I have recently returned from a 5 week overseas holiday with the family. We went home to India and spent a week in Malaysia en route. “Home, Harry?” I hear you ask. Well, I still call Australia home of course. But I do have a non-girt-by-sea home too and I suspect a trip to India will always be “going home” for me. It is the migrant’s enigma. Australia appeals to me with its obvious attractions of natural & wild beauty, laid back lifestyle and the rule of law.
While India tugs at my heart, with reasons that are much less obvious and harder to explain. 

​It’s always made sense for me to have an Australian passport but for many years I wasn’t ready to witness the tearing up of my Indian passport. So I clutched it tightly to my chest, refusing to sever that symbolic connection. After a decade of residence (and going through painful visa application processes for a few countries while my wife, with her Australian passport, just rocked up at the airport!), I finally reconciled myself to doing the deed and took the oath of allegiance to Australia (not the Queen mind you, the monarchy can go get fucked). And I’m proud of it too.

​To motorcycles then....I didn’t ride a motorcycle for 5 weeks while on holiday. Not so much as touch one actually. I didn’t think it was possible but I did all right. Seeing bikes all around me in India certainly made me want to jump on one and sample the chaotic Delhi traffic from behind handle-bars. That’s a whole different story in itself, riding a motorcycle through Delhi traffic. I hope to write about it someday. The day I feel I can do the subject some justice. But there are so many aspects to that story that it boggles my mind every time I try to write about it and I fail spectacularly in harnessing the thoughts flying around in my head like supernova debris.

Over the past few years a lot of my riding has been very fast and exciting but mostly to familiar places, with familiar people, on familiar roads. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been bloody fantastic and I wouldn’t change a thing but I've had the sense for a while, that something’s missing. On holiday, while I had the time and inclination to stare into space and think about stuff, I looked up the word “adventure” in the dictionary. “a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome” it said. I scratched my head. This defined pretty much all my riding over the past few years but a lot of it didn’t feel particularly adventurous. Bold? Sure. Risky? Sure. Hazardous? Sure. With the time, space and catalysts for introspection that India invariably provides me, I realized that the missing ingredient in my riding adventures was the “uncertain outcome” bit. And suddenly it clicked. I needed to return to my roots. Exploration! Motorcycling for me had always been about exploration and discovery of the physical, psychological and spiritual aspects of myself and the world around me. It was time to put the adventure back into my riding and “uncertainty” back into my rides!
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On my return, I couldn’t wait to get on my bikes and start exploring afresh, the wide open spaces of this wonderful, girt-by-sea home of mine.

​My Husqvarna TE610 is a true adventure bike. It can go anywhere in the right hands. My hands are not the right ones but I’m learning everytime I get out in the bush. The first trip back on the husky was definitely “adventure riding” though unexpectedly it was heavy on the adventure and light on the riding!

​I headed south out of Sydney with no particular plan, vaguely hoping to meander down to MacPass at some point. After a pleasant, unhurried run through the nasho, I stopped for a quick look at Kellys falls in the Garrawarra State Conservation Area near Helensburgh. I didn’t know it then but that was pretty much the end of the day’s riding for me but the adventure was just beginning! A short walking path took me to the top of Kellys falls, which was a trickle of water dribbling off a sheer cliff about 50M high. 

​At the bottom of the falls lay a beautiful pool that looked incredibly inviting for a dip. Intrigued, I started looking for ways to get down to the pool but there was no walking path heading down the cliffs. So close to Sydney, it was impossible that some hillbilly hadn’t invented a path down to such a beautiful swimming hole. So undeterred, I started bush bashing my way through the wilderness, hoping to find a way to get down the cliffs. I didn’t find a path but what I found only egged me on further. I stumbled onto another beautiful waterfall. This one was so well hidden that I doubt many people would even know about it. Crawling on all fours and peering over the ledge of the falls, I discovered another beautiful pool at the base of this waterfall too! 

Now I was determined to find a way down and explore the pools.
I felt like Livingstone hacking through Africa as I cut and forced my way through thick bush, shimmying down rock ledges and climbing down trees to try and reach the canyon floor. Eventually, after about half an hour of sweaty and abrasive work, I spied the second (secret) waterfall through the rainforest. 

​It was wild and pristine. There was nothing to indicate that any human had ever been here before (I’m sure plenty had but it was good to see they hadn’t left behind petty reminders of their visit). 

​I wasted no time in tearing off my sweaty clothes and plunging into the cool waters of the pool. The water from the skies fell around me in a gentle, misty shower, carried by the wind while the sun made random flying rainbows. It was sheer magic, that spot, that moment. In that instant, as I closed my eyes and submerged myself under the waterfall, I felt validated in not chasing the same twisty roads and corners today like I had done a thousand times before, heading south out of Sydney. I didn’t care if I went up MacPass today or not. I’d discovered something truly special and it was moments of pure “being” like this that I’d been missing in my increasingly planned and structured life.

After a rejuvenating couple of hours at the pool, I explored the rainforest some more and found the pool at the bottom of Kelly’s falls. 

​This was again a most enchanting spot, though a little less “secret”, as humans had clearly walked here before! 

​Now I set my mind to finding a way out of here, back to the top of the cliffs. I was sure that everyone who’d been here before wouldn’t have hacked their way through the jungle like me. There must be a shortcut somewhere. A chink in the armour of the fortress. I walked up to the base of the cliffs and started making my way around. I saw some small clearings at the base of some of the cliffs. This could only mean 1 thing. Rock Climbers! Having been an active rock climber for many years, I know how rock climbers operate. They will clear out the shrubbery at the base of cliffs to be able to get holds on the rocks to get off the ground. This was encouraging! Sure enough, after a little probing, I found a steep “path” hidden in the folds of the cliffs. It was exposed and a bit airy but with a little rock scrambling, I was at the top in a few minutes. 

​I took my boots off and discovered a couple of engorged leeches wiggling inside. They'd obviously been enjoying the taste of my spicy Indian blood!

 ​I sat at the top of the cliffs with my feet dangling over the abyss and reflected on the definition of adventure again – “a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome”. The day hadn't turned out at all ​like I'd expected. Hmmm, ​I reckon I might've had an adventure today!

You know how certain music sometimes brings back memories of specific incidents from your past. The nerds have a phrase for it “Music-evoked Autobiographical Memory” or MEAM (pronounced “Me-Am”). So I experienced a MEAM recently. It was a very strong MEAM. The M that E’d the AM was a song from a band called “Tibet to Timbuctu”. The story of this band (which fuses musical instruments and influences from Japan, Tibet, India, the Middle East, Turkey, Spain, Sudan & West Africa) is way more interesting than my little story here and it shows in the interesting fusion music that they have produced. Anyway, I was listening to the track “Lotus Born” while driving in the car the other day. The number is all instrumental and humming with the odd Tibetan lyric. It slowly builds up tempo and climaxes in an incredible crescendo of explosive trumpet, fast tabla, West African guitar, Indian flute and Tibetan lute. That crescendo has always been magic for me and never fails to transport me back to a moment in Canada, many moons ago when I was belting along a country highway in northern Muskoka, Ontario, a 14 ft sea kayak tied to the roof and camping equipment strewn in the back seat. I was thumping the steering wheel in musical ecstasy as the car windows shook and the cheap American car plastic vibrated from the blasting stereo.

I had always thought of Canada as a rugged place ripe with exploration potential and had longed to travel through it one day. When I got the opportunity to base myself in Muskoka, central Ontario for a few months, I jumped at it. I could hardly believe the extent of forests and lakes in this amazing countryside. Did you know that Canada contains 20% of the world’s fresh water? You wouldn’t be surprised to hear that if you took a flight over central Ontario. It is a land of endless forests broken profusely with gleaming lakes and winding rivers. I was enchanted with it immediately, for it is an enchanting land. And a BIG land! Big water, big trees, big animals, big spaces, big forests. Every weekend I was out, with a kayak or a mountain bike or just walking through the many forest areas. Swimming in the rivers and camping under the magnificent pines. My first trip was kayaking down the Gibson river which flowed into the Great Lake Huron. I headed north-west along the Trans Canadian Hwy, which as it’s name suggests, crosses Canada East to West.

I accessed the river through a reservation for the Wahta Mohawk native people. 
I travelled through a few such reservations of aboriginal people through Canada and most of them didn’t differ visually from normal crown land though aboriginal people in Canada have many challenges just like in many places around the world. Apparently the native people on such reservations have quite substantial autonomy to run their own affairs and I found it interesting to travel through and stop in the reservations, meeting locals.

There was no-one in sight where I parked the car so I left it there and carried my kayak and gear through the forest to the water’s edge. I packed my gear into the kayak’s storage hatch, floated the kayak and began my journey. As I paddled lazily downstream, I closed my eyes and said a little prayer to the Manitou (local spirits). I always pray to the local spirits of the land at the start of any journey, in any country, done by any means. But Canada is especially rich in spirit. Throughout my stay and travels in its forests and waters, I could feel the incredible power and presence of the spirits. For me, it is the land of the Manitou.

The Gibson river is about a kilometre wide here with thick pine forests covering both banks and glassy smooth water. It was spring in Canada, the weather was pleasant and the forests were alive with the noise of billions of insects. One thing they forget to mention in the Canadian tourist brochures is the number, size and intensity of the bloody mosquitoes here. Hew-fucken-mungous and per-fucken-sistent fuckers they are! Canadian summers are short and the mozzies go about their blood sucking business with the intensity of a dying man ticking things off a bucket list.

But out in the middle of the river, they leave you alone. And its bliss. I paddle lazily, enjoying the rhythm and serenity. After an hour or so, I came onto a small island and spied, what looked to me like, a tree house. Intrigued, I parked up the kayak and started exploring. Climbing up a tree, I discovered a comprehensive but empty tree house built across 3 big Pine trees. It had 2 small rooms and could easily sleep 5-6 people. It was a bit spooky but I was quite impressed and would’ve loved to spend a night in here. But it was way to early to call it a day and there was much ground (water!) to cover today.

I paddled on through a set of small rapids then stopped for a bit to observe a couple of small turtles frolicking in the water. 

After a few hours of paddling through fairly static water, the flow of the water picked up pace and a dull roar became audible. I was obviously getting close to a big drop in the river, which is always exciting in a kayak! I guessed I was nearing what my map called the “3 rock chute”. I paddled to the rocky shore and went ahead on foot to scout. 

It was a grand sight. The whole river dropped 10M through a narrow, bouldery passage. For a few seconds I imagined what it would be like to run the fall in the kayak. Then images of my crushed and dismembered body floating downstream quickly dispelled any such silliness. I portaged my kayak downstream through the forest and went about exploring the waterfall. Swam for a bit then ate a salami sandwich I’d packed in the morning. It was a magnificent spot and I decided to camp right there in the lee of the waterfall.

There was no-one for miles and I felt completely relaxed and at peace. I didn’t have a watch but the days were long so I walked a bit in the forest and then lazed on the rocks at the riverbank. A previous camper had thoughtfully built a rock fireplace with an iron grille to cook food. I collected some wood, started a fire and grilled the salted meat and bread I’d brought with me. The wood smoke lifted gracefully into the darkening sky and I had a moment of clarity that this, right here, was as good as life gets. I savoured the moment till a mozzie big as a flying cockroach landed on my nose and snapped my daze.

After dinner I went through a typical Canadian camping ritual. Hanging your food up a tree, away from your campsite. This is done to avoid a hungry bear gnawing your willy in the middle of the night, mistaking it for a rank but edible sausage. You don’t want to take anything inside your tent that smells even remotely of food. While there aren’t any Grizzlies in this part of Canada, Black bears are common and can be very ferocious. To avoid the racial argument completely, I’d say regardless of what colour it is, don’t get caught between a hungry bear and food! To better explain this to Australians – Don’t get caught between a Crocodile and the water! Same Same, but different.

I packed all my food into a plastic bag, tied it with some rope and then hung it up a branch on a high tree about 5M off the ground. As I lay in my sleeping bag, the suspense was unbearable (hehe) but I ended up having a sound and restful sleep. In the morning I went back to retrieve the bag and it was as I’d left it, just hanging around. After a quick breakfast of muesli, I packed the kayak and headed further down the Gibson. After a couple of hours I hit a couple of small rapids and then the river started widening. 

In the afternoon I was amazed to see a log-hut on the bank of the river. I couldn’t believe there was human habitation here, in the middle of nowhere. But Canadians are like that, I’ve learnt through experience. They love their log cabins in the bush and retreat into them periodically. There was no sign of anyone as I paddled past but after a while I saw some more, even more comprehensive houses. I realized the Gibson River was nearing its mouth and emptying itself into Lake Huron. And the houses must be holiday cottages accessible only by boat from the Lake. Now when I say “Lake” Huron, it’s really a huge bloody Sea! Americans are renowned for hyperbole and when I first heard of the “Great” lakes I rolled my eyes thinking here we go again. Bloody americans adding “Greatness” to another ordinary natural feature. But the reality is that calling these humungous bodies of water “lakes” smacks of British understatement rather than American exaggeration. I was hugely impressed by the size and beauty of Lake Huron, especially around the Georgian Bay area.

I setup camp under the pines on the shores of the lake and just sat watching a magical sunset fire up the western sky. The manitou were out in force on this beautiful night. Writing this 5 years on, I can still feel their presence on the lake shore that night.

The next day I paddled back up river, which sounds harder than it was as the Gibson river is mostly flat except for the drops, which you portage around. I stopped again at the magnificent "3 Rock Chute" then continued on back to where the journey had started. It was a long, tiring but very fulfilling day of paddling. As I packed the car up and took off, I switched the music to “Lotus Born” again and reflected on my journey. Since then the Gibson River is forever etched in my memory with an inseparable link to the “Lotus Born” song. I cannot think of one without automatically being drawn to the other.