Things start to get stranger in far east Gippsland, as I find shelter in a retro caravan and abandon the East Gippsland Rail Trail.
“This is for you!”
A woman walked towards me with a tin of condensed tomato soup in her outstretched hand.
“It’s been in my cupboard for ages, but I don’t think I’m ever going to eat it.”
“Err, thanks,” I said, receiving the gift from the lady, who seemed to be the Nowa Nowa caravan park’s sole permanent resident.
After a muggy 30-kilometre ride the previous day I’d pitched my tent on the beautiful green grass of the tent camping area, which seemed tailor made for cycle tourists, even offering special rates to solo riders with micro tents.
Dotted with quirky artwork and retro caravans (lovingly restored for guests) it also boasted a magazine-worthy camp kitchen, good wi-fi, roaming chickens and fabulous views onto a historical trestle bridge and the Boggy Creek.
So, all in all the perfect traveller hang-out.
Except that I was the only guest staying there, and continued to be for the next day and a half of miserable, rainy weather. But on the upside, I was now the owner of two free tinned food items – all in the space of two days. And super cool facilities.
Cycling the East Gippsland Rail Trail from Bruthen to Nowa Nowa had been wonderful and horrible in equal proportions. This section of the trail passed through proper bushland, where rosellas and kookaburras swooped through the trees and the smell of gum leaves was thick in the air.
Many people who write about bicycle touring talk about the complete sense of immersion you feel with the world around you. I was starting to recognise that for me that the smells were just as important as sights and sounds in making up the sensory landscapes. And in little more than a week I’d also travelled through hills, farmlands, coast, rainforest and now, the bush.
On this particular day, however, my fully loaded and skinny-tyred bicycle was struggling with the terrain. The wheels sank into frequent patches of soft sand or skidded on loose stones as I fought for each kilometre of tortuous progress, and jumped off again and again to push.
The humidity rose sharply and the sun started to blaze.
By the time I reached Siberia Crossing Road I’d decided that enough was enough, and veered spontaneously off onto a gravel road. The move provided a welcome change in scenery as well as road surface.
My new route along the Old Nowa Nowa road still took me to the highlight of this part of the trail, the photogenic Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. I took time to wander under the huge wooden piers and chatted with a young couple touring through to South Australia by jeep.
Apart from the lack of company, Nowa Nowa was a serene and picturesque place to relax and see out the rain, helped along by some nice walking tracks, local craft beers and home-made Italian food (take home portions) from the General Store.
The only real moment of excitement came at a local café, where I came to the unexpected rescue of a lady whose chair fell clean through the floor.
I’d just finished a rather tasty burger at the Mingling Waters café when a large crack rang out. A tiny hole had opened up in the floorboards and by sheer bad luck a chair leg on the neighbouring table had slipped through deep into the floor. An elderly lady was now tilted backwards at a dramatic 45 degree with feet waving in the air.
Rushing to her aid, I grabbed the back of the chair and joined her husband – who must have been in his mid-seventies – in trying to pull her out. I can tell you it wasn’t easy. Grunting slightly, I called on every ounce of upper-body strength I could muster, every minute I’d spent pushing my bike up annoying hills, and – taking the entire weight of the chair – slowly but surely eased it out.
It must have come as a terrible shock, and as you can expect there was quite a flurry of activity as the café staff apologised and tried to work out why on earth there was a 20-cent sized hole in the floor.
But I still found it curious that the old bloke never thanked me for hauling his wife out of the floor. I reckon he just didn’t want to let on to his wife that he wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger anymore.
On the second afternoon the rain turned into a deluge and I moved in to one of the refurbished caravans, abandoning not only my trusty tent but my vow to stick to tent camping six days a week.
More affordable than a hotel, the cozy retro van, complete with ADORABLE curtains made squirreling away with a book and absolute pleasure.
I took the chance to ask Stephen, the owner and manager, about the various statues and art pieces dotted about the park. He replied that some were collected, some he’d made himself and some had been on the original site since the 1950s.
Once the weather cleared and I’d tried out it was time for a to crack on to Orbost and the glorious Snowy River.
I continued with my new ‘flexi’ approach to riding the rail trail, branching off it onto a country road and then the smooth tarmac of the Princes Highway.
As much as cycling on the highway sounds like a horrible thing, it really was not – the big, wide highway shoulder provided lots of safety and the passing traffic was generally light. Out of the dens bush, the highway also offered more variety of scenery, passing small farms, valleys and rural properties.
It was a completely spontaneous detour, however, that took me along one of the most beautiful back roads of the trip, all the more memorable because it was so unexpected. There was something about Simpsons Creek Road that stopped me in my tracks and made me go back for it, and I’m glad I did because after twisting and turning through delightful countryside the road fed out onto a majestic valley.
It was magnificent.
A vast area of plains and fields stretched out, rimmed by high hills. At the end of the valley, lush, butter-cream green hills were dotted with cows.
At one stage I stopped as a farmer in high galoshes shooed her herd across the road and through a gate, giving me a cheerful wave.
I stood looking down onto a vast area of flat fields rimmed by hills and coasted down to meet the Snowy River for a proper welcome into Orbost.
The road wending its way along the river was almost as magnificent as the road which coasted through the valley. Gnarled trunks and deep green foliage lined the river, flowing robustly, and I hummed along the smooth flat road.
The detour had added around 20 kilometres to my journey which made for a respectable 50 kilometres for the day. Joining the Rail Trail, I cruised slowly into town thanking my lucky stars I hadn’t struggled the entire way along what was really a goat mountain bike track.
My accommodation plan for Orbost said “Snowy River Camping”, but once again I wimped out. The day was too cold and gloomy and the stiff wind too unfriendly. I’d also found an accommodation option which seemed too good to refuse: homestay accommodation with a bloke called Wally for only $30. An open fire and some company were just what the doctor ordered.
So at 8pm, instead of freezing my arse off in a tent I was instead tucked up on a sofa watching ABC with Wally, in front of an open fire, after a nice walk down to the Sailor’s Grave Brewery for a nice glass of XPA (or at least a biodegradable plastic cup) and expensive, achingly hipster hand made tacos from a food truck that in the chilly breeze not quite as satisfying as the $2 hot chips I’d picked up from the main street takeaway.
The brewery cat, one leg in a colourful plaster cast, provided entertainment by escaping on to the roof and being chased by a guest and then the owner.
But it was all good because lockdown was over and I was gazing out across beautiful countryside with one of the best beers I’d tasted in a long while in hand. “This is as good as you’d get in Melbourne,” a local family seated nearby said, and they would be correct.
All in all it was a good day, the rain had past, better weather was on the way, and the incredible ride into Orbost had inspired me to abandon my route plan even further to explore the river to the north of Orbost. Spontaneity had rewarded me today and I was ready to throw caution to the wind and head bush.
But first, things were to become a little weirder at Wally’s.
