![]() The bloom of wild flowers and swoop of magpies signal that spring has come, and that the snowpack on the main range will be melting fast. Local fruit stands signal a respite and an opportunity to stock up and rehydrate. Herds of grazing cattle pass by as I climb higher into the rolling foothills. Trending inland, I encounter the verdant country that clings to the Bega River. I stop to appreciate these moments, lay my bike on its side, and advance the roll of film to the next frame. As I pedal along I feel the dry katabatic wind rolling off the range, gaze up at the eucalypt canopies above me, and hear the roar of cicadas at dusk. Things that would normally pass by unnoticed suddenly become fascinating. The bike-ski contraption and I weave our way down the coast and inland, savouring every well-earnt kilometre. The next couple of days amalgamate into a blur of quaint fishing towns, open bays, and scenic bivvies. Suddenly I am reminded that all grand voyages in life begin with the most minute of actions – a dream, a map, a push. My hands clasp the polished handlebars and I push down on the pedals with my off-white Reeboks. Here we will exchange rubber for skis and summit Australia’s 10 highest peaks. The plan is to cycle from the southern New South Wales coast inland over the Great Dividing Range and across the sunburnt Monaro to the Snowy Mountains. It’s nothing high tech, but I kind of like that. With skis and backpack fastened along its frame, my vessel for this adventure is a vintage yellow bicycle – a remnant of the ‘90s cycling fad. Together we’ve been sketching up this adventure for the past year, patiently waiting for the right conditions and a break in lockdowns. I hardly look like the expeditionary type I’m wearing a pair of tattered Reeboks, canary shorts, and a climbing helmet. He lends me a humorous grin as I approach. On a map it may seem as simple as a graphite scribble, but as I lower the camera I can sense the magnetic pull of an imminent adventure.įurther up the beach I spot cinematographer Henry Smith crouched over his camera. A deep breath, a light squeeze, and the shutter fires with an audible clunk, preserving the moment. A coastline stretches south over the horizon. Amidst the haze, a jagged monolith rises from the churning Pacific. I blink through the viewfinder hexagonal sun flares reveal dust and blemishes. ![]() I load a roll of film into my weather-beaten Canon AE-1 and wind forward to the first frame. Sleepy fingers fumble with latches and buttons as a crimson hue sweeps away the cool of night. Rays dance through salty mist, illuminating the task before me.
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