"Oh Bugga." Part 5
G’day Sports
“Fraser Island, the largest sand-island on Earth”. Must be true, because that’s what it says on the YHA Hostel notice board at Hervey Bay, Queensland. Our guide book puts the size of this island at 76 miles long by 9 miles wide, now that’s a lot of sand, but I will not bore you with any old Irish cement jokes. Named after Captain James Fraser, the island was registered as a World Heritage Site in 1992, so there are rules that need to be well noted by all visitors, before they jump aboard the “Landing Craft” ferry, for the short sea crossing.
Rule No 6. Is a tough one, “No Bikes” but we are able to park the big old Harley and leave it safe for the day. “No Cars” is also on the list of rules, then “All vehicles must be at least
4 x 4 and 6 x 6 is much better!” The bow (front end) landing ramp of the ferry is just dropped onto the beach and everything drives off, just like they do in American World War Two movies. Once through the surf, the vehicles start to plough up the very soft, very deep silver sand. Several 4 x 4s got well stuck, but after a few “Oh Bugga’s” we were on our way in a short convoy, through the, now protected, rain forests. Although the single file sand tracks have been used for years they never settle, or compact, into anything like a solid surface, so getting “Well Bogged” down is quite “Oh Bugga” normal. Annie and I rode in a German 6 x 6 troop carrier type “Bus” and it was our Driver / Guide who made us so aware of this “Oh Bugga” aspect of the Australian way of life. He was far from being a happy bunny when we sank deep into “All Stop” mode, with a front wheel puncture. “It’s all hands in, Cobbers”, so we help to get the truck up onto some big lumps of timber and a jack. Our man became even less pleased when another local (rather over enthusiastic) driver, threw several wheel nuts into the bag, and missed! We found them all but one, so I reckon it will be out there somewhere, forever. (Rule 77: Never, ever, throw anything that you need to keep safe, over water or sand!). On the far side of Fraser we paid “Cash up front Sport” for a half hour flight along the 75 mile beach, just let that sink in a bit (sorry) yes, beach and 75 miles! On board a very small (five little canvas seats) light aircraft.
From high above the trees we had an eagles eye view of the tracks and some of the 40 fresh water lakes. After landing literally in the surf, of a fast rising tide, we took a look at the rusty hulk of the old luxury liner “Maheno”. Shipwrecked back in 1935, she is high but far from dry, on the sand. We were warned that the wreck is now structurally “Bloody Dam Dangerous”, however, she is a very popular tourist attraction and many couples come here, mainly from Japan, to get married on board this mini Titanic type wreck.
Later on we had time to swim in a warm fresh water lake and have a pub lunch, at the old logging station. “Look out for the Brumbies, as we head back through the forests” said our man, it sounded a bit familiar to my Brummy ears, so I pushed him into telling us more. Seems a bloke bought several big Clydesdales (bit like Shire horses) over to Fraser, back around 1880, for use in the logging industry. When the rain forests became protected the horses were just turned loose to roam wild and their ancestors still run free today, here on Fraser. “Well, bloody good on ya Brummy, I reckon ya done real good”, I like big horses.
Wild Dingo Dogs also roam the forests and beaches of Fraser Island, they have no fear, full stop, and will walk right up to people. They live in a constant, endless search for food and will eat just about anything. Dingoes do not bark and they only bread once a year, so they
are not quite like normal “domesticated” dogs. (Rule 39: Never, not ever, ever, touch, feed or interfere in any way with a Dingo!) Unless of course, you’re much hungrier than he is.
Our 6x6 truck made it back to the Western beach but we missed out on seeing any wild horses, the forest is too thick. With the ferry ramp winched up and secure, we sailed back over to the mainland. After washing the sand out of my ears and Annie’s hair (I don’t have hair) and wherever, we had time to eat. Then we sat (in a soft silence) with a glass of wine and watched another spectacular sunset, as the local fishing boats and their following flocks of Flamingos, glided in over the flat calm bay, to settle down for the night. No doubt a few more billion grains of sand were washed up, onto Fraser Island that night, as on every night for millions of years long gone and hopefully, even more to come.
Back on the bike, heading inland again, we sort of “pootled” along taking in the never ending assortment of sites and scenes, taking the opportunity, whenever we could, to talk to people, locals, bikers and tourists. After a couple of days the roads and tracks started to climb, nothing too steep, just one gentle uphill (second gear) pull after another. We thundered on, passing the Road Trains, all belching out a blue haze of fumes, as they crawled up long inclines, dragging tons of … who knows what and everything else!
“Are you getting cold?” I ask, feeling Annie snuggle up behind me. “Yes, just a little”, “Me too” so we pull into a small roadside café and warm up with a coffee and apple pie. The lady explains “Oh yes, it gets pretty dam cool up here in the hills”. We had not really noticed the very gradual altitude change, but come to think of it the kangaroos did have thicker fluffy fur and the area was much greener and more European looking. Turns out that Armidale is the highest (altitude) city in Australia and we were “Just round the corner” (Oh ya, we heard that one before!) from this hill top town.
Within the hour we pulled into the Armidale fuel (and oil top-up) stop, a quiet town just now, but apparently famous for it’s annual music festival, lots of white painted fences and warm, red brick, buildings (they use more wood, lower down). I was lucky enough to find an old newspaper, a copy of the “Australian Amalgamated and United Sheep Sharer’s Chronicle” (rear sporting section). Stuffing it up the front of my shirt I explained to Annie that it would “Help to prevent the wind chill factor from going straight through me”. “Yes, it is a little chilly, up here”.
Going down hill was, how shall I say … fun! No time to worry about being cold! With the strong smell of burning brake pads being sucked along in our slipstream, I was pleased to have the giant v-twin engine to help slow the thing down a bit. Some of the drops were rather more than “Oh Bugga” steep. You get a good idea about when it’s gonna get a bit hairy, the Road Train Emergency Run Off signs start a good mile, or more, before the bend and the gravel traps are about another mile long, heading dead straight off into the hills! Deep ruts indicate that these traps are often put to some very serious use! Trying to stop
100+ tons, from high speed, must be enough to make a real mess in any truck drivers tucker-bag, down by his billabong! If you follow …
Back down on the warmer lowlands we rolled into the Newmarket of OZ, the town called
Scone (as in Devon Cream Tea) “Welcome to the Race Horse Capitol of Australia” says the sign. There is a nice bronze statue of “Mare with Foul” in the square and a public BBQ area with coin operated gas stoves, nice! “No sign of any stupid vandalism here then”.
We checked into the Folly Foot Motel, about £12 for a room (YHA affiliated) and enjoyed a long hot bath, followed by “Big Eats” and a can (or was it two?) of XXXX, with white wine for Annie, (of course).
Not too long after that, we rumbled into the top end of “The Hunter” as in Hunter Valley.
This is the main grape and wine producing area of Australia and as you might imagine, Annie quite suddenly came over all funny like, with an urgent need to stop, for a day, or three! We (as in she) did several “Tastings” as required, but she managed a lot of (gulp) “Swallowings” as well! We had no room to carry much (not alone more) on the bike, however, amazingly she found extra space for “Just one (hic) or two special little bottles” in the saddlebags! She then proceeded to carry them all the way back home, as in the UK. Determined, is the word that comes to mind, eh? Just goes to prove that if you want it to happen enough, you can make it happen, for real, for you.
Well, maybe not every time and maybe no matter how hard you try, small example….
I couldn’t help but notice that whenever we were in an Ozzy tourist (trap) type shop, Aboriginal Art Centre, or any other place where they had those drain-pipe like musical things, called “Didgery Doos” on sale. There would always be some smart-ass, Ralf Harris lookalike, who would just breath down the largest log and proceed to play a tune, or at least get that required nasal like “Wooomba, Wooomba” sound to come out of it’s bottom end, before walking off, without actually buying one! Try, as I did, no matter how hard I blew, or how long I puffed, all I ever got was a very weak little wo-oo-pp-see of wind, know what I mean? On that rather fine note, I really must be away,
Stay Safe. Trev. (Good news, last bit in next issue)
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