Day 8: Cann River to Simpsons Creek
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| Breakfast at our camping spot at Cann River. |
I was up with the sun again and was able to fire the fire up from some remaining coals. It was nice to warm up and dry out by the fire as we ate breakfast and packed up, but it lead to us lingering longer and leaving late, at around 9:30 am.
The morning was fairly uneventful. The road was quite quiet, with the traffic predominantly consisting of trucks and cars with caravans. We stopped for first lunch at Bell Bird Creek and ate pasties we'd bought from the bakery in Cann River.
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| Lunch stop at Bell Bird Creek. |
Then we ate second lunch about 15 km out from Orbost..
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| On the road towards Orbost. |
Approaching Orbost felt like we were leaving the forested mountains and entering undulating open planes and farmland...probably because we were! The weather finally cleared up and the sun was shining.
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| Flatter terrain and open pastures with the sun shining through, just out from Orbost. |
In Orbost I noticed the hole in my tyre had gotten much worse, and was causing a hop as I rode along. There were no bike shops there, so I had to undertake some bush mechanics again. This time I used a few layers of rubber from a bike tube, a few layers of a sweetened condensed milk tube, and a few layers of a fig packet. I figured this should hold up for a while and should at least get me to Bairnsdale.
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| The state of my tyre before reparations, in Orbost. |
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| Preparing to repair my tyre, in Orbost. |
Meanwhile, Rosie and Josh stocked up with food supplies, and the weather had one last hurrah with a super heavy shower before finally giving up on raining, at least for a while.
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| Sheltering from a heavy shower in Forest Park, Orbost. |
There is a
rail-trail which runs from Orbost right through to Bairnsdale, so we set off on that and rode for about 15 km until we found a good campsite, just before dusk.
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| The elevated railway line (no longer used) near Orbost. |
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| On the rail-trail near Orbost, heading towards Bairnsdale. |
There was plenty of firewood about so we got another fiery fire going to dry out our gear and cook dinner. On the menu that night was jacket potatoes. Once there were plenty of coals in the fire, we baked the spuds wrapped in foil and ate them with bean and tomato salsa, sour-cream and cheese, which was all quite delicious!
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| Our camp fire at Simpsons Creek on the Orbost-Bairsndale rail-trail. |
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| Jacket potatoes with beans, tomato, sour-cream, cheese for dinner. |
Josh's Perspective
Light rain on the tent first thing. Infernal rain.
Luckily Ned had the fire stoked up by the time I was out of the tent. Though the rain just re-wet everything we dried, it was a bonus just to break even.
Cann River proved no more hospitable by daylight. It is a place completely devoid of charm. The ‘supermarket’ was empty, and there would be no other town along the road until Orbost, so we stopped in at the bakery and got some pasties to go.
The ride to Orbost was unremarkable. So unremarkable, in fact, that the only thing I can think of to remark upon was an argument that ensued between me and Ned and Rosie at one of the rest stops along the road. I saw a bird, a black bird with a little white under the tail and on the wings. I said “That crow’s got white on it!”. Ned and Rosie almost fell off their chairs, such was the ferocity of their laughter. One of them said “That’s a magpie! Not a crow!”. Well I may not know much about crows, but I know a magpie when I see one; and this, ladies and gentlemen, was no magpie. We agreed to disagree. Where we camped that night there was a little information sign with some native animals common in the area. And there was the same bird! Turns out it was a Currawong. Ned, please put a photo of said bird here and let the good people judge for themselves.
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| This is a shot of the bird from my iPhone, so it's not very clear sorry! I've a good one from my camera but it's at home. |
Here’s some info that seems to suggest it could go either way (but it’s clearly more crow than magpie!):
“They were formerly known as crow-shrikes or bell-magpies. Despite their resemblance to crows and ravens, they are only distantly related to the corvidae, instead belonging to an Afro-Asian radiation of birds of superfamily Malaconotoidea. The true currawongs are a little larger than the Australian magpie, somewhat smaller than most ravens, but broadly similar in appearance. They are easily distinguished by their yellow eyes, in contrast to the red eyes of a magpie and white eyes of Australian crows and ravens……..They are distinguishable from magpies and crows by their comical flight style in amongst foliage, appearing to almost fall about from branch to branch as if they were inept flyers” - Wikipedia
Anyway, nothing much happened that I can remember until we got to Orbost. Oh! Rosie had a sore back for a bit, but it must have gotten better. Tough lass.
Once we got to Orbost, Rosie and I shopped for dinner while Ned went off to attend to his quickly degrading rear tyre situation. I hadn’t contributed to the decision making process of any meal thus far, and Rosie thought it high time I had some responsibility and showed some initiative. Well, I panicked. The only thing I’m worse at than cooking is choosing what to cook. Suddenly, as occasionally happens in times of great stress, my Irish half seized control of my gridlocked mind and shouted: “Potato!” And so it was. We would bake potatoes in the campfire, and failing a campfire, we’d fry them. I can’t remember the details. But Rosie had a plan. What’s more, she was nice enough to tell Ned the whole thing was my idea.
Outside the supermarket there was a table at which two elderly gentlemen sat selling raffle tickets. Rotary club, or guide dogs Australia, or seniors against skateboards, or notepads for the forgetful; something like that. A worthy cause whatever it was. Just as we’d packed all our groceries into our pannier bags (which was no mean feat, considering we usually had Ned’s capacity and pulling power and we hadn’t bought any less food than normal), the heavens opened up. It was a monumental downpour, and we thought it wise to wait it out. So we decided to wait inside the supermarket, but as we passed the two charitable gentlemen at the raffle ticket table, a conversation was sparked between us, which was mostly them making fun of us for our (apparent) hopeless situation. The two men evidently didn’t think much of our idea of riding on and camping in this weather. But when we told them we were taking the rail trail route from Orbost to Bairnsdale, one of them said we were in luck: there’s a really nice little coffee shop/cafe not far up the trail where would come grab a snack, dry off, and rest our weary bones. Needless to say, Rosie and I were thrilled at this prospect, but just as the idea sunk in, my skepticism caught up with my hope, and I asked with puzzled expression: “Really?”. “Nah not really” the man said as he burst out laughing, slapping his thigh. His mate thought it was funny too. In fact, all the people standing under the cover by the supermarket doors with their shopping waiting for the rain to die down joined in the mirth. Oh how we laughed. Nothing’s funnier than self inflicted suffering.
We rejoined Ned, who seemed to be comfortable enough with his new rear tyre rig (god knows what he’d done this time), and we were away again. The man at the supermarket was right: there was no cafe up the rail trail. There wasn’t really much of anything. Just a bike track where there used to be a railway line. What did I expect? Why was this a disappointment to me? Darn that old man.
We made it maybe 15 k’s up the rail trail before coming across a picnic table and some relative flat ground. There was also plenty of firewood lying around. As there was still some sunlight left, and we still had many difficult kilometres of the rail trail to ride before we got to Bairnsdale, Ned was keen to make a few more miles before calling it quits for the day. But I just wasn’t sure how far it would be before we came across another picnic table, and I didn’t much like the prospect of riding the rail trail with all it’s stick, stones and surprises at night. So I put my foot down (actually, I put my whole body down at one point, with another of my trademark stationary bike falls), and we set up camp. The first time we’d done so during daylight hours!
The fire was glorious, the conversation stimulating, and the spuds were par excellence!
| Destination | Distance (km) | Moving Time (h:mm:ss) | Elapsed Time (h:mm:ss) | Elevation (m) | Average Speed (km/h) | Maximum Speed (km/h) |
| Day 8: Cann River to Simpsons Creek | 90.9 | 5:28:34 | 13:51:48 | 1,199 | 16.6 | 59.4 |
Day 9: Simpsons Creek to Bairnsdale
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| Our campsite at Simpsons Creek on the Orbost-Bairnsdale rail-trail. |
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| Crepuscular rays shining through the trees and smoke from the campfire. |
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| Relighting the campfire in the morning. |
It had been raining quite a lot overnight, but it had cleared by the time we got up. I got the fire going again, which we used to dry things out while packing up and again meant we didn't get away until about 9:30 am.
The cycling was pleasant along the rail-trail all day. It was easy to follow, pretty flat (as rail trails tend to be) and there was no traffic at all to contend with. In the late morning we came across one of the few other touring cyclists we'd seen on the trip (the other two had been riding up a hill out of Merimbula heading north while we were riding down the hill heading south, so we hadn't been able to stop to chat to those two). Here though, we stopped and had a chat to the bloke. His name was
Martin, and he was German.
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| Martin, a German bicycle tourer we came across on the Orbost-Bairsndale rail-trail. |
It was good to compare how we were going about our trips. He was doing the reverse of what we were doing and riding from Melbourne to Sydney. He'd also been staying with Warmshowers hosts. His gear was organised in typical German fashion - his bike was immaculate, everything was packed tidily and he had his smart phone enclosed in a water-proof cover, attached to his handlebars and connected to his dynahub to charge it. He remarked that we were the first Australian's that he'd come across who were using dynahubs on their bikes. And he was surprised by how many road-cyclists there were in Melbourne, compared to other types of cyclists. It's generally quite a different story in Europe.
For lunch we stopped by the famous Stony Creek Trestle Bridge, the largest of its kind in Victoria at 276 metres long and 19 metres high.
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| Stony Creek Trestle Bridge on the Orbost-Bairsndale rail-trail. |
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| Stony Creek Trestle Bridge on the Orbost-Bairsndale rail-trail. |
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| Josh during our lunch stop at the Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. |
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| Ned during our lunch stop at the Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. |
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| Rosie during our lunch stop at the Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. |
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| Ned and Josh sitting down for lunch at the Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. |
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| Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. |
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| Our bikes, Rosie and Josh at the Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. |
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| Back on the Orbost-Bairnsdale rail-trail. |
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| Rest-stop at Bruthen. |
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| Rest-stop at Bruthen. |
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| Rest-stop at Bruthen. |
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| Rosie's bike at our rest-stop at Bruthen. |
As we continued, the hole in my tyre was getting bigger, and I wasn't sure if it was going to make it to Bairnsdale. I googled the bike shops in Bairnsdale and found two that closed at 5:30 pm. It was presently already 4 pm, and we were still 30 km out of Bairnsdale. At the rate we were going I wasn't going to make it in time. So we decided I would make a dash for it on my own, and meet Rosie and Josh in Bairnsdale later on.
So I went ahead, speeding along on the trail, and as I got closer, the hop in my rear tyre kept getting larger. I made it to the main street of Bairnsdale and the hop was so large that I feared the tyre would explode. "Come on, only a few blocks to go!" I willed. I was so close, but then less than 100 metres from the bike shop the tyre exploded with a bang! Heads on the street turned in my direction. How embarrassing! I lugged the bike up onto the footpath, and a bloke watching commented "if you head just a few shops up there you'll find a bike shop". "Yep, that's what I was aiming for!" I replied with a resigned smile. Ah, I was so close, what were the chances?! But at least I'd made it to a bike shop; it could have happened anywhere over the previous 800 km we'd travelled, and I could have been well stranded.
I got into the bike shop 15 minutes before it closed. Unfortunately they didn't have the tyre I wanted (the Schwabe Marathon) but they at least had a tyre in the right size, a Kenda, and it was only $20 so I promptly bought it - it wasn't like I had much choice. Then I repaired the tube that had exploded, applying patch number fifteen, and put it all back together just as Josh and Rosie arrived.
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| The hole in my tyre after it exploded. |
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| The hole in my tube and the extra pieces of tube I'd been using to cover the hole in the tyre. |
We figured it was a good opportunity to eat out rather than cook, and after some roaming around the main street, and a recommendation from a local, we decided on "Oz Mex", the local Mexican restaurant. The place had a good vibe and a fantastic music playlist, but the waiter didn't seem to like us too much. I ordered some kind of chilli con carne. The meal was quite tasty but lacking in quantity, and left me wanting seconds, and probably even thirds (it takes a lot of food to feed a hungry cyclist!)
After dinner we studied the public map in the mall and decided to ride up the river to a place called Picnic Point, which sounded like it'd be a good spot to camp. It was a little further than expected, probably 5 km up the river, but it was a good spot, on top of a little hill which we had all to ourselves!
Josh's Perspective
Today was to be the last day for me and Rosie. There was a train leaving for Melbourne in Bairnsdale at 6:00pm which I intended to be on, though I hadn’t thought too much about it. Ned would continue on without us, maybe taking a non-direct route through some nice country to the North, maybe not.
The golden rule of getting along with the Powells (these two of them anyway) is to keep busy. There’s always something to be done, and you should always be doing something. They have no sympathy for idleness, and therefore no sympathy for my natural temperament. People used to tell me to “just be yourself”, but this is terrible advice. That’s like saying “just eat what you want to eat”, which only really works if you’re particularly partial to celery and cabbage. You should only be yourself if yourself is functional; if not, find someone who impresses you, observe, and copy.
I took great delight on this morning observing Ned with his newspaper he’d picked up at the service station back in Cann River two nights previous. Before he sat down at the picnic table, he’d meticulously dry the seat with a sheet of this newspaper, then he’d set it by the fire to dry. Or when washing dishes, he’d dry them with a sheet of newspaper, and when he’d finished, he’d set it by the fire to dry, or even hold it by the fire while it dried! And so it went with everything. Everything had it’s use, and a proper method of using it. There was a system for everything. Everything that could be was conserved, preserved and recycled. And by the time we’d got this far, Ned and I were packing up our tent each morning like American Navy personnel folding an American flag.
A little way up the rail trail we came across only the third other touring cyclist we’d seen the whole way. The other two were a husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend (presumably) toiling up a steep hill somewhere north of Merimbula. The man had waved to us, and we waved back sympathetically. The woman, some hundreds of metres behind, was too absorbed in her agony to notice us. But we were so excited to see someone else on the rail trail that there was no way he was getting past us without a good chat. He was German; spotless from head to toe, shiny gear, everything perfectly arranged and organised, everything in it’s place and accounted for. I loved him. He was everything I’m not. I was embarrassed to have him look at me; filthy from the frayed ends of my hair to the tips of my toe-nails, in a shirt I’d worn for 9 straight days, with my pathetic stubble and muddy legs, riding on a slippery, sandy track on a road bike with tyres as thin as hula-hoops. What he must have thought of me. And what’s more, while we spoke with the German, Rosie thought it appropriate to reveal that a few kilometres back she’s come across my phone lying at the side of the track that must have popped out of my handlebar bag when I went over a bump. The German looked at me with disdain. I could have died of embarrassment. I’ll never forgive you for that Rosie, not for as long as I live. Thanks for picking up my phone though. Lifesaver.
I did lose my admiration for the German a bit though when he said he was struggling a bit with the long distances of Australia. He was only riding 50kms a day and taking days off to look around. Soft. I would have told him so, but I thought it might lead to me mentioning the war.
We had lunch at the base of a big ol’ wooden rail bridge. It was an impressive structure. And as the sun had made an appearance for the first time in a few days, we were able to take some photos of it! That was nice.
The rail trail was good. But I found it pretty tough going. My wheels were sinking into the sand, and I just couldn’t build up any momentum. On top of this, I was made to ride in front for some reason (possibly so that those riding behind could pick up all the valuables falling off my bike), so I didn’t even have the luxury of having a wheel in front to stare at. It was just me and the dirt. And the sticks and the rocks. But it was good! I guess.
We crossed a main road and got a glimpse of a sign telling us how far to Bairnsdale as the road flies, which helped us orient ourselves. It was getting late, maybe pushing 4 pm. We went over a little bridge and pulled up for a well earned snack and spell. The photos may indicate that I was totally exhausted by this point, and there’s certainly some truth in that, but the main reason for my dejection was the thought that there was only 30 kms of our adventure to go, and after that, I’d get on a train, then get in my car and drive back to my little flat in Horsham, where I’d sit and stare at the wall and wonder when I’d ever be so happy again. I don’t know if I said as much at the time, but before we got back on our bikes, we’d decided not to catch the train that night, and maybe press on a little further the next day.
Ned’s rear tyre was getting beyond a joke. It looked like a snake that’d swallowed a rabbit. The gash in the tire was growing, and the tube was well into it’s third trimester. I couldn’t see as he was behind me, but I’m told he bounced of his seat every rotation of his wheel. It was gonna blow at any second, which, to put it mildly, would have been inconvenient. We pressed on toward Bairnsdale at an unlikely pace, while Ned checked the opening hours of the two bike shops in Bairnsdale. He would have to race off ahead alone to catch them: both closed at 5:30 pm. That gave Ned just over an hour to make the 30 k’s or so up the rail trail, with all his gear and all those bumps, with an ever-expanding tumour protruding from the one source of propulsion available to him (short of running, which I like to think he would have tried, all else failing). And credit to the man: his judgement was impeccable. His tyre made it to within 100 metres of the bike shop before it exploded. 900kms (and Ford only knows how far before that!). He ran (I knew he would!) to the bike shop just before it closed, and got a new tyre. Though not the one he wanted.
You wouldn’t read about it. Well you are, but we wouldn’t. You know what I mean.
While Ned rushed off in front, Rosie and I leisurely finished what was left of the rail trail. It was almost 5:00pm on Friday, and Rosie had been expecting a very important email that had been weighing on her mind for days. 5:00pm ticked over, and the email never came. She said that at least it meant she could relax, which to a certain extent was true. It must have been torturous for her! I didn't have a care in the world. Ned and Rosie had both paid regular attention to their mobile phones over the last 9 days. I’d hardly touched mine. But maybe that’s just because they both had special contraptions to charge their phones while riding, and I was just worried about saving battery for emergencies.
Rosie and I met up with Ned installing his new tyre down the main street. For at least the next hour, we rode around town looking for somewhere to have dinner. We eventually, eventually, decided on Mexican. Here’s an excerpt from my notes (it’s not right to call it a journal) that night: “Mexican for tea. Rude waitress. 6/10. Atmosphere was good though.”
Then we spent the next hour or so finding a place to camp. This was getting a bit tedious too, but credit to Ned, we never failed to find a pretty place to pull up stumps. It was bitterly cold that night. We were straight to bed once the tents were up.
| Destination | Distance (km) | Moving Time (h:mm:ss) | Elapsed Time (h:mm:ss) | Elevation (m) | Average Speed (km/h) | Maximum Speed (km/h) |
| Day 9: Simpsons Creek to Bairnsdale | 93.9 | 5:13:28 | 11:28:45 | 865 | 18.0 | 46.1 |
Day 10: Bairnsdale to Willow Grove
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| Our campsite at Picnic Point, Bairnsdale. |
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| Our campsite at Picnic Point, Bairnsdale. |
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| The view from our campsite at Picnic Point, Bairnsdale. |
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| A low layer of mist, viewed from our campsite at Picnic Point, Bairnsdale. |
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| A low layer of mist, viewed from our campsite at Picnic Point, Bairnsdale. |
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| Spot the insect! |
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| Packing up at our campsite at Picnic Point. |
I woke up with the sun again and hopped out of bed. Josh must have been pretty tuckered out because he didn't even stir when I packed up my bed. I went for a little walk around the hill, which felt like an island with surrounding mist, it was almost surreal. Josh and Rosie rose a little later and we ate breakfast. They'd both been sitting on the fence about whether or not they were going to ride the rest of the way back to Melbourne or whether they would instead take the easy way out and hop on the train at Bairnsdale. The decision could have gone either way. Rosie had made her decision though, and announced that she would catch the train. She wasn't too keen to ride along what she expected to be flat and boring roads for the rest of the route to Melbourne, and she wanted to get back home to spend Fathers Day with Dad the next day.
Josh subsequently made his decision, also to catch the train. Some cousins of his who'd been visiting from Ireland were flying back home in a few days, and if he caught the train back to Melbourne, he'd be able to get home to Horsham so that he could catch his cousins for lunch on the Sunday before they flew out.
So that just left me. And for me, there was no decision - I was never going to catch the train, I'm much too stubborn for that! I was disappointed to be losing my travel companions after how far we'd come. We slowly rode back down the river to Bairnsdale and across to the station where we said our goodbyes.
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| Bats in the tree by the Mitchell River, Bairnsdale. |
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| Rosie, Josh and Ned by the Mitchell River, Bairnsdale. |
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| Rosie, Josh and Ned by the Mitchell River, Bairnsdale. |
At least being on my own meant I could ride as far as I wanted without having to worry about leaving anyone behind. And ride fast I did, sitting on 25-30 km/h all the way to Stratford, I was there in no time. And the weather was perfect, barely a cloud in the sky, a pleasant temperature and a tail-wind.
In Stratford I ate a meat pie for first lunch, and as I was heading off, I saw the train from Bairnsdale pull in at the station. I rode along beside it for a while and tried to spot Rosie and Josh on there but couldn't see them. I waved anyway.
From Stratford I followed a rail-trail and cruised along listening to some lectures on
Nietzsche to keep my mind occupied. I stopped in Heyfield for a relaxing lunch in the park, and cooked up some cous cous with tuna and lentils on the Trangia. A young Asian couple stopped by and chatted for a good while. They were both quite fascinated with my trip and my bike, and the guy, Anson, was even quite inspired, and decided he wanted to get a bike himself and do some touring. I gave him my phone number so he could give me a call about buying a bike and going touring.
The rail-trail continued all the way through to Traralgon.
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| On the rail-trail between Heyfield and Traralgon. |
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| On the rail-trail between Heyfield and Traralgon. |
I was following the trail so blindly, and so absorbed in the Nietzsche lectures, that I was in Traralgon before I knew it and I'd missed the turn I intended to take to bypass the town on the quieter roads to the north. That meant my route was a little longer as I had to go through Traralgon and then head north again to bypass Morwell so that I wasn't on the busy Princes Highway. My route then took me through the scenic Yallourn North, home of some massive open-cut coal mines and the famous
Yallourn Power Station. I'm being facetious about it being scenic, but it was actually very impressive to see one of the power stations at close range. They are more massive than I realised.
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| Yallourn Power Station. |
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| An open-cut coal mine at Yallourn North. |
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| Yallourn Power Station. |
I got to Moe and wandered around a while to find a pizzeria. Then I stocked up on supplies from the supermarket, ate my large pizza in a lonely park and got back on the bike. It was getting on at this stage, and I was tired and ready to set up camp, but wanted to get to the next town before I did. The next town was Willow Grove, another 15 km on and with a decent climb, and situated by a Lake, I'd had a peek on Google Street view while I was eating my pizza so I knew there was a good spot to camp there by the lake. This proved to be the case, with an abundance of picnic tables and grass beside the scenic lake. I was pretty tired after a solid eight hours on the bike and 176 km, and wasted no time in setting up my tent and hopping into bed.
Josh's Perspective
During breakfast, Rosie announced that she would be getting the train back to Melbourne from Bairnsdale, so that she could be back home at Mt Franklin for Father’s day the next day. I could either get the train with Rosie, or ride on with Ned for as long as I could, or as long as I had, which ever came first.
If I went with Ned, it would probably mean tackling some pretty tough mountainous terrain, as I expected him to take a D-tour home. But it meant I would extend the adventure for a little while.
If I caught the train with Rosie, it would mean Ned would be alone, and he might end up as the only one who could say he rode from Sydney to Melbourne. But it meant I could be home in Heywood for Father’s day too, and I could also catch some relatives before they flew back to Ireland.
When I started the ride, I said that my goal was to make it to Bairnsdale, and in the end, it was this factor that swayed me one way over the other. I had achieved what I set out to achieve. I felt like I could go on, but that in itself was enough to convince me there was no real need to. So after much thought, and with a heavy heart, I decided to catch the train with Rosie. We all rode to the train station, via public toilets and park for some triumphant photos, and from there Ned set off alone.
And that’s pretty much it. Rosie and I enjoyed the train ride, stopped for some delicious dumplings in the city, and rode the last few k’s of our tour up to the Northern suburbs, where we parted ways.
When I was putting my bike into my car out the front of Ned’s house, a woman came out of her house to ask me if this was my car. I said it was, and she said that she was a few days off calling the police as she thought the car must have been stolen and abandoned. She said that it was just so unusual for a car to be left untouched for so long up a street where “parking is at such a premium”. I explained myself, apologised for any inconvenience I had caused, and she cooled down and went back inside. When I started the car and started rolling forwards, I realised I’d forgotten how to drive. I was nervous all the way out of the city.
All in all, I had the time of my life, and I’d accept another similar invitation tomorrow. Thank you so much to Sam, Ned and Rosie for getting me off my arse and helping me invest my annual leave in something truly worthwhile. Let’s do it again!
| Destination | Distance (km) | Moving Time (h:mm:ss) | Elapsed Time (h:mm:ss) | Elevation (m) | Average Speed (km/h) | Maximum Speed (km/h) |
| Day 10: Bairnsdale to Willow Grove | 175.5 | 7:52:24 | 11:38:31 | 807 | 22.3 | 52.6 |
Day 11: Willow Grove to Melbourne (Northcote)
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| Overlooking Blue Rock Lake at sunrise. |
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| My campsite by the Blue Rock Lake. |
Final day of the trip! I was up at 6:20 am, and packed, fed and on the road by 8 am. The road continued climbing, and progress was initially slow. I felt remarkably sluggish and thought "ah, I'll be right once I warm up a bit more". But that didn't seem to happen. I just felt really tired and lethargic...which I guess shouldn't have been surprising given how far I rode the previous day. It was going to be a long day! At least the scenery and weather was great though.
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| Blue Rock Lake from Willow Grove Road. |
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| Looking back towards Warragul from Willow Grove Road. |
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| Willow Grove Road, beside Icy Creek. |
The climbing lasted for 17 km, then a downhill before Vesper, where I knew there was a massive hill (Vesper Hill) from rides I'd done to Mt Baw Baw in the past. Then through Noojee, Powelltown and eventually to Yarra Junction. From there I hopped onto the Warburton-Lilydale rail-trail. I stopped in Woori Yallock for lunch, then rode to Lilydale.
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| The Loch River at Noojee. |
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| On the Lilydale-Warburton rail-trail, heading towards Lilydale. |
From Lilydale I had to take Whitehorse Road because I didn't know any other way, and that felt like the most dangerous part of the trip. One bloke yelled out the window of his car "get off the road!" It's frustrating that there's no opportunity to have a discussion with people like that, and explain that they've no more right to drive their car on the road than I do to ride my bike on it.
Anyway, once I got to Ringwood is was a relief to get onto the bike path, which I followed all the way to Kew. Then it was just another 5 km to Northcote, and I was finally home!
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| View of the city over the Eastern Freeway from the Koonung Trail. |
It was before 5 pm when I got home so I'd made reasonably good time, not from riding fast but from only taking infrequent and short breaks. The first things I did when I got home were tend to the garden, eat a bowl of crunchy-nut cornflakes (one of the best meals ever!), unpacked, showered and shaved, washed my clothes and cooked pumpkin soup for tea.
So in a nutshell, or maybe something a little larger, like an egg-shell, that was my Sydney to Melbourne ride. Everything went quite smoothly, despite only limited planning. It was a good ride, a challenge, great to see all the towns along the NSW coast south of Sydney that people talk about but that I had never been to. Actually it was only the second time I'd been to Sydney, the first time was in 2001 for the Scout Jamboree. One thing that stood out was how friendly all the people we ran into along the way were. Whenever we stopped, people were asking how we were going, where we were going and where we'd come from, and wished us luck. And a handfull of people even spontaneously offered for us to stay with them. "Australians!", we kept saying to each other.
Maybe next time I ride between Melbourne and Sydney I'll take an inland route through Jindabyne. Who's in?
Finally, thanks to Rosie, Josh and Sam for the trip!
| Destination | Distance (km) | Moving Time (h:mm:ss) | Elapsed Time (h:mm:ss) | Elevation (m) | Average Speed (km/h) | Maximum Speed (km/h) |
| Sydney to Melbourne | 1202.2 | 66.75 | 116.42 | 12,917 | 18.0 | 77.4 |
| Sydney to Bairnsdale (for Josh and Rosie) | 877 | 51.13 | 95.41 | 10,410 | 17.2 | 70.9 |
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