Dave and Jen For Oxfam

After a week of long riding, long roads and riding along roads in a line, we decided to spice it up a little. Whilst the weather threatened dubious, we found ourselves giving in to the desire to hike in to a campsite and play with nature for a while. Upon Jen’s most excellent suggestion and surreptitious planning, a schedule of ferry times, tickets and campsite bookings took place and landed in a mysterious pile in front of me. The words “Moreton Island” appear in size 18 Arial font. In bold. Atop the paper stack lay a list of what to pack. There were things like tents, ropes and backpacks. No bikes however. A riding training session without bikes you ask? Well, read on.

Hitting the early ferry to Moreton Island on Saturday morning we sling our weighted packs to the side and clamber up to the spacious lounge and cafe of sorts, if you can call it that. We chat to some Canadian university students about art and Canada and travelling in general, and talk away the time until the ferry so wonderfully rams the sand, lowers its bow and boots humans and vehicles onto the beach. Despite the grey sky we grin as if this is the most magnificent day imaginable and watch the 4WD’s potter off into the sandy distance. Very few, if any, other people have chosen to hike in to the campsite so we share the beach with some stray starfish and stride to the Tangalooma Wrecks. Finding a site, we pitch tent and change into hiking gear without time to waste. Heading south, we quickly survey the resort and find the mix of tourists and a wedding guests largely uninteresting for the time being, stopping only to grab a map of the island before putting the buildings to our back.

The plan is to simply head to the south and hike down deserted stretches of beach, with an eventual destination aimed towards the inland desert dunes. We soon fall victim to the deceptive distance of the Moreton Island beach line, holding fast to a commitment to “just go around that corner and see what’s there”. For close to an hour. The corner doesn’t seem to get any nearer. We rest, check maps, eat some Carman’s muesli bars and shrug. A Toyota Landcruiser drives by and we watch in increasing amusement as it recedes to the relative size and shape of a matchbox car before rounding our elusive corner. Oh.

Backtracking somewhat, we begin to ascend a set of stairs leading off the beach and wind our way on the track to the inland desert. Not knowing what to expect, I’m surprised to be excited when we see the first large drift of sand breaking into the hiking trail. We take some photos of Squishy walking along it and then burst into a magnificent nothingness. The inland desert is quite accurate to its namesake, with a single large dune dominating the vast expanse of white rolling sand. Just enough of a drift of rain is pushed by the unimpeded wind and forces us to pick our moments for photos and videos carefully. We begin walking to towards the main dune and notice a single pair of stick figure humans atop the peak, attempting to sand board. With the light rain earlier, sand boarding proves futile but they create a handy measurement of scale for the distance and height of the desert dunes. The expanse is untouched except for a single trodden set of tire tracks, which soon yield the owner by way of a 4WD bus. This is presumably the day tour we read about at the resort, which quickly loops around to a halt and spills not a single adventurous backpacker or day tripper onto the sand with us. With a brief pause it potters away and isn’t seen again in the hours we play, like fools, across the sand.

Indeed like fools we zigzag up the mighty dune and peer from the steep lee side over to the relatively shallow other end, littered with lengths of board and any number of attempts at conveyance. Were this a typically sunny hot day there would be giggling tourists tumbling and sliding down the steep sand and plodding back to the bus beyond, but we have it to ourselves. As mentioned, hours tick by simply soaking up the scene, filming time lapses of running up and down dunes (tip: down is easier), taking photos of Squishy sand boarding and simply enjoying the scene. With aching legs we head back towards camp and take an inland trail for something new. The trail winds on and we grow weary, finally breaking into the rear of the resort grounds with one last rise. After such seclusion only a few hours walk away the bustling mix of children, holidayers and drunken day trippers in shiny clothes seems a contrast to our sandy hiking gear, so we wander back to the campsite.

Given we hiked all our gear in, the tent sits in a minimal pose without the usual nest of tarps and shade covers, though nestles nicely amongst the campsite trees. The rain reminds us it is very good at things like making us wet, but our spirits are high as we set up the small Trianga stove and reheat and hydrate a pre-cooked curry I whipped together the night before. Lebanese bread and Cous Cous turn a snack into a meal and we watch the rain fall as we nom nom nom. As the sun sets and the night sky defies the rain, a bottle of Shiraz appears and we head all of the 15 metres to the beach to watch the moonlight over the Tangalooma Wrecks. Whether it’s a mountain or an island, Brisbane offers a huge number of beautiful escapes with only an hour or two to travel, and we sigh happily for the sound of whispering waves and the simplicity of it all.

On the second day we continue the hiking adventures and explore some more. Legs protest slightly at the endless give of sand underfoot. We do our “around the world” photo gimmick with less silly looks from passersby than usual, and find ourselves wandering towards a row of quad bikes. Booking in, we climb on and file ourselves behind a guide after a cursory check that Jen, myself and two middle aged Germans can do things like accelerate, brake, turn, avoid exploding, plummeting into the sea, plummtering into each other and generally not being upside down. Unebnownst to me, Jen’s off-hand comments of “I’ve ridden a quad once or twice” actually mean “I’m a monster on 4 wheels” and I find from my place second in the line that she is some kind of crazed quad biker from some kind of crazy quad bike hell. I quickjly develop a theory that the years she has driven a Mini Cooper has led to a zippy driving attitude, whereas my lifetime surfing, riding and snowboarding has given me a habit to “push the tail” in my sharp cornering. Something which quad bikes don’t require, suggest, entertain or accept. A serviceable theory for the time being, but it doesn’t help a couple of very fast consecutive corners that nearly plummet me to my doom. The kind of doom of pride more so then any harm rolling off of a large quad bike, but a doom all the same. Dramatics aside we take to the most excellent Moreton Island quad tracks like maniacs and our guide feeds off of our devilish grins and continually picks up the pace. We all forget about the unfortunate German gentlemen who don’t so much grin as grimace, obscured by the blasts of sand from Jen’s explosive quad and the determined rev’s of mine. We pause on occasion, allowing me to whip the camera out to document Jen’s insane smile, and eventually guide the bikes down a steep decline to arrive where we began.

Whilst it might seem like a bit of an obvious bit of fun to be had, we let the bikes idle and cool down and chatter excitedly all the same. For a weekend spent largely away from other humans and pushing ourselves over and around dunes and beaches, the sudden contrast of sudden acceleration and centrifugal cornering has us jittery and excited. I find the overuse of the phrase “adrenalin rush” as a description for anything fast or fun a very played out description, but we are trapped with such a cliché in our one-take blog posts so it can suffice. We wander back to the resort, stopping to watch Squishy making friends with the pelicans, and enjoy a long island iced tea made by a barman with an incredibly determined OCD. Each shot, ingredient and process happened completely distinct of the two drinks being made, to the point of not wanting to order more lest we wait another 20 minutes and enjoying the ones we have as if an endangered elaborate species. We stroll slowly back to the campsite, break camp and meander down under the clearing sky and sudden sun for the approaching ferry.

All that remains is a long line of 4WD’s to bustle up the ramp of the beached ferry and take our place amongst the other rabble making our way back to the bustle of a Sunday night and working week ahead. Throwing packs into the car, we pause before heading back to our respective apartments and errands, chores and piles of washing, and chatter once last time excitedly about the trip ahead. If a weekend on an island only a hour or so away from Brisbane can be so much fun… Cambodia and Vietnam are going to be incredible. Until we get there, there is still some fundraising left to do, so ignore the part about us having a blast on quad bikes and let’s think about supporting the incredible work that Oxfam Australia does again. After all, it was a training weekend right?

Check our FlickR Gallery for Moreton Island training photos.