Some 15 years ago I bought a second-hand copy of "Cooper’s Creek" the biography of the ill-fated exploration of Robert O’Hara Burke and William John Wills in their attempt to cross this country from south to north, hopefully putting to rest forever the speculation of an inland sea.

What better way to link a journey through northern Victoria and central-western NSW than to loosely follow the cart tracks of our erstwhile friends. It was actually on the way home that I adhered more accurately to the original Campaspe River / Kerang route, but we won’t let facts get in the way of a good story.

I had organised 8 days of annual leave; throw in 2 weekends and you have a handy slice of time. Not as grandiose as last holiday’s 21 day loop through the Himalaya of Northern India, but Australia is also one of the great "remote" destinations on this planet. Some weeks prior to departure, work had reached me via Tom and Andi that the Oz Outback Explorers Motorcycle Group was having its yearly unofficial get-together at Tibooburra on the 27^th and 28^th of October. My journey would take me as far as Mootwingee, only a few hundred dirt kilometers down the road; so what better excuse….

FRIDAY : Feeling somewhat ragged from 14 months of work between major breaks I know that an early start is out of the question, so I spend the morning quietly replacing a counter-shaft sprocket on the Yamaha XT600, washing the bike to keep up appearances and in the true spirit of Burke & Wills (henceforth referred to as B&W), leave very late.

Getting off the Western Freeway exit as soon as possible, it is no time at all before I’ve immersed myself in the scrub of the Wombat State Forest. Taking an incorrect turn (it doesn’t really matter because all these tracks eventually lead to the back of Vaughan Springs) I eventually pop out of the mulga and onto the made road leading to Fryerstown in old gold-mining country. Here I duly record a photograph of the XT in front of the Burke & Wills Mechanics Institute Hall to give the trip an air of authenticity.

Pushing on into the late afternoon I’m now on the lookout for a camping spot planning to "call it a day" around Maldon. But what with day-light saving providing extra travelling time I finally make camp at Lake Batyo Catyo, an obscure location previously overlooked by B&W. In all my travelling I’ve never even heard of this place before and as far as I can make out I’m somewhere south-east of Warracknabeel.

SATURDAY : Today is "investigation" day for a ride I’ll put on for some interstate riders next year. I follow the edge of Wyperfeld desert from Hopetown round to Patchewollock and out to a resort called O’Sullivans Lodge. From here it is across to Ouyen and north to Hattah-Kulkyne. What a shock! All the lakes are dry. A run of bad seasons I know, but ultimately it is drying out of the water table of this vast drying continent.

I do the run up to what only a couple of years ago used to be Lake Mournepall (now covered in dry grass) and then head north-east to link up with the Murray River. This landscape is completely untouched, great ancient gums with decaying branches and bark littered everywhere. Very reminiscent of paintings of B&W and other explorers depicted in the Australian bush.

Tomorrow is a big desert section so I’ll "caravan park" it tonight and pitch the ‘MacPac’ on the banks of the mighty Murray at Robinvale.

SUNDAY: A day of serious riding, so 5 litres of extra fuel and 1 litre of water go into the back-pack. I don’t particularly like riding this way, but the base of the pack sits mainly on the seat. The trick is to get the fuel into tank as soon as the required kilometers are done. The tyres are also deflated to 17 p.s.i. front and back.

My Hema map proves to be "very imaginative" as I head north to Lake Mungo, the discovery place of "Mungo Man", skeletal remains discovered here in 1974 and now carbon-dated at 60,000 years old. If I drop the bike out here I hope they find me before that long. Fortunately I’ve been here before so I’ll know when I’ve arrived at Mungo, but the map is a real mystery as I pop up from nowhere across the road from ‘Top Hut’ homestead. I hope B&W were having better luck with their directions.

A lot of very interesting property tracks later I arrive at Pooncarie. From here it is 126 kilometers to Menindee on the main gravel road which will take an hour and a half. Take the track on the other side of the Darling River and it will take you a lifetime. Only about 200 kilometers, but it’s the sand that has you concentrating like your first mistake will be your last. Then there’s the road on my map from Bindara station to Menindie which doesn’t exist and geez…. the occasional road sign wouldn’t go astray either.

These Menindee Lakes are something else. Pale turquoise in colour and the size of inland seas. Eventually they’ll go the same way as Mungo; we are seeing the ongoing evaporation of our land since the Ice Age. Enjoy it while it lasts.

The sky is very overcast and large spots of rain have been falling for some time now. At last I reach Menindee and head for the caravan park. It is very fortunate that I finished the day’s ride when I did as tomorrow I learn what happens to these roads after rain.

My tent mates nearby are a young Israeli couple who are riding pushbikes from Adelaide to Melbourne via Broken Hill and quite a few out of the way places like Mungo National Park. They have taken a year off to tour Australia, New Zealand and Canada; all on the deadly treadlies. She is a theatre set designer and he a cinematographer, so we have a very interesting chat into the night gathered in the BBQ shelter shed as the rain continues to fall.

MONDAY: 57 points of rain have dumped by morning so I immediately eliminate the river back-track to Wilcannia. That grey river silt would be like wet concrete. Riding out of town I pull into the side road overlooking Lake Menindee. Walking down a slope to take a photograph, my boots are acting like skates. I am reminded of an ex-club member who was renowned for saying "when it rains out here you just pull over and put up your tent. You ain’t going nowhere ‘till it dries out again." Maybe this was why B&W spent nearly 2 months at Menindee.

When I reach the turn-off for the main Wilcannia road, the "ROAD CLOSED" sign has already gone up. "Can’t be that bad on a dirt bike", I think. A kilometre later I quietly eat humble pie and turn 180 degrees and back to the bitumen. This stuff is like riding on melted ice-cream. And it’s not a matter of 5 or 10 kilometres, Wilcannia is 159 kilometres and that’s only the beginning for the day.

Surveying the horizon, those storms just keep rolling through from the north-west. The only bitumen is headed to Broken Hill, so it is a matter of re-arranging the itinerary and moving Silverton to the head of the queue. I’d never been here before and had it pegged as some small-time tourist trap. But the salt-bush landscape is great and today being Monday outside of school holidays, it is very, very quiet.

The camping ground is out of sight behind the great banks of Pepperina trees on the other side of the dry riverbed. It’s huge, and a real outback park where there are lots of native shrubs and trees and you pitch your tent on the sandy earth. None of this whimpy green grass business.

I just love it. For the first time since leaving Melbourne I feel as if everybody is off my back and I’m really on holidays. Up until now it has been:……

It’s a bloody miracle B&W ever got through here at all without getting lumbered by the local State Parks Officer.

TUESDAY: This morning the Silverton skies are overcast and it is almost cold. I slowly ride into Broken Hill and pick up the exit road to Tibooburra and look for a petrol station. There aren’t any. Back I go into town and marvel at the scarcity of servos in "The Hill". The tank is filled to the brim and I’m a few kilometres out of town again. I pull to a halt at the world’s biggest road sign.

Precisely what I had in mind, a nice ride to Mootwingee. The road north of Broken Hill goes bitumen….dirt….bitumen….dirt….bitumen….dirt and the dirt bits have no gravel in them at all. I don’t know what possible use the bitumen sections are. After a combination of rain and two semis driving through, the dirt becomes instant quagmire.

Someway north, I take a right turn to Mutawintji. Just like that. No beg your pardon, no explanation. Instantly we are speaking the local Aboriginal dialect. I’d hate to be an overseas visitor heading for Mootwingee.

We then set sail on the biggest, wildest, smoothest bitumen road in New South Wales. Ten km later it goes phut.…and we proceed on a flat sandy track. Don’t ask me, I’m only a tourist in these parts. As I ponder this amazing conundrum, the world’s biggest semi-trailer with two massive Caterpillar tractors on-board heads past me in the opposite direction. Now, this turkey is obviously headed for Broken Hill and unaware of the "Road Closed" signs to everywhere north except the road he is on, is about to convert what’s left of their road into instant kitty-litter. Beat’s me.

I slip-slide along about 80 kilometers of motorcross track and eventually arrive at Mootwingee or Mutawinji (depending on your political preferences). It’s on again. Don’t Do This. Don’t Do That. And, oh yes, everything is qualified by "Fees apply and Bookings Essential". There are only three of us in the entire National Park tonight, so maybe their dictatorial attitudes are reaping the rewards they deserve.

B&A were led here by their new recruit, William Wright, who was hired as third in charge from Kinchega Station back at Menindee. Amazingly there was also a hotel come coach-house here for a few years. It seems White Cliffs (opal mining) was doing very nicely and needed a link-up with Broken Hill. Imagine blazing a track across 250km of sandy, saltbush country to run a stage-coach.

WEDNESDAY: This morning at Mootwingee the cloud is rolling in very, very low and it is cold, but no rain is falling. The bog holes around the camp-site are starting to dry out, so I head the XT towards White Cliffs via what is a station access road. This country is mainly sand, and damp sand is predictable, so I dial the 600 to 80 km/h. At this speed you can either nail it or back it down a gear and.…then nail it depending on how your eye interprets the slush you are riding through at the time.

This technique worked nicely until Koonawarra Station where the sand stopped and the mud started. Throw out rules for riding wet sand; quickly invent new set of rules for riding outback mud. Hell! All I wanted to do was go for a nice ride.

I like White Cliffs. It is everything that Coober Pedy isn’t.(Both townships mine opals). Small, quiet, friendly, strong sense of civic pride. But, it is hot and arid. I pull up on a piece of dirt at the camping ground and circumnavigate the township on foot. No mean task as the settlement is spread out.

After hot, sun-scorched days, the nights here are beautiful. But I’m still intrigued as to why a small private aircraft would be coming in to land at 2 a.m. on the illuminated runway. Partying late in Broken Hill perhaps?

THURSDAY: Today looks like an easy day. With all the road closures happening, I’ve got an extra day to fill, so I’ll camp at the hotel at Milparinka. I take the road dead north to Reola and turn west onto the Yancannia station track. A few skirmishes with bog holes and I soon notice that the countryside is carrying more and more water.

Now this is like three days since the rain, with hot days and windy too, so this area must really have taken heavy storms. I’m still in "brown soil" country, so I slide to a halt on the edge of a nasty bog. I put the feet down and instantly I have 6 inch platforms under each boot. Not a good look. Very slowly I drag the bike backwards, a few centimeters at a time. The mud is jamming the rear tyre into the swing-arm. Gradually I haul and haul on the grab handles "till the bike can be U-turned and ridden out". Phew! A close one.

By now I am thirty-eight kilometres out of White Cliffs, and the only realistic decision is to return to town, top up with fuel again and take the more direct road to Milparinka.

Well, the road wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. Here and there, old dead mulga branches had been thrown into wheel ruts for traction to extricate bogged vehicles. The last 30 kilometres to the "Silver City Highway" (their words, not mine) had been graded up into a big heap of sand roughly forming a road-like profile. The rains had obviously descended before they had even so much as run a roller over it. Wow, some ride!

Finally I see the turn-off to Milparinka Hotel "Open 7 Days". As I pull in the place looks kind of run-down. A message is chalked on a board in the dusty window….."Due to personal circumstances of difficulty, this hotel is closed until the license is renewed". You’ve got to be joking, this is the only place in Milparinka. So I’m reminded of how Slim Dusty put it in that song…."I’ve trudged 40 flamin’ miles, to a pub with no beer".

Surveying the wilderness around me, there was nothing for it but to push on to Tibooburra. Tibooburra is "Corner Country". The corner where New South Wales, South Australia and Queensland meet at Cameron Corner, 134 kilometers away. It also has a very friendly hotel with meals and a big, beautiful concrete slab of a verandah with tables and chairs. Even though I’m in early, I’m not the first here. Andrew (BMW K100) and Andrew (BMW R90S) have already arrived from Melbourne via Mt Ives in South Australia, the Strezlecki Track and Cameron Corner. No mean feat on big road bikes carrying extra fuel and water.

FRIDAY: At first light I decide to wash the bike. There is a tap nearby in the camping ground and I use a Chux cloth and my plastic breakfast cereal bowl. It takes quite a while but is worth the incredulous look on the faces of the other riders as they begin to roll in at Midday, their motorbikes covered in mud regardless of which direction they’ve come from.

All through the afternoon lone riders roll in. The Victorians almost totally on BMW’s and the New South Welshmen adding welcome variety with a few Hondas and a single Yamaha 600 Tenere. There’s a group out of Sydney called the Honda Adventure Riders Club, and to be a member you’ve got to ride either an XLV 750 (the really old one), a Transalp (equally long in the tooth), an Africa Twin (imported), or a Varadero. I suspect it was sheer coincidence that Honda made this punctuated range of dual-purpose bikes over such a long period of time, all with V-twin motors.

By nightfall there are 19 riders milling about on "The Family Hotel’s" big concrete verandah. The atmosphere is really starting to buzz. One rider, Wolfgang, (aren’t all BMW riding Germans in Australia called Wolfgang) has even organised his annual holidays to fly in to Sydney from Germany and then ride to Tibooburra for just 2 days.

SATURDAY: A cold wind is blowing from the north-west today, perfect for riding. The National Parks Ranger draws for us two excellent mud maps. The 300k round trip to Fort Gray and the 120k round trip to Thomas Sturt’s 6 month stand in the desert at Glen Depot. I take the 120k ride.

What an amazing difference local knowledge makes. I never even knew that this historical drama unfolded here on the salt bush arid plains. I climb the hill to where Sturt and his men built a large stone cairn to keep up some form of interest and exercise. I look out at the horizon, listen to the wind, the history is all around me.

The loop of our trip takes us across the endless rolling plains, tucking down through sandy creek beds, past the sheds of remote properties. Our German compatriot Wolfgang is agog at this harsh beauty, and so am I.

Not only is Saturday night the last night for the bikers but it is also the last night for the two barmaid/cooks from the hotel. They are both from South Australia and are in Tibooburra on an eight month contract. November to March sees very few tourists through here because of the high temperatures. The girls are putting on a farewell BBQ to say good-bye to the locals. Just bring some meat and we’ll see you out at the Golf Club. Golf club, what golf club? I didn’t see any golf course and I’ve been riding around here for the last 2 days. Sure, just 4 k’s out of town on the Silver City Highway. You can’t miss it.

Sure enough, 4 kilometers out a tiny wooden sign announces "GOLF CLUB". I head off into the mulga on a dirt track and eventually come to a hand-built galvanised iron shed. "Funny" I think, it’s 7.30pm but there is no-one else around. Being familiar with the rudiments of the game of golf, I cast about for obvious clues such as fairways, or driving tees, or greens. Nothing. I ride the XT around in a big loop thinking that I have lost the plot. Slowly I discern that there are large tracts of land with less mulga bushes on them than the land nearby. Now, I’m very familiar with the use of dirt or sand putting greens in outback towns, but dirt fairways? Pondering this conundrum, I am saved from doubt and uncertainty by a vehicle coming across the plains. The barmaids arrive and swing open the amazing shed.

It’s all there; rudimentary bar, mobile BBQ, office, massive fireplace etc. All covered in half an inch of desert dust. I volunteer to clean down the barby from months of neglect, caked-on cooking grease, sand and birds’ poop. Fortunately (just like the big cities) everyone is late and by the time they arrive you’ swear this hot-plate from hell had just been approved by the Dept. of Health.

Somewhere or other I next find myself cooking steaks and sausages for a hundred friendly people I’ve never even seen before. All around is the endless black evening sky, littered with a million stars, and reaching down to the desert horizon. Yes, there is still life on earth, it’s just that it has moved to somewhere in outback New South Wales.

SUNDAY: It’s 5.30am and some of these riders are on the road already. They have to be back at work on Monday and that’s as far as 1,300 kilometers away. Me? I quietly ride out of Tibooburra at 8.30am, the XT drifting along at 85 km/h. I’m still on holiday.

Thanks to Dianne Welsford who typed this up in less than an hour - it would have taken me a day! What a sensational trip by Les. And what a contrast to Peter Doak's high speed blast on the TL.