Bike-packing the Tassie Trail
I didn't set a whole lot of KPI's when I started my parenting journey, but I think it's fair to say that if you'd told me back then that in the same year I turned 50, my 19yo son would want to go on a 7 day bike-packing trip across Tassie, and that what's more, I'd still be physically capable of doing it, I reckon I would have been pretty happy.
So I'm very happy to report that I have smashed those non-existent KPIs by riding the 480km Tasmanian Trail from Devonport to Dover.
I'm probably more happy that I'm not still doing the ride, as it was genuinely one of the toughest things I've done, and instead of providing a travelogue of the journey, I think I'll focus on what I learnt while I was doing it.
Plans are awesome, as you watch them fly out the window
I had never gone bikepacking before. So I had no idea how much of a difference carrying sleeping bags, a tent, clothes, a camping stove, etc. would make to how fast we would ride.
I also failed to realize how steep some of the climbs were going to be, or that some of them would be up rocky hills that were impossible to ride up.
So as we planned the trip, I was thinking, 'Well, I can normally average 30 kph, so if we assume with all the gear we're carrying we can only average 20 kph, we should be able to comfortably do 80 kms per day. So if we get on the road by 8 am, we can be at our next stop by just after lunch... then we can swan around whatever town we're in, and I can take photos. What an amazing and relaxing way to see Tasmania!'
Cut to a scene where Josh and I are riding in the cold and dark on day one, with only one decent front light, hoping to make it to our accommodation before their kitchen closes for the night.
If I take a few steps back, we had started later than 8 am because our flight didn't land until 10 am.
By the time we had taken the bikes out of their boxes and assembled them (or more accurately, Josh assembled them and I found places to put the packing materials), it was 11:30 am, then it was a 10 km ride from the airport to the start of the trail.
So by the time we'd had something to eat, it was already 1 PM. But using the patented 'Chris Riordan travel estimator,' we would still be arriving around 6 PM, which was fine. In fact, everything was so fine that we found time to stop and take photos. This was exactly how I had hoped this trip would be: lunch in little country towns, pleasant riding through beautiful countryside, stopping for photos... what a time to be alive!
But then the country roads and pleasant paths gave way to gravel roads and stony trails, the midday sun turned to early dusk, and we were taking off our shoes in order to push our bikes across a river.
By the time we got to our second river crossing, the light had almost gone, and so we had to push on through windy single-track trails with only a few meters in front of us illuminated by our lights.
Then we came to a serious climb. It was so serious I had to get off and walk for some of it. By the time I got to the top, we were still at least 10 km from Deloraine, it was cold, it was dark, we were hungry, and suddenly this did not feel like such a great time.
Thankfully we had mobile reception, and so we were able to use Maps to plot a course that kept us off the highway as much as possible, and cut a few km off our trip. But seeing as I had the brightest light, I had to sit in front of Josh for the rest of the trip...which is a bit like putting a Clydesdale in front of a racehorse.
We pulled into our Deloraine accommodation just before 8:30 pm...our '4 hr ride' had taken over 8 hours, we were cooked...and it was only day 1.
Plans are great!
Serendipity
As I came to discover, one of the cool things about the Tassie Trail is that you will encounter climbs where you wonder, 'Should I have bought a smaller chainring at the front... or just some rock-climbing gear?'
Our second day had two of these climbs. The first one was non-negotiable, but the second one could be avoided if you took a longer route through a town called Poatina. The trail guidebook said that the steeper climb 'was not advised for horses or bikers', but Josh was very keen for the adventure, and I just figured that if I had to walk the bike up some of the climb, then so be it.
We stopped just before the start of the climb to have a banana and some lollies to fuel up for the push up the hill and then onwards to a campsite about 20 km after the top the climb. You access the climb via the driveway on someone's property, and as we were standing there, a lady drove out of the driveway. We got chatting, and she explained that her parents owned the property, and that while it would be really difficult to ride up the trail, it was really great...and that also, there was a cave about 2/3 of the way up that we could camp in if we wanted. We thanked her for the info, but knew that we were aiming to camp on the other side of the climb...things would have to be going pretty badly for us to be camping 2/3 of the way up this climb.
We started the climb, and after about 200m things started to go pretty badly. It was really steep, but more importantly, it was pretty much just rocks, and so some pretty impressive mountain bike skills were required just to ride over them...skills I did not possess. So I had to start walking pretty much straight away. Of course, it's not just walking; it's walking while pushing a 30kg bike, and sometimes that meant pushing the bike in front of you, locking the brakes to hold it in place, then taking a few steps, then pushing the bike in front of you, locking the brakes, taking a few steps, then repeating this for half an hour.
Once again, the light was starting to fade, and we weren't even halfway up. There was no way we were going to make it to the top, then ride for another 2 hours to get to our campsite. But we could make it to the cave. I was able to text Josh to wait for me at the cave, and by the time I got there, we had just enough time to set up the tent and get a fire going before darkness descended like a weight.
It was incredible. Just the two of us, in the middle of nowhere, two-thirds of the way up a mountain and completely protected from the elements. It was exactly the sort of adventure I had hoped we would find on this ride, and it would never have happened if we hadn't bumped into that lady at the base of the climb. One of the beauties of being willing to take on a challenge like this is that serendipity tends to follow you.
Highway from the comfort zone
I am a great believer that true growth comes when you're out of your comfort zone, and this trip really showed me that while I may believe this, I'm not so great at putting it into action. That's not to say that I don't do a lot of things that I tell myself are putting myself out of my comfort zone. For example, every Sunday I have my long run. Up until this trip, I would have said 'I'm pushing myself for 1.5-2 hrs, so I'm really getting out of my comfort zone!' But, at best, I'm pushing myself a little out of my physical comfort zone. Mentally, I'm super comfortable. I know how far I'm running, I know where I'm going, I know when the hard bits are, and if everything goes to hell in a handbasket, I can call someone to give me a lift home.
In fact, I think my comfort zone probably is where I can maintain an impression of discomfort while maintaining complete control.
This trip pushed me to my mental limits, often for hours at a time. I haven't had to push my bike up a hill since I was about 16...but I was having to do this on a daily basis. I HATED not knowing how hard the next climb was going to be. I was furious every time we climbed up a hill for an hour, only to find there was a short descent before the next hour-long climb. I took it very personally every time a descent was so technical that I couldn't enjoy it, and probably had to expend more mental energy on the way down than up. I. HATED. NOT. HAVING. CONTROL.
But you can't control everything, and acknowledging that but still continuing was the comfort zone I had to get myself out of.
On day 6 we had our last big day, 80kms from New Norfolk to Geeveston. The day started with 4 hours of climbing, and much like descending into the '9 circles of hell', this climb presented multiple levels of torture. Really rocky paths gave way to a 4wd track that was full of enormous puddles and tyre-width wide ridges between them that you were meant to somehow balance your fully laden bike across without losing momentum... then the ridges disappeared and you just had to work out how to get your bike across 6ft puddles of indeterminate depth... then the path just became large rocks and boulders you had to push/carry your bike over.
It's fair to say I got a little bit 'sweary' at this point, not the least because I knew that if the descent was the same as the climb, I was going to have to walk that as well, and it was going to be a loooooong day.
For better or worse, the descent was not as bad. It was still full of decently sized rocks or slippery clay or some winning combo of both...but with enough patience and forearm strength (as you pumped the brakes to try and keep yourself from flying down the hill) it was doable. My whole rationale was 'If I just fly down the hill, I may save myself 10 minutes, but if I come off, I will ruin the whole trip. So just grip those brakes and play it safe.'
But then we came to a section (you can see it looks like a vertical drop on the profile) that was insanely steep. It was so steep that I had to stop because my forearms were getting exhausted from holding the brakes so tight. It was so steep that when I started again, I almost went over the handlebars trying to clip my feet into the pedals. It was so steep (and the trail was just tennis ball-sized rocks) that I realized that even with my brakes on full lock, I was still hurtling down the hill; it's just that with the brakes on full lock, I was much more likely to wipe out on a section of deeper rocks. I could see the end of the section, and I could see Josh waiting for me, and so I just let go of the brakes. It's three weeks later and I can still remember the feeling. I was flying. I was bouncing over the rocks. If I came off, it was hospital for sure. There was no sound, just the bike bucking wildly underneath me, just trying desperately to keep it upright, and knowing that I was completely out of control, it was down to luck and my reflexes, and I had never been so far from my comfort zone.
Then it was done, and I was slowing down on a slight ascent; then I was chatting to Josh about how much he had loved it. The memory is so visceral that I know my mind has had to do a lot to process it, and hopefully, it's grown because of it—new pathways, new possibilities. But if you asked me to do it again...I'd probably say 'no'...there's no way I could get that lucky twice.
Capitulation or perserverance
I have always enjoyed sports, but never excelled. From about my 30s onwards, I discovered that while I could never win a race, I could always grind out a decent finish. Capitulation was never an option.
On one of the days when I was walking the bike up a muddy cliff-face somewhere, I had to come to two knee-high boulders that I had to squeeze the bike through. The only way to do it was to put the bike on its back wheel and push it through vertically. It worked, and to celebrate my logistical prowess, I promptly walked my knee straight into one of the rocks. It hurt at the time, but over the next few days it got worse and worse.
On day 5, we were riding 80kms from Ouse to New Norfolk. We had decided to stop in the town of Ellendale to get an early lunch, but when we arrived there, the one shop in town was closed. It had been a tough day already, and my knee was really hurting, to the point where I was basically free-wheeling any slight downhill (and I think I was driving Josh insane with how slow we were going). So to arrive at what we had hoped would be our lunch spot, where we could get something warm to eat and ideally a coffee... and instead be eating the cold packet of beans and rice we had intended to have for dinner that night, and to know that we were about to embark on some hefty climbs on very rough tracks. Well, it was rough, and my mindset was not good. I had a look at Maps on my phone and realized that there was a roadhouse about 12kms away that served food; I also realized that the trail took a 20km detour through the hills before arriving at the same roadhouse. So I decided that I would just ride along the road for this section and meet Josh at the roadhouse after he had enjoyed the highs and lows of the trail.
I had expected to feel guilt and regret as I rode along by myself. But suddenly, being able to ride at my own pace, I found my mindset getting better. After a short climb, I found myself on a long sweeping descent. The sort of descent where you can just stop pedaling and enjoy the ride, the sort of descent I'd been praying for after each climb over the last few days. I knew that at the bottom I would need to start climbing again... but instead, like some wonderful apparition, at the bottom of the hill was a raspberry farm that had a coffee machine and homemade ice cream. While in Melbourne it can be hard to walk for more than 5 minutes in any direction without tripping over a barista... it's fair to say that if you spend 90% of your time riding on fire trails and weird horse-tracks through the hills, you very rarely stumble across anyone offering a decent coffee. So I asked if they could make an affogato, and they happily poured a shot of coffee over a scoop of homemade ice cream... I think I may have been the happiest I had been in days. So happy, I took a photo of it to show Josh later.
Then I pushed on to the roadhouse, ordered myself some food and was about to text the photo to Josh, but decided to just see how far away he was first. His response came back that he had noticed a puncture about 5 mins after we separated (this was our only puncture for the whole trip!), and while trying to fix that, his pump had broken, and when it had broken, it had cut his hand. So he was still out in the middle of nowhere, on a tire that wasn't properly inflated and with a cut hand.
I decided that now was not the time to send the photo of the affogato.
With some judicious use of Panadol, my knee was fine for the rest of the ride. I have no idea what would have happened if I'd just decided to be a 'completist' and stuck to the trail... but I think that the simple act of kindness I had offered myself to take the easier option got me across the line. If nothing else, it gave me the first 'non-sachet' coffee I'd had in days!
The end of the trail
When talking about the US Space program, JFK famously said, 'We do these things not because they are easy, but because they are hard.' Unfortunately, I lack both JFK's brevity and work ethic, because I think mine is more along the lines of 'I do these things not because they're easy, but because I thought they would be easy, but then they proved to be a lot harder than expected. At the same time, I'd already committed a lot of time and effort to them, and so I guess I may as well finish them.'
So on day 7, we rode triumphantly into Dover. In a true metaphor for the ride as a whole, we rode up a really long and punishing hill before descending on some sketchy trails that became shingly paths that became a dirt road, before finally becoming a paved road that descended all the way down to the beach. As we rolled down the hill, we had our arms out wide, soaking up the feeling of accomplishment and feeling like we were flying. Then at the bottom of the hill, we realized that it wasn't the actual end of the ride, and that we had to turn left and ride up one last super steep hill on a double-lined road with an impatient truck behind us.
So we did.
Will I ever go bikepacking again? Absolutely.
Will I travel with Josh again? If he'll have me, without a doubt. He was the perfect travel companion.
Are there things I would do differently? Most definitely, but that’s for another blog.
Is one of those things not carrying a camera in a backpack the entire way? Nah... 'cause it let me get this photo... and you can see all of the other photos from the trip here
