Distance: 558km
Dep: 9:00am
Arr: 4:30pm
Temperature: 11°C - 29°C
Total distance to date: 11,453km
Route:
- Daly Waters
- Warumungu (Three Ways Roadhouse)
- Karlu Karlu / Devils Marbles
- Wauchope
Caption: Ready to go... or so we thought at the time. This was taken right before our daily tyre pressure check.
It was truly a beautiful morning when we woke up. The sky was the most beautiful hue of pink, blue, and purple and the moon still held the same soft light from last night. The temperature was perfect, and our bed was quite comfortable. Despite last night's screaming woman, the barramundi burger left a good feeling in my soul and the fact that we were in the middle of the Outback amongst the red sand again filled my heart with joy. At this point, what could possibly go wrong?
Caption: Our bikes parked on just about the worst surface imaginable, especially for one nursing a 3000km-old tyre plug.
We stepped out to wheel our bikes back onto the more solid dirt road after they spent the night sitting on chunks of sharp gravel. I don't know who's idea it was to make driveway out of this stuff. Surely logic would entail that soft rubber bits such as tyres would be prone to puncture on this sort of surface.
Caption: Cute little accoms for the evening, with the worst driveway ever.
Pushing the bikes back out was a bit hard going, and I assumed it was because of the rocks. I pulled out my trusty tyre gauge, tested Steph's bike, and it seems she has a very slow leak happening in her front tyre. I tested my front, and it was a few PSI off but nothing to worry about. Tested the rear... 15psi.
I tested again... 15psi.
I rolled Nena until the plug became visible, and ran some spit over it - no bubbles.
We poured a bit of soapy water on it - nothing.
Mick, a man who worked at the roadhouse, happened to be passing by and knew what we were up to.
"You want a hose and some soapy water?"
"That's all good, we had a puncture since Exmouth and tested the plug, it doesn't seem to be leaking. I can't figure out where it is."
Naturally, Kate was my first point of call, and she suggested overfilling to 50psi and spraying the whole tyre with soapy water. The reasons being:
- It needs more pressure to blow out the bubbles
- It may not be the plug, it could be a new spot that is compromised
After gingerly riding it to the air pump, Mick met me with a spray bottle of soapy water and went to town. It took two whole revolutions of rolling Nena back and forth to find... nothing.
Caption: Mick ended up using over half the spray bottle of soapy water to find the leak.
Mick: "... I reckon it's a miracle, no leak whatsoever"
Me: "Let's spray the sidewalls?"
We went over it again, and finally, the plug started blowing bubbles at us. Well, at least it's the plug and not a new area.
Mick: "You can take it over to the workshop if ya like. There's plenty shade in there."
Caption: After many goes, it finally presented itself - at the top corner of the plug. At least it's not a new puncture!
Behind the roadhouse was a shed full of machinery covered in equal amounts of dust and cobwebs. It was a well-used place, though one they haven't bothered to keep clean because of how much desert dust gets through the doors each day.
Caption: Steph's handiwork, and her first go at plugging a tyre!
Steph had a crack at fixing Nena's puncture this time, simply replacing the old plug with a new one but with industrial strength glue to bond the whole plug. We waited for it to dry, thanked Mick for his hospitality, and set off on our merry way.
Our first pitstop was the teeny settlement of Elliott. A township of 270 or so people, a petrol station, and the police station that would have serviced the Daly Waters Roadhouse dramas of last night. I couldn't check the tyre pressure because it was still hot from riding, and we didn't want to stay any longer than we needed to, so we pressed on.
Caption: As fate would have it, we met Michael randomly at a roadhouse we never planned on stopping at.
We didn't need petrol, nor did we need a rest, but Slack messages were intermittently popping up on the screen whenever we got a sprinkle of mobile reception. It sounded like the Peak girls needed us, so we pulled into the next possible town of Renner Springs. A passing truckie-mechanic asked about our trip and seemed invested in our travels.
Michael, the truckie: "I wouldn't stop at Three-Ways for lunch. They've really gone downhill lately. I wouldn't get anything that'll give ya food poisoning."
Steph and Michael made from friendly chit-chat. We rarely share our full travel plans due to safety, but she mentioned that we were heading to Wauchope as a final destination tonight.
Michael: "Well, I guess I'll see yous at the bar in Wauchope."
Caption: We had to battle big headwinds, which means sore necks, greater fatigue, and a necessary refuel on the side of the road for Winona.
Caption: Three Ways Roadhouse, filling my rear tyre with just hopes and prayers at this point.
Three Ways Roadhouse is aptly named because you can go exactly three directions from the place. North takes you to Darwin, South goes toward Alice Springs and ultimately Adelaide, and if we took a left turn, we'd be heading East to Queensland. The place seemed to be run by a group of friendly backpackers. We took Michael's advice and ordered a large chips with gravy. Who's ever had food poisoning from chips and gravy?
Caption: Steph and I played it safe thanks to Michael's advice in an attempt to avoid indigestion on the road. The portion sizes were massive.
Since the morning, I had a bit of a lump in the back of my throat but I chocked it up to riding through the arid climate over the past day. As we sat there eating about 17 fried potatoes (the portions were insanely massive) my body started telling me that I am most definitely catching a cold. My head felt congested and the back of my throat started feeling like razors. Goddamn.
Our tyres were still too hot to test, and I couldn't do much about it anyway even if it were going flat. The plug itself looked solid as a rock, and my first thought was that the industrial glue itself would hold the thing in place anyhow. We set off back on the road again, the harsh sun now starting to make its way toward the horizon and the sky's colours started to soften up again.
Caption: The last time I visited this place, was the hottest I have ever been in Australia at 45°C. I was struggling with my Kriega tailbags at the time, and it was at this place 8 years ago that I decided to design my own tailbags. Today, I brought the Tully Tailbags back to this place - Karlu Karlu / Devils Marbles.
Karlu Karlu is the aboriginal name for what English speakers call the Devil's Marbles. Granite rock that has been exposed, then heavily eroded into spheres stacked on top of one another, seemingly in the middle of nowhere.
Caption: Nobody ever tells you about the unreal number of flies there are in the centre of Australia. It is at plague level in some parts. All you can do is cover your eyes and mouth, and hope you aren't ticklish (in any of your bits) if you need to do a bush wee.
Despite their interesting aesthetic, it is the act of breaking down, rather than building up. It does look like a God-like figure dropped a bunch of round balls in one spot and left it there. It's a sacred spot with a few sections that weren't able to be photographed. Some stories imply that it is also a haunted place. We snapped a couple of photos where we could and rode all of 17 minutes to the Devils Marbles Hotel in Wauchope.
Caption: Standing in a site of significance, general health trending downward, and fending off a billion flies.
Travelling great distances every day means being ready by the morning - every day. Being ready for the morning means prepping at night, including fuel. We rocked up to the fuel bowsers and were met with a lovely sign.
Caption: A sign nobody, especially motorcyclists, ever want to see at a roadhouse in the Outback.
Our hearts sank. If we had known, we would've filled at least a 5L jerry can in any of the previous stops. It didn't matter to most vehicles passing through, as it's 110km to the next town and most vehicles have the capacity to do it.
But no, not us. We had about 80-90km left, and we would absolutely run dry before we got to the next fuel stop.
Steph and I aren't the type to panic about anything, but we did have to consider all of our next moves.
- Could we ask the hotel if they had any machinery that used unleaded fuel that we could buy? (No, it's not possible)
- Could we backtrack to Tennant Creek to grab fuel? (No, it's too far, we wouldn't make it.)
- Could we ask any of the other patrons for fuel? (As it turns out, everyone uses diesel.)
Caption: A last-ditch attempt to buy a bit more range to get us to Barrow Creek. Spoiler alert, it didn't work.
I even made a sign and taped it to myself to see if we could find any generous soul passing through the roadhouse. We grabbed a couple of soft drinks and waited. Out of nowhere, a familiar face appears.
Michael: "Fancy seeing you two here. How was the ride?"
Steph: "Funny you should ask..."
Steph started a detailed recollection of the day's events, and he shared some photos of some cool drone footage that he's taken through his travels as a truckie-mechanic. Meanwhile, falling deeper under the weather, I excused myself to lay flat in our bed to hold onto whatever energy I could.
3 hours later, Steph reappears with 2 serves of lasagnas in her hand. Our new plan was for Michael to follow us in his road train until we run out of fuel, then drop his trailer at Barrow Creek, fill up our jerry cans, and backtrack to where we ran out. Well, it's a plan, and a solid one at that. We ate as much lasagna as we could and slept soundly amongst the half-million flies that made its way into our room somehow. The geckos along the walls were strategically positioned to make the most out of this feast throughout the night.
