Many people are under the impression that adventures involve flying out to far flung destinations, with audacious plans containing heroics, despair and frequent danger. I’d fallen into the above category for the last two years as I calculated my route to cycle around the world. A great deal of daydreaming saw me cycling through barren deserts in Iran, mountainous terrains in Pakistan’s Karakorum mountain range, and through volatile countries in West Africa. Perhaps in the allure of something more grandeur, I’d completely forgotten about all the possible adventures one could have in their own country.

Many foreign cyclists ride from Darwin to Adelaide along the Stuart Highway, a 2,834km road that dissects the middle of Australia. I can only assume that the magnetism of the outback – wide-open spaces, long distances between towns, the need to carry multiple days of food and water – would leave an everlasting impression on people not all to familiar with Australia and its way of life. For me, that very same magnetism that drives others to cycle in the outback, would be seemingly nonexistent as the very desert environ that I was cycling through. With that in mind, I hatched a plan to ditch the Stuart Highway in order to cycle the Mawson Trail and Birdsville Track.

I left Adelaide on an overcast Monday, eagerly anticipating all the unique and challenging adventures that would happen over the next 5 years. As each day smoothly flowed from one to the next. I unknowingly stopped thinking about what could happen in the future and started noticing the slowly changing landscape. From the abundance of vineyards and vibrant, yellow canola crops I made my way through South Australia’s Mid North. A wry smile managed to appear with each new pedal stroke and corner turned, as an ever-changing view reaffirmed the surrounding beauty.

From the Mid North I moved into the Northern Pastoral areas. The copious amounts of colours were now reduced to a blue sky and the different shades of red dirt. Sheep and cattle now replaced crops. The mercury started climbing and I now had to pay more acute attention to water and supplies. A tight budget of $10 a day would restrict my meals to porridge, tuna and pasta, with fresh fruit and vegetables becoming a distant memory. Whilst the cycling became more arduous, the general kindness of people became more apparent. The inhabitants of this area are well aware of the conditions, and the consequences of not giving due respect to the land. My plans were often first met by silent skepticism but were soon replaced with a willingness to help in anyway. Trusting strangers is something that many people greet with caution and suspect an alternative motive. Ever since I was a young child I was always told to never take things from strangers; wise advice at the time. Now, traversing one of the most remote places in Australia, it was this very concept of trusting strangers that would determine my ultimate success.

The Birdsville Track earned its reputation through the stories of Tom Kruse MBE, a mailman for the Australia Post. He was singlehandedly responsible for delivering mail to the few station owners in one of the most inhospitable places in Australia. The 523Km trip from Marree to Birdsville would take on average two weeks. Thanks to some general improvements, I’d planned to cycle the track in 7 days.

My bicycle had morphed into an armored vehicle, with each pannier loaded to the absolute maximum. I’d provisioned 20L of water and enough food to last 8 days. Water would have to be replenished and treated with the artesian bores that were scattered along the track. Soon after Marree, the “road” descended into a rocky, corrugated and sandy nightmare. My speed constantly hovered at a demoralizing 9km/h. But fortunately my morale was rescued by the surrounding beauty and isolation of my accustomed version of the outback. Whilst this area is scarcely populated, I never felt truly alone. Kangaroos, emus, camels, and snakes combined with the occasional grey nomad, provided for a constant distraction from the many elements that made the road hell.

After 6 days on the track, battling the constant headwind, flies and oppressive heat, I was feeling quite deflated and drained. The cycling was some of the hardest I’d ever done and I was questioning if I’d bitten off more that I could chew. It would have been perfectly reasonable to take the remaining 150Km along the more populated original track. But the continuing drought had opened up the “Inside Track”, which had been completely closed for the last 6 years. For all my planning and daydreaming about finding adventure overseas, I’d seemingly been offered a grand adventure in my own country, perhaps with a little luck and fate.

I turned left from the original track and was immediately met with a road so bad that pushing my bicycle seemed like the only way. Doubt would often toy with my mind as my usually steadfast rational tried balancing on that thin line of doing something adventurous, or doing something completely stupid. Half a day later I was off the worst part and moved into a swamp like environment, where sand hills would plague my progress and patience. I looked at my thermometer and the temperature read 50C. That once wry smile experienced in the blissful Mid North, was once again coming through in one of the most demanding places I have ever been. I’m still not sure if anyone else has previously cycled the Inside Track.

A few days later I arrogantly road into Birdsville, the closest resemblance to a town I had seen in over 13 days. I quenched my insatiable thirst with the safe town water and then phoned home to let everyone know I was alive and well. As I pedal further and further into my dream of circumnavigating the world by bicycle, I often look back at my time spent riding in my home country. In the days of plane travel you can be on the other side of the planet in one day. Refreshingly you don’t have to traverse the globe to go looking for adventure – you can find it right in your own backyard.

Story and images by Andrew Murphy