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After kissing my friends goodbye at Queenstown airport we took a seat in different planes. Theirs going halfway around the world, back to squeeze out the very last of the Swedish summer. And mine being just a brief session in the air to get back to Auckland and Mr. Bike.

Generally my route through any given country falls more or less naturally, connecting the borders I’m travelling between. But with New Zealand being the island(s) that it is, that just isn’t the case. This combined with having a good chunk of time to spend, is setting things up for some rather good times if you ask me.

So with time so see it all, and the opportunity to choose your own starting point. Where do you go?

To the edge of land, of course!

Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand.

Hitchhiking with a fully loaded bicycle is a little trickier than with only a backpack, but thanks to a bunch of friendly people in pick-ups it didn’t take me much more than a day to get from Auckland to the lighthouse that would serve as the starting line of my Kiwi bike ride.

As it turned out this spot didn’t only make up for a good looking point on a map.

Cape Reinga is incredibly beautiful, but not only that. It’s where you watch the big swirls from the country’s two massive surrounding oceans (Tasman Sea and The Pacific) joining to one. And the sacred place where the indigenous Maoris believe their spirits begin their final journey to the afterlife.

And yes. There certainly is something in the air up there.

So, I made it to the start. Pointed my bike south.

And let the ride begin!

I have a feeling this is going to be a good one. What do you think?

Until next time,

Fredrika

I came to Australia with one thing in mind – outback adventures. And boy had I found what I was searching for. My months in the country had given me thousands and thousands of kilometers of its intense emptyness, and I was done.

The very last one of the dusty tracks and trails I had used to wind my way through the center had come to an end, and that early morning when I finally rolled back onto tarmac I was quite happy to do so. I still had 1500 or so kilometers to go before reaching my final destination, but just having my tyres touch that smooth surface felt like a finish line as good as anyone.

Flinders Ranges and the Great Ocean Road alone are good enough reasons to come to Australia. This time however, they simply got to play the part of a heartfelt outro to an adventure already finished. While heavy winter storms came crashing in one after another, absolutely pristine scenery and a bunch of lovely Aussies set me up for the breeziest ride imaginable through it all.

Thank you Sari & Simon, Marg, Bruce & Helen, Astrid, Kirsten, Robbie & everyone else for spoiling me ruthless, and almost making me forget what a wet sleeping bag feels like. I won’t ever forget you – you lovely, lovely lot.

As we all know, sooner or later all things do come to an end, and eventually the Great Ocean Road and my whole Australian route did as well. The flight taking me from Melbourne to New Zealand was now only days away, but there was still one important thing left on the itinerary.

Meet up with the Knee family!

Long story short would be that after spending a year of her teens milking their cows, this has always been my Mom’s long lost 2nd family. And though they’ve (for obvious reasons) been way to few, every opportunity to meet up have been taken ever since. Even I got to join once, and growing up I’ve always kept that Aussie trip past Rae & Bruce’s farm as a childhood highlight.

And oh, was it great to be back.

Nothing was the same, but everything still just as I remembered it. Not the same ones, but the dogs were there. The quad bikes too, though they’d been upgraded years ago. The calves I’d met then would surely be great grandmothers today. And Dan – who was born in between milking sessions back in my Mom’s days – was now running the farm.

I don’t need to tell you that this was a happy time, do I? In short, all was good. And for my part – after 3 months and 6000 kilometers – Australia was officially a finished chapter. For this time around. Because though I have no idea when, the fact that there will be a next time is a definite.

… & I mean, what actually changes in a decade anyways?

My answer is nothing. And everything.

Until next time,

Fredrika

If one’s looking for time consuming activities, making detours on a bicycle is a great idea. Making detours on a bicycle in Australia, is a genius one. After reaching Alice Springs and the halfway point of my quest to cross the country north to south I had taken a right, headed straight west. Making the so called Meerine Loop, taking me past Uluru (Ayers Rock), along with a few more of the continent’s most important landmarks.

In the end this side trip added up to 800 extra kilometers. 800 great ones. Anyone who’s read the previous couple of posts of this blog know that. As we just settled though, making detours on a bicycle takes time. And this particular one had surely put a strain on the remaining time on my visa. Though things still were totally alright, the margin of error I’d found comfort in up until then was now long gone.

I still had time enough to complete the route I’d set out to do, but not much more than that. Tasmania got scratched off the map. So did plans for proper breaks. Along with any single days of rest to speak of. And getting sick? Don’t be silly.

Time was border lining between being just, and not enough.

Then came the rain.

Let’s make a long story short with this one.

I’d just made it back onto my actual route and was back on yet another outback dirt trail, winding it’s way south. From the tiny aboriginal community Finke, I was about to ride south along the outskirts of the equally big and dry Simpson Desert. We’re talking very dry. Dry as in that the region has an average annual rainfall just above 100 mm.

…which this particular weekend fell during a period of 48 hours.

QUÈ?!?

Rain in itself doesn’t bother me much. On mud roads however, it rules your life.

Considering alternative outcomes, I was in great luck. Thanks to a perfectly timed snap of a cable – I happened to be held up in Finke just as the rain rolled in. And instead of being flooded in my tent somewhere along the road, I got to spend those couple of days with a roof over my head (thanks again, guys!), making friends with the always so hilarious village kids and their ‘pet’ pigs.

Great times, but fact remained – I was in a total rush. Time kept moving forward without mercy while and I was dead still. Until that morning when the local police finally decided to let me hit their closed road, a couple of days before any other traffic.

‘Alright then. Give it a go, we won’t stop you. Get ready though – ’cause the road probably will.’

One deep breath and an awkward smile later, I tied my shoes and swung one leg over the frame. Doubting, but definitely hoping that the 400 km between me and the next settlement somehow would turn out do be doable.

First impression: a little rough.

Second impression: a lot of rough.

Third impression: …

So, what happened? Instead of going on too much about it, I figured I’ll just show you some of what the muddiest week of my life looked like. Putting every hour of daylight into moving forward, I was still struggling to log more than 50-60 km a day. Trying to stay on track for my visa quickly lost priority though, and once again food and water set my time limit.

I don’t have that many photos from it, and the ones I do have are taken whenever my hands were clean and dry enough to want to touch my barbag. Anyways, I think you’ll get the gist of it.

Here we go.

Keywords: Mud. Flooded creeks. More mud. The odd combination of lactic acid and patience. Mud again. And above all else – beauty.

There was quite a price to pay for it, but fact is that rain equals life. And I was lucky enough to see this normally arid, dead landscape greener than it’d allegedly been in 30 years. 30 years! Ankle deep in mud, sure. But desert flowers springing straight out of the road?

Always, always worth it.

When life gives you lemons… :)

Fredrika

Hello! This one has been sitting on my laptop for ages. But not until now have I had a decent enough wifi to actually post it. Sorry! But better late than never I suppose.

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No matter what our lives look like, we all have to deal with them. The inevitable annoyances that insist on making themselves part of our days, regardless of how much we might wish for them not to. By immersing myself in this roaming way of life I’ve escaped quite a few of them, and long gone are the days of alarm clocks and telemarketers. But then again – though the ones on the road take other shapes than those at home, they’re nevertheless there.

Headwinds and mechanicals. Lactic acid and saddle sores. Whatever they happen to look like, we better do our best to embrace them as they decide to come along – because there’s simply no way out. But while I can have patience with prevailing winds or poorly timed flats, there is one thing that I dislike above all else with this rolling life. Something that I seemingly can’t ever get used to, and won’t even try to turn into a positive.

I’ve already told you this time and time again. But fact is, I still hate them. All these stupid, never-ending Goodbyes.

My biggest difficulty with setting out on this adventure in the first place was kissing my loved ones farewell on that very first day. Still today I remember that odd feeling of relief as I actually rolled off. Ahead I had a world to peddle, but at least that first major hurdle was out of the way. Still unknowing of that I’d just had a mere taste of what would come to be a constant, unwanted companion during the years to come.

I would never ever claim that leaving my loved family and dearest friends was or is at all easier. But there is one significant difference. Even when talking years, a brother or a best friend will always, always be a ‘See you later’. Giving someone one last hug, and then take off without expecting to ever see them again is… different. And at times quite wearisome.

Which is the very reason why I was so happy rolling out of Alice Springs.

A super-dreamy week in the best of company wasn’t ending just yet. All I left behind was a house – not the people in it. (Though I still secretly mourn the cloud-like bed lovely Claire and Ben had set me up with). We ended up being 8 people setting camp outside Alice Springs that evening, and I got to be part of my first proper central Australia bush camp night. And yeah, it was one of those were you simply forget that you’ve ever owned a camera.

It was all there. The laughs around the big ass fire. The guitar. To-die-for roo camp oven. Wine in foldable camp mugs. Late night tea through TimTams. Swags under a picture perfect milky way. A month earlier I hadn’t even heard about half of these things, but I know I have a bunch of Aussies reading this blog that know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’d already been zigzagging my way halfway through the country, and saw no reason to continue in any other fashion. Once again I was headed west, up for a 800 km detour that’d take me past major natural wonders such as Wattarka/Kings Canyon and world renowned Uluru/Ayers Rock. And I was excited.

These were the places I’d dreamt of ever since Australia and it’s outback had first made it onto my route. And that the distances kept on being insane out there had never been less of an issue, as the days worth of road to get there would turn out to be my prettiest riding yet on this massive land.

Stunning cycling along the West Macdonnell Ranges. World class camping night after night. And a buffet of stunning gorges to hang out by along the way. All accompanied by constant tailwinds from heaven. Not too bad, not too bad.

Eventually came Kings Canyon, more than living up to the majestic nature Australia keeps throwing at me. I think I’ll let the photos do the talking on this one. Writing I’m weeks past it, but still equally blown away. There simply is no grasping the magnificence nature is capable of, is there?

If you ever have the opportunity. Go.

And afterwards. Do yourself a favor – and keep going.

Until next time,

Fredrika

Desert.

The word really has a different meaning to me now than before I’d physically been in a few ones myself. Raised in the forests of Sweden, my few references to these exotic, barren lands have all more or less resembled what one picks up from Disney’s Aladdin as kid. A never-ending beach without sea.

Tanami is green. It has a wet season and gets flooded each and every year. Resulting in a flora that definitely wasn’t part of my former cartoonish idea of these places. Green or not though, Tanami does provide it’s visitors with more than enough sand for everyone to share.

As some sadist compensation for the lack of dunes, the track you enter is a total sand pit.

I usually enjoy sharing a tale or two in posts like this. Let you in on a few of those more or less absurd events that take place in the life on two wheels. And though there are some quite peculiar ones from this ride as well, they were so far from the main ingredients of this ride.

More than anytime before, the one big thing has been the total absence of big (or small for that matter) things. With food setting the limit, I only had that much time to make my way through the 1100 km desert stretch. And reaching the daily distance did consume quite a bit of time, not to mention energy.

While I did meet the occasional trail angel and nutjob, had some quite memorable times in the couple of aboriginal communities along the way, and just about avoided running over a snake or two. I mostly just cycled.

Cycled. And Cycled. Pushed my way though the sandiest patches. And then cycled some more.

And there really wasn’t much more to it.

In a day there was (terribly slow) riding.

There was food.

At times there was a bit more sand and flies than one might prefer.

And then – there was the best part of the day.

Not too exciting, huh?

The funny thing is though, there are few things I enjoy nearly as much as this. Solitude is incredibly underrated. And considering that all those retreats people go to are so sought after, I seem not to be the only one thinking so. People ask me why I’m doing this, and I can’t describe it in any other way than that this is my dusty version of a couple weeks of silent yoga on Bali.

Plodding along a sandy desert track with a ridiculously heavy bicycle isn’t necessarily easy. But it sure is simple. The magic in that slow but constant movement is difficult to pinpoint to someone who’ve never experienced it. And I think those who have, really don’t need an explanation.

When thirsty you drink, and when hungry you eat. When tired you sleep, and wake up when your body thinks it’s time to continue. When letting our basic human needs rule your life, the importance of all those other things we’re caught up in fade a little more for each day passing.

There is gold in spending two full days with your one mission in life being to reach that next bore water tank.

Don’t worry. The odd taste is all from the pixie dust sprinkled in the water

I’m not sure how to wrap my head around it. How while I love all things new – be it seeing places, learning whatever or sharing moments with others. I thrive out here. When being nowhere. Doing nothing (oh well..). Meeting no one.

I don’t get it.

But hey. Who cares about understanding everything all the time? I don’t need to know how this works. I’m just happy it does. And I’m quite sure it does for a few of you guys as well.

Tailwinds,

Fredrika