The third City2City journey was by far the longest to date. By the time I reached Darwin on October 8th I'd covered almost 6000km in 105 days, compared with Melbourne2Sydney (1500km, 53 days) and Melbourne2Adelaide (2000km, 45 days). Distance is not a measure of quality and each journey is totally different and satisfying in it's individual way.

The average daily distance on this trip was some 55km compared to 28km and 44km on the previous two. Average distance obviously varies dependent on how much the different modes of transport are used. Brisbane2Darwin featured more MTB riding which, being the fastest mode, increases the average. It was certainly not the case that I was trying to rush the journey. It was more a case of the terrain offering much more widely spaced opportunities for extended walking in inspirational places. Additionally the appalling weather in the earlier periods forced me to abandon a planned walk in Cooloola National Park (it was 2 metres under water!) and the sea kayak through the Whitsundays.

Before setting off from Brisbane I knew the journey would throw up some new challenges for me. I'm totally at home in cold, snowy, wet mountain conditions. Brisbane2Darwin was going to throw up little of that. The challenge would be getting used to the hot, dry conditions; particularly in the latter half of the trip once I'd turned left at the Atherton Tablelands.

Brisbane2Darwin would also be the first encounter with crocodiles and it was interesting coming to terms with a new 'fear'. This journey would also be the longest continual journey I had undertaken so it was going to be interesting to see how I fared over the three and a half months. The route also proved an opportunity to understand some of the many differences in outlook between the big Australian cities and the small country towns and farms which are far enough away not to be within the sphere of influence of these cities. The different needs, the different challenges, the optimism and the despair in equal measures

Support Crew

Meeting people along the route, once I've answered the first question "Where have you come from/where are you going" the next one was "So how do you carry your bike/canoes/walking gear?"

The answer of course is that I could not do City2City without a support team to meet me at the various changeover points. For Brisbane2Darwin various people took on this role at different stages. Many of them came from one family: the Barry's.

After Wendy, my much better half, had left me at Hervey Bay, Laurie Barry took over the support role as far as Townsville. At Townsville he handed over the baton to his daughter Nicki and her partner Mark Raddatz who came as far as the end of the Mitchell River. Thanks guys, you did a superb job. They left me to ride the long stretch across the Gulf while they returned with the support vehicle to Sydney. It seemed crazy for the vehicle to go all the way to Darwin just to do a few change-overs in the Northern Territory - the last thing I wanted to do when I arrived in Darwin was drive 5000km home! This plan relied upon folks in the Territory helping with changeovers and canoes. Into the breach stepped Snowy and Jenny of Gecko Canoeing. Snowy not only took me down the fine Katherine River but he helped with most of the NT changeovers.

One final member of the Barry clan deserves special mention. Cecilia, Laurie's wife and Nicki's mother, ran my office for the times Wendy and I were away.

The Journey

Ludwig Leichhardt

In 1845 this eccentric German explorer led a small party to try and find a way from Brisbane to Port Essington (near present day Darwin). Enduring horrendous conditions and attacks by aborigines they reached their destination after 15 months. My route in 1999 would traverse much of the country these brave early explorers had visited over 150 years earlier.

26/6-1/7: MTB from Brisbane to Tin Can Bay. 350km

Brisbane 'tricked' me. The sun was shining as I rode away from Brisbane City Hall. It even shone an hour later when I looked down upon the city from the heights of Mt Coot-tha. Five days later I was still waiting for the torrential rain to stop. In the mad rush to get away on any long journey, fitness seems to take a back seat. I rely upon getting fit during the first few weeks. Thus it was a slightly unfit and very soaked mountain biker who weaved his way through the Sunshine Coast hinterland. After a couple of days of such wetness I descended from the planned route of dirt tracks in the forested D'Aguilar ranges looking for dryness at lower levels. I was so miserably wet that even a sign into a property I was cutting through starting with 'If You Think You're Welcome, Think Again' followed by 'Trespassers Shot. Survivors Prosecuted' didn't faze me (ah the warm Queensland welcome!). I was caught by a wild looking fellow but I think he took pity on me.

I was certainly getting my teeth into the trip: howling in pain riding down the roads with the cool, damp air rushing across some serious tooth problem. The second night out found me sheltering in the public toilet at Mt Mee, the only dry place around. Shades of my first night out from Melbourne in similar weather on the Melbourne2Sydney journey: the Warrandyte public toilet!

Having abandoned the high tops I weaved along sealed country roads through Woodford, Maleny and over to Kenilworth on the first 100km + day. Wendy was there and we luxuriated (well it was dry!) in a room at the pub. The sun made a very brief appearance the morning I rode to Noosa. Popping painkillers for my tooth for breakfast and lunch. As a welcome to Noosa the heavens opened again and I found Wendy sheltering in a caravan park. "Do you want the good or the bad news?" she asked. The bad. "The whole of the Cooloola National Park is flooded and closed." The good. "But I've got you into a dentist this afternoon". Going to a dentist is good news?!

Two sessions of tooth nerve removal solved the problem. It was obvious that my planned paddle up the Noosa River and walk along the Cooloola Wilderness Trail had to be abandoned. Most of the Trail was a metre under water! This was a disappointment: having to change the route so early in the journey. I was less than enthusiastic as I hopped back on the bike, in bucketing rain, to ride the 90km through to Tin Can Bay on a variety of roads and tracks. Things can't really get wetter I thought.

2/7-4/7: Sea Kayak from Tin Can Bay, up Fraser Island, to Hervey Bay. 96km

Tin Can Bay was a pleasant place, a far cry from the over development and glitz of Noosa, an 'international' resort town desperately worried about losing it's beach to the storms! Le soleil - at last, a fine morning to paddle across to Fraser Island. Loaded up the Perception Sea Lion with 3 days of food and kayaked out into the Great Sandy Strait and onto the west coast of Fraser, the world's largest sand island. The paddle up the coast was very pleasant, threading my way through mangrove channels and enjoying a couple of beach camps. The dingos on Fraser are too bloody inquisitive, ready to pounce on anything around camp as soon as you take your eye off it. I had to chase one for 200 metres down the beach and into the scrub in order to retrieve my billie! The weather remained very unsettled with heavy rain squalls and strong winds. I left Fraser Island at Kingfisher Bay to paddle across to Duck Island and thence to Big Woody Island. The sea was choppy with a strong tidal flow making for interesting paddling. Big Woody Island was a beauty, particularly out of the wind on the NE coast. From there it was an easy hop across to Hervey Bay.

5/7-19/7: MTB via Bicentennial Trail to Eungella Nat Park. 1183km

Hervey Bay marked the start of a long MTB section of some 1200km up the Bicentennial National Trail to Eungella National Park. This trail runs from just outside Melbourne to Cooktown on Cape York, some 5000km. It was originally intended primarily for horse trailriders but, as I discovered, it presents a superb MTB route. The Trail follows existing stock routes, forest trails, dirt roads and open paddocks through some very fine country. There are occasional route markers hammered into trees or fence posts but these may disappear for whole sections and I certainly managed to get geographically embarrassed on more than one occasion.

It was hard leaving Wendy in Hervey Bay; the next time I'd see her would be in Darwin. However I was more than happy to leave the green satin sheets of the caravan park cabin we'd stayed in. Pity the poor buggers who stay there for their annual holiday (although maybe some people like green satin sheets but there must be a skill to stopping yourself sliding off!). I cut inland to Wongi State Forest, at times having to slow down as I was catching rain showers up that had already soaked me once on their way north. Joining the National Trail at the Burnett River I was in for some exhilarating riding across to Mt Perry via the Goodnight Scrub National Park and the first of thousands of cattle encounters. I still can't work out how these mammoth live butchers shops can get their bulk through a 3 strand barbed wire fence by just charging at it and appearing seemingly unscathed on the other side.

Mt Perry was a beautifully kept little village where the residents obviously took great pride in the place. They were unfailingly friendly and despite it being early in the day I couldn't resist enjoying their hospitality for the night. The pub threw up all sorts of characters: the forestry contractors rehydrating after a hard day in the bush, two gentlemen in tuxedos heading to God knows where and the village 'pub politician' who had a view and philosophy on everything and was determined everyone else would hear him out.

Days of fun riding and good camps under a now blue sky; I was getting into the rhythm of the trip, the routine. Life gets all very simple: wake, breakfast and pack, ride/walk/paddle, camp, dinner, read/write, sleep. Via the Kolan River and into Cania Gorge National Park. Here the Trail heads into the wild and rugged Kroombit Tops where I would have been forced to carry or push the bike for most of 3 days. I was keen to find an alternative riding route and luckily bumped into an old farmer at Cania Gorge who, after calling a few friends of his, headed me onto some wild riding through some properties on the western side of the Tops.

A couple of days later I was wandering round the Don Valley trying to work out which track might take me in something like the right direction. Many hours later and a waterless camp, my first ever inside an old wooden cattle yard (felt safer there with this aggressive looking bull on the outside! ). Averaging some 80/90 km a day. On the day I was approaching the town of Mount Morgan a lady on a vast cattle property tried to get me to take one of her dogs with me. She seemed somewhat offended when I explained that apart from hating dogs, it could be a bit difficult on the bike!

Ah the Leichhardt Hotel in Mount Morgan. $15 for the pleasure of a room that I'm sure hadn't been cleaned since the 50's and perhaps not slept in since the 70's. My body could not contort itself into the bends the soft mattress asked of it. Another old mining town that was dying on it's feet, whose time had come and gone leaving a population, a large stock of houses and commercial buildings but little work. Where every second shop was an Op Shop and every third one closed. A situation mirrored across rural and outback Australia and a challenge for locals and national policy makers cocooned in their big cities on the coast. Every small town wants it's piece of the tourism cake but often there is little to offer for the long drive to them. I stocked up on supplies and moved on, riding toward the Fitzroy River.

It had been a long day and I was looking forward to a camp by the river. I skidded down the gravel road to the causeway and there on the best camping spot was an old stationwagon and a man sat next to it. I rode across.

"How's things"

"Shit"

"Oh"

"My clutch is buggered, I want to kill the man who fixed it and it's a good job I'm not armed"

"Oh"

He continued to rant and rave. I said I'd help where I could but did not have a lot to offer other than a bit of food. Decided to look on the other side of the river for a camp. No go; it was metre high spear grass. No choice but to go back to my psycho friend. Pitched camp some 30 metres away and was putting a brew on when off he went:

"They've put me in jail 3 times and they're after me again but I won't let the bastards catch me"

"Oh"

"And soldiers these days, they can't handle death. They give 'em trauma counselling - pah! I still love the sight of blood and dismembered bodies. If only I was armed I'd go back and kill the bastard who 'fixed' my clutch" he screamed at me, shaking uncontrollably with the veins on his forehead pulsating.

I decided not to bother pointing out that he'd find it hard to get to the mechanic given his car was immobile. I sat by the tent and weighed up my options. Stay here and not be able to sleep a wink, fearful this madman would slash my throat or similar. Or pack up in the now darkness and move on. I chose the latter. He continued to scream while I repacked and left him and the river behind. 500metres or so along the track I came to a property. Decided to call in and ask if it was OK to camp in a paddock. The bad turns to good. Curly, the farmer invited me in, and I spent a very enjoyable evening discussing life on a remote cattle station, before a sound, undisturbed sleep.

From the Fitzroy River, my route took me back toward the coast near Ogmore and my first few kms on the Bruce Highway, the main road up the Queensland coast. I pushed hard to reach Ogmore that day believing there to be an old pub, the Styx Hotel, and general store to get some supplies. The last 20km into the setting sun had me dreaming of a cold beer on the verandah. My luck was out - the pub was shuttered, the shop nowhere to be seen. A scenario so common in small communities: shops, post offices, banks closing at an alarming rate. The caretaker, Doug, allowed me to sleep in a room in this 'pub with no beer'.

The following days were all 100km plus as I climbed steeply away from the coast onto the Connors Range and past a few properties en route to Nebo and beyond to climb up to Eungella Dam and Broken River, looking forward to resting my weary derriere. After 2 weeks in the browns of inland Queensland, the lush rainforests of Eungella were a welcome sight.

20/7-22/7: Walk up Mt Dalrymple and descend St Helens Creek, Eungella Nat Park. 21km
22/7: MTB to St Helens Beach. 27km
23/7: Sea Kayak to Midge Point. 25km

In 1971, members of Mackay Bushwalking Club cut a track to the summit of Mt Dalrymple, at 1280m the highest point for many hundreds of kms. The track was not always easy to follow but bits of tape guided the way and I was rushing through the rainforest to reach the summit before sunset, stopping occasionally to drink from clear streams tumbling down amongst the mass of roots and polished rocks. I failed and blundered up in failing light to pitch the tent on a tiny clear patch amongst some giant granite boulders. The altimeter on my Vector indicated I was close to the summit and a gap in the rocks allowed a brief view before total darkness fell. In the first light of dawn I discovered how close to the top I was. I clambered up the boulder by which I was camped to find it formed the summit. A perfectly flat 10 metre square rock platform offered views out across Cape Conway, the southern islands of the Whitsundays and down to Mackay. The sun rose out of the sea and fired up the mountain upon which I sat, feeling very self satisfied. Effort + Luck = Inspiration

There was something immensely satisfying about descending on a compass bearing from the summit down steep, rocky slopes to the trickle that formed St Helens Creek then following this creek almost to sea level for 2 days. No tracks, just boulder hopping down the creek bed, diverting around waterfalls to clamber amongst the tangled vegetation, including encounters with the vicious lawyer vine that delights in grabbing and ripping every bit of skin and cloth it can. The creek was spectacular: cascades and waterslides dropping into deep clear pools, rocky platforms fringed with rainforest, Azure Kingfishers diving for food; no sight nor sign of others having passed this way. Some nasty slips reminding me how easy it would be to break an ankle or twist a knee in such an environment. Eventually the creek came out onto the coastal plain and I found myself wandering through a banana plantation. David Hunter, the owner, greeted me as I passed the homestead. We talked a while about my trip and I learnt something of banana farming before he sent me on my way loaded down with bunches of the fruit.

From the highs of Eungella, I descended to the major disappointment of the journey. I rode the short distance to St Helens Beach as grey clouds scudded across the evening sky. The forecast was not promising: rain and gale force winds for the forecastable future. That night I slept soundly but dreamt heavily: I was swimming for some kms whilst trying to keep my bike dry above my head. Bypassing all these snorkellers all was going fine until a huge crab attached itself to my leg.

Woke to an angry red sky. The plan was to paddle up the coast to Midge Point then a 15km open water crossing to the Repulse Islands before heading around Cape Conway and up through the Whitsunday Passage and eventually to Bowen. I decided to kayak up to Midge Point, meet the support vehicle again there and reappraise the situation. The tide was out by the time I'd sorted gear and thus had to drag the kayak a km to find water. I soon found myself paddling through ever increasing wind and rain squalls under a grey sky. That night it poured and all small craft were advised to take a few days off. Not weather for open crossings. I decided to ride the 70km to Airlie Beach and hope for an improvement. We stayed with Neil and Hayley, owners of Salty Dog Sea Kayaking. Neil had hoped to join me for a few days but it was not to be. The wind blew stronger and eventually after a couple of days I had to cut my losses and move on. I was very sad to miss the Whitsundays but it turned out to be the correct decision; it was almost a week before the weather finally calmed.

24/7-3/8: MTB to Lucinda via Bicent Trail/PalumaRange. 800km

So it was back onto the metal steed, being blown north up the highway to Bowen (self styled 'Climate Capital of Australia'!) before being pushed in the face as I battled south west to Collinsville, feeling incredibly weak, to rejoin the Bicentennial Trail. The weakness was explained that night when I slept not a wink; coughing and blowing the snozz all night. Welcome to the flu!

Fixing a broken spoke on the side of the track, a ute pulled up: "15km ahead at the Bowen River Rodeo Ground there's a couple camped riding the Trail on horses and my old man has got some cold beer waiting at his property". The flu, broken spokes, punctures and the thought of meeting some fellow travellers all conspired to have me only as far as the Bowen River that evening. Ed and Maria were taking a year and a half to ride the trail, a far cry from a yacht, their home for the past 25 years. Jim Hilliers ran a cattle property and looked after the rodeo ground in between the one weekend a year it was used. It turned into a confusing night for me. We joined Jim at his home for a few drinks, which probably did not help my already befuddled head. Earlier I'd noticed a beautiful full moon. Jim drove us back to the rodeo ground and as I'd not yet pitched my tent he suggested I just sleep in the corrugated shed/hall.

We said goodnight and as I wandered into the hall I noticed the moon was only half. Bloody strange, but I was too tired to wonder how or why. In the early hours I half awoke to the sound of cans being dragged around. What the hell? Perhaps I was dreaming. I drifted off. No there they were again. I got out of my warm cocoon and wandered around the shed. It stopped and I saw nothing. I went outside but nothing (but the moon was full now!). Back to bed and a fitful sleep. Then something was moving towards me on the floor. I sat bolt upright and grabbed my torch. There in the beam scurried not one but 2 echidnas! They headed under the floorboards and the rattling began. Now I understood; decades of wild rodeo weekends had lined the floor with empty tinnies. The echidnas were snuffling around amongst them under the floor! One puzzle solved. The following morning Jim mentioned the eclipse of the moon. Two solved!

I rode over the Leichhardt Range, my old mate Ludwig having passed this way, and across the lonely road to the Burdekin Dam and Lake Dalrymple, the largest dam in Queensland. Near the dam was a small caravan park and a good quota of Grey Nomads were in residence.

I was to meet 3 main subcultures on this journey. The Grey Nomads, retirees exploring Queensland; their shiny new Falcons and Commodores towing luxurious caravans. I'd heard that 40,000 Victorians left for the Sunshine State each winter. Harmless and friendly enough, they did the circuit of caravan parks up the coast, some brave souls venturing into the interior. These Dons and Merles would proffer freshly baked fruit cake or a cup of tea. They'd ask questions but invariably it was so they could really tell you about their family. So for example: "So you're riding a bicycle" they'd ask. "Yeah, I've been riding since ......" Then before you'd finished they'd grab the opportunity: "Well Danielle, our daughter, she once rode a bike in Wales. She had such an adventure. She went.......blah, blah, blah"

Or perhaps: "So where are you heading to?" they'd ask. "Well I'm actually heading to Darwin but........" "Oh really, Don was up near Darwin in the 50's weren't you Don? Tell Huw what it was like" And off Don would go. But the cake was nice.

Then there were The Backpackers. One year here, one year to complete the circuit of Oz, working a little along the way. Ancient old stationwagons loaded up with camping gear, water containers, Eskies. Giving lifts, sharing petrol. Woe betide anyone who veered away from a standard Holden or Ford. Up in the town of Normanton on the Gulf, I saw 3 Austrians pushing their dead Volvo through town desperately (and unsuccessfully) trying to find a mechanic who knew anything about them. Tales of the best backpackers hostel or pizza, the cheapest trip out onto the Reef. "Where you going next?" they'd say to each other. "Oh I'll probably see you up there."

And finally the 4WD/Fishing/Hunting mob. Toyota Troopie's loaded with spare tyres, big fridges and grog. Towing tinnie's, off to catch the big Barra or knock down a few pigs. Some great characters but some boorish rednecks too. This group usually found in the more remote areas and I didn't start encountering them in any numbers until the Gulf Country.

From the Dam I had some sealed road out to the old gold town of Ravenswood with it's well preserved buildings from a bygone era. Then it was back into the bush and the odd property. At one, Laroona, the stockmen were loading cattle onto trucks at the start of their long journey to Egypt (the cattle that is, not the stockmen). The fascinating economics of live cattle exports, 20,000 per ship. Of Queensland Brahmins being slaughtered and sold in the local butchers in Cairo. The riding through to the Running River (one of the few that actually was) was superb, a winding track through open woodlands and golden grass. I left the Trail here to make my way back toward the coast via Hidden Valley. In the planning of the trip some mountain bikers from Townsville had put me onto a route that would take me over the Paluma Range from Hidden Valley and a 700metre descent to Jourama Falls. The only downside was that the end of the route involved running the gauntlet of a cyclist/tourist/walker hating landowner, a view that was repeated to me at Hidden Valley by two locals.

The track onto the range was hard to find but eventually I picked it up and wound my way to the crest of the range, thick forest lining the track. By this time I'd decided to try and make it to Jourama that day but realised I'd be finishing in the dark. The track swooped downhill in a series of switchbacks on a rough surface, for some of the most exhilarating riding to date, the Ortleib panniers hanging on for dear life. The light was fading as I eventually reached the edge of the State Forest, expecting to confront locked gates, unfriendly signs, barbed wire. There was nothing but the darkness in which I found myself. According to the map I was only some 4km from the falls and a meeting with the support team. But whither the track? It was nowhere to be found. After some time blundering through the vegetation looking for signs of an old track, I was forced to give up and take my only other option. Follow another track 12km northwards, the opposite direction to what I wanted, onto the Bruce Highway. Follow that south for 12km then turn off west for 6km to Jourama Falls. 30km when I'd expected 4km. 14hrs and 130km of rough riding that day and I finally caught up with Mark and Nicki for a late dinner of peanuts and pecan pie!

The following morning the ranger at Jourama confirmed the link track had indeed been totally reclaimed by the bush.

4/8-11/8: Sea Kayak up Hinchinbrook Is then Family Group to Bramston Beach. 140km

By the time I reached Lucinda, it was obvious the grey shutters were going to be pulled over the sky whenever I came within a spit of the Queensland coast. Across the channel the mountains of Hinchinbrook Island were wreathed in cloud that hung almost to the water. The forecast was appalling again but I had a few days up my sleeve and was prepared to wait out the bad weather. Nothing was going to stop me paddling this jewel of the Australian outdoors.

The Sea Lion was loaded with 10 days worth of provisions and in the early afternoon launched under the sugar loading jetty, the world's longest at 6km. It was a quick 4km or so over to George Point and along the sweeping sands of Mulligans Beach. Camp that evening became very familiar: I stayed for 3 nights as the wind screamed and the rain fell. Time was passed in long walks along the beach and up to Mulligans Falls and occasional chats with drenched walkers on the Thorsborne Trail, a classic 4 day walk along the east coast of Hinchinbrook. Time to read, to write and to listen to the forecast on the Walkman: "Winds to 30knots, swells inside the reef rising to 3 metres, rain."

Eventually the weather seemed to relent and I packed up. I'd picked a lull and no sooner was the kayak in the water, the wind and rain returned. Hillock Point disappeared into a thick mist and I was bouncing my way toward it. I rounded the Point and was running with the wind and the swell musing on what fun this would be under blue skies with a few friends. Alone and enveloped in grey, I felt quite nervy. The swell carried me up the coast until a perfect wave put me on a long, long ride into the southern corner of Zoe Bay. How quickly feelings change from uncertainty to exhilaration.

The following 2 days offered perfection. With vastly improving weather, I left the beauty of Zoe Bay and continued up the coast; the bulk of Mt Bowen (1121m) and Mt Diamantina (955m) shaking off their greycoats and revealing wild cliffs and pinnacles, rising from forested flanks. Around each rocky headland, a perfect beach. The sun appeared and instantly the swell seemed friendlier. The wind was creating a hefty crashing surf onto the 9km sweep of Ramsey Beach as I paddled up to Cape Sandwich which offered a final washing machine ride before putting me into the calm of the aptly named Shepherd Bay. Here, sheltered from the sou' easterly, I let out a loud 'Yahoo' and felt an inner satisfaction the like of which only good days in the outdoors can engender. A dugong surfaced to say hello and a dolphin fish leapt over the bow as I paddled into Sunset Beach to end a perfect day.

Silence. Utter silence. Not a breath. A millpond turquoise sea to leave Hinchinbrook behind to cross to Goold Island then the 13km across to tiny Wheeler Island where I met up and camped with Neil Kennedy from Salty Dog and his group, who I'd been hoping to catch at some point. From here I threaded my way past Dunk Island and across to the mainland near Mission Beach. There was a strong temptation to head out to the Barnard Islands but more bad weather was forecast and I didn't have time to be caught out there. So I stuck to the coast and indeed that night back came the wind. The last 40km up to Bramston Beach took in coastal rainforest falling almost into the sea and long lonely beaches. I timed the paddle across the sandbars near Innisfail badly and had fun amongst the chop before the last few hours of a great weeks' paddle took me into Bramston Beach.

12/8: MTB to Josephine Falls. 27km
12/8-13/8: Walk over Mt Bartle Frere. 15km

Leaving the ocean behind for the last time until Darwin, Bramston Beach was where I turned left. Bartle Frere, at 1622m Queensland's highest mountain was hidden from view by cloud as I rode to it'd base. Indeed I was told it was like that for most of the year with the summit receiving up to 12 metres of rain a year. It was a steep 1500m climb from the car park at Josephine Falls and I started up in mid afternoon, legs soon covered in leeches.

Half way up I met a group coming down warning me how miserable it was on top. The path meandered up ridges, scrambled up steep tree route sections and over boulders. Occasionally I could glimpse the sky through the forest canopy and saw patches of blue. At about 1450m the narrow track emerged from the forest onto a small tussock grass plateau and I couldn't believe my luck - the cloud had gone and the evening light lit up the flanks of the mountain. There was a spot just big enough for my tent and, as the temperature fell rapidly, I cooked dinner and hoped my luck would hold for the sunrise.

It more than held. Just below my camp was a cloud sea stretching out across the sea far below. The sun came up and gave me the rare pleasure of a Brocken Spectre, the sun rising behind me and throwing my shadow out across the cloud below. Around the shadow is a rainbow halo and you can jump around and wave to your shadow. The light was golden and coming on top of the Hinchinbrook paddle, I felt a certain sensory overload.

Half an hour of scrambling over boulders up the ridge put me at the highest point of the journey; it was all downhill to Darwin now!

13/8: MTB to Atherton. 53km
14/8-15/8: Atherton Rest Days
16/8: MTB to Walsh River. 103km
17/8-19/8: Walk down Walsh River to near Chillagoe. 57km
19/8: MTB to Chillagoe. 12km

I descended the western flanks of Bartle Frere to pick my bike up for the ride through the lush, fertile Tablelands to Atherton. The bright green grass almost hurt the eyes and I pitied the residents who I'm sure must spend most of their days mowing lawns. Mark, Nicki and I enjoyed a couple of days with some old friends in Atherton. One of these 'rest' days involved a 6hr climb of a nearby mountain!

So far I'd had various reports on my planned 60km walk down the Walsh River. These ranged from "You'll need at least 7 days to do it" to "You should have no problems in 2 days". I was keen to find out and rode 100km to the increasingly dry country near Dimbulah and down to the Walsh on some rough tracks near Wolfram. Day one down the river was a struggle. I woke with an attack of the shits and a body feeling very lethargic and eventually shuffled off down the river. I alternated between hopping over boulder fields and wading down sandy beaches by the river and following old brumby tracks up on the banks. The river itself was flowing slowly between long waterholes and I crossed it a number of times in an effort to find the easiest route. Each time I stopped I found it hard to find the energy to rouse myself. A very welcome camp on the first night was a fine spot: a large white sandy beach opposite red cliffs dropping into a deep, dark pool.

Temperatures were noticeably on the rise, up in the mid 20's now. Whatever bug I had cleared up that night and I had the spring in the step back for the next two days of great walking down the valley to a 4WD track some 20km from Chillagoe. I was there before Mark and Nicki and started walking out and met them some hours later, grabbing the bike to ride to this last village before the vast expanses of the Gulf Country.

20/8: MTB to Mt Mulgrave Crossing, Mitchell River. 123km
21/8-25/8: Canoe Mitchell River to beyond Highbury Station. 135km
25/8: Walk with Canoe to Burke Devpt Road. 2km

Passing some spectacular limestone pinnacles out of Chillagoe (not realising they'd be the last hills I'd see for 16 days) I rode out along the Burke Developmental Road thence down to the Mitchell River at Mt Mulgrave.

"Hey Huw, this kayaker got pulled in by a croc off the Cape York Peninsula yesterday" Thanks Mark, just what I needed to know before launching onto the Mitchell River for a week of solo paddling. A new fear for me to come to terms with. Trying to distinguish between fear borne of ignorance, myth, advice, the over cautiousness of Parks and Wildlife services publications. And the difference that being solo makes - nobody to joke about the feelings with, the bravado that comes with being amongst others. I was reading Clear Waters Rising, an account by Nicholas Crane of his 17 month walk across the mountain ranges of Europe from Spain to Turkey. One line summed it up: 'The wall between caution and paranoia is hard to hold up with one pair of hands'

For the paddle I was using a Perception Swing open top kayak that proved ideal - heaps of room for gear and very manoeuvrable. The Mitchell wound through shallow sandy channels between long deep waterholes up to 10km in length. Occasional gravel races and rock bars to scrape over. Given it was the dry season I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of water flow; only rarely having to walk the kayak though the shallows. The bird life was prolific: brolgas, sea eagles, kingfishers, rainbow bee eaters.

A long portage around Mitchell River Falls, a series of rocky steps, and the first camp and the first crocodile, a large 'freshie' on a beach below the falls. At this point on the river the Freshwater Crocodiles were prominent and I would see up to 30 of these a day basking on the banks or floating in the river around me. Considered harmless unless provoked they were not a worry. I also saw a substantial number of dead freshies and later learnt that they would have been poisoned by eating the poisonous feral cane toads that are marching inexorably across the Gulf and into the Northern Territory. Unlike the crows, the freshies have not yet learned to turn the cane toads over and to eat them from underneath thus avoiding the poisonous glands on the back.

It is Estuarine Crocodile or 'Saltie' that is to be respected. Ranging far upstream in Northern Australian rivers they were known to frequent the Mitchell but how far upstream? As you paddle along and a pair of eyes surface ahead, it is hard to know what is looking at you and I certainly got spooked on the river and didn't really relax much, particularly in the deep waterholes; the sweat on my brow as likely to come from nervousness as from exertion in the heat.

Paddling some 35km a day, the riverbank camps were an exercise in insomnia: cattle and feral pigs crashing through the bush, the odd dingo howling and coming for a look around camp, fish and crocs splashing, birds screeching. After 6 days I pulled off the river and dragged the canoe 2km out to the Burke Developmental Road and sat and waited for the support team; a strange sight for any passing 4WD.

26/8-17/9: MTB across Gulf Country to Manyallaluk. 1820km

This was the last time I'd see my support vehicle. One more of Nicki's excellent camp dinners, a final rummage through all the gear in the Jackaroo. Mark and Nicki would make their way back to Sydney and I was on my way across the Gulf Country, a long haul of some 1800km. The plan was that the final few changeover in the Territory would be handled by people over there.

Bulldust, corrugations, long straight dirt roads, increasing heat, increasing flies, saddle soreness, vast, remote cattle stations, aboriginal communities and small towns. Towns like Burketown and Borroloola whose presence on all maps of Australia belie their tiny size. Cycling the Gulf was less about experiencing 'the best outdoor environments in Australia' and more a chance to be a mad cyclist on a remote outback route with the odd 4WD and road train for company on the tracks and some interesting characters met along the way.

The bulldust on the days down to Normanton left me looking like some ghostly apparition. Luckily, on the bike I could avoid the worst of them. Not the case with the corrugations to Burketown, rattling bike and body in equal measure. A reminder of my 'green' cycle tour 13 years earlier from Cairns to Normanton as a pommy backpacker. On a K-Mart special imitation mountain bike, my first time on a bike since I was 10. People had warned me of the corrugated nature of the route. They thought I was crazy so I didn't dare ask: "What are corrugations?" At least this time I knew!

Strange 'hospitality' in Normanton, treating myself to a bed at the Albion Hotel, after rehydrating on 2 flavoured milks, 2 Gatorades, 2 shandies and 2 cups of tea. "There's your f.....g room and lock that f....r up" the landlord said, pointing at my bike. And all I wanted to do was give him some money!

Riding in the cool of morning, the rich voice of Richard Burton narrating Dylan Thomas' Under Milk Wood on the Walkman; regular backward glances should a road train sneak up and pass me in a shower of dust and gravel. Burketown offered a very warm welcome some days later.

Most rivers crossed held pools of water so there was not too much of a problem, although the taste often left much to be desired. Camp by the dry Leichhardt Falls, a 4 metre high wrought iron cross in the middle of the river proclaiming 'God Is' but not telling us what. As I pitched the tent I was sure I could hear drumming. It stopped, I listened. There it was again. Perhaps I'd stumbled upon some aboriginal corroboree. I walked in the direction of the noise. It stopped again. Perhaps I was being watched? Then the breeze picked up and 40metres away a plastic Coke bottle bounced along the stony river bank. The drumming started again.

On the subject of rubbish, it was sad to see so many cans and bottles strewn along certain sections of the track. In fact the 90km stretch from Doomadgee Aboriginal Community to Hells Gate Roadhouse would be just as well renamed the VB Highway. Alcohol (and increasingly other drugs) would seem to be the number one problem facing the Aboriginal communities. With a seeming different concept of value, I heard various stories as I rode across the Gulf. Of $1600 paid for one carton of beer. Of bottles of rum changing hands for up to $250 each. There are intractable problems of course, but on this journey it was good to meet with some Aborigines and discuss their lives and hopes. Discussions too with fellow travellers where so often I found myself defending the indigenous population in an effort to balance the discussion.

Hells Gate was aptly named. I rode through bushfires raging on both sides of the track, with bandanna pulled across the mouth to filter the smoke and crossed into the Northern Territory to Wollogorang Station.

A hill, a hill my bicycle for a hill! The first in 10 days of riding. Names of creeks and rivers now suiting my mood. Wading over the Calvert River 80km from Wollogorang, I decided to push on another 20km and camp at 100km. At exactly 100km was Surprise Creek and I felt surprised to find water in it. The following day I felt very lethargic and camped at the Wearyan River.

Temperatures were hotting up, into the mid 30's and I was sheltering from the heat for a couple of hours each day. The flies were getting worse. I looked forward to the early morning riding and then the end of day camp. The hours in between? A hot, dusty grind. From the Wearyan the road was horribly corrugated and shook bike and bones all the way to Borroloola. The pannier rack finally cried "Enough!" and sheared 4km before the town. Luck was on my side, not only being so close to civilization but also in finding an aluminium welder at an Aboriginal community near town.

The 400km across to Roper Bar was probably the most interesting section of the Gulf Track as it wound it's way through low, craggy ranges and across rivers to the old Nathan River Station, soon to be declared a national park. Crossing the Cox River I watched a saltie swim lazily in the shallows below the causeway. After 5000km of not seeing a fellow human powered long distance traveller, I deigned to miss one by a few metres. Some 50km before Roper Bar, I ducked down a short 50metre side track to have a squiz at the river. 5 minutes later I rode back up to the main track and found myself following bike tracks in the sand. I was puzzled, but half an hour later a 4WD passed me and mentioned I was the second cyclist they'd seen that day! Roper Bar passed in a haze of cheap lambrusco and discussions long into the night with some fishermen.

3 more days of primarily sealed road put me out onto the Stuart Highway, via Mataranka - the Land of the Never Never, then up to Manyallaluk Aboriginal Community.

17/9-19/9: Walk to Katherine Gorge No 6. 19km
19/9: Canoe through Katherine Gorge to Nitmiluk Park HQ. 10km
19/9: MTB to Katherine. 30km

"Here, Huw, try these" said Richard, holding out a handful of green ants. Mmmm not bad! One of the pleasures of 3 days walking and camping with Richard and Long Johnny, two Aborigines accompanying me on a walk from Manyallaluk to Katherine Gorge. The pace was relaxed (I probably could have done the walk in one day), the scenery excellent and a great opportunity to talk to and learn.

A sacred site at Manyallaluk had a rock, which if a woman stood on it would cause pregnancy. What a money spinner that could be; easier and cheaper than all this IVF treatment! Great camping and swimming on the upper Katherine River. Richard and Johnny outfished me 10 to 1. Lots of feral water buffalo around and art sites visited.

On the last day, we left the river to cut across to the gorge. Richard led the way up dry creek beds, across open country wading through chest high grass. Occasionally he'd stop, look around then head off in a new direction. I began to wonder if he knew where he was heading, and surreptitiously checked out my compass. Memories of blindly following some native guides in the Ruwenzori Mountains in central Africa 10 years ago and becoming lost for 3 days. Ye of little faith - we hit the edge of the gorge spot on, Richard pointing out a fire scar from when he was by this way 3 years previously. We hit the gorge at the only point that allowed us to scramble down to the water; anywhere else it was sheer cliffs. Incredible navigation with not a map or compass in use.

At this, Gorge No 6, in the Katherine Gorge system, Snowy Wohling had agreed to paddle a canoe up to meet me. Richard and Johnny were to be met by a tour boat and taken down through the gorges. Their lift turned up and I lay back in the shade of the impressive cliffs and drifted off........

"Dr Kingston I presume?" called a smiling face from the canoe.

We paddled back down through the gorge, an impressive place despite the tour boats and numerous hire canoes, to the Park HQ. Here I hopped on my bike that Snowy had brought up and rode the 30km into Katherine. The only day on the journey when I walked, paddled and rode in the one day.

20/9-21/9: Katherine Rest Days
22/9-29/9: Canoe Katherine River to Claravale Crossing. 130km
29/9-1/10: MTB to Koolpin Gorge (Kakadu) 210km

Spent a couple of very enjoyable days with Snowy, Jenny and their kids. As I no longer had my own canoes to use, months earlier Snowy had offered to put on a trip down 'his' river; the Katherine/Flora/Daly system. He had managed to get a few other people to join us and I was in his hands as to when we could leave. In fact it was a strange feeling to be 'looked after' on a trip by someone else. Gecko Canoeing certainly know how to put on a comfortable canoe tour: 8 days of fine food, iced drinks, tables and chairs. The pace was incredibly relaxed, again I'd probably have done the distance in 4 or 5 days, and I worried a little that my body might assume the journey was over and go into post trip shutdown a tad early.

We put on the river just below Katherine town and paddled beautiful waterholes, narrow channels through overhanging pandanii and camped on glorious sandy beaches. Bird life was prolific and Snowy certainly knew his stuff pointing out trees and plants, birds and animals. On the third day a 2.5 metre saltie slipped into the water as we paddled a narrow channel and swam close to Mick's canoe before diving. I reflected on how different the 'fear factor' was on this river compared to the Mitchell. I'd now had some experience of paddling rivers with crocs in them, was in a small group here and Snowy had some useful tips about the 'snapping handbags' having spent a vast time paddling northern rivers. He knew every turn and rapid on this river.

The Flying Foxes were in feeding mode and each night thousands of them would head to the flowering paperbarks not caring if they shat all over the tents as they gorged themselves. Hundreds of frogs fell from the trees at night to feed. Truly raining bats and frogs.

4 days down the river Mick and his two sons left us and we were joined by Warren and Angus the Fisherman. On his third trip down the Katherine with Snowy, Angus had one goal in life: to catch a legal size barramundi with a fly rod. From sunrise to sunset he'd have rod in hand, either fly or lure. Snowy and Angus went one on one in their own fishing competition while Warren and I just floated lazily down the river. The Katherine joined the totally clear waters of the Flora, to become the Daly River. The river widened and I tried to imagine it flowing in the wet season, perhaps some 10 metres above our heads.

On the eighth day we paddled up to Claravale Crossing and less than a minute later Jenny pulled up in the pick up vehicle with the bikes. Warren and I packed for our ride into Kakadu and farewelled the others. Over 3 days we rode out through the bulldust from Claravale to the Stuart Highway, turned toward Kakadu at Pine Creek and back onto the dirt after the park entrance station. Bloody flies! They'd be lying in wait when you emerged from the tent, buzz you all day, then at dusk they'd whistle for the night shift to take over. Out would come the mozzies!

On the road to Koolpin Gorge, I thought Warren had shot me but it turned out to be an exploding tyre. I'd carried a spare for thousands of kilometres and not had to use it. He'd used his after only 2 days of riding. It was a good ride into Koolpin and after our last fording of the South Alligator River, the last 10km was a fun winding trail to the gorge. Snowy was there to meet us with ice creams and flavoured milks! We swapped over to bushwalking gear and hoped we'd see the bikes at Jim Jim Falls in 4 days time.

2/10-5/10: Walk from Koolpin Gorge to Jim Jim Falls. 50km
6/10-8/10: MTB to Darwin. 330km

The swim in the pools of Koolpin Gorge was a precursor for much of the next few days. Like so many people, I've wanted to visit Kakadu National Park but in the months previous had wondered whether the reality would match the hype; whether Kakadu would turn out to be Kakadon't. I was also aware that we were visiting at the hottest, driest part of the year. In fact I'd even considered suggesting to Warren he save his money and not fly up to join me; to come at a better time of year. Having experienced what we did in our short visit, he wouldn't have forgiven me had I done so.

Sure it was hot, sure the bush flies, march flies and mozzies were annoying. But our walk from Koolpin to Jim Jim was soulfood; one of those times that are difficult to write of because the inner feelings are so much more powerful than one can express. Feelings that only the outdoors can engender. Over four days we wandered up creek lines, which, to our pleasant surprise, contained plenty of water. Indeed we probably spent as much time swimming as we did walking. Perfectly proportioned little gorges, crystal clear pools, white sandy beaches all fringed by paperbarks and pandanii. Beyond these lush arteries rose cliff lines and plateaux where the grass just snapped and cracked like a dry Sao biscuit. Waiting for the wet season rains that would turn drought into flood.

Signs of the approaching wet season were there. Cloud building, distant electrical storms and a few short showers in the early hours. The first rain since the Queensland coast two months before, and unprepared we were. Using only tent inners, the rain forced a dark scramble to gather gear and a stumble toward the shelter of some rock overhangs.

We saw no-one, indeed hardly a sign of anyone. The stunning light of dawn and dusk cost film after film even though we knew the spirit of the time could never be captured. I was into the last week before Darwin and what a place to finish.

Our solitude ended at the top of Twin Falls where we joined the 4WD tourist route of Kakadu. Justifiably spectacular, we descended from the Arnhem escarpment and swam up the 500 metre gorge to the base of the falls before walking out along the track to Jim Jim. A national park ranger vehicle stopped to inform us he'd just dropped our bikes off at the camp. Perfect timing.

In the evening light we scrambled to the base of Jim Jim Falls, an almost perfect arc of cliffs dropping 150metres into a huge plunge pool, the depth of which we could only imagine. The falls were dry at this time but no less spectacular for that. A fitting place for the final swim of the journey.

It was 70km out to the sealed road and Cooinda. Much of this was 15cm of loose gravel making for frustrating cycling in temperatures approaching 40 degrees. Warren struggled with the small wheels of his Moulton, eventually opting to accept a lift from a passing 4WD; he had no human powered rule to keep to, he was on holiday!

Only 260km to Darwin. While Warren took the bus, I followed the Old Jim Jim dirt track out from near Cooinda for 90km to a camp by a billabong near the dry Wildman River. It was a hot, sticky, insect infested night. I tried to write some reflections on the journey but the sweat soaked the pages of my diary. At dawn I went down to the billabong for water and was surprised to see the fresh carcass of a wallaby floating where there had been none the previous evening. One final reminder of the crocodiles.

With 170km to go, I packed away thinking I'd be camping once more before Darwin. I rode out onto the Arnhem Highway; no more dirt road. The day seemed to pass so easily despite regular stops for regulation flavoured milks at roadhouses along the way. I crossed the Adelaide River and rode into Humpty Doo. It was late afternoon and I was 45km from Darwin. Wendy had flown up from Sydney, it seemed crazy to have another night alone. I rode onto the Stuart Highway and rang to say I was going to arrive in Darwin that night. The riding through the inevitable sprawl of an Australian city, albeit a tiny one, was hardly pleasant in the dark. But I cared little; it had been a long time since the last urban sprawl on this particular crawl from Brisbane.

MTB: 5068km
Kayak: 536km
Walk: 164km
Total: 5768km