kill” a demonstration of how a cow is dissected. Not a pleasant experience but worthwhile. The more mundane chores of Bore running (the 10,000 square km station had 96 water bores which needed constant maintenance). Helping polish the Baron (aeroplane) and meeting the various staff, chatting to the road train drivers and chatting up the stunning cowgirls (no chance!). I began to think about catching a lift. To reach my destination on time my daily ride was getting longer and longer and the wind was incessantly blowing from the SE. Jack whom, when being serious is quite a wise soul, quickly talked me out of the idea.

I set off early the next morning, the wind had shifted to the North and I did 430km in 3 days, this was truly the cherry on top of the icing on the cake which Jack built.

My deepest and most heart felt thanks to Sally, Ken, Jack, Kay, Bill, Lindsay and all other staff at Newcastle Waters.

The Rain started. Woke at 10pm, 2am, 6am it was still hammering it down. The wind changed. The temp went from 32 to 14 deg. After packing up a wet sandy tent at the side of the road (cattle fences prevented the possibility of inconspicuous camping) for a late start my front gear cable snapped. It was still raining. Changed gear cable. Only 80 km on and it was dark and raining. Woke, broke camp, wet and cold. Rear gear cable housing collapsed, no spare. Rode 110 km in rain with 1 gear. 500 km to next bike shop. Gathered together remains of cable housing and with gaffer tape and small hose clamps got half my gears working just as it got hilly.

Five km before Aileron there is a monument marking the geographical centre of Australia. This was fairly insignificant until I was sitting eating some wonderful rissoles and became aware that the music being played was “oh I do want to be beside the seaside”. Ironic I thought. 2 hours later I was still waiting for the rain to stop, with the same “oldies” music playing only now it was “rain drops keep falling on my head” I demanded to know who the joker was but any sense of irony was completely lost on the staff who said “the manager chooses the music and he’s not here”.

I am now in Alice Springs where there has been a couple of years worth of rain in the last couple of weeks. The adventures have continued but you’ll have to wait to find out just what I did to get arrested.

From the road South, in a very green desert.

Love to All

Rory _ _ ______________________________________________________ _ _

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