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On Monday morning, we attached our bicycles to the back of our Subaru Cross trek, said adieu to PEI and headed to Cassie Cape, New Brunswick. We had been invited to spend the day and night with valley residents, Mary and David Hoyne, at their summer cottage. Along the way we spotted a gigantic lobster.

The Hoyne’s welcomed us and soon thereafter we were all on their beach, enjoying the sand, the surf and a few beers.  Dinner’s first course was a feast of mussels which were steamed in garlic and wine. We met the Hoyne’s daughter, Sarah, and Mary’s sister, Bernice, and her husband, Gilles. Pat was thrilled to use his French as Gilles is an Acadian, who grew up speaking French. We learned that in New Brunswick, there are separate schools for French speaking children and English speaking children.  After a night time walk around the neighborhood, it was time to catch some sleep.

Pat had estimated we were 13 hours away from Alma, Quebec, where we planned to stay before the beginning of our next cycling journey. I did find us somewhat of a shortcut when I realized if we made it to the ferry across the St. Lawrence River on time, we could drive less and enjoy a break on the river. We crossed the river at Riviere du Loup. This ferry can take multiple vehicles as it can stack them above each other.   The three-mile-wide St. Lawrence River was as smooth as glass.  and we could move about on two levels inside and outside.

An hour later, we were off the ferry and on our way to Alma, to meet up with Dave and Jackie Albrecht, with whom we planned to cycle the Veloroute des Bleuets.  On Wednesday morning, we drove to the welcome center, handed our luggage to a baggage shuttle service and after a group photo, we were on our way.

One right turn and one left turn later we arrived at the dock of a bicycle ferry.  Apparently it is a much faster and more scenic way to begin the tour and we were bubbling over with excitement.  As the ferry captain helped us on and off the ferry, he told us it was free.  We arrived in Ile Maligne and quickly found the route. It is all on pavement and we cycled through forests, parks, and campgrounds, sometimes next to the operating rail line and on some road shoulders.

Our first stop was a fromagerie and bakery.  A young woman provided us with samples of multiple cheeses they produce and after purchasing some, we crossed the driveway to the bakery, that was filled with fresh breads, baguettes and croissants.  It was a foodie paradise  It wasn’t the best of days, weather-wise, but we all had good rainwear.  When we entered the town of Chambord, our destination for the night, the route directed us onto the shoulder of Highway 169, that was filled with logging trucks and cars driving at high speeds.  It was not a pleasant last few miles.

We arrived at the Chalet et Spa Lac St-Jean in the late afternoon at the same time that a group of cyclists with a trailer which read Senior Adventures arrived. We believe they had made reservations several months earlier and thus, had the upstairs rooms.  We were relegated to the basement  (rooms 1-6), which all shared the same bathroom. For an extra charge, we purchased passes to their spa and quickly went for some time in there.  We relaxed in the hot pools and clowned around in the relaxation room hammocks.

Later that evening, after a successful delivery of pizza and beers, orchestrated in French by Pat over the phone, I learned from the innkeeper that the summer holiday season is almost over as school begins next week. The next prime time for guests is in the winter. They do a huge business in the winter because the lake completely freezes over for months and snowmobilers converge.

In the morning, our plan was to cycle a few miles to Val Jalbert, a restored historic pulp mill community, walk about it and then ride on to Roberval for breakfast.  Three hours and no breakfast later, we were still entranced by all the village has to offer the public. The village now takes in hundreds of visitors each day, and one can spend an entire day there, participating in the immersion events, walking through the former homes, post office and school. There is also a telepherique (cable car) that one can ride to the top of the former dam and waterfalls that they used to power the mill to fabricate the pulp. It was a unique spot and we learned the story about how it became a vibrant community with log grinding, and close to a thousand people, which later met its demise, in 1927, when the company decided to shut down the mill and then the buildings stood vacant for years.  They have now been restored into a historic site museum. We walked up and down multiple steps to the waterfall overlooks.  After this, we cycled to Roberval and found the pier where every year the the top 25 male and female swimmers from 12 countries arrive after swimming a distance of 32 kilometers across Lac St-Jean, from Peribonka to Roberval.

We then cycled to Mashteuiatsh Reservation that is situated on the shores of the lake.  The Ilnu people seem to be prospering and have a cultural museum that we took advantage of – walking though the myriad of displays that shared information about how the tribe in years’ past were those who spent their days in the winter hunting and were not interested in agriculture. There is much to see in this museum, more than we had time to focus on.

From there we cycled back on trails next to the railroad, left the lake and cycled through farmland until Pat caught wind of the Perron Cheese sign in St-Prime.  A slight detour off the trail took us to a shop that sold Perron Cheese and chocolate covered blueberries, which between the four of us we decimated.  Our last five miles were far from pleasant as we traveled in bike lanes alongside the highways to the town St-Felicien, a large town and the place where we stayed for the night.

See you on the road ahead.

Day two’s first stop was the Canadian Potato Museum in O’Leary. There we learned that islanders pronounce potato as “podado”, how podados are planted and harvested and what podados infected by viruses, fungi and bacteria look like on the inside.  For those keen to partake of podados, they serve them baked, fried and stuffed. From there we had a brief stop for dirty sodas in Richmond, and visited the Bishop Mill visitor center in Wellington (the home of many Acadians). Our landing spot was Summerside on the southwestern part of the island on the water. Summerside is the second largest city on PEI, population 14,000. The clouds were rolling in and we expected that our third day would be a wet one.

In the morning, we noted the blackened skies and a few miles up on the trail, the lightning seemed to be crackling right next to us.  We decided to take shelter on the porch of a B and B and as the rain poured down, three little girls in a home across the way waved to us from their open garage. Soon enough, a woman in braids carrying a load of sheets walked onto the porch and asked if we had a reservation.  We politely said we did not and were only borrowing her shelter. Her three granddaughters, all under 10, in long printed dresses and bare feet, studied us intently. When the lightning subsided, we put our yellow rain coats and pants back on and began our journey north toward Kensington.  It was a cold rain and we were forced to cycle through many gigantic puddles splashing up against our shoes. In Kensington, we took advantage of a café with warm soup, grilled sandwiches and cappuccinos.  We had a date to keep with Mad River Valley residents, Doug Schick and Sue Frechette, who planned to take us in their stylish RV to dinner at Dalvay-on-the-Sea. Though the rain significantly slowed our pace we still had a few moments for a hot shower before dinner with Doug and Sue. After a lovely meal in a former mansion, we passed on dessert, opting instead to find a grocery store with dark chocolate ice cream, which we shared in their RV.

On Day Four, the four of us cycled together for some miles and when they turned back, we made a plan to see them in St. Peter’s for dinner that night. Pat and I continued north, found a place for lunch which served a variety of dirty sodas, milk shakes, sandwiches and chips.  All but one table was filled with folks of all ages painting ceramic items while they ate and drank.  We were fascinated.  As we neared St. Peters we cycled next to swamp grass and salt water marshes and then discovered the welcome center, which served pints of IPA – the perfect end to a 44-mile long day.

Before long we were strolling through the grounds of the Mysa Resort, our accommodation for the night, wrapped in extra-large white bathrobes.  We took advantage of the relaxation room, the large hot pools, the outside fire circles and the cold plunge.  We could look out over St. Peter’s Bay, filled with mussel farms, while listening to new age music and partaking of eucalyptus aromas. We did, however, get reprimanded for being too loud.

On Day Five, we met Sue and Doug once more and they cycled with us for over an hour.  Much of the time the trail was wooded though we did run into other cyclists and a group of women who are in the process of hiking the entire trail. The trail ended at Elmira, where they have kept the railroad tracks and the former station is now a museum. Inside we found a map of all the former places the rail line stopped.  No wonder this rail line was such a fiasco financially. The contractor was paid by the kilometer constructed and the colonial government at the time didn’t put a limit on the number of KMs constructed. There were stops every two or three miles across the island and the line zigged-zagged because of pay offs and lobbying from multiple different townspeople in power. The construction of this railroad was so expensive that it bankrupted the then independent colony. The solution for the islanders, in 1873, was to negotiate with what was then Canada to become part of the Dominion. In turn, the Dominion of Canada took on and paid off the debt. The railroad operated from the mid 1800s until the late 1980s when it was determined to be a losing proposition.

After an extra bit of cycling, this time on roads, to the far eastern end of the island, end we visited the East Point Lighthouse, constructed in 1867, and then cycled back to Elmira for our shuttle back to our vehicle in Charlottetown and our last night on the island.  Next week we plan to cycle around Lac Saint-Jean in Quebec.

I believe we have pitched our bigger REI half-dome tent at least thirty times over the past decade, but doing so in the dark at the Bar Harbor campground was an absolute disaster.

While Pat held a miniature flashlight in his mouth, (we couldn’t find any other light) I pulled out what I thought was the tent and the poles.  It turned out I had pulled out the fly and after we attempted to stake it down, Pat had an aha moment. “This is the fly, not the tent.  Let’s start over.” Again, I pulled out what I thought was the tent. This time it turned out the tent was upside down. Once we figured that out, our next attempt was to insert the tent posts in the correct position and we got that wrong too.  It was so late and I was contemplating sleeping in the front seat of our Subaru Crosstrek but we finally got everything together. It was a pretty funny scene- we are such flunky former Boy and Girl Scouts.

Our time in Acadia National Park was short; On Sunday we cycled three quarters of the carriage roads, took a welcome detour to Jordan Pond House to dine on popovers with butter and strawberry jam and participated in the ranger led talks about the night sky late into the evening with 500 some other visitors on Sand Beach.  When the ranger mentioned the park and the beach is open 24/7, I attempted convincing Pat that we ought to spend the following night sleeping on the beach; I never did get agreement on that idea.Turns out there was a 3 a.m. thunderstorm the next evening for which we would have been wholly unprepared.

On Tuesday morning, we packed up the soaking wet tent and headed east and then north to Prince Edward Island.  On the way, we visited Campobello in New Brunswick, the former summer home of Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt.  We took a guided tour of their cottage and saw the room where Eleanor gave birth to one of their children.  It was there that we discovered Campobello, is the only international park in the world; yup – it’s a partnership between the US and Canada.

Our other quick stop was to check out New River Beach, one of the most prominent places to witness the Bay of Fundy at low tide. The tide rises and falls some 30 feet here. A French speaking couple was in the process of creating an exquiste sand sculpture and several children were partaking of the water.  As we continued north, the dark clouds around us were quite low to the ground. Pat turned to me and said “Hey, honey if you see any of those clouds start to twist, holler. “Great, I thought, we were just about to drive across the two lane nine mile bridge into PEI and there would be no way to turn back.

Thankfully, no twister touched down and we arrived in Charlottetown, once again late in the evening. On Wednesday morning, with all gear now packed in panniers, we cycled to  MacQueen’s bicycle shop and met up with our shuttle driver, Kristen, who took us to the western end of PEI.  Kristen is one of the shop’s two owners, which was started by her father years ago. She easily lifted our bicycles on the back of her Tesla and we were off; that is once Pat and I learned how to open and close the doors. As we traveled through the island to Tignish, Kristen shared some the the island’s history, her own history and stopped to give us a tour of the MacCausland Woolen Mill, family run for the past six generations.

At the Confederation trail’s zero KM marker, we readied ourselves for the day’s 30 mile ride, first sharing a tuna wrap and a cookie from the local bakery. It was a gorgeous afternoon with a bit of wind.  The trail is fairly isolated for several miles and each kilometre is marked. We cycled past fields of potatoes and wheat. Our plan is to cycle the whole trail, 170 miles.

When we entered the village of Alberton and passed by the former stone rail station, now the library, a gentlemen pointed at the gigantic sign and waved. He obviously wanted us to return and talk with him, which we welcomed doing.  He’s lived in Alberton his whole life; a bit of farming and fishing for a living. While I conversed with the librarian and a few patrons, Pat chatted with another gentleman on a mini electric bike.  He told us he retired a year ago and like his parents, had moved back to the island after spending much of his life working in Ontario. Back on our way, we cycled the last 15 miles to Mill Creek Resort, the last few on a paved road with decent shoulders. Our accomodations for the evening, in a resort next to the Mill River, was a pleasant surprise, compared to nights of sleeping on the ground. Next stop is the potato museum.

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We have fallen in love with Newcastle Beach and the Ocean Baths. From our vantage point in front of the beach we took on missing sections of the Great North Walk. Rather than the often treacherous terrain we experienced during the earlier part of the walk, these treks were sedate. We replaced hiking boots with running shoes and discarded the hiking poles. We still walked 10-11 miles each day.

We only had one mishap, when Pat said the trail went left around Lake Macquarie and I said I think we ought to go right. There was no signage and since he’s more often right than I am, I acquiesed. While dining on our usual cheese sandwiches and chips on a park bench, Pat looked at the map. “We should have gone to the right,” he said. Point one for me.

We had dinner at all three restaurants in Newcastle Beach; and all get our five star ratings. Thai, local fish and a sports pub. We toured part of the renown Newcastle Museum, which is free to the public. While there we participated in the immersive story of how steel was once made in the local plant that shut down in 1999.

We took advantage of the city’s light rail system and the bus routes; key for getting where we wanted to go. We noticed that there is a bit of a resurgence occurring in the city at the moment; high rise buildings under construction and a movement of sorts to encourage people to come back downtown. Like other cities, it took a nosedive during the pandemic. On our one night to venture into the city after dark, we took in a performance of La Ronde, a mix of a circus and musical acts with scantily clad, well-toned performers from around the globe.

From where we stayed one can jog for miles or take a quick dip in the ocean and then grab a cappuccino and a bowl of  of granola with rhubarb and strawberries and sit on the concrete steps watching whomever is surfing or swimming. And that all takes place beginning at 6:30 a.m.

I began to see the regulars showing up every morning with towel in hand for a quick dip in the waves. Later in the afternoon, the beach became littered with young ladies in thong bikinis and young men in their swim trunks. Although I noticed the beach wasn’t guarded when we were there, one morning at 7 a.m. a lifeguard charged into the water with and caught up with an older gentleman who was swimming. I assumed and I was correct that the the man was in a riptide.  The lifeguard pointed out where it was. “See how calm that area is right now; that’s how you know where the riptides are. As a swimmer one should avoid the ocean where there are no waves; instead swim where the waves are breaking.

One early morning, as we walked on the ocean path, we spotted multiple dolphins in the ocean; they were having the time of their life or so we surmised; surfing through the waves. We explored the village of Hamilton on the outskirts of Newcastle, took a commuter ferry to Stockton and watched the large container ships go in and out of the harbor with the use of tugboats guiding them.  And we took advantage of a rail trail, built along the route of a former railroad used for transporting coal, to walk from Belmont to Adamstown. It was on that trail that we finally came upon a snake; 5 feet in length, who we saved from being run over by a bicyclist. Though someone told us, they are harmless, we have not yet been able to find them on any internet search.

On the last day at Newcastle Beach, we took in the Ocean Baths,  sized 200 feet by 200 feet; two large pools with sandy bottoms where the ocean water flows in and out. Though we thought it colder than in the ocean, plenty of people were lap swimming and the young people were having a good time pushing each other in.  As we were basking in the sun on the concrete

bleachers, we were asked to move because a performance was forthcoming.  We moved but not before we asked about the performance. “It’s the preview of the event that begins tomorrow – a Love Letter to the Ocean Baths that have been in existence for 100 years. You can purchase tickets,” we were told. “Unfortunately we won’t be here tomorrow,” we answered.  “Be patient,” the host said “and I will try to get you in right before it begins.” And she did and it was a stunning performance.  While the audience sat on the bleachers next to the baths, wearing headsets, the actors, told stories abbout the baths in different parts of the complex. It was a free for all flash mob play of sorts.  While the stories were presented, people swam laps, surfers carried their boards and all the young folk continuing carrying on.  It was a bit difficult to determine who was and who wasn’t a part of the play.  It was absolutely amazing; the kind of immersive theatre that rocks my boat.

On Saturday, we said adieu to Newcastle, and following a few hours on the train, our newfound friend, Joanne, picked us up in the Sydney suburbs and brought us home to spend the night with her and her dog, Millie, in her home, a charming California bungalow style home, that she has filled with art from her travels around the world. Joanne prepared chicken schnitzel for dinner and two of her sisters, Linda and Mary also popped in. Her brother-in-law, John, hit it off with Pat from the get-go, probably because they started talking about beer. The conversations were delightful as was everyone we met.

And though we prepared to leave for California the next morning, we delayed it a few days, because of a potential medical issue. After spending seven hours in the ER, we got the green light to travel. We spent several hours talking with Isa, Joanne’s tenant and good friend, who lives in what Aussies call the granny flat. Isa is Syrian and was able to come to Australia 11 years ago, after much consternation. We asked him many questions about what it was like to grow up in Syria and what has taken place over the past decade. Isa has tried now for several years to access visas for his parents to come to Australia but it is far from simple and inexpensive.

Today, we retraced some of our steps from three weeks ago, and took on another section of the Lane Cove River because we can no longer resist hiking in the bush. It’s back to California tomorrow when we get to have two Tuesdays and then it’s home to Vermont for fall foliage on Wednesday.

See you on the path ahead, mates,

Shevonne and Pat

Getting to the next sections of the Great North Walk has now become more challenging; there are few places we can stay indoors, and as the trail goes inland, it’s not possible to leapfrog from train station to train station with our backpacks.  Our solution seemed fairly simple, bite the bullet and carry the fully loaded packs five kilometers and then get a ride to the Noonaweena Resort from one of the resort’s employees.  After all, how difficult could a few miles be? While Pat moved quickly and confidently up and down the steep rocky slopes, including stepping through an overblown mess of trees, I moved gingerly and groaned loudly.  When we arrived at the end of the short trek I was ecstatic. We arrived a few hours ahead of our scheduled ride but no matter; I read, Pat did a few crosswords and we walked about. At 2:45 p.m., a red Suzuki pulled up and Adam got out and introduced himself.  Adam manages the Noonaweena Resort, where we had managed to reserve their one and only space available to us, a few days earlier; their glamping tent. As Adam steered the vehicle through the two lane roads, we shared plenty of stories.  He indicated that the resort often hosts wellness-oriented retreats and during the time we were on site, they were hosting individuals coping with significant tragedies in their personal or professional lives.  Adam then drove us down the hill to our lodging, a beautifully situated canvas tent.  Inside there were three double beds with flowering spreads, solar lights, rugs strewn on the floor, and plenty of accoutrements; bathrobes, towels, slippers, and a first aid kit.  As we set our backpacks inside the tent, several cows made their way toward us.

Just like home, we thought. “I have no idea whose cows these are,” Adam said.

Farther down the hill was an open air structure made of a sandstone base with wood frame construction and a metal roof.  This was to be our kitchen, our dining area, and our place for showering. It had electrical outlets , a gas grill, hot water, a toaster, a refrigerator, a microwave , all kinds of dishes and utensils and a tea kettle. Inside the refrigerator, we found steaks, fruit, potatoes, salad, ham and eggs.  All we can say is what an amazing experience; the best kind of camping ever.  We prepared dinners both evenings, shared a bottle of wine and had small campfires while reminiscing about former journeys.

Throughout both evenings, we listened to the chatter of multiple birds and wildlife while quite cozy in our fancy tent. While glamping, we did take on a hike and it turned out to be our longest hike on this trip.  We walked to the Mangrove Creek Dam and back, passing race horse training farms and sheep farms as we attempted to see any wildlife. Though I believe I saw koala poop, I spotted no koalas up in the trees. Miraculously, we did come upon five kangaroos in a pasture and when they got wind of us, they leaped over the five foot high electric fence and went off into the bush.

On Saturday morning,  we said our farewells to Adam and a friend of his, JoAnn, volunteered to drive us to the Wyong train station. From there we caught the train to Newcastle and the light rail to Newcastle beach.  We booked a room for six nights here at Noah’s Hotel and when we arrived, they gave us a complimentary upgrade to an oceanfront room.  From the window in the shower, we can see the sun set over the cliffs and the ocean’s waves.  It is now spring here and the beaches are getting busy; several young men in their wet suits, carrying their surf boards are everywhere. We think it is a marvelous city and most definitely plan to swim.

Today, we took the light rail to the end of the Great North Walk and then walked backwards on two of the tracks.  We walked through King Edward Park, then on the Memorial Walk overlooking the sea, which was constructed in honor of all the Australians who participated in The Great War. In this country that then had five million residents, 416,000 men enlisted in the service, 60,000 died and  another 152,000 were either gassed or wounded.

The walk then took us to Bar Beach , Dixon beach and Merewether beach, all teeming with people surfing or swimming or walking. And then, we came upon one of the few people we now know in Australia;  Phoebe, who we met on the postal boat ride some days ago and several miles away.  We found that quite unique. The  rest of the trek was beautiful; we moved through rocks and sandy beaches, spotted the remains of a former railroad on the beach and crossed a lagoon back into the bush, and made our way to Charlestown, where we happened on a sports club, focused on lawn bowling.  Several teams were competing against each other; we, however, have no clue as to the rules.  And now as I write this, night has fallen and it is quiet on the shore.

Tomorrow we are going back into the bush.’

Shevonne and Pat

Pat and I have now hiked through 69.1 challenging miles of the Great North Walk. Repeatedly it winds steeply downhill to creek beds and then back up steep ascents to bluebird skies. There are multiple rock stairs one could tumble down. And we constantly keep our eyes out for  venomous brown snakes.

We’ve yet to take our backpacks for another whirl; thank goodness much of this trail has access to the local train stations. Planning that for hikers was brilliant.  The Great North Walk was created as a means to celebrate Australia’s bicentennial in 1988.  Much like what we discovered four years ago when we cycled the Great American Rail Trail, however, this walk is pieced together from many prior existing tracks and forest management roads. What hasn’t been brilliant is the fact that there is little to no maintenance, no one to reach for assistance and much of the information we access is no longer current.

On day five, after good food and brews the previous evening, we called for an Uber to return to the bottom of the Galston Gorge. We now had to trek from the other side. The driver shook his head; he’s a hiker. “Why would you attempt this trail? You should have called me.  There are much better hiking trails, especially in Tasmania.” Though there were no extreme climbs, I was filled with anxiety because of the multiple creek crossings on slick rocks. The worst was attempting to cross the raging Calna Creek above the top of  a waterfall.  After completing the day’s trek, it was back to the Blue Gum Hotel.

On day six, with our backpacks, we caught the train to Brooklyn, on the Hawkesbury River, in the early a.m.  We dropped off our packs at a motel, and caught the train back to Cowan. This part of the trail began at the top of a ridge and we descended over several miles to Jerusalem Bay.  On the way back up from the bay, we ran into two hearty looking guys with full packs who reported camping overnight and then partying in Brooklyn. We wondered how they found their way back up the steep management roads in the twilight.

We popped into the bar at the Angler’s Rest and were over the moon because they had Toohey’s Old, a dark beer, on tap. It’s our new best brew. The band, with members, our age, or older, played classic rock songs, and a few people danced to the tunes. Our room, above the bar, was fairly noisy but that didn’t matter to me; I quickly fell out.

Day seven was a race of sorts.  The goal was to pack up our backpacks, move them to the motel across the street, grab a decent breakfast, and catch the train back to Cowan, which only runs once an hour. We successfully moved our packs, grabbed an omelet and coffee and caught the train We then hiked another 8.5 miles to Berowra.

The hike to Berowra Waters was arduous; full of steep descents over rocks.  Four hours later, five miles in, at the water’s edge, we discovered house boats, a sea plane and large cabin cruisers.  A cable-operated ferry also hauled a few vehicles across Berowra Creek. Unbelievably, we also found an Italian restaurant and splurged on fried prawns, buffalo mozzarella with pesto and tomatoes, and  Italian bread with black truffle butter.  This was a highlight, given that we usually wolf down a a few slices of cheese and salami at lunch on the trail.

As we had four more miles of hiking,  we chased down Italian Colas, which were cherry red.  And regardless of this oasis in the bush, as we attacked our last ascent of four more miles to the train station, we were quickly parched but our stride was much improved.

After learning that we could catch a ride on the postal boat around the Hawkesbury River, on the next day we went for it; taking a day’s break from hiking. Mail arrives at a variety of the small Hawkesbury River islands five days a week via this boat; the postman leaps off the boat with a bag or box of mail, hands it over to another person on land and then shouts all clear to the boat captain. The captain then returns to telling facts and stories about many of the settlements. We basked in the sunshine as the captain took the boat upstream.

On day eight, we were back on the train, heading north to Gosford. It was early morning and the train was packed with high school students.  They were either reading, doing their homework or putting on makeup.  We learned later that many of the students come from Sydney to go to a selective high school here; it’s public; doesn’t cost parents anything.

We dropped our bags at the Gosford Hotel and grabbed an Uber to the Mooney Mooney Creek track head. It was a fairly easy day’s hike.  When we arrived at the top of Mt. Scopas, we had 360 degree views of the surrounding hillsides. For the first time, we ran into a young man, attempting to do what we are doing.  He was the only individual we passed on the track yesterday and he, too, is having several challenges. At the trek’s end, we arrived at a train station platform and had to flag down the conductor.  The platform is so small, only one door of the train opens. Back at Gosford, we enjoyed an incredibly delicious dinner at the hotel and were then invited to play their weekly trivia.  I was astounded by how it operated and plan to share some ideas with my library colleagues back home.

On Day nine, after after a light breakfast and another Uber back to the same location, we hiked in the opposite direction to the Somersby Store.  The trek was easier but as we crossed one set of rocks in the stream, there was nothing to prevent us from falling. It was like being on ice. And quickly thereafter, the trail disappeared requiring some exploration to find it once again. We treked through two rainforests. The last few miles were on roads taking us through the horse farms of Somersby.  Tomorrow we do plan to hike with our packs for three or four miles.

Lastly a shout out to Kate Dellner for recommending we purchase Wright Socks.  Best socks we’ve ever used for hiking several miles.

Cheers

Shevonne and Pat

We thought we were ready; plenty of long walks this past summer in the Mad River Valley.  But we were mistaken.  Walking ten miles every Saturday on gravel roads in Warren and Waitsfield with no more than a few oranges and some water in our Camelbaks was power-puff training. Instead we should have been running up Stark Mountain with 30 pounds of bricks.

But first, a digression. Last Sunday, we were two of over 8,000 individuals who attended Dirty Dancing Live on the big stage in Sydney. What better way to get psyched for the hike than to watch Patrick Swayze’s muscles in action and hear the soundtrack live.  The movie brought tears to my eyes; the late 80’s were a much more carefree time, at least in my memory.

On Monday morning, we put on our backpacks, took the train into Sydney and then caught the commuter ferry to Woolwich. It was quite warm, temperatures hoovering in the eighties Before entering the bush, we walked through suburban gated neighborhoods and some parks. We had each eaten a small yogurt for breakfast with a coffee and split a tangerine.  Then lunch was a few slices of cheese.

Our goal was to complete eight miles, stay at a hotel and then walk the other three miles sans packs. Wishful thinking but we did not prevail.  The lack of food and enough water, the heat and the heavy packs caused me to briefly pass out. From that point on, Pat walked behind me to make sure I didn’t black out again.

When we arrived at the hotel in North Ryde, we ordered pasta dishes and a few Cokes. We also considered how we might make this walk more enjoyable. Our solution,;ditch the packs whenever possible, drink Gatorade and eat bigger breakfasts. After a visit from a few cockatoos the next morning, Pat, armed with both packs, caught an Uber north to our next location and then returned.  We managed 11 miles that day on a variety of trail. On the Great North Walk, we are surrounded by Sydney blue gums, black butt, dryheath, she oaks, peppermint, smooth barked apple mixed with coachwood, black waddle and pittosporum. We’ve also been entertained by a variety of birds; honey eaters, fan tails, blue wrens, parrots and a variety of water birds and Pat spooked on kangaroo.

When we woke up on Day Three, it was raining.  We fished our canary yellow rain coats and gloves out of our packs and trudged ahead. However, after walking for a few kilometers, we found ourselves stuck; there was no safe way to cross the swollen stream. Frustrated, we backtracked and found a spur trail through the bush and then returned to the hotel, retracing our earlier steps.  Unbeknowst to us, the local leeches had attached themselves to our clothes and boots in the wet weather. These Australian leeches curl up llike tiny worms but they reek havoc. We were a bloody mess, requiring several bandaids . Subsequently, we flushed over 40 leeches down the toilet. Of course, they thrive in water so some survivors kept reappearing.

This morning, Day Four, it was raining, windy and cold but we were determined to go forth From the hotel, we walked with our heavy backpacks to the Thornleigh rail station and took it two stops north to Hornsby. A 15 minute walk led us to the Blue Gum hotel above the local pub. We dropped our packs and took an Uber to the Galston Gorge Car Park, a feat, for any driver, because of hairpin and reverse turns. Upon our arrival, we found a raging river but no matter, our trail was to to fist get to the top of the gorge. The only way up one of the steepest sections was to balance on metal rungs spaced out and inserted into the rocks.  I shuddered, knowing that if I fell, it was over. Why , why, why didn’t I bring my ski helmet?

At the top of the gorge, we turned onto a management road; these roads are scattered throughout all the national parks here as the means to access bush fires.  We then passed by a primitive campsite; no water, no outhouse.   Halfway through the day’s walk, we came upon a steel truss bridge, which had been moved there so hikers could easily cross the river. Because of an active rifle range, we had to climb steeply upward to a community and then slowly descend back down to the river’s edge.  Ferns proliferated all around the bush and as we began our final ascent to Hornsby, we climbed 300 rock stairs.,constructed during the Great Depression.

Lessons we’ve learned thus far:

1)This is not what we would call a walk; it is very steep and quite challenging. 2) We should have sent more items back with Destyni.  Since the Trump tariffs were enacted, mailing anything back to US is impossible, meaning heavier packs. 3) To always watch out for brown snakes and little leeches. 4) To do what we can and forgo the every frigging inch expectation. 5) We’d so rather be on bicycles.

See you all mates on the trails ahead

Shevonne and Pat

The weather for the Sydney marathon was perfect. Throngs of spectators lined the roads, ringing cow bells and shouting cheers.  Pat and I kicked back for a bit and planted ourselves on a traffic island at mile 22 so we could hand Desty a bit of Coke when she ran by in both directions.  She had a much better finish than in the Chicago marathon and recovered quickly.

On Monday morning, we were all up and dressed at 4:30 a.m for the sunrise kayak trip through part of Sydney’s harbour. We were fitted with life jackets and lined up behind orange kayaks with blue luminescent lighting. After a quick demonstration about paddling and a reminder to let a cell phone that falls in the water go, we were off.  We maneuvered around many sleeping sailboats while the sky began to lighten.  Our guides, from countries all over the world, kept us safe from the commuter ferries on their morning rounds. shot plenty of photos of us at the halfway point and then shared information about the harbour’s history.  After they pulled each of our kayaks in, we ran for a change of clothes and ordered breakfast.  We were soaked and quite chilled.

It was time to drive south to Phillips Island, about 700 miles away. Pat did the driving and Destyni kept her eye out for kangaroos.  This highway (which does allow cyclists) was two lanes only in most places with no dividing barriers and the road wiggled up and down. By 7 p.m  Pat was fried so we found lodging at a pub packed with serious dart players all On Tuesday, we scrapped frost from the windshield and headed farther south, stopping once at Lakes Entrance, which has a barrier beach that goes for miles without any development.

Once we landed at Phillips Island, we drove to the Penguin Parade grounds  After a walk to penguin viewing area next to the ocean, we waited for the sun to set. And then the little penguins came out of the ocean in droves and waddled up to the grass looking for their mate and using a particular sound to find each other. We learned that they go out and fish for a few days and then it’s party time back on land.  They know the only time to come home is after dark when the predators can’t see them. After 20 minutes, everyone was asked to follow the penguins back through the walkways. No photos or videos were permitted.

Now in the south, the weather was much cooler. On Wednesday, we took in the koala preserve, where we were able to get up close to them on raised boardwalks. They spend most of their lives asleep because they feast on eucalyptus leaves which provide them with little energy.  The next morning Destyni was keen on taking a surfing lesson; to her it Australia was the perfect place to learn.  Regardless of the rainy, windy morning, she had a private lesson on the beach with

a coach and in less than an hour’s time, she was going from a prone position to standing up and surfing. From there we drove into Melbourne, to visit my second cousin and her family. We had planned to stay with them but because of health issues, our visit took place in the hospital.  Later that night, we landed at their home in Shepparton, where their son, John, volunteered to host us for two days. On Friday morning, we explored Shepparton, taking in the city’s art museum, the history museum, the local cows and a walk around Victoria Lake.

During dinner with John, we learned about brown snakes. John said the babies are the most dangerous. And then he told us about the red bellied spider whose venom almost killed him. Thank goodness we purchased gaiters before leaving Waitsfield.

As we drove back north to Sydney, we spotted kangaroos everywhere, in open fields.They, too, can be quite dangerous, when they leap into the road. It’s now time for Destyni to return to Montana and begin her new position as a dentist and time for Pat and me to find the enthusiasm necessary for our 150 mile hike on the Great North Walk.

Shevonne and Pat

I’m sitting next to one of our three picture windows overlooking the Sydney Harbour as I compose this post. There are cruise boats, sail boats and yellow and green passenger ferries traveling back and forth between stops. Having grown up using public transportation throughout Pittsburgh, I am smitten with the ferries here. No stress, short wait times and never stuffed in like sausages.  Of course, since the ferries pass right by our bedroom window multiple times a day, I’ve learned to dress appropriately.

We are staying in the Kirribilli region of North Sydney, about 100 steps or less from the prime minister’s second home. There are palm trees, flocks of birds I can’t identify, and the stem of a plant that has risen four feet in the air with a huge pink flower on which several birds like to congregate. An Italian cat lives next door and when she wishes to visit, we can’t resist suggesting she try some espresso.

We can easily walk to the center of town, on the edge of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.  Coffee bars and sour dough bread shops proliferate. Though it’s late winter, it’s warm enough for outside dining and most restaurants provide patrons with blankets. It’s incredibly clean  – no graffiti or untethered trash. Plenty of brush turkeys prowl the sidewalks looking for scraps.

Unlike San Francisco, which left a bad taste in my mouth given all the disarray , driverless vehicles and people screaming uncontrollably, Sydney is refreshing.  Several school-aged children pass us; girls in royal blue dresses and white brimmed hats and boys wearing grey three piece suits (with either shorts or slacks), white pressed shirts and ties.

After arriving at the Sydney airport and losing a day due to the time difference, our luggage was also missing. Apparently several suitcases were pulled from our flight because of weight restrictions.  Though United offered $2500 in ticket credits, not enough passengers (including us)took them up on the offer to change plans and take a later flight. Two days later, our bags arrived in Southern Australia and then had to be flown back to Sydney.

The main reason why we are exploring Australia at this time of year is because our daughter, Destyni, landed a spot in the Sydney Marathon.  We also plan to visit my second cousins who live closer to Melbourne, say adieu to our daughter and put on our backpacks for a few weeks walk about.

Our first stop after renting a car, Pat named the beast because of it’s size, was the Taronga Zoo.  For hours, we we observed kangaroos, koalas, and a Tasmanian Devil. The zoo offers a wildlife retreat for those interested in spending time with hundreds of species of birds.

After a restless evening, we were ready to take on Sydney. Our apartment is two blocks from one of the passenger ferries and in 10 minutes we were in the city. We walked into the visitor center which also hosts one of the city’s libraries, located in the Customs House. Unlike most libraries it was extremely noisy  which we learned was because of the restaurant on the sixth floor. Though we were far from dressed for the venue, eventually we secured a reservation and we were seated overlooking the harbour. Our waiter answered our many questions about the menu while taking each of the white cloth napkins next to our plates and placing them on our laps.  Since then, we’ve discovered doing so is customary.

After a shared breakfast the next morning at a Moroccan cafe, we caught a different passenger ferry to the convention center, for the marathon registration. Every single one of the 30,000 marathoners converged there at the same time, creating a frenzy. Later Destyni and I found our way to the Shangri-la hotel for high tea, on the 36th floor, overlooking the exquisite harbour, while Pat entertained himself walking through the Barangaroo Reserve and sipping brews in some local pubs.

Friday was the day I was the most anxious about – the Sydney Harbour Bridge Climb.  It was,I can now say,having survived it, everything it promised to be and more. The system is of preparation and climbing is like a well -oiled machine. First we were each breathalyzed. If one doesn’t pass, they cannot take the climb. After a round of introductions, we were handed grey jumpsuits to put on.  Security procedures were next and then we were escorted into a large room equipped with harnesses. We were taught how to step into them, tighten them and then under our leader, Mitch’s tutelage, we practiced climbing forward and backward on metal ladders with our harnesses.

Sunglasses , hats and hankies were strapped to our suits and then we each received a head set. Mitch introduced himself as an actor who likes climbing to the top of bridges. He led us under the span of the bridge on a cat walk as the harness hooks slid through multiple transition points. He never stopped chattering the whole time we were walking. Halfway across the cat walk, when I looked below me, I considered quitting but determined I better find my mojo. Finally, we arrived at the steep ladders, which we were required to climb, one person at a time. And then crawling up to the opening, I relaxed a bit. Mitch took photos  and shared stories about the bridge’s construction s we climbed farther up.

At the very top of the span, we posed for group photos and began our descent on the other side of the bridge.  Suddenly, the wind began whipping at a high speed and we all clung to the iron railings. When I arrived at the set of descending ladders, I mentioned to Mitch’s assistant that I was quite scared. She advised me to take my time stepping down backward, to slide to the left at the transition points and to spend no time thinking about it.  On our final walk once again across the catwalk, Mitch told the story of a harbour bridge construction worker who fell several feet into the water and saved his life by holding his nose beforehand.  Take that as my tip for the week. If you’re ever in a similar situation, seal your nasal passages.  The air pressure in the sinuses will increase, creating a barrier that water cannot easily overcome.

Tomorrow we will serve as Destyni’s support team for her marathon.

Shevonne and Pat

When we discovered Highway 61 was closed to Red Wing, Minnesota, it was all hands on deck. The detour through the hills on narrow roads with all the diverted traffic didn’t rock our boat. We called a bicycle shop owner who suggested we cross back into Wisconsin and ride on their highway. We spoke with Corey, (the inn manager), about putting a sign up that said – cyclists need a ride through the detour – will pay. Corey, (who told us his mother named him after Corey Hart, Corey Feldman and Corey Hiam), did us one better by posting our request on Wabasha’s online community forum. Within 30 minutes, Pat received a text from Brenda, asking about our bicycles and our panniers.  “I’ll take you up the road in the morning, provided your bicycles fit in the back of my Honda Pilot,” she said.

And just like that, Brenda arrived in the morning and we stashed our bicycles into her vehicle. It was all so easy. Along the way, we learned that Brenda is the co-owner of the Hopping Girl Brewery, runs a bed and breakfast and serves as a travel consultant. She’s definitely a go-getter with plenty of energy. When Brenda dropped us off in Hastings, Minnesota, it was around noontime with temperatures in the mid-80s.  Our destination that day was Minneapolis. The pavement was hot and there was little shade for miles. We rode through the 3M complex in Cottage Grove and eventually made our way to the outskirts of St. Paul, while dodging sidewalk and road construction projects. From there, we had a pleasant ride through many of St Paul’s trails and parks, all the while assuming Minneapolis was just a few miles further. Two hours and 15 miles later, we arrived on the University of Minnesota campus. We were thirsty and light-headed, having neglected to eat anything all afternoon.

“Let’s take a day off and explore Minneapolis before we cycle north,” Pat suggested. We did, walking several miles around the city through the sculpture garden, the flour mill ruins and the main thoroughfares. It was downtown Thursdays, something the city has initiated to bring workers back to the city and out of their home offices. As in other cities, much of downtown is empty of businesses and offices; the aftermath of the pandemic. We did have a bit of fun playing a creative game of miniature golf that had been set up on the street.

After a lovely meal and some brews at the Town Hall Brewery, we got back to planning the rest of our route. After studying the mileage and the calendar, we learned that the train station, where we planned to board the train back to Chicago, would not allow our bicycles on because it’s an unmanned station. This is something I suppose we might have checked months earlier. Our options were getting dicey; perhaps we should ride to St. Paul and take the train back to Chicago and do some more riding around Illinois. But, then we found a private car company that would take us to Brainerd, Minnesota, at the beginning of the Paul Bunyan Trail. With enough stamina, we could ride several 50-mile days, cycle the Paul Bunyan up to Bemidji and back to Brainerd, and then cycle back to St. Paul. It sounded quite challenging but we were up for it.

“Do you want the bigger or smaller van for your bicycles?” the owner of the car service asked. It’s $315 for the smaller or $350 for the larger vehicle. “We’ll take the smaller vehicle,” Pat said, fully confident because our bicycles had fit in Brenda’s SUV without issues.

Bill, our driver, arrived in the morning, in a jacket and tie with muffins for us. He opened the hatchback and Pat attempted to place his bicycle inside.  It didn’t fit. “Let’s take the front wheels off,” Pat said. My front wheel easily came off but Pat was having no luck with his bicycle.  When he finally was able to loosen it, the axle cracked.  We jumped in the car, regardless. All three of us assumed we could easily find a replacement part at a bicycle shop on the way north.

That was when our journey came to a screeching halt. Not one bicycle shop on our way north  had the axle he needed and we didn’t have the days needed to wait for an order to arrive. I texted my friend Kris, now frantic. “Rent a U-Haul and drive back to your daughter’s home in Chicago,” she suggested.  And we did, giving up our dream of seeing the blue ox. It was tough and we were distraught.  I figure that savings of $35 on the smaller van, cost us an extra $1500 that day. Another learning. Pat called a bicycle dealership in Lisle, Illinois – that is a Jamis dealer. They had the replacement axle in stock.

For a few more days, we will make our way around the multiple trails in the Chicago suburbs before heading home to Waitsfield.

Follow us as we spin our wheels,

Shevonne and Pat