On day three I realise things aren’t always as easy as they seem on paper, but discover a magical bush trail in the process.
“Is that a snake?!!!” asked my friend.
I’d posted this chocolate picture (amongst a bunch of other happy snaps) on facebook and suffering from a bit snake phobia, she’d picked out this particular photo out of all my travelling highlights for comment and genuine concern.
Actually I was a little embarrassed about needing chocolate frog therapy so early in the day but the reality was that slugging it out on the sandy surface just after a massive rain dump is kind of tough. If there had been any snakes in the area they would need to be kitted out with goggles and boogie boards for sure.
Rail trails, according to the brochures, are meant to be lovely family friendly destinations where perfectly dressed people cruise along in golden sunlight, pony tails flowing in the convenient tailwind.
After rain, on a fully loaded touring bike, the reality involves a lot more swearing while the forces of gravity drag your tires into the soft sand. Which is why it was probably a good thing that there were no perfect ponytails in sight – or in fact anyone at all. It was a lonesome November day out on the trail.
The morning drizzle had turned into a downpour, and I ate the frog sitting in a shelter off to the side of the trail, built by thoughtful rail trail manager-type people. These resembled bus stop shelters but with a piece missing, and it wasn’t until later that I realised they were carefully designed to have room to keep both rider AND bike dry. Oh well, at least I’d rolled my tent into a garbage bag.
As I munched on my emergency frog the rain turned the small path into a streamlet and I decided to stop whinging and push on. The day before I’d smashed 80 kilometres on a hilly route which had filled me with confidence about the distances I could cover on a bike tour.
For that reason I decided to incorporate a side trip to Mt Hoddle, utilising walking tracks to create a continuous route that swapped out some of the rail trail.
Meandering from Meeniyan on the great southern rail trail
I’d had a great night’s sleep at the Meeniyan Hotel, a slightly odd place featuring a jumble of cat carriers outside the reception office, which looked like nothing amongst its stacks of brochures or knick-knacks had been moved in about twenty years. The room had been comfortable enough and it let me dry my tent and (unsuccessfully) cleaning out leaked Teriyaki Chicken smell from my dry bag.
“You might want to book ahead next time,” the friendly proprietress said, when I mentioned I was bike touring Gippsland. “Things are getting busy now.”
The trail just out of Meeniyan is in fact lovely, with the vegetation forming a kind of tunnel which creates a quiet cocoon from the outside world. An echidna dawdled in front of me and I spotted a tribe of tiny baby foxes playfighting who stopped and stared before finally plunging off the road. I might have seen a hobbit too, but its hard to be sure.
Just past the township of Fish Creek (deserted on a Tuesday) I turned off the sandy track and onto the blessedly smooth surface of a paved country road. A steady climb marked the approach to the Mt Hoddle walking tracks I encountered a cheerful group of hikers in their late teens or early twenties.
“I can’t believe you just rode up that hill with all that stuff!” one of them said, making me beam a little about my progress so far.
Had I known what was coming that smile would have faded pretty fast.
We arrived at the same time head of the Mt Hoddle trail, kind of a warm-up trail before the Loader Track, which takes walkers to the peak. The walking track runs almost parallel to a quarry road and was clearly heavily affected by the recent rains.
‘Hike a bike’ on the Hoddle Mountain Trail
Had I been less distracted by the sudden appearance of other humans, or by my own hubris, I might have investigated the quarry road a little more closely. It was gated off and marked as closed on my navigation map (but as I found out on the way back) was completely access through a side path.
As it was, my new young friends all pitched in to help lift my bike up over a railing and I started to walk it up the slippery trail. The first problem came when I encountered the first fallen tree blocking the trail, requiring me to take off the panniers and scramble the bike over the trunk with all of my five foot two inches of brute strength. Of course there were fallen trees – Melbourne and Victoria had been absolutely belted with storms over the last five months.
By the time I’d covered the two-kilometre trail my arms and shoulders were on fire and my start-of-tour-honeymoon-vibe was crashing down to earth fast.
Fortunately the next section was a gravel road which would surely be easier to negotiate? I quickly learned that was not to be the case as in most parts the gravel was so rough and stony I couldn’t safely stay on the bike. Downhill was the worst as I literally had to take the entire weight of the bicycle and all its luggage into my arms.
I got down as low as possible, chin hugging the handlebars, almost starting to cry as I reached a fence realised the only way through was to lift everything over a sty, draining my strength further.
Clearly the park managers had gone to a lot of efforts to keep out trail bikes and I was now doing something extremely silly. My bicycle wasn’t even a gravel bike or mountain bike, and what was I thinking imagining that I could use walking trails?
Becoming slightly delirious, I crossed a picturesque stream and started to push my bike up a scrabbly walking trail which now felt almost vertical. After five minutes I was cooked. Collapsing to the ground I fought the urge to sob and instead took deep breaths.
The valley I now looked down on was deserted and beautiful, the moody weather making it look like the land that time forgot. A band of lush forest rimmed both sides of the river, which was clean and flowing.
Despite having covered a measly 26km, I was going to stop, find a place to camp, and tackle the Mt Hoddle walk in a civilised manner first thing in the morning. I also learnt to never take kilometres at face value when route planning.
Camping is definitely not allowed at Mt Hoddle, and there are plenty of signs to make this clear. But I was determined to make the best of the situation I was in, following some old tracks up from the river to find a perfect spot. Perhaps this used to be a camping area in the past?
Carrying a water filter meant I could use water from the river without worry and I enjoyed an afternoon reading and exploring old trails along the river gully. Kangaroos and deer sidled up for a curious look at their new neighbour.
Standing at the top of Mt Hoddle the next morning, I was so glad I’d made the decision to come. The views along the entire walk were magnificent and the sky had cleared just enough to offer far better visibility. The lookout afforded views over various bays and promontories along the coast I was ashamed to realise I couldn’t say for sure what any of them were. I looked to the sweeping countryside to the north and – trying to pick out the rail trail – felt a surge of excitement for the travels ahead.
If Gippsland kept throwing up gems like Mt Hoddle I couldn’t wait to know it better.
