Journal → The Great Central Highway
Just west of Uluru the pavement ends and the fun begins.
Over a month ago, back in the comfort of Ian’s house in Brisbane I had made the assumption that the Great Central Highway was essentially a super highway of regularly graded dirt road. I expected a smooth-as-tarmac dirt run to Warakurna. Confidence is always beaming in the planning stage, where bold claims compliment cold beer like salted nuts.
It wasn’t until I met up with Bill in Cobar that I began to understand that the word “highway” in Australian lingo, exists primarily to lure tourist into places like Wolf Creek. (reference the timeless Aussie movie “Wolf Creek”)
Bill explained to me that while some sections of the Great Central are excellent, at any point you can find yourself in bulldust holes rising over your cylinder heads. Essentially this fine talcum powder like dust called bulldust, conceals all sorts of surprises underneath. I’ve come across two ADVriders that had experienced spectacular get offs on the Great Central,..one requiring air medivac and another parting his bike out on the road over a hundred meter stretch. Armed with a new respect for the Great Central I approached with the utmost care.
Taking heed to a good call by Randy, we stopped at nearby ranger/police station and checked in. The friendly officer just gave us a warning on the camels,..told us to zip our tents at night, keep the food away from the dingos,..and if we ran into trouble..flag down one of the three cars that might pass each day.
The first 5 kilometers involved serious fishtailing through some unearthly mixture of bulldust and sand. I recall pulling up to Randy and saying,…”its gonna be looooong day!” Just as Bill had warned me, the Olgas to Docker River section of the Great Central highway proved to be the most difficult. I was up on my pegs for the entire day of riding,…leaning back and powering through the soft mess, then coming out onto the hard pack and leaning forward trying to spot the next sand patch. Most of it wasn’t to bad for us,..but that’s why it was so deceptive. Speeding up to race down the hard pack puts you in an awkward position when the road suddenly turns to shit. At least that slight change in dirt color gives you a heads up and you know you’d better be weighting the pegs and ready to power out if you sink in.
Aside from a few doubtfull moments and last minute saves, the GS handled like a dream. In addition to a great machine, I owe credit to Bill. His ten minute brief back in Cobar on the road and how to ride it were worth gold when it came to riding through bull dust right side up.
Every one had warned us NOT to camp near aboriginal settlements. These words were ringing in my head as we eyeballed a potential campsite just outside Docker River. Randy’s KTM was sucking fuel,..and the locals said he’d have to wait until morning to top off. Aside from fuel issues, Randy was dealing with the realization that his aspirations to ride the globe with out dumping his bike had just been crushed a few kilometers back. Not to stand on my pillar,…I’ve lost count of how many get offs I’ve had since leaving home. If the crash bars were for show…I’d have chromed them…and put pink streamers on my handlebar ends 
We pushed just out of sight of the town and set up camp. As much as I bitched to Randy about camping near Docker River,..it was a beautiful campsite.
In direct challenge of my brilliant pancake theory of Australia, a series of significant ridges rose to the north and south of camp. The setting sun poured through the valley casting golden rays between the gum trees and over the fields of spinefex. While absorbing the natural beauty of it all, I could almost forget that I’d only survive about a day out here with out my modern conveniences.
I pitched a tent, jumped in and waited for the sun to set and provide relief from the flys. Randy provided quality fodder for follow on jokes by sitting on the side of the road for an hour hoping to catch some one with petrol…which was hilariously unsuccessful, as most of all 3 vehicles that pass Docker River each day are trucks running diesel. Both Randy and I can appreciate a good joke ..and the day’s accumulation of events provided hours of snide comments, good humored jokes, and overall quality campfire entertainment. We had both realized at this point that we had very different touring styles….but we both have a sense of humor, and our differences made things far more entertaining. There’s never a dull moment when your riding with the Maverick.
The following morning Randy had a change of heart on the fuel and gambled he could make it to Warrakurna. Good freshly graded road landed us at the next fuel station with ease.
Our planned entry point for the gunbarrel highway was just a few kilometers away, and I was beaming with excitement. I don’t know when I became so fascinated with this outback track, but it had become a sort of obsession after my accident in Queensland 5 months ago. Second( in my opinion) only to the epic Canning Stock Route, the Gunbarrel track is a real deal(fair dinkum in ozy terms) remote long distance 4wheel drive track. Pushing my tread over it would be a sort of realization that I’d overcome the trial of the accident and come full circle back to what I love,..adventure touring on a motorcycle.
So imagine my disappointment as I stared through my goggles at a newly staged sign that very clearly forbade entry to the track. Disappointed, but not deterred, we jumped back onto the Great Central and continued to Warburton…where we could find another access point to the Gunbarrel. (later, I learned that this sign was erected by aboriginals to reduce non local access to the region. Apparently there are no legal ramifications to bypassing the sign. (but don’t blame me if you end up hanging upside down over a campfire (that’s a joke)
Luck turned against us again as we arrived in Warburton to find the Petrol station closed for the day. The road house was out of operation until the following morning due to a holiday,… although when I asked around,..no one was really sure what holiday it was…but they all agreed that it was definitely a holiday…and unlocking the fuel pump would seriously threaten the festivities.
I had fully expected to be neck deep into the Gunbarrel by then, and I was trying not so show my disappointment. I much prefer bush camping to camping in communities. You may have the luxery of showers and facilities, but your kit is at serious risk from being pilfered by the indigenous folks. In this town we had to put the bikes in a locked shed to prevent any wayward locals from busting into the tank and stealing the fuel for huffing purposes. All along the great central I noticed the petrol station had metal cages over the pumps.
If you wanted fuel,.. the attendant came out personally with a key. Chromming,..or getting high off sniffing fuel is a serious issue among the indigenous groups. Its such huge problem that in some regions the roadhouses only offer Opal. (Opal is gasoline that’s been chemically engineered to prevent anyone getting a buzz off the fumes.)
The sort of let down nature of my situation changed abruptly as I spent a very pleasant evening chatting with a couple camped nearby. They had arrived that day in a convoy of land rovers with the task of living in Warburton for the next month and counseling legal offenders in aboriginal community. Noticing my swollen ankle propped up the bench, the lady produced a jar of suspicious looking green slime. I’m pretty skeptical about miracle cures..but I didn’t have anything to lose. As much as you may doubt this,..the aboriginal bush medicine immediately addressed the pain and swelling. I was astounded at how effective it was. She didn’t know what was in it,..but she guessed it was goanna (lizard) fat mixed with various herbs. And to my enormous gratitude, ..she gave it to me, refusing any payment.
As I was bedding down that night, I could hear some Beach Boys lyrics wafting softly out of trailer window of one of the campers. It seems so strange to hear familiar music so far from home. That reminds me… I’ll never forget the irony of witnessing a land rover, packed with an aboriginals family,….all of which were happily jamming out to “Okie from Muskogee”. Its amazing to witness songs and lyrics transcending cultures in the most unexpected ways.
I’ve still gotta pack the bike up and its already 3am,..so will post up on the Gunbarrel in few days.
