The planning seemed relatively easy compared to theBrisbane2Darwin journey the previous year. The logistics were simpler. Getting to the start a short drive from home. But I was pleased with the route on paper. Taking in much of the Great Dividing Range; following National Parks almost the whole way. I'd originally thought this journey would see me sea kayaking a good chunk of the north coast, but finally I opted for an inland route away from the more populous coastal fringe. It was early winter and, with the route spending a fair time above 1000metres, I expected some cold weather and perhaps a bit of snow. This expectation became reality To drive between the cities is some 1000km. As usual, the contortions of the route meant it ended up at some 1900km.

Support

Dragging himself away from an English summer, it was great to have my dad, Bernard, along for the first month or so of the route. He certainly found his first camping for many years interesting and it was great to be with him to celebrate his 60th birthday. Long trips away from the one you love is often hard - their love helps gives you the strength to undertake such journeys but you don't like being away from them!

Richard Crane, in his book of walking across Europe, put it succinctly thus: 'Ironically I would not have the courage to embark upon the journey as a single man; it was the security of my relationship which had given me the confidence to be alone.' Well this time Wendy was in support and gave an added fillip to get to the changeovers in addition to a cold beer!

For the last few weeks, from the end of the Nymboida River to Brisbane, support was taken over by my good friends Ingrid and Graham and did an excellent job. Thanks too, to all those who helped along the way - Mark, Al, Brian, Eric & Gill and many others. To Peter & Denise and the girls for a great welcome into Brisbane and some fun days with them there before Wendy and I drove home.

The Journey

The Olympic Boulevard at Homebush Bay could hardly have been quieter. Wendy and I strolled down this wide avenue trying to imagine the hundreds of thousands who would choke it during the Olympics some months later. It seemed a fitting place to start in 2000. The sea kayak was waiting in front of a luxury apartment development on Homebush Bay. They called it 'Mariners Cove' and the developers billboard talked of it's location by a harbourside lagoon. They failed to mention that this 'lagoon' had probably the highest concentration of dioxin and heavy metals in Australia. No wonder they'd built an artificial beach and pool in the gardens of the development.

Calm Conditions

It was mid morning on a warm, totally calm, late autumn day when I paddled out into the bay. Two hours down the harbour to pass under the Harbour Bridge and past the Opera House; memories of finishing the first City2City journey from Melbourne nearly 3 years before. Pulled up at Watsons Bay for a break and felt a tad self conscious furtively grabbing some bread and hummus whilst being overlooked by all the diners at Doyle's Restaurant. Leaving the security of the harbour behind, I couldn't believe my luck.

Out through the Heads there was hardly a swell in the ocean as I turned to head north up the coast. I'd lined up a couple of places to stay with friends, depending on progress. I headed for Long Reef which seemed to take an age to round as light was fading. Disorienting darkness fell and I nearly strayed back onto the reef. Where was sand? Where was rock? Breaking surf could be heard. I got lucky and landed on Fishermans Beach in small waves. Dripping my way into Long Reef Golf Club, I phoned Simon who soon appeared with a beer in hand.

Calm conditions continued for the paddle up past suburbs, long sand beaches and towering cliffs to Palm Beach, the exclusive northernmost outpost of Sydney. I could almost see the millionaires sipping coffee on their terracotta terraces. Thus began 4 days paddling up the Hawkesbury River in a 150km loop that would finally put me no more than 40km from where I started!

The Hawkesbury is a very pleasant stretch of water, for much of the way surrounded by cliffs and thick forest with the occasional riverside community. I tried to time my paddling with the tides and glided past fish jumping, cormorants perched on rocks and vivid kingfishers darting across the misty surface at dawn.

Great camps and already could feel the rhythm of the journey developing. At the town of Windsor an obligatory flavoured milk stop. Here, some 120km from the sea, the tidal influence finally peters out and the river becomes shallower with a current all it's own. 10km or so upstream and I encounter the only 'rapid' of this paddle and drag the sea kayak up the shallows to soon find myself at the confluence with the Grose River. Sandy shallows, waterworn logs jammed into rocks after being washed down from the Blue Mountains gorges. A kilometre up the Grose and there's Wendy and Mark, another cold beer in hand.

Grose Conditions

My old mate Mark Turner. Some 15 years ago we'd met whilst spending a summer chucking kids over cliffs, capsizing them in rivers and getting them stuck in caves at an outdoor centre in mid Wales. And all the while their parents thought them safe in the hands of qualifed instructors! Now living in Spain and married to a dusky Spanish maiden, Mark had survived the inquisition and was taking time out to join me for a month or so. Well that was the plan.

It had surprised me, whilst researching the route, that the lower reaches of one of the most spectacular gorges in Australia had no track up it. That a place so close to 4.5million people had not developed as a classic walk into the heart of the Blue Mountains. For Mark and I there followed 4 days of sometimes frustrating bush bashing. You certainly felt totally away from it all; deep down in the valley. The weather finally broke on the first day and whilst little rain actually fell, the branches soaked us for some days as the valley floor received little drying sun during winter.

Occasionally we'd come across remnants of the Engineers Track. 100 years ago, the Grose was surveyed as a line for the railway across the Blue Mountains. They soon realised things would be a lot easier up on the plateau. This remnant track occasionally aided progress but was often totally overgrown and disappeared into thicker scrub.

Progress was very slow; little more than a kilometre an hour for much of the time. Rockhopping by the cold, clear waters varied with scrambling beneath cliff lines. Occasional rock platforms offered limited views and respite from the vegetation. The Grose was challenging us, of that there was no doubt. We slept under rock overhangs or pitched the tent in small sandy clearings by the river. On the first day Mark went over badly on his ankle which soon swelled up to nasty proportions. Not an easy place to hobble out of.

"Mmmm, must be some food on my lip; leftovers from dinner" I thought in that half asleep mode that comes on a restless night beneath the stars. Tongue reaches out and pulls it into the warm confines of the mouth. Teeth take over and chewing begins. "Mmmm tastes like Calimari........." Then with the realisation I hadn't been near such seafood, I woke fully, battled to free an arm from my sleeping bag and reached into my mouth to struggle with a big, fat, blood swollen leech.

We'd told Wendy that our aim was to reach Pierces Pass in 3 days. It soon became obvious we'd be lucky to do it in 4. On that day we were away at first light to give ourselves maximum time. We hoped the constricting walls of the gorge would move away from the river and leave an easier route to Blue Gum Forest. But as the floor widened the track remnants became harder to pick up and it was frustrating to see time being eaten up by bushbashing. We'd be tempted down to the river then tempted away again. We'd follow animal pads through dense regrowth until they petered out. Legs were scratched, food was short, occasionally tempers too. The huge rock walls of the upper Grose were revealed and at 3pm we finally hit Blue Gum and a track.

Much as the mass trespass over Kinder Scout in 1932 was seminal in creating access and National Parks in England, the battle for Blue Gum forest played a similar role in Australia. It is a mighty place; stands of towering Sydney Blue Gum trees with an open understorey of grass surrounded by the huge cliffs of the Grose. For us it was a relief to walk without being poked, prodded and soaked. It was a pity we couldn't linger and camp but knew the crew would be concerned and it would still be after dark, on these short winter days, before we got out of the gorge. After a 500 metre climb we popped out into Pierces Pass Picnic Area to a roaring fire and wind - a surreal place to see dad for the first time in a couple of years.

Cold Conditions

It was bitterly cold at Pierces Pass as I packed the mountain bike. Occasional snowflakes fell. Mark's ankle was not looking good and his knee was also troubling him; the aftermath of a motorbike accident a month or so earlier. He was going to sit out this next leg and join the support crew winery tour of the Hunter Valley!

Heading west toward Bell the freezing sou' westerly was tear inducing and tried many times to blow me off the bike. Turning north over the Newnes plateau brought relief. Until the snow began to fall. A few days earlier I'd been paddling with my shirt off in warm sun! Zig zagging down from the plateau on rough tracks to the Wolgan Valley took me out of the snow and into pouring rain. It was good to pitch the tent. A restless night with wierd dreams of mass drownings involving copious quantities of fabric conditioner!

At the old, now closed, Newnes Hotel met up with a guy who told me all roads over the Blue Mountains were blocked by snow and the skifields 500km south had had their biggest pre winter falls for years. Had to carry the bike and gear up the steep Pipeline Track and all the way down the other side to Glen Davis, a decaying old mining community in a spectacular location. Glen Davis had 'facilities' - a phone box and a camp area with hot showers. I availed myself of both, the former giving me the bad news that Mark's ankle was not good and he'd be resting for some time. This meant I'd have to miss the planned traverse of the Yodellers Range; 3 days of scrambling and abseiling along an imposing range in the north of Wollemi NP. Instead I'd stay on the bike all the way to the Barrington River.

It was still bitterly cold and vivid rainbows serenaded me on the days from Glen Davis en route to the Hunter Valley. Black mud on Nullo Mountain clogged up everything and meant riding was impossible, pushing only just. Down to the Myrtle valley to ride beneath the impressive Yodellers; rueing the missed traverse. Cleaned the worst of the mud off at Myrtle Grove, while chatting to Mrs Tindale, the sixth generation of her family to farm the area.

I picked up some more supplies from the crew at Sandy Hollow for the long climb up and over the Barrington Tops. Magical riding and camps in quiet valleys and wooded ridges for a couple of days. Disturbed 3 eagles feeding on a wallaby carcass early one morning. Then the tyres were crunching through snow on the Tops and a high camp amongst snowgums near the summit of Careys Peak(1525m).

Days were now warmer under a clear sky, but nights were still and laid down a keen frost. On Careys Peak the stove made the breakfast coffee then defrosted the bike shoes. The snow on the track continued for another 5km or so. Diverted to Wombat Creek to get some water and was surprised to find a pile of personal effects: RTA embroidered workshirt and shorts, shoes, a billie, some food and an empty whisky bottle. All frozen into the ground. A 1200m descent put me down in the relative warmth of Gloucester River valley.

Wendy joined me for a leisurely 3 days paddling down the Barrington and Gloucester Rivers. It was her first real time on moving water but apart from one dunking in the icy river, she did really well and it was great to have her along. The clear rivers wound through farmland with the occasional gravel race or small rapid. I'd never seen so many platypus; in every pool there would be at least one; always too wily to allow us closer than 3 or 4 metres in our boats. Camps on the grassy banks were easy to find.

Toward the end of the last day on the river, we were dragging the canoes through shallow water in a tree entangled section. Looking downriver through the tunnel formed by the overhanging trees, the sun was fully into my eyes. However I could make out a pool of calm water so pushed Wendy down the rapid toward it; the first time she'd gone ahead. There was indeed a small pool, but immediately below it was a very low lying bridge which the waters piled strongly against. Wendy did well to avoid what could have been nasty and pulled up on the shore. She was pleased to see the towering Bindook road bridge a few hundred metres downriver and the end of the paddle.

Just upstream of the bridge, Mark and dad were sitting on deckchairs on a well manicured lawn running down from a house. They'd stopped at the house to ask if there was anywhere to camp and Eric and Gill had offered their back garden. Eric, 30 years a coal miner, and Gill had retired to this spot; built a house, cleared 8 acres and now spend most of the sumer mowing it! A perfect camp. Gill wouldn't let us leave the following morning until after morning tea when she plied us with scones and cake. After the frustrations of the previous weeks, Mark was ready to get back on the bike and join me for the 400km MTB ride up to Dorrigo.

Roller Coaster Conditions

Up. Down.....Up. Down.....Up. Down.

In the following 6 days we climbed over 4000metres and came down a fair bit too. Right up the spine of the east coast mountain ranges. Each climb onto a vertabrae followed by a descent into the vertebral gap.

Across the Manning River and up onto Dingo Tops and a finish in the dark with no water. Good riding on wild tracks out to the Oxley Highway and a long, long descent to the Hastings River. We'd planned to follow a track up the Hastings then divert for the climb into the west of Werrikimbe NP. We passed the small Seaview Resort (you'd need a bloody good telescope to view the sea!) and thought it worth enquiring about the track. Always a hard decision when faced with crossing a section of private land. Do you head off and hope for the best or do you enquire first and hope the landowner is, as most are, friendly. We plumped for the former on this occasion.

The lady in the resort turned me off straight away with her officious 'you don't know anything about travelling in the bush' manner before we'd even said anything. There are two types of people who get me down. One is those who look at half filled glasses as being half empty. The other are those who assume that just because they don't know you, then you must know nothing about something they may have knowledge of. And they won't listen!

This dragon was the harbinger of bad news; "A millionaire Dutchman owns the property you need to go through and he hates tourists. In fact he hates everyone!" Damn! We should have just chanced our arm and hoped we'd not be spotted. After some pleading the dragon gave me his phone number and I called Martin. Damn! He was home and he certainly would not let us ride through the 1km of his property that would allow us to keep to the planned route and that I understood was actually a right of way. Pah! May the dykes of the Zuider Zee collapse and wash away all your clogs and windmills I thought.

Our only option now was to go down the road and into Werrikimbe from Birdwood, another 1000m climb that could wait for another day. There followed a few days of riding through Werrikimbe and Willi Willi National Parks, with some rain. This rain dampened a camp on the verandah of an old hut at Kookaburra.

Not learning from our experience of a few days earlier we hollered at the gate of a very remote property to check the state of some tracks we planned to follow out to the Macleay River. Paul, the lonely bachelor, called us in for a brew and couldn't have been more helpful. Except he hadn't been down some of those tracks for 20 years and things had changed a bit. We discovered this as we pulled, pushed and passed our bikes along choked sections of the Fife Trail.

A careless mistake down on Mackenzie Creek added some 30km to our day which finished in the cute little village of Bellbrook and a treat of a cabin for the night and the first shower for a week.

The Macleay was followed up as far as Lower Creek then it was time to gird the loins for the huge climb up onto the New England Tablelands and Point Lookout, at 1563M the highest point between Sydney and Brisbane. It was wet and muddy and we chilled off rapidly when we took a break. The hanging mist turned to light rain which moved on to heavier stuff. The mist, rain and dark rainforest all made things somewhat gloomy. I couldn't see a thing with soaked, steamed up glasses; so took them off. Then I couldn't see a thing! We didn't care and sloshed along muddy tracks where paddocks replaced forest. This was a portion of private land surrounded by National Park. I flew over the handlebars to land in a puddle of water, mud and cow shit - 'orrible!

Just before dark we came upon a herd of cattle who ran off frightened by our wild looking state and revealed a demountable hut which was unlocked. It was cold but at least drier than our tent and would offer decent shelter for the night. We peeled off layers of mud soaked clothing and shivered the night away.

A misty climb next morning took us up to Point Lookout. The 'stunning view' was not to be. A note at the nearby picnic area hut informed us Wendy and dad had waited there until dark the previous night with a dinner prepared and a fire roaring. They'd now returned to the dry and warmth of a motel in Dorrigo 70km away where we'd find them late that day. I was over halfway to Brisbane in time and distance so a rest day was called - and anyway, it was my birthday!

Wet and Wild Conditions

Poor old Mark. On his last planned ride with me, the short hop from Dorrigo down to Platypus Flat on the Nymboida River, his bike went from under him on a particularly greasy section. Mark took a tumble and wrecked his knee again (and half his clothing). Soon after, he hobbled off toward New Zealand. Local hospitals be warned!

The Nymboida, one of 'the' whitewater rivers in Australia and one that I'd not paddled before. Two local guides Al and Brian had volunteered to show me their river and provided some inflatable kayaks for it. The river was fairly low but still provided plenty of excitement as we fell over drops whose names aptly described their offerings: S Bend, Gutter, Slippery Dip, Concealed Elbow. Too soon we arrived at the Cod Hole and a camp.

Over a few beers I learnt that Al, now spending his life paddling rivers comes from Birdsville; about as dry a place in Australia that there is. The river was a beauty; passing through wooded valleys and deep granite gorges. On the second day I took an uncomfortably rocky swim at Carls Rock. I was surprised at how quickly the big whitewater section passed. The river guidebook said 'allow 3 days from Platypus Flat to The Junction'. We covered it in some 6 hrs over 2 days, although it makes a big difference when you're with people who know the river intimately and little time is spent scouting rapids for the best line. It's a river I'm looking forward to getting back to.

At the Junction, Al and Brian left me and I swapped boats to a Perception Swing to paddle the 20km to Nymboida village before dark. Apart from a couple of small drops the river was now very different; long pools, farmland on the banks. At one point I passed a seemingly brand new plastic water tank sitting in the middle of the river. I wondered how it had got to such a spot.

For 3 more days I floated leisurely on down the Nymboida, seeing no-one and enjoying perfect riverside camps. Would have liked a bit more water in the river but the sun was shining, platypus, dived beneath me and black swans struggled to get airborne from their nests as the canoe glided past. A few rapids required portaging, but generally I had planty of time to reflect on the journey so far and plenty of time to reach Jackadgery to catch up with dad for the last time before he flew home to the UK. Fitting that his last day should be his 60th birthday.

Trying Conditions

I took a day off to spend with dad and Wendy and to celebrate his birthday in the caravan park that is the metropolis of Jackadgery. The support crew baton was handed over to Ingrid and Graham and I rode up to Washpool National Park, 1000 metres above. The camp at Bellbird in Washpool was spoilt by the avaricious, aggressive nature of possums, scrub turkeys and currawongs who, used to idiot visitors feeding them, now saw all humans as targets. You couldn't take your eyes off things for a second. They all looked obscenely overweight. Don't people read signs: 'Don't feed the native animals'?

Motivation was somehow lacking when I set off to walk for 3 days through the Washpool Wilderness. I planned to scramble down into Babepercy Creek, follow it down to Washpool Creek and then follow that to Desert Creek to meet Ingrid. There were no paths and the walk would basically be a rainforest walk of creek hopping. I couldn't think why I was feeling a tad flat. Going along the creek was slow but not painfully so and I stopped just on dark.

Whilst the creek was pretty, next morning I started to think about leaving it earlier than planned and head back up onto the ridges to an old fire trail marked on my map. This would speed progress to Desert Creek (so I thought!). By mid morning the decision was made and I was swinging up on tree roots to ascend the 500 metres I'd lost the previous day. Near the top the vegetation got a bit thicker and harder to push through. But hey, I'd soon be on the track and setting a cracking pace. Well if I'd blinked I'd have missed it; the track was barely discernible and almost totally overgrown. I made my way along it but after a couple of kilometres the bush had won the battle and the track was gone.

With an hour or so of light left, I bashed up onto a grassy knoll. I should have camped but of course things would be better just around the next corner. They weren't. I descended into some horrendous scrub on very steep ground and lost my bearings. The light was fading and I found myself levitating across the top of thorn bushes which tore at skin and clothing. My feet couldn't reach solid ground. I swam up again, realizing I was going nowhere and clambered through the bush. Not relishing a night sat on top of thorns I pushed on in the gloom and got lucky - relatively. The scrub cleared to a patch of rainforest. I pitched the tent. No matter the slope was severe and a large fallen tree protruded half a metre inside the tent. I slipped into the sleeping bag and spent the night slipping down the tent. I had just enough water for a couple of mouthfuls - there'd be no dinner.

There's no such thing as a good or a bad decision at the time you make it. It's only after, whilst basking in the glow of hindsight, that the path down which that decision led is seen as being good, bad or worse. If the track had been there I'd have breezed along the ridgetops. Now, as I pulled myself up to the top of the tent for the hundredth time that night you start imagining scenarios: What if the weather closes in? What if an accident occurs?

A filtered, golden light woke me, and breakfast didn't take too long. Soon I was back swimming through the bush, heading back to the knoll to ascertain my position. That done I studiously followed the compass and stumbled upon some bits of pink tape hanging in the bushes. This led to the overgrown track line and, whilst it disappeared often, I made slow progress watching the map carefully. Then suddenly, in late morning I came out onto a well maintained dirt track and a sign: 'You are now entering Washpool Wilderness. Tracks to the south of here have been restored' Surely restoration of a track means making it better. I think they meant the track had been allowed to return to the bush.

I was very thirsty but had only 12km of easy trail walking to Desert Creek to find Ingrid busily putting up the tent. She must have sensed my thirst as the camp fridge was filled with Coke. I was surprised that Ingrid, a vegan and generally anti multinational person would have added to their coffers. Late that night around the camp fire, I asked why she'd bought all the Coke. "Well you asked for it on your last shopping list". No way, I wouldn't have put that down. Ingrid rummaged in her bag and pulled out the scrap of paper covered in my renowned appallingly bad handwriting. There on the list was cake! Reminded me of a similar occasion some months previously when Wendy came back from the supermarket with a pile of paper cups. The shopping list was produced and there they were - paper clips!

Muddy Conditions

It was over 5 weeks since Sydney and all being well, Brisbane was less than a fortnight away. I waved goodbye to Ingrid with dangerous talk: "I'll see you in 3 days easily - Tuesday lunchtime at the latest" and rode away from Desert Creek. A hundred metres up the hill I stopped to clear some food stuck between my front teeth that was annoying me. I scraped and pulled at it and eventually it came loose on my nail. Another leech!

Made it to Tabulam, west of Casino that night and arrived at the pub at 6pm - closing time. But the landlord called me in and put a schooner on the bar. Ingrid had called in that morning to put one on the tab for me. Throwing the tent up in a horse paddock that night I wrote in my diary: "Who knows what the tracks will be like".

At Tabulam the news reached me that a friend, whilst mountain biking in the Northern Territory, had gone over the handlebars. We all do it, get up, laugh about the great stack, rue there wasn't a camera around. Sean didn't. He's now a quadraplegic. It doesn't bear thinking about too much; but these things reinforce the realization there's that thin line between fun and tragedy.

'Pushwalking'; the sport of walking through the bush with a bike. This was what much of Toonumbar and Richmond Range National Parks offered. The rain had come in and soaked already damp ground. The mud just stopped wheels and chain from turning. At Peacock Creek, before the worst of the mud, I sheltered for lunch in the old forestry camp. At the first old hut I approached, a very large black dog appeared through the window frame. He just stared at me and didn't make a sound. I left that hut to him. That night I camped beneath some huge rainforest trees and fought off the leeches.

The following day turned into the longest of the trip. I left before 7am to give myself a chance to get to Mount Barney. The mud got worse and the rain heavier. On one section of track I had to ferry the panniers up a couple of steep, slippery inclines; slide back down to my bike and have a couple of runs at pushing the bike up. Two efforts saw me and bike sliding back down the hill. On the third I just managed to make it up. Even when the mud eased up, chainsuck (the chain getting sucked up and jammed into the gears ) prevented me from riding on anything uphill. I covered less than 16km in 4 hours that morning.

At least Iron Pot Creek gave an opportunity to clean the bike. From here I cut my losses, or so I thought, by following the Toonumbar Forest Drive rather than a 4WD track as originally planned. The National Parks information described the Drive as being suitable for ordinary cars. No way. It was a poor, muddy track which had recently had graders down it to chop it up some more. It was a long, long climb before finally giving me an equally long descent to the Summerland Way. Stunning views of Mt Lindesay, with a cloud halo. It was 5pm with 45km ridden (walked?) in 10 hours and 50km still to go. At least this was now sealed and I snuck into Queensland under cover of darkness to finally reach Mt Barney campground close to 9pm. Not quite lunchtime.

Classic Walking Conditions

Mount Barney - a real mountain. Watching the sun fire up it's eastern flanks from Yellowpinch as mist drifted across it's 1350m summit was inspirational. Rock faces, sharp ridges - a tonic from the thick bush and rainforest of previous days. Much as trekking through Kakadu had been the perfect finale to the Brisbane2Darwin journey the previous year, this 7 day walk across Mt Barney, the Ballow Range and the Main Range would do likewise for Sydney2Brisbane. An enjoyable scramble up the South East ridge of Mt Barney and that night the lights of Brisbane could be seen some 100km away.

Some interesting (read frustrating) scrub bashing down off the West Peak to Barney Creek brought back recent memories of Washpool. Up and across the Ballow Range. A tumble taken descending a greasy cliff on Double Peak warned me to take a bit more care. After 4 days reached the Boonah Border gate, a lonely outpost on a dirt track. There Ernest the gatekeeper handed me the bag of supplies Ingrid and Graham had dropped off. Not a bad job - checking the paperwork for the very rare vehicles transporting livestock across the border into NSW to try and prevent the spread of ticks. Good job he didn't check me although I'd pulled most off that morning!

Now to the Main Range; the classic ridge traverse from Teviot Gap to Spicers Gap. Generally there was some sort of footpad to follow. I didn't mind that too much after the bush bashing of earlier sections. Lot's of relatively open walking that keeps to the ridgeline all the way, on the eastern side dropping hundreds of metres.

Many cliffs to bypass or find their easiest break. I carried a rope for pack hauling and in particular approached the descent from Mount Huntley with trepidation. I'd read and heard it was pretty nasty. But in the end it turned out to have a louder bark than bite and the rope was unused. In fact I reckoned the descent from Mt Spicer at the end of the walk was much worse. I was lucky though with good weather. This walk would be very different in wet conditions. I met one other group of walkers in the week from Mount Barney and arrived at Spicers Gap well satisfied.

I kept glancing back to the mountains on the 90km ride through farmland to the very brown Brisbane River at Mogill Ferry, in the western suburbs of Brisbane. It was late in the afternoon so I packed for one more night under the stars without a clue where I might stay. A couple of hours of paddling and, knee deep in mud, pulled the Swing up onto a bank by some fields. A final frost on the bivi bag, an awakening by some curious kangaroos and a sunny day for the last 40km winding downriver to Brisbane. A nice balance after leaving from Sydney by kayak 49 days and 1900km earlier.

Total Days: 49
Total Distance: 1860km (MTB 1270km, Canoe 430km, Walk 160km)