Waiting for the Harvey's

I tend to go on good trips when Sam is involved. The first time we went away is still one of my favourite from the canon. It was the 2023 Easter long weekend and we had been talking about going on an overnighter together for ages. I was pretty keen on taking a revenge tour through the Budawangs after a miserable, rain-sodden weekend earlier in the year. In my opinion, the 50km round trip from Wog Wog Campground to the Castle is one of the great Australian walks. It includes the hugely brilliant Corang Arch, Corang Peak with endless views to coast and the ocean, navigating the aptly named Monolith Valley and a final, triumphant scramble up the Castle proper. With a brochure like that, it was difficult for Sam and I to lend too much weight to the forecasts. We planned on heading up on the Friday and crushing as much as we could from the late morning and into the night if need be. See below for an image of the expected conditions that night.

Honestly, it was easy enough to convince ourselves that the forecasts were overblown as we crushed some distance out from Wog Wog. Darkening skies did little to dampen the spirits as we were treated to expansive views of the South Coast alpine. When the rain started we were looking at about another 10km to guaranteed shelter in the caves of Mt. Cole. We found a protected out-crop to eat some processed meat and for Sam to don a beautiful pink poncho. He dropped his cheese but addressed it by rubbing it along his leg hairs - licking and spitting as he went. Oh Sam.

The fun dwindled massively after that. We scrambled down from the refuge, both of us mildly hypothermic, before crossing an ankle deep river occupying the space of our Plan B camp. However, it wasn't anything scary, just a bit of heavy rain and so we decided to keep pushing. By the time it was getting dark, we were looking at an easy 3km along the ridge and then a warm, dry night in the caves. What we got instead was 45 minutes of frantic hiking in the midst of some of the most deafening, head-shaking, ball-shrinking lightning I've ever been privy to. I was the tallest point for a kilometre (much taller than Sam) and actually felt that my end was imminent as every step tested divine resolve. By the time we got to the camp, we were shell-shocked and sat mute and clueless around a stranger's fire before falling asleep in the dust and out of the storm. The rest of the trip was excellent and has led to lifelong friends and countless other stories but for this story it's unimportant.

After this, I had a good 8 months free of his pestering for a trip. Who can blame him? However, as the January long weekend crept up the stoke started to build. After a few weeks of deliberation, we settled on an exploratory route from the Colo River up to the aptly named Mt. Savage by a pass described as potentially needing "rope assistance" and "for experienced workers only" in the one source of online information we could find. This ended up being an all-time sufferfest. In brief, we spent hours trying to find the pass on one of the hottest days of the year, I passed out on the banks of the river from heat stroke and we failed to make it to the peak.

All of this to say that it's a lot of fun fucking around with Sam and for the first time this weekend, on bikes! The trip was very much an impulsive decision. The long weekend and a desire to reunite meant we were both pretty stoked for some camping somewhere. I have been at negative stoke for hiking since a big trip to New Zealand over January and so the brain was working in overdrive to find alternatives. When I saw a picture of a few friends with milk crates full of camping gear attached to cheap bikes, it was a clear sign.

One of the best things about the man is how quickly he says yes to things. There's no painful analysis or detailed back-and-forth, it's a laugh and then "What should I buy?". Just 2 days later and he had roped his brother in, sourced a bucket of bolts from his uncle and ordered an unethical Amazon rear rack for milk crate mounting. By Friday morning, a few hours to departure, we had a plan. At a glance, it was Ourimbah onto the old Great North Road Friday night before a cruisey day through to Wiseman's Ferry and then the long Sackville slog through to beautiful Riverstone. But you'll learn quickly that plans hold little power in the face of the whims and fancies of Sam and Jeremy Harvey.

The photo above shows our eclectic collection of mobile homes. The beast in the back is Sam's. She was fierce and temperamental, and we would spend more than a few moments keeping her happy and moving. In front of it is Jez's mule, laden with 5 days of food, 5L of water and 5g of Snus. If you look closely, you'll notice the disparity in tire width when compared to the rest of the bikes. This will be important later. Finally, with a milk crate stolen from Norton St that morning tied in by a core-shot segment of old climbing rope, is my pride and joy. Jez broke out 3 different coloured durags for no clear reason and after donning them, we made quite a sight.

After what felt like weeks for three increasingly hungry young men, we arrived at Ourimbah with a few hours till dark. We crossed the highway, shifted our gears as low as they could go and started the fierce climb up to Mangrove Mountain. We quickly settled into the normal routine for a trip with Sam - get way ahead on the climbs and then pullover because you're bored being by yourself. Jez and Sam will argue otherwise but our grand arbitrator Strava confirmed these two were in no rush. We used Sam’s loose rear rack as an excuse to pull over into a roadside ditch for some R&R. As we started up again, his bike began to let out some real insidious sounding creaks. A few hard pedals later and he was standing in the middle of the road with half of his largest chainring. For the non-bike-inclined, it meant he would not be able to switch to a cruisey gear for the rest of the trip. In his estimation, he covered about 70% of the remaining 150km standing. It did feel like that was the end of the trip, but as has been discussed, 'BMX Sam' is no quitter.

As is tradition, the trip quickly became slightly heinous with the three of us stuck on a busy mountain road in the dark. We followed dusky fields sparse with grand horses while dodging equestrian trailers on the hunt for blood. And then, in the vastness of our fear induced silence, we spotted a solitary café. Not only were its lights on, but the owner was unbelievably affable and sent us off to bed at the back of a neighbouring public park with our tummies full of crispy, golden food.

When my head hit the pillow around 9PM, it was difficult not to feel stoked. A big day of adventure, doing something different, and managing to snag not only a little bit of illicit, free camping but to get to bed early too - what a life! Sadly, not long after my equanimity truly began to set in, a bunch of teenagers drove into the park and started to do burnouts. Any grace we could've granted them was gone when they began yelling at us about our camp set-up. They are lucky they didn't mention anything about the milk crates. I wouldn't have been able to hold back.

Now, that morning, Sam confused us all with a desire to bail. I was pretty grumpy about it and so the mood around camp was tense. I couldn't see what was bad about the preceding day and figured our upcoming jaunt along the Hawkesbury was going to be perfectly bucolic. More importantly, I wanted to hang out with Sam. We took our bikes up to the road and you could've heard a pin drop. Jez and I both grinned as Sam flipped his bike in our direction. It was a silly little spat, but it was clear we had made up as we screamed and whooped down the mountain, milk crates holding on for dear life as we cleared 50ks an hour.

And now, I hate to spoil it, but that is pretty much the climax of this story. The rest of the trip was nothing but delightful. Sam, Jez and I covered the distance to Wiseman's Ferry rapidly, including a nice long break at Spencer - the centre of the universe - and a half-assed attempt at a swim in a very cold Hawkesbury. We spent the afternoon eating and drinking at progressively shitter pubs before deciding the society life was not for us and spending the rest of the afternoon lying in the plush grass of an abandoned golf course. Stingy Sam and his brother tried to extort $30 from me to sleep on their floor and so after more food I made my way back down to the park, laid down my tarp and tried to sleep.

You would've thought I had learnt my lesson about sleeping in public parks but alas. I spent that night listening to crooner tunes blast across the water until deep into the next day. I'd get up to piss and gaze across trying to discern the source of this anachronistic noise but would only see a green light flashing on the other end. Yes, that's right, it was literally 'The Great Gatsby'.

The next day, we reconvened in the early morning cold, smashed gas station coffees and blew up the hotel bathroom. Then it was smooth sailing all the way to Riverstone and the terminus of our trip. And so, while I really just wanted to write about the trip, I couldn't help but make this a love letter to the Harvey's - it's always worth waiting at the top of the hill for your mates.