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Dare I ask, what are your new gravel tastic tyres?
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And lo the call of adventure rumbled audibly in the distance, and gayly we piled into the back of a Peugeot 205 (XT) with 276,000km's on the clock as rain lashed the exterior. Our aim: Solidify friendships old and new, climb mountains, view vistas and eat packet noodles. We would drive to Forrest, get arse-faced in the brewery there, stay the night and froth our way to the beautiful coastline. All we needed was ourselves, snacks and our dreams and some money to buy booze. The three 650boiz, ready for anything.
An overnighteur wouldn't be one without a race against time, which came in the form of Forrest's premier (and only) brewery closing its kitchen at 8:30PM. We screeched sideways into the carpark not fully confident both bikes were still atop the car and ran in salivating at 8:20:PM. Now, Australia has a lot of breweries, and if you land one in an otherwise sleepy town popular with mountain cyclists, you'll likely do well. That does not mean however, that you can necessarily produce good yeasty beverages, as evidenced by their $15 (!!!!) pint of IIPA which tasted of distant farts and grass. The brewery redeemed itself with a Philly Cheese Steak sammish for the ages, all oily as fuck and delicious in spite of the inevitable heartburn.
A quick re-negotiation of our credit card limits later and we were a few pints deep, ready to venture outside into what should now be clear skies and absolutely no rain whatsoever. We'll braid each other's hair under the stars and share stories under the stars, I thought. But it hadn't stopped raining, and we sat in a car park staring glumly out into the boglands that were once a campsite. After some reflection Sam flung open a door and stormed into the night to find a suitable spot. There was not a suitable spot, but after some searching and fumbling in the night a BBQ shed was located, and that was where we'd be camping. As far as camping next to a BBQ leaking gas goes, the experience was most pleasant. Just the inner of our tents were required leaving the tin roof to deflect golfball sized rain globules throughout the night. On reflection it was a bit like sleeping in an outdoor store display tent.
DAY TWO: the The Friendship Overnighteur (AKA The 650Boiz, AKA Otway Adventureurs)
Got the day started the RIGHT way with cured pig and chicken embryo sammies doused with coconut (?!) hot sauce. Look at these happy flanneltards:
And with that we were off, each astride our bicycles, farting nervous energy and real farts as we wheeled free of the constraints of civilisation. A mere ten minutes in we'd veered off tarmac and straight into a suitably crumbly climb out of the valley up to Ridge Road - a first peak of the glorious rolling hills before the inevitable troughs (and more peaks). As we crested the sun illuminated our winter grizzled faces, but a wall of dark clouds hither to the coastline indicated we may not have seen the last of the night's dampness. Muddy wet arses loomed like spectres as we trucked along the ridgeline through lush pines. The heavens opened, and there was a brief stop to don technical waterproofed body casing. It was hard not to lament my blackened toenail, wounded in the frosty mountain adventure battle up at Keppel Hut thanks to my plastic bag booties, and which had only last week broken free of the rest of my foot like a rudimentary yellow coin from a civilisation long forgotten. So 'Never again shall I lose an upper toe shield to the cold' I said to myself, staring wistfully up at the sky.
I've become fond of rural Australia's fondness for ridge roads. A few zesty lung-stingers skyward and you find yourself on a rollercoaster of ever changing vistas, the gentle rolling allowing for riders to indulge in sea shanties and this part of the Great Otway National Park was no different. The sign said we'd made it, and though we were happy for the words of encouragement, we knew that this was just the beginning.
You'll note a lack of pictures until this point, but our triumphant arrival at Gellibrand along the first section of boggy rail-trail marked a turning point in coverage. They hang cyclists in Gellibrand, but they're thoughtful enough to create a commemorative tree to all of the unlucky visitors that had come before us. We'd been forewarned of the locals insatiable desire to kill and had all sprayed ourself with goat milk, known to send Gellibranders running.
There in the sleepy town we stopped for warm beverages at a little cafe and I don't mind telling you I treated myself to a biscuit. Outside a local sidled up, looking for conversation and received it in the form of information about our ride, from whence we had come was quite far he said in swear words, and to where to were going was further (also in swear words). Before we could found out more about this man he'd inhaled the last atom of cigarette between thumb, forefinger and index before folding himself into a dilapidated circa 1993 Nissan Skyline and bezzing off with a respectable burnout. Oh to be 36 again.
Before we could leave the town's limits we'd segwayed back onto the rail trail, which Todd promised wasn't our daddies rail trail, and was in fact a bit of a troublesome cunt at times. Nonsense, if a train can ride up this bullshit then I can certainly do the same thing in a flannel.
Even this poor masonry work wasn't going to stop me.
So far so beautiful, apart from being muddy as shit and the narrow trail presenting patches of ground that looked absolutely fine, yet turned into molasses as your wheel hit. I'm not afraid to say that ol' piston legs felt the first stingy thigh of the day.
Then BOOM, out we fucking pop on another ridge, felled trees laid waste to by some hungry logging monster all to our right presenting a gaping vista, which Todd kindly explained would one day all be mine. He's yet to substantiate this with any real evidence but in the spur of the moment I was very excited.
Another bend, another great view of the boys off in the distance. Outside is free.
That's when Old Beechy Rail Trail turned from the stuff of erotic novels to an all out praying sesh at the church of muddy pain. Legend (Todd) has it that owing to the sectioning off of private land, the route of the trail no longer followed it's original - e.g. not fucking mental - route that Thomas the Tank Engine would whip through sans problem, to something only a lunatic could have conceived. An ultimate sloppathon up 25% mud pinches and back down through bog gullies. Old mate Sam stacked fairly hard and was saved only by his tenacious flannel, which to a junior toureur may have been game over, but not this man.
Hike-a-bike and slick ground had grown tiresome after a few kilometres, but we slopped into sleepy Beech Forest some time around 1PM and made for the pub, greeted by a wolfhound and a wood fire.
It's reassuring to know you're among professionals, and it's never more clear than when a ride colleague playfully drops a well known bike shop cap into the shot with nary a wink.
Just look at that placement by the golden chippies. The gravy was magnificent, and the four beers we snaffled were at least on par. With no further stops en route to our coastal campout, and out of pure fear of holding a sober conversation among ourselves, we purchased further frothies and a bottle of wine and took to the road again after a rain shower.
The full extent of Sam's short-lived mud wrestling career was plain to see as we passed over the rolling farm lands out of Beech Forest, destined for the Triplet Falls within the valley's gaping gusset.
And lo did the boys of adventure descend rapidly amidst the mossy aromas buried deep within the hills as it wound down to the now audible falls. Past the car park we piled the bikes up in a threatening way so as to scare off any drop bears, and off down the million stairs to our beloved falls we went, cleats a cloppin'.
The falls were not in the least bit shit, but we had a job to do and it was largely related to cycling and friendship, leaving little time for large channels of fast moving water cascading down picturesque rock formations. We rounded back to the car park and got on our way, pulling onto a blocked off 4x4 road to quickly find out why it was blocked off. Winter had ravaged the track's sandy surface and the trees above had staged some form of riot, throwing all their dangly bits down at the floor in a bid to kill us. The rain rutted ground and innumerable objects claimed its first victim; an unsuspecting can of tuna from Sam's Ocean Air Cycles Docena was jettisoned into the air. Much like a tiny gold bullion in form and appearance, and a tin of tuna to an adventureureur holds just as much value. I scooped it up and placed it in the top pocket of my flanny, feeling like the hero I fucking was.
Canned fish heroics aside, all this hike-a-bike and pedal-a-bike had us a bit spent, but the heady climbs kept coming as we ascended out of waterfallsville. The next descent promised to be a belter, with around 300m of elevation cheques to be cashed in at the Bank of Downhill en route to the sea. It was, like pretty much all of the dirt descents I've done in the area, fucking glorious. Winding through now luscious farm land and green hills, wheels skittering over loose rocks sideways to the grippy stuff. The salty bollocks of the ocean felt tantalisingly close.
And behold, a grey wedge of the wet stuff loomed in the distance after another brief climb. All that stood in our way now was yet another vistacoaster. As we trundled up hill and down dale (he didn't mind), I glanced across at a young sheep in fine fettle, who in my euphoria I could have sworn had the head of Anthony Kiedis, mouthing the words "You Did It Chris". Remarkable.
And at the corner of a grassy field the God of Touring had one final word of encouragement for us as He/She forced aside the ominous clouds for a glorious photo opportunity, tears (from the wind) rolling down our rosy cheeks.
Camp Johanna was signposted shortly thereafter. As part of the 'Great Ocean Walk', the access up across a grassy knoll and through a pine needle strewn single track was to be hiked per instruction from said sign, but damnit we weren't walking our bikes anymore.
The campsite entry was a small pathway along the pine tree lined spine of the hill, with a steep drop away to the ocean to your right, and the bumpy farm landscape at your left with options to camp with stunning views of either.
Fortunately there was nobody else camping that night, which means there was nobody around to hear three grown men squeeling "OMG HOW GOOD IS THIS PLACE?". We set to work helping one another with erections, and Sam produced an extensive camp kitchen from places unknown to produce a fiery explosion capable of cooking as many Laksa noodz as we'd need.
The night was spent sat in that great viking half-hall slicing discs of saucisson and drinking wine like three muddy conquereurs wearing head torches, not quite believing our luck. Even forgetting my titanium spork wasn't enough to dampen spirits, and the heady air of friendship solidified by adventure meant two lightweight spoonforks was more than enough. What a time to be alive.
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So awesome, much inspiration and knobblies
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BEST TOPIC EVER!!!
I will join soon the dark side of the Wolverine gravel/muddy touring!
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Brilliant read as usual!
Tallboy
PhilDAS
Jules
benjam
pascalo
LeMesjeu
heythropbikepolosoc
Alex-K2000
slothy
MisterMikkel
seafish-
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About
Huge-Action Monsteur - Wolveurine 650B Toureur (Wolverine)
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@sensom
There are tons of those huts around here - all you need is a plane ticket to Australia ;)