Flinders Ranges Adventure on the cheap.
The idea was simple - spend a week north of Adelaide, South Australia, in one of the world's oldest mountain ranges, with a $200 budget and my reliable 20 year old Yamaha Super Tenere.
Departure was 7.30 am for an 8.30 am meet-up with fellow local Super Tenere owner, 27Rich. We decide to catch up at the first Roadhouse out of the city. Home to a constant stream of north bound travellers, including 1000hp+ diesel Prime Movers with great names including "Rampaging Turtle" - difficult not to think of this as an appropriate name for my old beast :lol3 . It's heavier than it really looks. I've added an instant pop-up tent and dry bag around my swag due to likely rain in the week ahead - August is always a bit unstable as winter slowly dies.
Our bikes are similar 1990 models - great adventure bikes even though they're well past their glory days.
We roll north past the expansive market garden and glasshouse region, where hundreds of farms are measured in handfuls of acres, onto the wheat and sheep grazing areas around Malalla township, where scattered individual farms are measured in hundreds of hectares. Rich, dark soil country that usually produces more than 16 bags of wheat to the acre, on average. Malting and feed grade barley grain are just as common and successful. Canola flowers, grown for their food grade oil, become a popular rotation crop in the next 300 kilometres north.
This is a good year and the crops look stunning already.
After only 40 kilometres of fast bitumen, we reach the dirt and gravel roads that will hopefully be my chosen route for the next week. I spent the prior evening plotting a course avoiding all further decent sealed surfaces - the good journeys in Oz are usually off the beaten tracks so that's always a priority in my trip planning. Rich and I cruise along the fast dirt, enjoying the beauty of the gently rolling plains with signs of spring and new life everywhere. I get slightly worried that the route is a bit too boring for Rich, who is only along for a day ride. I should have taken that into account with the GPS plotting. I usually ride in explore mode, following any track that looks interesting but for today, it's travel mode. I've got 600 kilometres planned before reaching the evenings planned bush camp. We follow the dry sandy clay roads as they flow north through the grain crops, until we reach an area where the road colour suddenly changes to a more distinct damp red clay. We've done about 60 kilometres so far and making great time, so we decide to push forward through this small challenge, expecting a slightly slower pace at worst before the dry soil returns soon.
It doesn't take long before Rich and I discover the error of our way.
This stuff, this thick, slick, red grease has become a trap for the big bikes.
Two hundred metres down this road and we're both in trouble. Poor traction and with no way to turn around through the bog, my bike slides with little control.
Rich, seeing the muck I'm riding in, mounts the overgrown verge and rides past me on the wet grass alongside the roadway. Normally this would be the last option, but the clay is so bad and the bikes so close to falling, it becomes the best and only option. Before I can reach a place where the grader verge is low enough to do likewise with my heavier rig, my front wheel clogs solid and slides several metres on the slick surface.
I can barely get off the bike without falling and there's no way I can use the sidestand, so I hold the bike upright until Rich walks back to help. He finds some thick tree bark pieces to spread the load under the sidestand and we get to cleaning the mud from under the low front guard with thin gum tree branch pieces.
"I think I see the problem."
A short time later, I'm mobile again, up onto the grass and standing on the pegs. Riding in this axle high grass would normally be suicidal due to hidden rabbit burrows but for the last five years or so, the release of a biological control virus has almost wiped out this massive introduced pest species and their deep burrow entrances. Only large rocks, displaced by the road builders long ago pose any hazard but they're few and easy to avoid.
After half an hour of riding, Rich and I make it a further kilometre to the end of the worst of the mud section and a side road junction. Looking back here, I note a "Dry Weather Only" road sign for the route we'd just travelled. Someone must have stolen the similar sign at the beginning of the road, or it fell over and sank into the mud.
We continued on, following the slightly improved road down to a great little creekside campground.
There's a waterhole a bit further down the small gorge that contains deep but clean water. We circle the area looking for a road indicated on the GPS. A shallow creek crossing indicates a track continuing the other side of the waterway, so we cross after a quick wading check of the stream. My right boot comes out of this short walk dry, my left boot not so dry. Oh well. I ride into the creek, rear brake locked as I slide down into the slick entry bank, cross then wait for Rich to do likewise.
This track takes us over a small rise and through the remains of a fallen gumtree, partially chainsawed to clear the track, before turning sharply left and up a steep, rutted 4WD climb of maybe 10 metres. Rich goes first as he's lighter without any camping gear. I follow his line with a bit more throttle. Once up this rise, I overtake Rich as we idle along the narrow track. Gone are the dual wheel tracks. This has become a single trail with relatively fresh motorcycle knobbies tracks leading us forward along a grassed slope forming one side of the waterhole gorge cliffs.
We've suddenly reached another point of no return.
Yep, that's what the track suddenly became in the lower right corner of the above photo. :huh
Apprehensively, I nudge the 200+ Kg Tenere up the track, climbing towards a ridge. Just as I begin to accelerate on the increasing slope, my rear wheel suddenly spins in the wet grass at the edge of the goat trail. Instantly my bike swings sideways and the rear begins to drop down the cliff slope. I hit the kill switch and prepare to bail out. But the bike has dug a small hole with the suddenly spinning rear wheel and it holds still under engine compression without further down slope travel. I step off gingerly and jamb a half-brick sized rock behind the rear tyre.
Rich comes to my aid once again. Confident I'm not about to see my bike plummet into the waterhole 80 metres below, Rich grabs my camera and hikes up to the top of the hill to reassess our situation. We decide this isn't the track we want to be on today with slippery, wet grass, so we grab the front end of my bike and lift it the 135 degrees back the way I'd come in small stages, re-chocking the rear wheel as the bike swings. The rear tyre stays in the small divot it made prior to shutting the engine off, so my direction to let the bike go and step away from the sliding vehicle doesn't come into play.:D I seriously thought I'd be walking home but we did well. I would have been stuffed on my own. :freaky Problem now is that Rich and my bike are facing each other on a single track in a greasy grass covered slope with only one way out, other than over the gorge edge. I convince Rich to travel across a narrow, steep gully section I'd previously traversed (By holding one foot up at tank level off the peg to avoid injury due to the slopes angle) so as to reach a fairly flattish area just in front of me. He's hesitant but gives it a go. Just as he passes the treacherously steep section, his rear wheel hits the slick grass and down he goes,
almost out of my sight....
To be continued......
Looks like an interesting predicament!:beer
Rich, to my relief, has dumped his bike just past the narrowest, steepest part of the cliff track but fortunately it's simply laid down and held position by digging a footpeg into the soft soil. He's narrowly missed both smacking his helmet into a concrete strainer post and tangling himself in the barbed wire boundary fence. I help him lift the heavy machine upright and he turns the bike around on a relatively wide and flattish section just ahead of my bike. I tentatively follow him back down the hill, feathering the rear brake to keep the bike under control and keeping it almost locked as we tackle the short, steep 4WD section. With relief we scramble back through the fallen gumtree canopy and scoot back across the creek. I check the GPS and come up with an alternative escape route - it looks easy until we get a short distance into it.
The farmers must be pleased. This is mid way through the growing period and the wheat & barley crops look thick enough to walk on top of.
This road's underwater in sections and the mud's almost as bad as the first road in. Rich and I work together to alternatively push and walk the bikes through each bog, some only a couple hundred metres from the last bog. It's better than a gym membership and this hard going has me sweating like a rapist in my thermals and layers of winter clothing. But it's all good fun.
Sidestands are highly over-rated.
The next intersection with promise of potential escape to dry roads is only a kilometre away, but it feels like 50. I know there's a better, all-weather road running parallel to the mud pond we're tackling. We've just got to get there.
I'm forced to ride past Rich's fallen bike to try and find somewhere to park, upright, myself. I'm not really trying to cross the tracks, just having troubles going forwards at this particular moment.
Rich breaks out his tyre levers to help my sidestand support my bike so I can park up and help him scramble in the mud and raise his fallen bike. It's hard enough to walk upright in this red grease, let alone move forward easily under power.
The side of the verge gets that bad in the end, we are forced back onto the roadway to make progress.
Finally at the intersection, we head for the parallel road and dry land, we hope.
The Great Escape wasn't meant to be. Just prior to reaching a cross-roads half way to freedom, I feel and hear the tyres picking up mud again. I stop and wait for Rich to catch up to warn him of the mud ahead.
Trying to move forward again, my front end plunges as I let the clutch out, then pogos back up, then plunges again. What the hell?, I think. Rich yells a warning that my front wheel isn't turning. So I stop and we try to turn the front wheel by each grabbing a handful of spokes and lifting. The bike leaves the ground but the wheel just doesn't budge. So out with the 10 mm open end spanner and spend 30 minutes digging the front fender bolts from their damp home. I make a mental note to add my good ratcheting ring spanners to my tool bag set when I get home. After digging off about two kilograms of firm clay with a tyre iron, I lock the freed guard under an Andy Strapz Piggy Back Strapz holding the tent onto the swag.
The intersection we need to travel through is a complete disaster - the mud is easily axle deep and impassable with the road beyond partially flooded further up. So we turn around and head back to the last boggy road once again.
It's taken us three hours to do the last 10 or so kilometres. No more bloody adventure!! Enough, we hope. We head up the only other road available at the boggy road intersection. It proves to be a better, all-weather road. We need to make some distance so reaching a bitumen road just outside the township of Balaklava, we make use of it. After only a short distance, I spot another touring adventure bike parked up in a roadside rest area. I give him a wave then think, "Stuff it, I'll see if he's okay." It turns out to be another South Oz ADV inmate, Snale, on his way home from the Off Centre Rally. We chat for a short while then make tracks again. It's past lunch time and Clare township is our target.
About ten kilometres later, I'm bored with the bitumen and spot a road linking up with my GPS route north again. It proves to be a good all-weather road. It leads along a wide fast dirt road that suddenly terminates at a farmer's gate. Damn GPS's. Wish they could discriminate road routes better off the data maps used. The only near option is a dirt track leading off 90 degrees downhill. We go 50 metres down it and it soon becomes apparent it's another greasy track we need to leave alone today. It takes a few scary moments and a bit of a push to turn the bikes around. We back track to a small village we passed through and take a side road leading up into gently rolling hills. This turns out to be an absolutely brilliant twisting, snaking dirt road that follows a creek valley all the way into the Clare township. What a great blast this road is after the previous frustrations. Rich and I find a shop for lunch. While waiting for a hot meal to be cooked, I bolt my front fender back on while Rich removes and cleans his guard and brake lines.
Clare is a beautiful old mixed farming and wine grape growing centre roughly 120 kilometres north of Adelaide. It's also the point at which Rich must depart for home and family. It must be terrible having a real job :D .
Thanks Richard. It was a brilliant blast and top morning. :thumb :beer And thankyou for the photos to add to this ride report.
From this point onwards, I need to avoid too much more excitement. Easier said than done, when you're me. :evil
To be continued.......
What an awesome ride, but I know how you would have felt doing a work out in all that gear.
These bikes are about the same weight as a fully fuelled BMW R1150GS, so they take a bit of man-handling when it goes a bit pear shaped. But I made a mistake when I was getting dressed for the journey. I had a spare t-shirt, socks and jocks packed, so I thought I'd wear my long sleeve thermal top over the top of my cotton t-shirt but under my long tailed rugby top. What this did was trap the sweat and make the t-shirt damp. It became a problem later that afternoon. I should have done what I usually do and simply wear the thermals as a base layer, then t-shirt, then rugby top, then back protector, then winter liner and textile jacket. First time I've done it that way. Definitely the last. I was trying to extend the freshness of the thermals by having the t-shirt next to my skin. Dumb move.
No doubt about you Sundowner ................. every ride's an adventure :clap
So far the only part missing is the tree hugging naked hairy lesbians and for a moment there, I thought your bikes were going to slide down the wet greasy grass into the ravine and into their clutches :lol3
You got me in :lurk
Did you need a trip to chiropractors after manhandling those beasts?:D
Great ride report.
Better you than me, I must of been having a Beer at Hawker while all this was going on hahahaha
:wave Heya MB - you'd have loved this trip. Rich and I grinned like shaved apes every minute of it, once we escaped the mud. :D I certainly thought my bike was going swimming for a few moments up the top of the gorge. Just lucky it stopped sliding quickly due to the rear digging in. For some odd reason, the grass on the greasy roadways gave us reasonably reliable traction but the stuff on the slope was as slick as a diesel spill. I'd have no issues riding up it again on a dry day, but they must of had half an inch of rain overnight when we got there, plus whatever had previously fallen to create the mud. It's a beautiful spot - perfect for an overnight campsite. The water in the gorge looked to be well over 6 feet deep - it was black water in the centre area. Perfect for a high summer ride. :ricky
(Speaking of riding.....I better continue this tale)
So feeling fortified with a gutfull of hot food, I continued north. Only 500 kilometres left to do and about 4 hours of daylight left to go. At least I didn't need to worry about food tonight. Anyway, just a few kilometres north of town, I pick up my GPS trail again.
The area is covered in grape vineyards for the primary local industry, wine making. The Clare Valley produce is on a par with the world famous Barossa Valley wine industry. I'm a beer man myself, so I try not to get too excited by the surroundings.
The road is good, but I'm chasing rain showers as I travel along. The locals give you a wave. They'd be well pleased the drought worries are gone.
Not all of the locals are so friendly. These guys eye me with contempt. They've obviously been standing here for hours, mooing, but they let me pass unchallenged. They can probably sense I've just eaten and pose little threat. There's little room on the bike for roadkill anyway.
Soon the road leads me into a wind farm district. Dozens of the white three bladed turbines cover the nearby hills like an army of invading Martian Tripods. The spinning blades stretching across the horizon to my right are mesmerising but I need to concentrate on the increasingly slick clay roadway. I'm caught between bands of rain and the water flows across the road surface in wide sheets. I'm confident to continue and follow my GPS route across the gently rolling hills. This mornings adventures suddenly return to haunt me...
And it only gets worse.
There's no avoiding this road - it's the only one that leads where I need to go to continue north. It's a rough grassy verge with hidden dips and swampy areas, but I have traction, so it works for me. The grass here is up to the front guard in height, thick and soaking wet. Steam puffs up from the engine guard every few minutes and I can smell the grass I'm mowing cooking on the exhaust headers. It's brilliant. But I'm up on the pegs and being cautious. If I hit a rabbit burrow or bog hole here I doubt I'll see any help pass by today, at least. After about three quarters of an hour of riding standing in trials mode, I finally reach an intersection with a better all-weather high camber surface.
I wonder if I need to milk the bike, after all the grass it's just eaten, but opt for a pee myself instead. The road ahead is still wet and torn up, so I flag down a passing farmer's utility and chat about the road north. They've had a lot of rain overnight, but other than a bit a couple of kilometres up the road, it's all good. The local road works gang drives by a few minutes after I set off again. After not seeing another soul the past few hours, it's reassuring to see traffic on this route.
I can live with half a road, but the dark clouds are building and I start thinking about escaping to the bitumen. I need to make better time.
The road north. Not looking real good with more rain threatening.
The road east. Looks fine but if it's like the earlier roads, it's likely to be a river if the sign is accurate. First flood sign I've seen today.
Another photo stop and a pee to warm up. It's raining lightly on and off, so I check the GPS and cut across west to the bitumen road a few kilometres away.
After a few more kilometres of boring bitumen, I reconnect to my dirt road route along a winding gorge/creek road leading past an early colonial church
onwards to a place called "Magnetic Hill". I follow the directions on the sign, lining up with the sign and releasing the "handbrake".
Looks innocent enough.
The view ahead at this point.
As soon as I ease off the brakes, my bike starts to roll backwards, uphill!!!
Must be some farmer playing a "Wile E Coyote" on me. Or voodoo. I get a little scared and confused :huh :lol3 , so thumb the starter and bolt forwards, up the downwards hill and onwards through the gorge. :ricky Roos and wallabys start to make an appearance near the road.
The rugged sandstone ranges that make up the Flinders Ranges are now starting to surround and embrace me once again. The sun's setting, so I make a cautious dash for nearby Orroroo township, for fuel and grog.
Once in town, I'm met by the sight of the service station owner making a bee line for his car. Thinking I'd missed out, he surprises me by opening up a pump and grumbling off inside the recently shut shop. Must be on a promise? Taking on $22.50 of fuel and re-locking the bowser for him, I surprise myself by producing that exact amount in correct change from a wallet containing just a few other fifty dollar notes. He doesn't smile at the city slicker giving correct money, just grunts. Definitely on a promise.
Next off to the second of the town's pubs, for the fluid that warms all bike riders - a couple of bottles of Stones Green Ginger Wine. These sit happily inside the pop-up tent's bag, safe from any fall. I hit the road for Hawker once it's properly dark, so my headlights can find the roos easier. The heated grips and winter gloves get used, as the temperature's rapidly dropping and I'm cold from a t-shirt still damp from the morning's activities. Amazingly, not a single roo sighted, I reach Hawker an hour later. Everything is apparently shut by 7pm, so I push on north.
The next 105 kilometres is a nightmare for any rider. Hundreds of roos, big reds 6 foot tall and smaller greys, along with dark, solid Euros line the road. Some of them wont even move away until I'm within kicking range. It's a clear, cold night and they've come onto the bitumen to enjoy the radiated heat from the slowly cooling road.
About 2 hours later, I reach Blinman and search for a friendly face at the pub. I'm that cold and tired I burn the waitresses eyeballs with my high-beam as she sits on the porch, enjoying a quiet cigarette. After a few minutes, I realise what I've done and kill the lights. Surprisingly, she doesn't come over to kick me in the nuts, like a normal person would. I apologise and leave town, before she changes her mind.
Down into Parachilna Gorge, I look for a familiar campsite but see nothing I'd be happy with given the threatening rain. But the ride's good, following the twisting gorge alone in the dark. I continue on through the darkened mountain range until I reach the western plains and the lights of the Parachilna Pub. This place is, to me, a yuppie hole. The owner, standing outside talking to a couple of his bimbo staff while dressed like he's just fallen off the top deck of a cattle truck or a scrub brumby, makes me roll my tired eyes and wish I was elsewhere. Bloody tourist trap ever since they tore the one tiny roomed bar apart and spent a million dollars "modernising" the place. At least in the old pub bar, the galahs were only painted on the walls, not walking around inside it. Even with one of the cute, blondish bimbos willing me inside for a designer beer or a comfy heated room, away from the evil hopping roos lurking along the road, like a siren to a shipwreck survivor, I remember my budget and the swag that's been digging into my back the last 580 kilometres. I politely pass when I learn nobody I'd want to meet is nearby. So I hit the road and do the last 40 kilometres to one of my favourite places on Earth, Brachina Gorge. Despite the Siren's concerns, I don't see a single roo, or any other livestock for that matter, until I reach camp at the National Park boundary.
Shortly after lighting a small aboriginal style twig fire, I disturb a few birds, but settle down to a nice rest against my swag, breaking out one bottle of Stones to keep me warm and the mp3 player for some relaxing blues music. With the "bushman's television" fire going, I'm content with the day just finished. It's not long before I start to fall asleep, so I roll the swag out properly, throw a couple of thicker branches onto the fire and soon fall soundly asleep. In the morning, I wake and stoke the fire for a brew and some porridge.
After a relaxed start, I'm loaded and hit the start of the gorge. I've got a great day ahead. It's been a while since I last visited these mountains and I'm keen to explore.
The wide riverbed area that forms the base of the road through the mountain ranges.
To be continued....
And thanks, it's my first "official" RR. The others were too incriminating to publish hereabouts. :augie
I've heard of things shrivelling in the cold but this is ridiculous :poser
Go here for a quick laugh - http://www.advrider.com/forums/showt...+danny+pedrosa
Mate Its 32c in Siberia right now not bad for a Siberian Summer, you should Try a Siberian winter -40c I did, got pissed on Home Made Vodka and and fell down on the ice while clutching a Kalashnikov and Bottle.
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