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Part three of the East Coast Hot Spots DVD trip sees the boys make a break for the coast.

Words by Jonh Rooth
Photography by Robb Cox

Last month saw us about two-thirds of the way through our big Coffs adventure, and we still hadn't been anywhere near a beach despite having seen a few from the hills. I guess that shows the incredible diversity of 4WDing available around here. Which is a bit like the food. The day before had seen us breakfasting at McDonald's, lunching on ham sangers in the bush and topping the day off with a big Indian feed at the Temple Restaurant in Woolgoolga. Yet, in between that lot, we'd climbed tracks as scary as the CREB in the wet and pulled our own little Malaysian Rainforest recovery after battling it out with the 'Impossible'.

Hmm, which is about where I was next morning - having my own private battle with an impossible. Boy, that Indian food, eh? No wonder nobody wanted a ride in Milo. The lads were excited though, because today we were heading off to explore Yuraygir National Park. There are turn-offs to the park all the way down the coast from Maclean to Red Rock, and you'll find it sign-posted off the Wooli Road, the Brooms Head Road and from about 10km north of Arrawarra. We took the latter turn - the southernmost one - which'd be around 45km north of Coffs Harbour. It was not without a few desperate moments, and not because of bubbling curry either. Set up right on the turn off the Pacific Highway were a couple of Department of Transport vehicles, and as Pat swung Otis's 35s on to the dirt, you could almost hear his nether-regions puckering up as he put on his best taxpayer's smile and motored on.

Possibly too stunned by the vision of a blue Zook flashing past, the transport guys didn't react at all. That's a good thing, because despite Otis being legally registered, there's always the chance of problems when you're driving a heavily modified vehicle anywhere near these guys. But like good government employees everywhere, they must have been on a tea break about then. The southern access to Yuraygir is a bit deceptive, because unless you're armed with local information, you'd probably figure the graded roads led to the Station Creek area and Pebbly Beach Campground, and that was it. In fact, Yuraygir consists of three separate sections covering over 60km of mostly undeveloped coast and hinterland. However, it is possible if you know what you're doing - or have a full tank and a big sense of adventure - to explore much of the area using un-signposted backtracks forged through the bush. So that's what we did, starting at the 'key' statue erected by a Lithuanian tightrope walker called Slovenski. This strange apparition stands not far off the main track to Station Creek and resembles a boab tree with a legless bloke standing on top.

That's the nice description; it looks like a large penis from most angles, according to the Handbrake. Dunno how she'd know what a large one looks like, but. This Slovenski chap came to the forest looking for solitude in the 1960s and earned himself a reputation as a fearless axeman - mostly because he worked nude. When he wasn't cutting timber he exercised his balancing skills on cables stretched between the trees 40ft or more in the air, so it's no wonder the guy built a name for himself. Rumour has it that Slovenski is still alive and living somewhere near Halfway Creek. If anyone can confirm that, we'd love to hear more. Feeling all chuffed up and intellectual after our little historical interlude, we decided to belt up the worst-looking track Kev could find, just for the hell of it!

Thanks to the rain that'd fallen the week before, the ground was soggy, and within a few hundred metres we were looking at the mother of all bogholes stretching 50m or so up the track. On flat ground, and with trees either side, these holes can be very deceptive because the water rarely clears enough to see the bottom. Most of the time a side track indicates a fair-dinkum monster, and unless you're a hard-bitten mud-plugger travelling in a convoy, the only thing to do is go depth-checking with a long stick first. Somebody had already carved an alternative track through the trees on this one, but it looked pretty rugged too, so without thinking too hard - and with a grin slightly bigger than a size-12 foot on a V6 pedal - Editor Pat punted Otis straight into the muck...

...and shot out the other end pushing a mud bow-wave over the bonnet, no problems at all. Milo was next, and after locking the rear diff for insurance, we romped in at a much slower pace. The fat Cooper STTs dug in and threw a sluice of mud out both sides, and even though the old truck slowed down towards the end, it kept moving forwards all the way out. A sudden cold rush around the feet made me look down - just in time to see the mud pouring in through the vent flap. Ah well, that's why us Queenslanders wear thongs and drill holes in the floor of our trucks, isn't it? Beats the hell out of wearing holes and drilling thongs anyway. Talking about Lowmount, he was right on Milo's clacker, churning through the muck like a dumpster shoving rubbish. The 100 Series was once again making progress through the toughest stuff look too easy - a tribute to the ARB Air Lockers both ends, good rubber and brilliant suspension. In fact, the only time Lowmount looked even mildly fazed was when the tracks closed in from regrowth and the fat body started copping a few scratches. That's the Toyota I'm talking about, not Mark.

Bringing up the rear, Kevvy put the HiLux through pretty easily using momentum rather than lockers, relying on those grippy Coopers to make the difference. He must have made it look a bit too easy though, because by now a crowd of blokes had materialised on the track behind us, ready to plunge their own vehicles through the mud. There must have been 20 or so blokes in half-a-dozen trucks, and having watched Kev drive the puddle, they lobbed in to have a go, too. The first couple made it easily with plenty of speed, but the third, an older HiLux driven by Matt from Tweed Heads, bogged halfway and wasn't going anywhere. Matt had approached the bog with more caution than his mates, and the combination of pumped-up, bald tyres and not much speed saw him stop quicker than a nudist in a paddock full of cacti. The 'Lux didn't sink so much as just refuse to move, so after running through rule number one of the recovery handbook - always use the other bloke's snatch strap - Pat hooked Otis up and snatched Matt to safety. The price of this recovery? Poor Matt had to wear all the rubbishing from his mates standing off to the sidelines as Pete Hardin filmed the recovery for our DVD. "Geez mate, they're making a dickhead out of ya on TV!" yelled one liberally lubricated passenger over the lip of his morning-smoko Bundy. "They all did it easy; you got stuck like a mug!"

It wasn't fair comment. The fact is Matt was driving his work ute on holiday, and while it might have been a 4WD, it was our team that had the lockers and the big tyres. Of course, we made it look easy, that's what good gear is all about! With the HiLux dragged clear, we turned to see who'd come through next. It was an old Holden Drover, the high-roofed narrow Suzuki that was re-badged over here in an effort to make people think it wasn't a toy. With no room inside for more than a couple of blokes and a sixpack, the lads had loaded up the roof-rack pretty severely, making it look about twice as high as it was wide. I figured for sure these guys would chance the side track first, but no. With the mudhole lined with drunken mates still cheering the HiLux rescue, they lobbed straight in with maximum mumbo - okay, so we're talking power production of the sort needed to pluck the skin off a ripe banana here. After a series of tail-wagging lurches that threatened to turn the little truck over, the Drover popped out the other side no worries at all. Momentum - and a narrower track than the vehicles who'd made this mess - had saved the day. These lads were out having a fair-dinkum adventure. Mostly from the Tweed Heads region, these guys had spent the best part of a week camping, fishing, surfing and 4WDing around the Yuraygir area. Now, with a couple of days still up their sleeves, they'd decided to work their way back through the bush and along the beach as far north as they could, before finding the highway home. One of them had done a similar trek before and popped out somewhere south of Wooli, so armed with nothing but a bunch of old fourbies and a lot of guts - and several cartons of 'essential provisions', of course - they were working their way north. Tell you what, it sure looked like they were having fun doing it, too! Old trucks can force a way through tight bush with not much more damage than having to put up with that fingernail-across-a-blackboard sound that always leaves its mark.

That's why Pat and I soon found we were leaving the new 100 Series and HiLux well behind as the tracks got more grown-over and tightened up again. Finally, after avoiding peeling the 100's doors off by a few thou' yet again, Lowmount called Kev up on the UHF and asked him how the HiLux was faring. "Not good, mate, not if you want to take it home with paint on, anyway. I'm a fair bit behind you as it is. Do ya know where the other lads are?" Pat made the call from up front. We'd figured that with Milo and Otis pushing through the bush first, there'd be enough room to get the new vehicles through without too much damage, but obviously that wasn't the case. Despite side bars and steps, and all the terrific rock-and-branch protection offered by same, it was the little lantana creepers and spring-loaded twigs that were causing unnecessary damage to the paint. We decided to pull out and head for the coast instead.

Despite the fact that my dad retired down this end of the world 20 years ago and I've been a regular visitor ever since, I'd never gone any further into Yuraygir than the picnic area and the track to the beach. The Station Creek area is a beauty, with plenty of grassy sites under the trees and some of the cockiest kookaburras this side of Parliament House. The tables beckoned, and with gas levels subsiding as last night's curries passed the point of no return, we took time out for lunch. Kev broke out the snags, and while he fought the kookaburras to get them on the barbie, we caught up on some segment filming. This was made even harder by the poles restricting vehicle access, which seemed to have bred out of control since last time I was here.

Gee, our tax dollars at work again, eh? Let's not let people wear out the grass - at least, not until the developers have bulldozed the lot a few years down the track anyway. After lunch, we motored down the track to the beach, hemmed in by poles all the way, of course. It's no hard drive by any means, but if a bloke was loaded up with kids and camping gear, he'd be wise to let his tyres down first to cope with the soft sand on the final approach. It's got to be done anyway if you intend heading north to Pebbly Beach, because while the beach at low tide is usually firm, like all sand driving, you only need to find one soft spot to be stopped. Not that long ago, the beach could be driven in both directions, but as it's become more popular - especially during the summer holidays - access has been severely limited. Now vehicles aren't permitted anywhere south of the access track, and access to Pebbly Beach itself is restricted to boat-launching duties only. This, of course, makes sense in a friendly 'Man From The Government' sort of way - the idea being that more people are travelling here, so let's limit the space they've got to travel in!

Why? The old argument used to be that vehicles trashed the environment, but that's started to wear a bit thin since even the office bound crap-generators began to realise that every time there's a decent storm the whole beach shifts anyway. Like a school blackboard, you could cover a foreshore with tracks only to see the lot rubbed out by rain and wind as the sand shifts yet again. No, now the rationale is to protect the habitat of supposedly threatened shorebird populations of little terns, beach stone curlew and oystercatchers. That's what the sign says and what the roped-off bits of beach (virtually all of it) near Station Creek are supposed to do - let these little fellas breed in peace. Yep, so it'd take an incredibly cynical and sarcastic bastard to suggest that fencing off a few hundred metres of sand close to the camping ground is going to make diddly-squat difference when it's not even a 'poofteenth' of the available nesting grounds in this massive stretch of coastline. I can't help thinking that silly little tactics like this are more about making city people feel good that something's been done to 'protect the environment'. This is while they turn their backs on the developers ripping everything out and bulldozing the rest of the coast to build more air-conditioned boxes.

No worries, flatten the best bits of the lucky country and concrete it happy in the knowledge 'something's been done' to protect the little tern. It's a lucky little bastard, though. Pebbly Beach is so pretty I reckon I'd almost have gotten the old nesting urge myself if it wasn't for that Arby fridge full of coldies at home demanding so much tender, loving care. The beach itself is reached after plunging through Station Creek - taking note of the tide, which determines the depth, obviously - and climbing up a set of boards placed by the Parks and Wildlife people aimed at reducing wear and tear on the environment. Yep, I'd be worried about protecting the sand sides of a tidal creek 30m from the mighty Pacific Ocean. Then I'd be worried about where the hell my boards have gone after every decent storm. The Pebbly Beach campsite - neatly fenced, of course; got to save the trees so we can cut them down to build more fences - is right on the beach and equipped with one of the best toilet blocks that veterans of a big Indian feed could ever hope for. A big wooden building tucked in the foothills behind the beach, it offers a view to die for. That's a good thing, because anyone who ventured there after me probably would have.

Yep, despite the ridiculous restrictions, the camping ground at Pebbly Beach must rate as one of the best 'bush camps' anywhere on the coast. For that reason, it's always advisable to contact the National Parks and Wildlife Service's Grafton office to check on site availability if you're visiting during peak times. It's worth checking in first anyway, because there are plenty of other restrictions that could see your average Aussie forking out fines for doing what comes naturally around here, too. As part of the Solitary Islands Marine Park - wonder if it has built little fences under the water to discourage the boaties yet? - there are restrictions on recreational fishing north of Pebbly Beach, for instance. But we weren't here to fish; we had a DVD to finish. We also had a couple of fridges full of tinnies to lighten before the trip home and one more meal to blacken in the pot. So while the camera guys worked hard capturing the beauty of the place and the other lads went looking for firewood to see us through another chilly night, I hooked in to rummaging through the last of our tucker to see what could be done food-wise.

Hmm, looks like it'll be the cornflakes and camp pie tonight then, eh? Might crack open another beer first. The next day, after we'd said our goodbyes and the Sydney guys were heading south, I turned right on the Pacific and began the long drive home. Long? Damn, Brisbane - like Sydney - is only half a day from Coffs Harbour when the traffic's up! Compared to driving halfway across the country - our usual form here at 4WD Action - this trip should have been a doddle. And it would have been too, except Milo wouldn't do more than 40km/h without shaking so badly she felt like she was about to jump off the road. That driveshaft I'd bent on day one, noticeable even in low-range, just didn't want to know about this highway-cruising caper. At least I had plenty of time to remember all the incredible country we'd driven over the last week or so. Was it only a week? Damn, it felt like a month! Sure, the big-name outback treks cop all the glory when it's time to spout off around the campfire, but I'll tell you right now - there's as good or better 4WDing to be had within a few hours of Coffs Harbour for sure.

And all that's done is remind me once again that no matter how many years a bloke spends travelling this wonderful country, there's always something else to be found. And sometimes it's just down the road!

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