An extract from Chapter Three – Free Camping on the Calliope River
I’m weary of ducks, crocodiles I can handle but ducks torture me when I travel. There are signs of ducks where I’m setting up my tent. But I’m tied and its time to camp. I set up my tent on a ridge and close up all my gear, making sure the food is well hidden. The campsite is quiet. My grey nomad neighbours, who exhausted themselves tending a campfire and a bottle of red wine last night, are still asleep. The fire has collapsed into a heap of white ash and blackened logs.
Barefoot, I step out of the tent and immediately regret it. Small round seed pods litter the ground beneath the fig tree I camped under. The tapping I thought was rain during the night wasn’t rain at all.
The ducks
There are about twenty ducks surrounding my campsite. I don’t trust ducks. They look harmless enough floating around ponds, but I’ve dealt with them before. Given the opportunity, they’ll organise themselves into a raiding party and attack unattended food supplies. During a trip out west, I was thoroughly outmaneuvered by a gang of them. Ever since, there has been an uneasy peace between us.
I set up my little table, fire up the Jetboil and make a coffee. As I pour muesli into my bowl, I become aware of an uncanny silence. The ducks have stopped feeding and are now looking directly at me. Then, as if caught in the act of organising some sort of attack, they turn and wander off in different directions.
Sometimes it’s hard to know whether something is a coincidence or a conspiracy. The older I get, the more everything seems like a conspiracy. Twenty ducks are a formidable force. Could I hold them off long enough to pack up and escape? I doubt it.
With the ducks apparently retreating, I turn my attention to the real adventure: getting back on the road.
Back on the road
For once, the sky is clear. The sun is visible through the trees and there’s a warmth I haven’t felt in weeks. I check Emu’s tyre pressure, put on four layers of clothing and throw a leg over the bike. My destination is Kenilworth, in the Sunshine Coast hinterland, where I’ve arranged to meet my older brother.
Emu is performing beautifully. At 100 kilometres an hour, the big 650 single is humming along at around 4,000 revs. Small Queensland towns pass by: Miriam Vale, Gin Gin and Childers. Each has its own character, its own bakery and its own contribution to the steady north-south procession of travellers.
Childers is busy on this Sunday morning. I stop for fuel, a pie and a coffee. It’s a sensible decision. I could have stopped to unpack my camping gear and make coffee myself, but there’s a limit to how much adventure a man needs before breakfast.
Backpacker tragedy
Afterwards, I find myself standing in front of the memorial to the fifteen young backpackers who died in the 2000 Childers Palace Backpackers Hostel fire. I remember the news reports and the shock that followed. The names still stop me. Some events settle into the national memory and never quite leave.
Eventually, I return to the road. The morning is slipping away and I want to reach Kenilworth with enough daylight to set up camp.
Leaving Childers, I almost run into the back of a caravan that seems to have taken up permanent residence in the main street. I dodge around it and power up the hill.
The Bruce Highway is efficient, but long stretches of it are about as exciting as watching paint dry. Two lanes in each direction, concrete barriers and endless kilometres of traffic. It’s a marked improvement on some of Queensland’s older roads, but it doesn’t do much for the adventurous spirit.
I pull into a truck bay and set the GPS for Kenilworth. I’ve missed the turn-off to the old highway before and ended up on the Gympie Bypass. Once you’re on these freeways, it’s almost impossible to get back to where you started. I’m beginning to suspect the whole system is a government plot to funnel motorists into toll roads and speed cameras.
Gympie proves my point.
I follow the GPS into town, expecting a simple left turn. Instead, I’m taken on a grand tour of the western suburbs, the civic centre, the town hall, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut and three bottle shops. Eventually, I arrive at a park with a dead-end street.
I’m beginning to wonder whether the local council has an arrangement with the GPS companies. Perhaps visitors who avoid the freeway are deliberately sent on a scenic tour of the town before being released.
How I wish I had a paper map.
Eventually, I work out which direction I should be heading and escape south-west towards the Maleny State Forest. The road begins to change. Large cattle properties give way to green dairy pastures, small bridges span bubbling creeks and country houses appear on the hillsides. The landscape reminds me of small communities in New Zealand.
Then, just as I’m beginning to enjoy myself, the front wheel twists beneath me.
I’m leaning into a tight corner when the bike suddenly feels as though it has a flat tyre. For a split second, I see Emu and me sliding towards the Armco barrier. It’s a heart-stopping moment. My speed is wrong, my concentration has wandered and the consequences are suddenly very real.
I pull over and check the tyre pressure. Thirty-two psi. A little below my usual touring pressure, but perfectly acceptable.
The tyre is fine. The road is rough, my speed was inappropriate and my concentration was somewhere else entirely.
All morning I’d been worrying about punctures, weather and accidents. None of those things had nearly put me into the guardrail. My own lack of concentration had.
I climb back aboard and continue towards Kenilworth.
The town appears almost unexpectedly, with the old Hotel Kenilworth standing proudly at the northern entrance. It’s a small country community in transition, moving from its traditional agricultural roots towards tourism. The showgrounds have become a caravan and camping area, and for twenty dollars I can pitch my tent and walk to the pub for dinner.
My brother Daryl arrives shortly afterwards on his bright red Honda NC750. Compared with Emu, it looks positively sophisticated. I decide it needs a name and christen it the Red Flash.
Daryl and I have been riding motorcycles since I was six. We used to argue over who would ride and who would sit behind on our little Honda CT70. Later, we explored dirt tracks, beaches and trails around Wellington, New Zealand, he on an XR200 and me on an XL125S.
Now, more than fifty years later, we’re back together on motorcycles.
We set up camp, change into comfortable clothes and head down to the pub for a few ales and a meal. The conversation turns, as it often does at our age, to retirement, family and the question of what comes next.
For forty-seven years I’ve invested time and money in qualifications, skills, career development and providing security for my family. Now I’m asking myself whether that was the right pathway. Was I true to my ambitions? Was it the best use of my time on this planet?
Kenilworth seems to offer an interesting answer.
It hasn’t abandoned its past. Dairy farming is still part of the local economy, but the town has found new ways to make a living. The cheese industry has become a boutique experience. The pub brews its own beer. Cafes, accommodation and tourism have given the place a new identity.
Perhaps people can do the same thing.
I sit on the pub veranda watching tourists drift along the street. The town is humming with weekend visitors, particularly motorcyclists looking for the atmosphere of a traditional country town without the formality of a major tourist destination.
Maybe growing older doesn’t mean giving up on the things we once wanted. Maybe it means finding a different way to pursue them.
Later, we wander back to the campsite. Rain is threatening, so I cover Emu with his camouflage cover and move my gear out of harm’s way.
As I settle in for the night, I think about the journey ahead. Tomorrow we’ll ride through Maleny, around Somerset Dam and across the Lockyer Valley towards Canungra. I’m spending the next couple of days with my mates Dave and Mandy at their place in Canungra. We’ll have a fire and a couple of glasses of read and talk about writing. Dave’s an author as well so I’m looking forward to his next book.
The ducks are safely behind me, the GPS conspiracy has been survived, and Emu is ready for another day.
For now, that’s enough.
If you want to know more about where my duck phobia started check out my first book Gun Fights, Ghosts and Goannas. And if you want to read more of my travel stories check out the rest of my adventure blog posts on the digital swaggie website.
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