Going to Dingo. Saying I woke up that morning wouldn’t be quite right. The truth is, I dragged myself off a hard, narrow bench—sore, unrested, and questioning my life choices. What else could I expect after refusing to pay $56 for a proper bed? To make matters worse, I was freezing (finally, some cold!) and the smell of mildew hit me like a punch when I opened my backpack to grab my thin cycling jacket.
To my horror, the clothes I thought were packed dry were completely soaked. Whether it was leftover rain from earlier or the result of my creek-crossing into Clermont, everything reeked. It was the unmistakable stench of an unventilated hockey locker room.
There was no choice: I needed a proper campsite with a washing machine, a shower, and a chance to clean myself up—maybe even give the bike a little TLC.
Welcome to Dingo
After 48 kilometers, I rolled into the town of Dingo, named after the wild dogs that roam this region. The only dingo I found, however, was a bronze statue on the town square. But no complaints here—I also found a beautiful campsite with everything I needed. The owners were friendly, the showers were hot, and the washing machine was a godsend. I washed all my gear and hung it out to dry in the warm afternoon sun. When you’re not roasting alive on the bike, sunbathing actually feels pretty good.
It was one of those rare, slower days on the road. Today was already better than yesterday.
Gravel Dreams
The alarm went off at 4:00 a.m. The forecast promised a scorcher, so I had to take advantage of the cooler morning air. Crawling out of the tent was hard, but I knew the longer I waited, the worse it would get.
I was still riding through mining country. Coal mines stretched for miles, and I hated every second of it. My mental state was dropping lower and lower. Surrounding me were thousands of pickups—old, loud, smelly beasts carrying workers with faces as gray as the dust. This wasn’t the Australia I came to enjoy. But it was part of Australia, and seeing it added depth to my experience.
The contrast was striking when I finally turned onto a rural asphalt road. The cars disappeared, and the few that passed me carried smiling people who greeted me warmly. Suddenly, even their exhaust didn’t smell so bad.
It really is all about perspective. My head cleared, and I felt like myself again.
Choosing the Gravel Path
At the 50-kilometer mark, I reached an intersection. The main road went straight. But there, off to the side, was a gravel track leading to Baralamba.
I hesitated. The right path is straight… but what if I try the off-road alternative? I was feeling great, and my bike—despite being loaded like a freight truck—was born for gravel. Would it pass in Australia if I only stuck to the tarmac? Of course not. If not now, then when?
So I veered off the asphalt and onto the gravel. The route would be rougher—and 20 kilometers longer—but the call of the wild was too strong to ignore. I stopped for a quick photo by the gravel sign, adrenaline pumping, and set off into the unknown.
Pure Gravel Bliss (and Challenges)
The ride started beautifully. Fueled by adrenaline and endorphins, I felt unstoppable. At times, the forest road was better than the paved highway. At other times, I probably could’ve walked faster.
Halfway through, I stopped to cook lunch. I’m not sure what I made, but something was missing.
That “something” arrived with the fourth car I saw on the gravel track. The driver stopped, rolled down the window, and after a friendly chat, handed me a cold beer. I stared at the bottle in disbelief—hospitality really is alive and well in the middle of nowhere.
The day wasn’t done with me yet. Near the end of the gravel stretch, I got a flat tire. The culprit? A poorly applied rim tape from a service job back in Townsville. What did I expect for $96? Still, the wheel was perfectly trued, so I let it slide. At the time, I had no idea what this would mean for the days to come.
From Mines to Rivers
Rolling into the next town, I was greeted with a surprise: the campground had turned into a massive miners’ lodge. My backup plan? A free camping spot by the river. It worked perfectly, rounding off the kind of day I’d remember fondly.
A Day to Remember
From early morning exhaustion to the pure joy of gravel riding, friendly encounters, and an unexpected flat tire, this day had everything. Some might call it rough, but it’s days like these that make the adventure worth it.
It was a reminder that even when you hit rock bottom—sometimes literally—there’s always something to look back on with a smile. That’s Australia Gravel.
