Limping to Burketown

I pressed the ignition button and listened to the engine turn over sickly. I tried again, watching the readings on my voltmeter plummet from a healthy 12 volts down to 9 volts, 8.6 volts under load. She was turning over but not fast enough to start.

Sweat rolled down my face. I was all geared up, standing in the bed of the Gregory River in Australia’s remote far North, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

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I tried a couple more times, but always the same: the starter motor wasn’t turning the engine over fast enough to start the bike. With every attempt, the battery was getting flatter. 11.8 volts, 11.2, 10, 9.

I was pretty sure that the battery hadn’t been flat when I’d started, but now doubt started to creep into my mind: maybe the kids playing with my spotlights last night had drained the battery more than I’d thought? The battery was less than a year old so wasn’t due for replacement by any means.

I took off my helmet and jacket and pulled out my jump start pack, hooked it up, hit the ignition again. Same result as before: turning over sickly, not fast enough to start. My jump start pack is rated to jump start V8 cars and small trucks. I looked at it suspiciously: maybe it was a dud unit? I knew it had been fully charged when I left Navarra, and I hadn’t used it since.

I saw a bloke in four wheel drive churning past, so I flagged him down for a second opinion. A flat battery by the sound of it, he reckoned, but he didn’t have jumper leads. So I started walking down the river. Now, you’d be amazed how many people are out there with their kitted-out vehicles and caravans – literally, they have the kitchen sink! – but they don’t have jumper leads. I was thinking I might have to bludge a coathanger and make some (would that work?) when I finally came across a lovely retired couple with jumper leads. We took their Landcruiser up to Beastie, charged the battery for a few minutes and then jumped her off the Landcruiser’s main battery with the engine running. Beastie sprang into life.

I was so relieved. Maybe it was just the battery after all! I knew that if I could make it to Burketown I’d be among friends; no way was I turning off the bike until I got there. I had just enough fuel to make it.

I thanked old mate and frantically repacked my tools and gear as the engine temperature climbed in the still, hot air.

Then I was out of the river bed, and away. It was a bit over a hundred kilometres, across creeks, past wild horses and into greener and greener country. Eventually Burketown came into view: a pub, a shop, an information centre, a servo, and a few houses with disproportionate numbers of utes and boats parked out the front. Burketown is where you go for barra fishing.

I made it to the servo, filled up Beastie, drank some water and took a deep breath. Would she start again? And how would I find my fishing friends? That was the next thing to deal with, but I wasn’t ready to think about it just yet.

I was standing in the shade thinking nothing at all when they rolled into town.