Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25238
"Parked out front?" I asked cautiously. "The orange two-wheeler with the saddlebags." "Yes, sir," I answered. "Headed east or west, mate? If you don't mind my inquirin ' ." " I plan to start traveling east." "Care to join us for an earbash?" the second Oldtimer asked. "Most certainly," I smiled. For two hilarious hours I listened to ta ll tales that ranged from wrestling saltwater crocodiles to runni ng moonshine to outrageous Outback adventures. The three men were a knowledgeable source of the loca l bush and of unsealed roads. When asked where I might find the old Great Ocean Road , it nearly started a f istfight between the spry septuagenarians. Each was eager to win the honor of imparting to me his individual expertise. When calmer heads prevailed, they shared the intelligence I longed for. Little remained of the old Great Ocean Road. Over the years, most of the sections that had not been paved over during construction of the new road had been washed to sea . If you knew exactly where to look, rugged dirt remnants sti ll existed. Successfu lly traversing the scattered and hidden treasures was another matter. "You know where Princetown is?" asked the Scantily Toothed Man. "The Princetown northeast of the Twelve Apostles?" "That's the one, mate," answered the Bald Oldtimer. "This side of Princetown, three miles shy of Gibson Macka's farm," the Scantily Toothed Man began, "you'll come cross a signpost announcin' the Gelli brand River." "It'll be on the right," added the second Oldtimer. "Can't miss the thing. " "Turn off the bitumen at that signpost and ride for no more than two thirds of a mile," the Scantily Toothed Man continued. "Path you're lookin ' for will be right in front of you, huggin' the Gellibrand. Jackaroos still get in there to chop and haul wood. I'm damn certain the entire track is open all the way to Moonlight Head." "Should be able to follow her ti ll the foot of Lavers Hill where she rejoins the Great Ocean Road," concluded the Bald Man. I had no reason not to trust them. Seven days later, the conversation sti ll fresh in mind, I approached Princetown. Precisely where the oldtimers told me to look, a black and white road sign indicating the Gellibrand River appeared alongside the highway. With a smile on my face, I turned off the pavement, pedaled through the loose limestone shoulder, over a warped oak plank bridge and onto a hard-packed red sand path. Watching my speedometer closely, I was overcome with laughter. I could not believe that the critical piece of the puzzle needed to find the old Great Ocean Road had fallen into place. My humor did not last long. One mile off of the paved road a discouraging sight deflated my excitement. The Gelli brand River was nowhere in sight and the path was narrowing. With every progressive pedal stroke, the packed sand loosened under my t ires. Encroaching needlelike spinifex leaves scratched and cut my legs. Nailed to a solitary river red gum, a weathered placard announced the bad news: NO THRU ROAD. I had to heed the warning. Fifty feet beyond the towering tree , the path vanished into thick and impenetrable scrub brush. I turned around and pedaled back to the paved road. Scratch ing my head, I started down the empty highway. I was perplexed. Perhaps years had passed since the oldtimers last ventured this way. More likely, the section of road I was looking for had long ago surrendered to nature. Whatever the reason, I had no choice but to abandon my quest for the old road and stick to the new. Disappointed, I began the climb north toward Princetown. Cresting a series of undulating hills, I pedaled past a maze of dry stone wall lined paddocks. Bleating sheep muffled the rhythmic and growing-distant sound of crashing waves. A dirt road wound through a gap in the neatly stacked wall and rose east away from the highway and up to a small farm. A young woman, hanging bedsheets and towels on a clothesli ne next to an old barn, waved hello. I pedaled up to the farm. "Good morning," the tall , slender and deeply tanned woman smiled. "My guess is you 've lost your way?" "Not a bad observation." "The rare visitor I get is either lost or offering to purchase the homestead. You don't look like you are in need of farmland ." "Not today," I smiled. I learned that when Iris Macka was not surfing up and down Queensland's . Gold Coast, she lived in the remote Outback studying Aborigina l art. The farmhouse and barn, bu ilt of reddish-brown sandstone in 1886 by her great-great-grandfather, were her only nontransportable possessions. Whi le Iris was enamored of her farm, her true passion was Aboriginal rock continued on page 70