07/05/2023 The Old Gibber Road

The day started, unsurprisingly, with sunrise. A gentle mist rose from the lake and a picturesque pelican posed prettily for pictures. 

 

I caught the ferry back over the river, sharing the ride with two young men on motorbikes one of whom was horrified that he had to pay. "C'mon mate!" said his mate. "It's $5! Just cough up!" Mate duly coughed up and I laid low and said nothing as the ferry driver once again waved me off without a charge. I think he feels sorry for cyclists.

I backtracked a km or so and then turned off onto the Old Gibber Trail which for some reason was signed as the Boomeri Campground Track but they couldn't fool me.

The entry to the Boomeri Old Gibber Trail was graced with a fantastic tree.

 

There I was pedaling happily along in the wilderness bumping over rocks, listening to little birds in the long grass, thinking I was all alone and what should come along but a mob of teenagers, trudging down the track with big packs on their backs. A voice rang out: "Miss! Can I borrow your bike?" There's always one...

No.  My bike is going the wrong way for you and anyway, you have strong young legs to use.

 

Right at the back a gentleman was gently chivvying the stragglers along. "We're Pathfinders" he said. "Coming back from a weekend camp. These are the teenagers. Have you come across the little ones?" I said I hadn't. He didn't seem too concerned but I hope he found them.

I planned to stop for snacks at 10km. Instead I found a sign to Shelly Beach and took an extra 4km return detour to have my snacks there instead. 

 

Shelly Beach was very nice but suffered from false advertising with not a shell in sight and very little beach either.

Shelley Beach campground was primarily for the convenience of kayakers, and featured a notable absence of both shells and beach.  But it was very peaceful and pretty.

Snack time views.

 

Back to the Old Gibber Trail, which had ditched the pretense of being the Boomeri Track and was now telling the truth.

That's better.  No more pretending to be something you're not.

Onwards I went on Old Gibber Trail, more rocks, up and down the hills. I met two cyclists coming the other way, older than me but arguably much fitter. "Don't take the main road in to Seal Rocks," they said. "It's way too busy. Take Yargon Fire Trail down to Yargon Road instead. That's much nicer." When I demurred on the grounds that should I fall and break my collar bone Roger would look for me on Old Gibber Road and I would perish unfound on the fire trail, they assured me that they were coming back the same way and would be able to rescue me (or are least get word to Roger) should that be necessary. So off I went down the fire trail which was very sandy and overgrown and rough and really made me work for my progress. Thank goodness it was downhill because I needed all the help that gravity could give me.

The Yargon Fire Trail, heading down the hill.

 

Meanwhile Roger drive in to Seal Rocks, saw the jam packed tourists and the traffic roaring up and down the road, and drove back to the intersection where, should I have been on Old Gibber Road, I would shortly arrive. He didn't know that I had gone down the fire trail. I thought he would be waiting at the caravan park in Seal Rocks, as arranged. Neither of us had phone reception but I sent a text anyway, on the premise that it would go when it went and he would get it because he was at Seal Rocks with present, if sketchy, reception.

The afternoon wore on. I slipped and slithered through the sand until I popped out on the blessedly smooth gravel of Yargon Rd having had an exhausting but largely fun downhill ride and with both collarbones intact. Not long after, the two old(er) cyclists caught me up and we had a brief moment of fire trail appreciation before they powered on to their resort. I was glad to see them go because that meant I could walk up the hills now without anyone thinking that I had less than awesome cycling stamina.

I love a road, any road, after all those sand and rocks and sticks.

 I got to Seal Rocks. Roger still sat out at the intersection, alternating between being bored silly and catastrophising his future as a widower. 

Seal Rocks!  I think I'll have an ice cream.  I wonder where Roger is?  Ahh never mind, he'll turn up eventually.

 

Eventually he decided to come back to Seal Rocks so he could call the SES to search for my body. The magic of modern communication occurred once we were in simultaneous contact with a phone tower and, reunited, we booked into the caravan park and went for a walk on the beach.  As a bonus, Roger knew exactly what was happening locally due to having read the local paper from front to back several times over while he waited in the wilderness for a wife who was never going to arrive.

The tide was out.

"This is nice.  Let's have breakfast here tomorrow."

 

Winter, snapping at our heels for the past 4 weeks, caught up with us tonight. We sheltered in the camp kitchen with other refugees from the world of flapping tents before crawling into bed wrapped in every piece of thermal underwear, puffer jacket, sleeping bag, and doona that we could find.

Home for the windy night: Reflections Caravan Park at Seal Cove.