A Trail of Two Cities

All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.

T E Lawrence

This 'dream of the day', began innocuously enough whilst solo walking through the Budawangs in April. Rockhopping above the crystal clear waters of Angel Creek, thoughts turned to winter trips, for things to do when the white stuff fell. It began with the idea of skiing the maximum length of the Australian snow country; from the most southerly point in Victoria to Kiandra in the NSW Snowy Mountains. By the time I was snug in my sleeping bag under some rock overhang that night, the monster had grown. Melbourne to Sydney via the 'Huw' Highway (as opposed to the Hume Highway, the road linking the two cities), a journey by ski, kayak, mountain bike and foot.

It had always fascinated me that Australia, this huge island nation, was also one of the most urbanised countries in the world with the vast majority of the population living in a few cities. Here was an opportunity to link the two largest cities taking in the highest and wildest country in between.

Back from a trip to Pakistan with two months until departure day. Two months to organize the logistics of having the right gear in the right place at the right time for all the different changeover points. That the skis that would leave me on the Omeo Highway, would turn up again in Thredbo, the bike that would be left at Thredbo would be waiting again at Kiandra..............

There was only one rule: the line of the route could only utilize human powered means - no lifts along the way.

A week to go and the hand surgeon confirms that indeed I do have a fracture in my palm, the result of an over-the-handlebar trick 6 weeks before. "I advise that you don't set off on your journey' he says. Then with a wry smile "But I know you'll ignore the advice - good luck!"

August 18th to 20th

The city to the snow: to Mt Baw Baw by bike

With a hand splinted up and a body suffering from lack of exercise, it was with some trepidation that I downed one more coffee and set off from the start line - the steps of Flinders Street Station. Once again following the Don Whillans School of Preparation. This famous British climber was known for being grossly overweight and unfit at the start of each expedition to the Himalaya, reasoning that by the time he'd walked into the base camp and done a few exploratory trips he'd be at peak fitness for the climb!

It was a pleasure to ride along the Yarra, not having to do battle with the mighty car, for the first 30km or so out of Melbourne. Warrandyte was camp one, a fine meal in the pub and, as it was now raining, decided to forego the bivi bag in favour of the disabled toilet. Absolute luxury - clean, spacious, lockable door with en suite!

The plan was to keep to dirt tracks as much as possible but on one rare foray onto a sealed road on the second day, I did have one close call with a car near Lilydale. An old Toyota Corolla shot out in front of me at great speed travelling backwards without a driver, it's owner hot in pursuit down the hill. The car had broken its moorings on the back of a trailer whilst being towed up a hill. I was looking forward to the safety of the bush!

It was a long pull up to Baw Baw on the third day, arriving there after dark to bunk down in a ski lodge where my ski gear was waiting.

Re-packed the gear the following morning, discovering that I'd left some of the maps for the next stage with a friend down in Noojee. A quick phone call had him tieing up the resort fax machine with pages and pages of faxed maps.

August 21st to September 6th

Solitude and tough tracks: Mt Baw Baw to Mount Hotham by ski

T'was a big pack, 30kg at least, for the ski across the Victorian Alps. There was a food depot in at Bluff Hut, which I estimated would be reached some 7 days from Baw Baw but which was actually reached by a hungry soul after 10 days. Talking of souls, I was not to see another person until the sixteenth day out from Baw Baw; the day on which I arrived at Hotham.

This was all new country to me but for years I'd wanted to ski the Mount Howitt/Crosscut Saw area. Many will recall that 97 was not the best snow seasons and I was soon wishing that I'd taken an old pair of skis not the brand new ones I had with me.

Snow conditions were often marginal as I followed the rough line of the Alpine Walking Track. Much of the route was tracks or fire trails through thick bush. You could ski up the tracks but as often as not the narrowness of the trails and the thin snow cover made for hairy skiing on the downhills. Often walking was the more prudent choice.

One experience highlighted to me the potential dangers of solo skiing in remote areas in marginal conditions. Skiing down a narrow fire trail on the Mt Sunday ridge, I found myself going a little faster than I would have liked. With skis clattering over hidden rocks beneath, I decided the best course of action was to execute the manouvre learnt by all beginning skiers - the Flying Buttocks Arrest.

Just as I fell to the side of the track I spied a sharp branch sticking up out of the snow right in the landing spot. I hit it first with my knee, then felt it run up the inside of my thigh toward the family jewels before I came to a stop, looked down and saw this spear less than a cm away from doing serious damage. Breathing a sigh of relief, I realized that should an accident occur, no-one was expecting me at Hotham for nearly two weeks so it would be a long wait for any rescue.

Many people suggested taking a mobile phone on the journey, if only to make the logistics easier to plan along the way. However, aside from the fact it wouldn't work in most places, such an item takes away the feeling of self reliance, of wilderness, that comes from such trips. Times when we want to escape from the trappings of an urban, hurried existence. It would be a sad day if the carrying of mobile phones and GPS receivers became seen as essential to a mountain journey in much the same way as maps and compasses are now. The special feeling that comes from being 'out of contact' in the wilderness is too precious for "techno-heads" and legislators to take away.

Enough pontificating! The body was getting a real bashing in the first week or so. Aside from sore shoulders, a chafed groin (a result of the bike ride) and a miserable boil up the nostril, I was, for the first time in ten years suffering appalling ski boot problems. This was to cause major pain all the way to Mt Hotham and across to Mt Bogong.

Progress was slower than planned, despite some long 11 and 12 hour days, with some bad weather causing a few tent-bound days. I'd also decided that Victorian contour lines at the same scale were somehow steeper than those in NSW - the hills seemed to go on for ever.

It was grand country though as I travelled ever closer to the core high country from Mt Macdonald through to Mt Speculation. I was looking forward to some open slopes, to putting in some turns and perhaps even meeting the odd skier.

On the summit of the west peak of Mt Macdonald it was good at last to get some views - to the playground of Mt Buller ski resort away in the distance around to the imposing bulk of the Bluff. Food stocks were very low with a good 2 days still to the goodies at Bluff hut.

That night I camped on the Nobs and hoped for a fine weather day to follow. The sun indeed shone on a glorious morning as I skied below High Cone and Square Top to climb onto the flat plateau of Mt Clear. Ahead, for the first time, I could see the white strip of the Bogong High Plains with Mount Bogong standing proud and aloof to the north. A meagre lunch by the summit cairn as the weather changed. Soon there was only one receding patch of blue in a sea of grey.

Enjoying a few turns off Mt Clear, I pushed on, hoping to reach the shelter of Lovicks hut before the weather really clagged in. Near King Billy I came across some ski tracks no more than a day old. Aha, there might be people! I was quite happy with the solitude but would have enjoyed a bit of conversation with someone other than myself. The light was fading and rain falling as I skied down to Lovicks. There were no sounds and no welcoming fire; just the dark, damp hut. I lit a fire, cooked the last remaining food and listened to the rain come down wondering what had happened to winter?

The following day continued grey and wet but it was a joy to set off without a heavy pack to ski to Bluff hut to pick up the food depot. I optimistically took with me the maps I'd finished with plus the bag of rubbish from the previous 10 days, hoping someone at the hut might be descending to their car from there. Alas the hut was quiet. Found my food barrel, pulled out the single can of beer and quaffed it in a couple of gulps. Then realised that it was stupid just to put a single can in. It only gives the taste for more!

Retraced tracks to Lovicks for a restful afternoon. After the hunger of the previous days, I felt strangely ambivalent about the abundance of food. Something about wanting something you don't have and then when you've got it................

Day 15 was one of those weird black & white winter's days with an ominous black sky contrasting with the white snows of the mountains. You're never sure whether a huge storm is going to hit or the canvas will change to blue and gold. At last I was on the high ridge line to take me over to the Crosscut Saw. A long descent then steep climb to Mt Magdala, some steep turns off the summit past Hells Window and on and up Big Hill before the climb onto the summit plateau of Mt Howitt. It felt good to be in open space, away from the confines of the forest which had hemmed me in for much of the past fortnight.

On the summit of Mt Howitt, at 1742m the highest point so far, the cloud descended and the sleet and snow began. I'd originally intended camping at the start of the Crosscut Saw, but the worsening weather and a desire to see the Vallejo Gantner hut made me head for the narrow ridge line connecting out to Macalister Springs. It was a wise move. Not only was the hut an amazing structure, one of the finest in the High Country; it provided secure, dry shelter from the storm that raged for the following 36 hours. Wild, wild winds and rain that removed even more of the snow cover. It would have been a very miserable camp up on the plateau.

Time was now against me; I was already a few days behind schedule and whilst the enforced rest day was enjoyable, I couldn't really afford it. Anyway I'd finished my book and was tired of re-reading the washing instructions for my sleeping bag. The storm blew itself out and I was able, at last, to set foot on the Crosscut Saw. This ridge line, some 2km long, is very narrow and exposed in parts, with steep drops into the evocatively named Terrible Hollow. I'd always imagined traversing the Crosscut Saw on a crisp winters day with snow everywhere, a real Alpine scene. On this day however, the sky was grey and the snow patchy. I managed to ski the first half of the ridge but was then reduced to traversing on foot all the rest of the way to the summit of Mt Speculation and a misty camp just below the summit.

I'd hoped that the route across the Barry Mountains to Hotham would be straightforward. I knew it would be snowless. However I had not accounted for the contorted, navigationally challenging, rock scrambling and thick bush that would be a feature of the traverse over the Razor and Viking.

The first day was hell - rain, mist and sleet as I picked a route over Mount Despair - aptly named after I became lost - and scrambled around the flanks of the Razor. Trees became vicious traps, out to snare the skis on my pack at every opportunity. I was soaked to the skin and had to concentrate hard to follow a route. At one point I'd taken 2 hours to travel 2kms. The only solace was in imagining how more complex the route would have been under snow.

That night I camped at Viking Saddle with the bulk of the Viking rearing up above me, bathed in evening sunlight. At least the weather was improving and I made good progress via some 'interesting' rock scrambling onto the summit of the Viking on a stunning morning. Cloud sea below, views of Mt Howitt and the Crosscut Saw and the rolling Barry Mountains to the east. The route off the Viking was complex and on a number of occasions I amazed myself by appearing out of the bush and stumbling upon a very rare track marker.

It was another day of slow progress and I knew, as I turned in that night, the following day would need to be huge. It was over 45km to Hotham but I had to do it in the day. People were waiting for me at Hotham and if I was much later, there would be a knock on effect on the rest of the schedule. It was a hard slog for some 16 hours across the Barry Mountains. Respite was only provided by meeting the first people since Baw Baw.

I came around a hill and heard the barking of dogs. I remembered a friend telling me how he'd been hounded by wild dogs all the way across the Barrys one winter. Here we go I thought. Then on the track in front of me were about half a dozen 4WD vehicles. A party of deer hunters complete with hunting dogs! We chatted for a while and they gave me some chocolate as I was just about foodless again.

Then on I plodded, finally hitting the Mt Hotham road at Mt St Bernard about 8pm. Called into the snowclearing depot to ask if I could use the phone to call Hotham to say I was on my way. Surprised to see all these burly guys watching what looked like a funeral service on the TV, with classical music playing. Hardly standard fare for a Saturday night I thought. Thanked them and left for the final 10km climb to Mt Hotham. As I hobbled out of the gate, the door opened behind me and one of the guys called me back: 'If you haven't seen anyone for 16 days, you wouldn't have known about Princess Diana - that's her funeral on TV'

September 7th to 10th

Heaven, hell and a soaking in between: the High Plains and Mount Bogong by ski

A full rest day at Hotham, just eating and drinking, would have been appreciated but John had been waiting there a few days already and we needed to push on. He was joining me for the ski across the High Plains and Mt Bogong. John's a ski photographer based in the French Alps and his little jaunt with me was to prove an experience of Oz skiing to remember. It was late afternoon when we finally set off from the Mt Loch car park. All the lifts at Mt Hotham had been closed because of storm force winds and it had been snowing for much of the day. Despite the conditions we both enjoyed the 2 hour ski to Dibbins hut and a dry off around the fire.

It was still snowing the following morning, but it made for atmospheric and very photogenic climbing up to Cobungra Gap and onto the Basalt Temple. It was good to have company and John was blown away by skiing amongst snowgums with rosellas flying overhead. Making good progress across the High Plains to Edmonsons Hut to find the hut just after dark in thick mist. The hut was full of the soaking gear of two other skiers who had retreated there from a stormy camp that day. We soon added our pile of gear, had a good feed and collapsed on the bunks.

The following two days were to combine some mighty highs and horrible lows. The morning at Edmonsons was perfect - sun shining through ice encrusted snowgums as we left for the climb to Mt Nelse. The views across to Bogong were awesome and we spent much time firing off film between Nelse and Ropers Hut and enjoying the open skiing. That done, we commenced the long, long descent to the Big River, way below the snowline. We lunched down by the river, which was flowing fast and was very swollen by the rain and snowmelt of recent days. I've much respect for river crossings and considered whether we sould wait a day or so for the level to drop. But we needed to push on and there was a chain strung across the river to aid progress........................

We waterproofed our gear as best we could and I volunteered to go first. As soon as I stepped into the water I felt the force of the current but made my way a few metres downstream to the chain. It was thigh deep and hard going. Just as I was about to get onto the downstream side of the chain my legs buckled beneath me and I was swept into the chain. I hung on for dear life as my pack got caught in the chain and the combination of that plus the current forced my head under water. I knew I had to release the pack but it was tangled and I couldn't. This was nasty. Managed to force my head up a few times for a gasp of air and with a surge of adrenaline boosted strength managed to hang on, get under the chain and back onto my feet and haul myself to the far bank. It's strange what thoughts go through your mind in such circumstances. As I struggled for breath I remember thinking that I needed to get my head above water to shout to John "If I drown, please make sure my family don't build a memorial bridge here".

Now we were in a situation. One of us on each bank and John having viewed the drama, still had to cross. I shouted across that perhaps he should stay there. He was keen to get across however and had seen how not to do it! I watched with some fear as John bashed through the bush to enter the river just below the chain which he grabbed. I watched the struggle on his face and the wild oscillation of the chain as he hauled himself across to me.

We'd been lucky; to be able to recount a story not a tragedy, where the only loss was a ski pole. After changing into dry clothing we began the long, steep climb up onto the flanks of Bogong to eventually camp on T Spur Knob. Originally we'd hoped to make an ascent of Mt Bogong, Victoria's highest summit, but time seemed against us.

We were a long way below it and the following day were due to meet Steph and Steve down on the Omeo Highway. To do Bogong and descend to the road would be a long day. We both agreed that we didn't want another finish in the dark. But John was keen and so was I, and as I lay in my sleeping bag that night, I kept trying to convince myself it was not as far as it was! After much debate I suggested to John that we go for it by making an early start.

So it was that we were away at 7am. It was a beautiful morning, how could we not ski the mighty Bogong? Dropped the packs by the old Madisons Hut site and moved quickly up past Cleve Cole Hut and onto the open slopes of the mountain. We were on the summit by 9-30am despite me being in agony from my boots again. We took a load of photos before having a fine run back to the packs.

The following 12 hours passed in a blur of utter misery; mental and physical pain. My feet got worse and worse until I was bent double over my ski poles hobbling at no more than a kilometre an hour. Absolute hell. We finally hit the highway at about 11pm, 16 hours after leaving camp. The next changeover point was at a campground about 2km away but I was going no further and collapsed into the tent on the side of the road, convinced the journey was over for at least a week until the feet recovered.

September 11th to 15th

Upon trusty steeds to cross the border: Omeo Highway to Thredbo by bike

I was too tired to sleep, at every turn the muscles spasmed. I was pleased when John rose and headed off down the road to meet the others. Within an hour I heard the familiar and welcome sound of my van. I quickly polished off 2 packets of Tim Tams and a can of beer (at 7am!) and felt better already. The powers of recovery of the human body are immense and I amazed myself by pulling the mountain bike from the van and riding in the morning sun down to the campground by the Big River. Warm sun, lotsa food and memories of previous traumas began to fade. John's lift turned up to take him to Melbourne, Mike set off with the van for Thredbo via Canberra and although I wouldn't have thought it possible, Steve, Steph and I left on the bikes late afternoon for an hour before camping. Lightweight cycling shoes and no pack made all the difference.

Four days of classic mountain bike touring in fine weather followed. A real tonic.

After knocking The Knocker off, we had a wild 13km downhill ride from the summit and then across Taylors Crossing bridge over the Mitta Mitta to a camp some 10km further on. Each camp had us fortified with Welsh cakes and chocolate cake supplied by Steve's wife.

On day 27 we took an interesting route across Benambra Creek and through some private property. We thought we'd hit upon a good short cut but hadn't accounted for hours spent constructing elaborate ways to cross electric fences and kangaroo fences!

From Beloka Gap we sped along the Limestone Road to a perfect camp at Limestone Creek. Conditions were very warm, almost summery. After meeting with a brumby runner at Limestone Creek we set off to ride through the Cobberas and Pilot wildernesses. It was superb riding, along fast tracks, dodging huge mounds of brumby shit. Steve and Steph even perfected their 'Brumby Hops' over the piles! By mid morning we were at Cowambat Flat, where the infant Murray begins it's long journey to South Australia and where we crossed from Victoria into NSW - a bit of a milestone on the journey toward Sydney.

The fine weather was starting to break and by the time we reached Tin Mines hut rain was falling steadily. We lunched in the hut before pushing onto Cascades hut. At this stage I was grateful for the poor snow season. Had it been a big season then some of this route would have been under snow, neccessitating pushing and carrying the bikes. As it was we still had to cross the high Bob's Ridge to get to Dead Horse Gap and thence to Thredbo.

We arrived at the Cascades just as a storm slammed into the hut. It was a wild night with pouring rain and thunderstorms. We were glad to be in the safety of the hut but hardly slept with the noise and the knowledge that we needed to be awake at 4am so as to get to Thredbo early. It was a miserable day but we were on a high, even with having to push the bikes for 5km on snow over Bob's Ridge. Three soaked, muddy but very contented mountain bikers pulled into Thredbo for a huge breakfast. Also to discover a friend had booked me a luxury apartment in Thredbo - for the night before!

September 15th to 21st

Rest at last and high across the High Country: Thredbo to Kiandra by ski

It was satisfying to have arrived at my 'second home': the Snowy Mountains and was looking forward to traversing the range to Kiandra. First however, it was to Charlotte Pass for a couple of much needed R & R days at a ski lodge run by some friends. I hadn't had a full rest day since Macalister Springs two weeks before and there'd been a deal of effort since.

Another changeover at the van, said farewell to Steve and Steph and in mid afternoon began the long skin up the Thredbo ski slopes, taking time to look back at the scene of the Thredbo landslide where an old friend was one of those killed in the tragedy earlier in the season. I'd abandoned the troublesome ski boots for a trusty old pair I knew to be comfortable as the feet were still tender.

The usual smartarse comments from skiers flying down the patchy Supertrail; to the effect that it's easier to catch the chairlift up. It wasn't worth expending the effort to explain why I couldn't. At the top a stiff sou' westerly was blowing but it was gratifying to see a reasonable amount of snow still on the range. Skied down to the Snowy and over to arrive at Charlotte Pass on nightfall.

The next 36 hours passed in a haze of food and sleep as I was mollycoddled like a baby. There wasn't breakfast, lunch and dinner - just one long meal replenishing body weight lost over the past month. The third shower since leaving Melbourne and time spent on the phone ensuring logistics for the following stages were in place. A much needed tonic.

I could have stayed longer but needed to push on toward Sydney. Bade farewell to the village and, with a light pack, headed out onto the Main Range. Bivvied below Mt Anderson that night under a full moon on a cold, clear night. Awoke early to ski to Consett Stephens Pass, over the Rolling Grounds for a spot of lunch at Schlink hut and a very worthwhile stopover.

I'd originally intended cycling up to the Opera House on the final day of the journey. But as I discussed my route with some skiers in the hut, one said that he assumed that, with Sydney being such a spectacular maritime city, I'd be finishing by kayak. Of course I should. What a way to avoid all the road traffic - sea kayak down the Parramatta River, into the Harbour, under the Bridge to the Opera House steps.

Skied on over to Mawsons hut for that night, as always eyeing up the crouching lion of Mt Jagungal and looking forward to skiing to its summit the next day. It was not to be. The morning was miserable - very misty and raining. I decided to forego Jagungal and navigate a route to the east via Macalister Saddle and down Bogong Creek. Wet and tired, I popped out near O'Keefe's hut. I was feeling a tad nauseous and run down for some reason and it would have been easy to have stayed there. However I pushed on in the rain, another 10km to Mackeys hut. Soon had a good fire going to dry some gear and boil the billie numerous times.

The next day was worse and given previous river crossing encounters, decided to skirt Happy Jacks Plain for a more easterly route. It was another long, wet day through to Broken Dam hut. All the muscles ached - calves, hamstrings, shoulders, neck. Many felt on the verge of pulling and I knew I should stretch but had not the energy. The hand, which had been relatively well behaved, was playing up a bit too. It was good to just collapse into bed, sleep disturbed only by the hut rat dragging a ski boot across the floor.

An easy walk to Kiandra followed where Steph turned up with the van and a pile of fresh bread and cake. She left after dinner and I bedded down under the awning of the Department of Main Roads depot. The disturbances that night came from the howling of dingoes. As they got closer I decided to pitch my little tent at 2am. It's amazing how much safer you feel with a thin sheet of nylon between you and the outside world.

September 22nd to 27th

Leaving the snowcountry: Kiandra to Wog Wog by bike

It was time to bike away from the Alpine high country. Two days up through northern Kozciusko into Namadgi National Park, then south of Canberra to cross the Murrumbidgee River at Angle Crossing and onto the Monaro Highway. A long climb over the Tinderry Mountains to a fourth shower at a friends sheep station near Jerangle, the strangely but, as it turned out, aptly named Slap Up. They fed me well! Here it looked as if the logistics were going to suffer the first major setback. Angus, who was paddling the Shoalhaven River with me, was getting held up by some major court case he was involved with and looked like he'd be delayed a couple of days. I was concerned that the journey would lose momentum and had to think of alternative plans. Then inspiration!

The original plan had been to put on the river near Braidwood. Instead of the paddle from there, I could ride on to Wog Wog and traverse the Budawangs coming out at Nerriga a few days later. Hopefully by then Angus would be free and we could put on the river at Oallen Ford. Problem solved.

I pedalled away from Slap Up for a long days ride through the Tallaganda State Forest and down toward Braidwood. That night I was meeting with a bunch of people to camp by the Shoalhaven at Warri Bridge. A relaxing night, with meal out in Braidwood which all seemed too civilized. The next day was an easy ride to Wog Wog to swop bike for boots.

September 28th to 29th

Back to the dreaming: The Budawangs on foot

Even if originally unplanned, it seemed fitting that I should walk through the Budawangs. Not only is it a bushwalking mecca with it's conglomerate rock walls and hidden forested valleys, but it was here that the dream of the Melbourne to Sydney journey began. It was a pleasure to traverse the range from Wog Wog through to Nerriga with a light pack for the two days. Nerriga has everything you need in a village - one shop and takeaway, one pub, one camp site with hot showers and one telephone box. I used the lot and waited for Angus to arrive late in the evening.

September 30th to October 3rd

Upon the wild water: The Shoalhaven River by kayak

It was an easy 20km ride in a freezing dawn from Nerriga to the Shoalhaven at Oallen Ford. This journey was linking so many classic trips I'd wanted to do for years. Skiing the Crosscut Saw, the Thredbo to Kiandra traverse, the mountain bike through the Blue Mountains and now here, the kayak down the upper Shoalhaven River. Renowned for some of NSW's best white water in a rugged inaccessible gorge for much of its length.

We had four days to our pull out point at Badgery's Point, much of which was steady grade 4 paddling. I was approaching this stage with some trepidation, not having done a lot of paddling over recent years. However the combination of using forgiving inflatable kayaks, Angus's vast experience and a good water level all made for a spectacular journey. It was also nice to have space in the boats for gourmet foods and plenty of them. No restriction on weights unlike when carrying packs and riding bikes.

The first few kilometres were relatively calm which gave time to get used to the boat. But soon it was into the rough stuff as the river dropped over big rapids. The sun was out, the water was flowing. What fun! We paddled many, portaged a few (with me portaging more than Angus); it was a real buzz to be on an extended whitewater river trip again. I took a few swims before the first nights camp on one of the many sandy beaches. It was a pity there wasn't more time to spend on the river. We were paddling full days of 8 or 9 hours in order to keep to schedule.

Soon after setting off on the second morning we came across another party on the river packing up camp. Soon they'd caught us up as we were scouting another rapid. We paddled together for much of the morning through the deep gorge. Having others on hand to effect a rescue if necessary, gave Angus the confidence to paddle over a one of the biggest falls on the river; a good 6 metres. I was happy just to get the photos.

After another comfortable camp and fine meal, we continued on down this challenging river. Later on the third day the rapids eased off a bit and there was more flat water between each one. We knew there was still a long way to go so paddled on until we were some 10km upstream of Blockup Gorge to camp on a huge beach that would do an ocean suburb proud.

The final day put us past the last major drop and into easy paddling but still deep down in the spectacular gorge. We floated through the Blockup and lunched early, where Bungonia Creek enters the Shoalhaven. By mid afternoon I was scanning the left bank for memory joggers as to where Badgerys Point was, a place I'd been to a number of times before. Luckily hit it spot on and with a few final sweep strokes we pulled off the river for the last time.

Now the tough part of the day began. We had to get all the gear, including the boats 600metres up out of the gorge to Badgerys Lookout. There was a foot track down from the lookout and we hoped our backs would be able to cope with doing the climb in one load. We stuffed gear into packs. When they were full we tied more gear to the outside and finally lashed the deflated kayaks onto the packs. Looking like totally overburdened porters we stumbled beneath the 40 to 45kg loads up the steep track. It was best to keep going being unsure we could get up again if we rested!

Made it without any slipped discs to the lookout and there was the van with my bike. Badgery's was now only 35km from home so all that remained was for Angus to drive the van whilst I rode home.

October 4th to 9th

The final mountains: Bundanoon to Glenbrook by bike

It felt strange to be home in Bundanoon. The journey was not yet over, I was just passing through. I wanted to mow the overgrown lawn, open the mail, read the faxes in the office, but it seemed silly. I couldn't respond to anything in the next 12 hours. More important was to sort out the gear for the penultimate leg to Sydney. I wanted to do it that night but the bed was way too inviting..............

I was up early to pack for five days mountain biking up through the Wollondilly, Kanangra-Boyd and Blue Mountains. It was mid afternoon before Warren and I rode out of the village heading west out of the Southern Highlands. Warren was a little concerned about keeping up. He'd been manning the office for the past two months with little exercise, whilst by now I was as fit as I'd ever be. That night we bivvied under a rock overhang along the Wombeyan Caves road.

In the morning we dropped over the escarpment, following great tracks that would lead us down to cross the Wollondilly River in the catchment area of Lake Burragorang. It was fine country, beneath the impressive Wanganderry Walls and the peak of Bonnum Pic. At the Wollondilly, it was warm enough for a swim - the first intentional one since leaving Melbourne - before the steady climb to the camp at the old mining town of Yerranderie.

From Yerranderie it was a pull up onto the Scotts Main Range and a fast undulating ride along a well graded road along the ridge with occasional views across the Kowmung Valley. After lunch we followed a side track to the top of Mt Cookem where it petered out. Now it was carry the bikes time. Down 700 metres on a very steep, rocky slope to the Coxs River to camp on the far side of the river.

A front came in overnight and the rain came down. The next day was hard and wet.

First we carried and pushed the bikes, slipping and sliding our way up a steep foot track from the Coxs River until we hit a fire trail leading up to Medlow Gap. It was miserable and quite cold as we rode down from the Gap into 'illegal' Water Board country.

I'm certainly not convinced that there is a need to lock up so much public land from access to walkers and cyclists.

A long descent to Cedar Creek, traverse around beneath Rucksack Point and over the sweetly titled Singajingawell Creek below Mt Solitary and down to the rain swollen Kedumba River which we waded across. It was good to pitch camp a few hundred metres from the river and to peel off the sopping wet gear.

Just as we were drying out, a Water Board employee drove up and knocked on the door. He explained the restrictions, explained we shouldn't be there etc etc. I was putting forward my views strongly about the whole access debate, he was saying he didn't make the rules only enforced them and Warren was signalling to me from inside the tent not to push it too far; we didn't really want to pack up and move on.

It was a good 700 metre climb up to Kedumba Pass early next morning. As I pedalled slowly up I realised that, barring accidents, I should be in Sydney the following day and would probably see the skyline later that day. From Kedumba Pass we could enjoy the predominantly downhill ride of the Andersens Fire Trail to Woodford and the Oaks Fire Trail to Euroka Clearing near Glenbrook. I was feeling elated to have got this far but was not that bothered about finishing. In many ways I wished I was continuing straight onto Brisbane!

Euroka Clearing was a fitting final camp: still in the mountains, populated by hundreds of kangaroos and cockatoos and a starry night not too effected by the lights of Sydney.

October 9th

What a way to finish: Glenbrook to the Opera House

An early breakfast, a climb up to Glenbrook and out to dice with death on the Great Western Highway. Soon we were out of the mountains and down on the flatlands heading for Parramatta. The ride along the freeway was horrendous - huge trucks and cars coming within a whisker of the bikes. I thought back to the pleasant cycle trails out of Melbourne 53 days and 1500km before and how far Sydney still had to go. Not surprisingly, considering all the debris on the side of the road, Warren had a puncture near Parramatta. This delay meant we were an hour or so late meeting Diane who had the sea kayak in a park opposite the Shell oil refinery in Silverwater.

25km to go on the artery that would take me all the way to the Opera House. After all the beauty of the past weeks it seemed a strange place to be putting onto the murky brown Parramatta River. I paddled away from the mangroves and off down the river. This certainly was the way to finish the journey: lost in my own thoughts meditating to the steady rhythm of the paddle stroke. To reflect on the adventures of the journey, on how it might have been a silly idea but it had turned into a bloody good silly idea. The river got cleaner and I pulled into a beach near Ryde Bridge and chewed upon an energy bar, Diane had given me. The first of those so called sports bars I'd had on the whole journey.

On down the river perving at posh waterfront houses, under the Gladesville Bridge, my first view of the Opera House. I had heaps of time so paddled across to Birchgrove wharf and sat there for a while. Then across to Lavender Bay where a TV news crew was setting up. Part of the media scrum for me I supposed? No, just setting up for the nightly news weather forecast! There was the Opera House, sails caught in the evening sunlight. I paddled under the Bridge and across to the end of the journey.

The next day I had to fly to Melbourne on business. It had taken 53 days to cover 1500km. The plane took 1.5 hours, 750km as the crow flies - some contrast!

Total distance approx 1500km