blacktop follows, before we duck off
down the Frenchman’s Track where
things get even more interesting.
In addition to the now-common riv-
er-crossings, we also encounter a
bushfire blazing across the track.
Thick blue smoke of the burning for-
est lingers in the air. Finally emerg-
ing from the bush, a broad, sweep-
ing bauxite road provides plenty of
speedway thrills. After another long
stint in the saddle, we arrive at the
Archer River Roadhouse. Twilight,
my favourite part of the day, when
the group huddles around a campfire
to swap war stories over brontosau-
rus sized steak dinners and ice-cold
beer.
Day four is our biggest day of the
tour, starting with a ride through the
town of Coen and a shortcut across
the old horse and cart road, past open
mineshafts and dangerous washouts
to the Port Stewart Road. We gather
briefly to take in the breathtaking
view over the Silver Plains, before de-
scending to the valley floor and turn-
ing onto cattle station trails that are
TRAVERSE
50
thick with bulldust.
The scrubby bush thickens to trop-
ical forest as we arrive at a tidal river
for a spot of fishing. Despite being able
to see our prey heading upstream, no
one can bring one in and we are soon
back behind ’bars, following a secret
track to a little-known beach run.
With the tide out, Roy and I ven-
ture onto the exposed mud flat, where
I earn the “snorkel award” (a snorkel
cable-tied to my helmet) for getting
bogged to the bash-plate twice, before
retreating to the safety of dry sand.
Continuing down the beach past the
wing of an old Curtis P-40 WW2 fight-
er plane, nature offers up an irresisti-
ble run of whoops stretching for hun-
dreds of metres. It was here I almost
earn the “toilet freshener award” (for
packing one’s undies) when I get into
a nasty top-gear tank-slapper, which
nearly ends in disaster.
We leave the sand, the beach and
the landscape undergoes an eerie
transformation as we ride through
a long-dead forest, followed by
scorched grasslands where only
blackened termite mounds remain.
An extended dusty road section
brings us to the Kalpower camp
ground, an area famous for both its
salt and freshwater crocs, some of
which were released by Steve Irwin
himself. As night descends so does
the madness. We find ourselves nerv-
ously wading through ankle-deep
water on a long causeway across the
river. With torches shining into the
murky depths, we hunt barramundi,
despite the very real danger of some-
thing much bigger hunting us.
Long after everyone retreats to
the safety of the campfire, Roy re-
turns with a massive Barra, which he
promptly cooks on the coals and we
all devour. Beer in hand, a blanket
of stars above us – this might just be
heaven.
The morning of day six takes us
past an historic homestead, down
“battlefield road” where local Abo-
riginals used to ambush travellers,