As the Bard once noted: “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.” I believed that somehow, even though spin classes terrify me, newfound greatness would be thrust upon me if I threw myself into a four-day mountain biking trip in Queensland’s Great Dividing Range.
Though I’ve now returned to the relative safety of my day-to-day life, nursing bruised legs and ego, I’m very aware of the fact that I didn’t achieve such greatness — but that doesn’t mean there was no greatness to be had. In fact, the spectacular outdoors adventure has left me hooked on cycling, and I’m itching to get back on the trails, albeit something a little less advanced to kick off with.
The new Hidden Peaks Trail eco-adventure tour hosted by Spicers Retreats follows the diverse and historic landscapes of Queensland’s gorgeous, and often overlooked, Scenic Rim region. Not to be confused with the Spicers Scenic Rim Trail, a popular guided hike, this relatively new 110-kilometre cycling journey created by Graham ‘Scroo’ Turner and his wife Jude is not for the weak of heart (or buttocks), despite the comfort of the eco-luxury accommodation provided over the three nights.
While it’s recommended upfront that participants require a decent level of fitness, the true recipe for success here also includes a history of recreational cycling, and at least a pinch of mountain biking expertise. A keen appreciation for local flora and fauna also wouldn’t go astray as the trails wind up, down and across some uniquely Australian terrain, including enticing gum woodland, golden grassy fields, and ancient Gondwana rainforests. But let’s start at the beginning.
Hitting the trails
It’s a Friday morning and my new cycling buddies and I are enjoying the air-conditioned comfort of a Mercedes Benz shuttle bus as it transports us from Brisbane through the sun soaked Lockyer Valley. Our driver, Sam, is a tall and ginger-haired outdoors enthusiast who doubles up as one of the trail’s guides, and would later that day regale me with stories of his best ‘stacks’ while bandaging the fresh scrapes on my leg.
After arriving at the beautiful Spicers Peak Lodge in Maryvale, our sunny spring morning turns grey and drizzly, and we seek comfort in the warm foyer of the main Lodge. We change into our active wear — a variety of colourful tights, sensibly padded pants and red lycra — and the group enjoy tea and coffee while looking out at the great views surrounding the Lodge. Nearby a roaring fire crackles and we can’t help but ask somewhat seriously if we can just camp here with a book for the weekend. A rugged looking guide with a warm grin, otherwise known as Al, laughs away the glib request before directing us back out into the cold to introduce us to our bikes.
Presented with our own helmets and backpacks, complete with water bladder and cycling gloves, I nervously cosy up to a medium Merida 140 dual-suspension bike. The beast has twice the suspension and thrice the gears I’ve ever seen on other bikes — starting with my good friend the ‘granny gear’ for the steeper hills, to a maximum thigh burning setting that I avoided using for the duration of the trip.
After a few basic circles around the Lodge, my Merida and seem to be hitting it off, and I keenly roll with the group through a cowpat-ridden paddock towards the practice circuit. We’re led through it by our spirited guide for the next three days, a young competitive mountain bike racer named Karmen, who tells us how to master leaning into the many ‘berms’ (raised tight corners) and ‘whoa-boys’ (dirt embankments) dotted throughout the course.
No sooner had I commenced the circuit did I realise that enthusiasm alone wasn’t going to be sufficient for today’s fairly technical twenty kilometres. We set off down the nearby Brumby Trail, with no signs of the actual brumby that resides in the area, but with plenty of steep hills and loose soil for the group to cut their teeth on. Karmen advises me that the trickiness of the early track can be off-putting to beginners, but that it should level out soon.
Soon enough, I start to enjoy longer stretches without needing to dismount and walk, whizzing past gum trees and trusting the bike to handle the sustained bumpiness of the rugged terrain. I soak up the warm eucalypt air, while the sharp song of whipbirds and the yowl of cockatoos egg me on. The trail leads us down to a hidden gorge, only discovered five years ago, where we continue on foot and try to spot an endangered brush-tailed rock wallaby.
No such luck, but we appreciate the breather sitting atop lofty basalt walls, while the stream swirls and bubbles below.
Back in the saddle, we are greeted by more beautiful surrounds, winding inclines, and my new nemesis — the single track. As I struggle to keep my bike wheels within the narrowing trail, I’m advised to keep looking straight ahead rather than succumb to peeking at the nearby shrubbery, giant rock, or hill edge, lest the bike decide to follow my gaze. Naturally, I now clumsily gawk at each potential obstruction, and much shrieking and tyre skidding ensues. More experienced riders glide along ahead with relative ease, soaking in the gorgeous dappled sunlight and lush forest.
As we pedal towards our lunch spot — the historic emptied out Cummins Hut — my inexperience catches up with me. Tiredness worsens my coordination, and I experience the first of numerous ungraceful tumbles. Not long after, two of my fellow travellers tip their bikes and also become acquainted with the forest floor, but in doing so they teach me how to avoid the worst from a fall (“just roll with it!”).
Despite falling behind, I eventually manage to re-join the others at the designated lunch spot where we enjoy a picnic of wraps, fruit, tea, coffee, and much-needed Gatorade in the peaceful bush setting. After replenishing our electrolytes, the group then makes the steady ascent to the broad ridgeline, before making our way down into the unspoiled valley, the grass glistening gold in the warm afternoon sunlight, as we arrive at our first night’s accommodation — Canopy Eco Lodge.
Standing majestically, as though they were a regiment saluting our efforts, are ten
safari-style tents decked out with wooden floors, personal robes and king-size beds. I kick off my muddied shoes, and marvel at the breathtaking views of rolling hills and ancient volcanic plateaus. After a glorious shower, fresh bandages, and a decadent three-course dinner, I join the others basking in the relaxing glow of the fireplace, sipping wine on pillowy couches and discussing everything from puppies to macroeconomics.
Exhausted, I slip away to my own personal glamp-site where I discover a hot water bottle has been placed under-sheet during dinner. Shortly after I doze off, a rainstorm erupts outside, causing the tent walls to pulse and snap; but curled up in my large soft bed I still feel safe and warm from the tempest raging just beyond the canvas. The next morning the rainclouds have cleared, and while many others remark that they had a rough night,
I feel glad that I am at least skilled at something — sleeping.
During a hearty cooked breakfast, Karmen and Sam explain that the weather has rendered elements of today’s twenty-kilometre trail unrideable, as our wheels would immediately be caked in inches of mud. We swap our Meridas for a bumpy four-wheel drive journey along the World Heritage Listed Spicers Gap Road, and then walk 150 metres along an historic cobblestone trail, through grand old gums and she-oaks, up to the Governors Chair lookout. We pause there for a while and snap the view as the vast majesty of the valley unfolds before our eyes.
Then it’s back to the bikes for the six-kilometre gravelly descent that gives way to a delightfully flat bitumen road. We follow along the trail, conscious of incoming cars despite the considerable cow-to-car ratio, before turning off onto a grassy shaded track leading to the gates of our next stop at Hidden Peaks Eco Camp. We jump off the bikes, yelp as we rub our bruised backsides and relax by the communal outdoor fireplace in the most high-end beanbags I’ve ever melted into.
As we tuck into a lunch of meat pies, Sam and Karmen hurriedly prepare our six charming red gum cabins, each with bunk beds, ensuite, and personal fireplace. Showers are taken in strict five-minute intervals, and the mandatory use of environmentally friendly Spicers soap leaves the cabins smelling of lemongrass and myrtle. After a rustic dinner of barbequed burgers, we sip wine on the verandah under a blanket of stars; each raising various items of clothing to reveal our respective battle scars from the past forty-eight hours.
Exchanging impressed nods and empathetic “phwoars”, I half expect the group to burst into song like the iconic Jaws sing-along with Robert Shaw, Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss (“Show me the way to go home!”). Eventually we retire to bed, the next day’s sixty-kilometre ride serving as our own great white shark. Come daybreak, we stir in our sleeping bags as the sun creeps through the cabin windows and surrounding birdsong eases us into wakefulness. The serenity of this place in the early morning is second to none; not even the grass stirs.
For a moment, as I sit out on our personal verandah with my first steaming cuppa, my mind is as effortlessly silent as the atmosphere — a miracle for any busy Sydneysider. The peaceful feeling remains throughout eight invigorating hours of bike riding across the glorious Bicentennial National Trail, traversing the quiet bitumen hills and dirt roads at the foothills of the Great Dividing Range. Suddenly it becomes clear where the Scenic Rim got its name as we follow magnificent panoramic hills along the horizon, while whistling kites and wedge-tailed eagles circle overhead.
Day three is a long day, during which backsides beg for mercy, but with less technical difficulty, and I soon gain greater confidence along with firmer quadriceps, and a swish new riding glove tan. The main challenge comes around sundown as we wearily turn off onto the neighbouring fields to our next accommodation. Undulating hills attach themselves to longer, larger hills, and exhaustion can easily take hold — lots of sugar and water is advised. One final spin through the trip’s penultimate single track gets a bit hairy, with a few twists, vexing hillsides and obnoxious rocks, but waiting at the end are the lovely self-sustaining Hideaway Cabins.
Here day three draws to a close with T-bone steaks, a cheeky Shiraz, and another deep sleep. The most rustic of all the stops, Hideaway Cabins combines similar yet smaller duplex-style log cabins with bunks, and a communal bathroom block. Out here, each sunset seems to produce swathes of new stars twinkling overhead, the silence of space perfectly complementing the tranquil Australian outback.
The last morning provides a light continental breakfast to save room for the afternoon’s gourmet lunch at the Chef-Hat awarded Homage restaurant. So for now, it’s tea and toast, while a nearby wallaby basks in the warmth of the morning sun. With a slight wince, we set our bruised derrières back onto the bike seat and finish off the trip with twelve kilometres through the famous Hidden Vale Adventure Park in Grandchester.
Trails with names like The Ripple Effect and Plane Sailing take the group winding through bumpy single tracks and past the wreckage of an old plane crash, until the journey concludes in Spicers Hidden Vale. We celebrate with Champagne and lunch under the shade of a large blue gum before boarding the shuttle for the journey back to Brisbane. After four days of outdoor adventure, luxury accommodation, and challenging moments, I leave with a hardened resolve to get back on the bike, tame my monkey mind, and master those single tracks.
The writer travelled courtesy of the Spicers Hidden Peaks Trail.
