Overlander or Daily Driver – are the two mutually exclusive?
When you only have one vehicle to choose from how far do you compromise or should you just say to heck with it and go with what you want.
Living in a big city leaves you with certain choices to make when choosing your overland vehicle. We all know space is tight on city streets and parking is often full of height restrictions limiting where you can and can’t park. Not to mention the tight turning circles required to get around the car park should you even get under the barrier.
And, then there are the general disapproving looks from the general populous, as a fully loaded vehicle overland adventure vehicle trundles through crowded streets. I swear you’d be less conspicuous (and certainly less upsetting) if you were dressed in latex and sporting a fetching gimp mask. Add in a bit of mud and you may have well had just cleaned up the neighbour’s cat. It really can be that bad in some of our big cities.
I actually saw this very scenario not just once but twice on YouTube recently, once with the guys from Mountain State Overland as the guys headed through New York’s Times Square in some very nicely kitted up 4WDs (4Runner, Tacoma and Jeep Wrangler – if memory serves correctly) and again just the other night watching the latest episode of Expedition Overland as they made their way through the crowded streets of La Paz. Both certainly made for interesting viewing, not just for the great stories but also due to the difference of opinions in both major cities. In La Paz, it just added to the general chaos which is most large South American cities, whereas, apart from a few “cool rig” type comments, there did seem to be a look of disdain from the general masses, whose only experience of the great outdoors is what they see on Nat Geo or in some strange friends Instagram account.
It’s much the same here in Sydney although as the proliferation of SUVs, 4WDs and Utes (pick-ups) is fairly commonplace, it really doesn’t take much to get a few folks offside just by being out of the norm. For me, (having grown up in a small country town of around 10,000 people on a good day) the sight of a kitted-up vehicle doesn’t really register with quite the same emotion. I often think that’s cool, or (more often than not) fuck they’re brave to bring that in here. It seems the urban jungle and the real jungle often don’t have a lot in common.
So, what can you do?
Many would say have a second vehicle, but for most this isn’t possible, it means extra costs in registration, insurance, let alone the purchase price of a second vehicle (you pay for a heck of a lot of fuel once you add up all those extra costs).
So, what’s the solution? Well, there certainly isn’t a one answer fits all here. For many, this double life will guide how they modify and build their chosen adventure machine. Whilst others will say to hell with the inconvenience and just build their ultimate machine anyway, others (me included) will make some compromises along the way.
I do have a couple of mates who have gone all out with their builds. They’ve fitted much larger tyres, bar work all around and removed parts of the interior to allow storage and fridge solutions. They have been lucky enough to build their chosen vehicle without accepting some of the compromises many of us have to make.
Ironically the Fortuner above is used on the daily commute with a journey of around 150km each day. I know the owner has accepted that his fuel economy has fallen through the floor and that he can no longer get in most urban car parks. But (and here’s the big one) these are two areas he’s compromised on to get the vehicle that he wants.
Good on him I say.
I also used to work with another guy who was absolutely nuts about his 4WD, he would have sent thousands on it just tweaking it here and there to get it just how he wanted it. It had 35-inch mud terrain tyres, a four-inch lift and an interior customised so much and so immaculately that you’d think it’d only been built as a show pony and a vehicle capable of travelling all over Australia with his family in total comfort and more importantly reliability. This vehicle definitely had very few compromises applied to it. It was built the way he needed/wanted it to be and that was that (I guess also being the editor of a large 4WD mag helps in this case).
My choice
I’ve spoken about compromising on the vehicle front already in this article, so I won’t try and preach but I will share my own experience and how I choose to run with my own 4WD.
Now I only have one vehicle (my Rangie), it has to be my everyday travel to work vehicle, my go to the shops for groceries and also our sometimes taxi for the family. On top of all of this, I demand I be able to take me to some pretty remote areas, where I will often have to cover a lot of kilometres each and every day on tracks and dirt roads. It has to be a jack of all trades and in some cases a master of some. I need it to be reliable (yes, I know a Land Rover product is an odd choice for reliability), on top of this it needs to be comfortable in readiness for long distances. For me, these are my non-negotiables. Everything else is a compromise.
So how do I run?
Well for everyday use, it has the fridge slide in the back – behind the rear seats – this way I can still access the baby carrier behind the passenger seat. I tend not to carry the fridge all the time, however, this may change in the future as my adventure usage increases. On the tyre front I run an aggressive all-terrain pattern, I find this level is a good compromise (there’s that word again), between highway ride comfort, noise and grip; and off-road capability. The tyres I have are currently one size up on the standard ones, however, I would like to increase this to a 32 or 33-inch tyre in the future. It also runs the roof set up permanently, it’s a pain to keep taking it on and off, and with the air suspension, I can still get into a lot of car parks. Apart from the really low ones in the city.
The Great Divide Pt.2
Day 2. I wanted to quit. I was beaten already and I felt like an idiot.
Eventually, having no other option but to ride on, I found myself in Silver City, which, apart from the ugliness of an enormous open-cast mine, was quite a nice little town. It had a great bike shop and it was there that I experienced my first ever burrito. 42 years of age and I’d never eaten a burrito. Honestly, it seems like I’ve wasted my life sometimes.
I still can’t recall where I stayed that night, but I set off the following morning to ride through the small town Pinos Altos and then up over some gnarly old hill. Well, God knows why it’s on the Great Divide mountain bike route because it’s un-ridable. In both directions. Still, I shoved my bike up and down every rock and slope that couldn’t be ridden. I found out later that there was an alternate route, which consisted of a lovely paved road. Great. I’m so glad that I didn’t at all feel like I’d wasted an entire day sweating up and down a mountain, smashing my shins on my pedals and falling over into prickly bushes every two minutes! No, really, it was a total joy.
Back Of Beyond
The next day would see me tackle a 120-mile track through the New Mexico wilderness, with the intention of ending the day in Pie Town. At the entrance to North Star Road, I would find a large warning sign – ‘No services for 120 miles’. ‘Hmmm, interesting’, I thought to myself, but remaining optimistic, I decided to turn my handlebars and steer myself towards Pie Town.
Well, this isn’t going particularly well, I thought. After 15 miles on the track, I realised that all the stream beds were dry from the heatwave the southern and western states were experiencing and as I’d already used half of my water I just wasn’t prepared to run the risk of passing out again. Next time I might not be so lucky. Sometimes retreat is the better option. So, it was then that I decided to think about quitting this section and finding an alternate route. It took me a mile to make the decision, but as soon as I turned around I knew that it was the right one. I found myself a diner, had my second ever burrito and set about planning my next move. That move was to head back to Silver Town to take a paved route around to Pie Town. It was longer by about half a day’s ride, but it was certainly a safer option.
Rather than riding back to Silver City, I stuck out my thumb to catch a ride. If I’m honest, I was exhausted, sunburnt and slightly demoralised about going back to the day’s starting point; I just couldn’t be bothered to pedal my sorry-self back there. A nice ride in a comfy car, with aircon and nice folks to talk to, would do me just fine.
Thumbing a Ride
That’s how I met Tommy. After a few minutes, the gods of hitchhiking smiled upon me, and I was delivered a ride in the shape of rust laden pick up being driven by my new-found friend. After lugging my bike into the back, we set off, Silver City bound. Now, Tommy, as nice as he was, is, without doubt, the most frightening driver I’ve ever encountered. None of us likes to think of ourselves as backseat drivers, but the words just fell out of my mouth as silently screamed in horror. To this day, I still not entirely sure how we didn’t end up wrapped around a road sign.
‘Tommy, turn.’
‘Turn’
‘TURN!!!’
‘You not used to bends?’ he said.
‘I am. I’m from England and we have millions of them. It’s just that there seems to be absolutely no correlation between the bends in the road and your hand movements on the steering wheel.’
Tommy seemed to find my criticism quite funny. I didn’t. It was, genuinely, one of the more terrifying experiences in my time on this Earth.
Thankfully, it all worked out in the end, and I arrived in one piece, back at the point I’d started some ten hours before. I chilled out for the rest of the day, ate some food, drank some coffee and chatted with a man whose parents had just bought a farm in the town I grew up in, which was some 8,000 miles away. I really do love these random coincidences found when travelling to different parts of the world. On that note, I once met a girl in a bar in Rotorua, New Zealand, only to find out that her father – or step-father – ran the pub in my hometown; a pub that was, literally, two minutes’ walk from my front door, some 11,000 miles away. I love that.
From Silver City, my chosen route brought me to the small town called Reserve, which with a population of only 300. Bizarrely, even though it’s such a small town, Reserve has five churches. Churches, however, are often God-sends for cyclists and travellers in the U.S. as they are often left open or have great lawns for the pitching of tents. The churches in Reserve, however, seemed to be placed rather inconveniently next to tumble down houses or trailers with smashed windows. Add to that image a couple of beat-up cars with noisy exhausts prowling slowly around the town, and it gave a feeling of unease and, maybe, a little malevolence.
As I stood and contemplated where I’d be staying that night, with my bike propped against the window of the local bank a car pulled up on the street in front of me. Instantly I felt a sense of unease. The way both the driver and passenger had their seats reclined and the fact that the driver looked like he’d been working in a mine – covered in grey dirt – set alarm bells ringing. As they offered me their assistance I resolved to be vague in my responses, simply telling them that I was looking for a restroom. It was when they offered to give me a ride to a ‘good spot about half a mile out of town’ that I decided that I should trust my instincts: this smelled of trouble, and as I’m only armed with ability to make sarcastic remarks I should just get the hell out of there quickly. I did not savour the possibility of being robbed, shot, or even worse, being exposed to country music. I watched them prowl away in their car, and I pedalled like crazy out of town, lights off and in stealth mode.
That night I slept under a tree. Funnily enough, it was ‘a good spot about half a mile out of town’. Perhaps I was being overly cautious about these two fine fellows.
New Mates
After a comfortable sleep, I returned to Reserve to find food, drink endless coffee refills and to contemplate the rest of the journey. My quest for sustenance found me at Ella’s diner at 7.00am and I was surprised to find it busy already. I was greeted by a cheery lady who I can only assume was Ella. She was bubbly, chatty, welcoming and armed with two coffee pots. I liked her immediately. As I sat down to biscuits and gravy, a lady sitting in the booth in front of my table craned her neck to look round at me and said,
‘How much do you pay for your phone and TV?’
And this is how I spent an enjoyable half day with Lee and Bob.
Lee was a lady just shy of her 77th birthday and, as I found out, rather rock and roll. She’d raced Porsche cars in her earlier years and had travelled throughout the US after her divorce. She told me that when living in Virginia she had had a vision of a man in the future, wearing an unusual shirt with a unique pattern. Within a short space of time of having moved to New Mexico – a place where she felt immediately at home– she had some renovation work carried out on her house. It was then that a construction man walked in wearing the exact same shirt as the one she’d envisioned before. That’s how Lee met Bob. That was thirty years ago.
Bob was a religious man, as I later discovered, entering into my conversation with Lee with him asking, ‘What do you think of Trump? I heard you guys don’t want him over there in the UK.’ Diplomacy isn’t really a forte of mine, but I sensed that question could be one hell of a minefield. These people might have guns and I was just some foreigner on their turf. It doesn’t do well to be critical whilst a guest in another land. It turned out that both Lee and Bob were Democrats and utterly charming.
Now that we were friends I joined Lee and Bob in their booth where I spent an extremely pleasant hour chatting about all things US and British, discovering that Bob was a drummer and Lee played bass in a band. We’d also discussed my problems on the trail and my thoughts on taking the highway instead. It was then that they offered to drive me the thirty miles or so to Quemado, where I could then catch a ride north to Grants. Without hesitation, I took off my wheels and threw my bike in the back of Lee and Bob’s SUV and we set off north together. It made it all the better that I was joined in the back seat by Jade, Lee and Bob’s dog. It was good to be in the company of these nice people
When we arrived in the Quemado it was time for a spot of lunch and it was after the burgers had arrived that Bob, the religious man, took my hand and that of Lee, inviting me to join them in prayer. Now, as I am both British and an atheist, this sort public demonstration of faith unsettles me ordinarily, but I was grateful for everything that Lee and Bob had done for me. I joined hands with both across the table and was happy to direct my thanks to this couple. Good people, Lee and Bob.
Still felt like a colossal idiot, though.
The meeting with Lee and Bob really set the scene for the remainder of my journey. I had intended to ride the entirety of the Great Divide route, but I had to face that fact that I was just not prepared enough. It’d still be an adventure, just not the adventure I’d planned on having. There were roads, spectacular beauty, tiredness, getting lost, sobbing (yes, really), but it was the people I met along the way that made this trip for me. I made it to Banff on July 14 and had ridden around 2,500 miles. Does that feel like a particular feat? Not really, but the memories of the dozens of kindly people, each with their own unique story, are ones that will burn most brightly.
Thoughts On My Adventure
Occasionally I get asked why I embark on journeys of this kind. Aside from the fact that I get to see nature in all its glory, I have decided that, in fact, the spectacular views are relegated to lowly a position. Of course, some things are so beautiful that they can reduce me to tears – seeing my first wild bear, for example – but like many people, I often feel restricted by living a life consisting of either being at work and waiting to go back the next day or after the weekend. As I observe those around me it seems that people often become a colourless version of themselves; monochrome. Surely there is more to life than working a job we tolerate to live a life we cannot fully enjoy because we work in jobs we just tolerate?
The more I spend outdoors, the more I am convinced that we were never intended to live like this, and going off the grid for a few weeks always brings this home to me. I feel the pressures of life subside, realising the weight of the burden I’d been carrying, now conspicuous by its absence. Going into the outdoors, for me, allows me to reconnect with how I believe I should live my life, with the only things that truly matter: food, water, shelter and people to share time with. I have found that my adventures are just really about the great people I meet and the stories we share. That’s it. This and feeling free is what really drives me to put my bike on a plane and fly off to other parts of the world. Back in ‘real life’, when surrounded by walls and screens and deadlines, I often catch myself staring out of the window thinking that ‘out there’ is a place where I am truly free to be the person I was meant to be.
Don’t Fence Me In
I’m thinking that to those looking in from the outside, the decision to pack up life into a 4×4 and head cross-country with no return ticket may seem slightly reckless and counterproductive against most peoples’ gauge of normality.
This is exactly the journey that my partner Kim and I have been on for the last nearly two years. I’ve simply got a burning desire to be on the move, to breathe new air and meet new people. We both do.
Walking away from a good job, closing down a profitable business, packing up a lovely house, giving away belongings and venturing far away from family and friends. These seem like the actions of the deranged or litigated, not that of two healthy young folk of sound mind. It suits us, however, and a change is as good as a holiday, they say.
Other than excitement, the most common response that I have encountered from people who learn about this new direction of ours, has been that of worry. People seem to worry that we haven’t considered the implications of what they perceived to be our ‘giving up’ or ‘losing out’ on a stable life. They seem to worry that if we jumped off the ‘building a future’ treadmill now, how would we ever get ‘ahead’ again.
Stability, routine and a secure future. For me, these ideas are fluid – things that are fundamentally important but aren’t necessarily limited to a time and place. They develop and evolve depending on what chapter of your story you happen to be living in. Each is a part of the bigger picture, and to me, it is the colourful nature of the people and places evolving before your eyes that makes life such a thrilling ride.
“The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon – John Krakauer”
So many people desire to diversify their life experience, to change things up and learn to do something new that thrills them. The stumbling block is having the confidence to throw caution to the wind and know that all the dots will join up farther down the road. Even if they join up into a picture which is not what you thought it would be, not the future you were told you needed, remember that it will still be one of your own design based on your decisions and choices. Tailored to your strengths, needs, and passions. A real-life ‘Choose your own adventure’.
I’ve always been thrilled by new momentum, constantly darting around trying my hand at various jobs, lifestyles, cities, towns, modes of transports and countless other adventurous pursuits.
Doing the same thing year in year out suits some folks, but for me, the idea is anything but attractive. Some folks are made to stick to one thing and perfect it, but some of have potential and energy for a multitude of pursuits, and I believe in embracing this. Don’t force a rectangular peg into a round hole man, and don’t bother trying to fence me in.
Diversity makes life the adventure that it is – a diversity of ideas, of experiences and knowledge. Not that of university scholars, not specialist knowledge – this has its place also – but I am speaking of a broad and learned approach to the human race, born through tolerance and being able to walk in the shoes of others.
If you want to learn about a place and its culture, take the time to meet its people and actively listen, letting them show you what life looks like on their home turf. Experiences like this will always have a grounding effect on your own outlook on life, especially when you head home. It has been said that life is like a book, and those that don’t travel have only read the first page.
Now, if this sounds like the kind of adventure that would work for you, ask yourself what’s stopping you from having a crack? Throw off the ropes and let the fresh air fill your sails!
If you are curious about any of the planning and logistics of a trip like the one we have been on, feel free to drop me a line at Matt@lastxplorer.com and I’ll see if I can help answer any questions.
I’m not lost…
Someone once said to me, “Opinions are like arseholes, everyone has one”. And while this sentiment is true to a larger or smaller extent the same can also be said when talking to people about camping or overlanding gear. I’ve witnessed some of the largest flame wars on forums when one person has stated their preferred piece of gear or brand of vehicle, which just so happened to be one that somebody else either didn’t like or approve of. No matter what the flamer’s motives were, you really shouldn’t belittle a fellow adventurer for their own lifestyle choices. Hell, even going up the road can be an adventure in itself sometimes.
For many, me included, travel is a very personal experience, it’s as much about the journey or the getting there as it is about the destination, truth be told often times the destination feels like an anti-climax and many a trip I’ve gotten more from the getting there than the destination ever could impart. Recently I completed a trip driving across Australia, we travelled from Perth to Byron Bay (west to east). The trip itself was amazing, if not slightly rushed – I hope to do it again someday but a much more relaxed pace – so I can get to know the country better and also spend more time talking to the people we meet along the way. One of the really cool aspects of the trip was that we followed a series of storms across the country and were often one of the first vehicles through some sections once the roads had re-opened although great care had to be taken at this point still to ensure we avoided doing any further damage to the tracks.
On completion of the trip although there was a great sense of achievement, I also had a slightly hollow feeling in amongst the excitement of being able to see my family again. Yes we had explored and travelled over an entire continent (mostly on dirt roads) but something was missing. It felt strange being surrounded by the tourist masses at our final destination. But it also felt like a hollow achievement, perhaps it was just because we’d rushed a lot of the trip, perhaps I’m being selfish – we all have time constraints. Or perhaps it was just the adventurer in me wanting more.
Sometimes (usually at the end of a big adventure) I wonder why this might be and other times I just accept that this is just how I’m wired, I just like to explore and travel, I detest sitting in one place for too long, always have and probably always will. I’ve always felt this urge to look around the next corner. Sometimes I’ve even gotten lost, but most of the time I’ve discovered something worthwhile of the tourist trail. Some of the best experiences have come from taking a shortcut and finding something totally unexpected.
I remember one time taking a ‘shortcut’ in San Francisco (it was the early nineties, not long after the infamous LA riots). I’ll just say now, as far as cities go San Francisco is one of my favorites (maybe I look back on it through rose tinted glasses as I spent my eighteenth birth there, or maybe it was just the anything goes attitude of the place, but it’s stuck in the memory even to this day. Anyway, back to the ‘shortcut’, well let’s just say we turned left instead of right and ended up well and truly off the tourist trail, but you know what, was I scared (I probably should have been), but my sense of adventure kicked in and we kept going on, getting directions from some locals, we eventually made our way back to where we were staying, no harm done, but I felt a damn site richer for the experience.
Despite the looks of the area and some of the people, this experience re-inforced one of my core travel beliefs: People are just people, going about their normal lives trying to get by and make a living. Most people you meet will be good people just like you and I. There will always be exceptions, that’s a given. But, for the most part people will help where they can. I strongly believe if you can accept this then you will be fine. Yes there will be market traders or shopkeepers who will always try to make an extra buck or ten from an unsuspecting tourist. And you know what that’s fine, it’s all part of the adventure of travel.
In his issue you will notice (hopefully) a story where we covered on the Off the Grid Rally for the Queensland branch of Overland Bound. Some of you who may have actually read the article, will recall that I spoke more about the community aspect rather than what actually happened on the event itself. This wasn’t due to my memory fading after a being comatosed throughout the weekend, it was more as a result of feeling that the happenings at the event really played a second fiddle to the people there, whom without their hard work the OTGR wouldn’t exist. So from me personally, a big thanks for making James and I feel incredibly welcome throughout the weekend and I really look forward to catching up with you all again later this year.
See you out there,
Andy
Out of The Woods Pt.1- Kakadu NP, NT, AU
‘We’ve booked flights for October’.
An ambitious time for southerners to visit the tropics. It is the start of the build-up to the wet season – a time of year still mild and pleasant down south, but here in the top end our cool evening breezes and gentle dry season weather are beginning to give way to oppressive humidity, searing sun and steadily rising temperatures of summer. They call it the build-up because that’s exactly what it does. It builds and builds until it breaks. It might break tomorrow, it might break in January, no one can be sure. It feels like a huge rain is about to drench us and cool everything off, but it just doesn’t arrive.
This just so happened to be the only time that our close friends Mat and Sash could fly up to Darwin from NSW, hire themselves an off-road camper and come exploring. With an ambitious week planned, we would be steering up the road into Kakadu World Heritage Area in search of adventure and excitement, accompanied by with plenty of relaxation and laughter around a bush campsite, with old mates.
With both Toyotas fuelled and packed, our rooftop-tent was mounted snugly on top and all our camping gear cleaned and packed neatly back where it should be. Water tanks were topped up and the tinny hitched up. Needing more cold storage space for an extra two appetites, we picked up a flash new YETI cooler I’d had my eye on for a while and iced down a week worth of drinks.
It wasn’t a fishing trip as such, but our mates were keen to get a taste of the territory lifestyle we’d been raving about each time we talked on the phone, so what better places to spot top end wildlife and enjoy the scenery than a mix of hiking trails and remote billabongs. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to throw some hard body ‘frog’ lures in the boat, ready to chase some Barramundi up through the freshwater.
Tracing out at a rough loop on a map, we’d start cutting across from Pine Creek, concentrating on the southern reaches of the national park. Kim and I having already spent some solid time in the northern end of Kakadu this season, were keen to cover some new ground with our mates. Steering past the edge of Litchfield NP, the run down to Pine Creek was a good stretch to calculate our fuel average with the boat in tow, making sure we would have enough range for our time in Kakadu.
We couldn’t pass up the chance to stop for a cold beer and a hearty burger down at the township of Adelaide River, before heading into the scrub for the week. One of the most northern defence lines in Australia during WW2, this little dot on the map is rich in history and the surrounding bushland rich in relics. Well worth exploring if you find yourself passing through. With a quick fuel top-up at Pine Creek, we calculated the diesel ‘hire-lux’ to be sipping 11L/100km compared to our V6 Petrol which was towing nicely but punishing my back pocket at 23.9L/100km.
The rocky hills and greenery soon gave way to flat, dry-country as we turned west off the Stuart Hwy, a flurry of excitement happening over the UHF radio as we commented on the scenery flying past the windows. A beautiful golden light bathed the ‘welcome to Kakadu’ sign as we arrived, only adding to our contentment at being back out in the wilderness, exploring together.
Our night stop for night one was to be Gunlom Falls. Along the corrugated red dirt track into the campsite, an LED lightbar lay in the middle of the track, a testament to the damage that these corrugated roads can do to ill-prepared vehicles. With little hope of finding its former owner in a huge park like this, we decided to rescue it. We unhitched the boat and propped ourselves up at camp just as the last light started to fade the red sunset. Before long the boys were hatching a plan to MacGyver up a bracket and fix the lightbar onto the nose of the boat for some night fishing. Meanwhile, the girls had a solid plan underway for us to all hike up the short trail to the bottom of the falls by torchlight and enjoy a moonlight swim.
Floating Under The Moonlight
As some of us flopped gracelessly into the water in darkness, others were understandably more tentative owing to the unfamiliar risk of crocodiles both fresh and the more dangerous saltwater variety, potentially inhabiting these waterways at certain times of the year. The rule of thumb is that the waters are thoroughly vetted for crocs before the Park Rangers open the park for the season, but it can still feel a little unnerving slipping into the black water under the cover of darkness. Once in, the water was a perfect temperature, the air above cooled off by the coming rain. Just what the doctor ordered after a day of driving in the dust and heat.
A memorable and ethereal experience it was, laying on our backs with ears dipped under the surface, we listened to the clicking and popping of bugs and fish underneath the water, as the rumble of thunder echoed down over the high cliffs above us. One of the first proper storms of the coming wet season, the long forks of lightning drew patterns across the night sky over our heads and the wind picked up pace. There was a sweet smell of coming rain on the breeze as this storm moved in. The atmosphere built steadily to a crescendo as the sky cracked open above us in huge flashes, dwarfing the huge Gunlom waterfall.
As soon as the first sprinkle of rain began, we ventured back to camp. After pausing briefly for brightly coloured native tree snake to cross the trail in front of us, we were immediately glad that we had taken Sash’s suggestion to pitch the 270’ awning on the FJ. The heavens suddenly opened up in a monsoonal downpour and we ran for cover. Huddling under our little ledge of dry cover as the campground around us filled with water, we were soon a little island amongst it. A damn fine choice to pitch camp on high ground.
Waking the next morning blue skies beamed above us as we broke camp, the parched land having soaked in the rain so quickly that you wouldn’t have known it rained at all the night before. We spent the morning hiking up through the steep scrub to the top of Gunlom falls, where there is a natural infinity pool looking across the picturesque valley. It would be easy to spend a day up there floating around in the pools, but there were many things still to see on the road ahead.
Rough Trails
The drive out of Gunlom campsite was an exercise in washing windscreens and keeping up momentum to limit wheel spin, the bright red soil having turned to rusty red mud which stuck to the vehicle like house paint as we scrambled our way out through the slippery roads. It’s worth motioning as a comparison – Mat and sash own a similarly setup FJ to ours back in Sydney and they had booked ahead to hire one up here but the hire company had given them a Hilux, as the FJ had been rolled over and totalled buy the last hirer. An ‘upgrade’ to a new Hilux they tried to sell it to him as, but poor Mat felt like he’d been handed the reins of an Amish pickup truck.
His disappointment was sincere, his feedback was that the 4 cylinder diesel was drastically underpowered, and the cabin was not comfortable over long distances compared to the FJ with its big plush captain’s chairs.,
We rolled out caked in mud and with smiles all around, hitting the blacktop and steering west towards Jim-Jim Billabong – a great bush camp which backs onto a rough boat ramp and a decent sized body of freshwater. As Kim and Sasha set up camp and kindly sorted everyone out with a tasty feed, Mat and I got to reversing the trailer down and launched the tinny from the bank. Without having to worry about any tidal movement we threw the cooler of drinks on the deck and knotted the boat off to a tree, ready for an afternoon tour of the billabong.
The wildlife to be seen there was wonderful, birds small and large darted across the glassy water, and frogs hopped on and off lily pads by the water’s edge. Switching on the depth finder, we were blown away by the volume of fish life that could be seen cruising below us, big boomerang shapes on the sounder told us that some big old Barramundi were hidden away in these waters.
At that point, it seemed like a ripper idea to fish some cold tinnies out of the Yeti, tie a tasty lure onto the line and have a troll out the back as we explored. The afternoon progressed peacefully, the heat dissipating and the light getting softer as the old two-stroke Johnson outboard rattled its way up and down the water leaving a slight blue haze across the surface.
I'm On
Before long we’d pushed up into the shallow reaches of the billabong, sounding out for fish when the rod next to me suddenly arched towards the boat with a force. ‘I’m on” I sounded, as Mat backed off the throttle and sash reeled in the other lines. A gorgeous chrome Barra gave me a good run up and down the bank for the next minute or two, before being scooped up by Kim with a waiting landing net.
Most of the times Kim and I have been chasing these elusive fish across the top of Australia, we have had to work very hard for our dinner – often going home with other species of fish for tea or empty handed even. Kakadu began to really turn it on for us this time, the recent rain and good conditions perfect for both Barra and Saratoga to feed in the freshwater. In the next three days, we would net a total of seven good-sized Barra and a handful of Saratoga, keeping only what we could eat and filleting a few up to fill the freezer back at home.
To Be Continued...
Where is Kakadu?
In the Wild Northern Territory of Australia, 19,804 square km of world heritage listed wilderness – some of the most rugged and unspoilt beauty on the planet, lies just 150km by road from one of Australia’s capital cities, Darwin.
The basic roads through the park are 2WD friendly, but a large proportion of the park is best explored in the dry months of the year (generally May – September but this varies annually) with a well-prepared 4×4 to be able to safely explore the more remote and spectacular destinations. A lot of these off-road areas shut down from October, as the wet season approaches, and will not reopen to the public until around May. For those without the means to be self-driven, there is a large range of comfortable guided tours of the park – see www.northernterritory.com for more information.)
The Great Divide
Suddenly I felt the gravel on my back and I was staring at the deep blue sky above the New Mexico desert.
With my feet still clipped into the pedals and the bicycle between my legs, the rest of my exhausted body lying in an almost star-fished heap on the track was telling me that I wasn’t exactly cutting the figure of someone who knew the magnitude of the task he’d embarked upon. Or, in fact, one who had any clue whatsoever.
‘What the hell am I doing?’
I’d like to be able to say that the sight that greeted the antelope and lizards just north of Hachita on 14 June 2017 had been the result of a spectacular crash, one worthy of future anecdote perhaps. Alas, the truth of it is – this scene of a somewhat chubby and sunburnt Englishman on the New Mexico desert floor was the result of a ridiculously cavalier approach to preparation and a certain degree of foolhardiness and bravado.
In 2012, I had ridden a bicycle across the US, following the Trans-America cycle route, which, depending on which way you travel, begins in at the Pacific coast in Astoria, Oregon, takes you through Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Kansas, Illinois, Missouri, Kentucky, and, finally, Yorktown Virginia on the Atlantic side. As the years passed by after my first American adventure, I began to hunger once again for the sense of freedom that I’d felt first time around. So, it came to pass that I decided upon heading out to the US once again to ride along the continental divide, a route that follows the line drawn by the Rocky Mountains, from the Mexico border through the states of New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana and across into Canada, finally finishing in Banff some 2,700 miles later. Oh, and most of it is off-road. And often in the middle of nowhere.
After what can be best described, in hindsight, as ‘lackadaisical planning and preparation’ I flew out to America to embark on a tale of derring-do, discomfort, pain, hunger, exhaustion, or, what I like to call ‘having a jolly good time.’ The first hint of what was to follow hit me as soon as I left sliding doors of El Paso airport. When I left the U.K., it had been about 16 degrees and, let’s face it, probably overcast and drizzling, so it came as somewhat of a shock when I left those doors and walked to my hotel 200m from the airport. Crikey, it was hot. Ok, so 31 degrees at just before midnight is nothing to those accustomed to such climes, but for this English bloke, this was just too bloody hot!
The following morning after the trains, planes, and automobiles – well, a plane, and overly expensive taxi ride, and bus – I arrived in the small town of Demming, New Mexico, a couple of hours ride from the Mexican border and the start of my second U.S. odyssey. It would be here that I would unbox my bike, put it together and then clip into my pedals for the second time on American soil.
My first impression of small-town New Mexico wasn’t great. Even though I’d been to the U.S before I don’t think that I had seen somebody I would have described as a ‘proper vagrant’, but here was Darrell with his over-flowing shopping cart, dog, and a general appearance of a man who has been sleeping rough for a considerable amount of time.
As he approached, I freely admit that my prejudices overtook immediately: here was this guy, bearded, unwashed, semi-toothless and packing two of the largest hunting knives I have ever seen up close. His long grey hair, unwashed, in the beginnings of dreadlocks framed what turned out to be one of the most fascinating faces I think I’d ever seen. Tanned and gnarly from what had obviously been a tough existence. Do you know what though, sometimes – perhaps nearly every time – casting prejudice based on somebody’s circumstances and appearance can do one a disservice. Also, the necklace around Darrell’s neck, handmade from hundreds of small bits of street detritus was a real thing of beauty.
Like most I people I met during my time in the U.S, I was greeted by Darrell with a, ‘Hey, where ya from?’ I never actually know whether to say whether I’m from England or Great Britain or the UK, but as ‘England’ rolls of the tongue a little easier I tended to go with that one. I got chatting with Darrell over an iced tea and, as we talked, I discovered that he had served with the US Marines in the 70s and had spent quite a bit of time in and around London. He trained with the British SAS and Royal Marines when stationed here, and had grown a love for my country, especially the profanity. Particularly the phrase ‘you wanker!’. Oh, how we laughed.
It’s fair to say that I liked Darrell but there was a profound sadness to his story, and one that seems all too common when the veneer of the prosperity of the country is stripped away. Aside from his service dog and the contents of his overloaded shopping cart, Darrel had all the appearance of a man with nothing. Despite that, and despite the fact he had to carry knives to protect himself from the ‘meth heads and the dealers’ in the town, he was an engaging man of 72 years with a passion for domestic and world politics.
As the conversation followed I found that, sadly, Darrell’s days were numbered – he was suffering from quite advanced leukemia and had been told that he had only around six months left to live. He’d cashed in the entirety of his pension a few years ago so that his children could go to college and have a better life than he, and he now he battled on without medical care. I felt sad as I left him. I hope that he’s doing OK or, at least, is as safe as he can be.
After my fill of cinnamon rolls, coffee, and, generally finding my feet, I set off towards the Mexico border, stopping only as night fell. As I was to do many times in the days and weeks to follow I found a culvert – a drain running underneath the road – and made my bed for the night. As I laid in my sleeping bag I looked up at the sky and just stared. I’m not sure how long I gazed at the stars, satellites, and meteors before I fell asleep, but during that time I felt happy at being outdoors again.
I woke early the next morning and rode the remaining miles to my starting point at the Columbus border crossing. After having snapped a quick photograph I turned around and began the ride proper. 45 miles later, all of which, I may add, was up hill and into a headwind, I arrived in the small town of Hachita, being greeted by a couple of friendly locals who fed and watered me, and who seemed to delight in telling me of horror stories about the New Mexico desert.
At 4.45am the next morning I had packed up with five and half litres of water, a load of food, and an optimistic attitude despite the warnings given by locals. The stars still shone and the air was chilly, but it felt great to be moving. Well, it did for a while.
And then it started to go wrong…
So, it turns out that it probably does pay to listen to the locals. This desert, although not actually that big, well and truly kicked my arse. I’d packed food, had water, and a purifier so that I steal water from the cattle stations, but it just never seemed enough. Recall the feeling of dehydration you get at 4.00am after having drunk too much? Well, that. And no matter how much I drank, or how I tried to keep my mouth shut, I felt like I was a permanent state of thirst. In addition to the water I carried already I must have purified another five litres, but it still didn’t feel like enough. Then it started – cramps in my fingers. I ignored it. Then, after having refilled my bottles I stood up and promptly nearly fell over. I ignored it. I then started getting cramps on the inside of my thighs. Still, I ignored it and just carried on.
Then it happened – as I pedalled slowly up the track I got a cramp in one thigh, but as I tried to remove my foot from the pedal I immediately got cramp in the other. I was now stuck, cramp in both legs, unable to pedal and quickly losing what little speed I had. Not only were my legs stuck in place, but there was now a loud, electrical-sounding buzzing in my ears. Within a second my vision had gone grey and I collapsed sideways onto the ground.
It was at this point, on day two, that I realised that I had, perhaps, bitten off a little more than I could chew. As I lay underneath my makeshift shelter for the next five hours I couldn’t imagine how I could muster the energy and will to ride the rest of the route. I’d not even completed 100 miles, but if somebody had driven past and offered me a ride straight back to El Paso airport I would have accepted the offer in a heartbeat.