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As the planning had come together we'd tried to stick to our original criteria. No bitumen, and no backtracking. We had four weeks to experience as much of the Kimberley as possible and we weren't intending to spend twelve hours of every day cycling, just to say we'd ridden the whole way. By bussing the 650km of bitumen from Kununurra to Fitzroy Crossing and flying out from the northern end of the ride we could take more rest days. These would give us time to explore the country and to talk to the people. Past travelling had taught us both that quality was preferable to distance.
Kunnunurra provides an excellent jump off point for a cycle tour of the Kimberley. Easily accessible from all Capital cities, it has two well supplied supermarkets and a couple of smaller sports and/or camping shops for those last minute essentials. Expect to pay more than at home and don't go looking for a new Blackburn rack or Brooks saddle. If it's not made in Taiwan, it's not here. We organised for Christies in Hawthorn to send us up anything we destroyed along the way. We carried a spare folding tyre each, a rear derailleur and a spare set of pedals between us, as well as the usual spokes, cables, tubes, nuts and bolts, radiator hoses, electric winch, portable generator, 3-way fridge, gas stove, 12-volt compresso... Oops sorry, became confused with a four wheel drive for a minute. (Waveless water bed, Jason recliner, Dishlex dishwasher, Sony TV and video. Just the essentials.)
From Kunnunurra we organised a lift to Purnululu (the Bungle Bungles) National Park with a backpackers tour company. This was to avoid 250km of the sealed Northern Highway, saving us a few days riding. We were also coerced into taking a lift into the park. The fifty kilometre access road took all of three hours to negotiate in the 4WD tour bus. The track which was slowing us so much was prime mountain biking double-track, and would certainly have been more comfortable on our well worn Brook's saddles than the sagging seats of the Toyota.
I had originally thought that Rob was being too generous, planning on a full week in the Bungle Bungles. We compromised on five days, which I would gladly have doubled, once we were there. We spent our first full day on an excursion to the gorges of the northern end of the park. Setting out at dawn meant we were travelling in the cool of the morning, without the annoying dust thrown up by 4WDs.
The annual monsoonal rains have carved numerous gorges in the soft sandstone layers of the Bungle Bungle massif, some of which still hold water late into the Dry. Only a few of these are open to the public, to preserve their fragile environment. The most spectacular is Mini-Palms Gorge. As we walked up the gorge the walls grew higher and closed in above us. Turning a sharp bend we were suddenly in an opening, similar to a large courtyard, carved by the powerful rains of the Wet. Here the sun can penetrate for more than just the few minutes a day which the bare, narrower sections receive, and a lush garden has sprung up. The force of the water hadn't only carved away the sandstone however. The main cluster of palms weren't the soaring trees we expected, but have been stunted to a height of less than two metres. It was a novel experience, walking through a head-height grove of palms. At the very rear of the gorge, a large cave offered a deliciously cool lunch spot, once our eyes had adjusted to the gloom.
The other highlight of Purnululu is Piccaninny gorge. The track from Walardi campground was quite unrideable, being twenty kilometres of loose sand, so we left our bikes with one of the tour operators and hitched a lift out. Here we walked through the most famous of the Park's attractions, the Beehives. These towering humps of sandstone take their colouring from the horizontal stripes of silica and lichen which cover and protect them. Without this hard outer layer the Wet season rains would destroy them in a matter of years. Planning to spend two or three nights up this much longer gorge (we only had one), would give a great opportunity for exploring and discovery. Water was plentiful in the upper gorge, although the initial walk in was quite long, about three hours, and dry.
Feeling the need to assert ourselves as bike tourers, we set out early the next day to ride from the park to the Highway (where we hoped to hitch a lift to Fitzroy Crossing!) Our planned ride of five hours for fifty kilometres was dashed by a non-locknutted bolt, ejected from the front pannier mount by the constant corrugations.
The first thing one does when confronted by a pannier rack with a ninety degree bend in the main upright is to swear loudly. The second is to have lunch. Stripping the rack from the bike in 37 degree heat whilst being assaulted by kamikaze flies is never going to be fun, but it's a lot harder on an empty stomach. A little judicious bending with an old log put us back on the track again. A bit of time to think is always the best option in a situation like this.
Dog tired at 2am, the Greyhound from Warmun (Turkey Creek), just north of the Bungle Bungles, deposited us under an uninviting tin verandah, alongside the passengers coming north from Derby. Our garbled phone conversation with a Belgian guest at the Fitzroy Crossing Backpackers had assured us that accommodation was available and that we would be met, as these two buses crossing in the night were the only ones for the day.
Sure enough a bellowing yell went up, "ANY BACKPACKERS?" We traced its source to a small mountain in thongs and a battered Akubra. The bikes were no problem, even after we offered to ride behind the 4WD. "NA, CHUCK EM IN THE BACK. YA'S AIN'T GOT MUCH STUFF, HAVE YA?" Peter Ross was incapable of talking at less than a full roar, even when he was whispering. Wrestling the battered Toyota 4WD into third gear we jerked into the night. The old Landcruiser may have had other gears, but if so Peter was saving them for another day. He certainly didn't use them that night.
The Fitzroy Crossing Backpackers, run by the Darlgunyah Aboriginal Community, is the perfect place to prepare for the next leg, on to the Gibb River Road. The building, the old Fitzroy Crossing Post Office is roomy and full of character. It has been rebuilt by the community from a derelict shell, and with its wide verandahs and slatted shutters for windows it is a throw-back to a past era. We took a tour of Geikie Gorge with Sam Lovell, an experienced Aboriginal guide, who explained some of the significance of the area, the local bush foods, and sacred sites. Peter's son Joe, spent an evening telling us of the local history, both recent and from the Dreamtime. He also had plenty of valuable practical advice on conditions, water, possible camps and sights to see for the days ahead.
Fitzroy Crossing was a convenient resupply point on our route. We had posted a ten kilogram parcel ahead to the new Post Office, including enough home dehydrated meals for each dinner and any other foods we thought would be unavailable. The supermarket at Fitzroy Crossing, though expensive, stocked most of the staples; rice, pasta and bread, but not that most essential of cycling foods, the muesli bar! We had to make do with our own mixture of scroggin and biscuits.
The beginning of our second week in the Kimberley gave us our one short taste of bitumen for the whole tour. Forty kilometres south along the Great Northern Highway we turned off for Tunnel Ck, Windjana Gorge and on to the Gibb River Road. From here on it was dust, corrugation and sand. We quickly learnt the art of "road weaving" to take the route of least corrugation or sand, and to pull over to the upwind side of the road whenever other traffic approached.
We estimated that the remainder of our trip contained more corrugations than our combined travels through Australia, Africa, Europe and North and South America. The pounding to equipment was incessant, a far tougher test than any previous trip, including the deserts of Mexico. Our breakages were suprisingly low, only two front racks, stressing the importance of good quality gear and careful packing.
The stress to our bodies had been one of our primary concerns prior to the trip and we had spent a lot of time arguing the pros and cons of various front suspensions. Eliminating front forks for their inability to carry a front rack, we had finally decided to use Barne's Jar Bars for their low weight and simplicity. This proved to be one of our best decisions for the trip.
On the one occasion I locked out the suspension, rather than dig through my pannier to replace an elastomer, the constant pounding of my forearms had me off the bike within fifteen minutes. With the Jar Bars activated we were happy to ride all day. They performed faultlessly the whole distance, with only two broken elastomers, which have been replaced with UV stabilised ones and are still on the bike almost a year later. For the off-road touring cyclist they are certainly a valuable option. The road alongside the Napier Range remains in our memories, both for its ruggedness and its amazing Boab trees. Bare limestone hills thrust up beside the track, the remains of a recent, geologically speaking, coral reef. Of all sizes and girths, the Boabs stand starkly etched against its skyline, with naked branches reaching out to the sun. In what could be perceived as a harsh or threatening environment, they were always a friendly sight, offering the shade of their massive trunks as a rest stop.
Certainly the highlight of any tour in the Kimberley, by bicycle or car, is camping by the gorges. Probably the best known of these is Bell's Gorge. The access road had been newly graded, a boon for cars but no advantage on a bike, as the sand still piles up in soft drifts and the 4WDs are encouraged to cruise past at a higher speed. Bell's Gorge offers a semi-developed campground with cold showers and even flush toilets! Both of these were most welcome when we arrived about midday, after a week of dust on the Gibb river Road.
The next morning, after an afternoon of bike maintenance, we set out with unladen bikes to explore the gorge. This tiny creek, barely trickling in the Dry, must be an impressive sight in the Wet season. It has carved a deep gorge in the ancient rock, one of the most picturesque and inviting we had seen. The creek steps down through a series of four pools, dropping from waterfall to waterfall. The top pool is the most accessible and well visited so, after a quick dip, we decided to try Rob's carbon fibre fishing rod, one of our very few non-essentials, in the less disturbed lower pools.
If there was an easy way down, we couldn't find it. Our fishing trip included a twenty metre climb down a dry waterfall, and an hour of boulder hopping along a tributary creek. Our reward was a day spent with neither sight nor sound of another person and, of course, three fresh fish for dinner. We shared the lowest pool with a small fresh water Crocodile, harmless, but a little unsettling when you aren't wearing bathers! The sheer rock walls and deep pools provided a great opportunity for some impromptu rock climbing, with a missed hold the cue for a quick swim.
Caught up in the fun of our rest day, we left our return about an hour too late. Even with a hard dash by fading twilight, the final half hour to camp was lit only by my Petzl headtorch, which showed every tree root as a snake stretched across the track as we swerved through the soft sand. We were glad to reach the glow of the campground fire places, and of course those luxurious cold showers.
Contemplating what a great day we had had, as we ate our fresh fish and drank a cold beer (courtesy of a friendly traveller) we didn't take much convincing to do it all again. It was just as much fun the second time around, with a second feed of fish as well. Who said you couldn't enjoy all the comforts of home we wondered, as we drank another cold beer and ate our fish and fresh bread, baked by Rob in a Trangia pot inside a billy!
The changing scenery and hills of the Phillips range kept us interested over the next few days, as we continued north. Our normal daily pattern when riding was to set the alarm for about 5am, half an hour before dawn. As we were camping without tents, we would eat our morning muesli sitting in our sleeping bags to avoid the morning cold. We both used three-season down bags, and on more than one occasion I slept in my down jacket, and Rob in his thermals. Packing up involved putting the sleeping bags away and setting off wearing all our clothes. About 7:00am we would strip down to our riding clothes as the temperature climbed sharply.
Rob rode in long cotton trousers and a long sleeved shirt, while I chose shorts and a long cotton shirt. We both added visors and neck flaps to our helmets for sun protection, and wore sunglasses constantly. Rob's Bolle mountain glasses with leather side pieces were excellent for thwarting the flies, only ever a problem when we were passing through cattle country.
Our first lunch stop was about 10am, if we could last that long, and the second one was around 2:30pm. We found that we needed to stop and eat twice a day to keep our energy levels up. Lunch was dry biscuits,(bread if Rob had baked the night before), salami, cheese and fresh sprouts, which we sprouted as we went. Dessert was more biscuits with peanut butter and jam or honey (a combination I only ever crave when camping).
Sometime about 4:00pm we would look for a campsite, or plan to be by a creek or gorge. After a cup of tea and some reading or bird watching, we'd prepare dinner, normally a meal we had dehydrated at home, before packing the bikes for the morning and laying our groundsheets out under the stars. Bedtime was normally around nine, as the cold set in again.
Mt Barnett Station is marked on maps as a roadhouse and store, but supplies are limited and expensive, although the profits go to the local Aboriginal community who own it. It does offer a great selection of junk food however, and when we arrived about 10am, just in time for our first lunch, this was our first priority. After two pies, a flavoured milk and a two icecreams each, we turned our attention to the other unexpected luxury, the washing machine. It was soon attempting to separate two weeks of dirt and sweat from our much abused clothes, while we tried to glean as much information as possible about the country ahead.
The section from Mt Barnett roadhouse to Drysdale River Station was the most arduous of the trip, with no water along the way and the worst possible combination of loose sand, pushed up into corrugations. We made dry camps, ie. no water, about a quarter of the time on the trip, including this three day stretch. Our ability to carry enough water was crucial, and we always took care to divide the water into a number of containers, Nalgene and Decor bottles and MSR Dromedary bags, to guard against breakage or spillage. We were using about eight litres each per day for drinking and cooking and never had to stop a vehicle to ask for a top up, although over this stage we were carrying fifteen litres each. That's a lot of weight, especially in soft sand, and the result was some colourful language on more than one occasion, as bike and rider separated in the sand. The second front rack became a casualty under this abuse. The cracked weld was quickly and effectively repaired with our supply of assorted hose clamps.
We arrived at Drysdale River Station at midday of the third day in good condition and with a reasonable margin of water. Our arrival was expected, as we had already arranged to stay in their comfortable station accommodation. We eagerly made use of the washing machine and hot showers, which we hadn't seen for two weeks. We spent two nights there, dressing for dinner each evening. This probably sounds a little more formal than the reality; which consisted of donning whichever clothes were least filthy. It does remain to Rob's credit that he was carrying a spare pair of shorts and a clean shirt. This welcome novelty was eclipsed by the excellent meals, with us needing only the slightest prodding to go back for seconds. Over the meal Anne and John Koeyers who run the station enlightened us on the running of the place and some of the history of the area.
Most of their stockwork is done by helicopters and Suzuki 4WDs, cut down to the bare essentials with an all encompassing bull bar. The day of horse and stockman seems to be a thing of the past around this part of the world. Fires, lit a few weeks earlier on the Mitchell Plateau, were burning out of control on a wide front including much of Drysdale River Station. The fires themselves are not so dangerous as they are slow moving .The real problem is, being the dry, they can burn for months, burning out whole stations and causing both cattle and wildlife to starve. They are also rather intimidating to a cyclist, as I found out a week later, forced to ride through them on my way down off the Plateau!
Having stocked up with supplies for the next section which Anne had ordered we continued on, making good time to the Mitchell Plateau .Tall stands of Livistonia Palms now made up a lot of the landscape. The lower undergrowth was mostly burnt out and strangely covered by scorched and dry leaves as a consequence of the fire. This gave us long vistas under the canopy, much of which was already showing new growth or was still intact where it was high enough to avoid the flames.
The 4WDers were finding the going slow and tedious due to the especially bad corrugations and a narrow and winding track. No longer could they drive fast enough to skim over the top. "Welcome to the real world" we thought, as they told us of their suffering!
We continued west as far as Surveyors Pools, the track down soon deteriorating when we began dropping off the Plateau. Mountain biking skills became essential as we negotiated the washed out track. The final 4km of walking track from the burnt out car park must have looked strange and forbidding to tourists used to the convenience of an air-conditioned four wheel drive; we had the pools to ourselves for the next two days. A six metre drop below the now dry waterfalls, they provided us with another of those magic campsites. Plenty of swimming, resting in the shade and casual exploration was the order of the day during our stay there.
Wildlife there was the most varied and abundant we had seen on the trip. A special mention to the Quoll who checked out our food supplies both evenings for any free takeaways! The Warabi, smallest of the wallabies and only recently discovered, seemed to be relatively common, sunning itself in the first rays of morning sunshine. Another new sighting for us was the Black Grasswren, found only on the Western Escarpment of the Kimberley Plateau.
Our trip back up to the Plateau was slow going but as planned we arrived at camp and organised ourselves for our rendezvous with the plane the next day. Rob had organised to do a bushwalk with Willis`s Walkabouts who flew into the plateau, and they had agreed to take out his bike on the return trip. I continued the 200km north to the Kalumburu Aboriginal Community, where I had organised a flight out with the regular mail plane, very reasonable at $80 for the bike and myself. Two days later I was back at work in winter Melbourne, envying Rob still up in the sun, and calculating when my next holidays were due.
Editor's Note: For more info on bicycle touring in the Kimberly, check out Sue Webber's fact sheet.
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Last updated 8 June 1999