Trailride to Heaven and Hell

Transmoto’s John Pearson joins a bunch of mates for a memorable invitation-only weekend trailride to heaven, hell and paradise in NSW’s epic Myall River State Forest.

Every so often, you’re lucky enough to find your way onto a spectacular ride; the kind we tell our children of during scotch-blurred recollections around campfires. This tale recalls one such adventure when I was fortunate enough to get a run-on jumper to an invitation-only ride in the stunning Myall River Valley. I spent two days riding some of the most eye-opening, crotch-stirring, powerslide-inducing trails this area has to offer, and I can’t wait to get back down amongst the leeches and do it all again…

We arrive at the centre for operations, a converted dairy that sleeps up to 12 people on the banks of the Myall River. It’s late afternoon and our lead rider, Alan, already has a small fire lit. The eskies are stocked with tonight’s brew, and a couple of camp ovens are simmering away in the coals. Alan tells us the Newcastle crew has arrived and will be up at Bikey’s place, so we jump in the ute and head on up. We introduce ourselves to the Newie boys – led by the mainstay sweep rider, Bikey – and take a look around his pad. Everyone is inexorably drawn to the poolroom. This joint is a man haven, set in the heavenly confines of a dirt bike riding paradise. Bikey hands out a few brews while we pair up and smash out a few quick games of stick before we’re off to check on the camp ovens.

Back at the dairy, the lodgings are what you’d expect of a bush weekend away: simple yet functional, with enough cover to keep everyone dry. I’m hoping there are no big drinkers among the group – at least, not tonight. I want all my wits about me for the ride, but it’s hard to resist the temptation in this sort of atmosphere. And before long, Bikey has us swilling Stone’s Green Ginger like it’s mother’s milk.
The night passes with recollections of past rides and all manner of bench racing. Bets are placed, challenges are laid down, but not once does Alan utter a word about the trails to come. It only adds to the anticipation for what lies in store for us.

INTO THE HEART OF THE DEVIL

A rooster is crowing, and my mouth tastes like rank green ginger wine. Alan rings the triangle and we’re all up for a meal fit for enduro kings. I have that feeling in my stomach that says I need something to eat, but I’m not sure whether I should. Day one is all about finding our boundaries, says Alan. My boundaries almost feel within reach already and I haven’t even struck a blow, but a decent breakfast and some coffee soon sorts us all out. As we gear up, the bench racing starts in earnest. My mate Nathan, a semi-hardcore motocross racer who was never ‘discovered’ in his prime, touts, “There’s no hill out here I can’t get up or down; I’ve seen ’em all before.” Alan smiles to himself quietly, and I’m thinking, ‘Great, now we’re heading for some hill that even Nathan can’t get up!’.

With that, we throw a leg over and fire up our angry warhorses as Alan rolls us out for the short transport section leading to Peacehaven. I’ve heard of this place. It has a dubious connection with a hill commonly known as Hogan’s – a brutal rock shelf- and boulder-filled climb known in trail riding circles as the one true test of man and machine in these parts. Like Alan said, it’s all about finding boundaries.

The trails leading there are a mix of muddy fire track, contour banks and loamy, sweeping corners. It’s interspersed with narrow but deep river crossings that are littered with slick boulders. The track sees a fair bit of four-wheel-drive action and is rutted in places as a result, but who doesn’t love a good rut?
We wind up into the rainforest and Alan stops us at a cutting for a quick bite to eat. He motions for us to gather around. With mud caked over our riding gear, we listen intently as Alan explains what lies ahead: “You have two choices. There are some of you who may feel the need to stay with Bikey and traverse the perilous chicken run that cuts around the side of this hill and comes out at the top of a little jaunt we’re going to conquer now. Or, you can follow me into the heart of the devil and have the privilege of saying you’ve ridden and beaten the one true bastard this area has to offer, Hogan’s.”

There are nervous sideways glances. Everyone starts to breathe deeper as the adrenaline courses through our bodies. One of the Newcastle boys flippantly says, “Sounds like fun”, but he’s unconvincing. Alan stares at him through cold, serious eyes, then fires up his WR450F and wheelstands over the gutter onto the singletrack that leads to the base of our destiny, screaming like a madman as he powers up the incline and showers roost into the scrub behind him. I look around in search of someone willing to ride the chicken run so I won’t look soft, but there are no takers. At the back of the group, Bikey lets out a roar of laughter that breaks the silence. He sounds like a pirate walking his prisoners down the plank. “Let’s go, boys! Hogan’s ain’t gonna climb itself,” he wails, mercilessly. We start our bikes and, one by one, file onto the track that leads to the doorstep of hell.

The track leading in is like any other hilly climb. Fallen timber and ruts litter the path as we press on through the scrub, the incline progressively steeper. We crest a small mound and find Alan waiting in the middle of the track. He instructs us to give each other a 30-second gap to reduce congestion. With that, he disappears over the crest and out of sight around a tight right-hander. We listen to the exhaust note of his bike, labouring then free-spinning, and then labouring again as he attacks Hogan’s in a manner that sounds like a seasoned professional.
I’m third in line. The first two riders head into the maelstrom and we strain our ears, though it’s impossible to tell the outcome. I take a deep breath and remind myself that momentum is key and that I need to stay forward on the bike. The starter button looks back at me, taunting me as if I don’t have the guts to press it. But I do. I’m away.

WELCOME TO HELL

The back of the crest gives you a chance to build up some much-needed speed, but the tight right-hander saps it from you. As I exit the turn and get settled, I look up and see the monster bearing down on me. Loose, helmet-sized rocks are strewn across the track from beginning to end. Deep, washed-out ruts filled with fallen timber and more boulders appear to offer the best lines. There’s a rock ledge step-up about a third of the way up with more to follow around a bend. I see a CRF250X sideways across the track at the base of the ledge where he’s blocking the best line. There is nothing left to do but attack and keep my eyes up. The first section flows pretty well with only a couple of small mistakes that cost me a bit of speed, though I’m able to make that up again as I ride high on the left edge of the cutting. But my safe haven runs out quickly as I plunge back into the boulders. All too soon, my hard-working little WR250F and I arrive at the rock ledge. I’ve picked the line to the right, so I drive hard off the left bank to gain speed and hit the rock ledge with enough power to launch myself up and over, just. That feeling of flipping end-over-end backwards panics me and I grab the clutch, which stops me in my tracks. The even greater fear of rolling back off the ledge makes me release it again. The Yami stands up on its back wheel and teeters on the edge. Mercifully, the Hillclimb Gods are with me as a rock I’m sitting on flings out from under my rear tyre and dumps my front wheel back to earth. I start to pick up speed again, breathing hard now and a little shaky, but it’s no time to get in touch with my feelings because this demonic lump of rock is still trying all manner of tricks to dislodge me from my bike.

The centre section of the hill somehow seems tamer than the first. The boulders aren’t as big and I can pick lines that don’t inevitably run into a dead-end rut. I glance ahead and see Alan’s Yamaha bouncing over a contour bank at the top of the hill, a scourge of boulders rolling down the hill in his wake. The second rock ledge is nowhere near as technical if you pass to the edges. I negotiate the dirt wall around it, picking up some much-needed speed, as the final section proves the most taxing. But by this stage, my arms are pumped up like Popeye’s. Clutch control becomes a real issue as I’m struggling simply to hang on while gravity works against me.

Rebounding over rocks and boulders like a pinball, I can finally see the top. But I’m fading fast. Now almost lying down on the handlebars, I fight the bike. All technique is lost. It’s like an ugly drunken barfight and I’m getting beaten badly. As my speed tapers off to not much more than a jog, I’m just thinking there’s no way I can do this again. I can’t start all over again from the bottom. I look up and see Alan screaming. He’s sitting on his bike, waving his hands in encouragement. I give her one last stab of throttle, fighting the arm-pump. My grips are bouncing around inside my half-closed hands as I crest the top and unashamedly fall on my side. Alan winds his throttle through to the rev limiter in celebration and laughs at me as I gasp for air. I manage to crawl out from under my bike and, with some help, lean it against a tree. I look over at Alan and laugh. “What a mother-f@#ker of a hill,” I gasp.
“I told you we were going to find your boundaries today, mate,” he says with cackle. And find them I did.

The rest period is welcome as our group battles up (and sometimes down again) this magnificent beast. Finally, all are present and accounted for. We take a leisurely ride along some of the sweetest firetrail and singletrack you could wish for and arrive at Bulahdelah for a lunch break. As we devour burgers and cold drinks, stories of our morning’s adventures begin to flow thick and fast.

FROM HELL TO HEAVEN

After a top-up of fuel, we head east into some of the most pristine terrain I have ever had the privilege of savouring. A fast firetrail has been freshly bulldozed, making soil conditions so soft and grippy and perfect, it inspires the confidence to push hard. The tracks are well maintained, meaning there are no nasty surprises as we scream through the scrub, roosting our way home. The eastern side of the ranges is noticeably drier for the afternoon run, so we use the throttle a little more aggressively, which broadens the smiles of more than a few of the boys. Our run back into camp is a 15-kilometre section of singletrack through steep, off-camber sections that overlook the Myall River. As we drop down out of the hills toward the river flats, we actually ride a three-kilometre section of a 2014 AORC course, which is a real eye-opener. How those guys throw their machines at high speed through these rough tracks’ tight scrub is beyond comprehension. It gives me a real appreciation for the level of concentration AORC racers must operate at.

Back at camp, we dive straight for the esky and some ice-cold beverages to soothe the thirst brought on by the day’s adventures. While Alan organises our evening meal, everyone pitches in to change a couple of flat tyres and we all give our steeds the customary once-over in preparation for the following day. Dinner is a stew of lamb shanks in red wine sauce with a side of baked vegetables, all skillfully cooked in the camp ovens under our very noses. It’s hard not to gorge ourselves.

The customary culture of storytelling follows the meal and there’s a drunken admission by our washed-up MXer, Nathan, that he actually feared for his own safety while climbing Hogan’s. Funnily enough, the drinking and chatter subsides quicker tonight. Weary riders slink away to their swags, eager to be well rested for the following day. The party is all but over by midnight.

GROUNDHOG DAY

That damned rooster again! ‘Should’ve eaten roast chicken for dinner last night,’ I think to myself as I wipe the crust from my eyes and climb out of my swag. I’m met by the sight of one of the Newcastle boys strolling back to camp from his view of the mist-laden Myall River, shovel over one shoulder and a roll of dunny paper in his other hand. He looks me in the eye and crows, “How’s the serenity?!” I’m thinking it’s all but serene where he’s just come from. Such is the nature of the bush campout.

We saddle up and ride out to the north this time through a small section of private property that gives us unfettered access to some ridgeline trails that I’m sure God Himself pushed in with a D11. We take it easy for the first couple of clicks, getting our eye back in before the real fun starts with a section of track called Cont 52. It’s a logging track as wide as a twin-lane road that runs for around five kays with 52 contour banks from start to finish. And some of them are massive. The braver of us are hitting them at breakneck speeds, launching up to 30 metres in some cases to clear the hole on the top-side. The more sedate riders scrub the tops off them and fire out of the other side, creating a second launching pad as they rocket up the hill. Even the slower riders feel like they’re Chad Reed. Yep, this is what riding dirt bikes is all about. By now, we’re all hard on the gas, revelling in the sound of our own exhaust and showering anyone behind us in all manner of trail debris.

All too soon, this heavenly firetrail comes to an end and we twist off the track into overgrown rainforest that’s dense with fog. We descend hills that make your ears pop, then tear up a firetrail to reach the ridgeline once again, and continue on in search of more glorious trails. After numerous river crossings that range from ankle- to waist-deep, the snotty, rutted, greasy track hidden beneath the jungle canopy gives way to open, dry rolling hills and a section of private grasstrack prepared especially for this ride. The transport sections are infrequent and minimal, meaning the greater majority of the riding is as it should be: in the bush.

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

Midday sees us snaking down to camp from the opposite side of the Myall River, where we encounter one of the gnarliest downhills of the weekend. It’s almost like a Hogan’s in reverse, featuring numerous rock drop-offs and gullies that run the full length of the descent. A couple of the less adventurous riders opt out and ride the chicken run to the base. Not wanting to shame myself, I commit to following this madman into the valley of the shadow of death. There’s no getting used to this one slowly; it’s ridiculously steep from the get-go and there is a distinct lack of contour banks with which to temper your speed. And by a quarter of the way down, it becomes an outright challenge just to keep your bike from skittering down the hill without you. The plethora of sub-standard line choices makes it difficult to get a picture of where you’re truly heading. There is only one certainty – if you get out of control here, it’s going to get ugly, fast. To a Toby Price or a Josh Green, this would be child’s play. But for us, a group of B- and C-grade punters who ride when we can (but nowhere nearly enough), it’s hard work. Front wheels are tucking, rear-ends are sliding and feet are dabbing the ground everywhere. By the bottom of the hill, grown men are unable to stand – the muscles in their thighs resembling food at an old folks’ home. I’m pretty sure I see a bloke weeping softly behind his goggles. My heart is racing, my wrists hurt, my legs are a mess. And we still have to make it back to camp.

MAGIC AFTERGLOW

After a short regroup and a pep talk from Alan, we saddle up and plough on, not really knowing where we are or how far to go. Then, with little warning, we plunge out of the scrub, just 500 metres from camp where a sumptuous feast of sandwiches, salads and sweets await us. The food on this ride is amazing and reminiscent of top-notch commercial trail tours. Alan has spared no expense to make sure we’re looked after as we gorge ourselves on a spread of only the best fresh fruit and salad, an abundance of cold meats, breads, soft drinks and plenty of water, and magnesium tablets to combat cramps.
One of the boys asks, “So when are you opening up for business, Al?” “Not really sure,” Al says. “But you never know what’s just around the corner.” I’m hoping Alan decides to run this type of ride more often and opens it up to paying customers. It’s just too good to keep hidden away.

After our lunch break, we’re struck with a conundrum of sorts. Alan offers us a number of possible trail options, all doable in the time we have left, so we argue among ourselves in a bid for consensus. With no agreement reached after a few minutes, Alan offers an alternative: “There’s a paddock over here my father has recently harvested. It’s full of black river soil and stubble. Do you want to check it out? It might be a good spot for a bit of grasstrack action.”

It sure sounds like more fun than battling some snotty hillclimb or leech-filled river crossing. Naturally we’re all excited and agree to check it out. And as we climb up from the river crossing and into the paddock, my dirt biking life immediately flashes before my eyes. I seem to lose my sense of hearing and my eyes dry out as I forget to blink. Here, sitting before us is a 60-acre black soil paddock covered in stubble, with a four-metre-wide track mown through the centre. It snakes from a 30-metre wide start around the paddock for two kilometres of grippy, motocross-tyre-loving natural terrain track. I fumble my words, unsure of what to say. Alan sits on his bike with a look of satisfaction across his face. “It’s never been ridden, fellas,” he says nonchalantly. “I needed some help to build the corners up. How about it?”

Our group files through the gate in a rush to get onto this hallowed turf. They tear into the loamy black soil like a mob of wailing banshees in an orgy of roost-filled madness.
Our weekend has been filled with some of the most glorious trailriding this area has to offer. Which is why it’s with a tinge of sadness that we load up our bikes and gear and get ready for the trip home. Alan has served us up the perfect mix of challenging trails and fun, fast riding. So, here’s hoping that he decides to cement his status as a genuine tour operator in the area because this guy sure has the knowledge and ability to make sure you’ll have one of the best rides of your life.