Belles do Tarkine by bike

So, that’s what a few ‘good time gals’ did.  We mounted our trusty wheeled friends; some with rusty parts, trailing spider webs.  The displaced acropods drifted away on transparent threads behind us.  Another bike flaunted a front shopping basket with crochet flowers in colours of the rainbow.  This model seemed to glide along with a shrill bell call to warn traffic.  But there is no traffic, we are in the thick of the Tarkine.  The misty wet air has lifted to a grey sky and there is a hint of the dark peak of Mount Murchinson in light moving cloud high beyond us.

Just 6 kilometres from the small mining town of Rosebery is the track to Montezuma Falls, we cheer and put the peddle to the tarmac.  We’ve left the ute in an empty car park by the public loos and we are relishing in the earthy green wet of this part of the land.  We inhale moss and mud.  Chat and breathe.

Gears clunked into a comfortable rounded gait.  We were in mountain bike territory and none of us called ourselves mountain bikers (all of us have done a bit).  None of us had a lycra- wearing habit, just a helmet each and two wheels under us; some with more sturdy models than others.

The hill climb became a sore point.  We began in fits and starts but before long we were up and over what felt like a mountain and there was the pot of gold; another car park where some might argue is a wiser starting point to riding into the Falls.

Montezuma Falls is Tasmania’s highest and the waterfall is easily accessible along the marked trail by boot or by hoot, and boy did we hoot along once we reached the trail.  A slight decline fed our fierce pace.  With soft forest floor under tread, our group of four soon met the roar of the falls.  There is a wire suspension bridge at the base, frightening and surprising and I think here is the option to trek on but you’ll need to get a map out.  A picnic in the misty rain from the falls fuelled our way back out of the rainforest.  Past Leatherwood and Manfern fringed gullies, dripping with deep green fronds.

The downhill run back to the Rosebery rocked, our extremities were red, bodies sore and mind numbingly restored to some kind of natural state of peace.

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Author: Lucy Taylor

Explorer of writing and place, with roots in the beautiful North West coast of Tasmania. Mother of wild boys, and wife of another. Blogging for another place to write about things that interest me and guide me. Also working on a novel and available for freelance copywriting in spare moments.

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