Mungo Madness

I’d got a shiny (almost) new KTM 390 Adventure, I’d got a tent, I’d got an itch in my pants — what better to do than to go look for Mungo Man, a 40,000-or so year old human buried up in the flatland desert north of Mildura? Nothing, obviously.

It was a challenging journey from the off. The fog-shrouded and vaguely dispiriting Spirit of Tasmania Ferry dumped me in Geelong, home to bogans in noisy cars, roaring gas flares, cargo cranes, and the back end of a petrol refinery.

I stayed the night in a motel that had plastic beds, 1960s curtains, and a slightly smelly fridge containing two of those little boxes designed to squirt milk out of a tube all over your shirt. They did their job.

I breakfasted rapidly on a meat pie. On the way to Melbourne, massive roadworks meant I got lost. It started to rain. A significant-sized filling fell out of my tooth. Things were looking grim. But on arrival at Penny’s warm and welcoming pad in Fitzroy, Melbourne turned out to be a jolly interval where I caught up with friends, checked my maps, sucked on my damaged tooth, and slept. I was ready for Mungo.

I wound up through the Dividing Ranges, then once out of the hills, I followed the Murray Valley Highway towards the charmingly-named Gunbower, where the woman in the pub told me sharply that “… of course we don’t have any rooms — the Annual Show is on!” Humbled by my stupidity and lack of local awareness, I rode round the corner and into the Gunbower Holiday Park. It not only had a cheery welcome, but also warm showers, tent-peg friendly greensward and only a few noisy kids. Refreshed after a night’s outdoor sleep I packed up early to the burble of magpies then headed north, over the Murray border into wildest NSW.

I had already booked my stay at the Mungo Lodge so was committed to the 350km ride; only the last bit north of Balranald was marked as unsealed so I figured I should have plenty of time to make it by dusk. Grey nomads in LED-bedecked RVs nodded approvingly as I swung out of the campground back on to the highway and headed to Mungo Country on my plucky 390. The real adventure was about to begin.

I had to ride about 150kms til, well north of Balranald, the tarmac turned to red dirt and, less encouragingly, all traffic disappeared. It was very flat, very hot and very, very lonely. I checked my fuel, my water, and calculated: about two hours should see me at Mungo, despite the powder-fine fesh-fesh sand making up the track. That it was heavily rutted by big trucks didn’t help, plus the fact that there had been rain a couple of days earlier; that had given the soft sand a hard crust. Which was fine if you could ride fast over it, but a steering nightmare if it broke and you sank into the powder beneath. My timing to Mungo became elastic. I wondered if I might make it before dark …

As I mentioned previously, I had checked my fluids (water, petrol) but one thing I hadn’t checked was the weather. It was Melbourne Cup Day in Victoria, and the racing pundits had been poring over weather maps, crossing fingers it wouldn’t rain. Then, not long after, crossing fingers that it wouldn’t hail. Then, that it wouldn’t see massive thunderstorms as well. Then, rather than if the thunderstorms would come — when. Blissfully unaware of the looming meteorological cataclysm sweeping in from the SA border, I pressed on. After half an hour a lone car approached. I slithered to a halt in the middle of the track and waved it down.

“How’s the road between here and Mungo?” I queried. “Yep should be fine on that bike,” said the rugged looking driver. I nodded, and looked for the first time at the sky, which had got suddenly, uniformly, threateningly dark. “Is it raining that way?” “No, not when I was there,” he said, as he drove confidently south towards civilisation, petrol, shelter, and grippy tarmac. I looked at the trail ahead, towards my wild, fuel-less, featureless and unguessably-slippery route to Mungo. With (of course!) not even a hint of phone coverage. But it was an adventure, so I carried on, deeper into the dark, the sand and the distant sound of lightning cracking the horizon.

I realised that although I wasn’t wet, and a good lightning conductor, I was the only thing for at least 100km in any direction that stuck up more that a few centimetres above the earth. And my motorbike was made of metal. Not healthy. The thunder got louder and more frequent, the wind started to howl and the lightning dialled up to about seven out of ten.

I began to feel more lonely then than I have ever felt before. Really, really lonely. I was rapidly approaching shit-scared, and desperately juggling the options. There were two and neither was looking great.

I could carry on, up an unknown quicksand track into the rapidly approaching killer storm, and risk being struck by lightning — but maybe get to cover quicker (I was only about 50kms from Mungo Lodge).

The alternative was to chicken out, turn back and hope I could make it to Balranald with the wind at my back for about 100kms. Then I noticed all that slow, low gear sand riding had gutted my fuel consumption. I only had enough for about 80kms. Ever been on the end of a diving board, about to overbalance, when you realise there’s no water in the pool? That’s what it felt like.

Given that I knew the road would eventually turn back to tarmac, I took the chicken option and turned back the way I’d come, and gunned it — then had the most massive tank-slapper ever. That I stayed on and didn’t break a leg or my neck was due to the bike, not my skill. I thanked the gods of KTM frame design. By now the rain had started to spatter my visor, the thunder was almost constant, and the wind had picked up to what I’d guess was about 60 –70kph. I would have pissed myself, but didn’t want to make a lightning strike even more likely.

The one chink in this veil of evil natural danger was that the wind was slightly cross, so I reckoned if I pinned it once I was on tarmac, I could outrun the storm front. But that would use more fuel. Why, oh why, was I here?! Not a single living thing or structure to be seen in any direction as I hurtled down the track leaning at a crazy angle to counter the crosswind.

To stay on the single lane to (hopefully) salvation, I had to ride right on the upwind edge of the track, because gusts would come with such force I slewed uncontrollably right across to the other side, almost into the scrub. I really was pissing myself by now; the rain was also pissing down, and the thunder and lightning incessant. I wondered how I would be remembered when they found me.

Then — mercy of mercies, the Homebush Hotel emerged from the rain, lonely, isolated and surrounded by utes, a minor sandstorm and flying scrub. The hotel was established in 1878, to serve local folks and itinerant shearers (pop. 10). Today, the hotel is the only building standing in Homebush (pop. 2). I swerved into the space at the front, and ran into the bar, dripping.

“Have you got any rooms, anything, absolutely anything,” I blubbered. “No worries darl, we’ve got one room left in the shearers quarters out the back,” said the smiling landlady. I could have wept.

The storm raged, trees were uprooted, barns filled with water. I ate a massive steak, drank a beer, slept, the bike cooled, and the next morning I set off in radiant sunshine for Balranald at a fuel-sipping 40kph. One day I might get back to Mungo. Next time I will check the weather.

For more photos, click HERE. For more of my stories, click HERE.