If you were to head east from Brisbane you’d eventually make landfall, 11,574 km later on the coast of Chile. On the way you could stop off at one of the picturesque islands that help form Moreton Bay. There’s the attractively named Coochiemudlo Island (The name Coochiemudlo is the English language version of the Yuggera words kutchi meaning red and mudlo meaning stone – Wikipedia). Further north there’s the not so attractively named Mud Island. The largest of the islands is called North Stradbroke and this was our destination for a day out recently as spring arrived in Australia.
Of course, we wanted to take our bikes so we headed for the station and took a train to the suburb of Cleveland where ferries depart for the island.
The train takes about an hour and wasn’t crowded. We secured our bikes using the thoughtfully provided straps located in each carriage. These are really for securing wheelchairs but they work well for bikes. Had a wheelchair user boarded we would have moved them immediately. We wondered what the buzzing sound was that seemed to be set off by every little movement of the train. We soon realised something was amiss, but not before a slightly annoyed driver had asked “the people with bikes” to move them away from the emergency contact button, an alarm linked to the wheelchair space should assistance be needed
Alighting at Cleveland station we discovered that Tracy’s travel card was no longer valid. The staff were very friendly and helpful but had that swimming in treacle attitude that is so often encountered in country areas. The slow purchase of a new card and detailed directions we received after enquiring how to reach the ferry terminal meant that the one scheduled to link up with the train’s arrival had departed by the time we arrived.
On the upside, we had time to enjoy that important morning ritual, a cappuccino. The cafe at the terminal probably hadn’t changed much in 50 years. All manner of deep-fried food was on offer, including the famed Chiko Roll, and to the side, a selection of white bread sandwiches. We sipped our super hot cappuccino and I was rightly admonished by Tracy for pouring most of mine into a nearby flower bed.
After a short wait we boarded the ferry and were on our way to Chile via North Stradbroke (everyone calls it Straddie). There was a keen wind blowing and the small catamaran rocked slightly as it crossed the bay, not a trip I’d like to make on a stormy day. Most of our fellow travellers seemed to be residents returning home with trolley loads of goods and supplies from the mainland.
There aren’t many roads on the island, so planning our route was pretty straightforward. The ferry docks at Dunwich and we disembarked and headed north towards Amity Point. We realised pretty quickly that not only is the island under developed, so are most of the people who visit with their overpowered 4 wheel drives packed full of fishing and camping gear. There are no bikeways and for the most part, very little consideration for cyclists on the roads. We arrived at Amity Point hoping for a delicious lunch at a restaurant that had been recommended. But, as is often the way, it was closed. Perhaps because it was Monday or perhaps because of limited business due to COVID-19. We looked around for alternatives and eventually struck lucky by snagging the last two pies in the general store. These we enjoyed al fresco seated on plastic chairs at the front of the store.
Sated, we remounted our bikes and headed for the fabled Point Lookout. But we never made it. Along the way we both became aware that the batteries on our bikes were fast being depleted by the number of hills and the relentless headwinds. A few kilometers shy of the lookout we realised that if we continued we were risking dead batteries and we still had an 18 kilometer ride back to Dunwich and the ferry home.
I was reminded of the time in Nepal when my trekking companion, Paul, and I had set off early one morning from Jomsom, the main town in the Kali Gandaki Gorge with the intention of completing our trek to the fabled town of Muktinath, 10 kilometers further north. We’d been on the road for about two weeks by then, surviving on rice and dahl with the odd, ever more expensive chocolate bar, as a treat. After 20 or 30 minutes of slogging along the slippery, rock strewn trail through the cold sleety rain we looked at each other and silently agreed that we’d had enough. We returned to the relative comfort of our cheap hotel and spent the remainder of the day in front of a roaring fire, drinking Nepalese rum. Around 6pm two trekkers appeared in the doorway, exhausted and frozen to the bone. “Where have you come from?”, we asked, “Muktinath” they responded, “it’s a shithole”.
With judicious use of battery assistance we made it into Dunwich and pulled into the local bakery where, we were pleased to spot two unused power sockets. We asked if we could recharge our bikes for 20 minutes while we had a drink, and were delighted when the young girl behind the counter said yes. We sat at another plastic table chatting to the locals who told us that, had we headed south, we would have encountered fewer hills and probably seen some kangaroos.
