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Trev and
I were filthy. Sweat, caked with red dust, covered our bodies and permeated
every accessible orifice. It had been a long, hard day ... and on the
map, May River looked like a great place to camp. We allowed ourselves
to fantasise about plunging into the cool waters, or even indulging in
a splash bath out of our billy. Only that morning we had departed the
relative luxury of the Windjana Gorge National Park campsite - complete
with drinking water flowing freely from taps, showers and even flush toilets.
Our tour
of the Kimberley had begun at Kununurra, in the top right hand corner
of Western Australia - arriving there (perhaps unethically) by plane from
Darwin. A warm-up ride of 75km out to Lake Argyle (nine times the volume
of Sydney Harbour and getting bigger with every telling) turned out to
be one of the hottest excursions of the whole trip. I collapsed in the
shade and wondered how I'd survive the 1700 kilometres to Broome.
 Back
at Kununurra, we loaded up our panniers with food and headed south along
the Great Northern Highway. I'm not a big fan of highway riding but it's
the best way to reach Purnululu (formerly Bungle Bungle) National Park.
I'd wanted to visit the park since I first saw photos of the orange and
black striped domes that make the place look like a tea cosy convention
on steroids. We had forwarded a parcel to the Warmun roadhouse with a
week's worth of lightweight, high energy, easy-to-cook food which we then
collected en route. The riding became interesting once we left the highway
and joined the dirt road to Purnululu. We swapped our slicks for knobblies
and attacked the hill climbs, flood worn tracks and steep drops into creek
beds. Even though it was the dry season, we still found five creeks running
quite high. Trev did a fine job portaging our loaded bikes through the
deepest one.
Purnululu
was everything I'd imagined - spectacular rock formations, wild flowers,
magnificent sunsets, great walks into the massif - but the riding was
really hard. The deep sand track that leads to Piccaninny Creek is a challenge
to all but the most masochistic riders. The go is to let some air out
of your tyres and pedal until your quads ache ... or catch a lift with
a friendly 4WD! We had four nights in the park and I could have happily
explored it for another week but we were running low on supplies so had
to flee to civilisation.
We restocked
the panniers at Halls Creek, and then spent three days covering the next
300kms to Fitzroy Crossing. We scored a boat trip along Geikie Gorge with
local Aboriginal Guide, Joe Ross, and had our minds opened to the culture
of the area's traditional owners. We relaxed at the Darlgunaya backpackers,
run by the local Aboriginal community in the old Fitzroy Crossing Post
Office. A great place to hang out.
Forty kilometres
west of Fitzroy Crossing we dived off the highway and hit the "corrugations".
The terrain became interesting again as we crossed a low range dotted
with the leafless baobab trees. They looked just like children's drawings
- with their wide trunks that end in a spray of branches. Tunnel Creek
National Park is famous as the hideout of Aboriginal rebel-hero Jundumurra.
We arrived early, before the tour groups, and waded through the stream
that has worn a tunnel through the Napier Range. Our torches picked up
the eye-shine of fish and fresh water crocodiles in the darkness. "Freshies" aren't
supposed to be dangerous but the one Trevor nearly trod on looked like
it could cause some damage with its long row of pointed teeth.
Next stop,
Windjana Gorge. It was magnificent with glowing sunsets over the water
and a bush walk to find an ancient Aboriginal Wandjina painting. From
there we rode about 20 kilometres to reach the western end of the Gibb
River Road. Sixty kilometres of corrugations, red dirt and 4WDs scooting
past - filling our faces with their dust ... I was ready to kiss the
bitumen
when it finally appeared. After another 20 kilometres we found a stockyard
and windpump by the road. Water gushed seductively from the tank's
overflow
pipe. I was keen to strip off for a shower and put up the tent. Trev
however was convinced that a better camping spot would soon appear,
so we filled
our water containers and pushed on. The turn off down to May River
took us over six kilometres of deep sand and corrugations. I was too
wacked
to ride and ended up pushing the bike towards the river and the promise
of water. As we reached the entrance to the camping area a large sign
proclaimed, in no uncertain terms, "Crocodile Country" - not the small,
laidback freshies but big, hungry, stop-at-nothing salties. A swim
was
out of the question and without the ability to get more water we had
to conserve what we had for drinking and cooking. At last, our store
of baby
wipes came into their own. We got through a few that night, wiping
arms and legs and faces until the sand and dust came off.
From May
River it was an easy run into Derby for beer and pizza and then down the
highway to Broome, which is a sort of heaven where all good cyclists go
when they've finished touring.
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