Around a Continent by Motor Cycle."AN
APPRECIATION" - By the manufacturer of the machine. Messers. The Douglas Motors LTD.
Just a word of introduction before the reader's
mind is absorbed in Mr. Grady's wonderful narrative. With regard to the actual
feat accomplished words are not necessary. It is a wonderful example of a
Britisher's pluck and stamina, coupled with the power of endurance in a machine
of our manufacture, and has once more given further cause for our perfect faith
that the Douglas Motor Cycle is the very last word in efficiency.
The following story is exactly as Mr. Grady
wrote it, word for word, without iteration of any sort. He wrote this of his
own accord from the jottings in his diary and without influence from anyone
interested in the machine or its complementary parts.
"FURTHER COMMENTS"
By the Editor of the "MOTOR CYCLE"
- Reprinted from their issue of June 11th, 1925.
THE EPIC RIDE.
Would that there have been more from the young
explorer's pen, for the modest account of his five months' journey leaves a
great deal to the imagination.
He is, first and foremost, a motor cyclist; he
has made no claims to being a writer. Perhaps for this reason the account rings
more sincere than would have been the case had the intrepid pathfinder set out
merely to secure publicity. He had preferred to allow his ride to speak for
itself.
Unfortunately very few can appreciate fully the
magnitude of the achievement, the dangers encountered, and the difficulties
overcome, for in the modern world of ours it is hard to realise that parts of
an island continent like Australia remain unexplored and are so out of touch
with civilisation that failure of the explorer's mount would mean certain
death.
It is one thing to set off on a journey knowing
that, in the event of failure, other modes of transport can be utilised-to
continue or to return-but it is quite another proportion when the traveller
knows that a breakdown may leave no chance of a second attempt.
The achievement speaks volumes for the pluck of
the young motor cyclist, who will go down to posterity as the first man to
encircle Australia on a mechanically propelled vehicle, and for the qualities
of the British motor cycle he used.
"A WORD FROM GRADY."
Grady was born in Fremantle, Australia, on the
20th May, 1901. He gained his first experience in Automobile driving with a
Ford Car, running round for the Cabin Tea Rooms when only 15-1/2 years of age.
At the age of 16 he enlisted and joined up with
the 51st Battalion as a Signalman and saw two years of active service. Previous
to the historic attempt recorded in this booklet, he competed in many Motor
Cycle Races, both with and without success, and is a member of the Coast Motor
Cycle Club, being one of the foundation members.
He is a tall good-looking chap, with auburn
hair, and to quote an Australian newspaper - "enough to make the average
girl envious" - he is a typical British character.
Mr. A. Grady's account of "The Around
Australia Ride on a 2-3/4 HP Douglas."
On the first of October I started from
Fremantle on what is generally recognised as the longest and most difficult
journey ever attempted on a motor cycle - the ride around Australia.
Space and weight are strictly limited, so the
comforts which are generally deemed necessities, such as blankets, towels,
razors, etc, were left behind. My whole swag comprised an army oil ground sheet
and mosquito net, which, tightly wrapped, were attached to the front of the
forkside. Tooth-brush was carried in a pocket.
Two gallon cans braced to the sides of the
carrier gave me an extra petrol capacity of 3 gallons. The ordinary tank in the
machine held 1-1/2 gallons of petrol and 1 quart of oil. An extra gallon of oil
was also carried. On top of the carrier was a Nobels cartridge box, which
contained spare parts, tyre mending outfit, etc. Outside the port petrol tank the
2 gallon water bag was swung.
All on, including myself, we tipped the scales
at 450 lb, a big weight for a little Douglas to carry. I also took a small
first-aid outfit with a good supply of fever mixture to combat troubles with mosquitoes
and dysentery from constantly changing waters, and for general ailments.
A 2 lb. jam tin bolted to the back number plate
served as a tea billy. It was often mistaken for a rain gauge. Some hard corned
beef, usually wrapped round the handlebar, tea and sugar constituted the
cuisine. Bates oversize tyres were fitted to the machine and, from previous
experience of this make, I was convinced they would do good work. I had yet to
learn how much better they where than I believed at starting.
After uplifting sendoffs from Fremantle and
Perth, I pushed along for four days, and then leaving the fenced fields of
wheat, entered the red soil of the Murchison district with its surface strewn
with millions of "Doublegees." These hard seeds with their three sharp
spikes affected the feet of sheep so seriously as often prevent travel. Often
my tyre treads were invisible, being covered with a mass of these three pronged
seeds, but none succeeded in penetrating to the inner tube.
Next came the Gascoyne district with its
numerous rivers and creeks, making travel very severe. These two station
districts have some wonderful, well constructed homesteads, electrically
lighted and surrounded by gardens of flowers and vegetables, and an eloquent
testimony of the profit there is in sheep growing in Western Australia.
In the next district, the Minilya, I have
travelled 14 hours a day without changing once out of low gear. Deep heavy
sand. loose and red, and churned into powder by wagon teams and heavy lorries,
constitutes "he road." There are a few miles of good road between
Onslow and Port Hedland, but, with this exception, the 800 miles ahead to Halls
Creek was said to be all sand.
From Derby one notices how the stations start
to thin out, being from 60 to 80 miles apart. There are less sheep; the
countless mobs of kangaroos disappear; the curious emu strides ostentatiously
in from to try his pace against the Douglas; no more flocks of wild turkeys
flap their way into the sky as one surprises them, and in their place appears the
stubborn bullock with his head arched and horns advanced to welcome you; the
glimpse of a sneaking dingo lurking in the bush or the swish of parted air as a
flock of flying foxes flit phantom-like overhead.
Here the country was in the throes of drought,
dead sheep and dead kangaroos everywhere. A carter, whom I met heading South
with cart and two horses, told me he had a job at Mulga Downs as windmill
expert at 6 pound a week. As it cost him 3 pound per week to feed his horses,
he had to leave.
Throughout the Kimberley and Fitzroy districts
it is all low gear work through heavy sand. One night I camped with a teamster,
who told me of a sand pull that had cost him 50 pound. His loaded wagon was
axle deep in shifting sand and the team of 50 mules was unable to move it. He
then shifted on 70 mules and they simply tore the harness to pieces and the
wagon had to lightened by removing 3 tons of the load.
At Halls Creek I met Sergeant Flinders and
Constable Turner, who captured that blood-thirsty black fellow "Banjo"
after many months of searching through the wild tribes. "Banjo" lived
near Halls Creek station and one day the blood lust overcome him, he secured a
rifle and put the bullet through one of the men in charge. The other man,
hearing the shot, walked out to investigate and saw stretched before him the
lifeless body of his mate.
Standing near was the demoniacal
"Banjo" a smoking rifle in his hands. Taking in the situation at a
glance the white man tried to pacify the old nigger, and the buck raised his
rifle steadily to his shoulder. "You won't shoot me, will you,
Banjo?" were his last words. Banjo replied "Too plurry late,
Boss" and shot him down. Then, turning to the black girl who was in the
kitchen, he demanded food and tea of the best and quick service if she did not
wish to share the white men's fate. While he was enjoying the meal, another
black entered and said the wounded white man wanted a drink of water.
"What!" said Banjo. "He's not dead yet? Tell him to hurry up and
die before I finish this cup of tea." On finishing his meal, he took a
rope and tied the feet of the two men and with one end and the other to the
saddle, he mounted a horse and towed the men, the one dead and the other
wounded into the bush.
Making a shallow grave, he tumbled into it both
the dead and the live man and buried them. On receipt of the news, these two
intrepid policemen started hot on Banjo's trail. Then began some wonderful
tracking by the black-trackers for Banjo used wonderful cleverness in making
and hiding his tracks. He walked backwards for four miles and travelled night
and day. Eventually they tracked him to a wire fence where his tracks
disappeared. No signs of any where visible except those of a dog, which ran
along by the fence. Banjo walked 5 miles on the wire fence, but forgot about
the tracks the following dog was making. At last they hounded him down, but
Banjo was full of fight and at last fell riddled with bullets.
From Halls Creek to Esau's is a distance of 10
miles where lives an old hermit Esau, aged 92; then 8 miles to Palm Springs, a
garden amid these stony ranges where I decided to stay the night, and remarked
to the owner "I think I shall camp outside as it will be cooler."
"If you do, you will be the first man who
has done so for years," he said, "for snakes are very numerous and
when I wake at night I can hear them crawling about on the floor." The
bunks inside are suspended by chains from the roof so as to be clear of snakes.
I slept inside.
To Flore Valley, 18 miles, the track was
mountainous and stony. Along here I took a heavy fall and damaged my leg. This
range of mountains continues for 36 miles, known locally as the razorbacks. The
upgrades were almost impossible for my mount to scale even with me pushing all
out. On top of one of these ridge caps are the remains of a horse balanced with
front and hind legs swinging in the air on either side, his body resting on the
summit.
From Flora Valley to Soakage Creek is a
distance of 60 miles, and here I had a bath. Blackgins carried water for an
overhead bucket rigged as a shower.
After dining on tomatoes and securing a gallon
of petrol, I started for Burrindoodoo, 65 miles, and the only trail was the
track of 2 horses that had gone along 3 weeks before. I was continually walking
to distinguish between the horse tracks and those of bullocks. However, I got
along fairly well in spite of the ground being very rough virgin ground with
many cattle pads. The surface was covered with Spinifex (prickly tuft grass),
Mitchell grass and stumps. However I arrived at Sweetwater Yards (so named from
the water having a sweet unpalatable taste) where the cattle pads spit into
dozens. Here I scouted on foot for two hour following pads, which spun out
until I eventually trailed the fresh horse tracks. It was at these Yards, the
two overlanders, Terry and Yockney in a Ford car, lost the pad and nearly
perished in the vast trackless plain. They had a few directions from Inverary
Station, but the ground offered no tracks, however faint, and they wandered
almost fatally. I had not even their few directions, and had to depend entirely
on the compass and the horse tracks. However I followed these tracks for
another 28 miles and the going was so diabolical that at times I doubted if I
could be right. At last to my comfort, I reached the second well, and there
spent another hour following pads until I at last saw the few rough buildings
of Burrindoodoo on the left of the Sturt River.
This river is covered with long cane grass and
has a loose scilly bottom with no crossing whatever. After struggling in it for
about 15 minutes, I decided to get help from the blacks' camp, but on reaching
the camp I discovered only a few blacks were in it. I mustered these, and
started them pushing the machine across. All went well until we were about 100
yards from the bank, and judging by their heavy breathing, the blacks were
tired.
I decided to start up the engine and help them.
They were all standing behind having a "blow" when the old bus fired.
That finished the relief party, and when I looked round the blacks had covered
150 yards in about 10 seconds and were heading home, and all entreaties and
demonstrations with regard to its quietness were of no avail. It was a
devil-devil to them and they stood off at a safe distance to watch me complete
the rest of the pull under my own power. After much coaxing, I induced one old
black to sit on the machine.
Immediately after he hit the seat he bounced
off with one spring and raced away yelling at the top of his voice. I
discovered he had placed his bare toe on the red hot exhaust pipe. Late that
evening Mr. Robinson came home, and during the night we had a tremendous
thunderstorm, so I had to trespass on his hospitality for two days until the
country was dry enough to travel, and started with the following directions.
"Follow the cattle pads heading due East to Wallamunga Lagoon and cross
river between second water hole and some bogged cattle further down, then
follow the creek for one mile and pick up pads and follow for 10 miles East.
Cross the Creek and make for the right of a big hill where a faint cattle pad
could be discerned, which leads to Inverary, and make for a green tree on the
plain."
All went well until I got to the Creek,
"Bunda" by name. I looked for the hill and discovered one a little to
the left, and making for this I travelled over atrocious country covered with
grass and stumps and crab holes for 8 miles, and when nearing the hill I
discovered it to be a belt of heavy timber and away on my right appeared
another hill, undoubtedly the one I had missed. I decided to return, the very
though of recrossing that dreadful plain nearly bringing tears to my eyes.
Going back was more difficult than I
contemplated, my tracks owing to the rough country had zigzagged terribly, and
I was completely at sea as to how to return. To add to my troubles the waterbag
dragging through the long sword grass had sprung a leak, and the water had
leaked away.
For hours I pushed back to where I though I had
left the creek, and camping at night I had reluctantly to confess that I was
completely bushed. Supper with half a jam tin of water saved from the bag, and
a piece of sunbaked bread so hard that I had to soak it in my precious water
before I could bite in; a mouthful of sickly warm water, then darkness and
silence. Everything was hushed and awfully still. I would reflect a little
faintheartedly on my journey, solitary and melancholy, in that vast rugged
interior. Mile after mile of dreadful riding - it seemed to be maddening and, I
though on the road behind, its sand, its cracks, its creeks, its intense heat,
its deep and treacherous gorges, a lonesomeness would fall on me like the
falling dusk on the land. I would gaze absently at the blank range of cliffs,
at the silent and boundless plain, down the winding rows of scrub and rock
while nature hushed the world to sleep, when suddenly the awesome howl of a
dingo split the stillness and roused me out of my reverie.
Tired and weary I rolled my swag around me and
sank into oblivion. I woke at dawn and without a break-fast returned 8 miles,
but still the country was unfamiliar and thoughts came into my head that had to
be driven out. All that day I plugged along despite the intense heat and
maddening mirages, sparing neither myself or machine. Heat was rising from the
much abused engine in colourless streams, baking my legs and boots. The hot
winds blew clouds of fine stinging dust into my face with the long cane grass
continually swishing into my eyes. I was filled with a prescience of being
trapped by storms, for water, while it meant salvation, could also mean a long
imprisonment in that wild land.
When the big wet sets in, all human affairs
come to a standstill. The country is one great bog where neither man nor horse
may travel. This though forced me to ride hard all day. About four o'clock I
could see a long fringe of timber and knew it to be a creek and water lay about
10 miles further down, but I had doubts as to whether I could make it.
Travelling on foot was faster and more
comfortable than riding the machine, and besides, I was suffering with aches
from the previous day's jolting. So I broke down a long stick, and mounted my
mosquito net on the end as a flag.
I erected it by the machine as a guide in case
I should come back to find it. Taking the empty waterbag I started off on foot,
hungry and thirsty and filthy dirty to follow the creek down to water. The
falling of night stopped further movement. During the night storm clouds rolled
up and thunder started to reverberate over the vast plains and the vivid
lightning enabled me to see for miles around. Grasshoppers, beetles and other
insects in countless hordes were attracted by the glow of the fire foreboding
only too truly the approaching storm. A blinding flash of lightning followed by
a blasting crash of thunder and the storm burst in wild fury over the thirsty
plain. For two hours it pounded incessantly compelling me to seek shelter among
the thin scrub, until the rain ceased as suddenly as it had started.
I welcomed the dawn, soaked through but happy
in my salvation and relief from the intolerable thirst, and, on inspecting the
road, decided to return to the machine and wait till the following day before
attempting to travel.
Then, being well rested, I started up my ever
willing Douglas and pushed on East until I stumbled over a heavy cattle pad on
which were the faint tracks of a buggy wheel. I had actually struck the track.
On following it, I could plainly see how I had become lost. After crossing the
Creek, the track instead of crossing these downs had swung away to the left and
followed round the edge of the desert.
After taking a good drink and filling my
waterbag, I travelled on towards Inerary. Pulling up at the bank of a creek, I
could see though the rocks and trees a solid stream of flowing water. Climbing down
the rugged sides I waded in and found it was above my wast. Anxious to push on,
I decided to cross at all risk, so started to prepare the Douglas for a
submarine passage.
Collecting a few handfuls of grass I stuffed
them tightly into the exhaust pipes and, with a piece of fat, kept for
lubricating the chains, I greased the carburettor and magneto and plugged up
the end of the carburettor with a piece of greasy cloth. Then smearing grease
over the petrol tank cap, I cautiously started across.
In mid-stream the handlebars were just visible
and I had to strain to win out and up the opposite bank. Another trip across
and my small but important sock of perishable goods were over; the plugs were
withdrawn, and the grand little machine started up with a healthy roar. On
arriving at Inverary, I rested the remainder of the day and on the next morning
started onward again with the following directions : "Six miles out due
East pass a water hole on right. One mile ahead the track cuts over the toe of
a little flat topped spinifex hill and turns sharp to left. Proceed North-East
for 10 miles and strike a creek running for 3 miles, then cross it at the
bottom of a large stony hill and follow base of hill around to a small rocky
gorge. Cross right growing at the foot of a range of low hills. Cross another
heavy stony bottomed creek and run along the edge of a desert until black soil
plains are reached. Cut right through the plains due East to an old yard called
"29-mile yard."
To those North bushmen that description was
concise and ample, but to me it was confusing owing to the several meanings of
words that differ from what I am used to.
For instance - "desert" - The desert
country was the red soiled timbered land and the great expanses of sand and dry
grass were called plains. Then came the, "downs," and they where
grassy dry black soil country, a mass of knotty grass stumps and spinifex
honeycombed with crab holes. So, nothing daunted, but not overconfident, as my
directions were not to plain, I started off.
Stopping every half mile, I examined the ground
comparing the notes with the lay of the country. I would discern an ant hill
crushed at the base by a wheel and would then feel as though I was on a
macadamised road.
Through the downs I followed where the long
grass was slightly knocked down by horses, and on to the timbered lands where
the sight of a piece of bark knocked off a tree by a wheel hub would make one
feel confident I was on the right track.
At last no signs whatsoever appeared, and I was
beginning to get a bit faint hearted.
Nothing tallied with the instructions. Mounting
the top of a little bald hill, I eagerly searched the horizon for land marks,
but only the wide boundless plain met my gaze-no hills or low strips of timber
marking the course of a creek, not a bird or a beast to be seen. A few
scattered scrub trees dotted the landscape looking as big as ancient oaks,
their size gradually diminishing on approach. Often have I been deceived by
small trees no more than 4 feet high, which, at 6 miles, appear tall and large,
and I even have mistaken them for the welcome windmill 30 or 40 feet high. A
sheep on the horizon looks the size of a buffalo.
Far away to the left could be seen the creek I
had recently crossed, winding its way through the plains until diffused into a
hovering mirage. Setting my compass I picked out a spot due East, and kicked
the old bus up, plunged into the long grass and wretched crab holes. I often
reflected on the staunchness and willingness of my little mount. Never once did
the Douglas refuse duty - always ready to push on - indefatigable and yet I had
often cursed and sworn at it as I struggled up the sides of those ubiquitous
sandy creeks, the engine crackling like a machine gun through the short open
exhaust pipes. She deserved no such return from me, whom she carried through
that vast wilderness.
Five miles I travelled, long thick grass
preventing the wind from cooling the sweltering engine and the heat and smell
of burning oil ascending to my head. At last I emerged from the undergrowth of
a cane and wood and gradually ascended until I could see the rough outline of a
barren gorge.
Somewhere ahead now I should find water, but
the creek and the old yard there was no sign whatever. It was about 2 p.m., and
the track to the hilly rugged gorge was covered with the large stones, so,
preferring to walk rather than be jolted to death, I unhitched the waterbag and
started afoot for the big hills about 1-1/2 miles distant in order to command a
good view of the country. Scrambling to the top, I sat on the stones and let my
thoughts wander aimlessly.
Vague apprehensions crept into my mind as I
gazed at the remains of some unfortunate calf that had wandered. I tapped my
bone-dry waterbag and its hollow sound chilled me. Then I began to think of lagoons
and rivers I knew of, thoughts that almost turned my over-taxed and unbalanced
mind into delirious ecstasies. Presently a foul stench from dead cattle reached
me, and shaking of my lethargy I prospected amongst the gorges and found a pool
of beautiful clear water. After a good night's sleep I decided to return to
Inverary, for to go on meant certain defeat.
After an arduous struggle, I got back to the
station. It was at this point that the generosity of Farquahson Bros. was made
clear to me. At every station I had passed through, the Farquahsons were noted
for kindness and munificence, and with me they never hesitated, but immediately
volunteered to lend me a guide with a spare saddle horse and two pack horses,
for I had not enough petrol to make Ware Hill, and the spare saddle horse was
for when I ran out of petrol. So, with the guide and provisions, we hit the
trail for Ware Hill and camped first night at Swan Waterhole, 30 miles out.
The ground was covered with dry pandamus
leaves, which cracked like breaking glass as I rode over. Next day, we
proceeded to Grave Creek where the going was indescribable, the mode of
travelling being the guide going ahead and when he was about a quarter of a
mile away I would ride up and stop until he got on again, and so on, but as
this black had never seen a motor cycle before, his idea of roads was what the
horses could get along on. As it was cross country travelling and short cuts, I
could hardly keep pace with the walking horses.
Several times I had to stop and take off the
foot rests to enable me to cross the stony bottomed creeks, and when I would
look ahead there would be no sign of rider or horses, and I had to scout around
and pick up the tracks and bye and bye catch him up again. When the ground was
too stony for tracks, I just sat down and waited for him to return wondering
what would happen if he took it into his head to desert me and "go
bush."
At one point I was dodging along among some
boulders when the footrest hit a stone, and bent back struck the gearbox
sprocket, buckling it dangerously, at the same time locking the wheel and
sending me sprawling among the stones. I had to make a liberal use of the
iodine.
After dismantling the chains and sprocket, I
lit a fire and, selecting a large flat stone, pounded the sprocket back into
shape once more. The time taken was about an hour and no sign of the guide.
Presently I heard the thud of hoofs and he appeared around the bend.
That night we camped at Grave Creek and at tea
time I noticed that, as on the previous evening, George, the guide, was not
hungry, so I asked him what was wrong.
"Oh nothing," he said, "all day
mine been eatem bush plum." As we always went without lunch, I had a sharp
appetite in the evening. I said "Where you gettum bush plum." So
after tea we wandered round and he showed me the plums. They were like small
apples and tasted like a cross between a guava and passion fruit and were
certainly very palatable. Once he bent down and picked up a small round nut.
"See that," he said, "When you
see that, it show where good food come from tree called sugarbag." I at
once wanted to be shown, having doubts about his statement. He went trom tree
to tree placing his ear against the trunks until he found the one he was
looking for.
"Plenty sugarbag," he said. I asked
him why he placed his ear against the trunk, and he pointed above where, from a
hole, a number of bees were flying in and out. Placing my own ear against the
trunk I could plainly hear the hum of bees. Taking the tomahawk, he commenced
slicing the bark for about 2 feet, and when he cut into the inner hollow he
laid it bare and scraped the contents on to a flour bag. The stuff was like wax
with the flavour of honey and was very nice to eat. After this he showed me
some Congo berries and dug up some wild potatoes, growing on the river bank.
The blacks are never short of food in the bush and will find it where a white
man will starve.
Next day we travelled over similar country and
crossed numerous rocky bottomed creeks until we reached our next camp on
Blackgin Creek. Every now and then, George would suddenly leave the trail and
gallop off with his eyes glued to the ground and would sometimes be absent a
quarter of an hour. On returning, he would tell me he had been following wild
black tracks. At this camp the petrol petered out, so, leaving the bus, I
climbed on the spare horse and we rode 40 miles to Ware Hill for petrol. I made
notes of the track as I had no guide when I returned.
At last we crossed the Gorge about half a mile
across the steep banks, testing the powers of the horses. George said that this
was the regular crossing place so, knowing no motor cycle could get across, I
scouted up and down for an easier place without success. It was evident the old
bus would have to be carried over in pieces. Satisfied on this point, we
proceeded, and camped at Bow Hill. On receiving a gallon of petrol there, we
returned with the horses to where the bus was left, having ridden 40 miles that
day with the sun at 114 degrees, and camped at the creek. At dawn next day I
said good-bye to my guide and travelled in the opposite direction, feeling a
little despondent at his departure, for he was an excellent guide and very
interesting, but after listing to the last hoof beats of his horse I struck off
for Ware Hill and on reaching the Gorge decided at once on the plan of action.
First taking off the loaded carrier, I carried
it over to the opposite bank and then realised for the first time the load the
little machine was pulling. Next I unbolted the engine and carried that over.
Finally the frame and wheels were brought along
and the whole machine reassembled on the over side, but not without breaking
two radiating fins off the front cylinder.
In striking for the big hill, I noted on the
previous day that we followed the base for some 10 miles until I could see the
timber marking the course of the river and struck for the middle of two peaks
where I knew was the sandy crossing at the "29-mile yard." The
previous day a light fire had been burning, but we had taken little heed of
this. Now, as I rounded the bend of the hill where the vast plain stretched
before me and through which my way lay, I saw thick volumes of smoke rising
above the trees. The fire, which had grown into a raging mass of flames, was
sweeping over the great expanse leaving the ground glowing with hot ashes and
the air was filled with black smoke almost to obscurity as the leaping flames
licked up the dry grass and sunbaked trees.
Charred and smoking logs had fallen across my
track and the pad was quite obliterated. Then it was I congratulated on having
closely noted the features of the landscape, which made me independent of horse
tracks. Not more than 50 yards on my right the fire was raging, so I had to
keep on the edge of the plain and go round where the flames were on my direct
path.
Dodging around the fire, I made my landmarks
every time I left the pad and, when chance offered, cut the pad again. In this
manner I forced my way along, the smell of burning wood mingled with the fumes of
heated petrol; the burnt ground radiating intolerable heat and with tears
blurring my vision, I eventually made the creek and soon after arrived at Ware
Hill.
While at the station a 40 lb Barramundi was
caught in one of the big water holes. The flesh of this fish is very much
prized. In this country I was forced to use a special brand of lubricating oil.
I made it myself and any motor cyclist is free to use my recipe. It was a
mixture of 6 bottles of Castor Oil, half a gallon of Beef Dripping - which in this
country is always liquid - and 2 pints of Windmill Oil. The Douglas, if it
noticed the difference never complained. I also travelled 73 miles on kerosene
(paraffin) in place of Petrol.
Often in this treeless, waterless, pathless
place one has to stop when a water hole is reached and then spend a
considerable time tracing the tracks one has been following for the tracks lay
in the cattle pads which are the tracks used by the cattle coming in to water,
and they radiate from a waterhole in a star fashion.
Anywhere near the water the cattle obliterate
all other marks, so the quickest method of rebinding a track is to make a
circuit about a mile out from the hole, and when a trail is seen, watch the
direction in which it bears and if correct, follow it.
The following morning I left Ware Hill at dawn
and arrived at Pigeon Hole in time for Breakfast. Leaving there, I followed
rough roads to Victoria River Downs where they received me like the Prodigal
Son.
This station is undoubtedly the largest in the
world, it embraces an area of 14,000 square miles, larger than the whole of
Scotland. From Victoria Downs I was descending a very rugged and stony gorge
and though I saw a movement behind a tree, but the track would not permit me to
Look round. On reaching the bottom I cast a glance sideways and again caught
sight of movement.
Pulling up short, I shouted out and a black
appeared with several spears and a tomahawk. What puzzled me most was that
instead of being black he was a dirty brown and, as he came up, I see he was
covered in brown mud. This was because he had been stalking kangaroo and used
the mud as a camouflage, the mud being the same colour as the ground enabling
him to crawl closer to his game.
Thirty miles further on I came to a steep
creek, and halting on the bank-experience had taught me never to take the bus
in unless I could see a path out-I walked down and across the river bed looking
for an easier place to cross. After a little searching I decided to go back and
cross a little lower down, so turning round to return, I was surprised to see
four bucks and three gins and some picaninnies standing right behind me, all
smothered with the same brown mud. They were well armed and, as one could speak
a little English, I learned they were out of the bush and travelling West for
food and game. They had quite a collection of spears, tomahawks and
boomerrangs.
I was surprised in a similar manner about 80
miles out of Maranboy when travelling along a road fairly heavy after rain and
coming on a large pool of water in the track I circled round it and just as I
regained the road my front wheel did a wonderful skid and shot me clean over
the handlebars. On regaining my feet, I lifted the machine up and was about to
start when I heard laughing and giggling, and looking around, there were two
bucks about 10 yards from me, evidently tickled to death and thinking I was
stunting for their entertainment. The way these blacks can appear without sound
is almost magical. One moment they are not there, and the next they are. There
is no doubt one is under closer observation than one is conscious of.
The unusual noise of the fast running open
exhaust engine undoubtedly attracted them to have a peep at this strange
visitor to their wilderness, and I had convincing evidence of their wonderful
powers between Marranboy and Mataraks. I had laid in a good stock of
provisions- jam, biscuits, salmon, bread and beef, strapped on behind. I
stopped at a waterhole to fill my waterbag, only a few yards away, and on
turning again to the machine, my bag of provisions was gone. It must have been
taken almost immediately by some watching bucks who feasted while I starved.
On reaching the Victoria River, which was
flowing strongly, I decided to ride across, for they told me the bottom was
flat and smooth, and tackled it fairly fast in low gear, plunging straight into
the swirling waters. Almost immediately the bus left me and plunged me headlong
into the swift water.
Springing up, I struggled to the machine and
tried to lift her, but helplessly, until by letting the water wash it against a
big rock I managed to stand the machine up. The fall was caused by the green
slime with which the bottom of the river is covered, and on this slime the
tyres had no grip at all. After two more falls, we got across to the far bank.
On approaching the Wickham River, I discovered
the far bank was very steep, as the river flows all year round. Profiting by
previous experience, I got across without a fall and proceeded to scale the
bank. This necessitated running the engine flat out also. Near the top the bank
went nearly straight up for about 10 feet, and by exerting all my power I
counted on doing it with a little luck. Crossing the steam of course, left my
boots full of water, and as I was putting in some last desperate pushes, both
feet slipped out of the boots and I was hurled clean down the bank on to the
rocks below, recovering from the fall, I looked for the bus and there she was
just where I left her. The footrests dug into the heavy soil had anchored it on
the spot.
From this point I am going to move ahead fast -
on paper - for a detailed description would only be a repetition of the rough
riding story, which would weary my readers.
The next station touched was Delamore, and in
100 miles the most northerly point, "The Katherine," was reached.
Once again I was in touch with the world by telegraph, the dreaded stretch from
Halls Creek was passed, and I was still alive and kicking. The little Douglas
seemed as fit as when she left Fremantle, and the wonderful Bates Tyres were
practically unmarked and actually unpunctured. Many times had I reason to bless
the grand workmanship and material of these two great firms, for my life
depended on them.
From the Katherine across the King River -
infested with alligators - is 100 miles. Then Marranbor 40 - Hateranka 46 -
Daly Waters 125 - Newcastle Waters 110. From Katherine I followed the Adelaide
- Darwin telegraph line, which runs south-west to south, and it was a great
comfort to have the line for a guide.
From Newcastle Waters I struck east to Anthonye
Lagoon -180 miles then 60 to Brunette Downs, and followed the rough stock route
on through Alexandria and Rankine to Camooweal. At this last town I said
"Good-bye" to the terrible Northern Territory and stepped on to Queensland
soil, my troubles at an end.
From now onwards I was on known roads and
civilisation. I simply followed the inland route to Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne
and Adelaide - was of a most flattering nature, and while I thoroughly
appreciated the kindly wishes behind the receptions, I was glad to have done
with them and set my face toward home.
The track from Adelaide to Perth runs through
the wilds, but it was known road and has been travelled many times by motorists
and motor cyclists. To me it was comparatively easy run, and the Douglas purred
along contentedly day by day until on the 14th of March I had the great
pleasure of riding down the streets of my native town of Fremantle, and the
Douglas registered the last beat, after billions of beats, in front of the Town
Hall, which I had left 5 months and 14 days before.
The great journey is finished and I am quietly
satisfied with the honour of being the first to do it.
The Douglas and Bates Tyres I cannot give too
much honour. Not one spare part was used on the machine which never once failed
me and Bates Tyres never once punctured.
THE END.
A FEW Successes of the 3.48 h.p. Douglas Motor
Cycle.
The first and only machine in the world of any
power to make a circuit of Australia, over 9,000 miles, without a spare part being
needed.
C. Bower won the Durban-Johannesburg on a 3.48
h.p. Douglas, covering the 390 miles at an average speed of 37 m.p.h. over the
most gruelling Colonial course.
IN THE RELIABILITY TRIALS -
6 DAYS 1,000 MILES STOCK MACHINES TRIAL : 4
GOLD MEDALS.
One of these Gold Medal Machines was sealed and
taken to Brooklands, where it made 350 ascents of the test hill in 346 minutes,
and was in perfect order at the finish.
LONDON TO EDINBURGH. 5 Starts. 5 Finishes. 5
GOLD MEDALS.
LONDON - EXTER. 4 GOLD MEDALS.
PARIS - NICE. 2 GOLD MEDALS. 1 SILVER MEDAL.