By Liam Adamaitys
Guest Contributor
@ezylee
For years, Liam Adamaitys dot-watched the Hunt 1000 and dreamed of participating. When his brother agreed to join him for the 2024 edition of the race, the pair dove in head-first. In this piece, Liam shares the story of their ride, highlights his experience of navigating anxiety when things didn’t go to plan, and reflects on taking the good with the bad. Read it here…
To get it out of the way, I did not complete the Hunt 1000. I didn’t roll into Melbourne with a sense of pride and achievement. Instead, I was left with mixed feelings of emptiness and guilt that would loom for some time after leaving the event.
For years, I was a dot watcher of the Hunt 1000. From its very first year, I watched from the comfort of my computer screen in awe of those putting themselves out there in the extreme elements and digging deep to complete one of the hardest organised bikepacking events in Australia. Through the years, I congratulated my friends who crossed the finishing line and listened intently to their stories of adventure and misadventure. With hearing these stories, there was always the question, “Will I ever ride the Hunt 1000? Will I be able to tell my own stories of this great adventure?”
I would classify myself as a novice when it comes to bikepacking. Up until signing up for the Hunt in 2024, I had only a small number of trips to my name, nothing greater than an overnighter, and of those none were “epic” or “character building,” but what they were was a lot of fun and a great excuse to get out into the wilderness with my brother Marty, which always left me with fond memories. One day, whilst out on a ride with Marty, the idea of giving the Hunt 1000 a go came into our conversation. “Hey, did you want to give the Hunt 1000 a go this year?” And just like that, it was locked in.
The thought of riding from Canberra to Melbourne with Marty was exciting; he has always had a knack for seeking adventure for as long as I can remember. When we were young kids, he would often venture off for the entire day to explore the mountain close to where we grew up, and even now, he can’t sit on a couch without wanting to be “out there.” This is the sort of person you want to be with you on one of the biggest adventures of your life. He will point out things you overlook and notice small birds and animals camouflaged in the bush. He will see the little things and speak to them with a genuine fondness that makes each day that much richer.
Once I was registered for the Hunt 1000, it became an obsession for someone with a brain like mine. I will knowingly overthink things a little too much. There was not a day that went past when I didn’t think about the event. My Karate Monkey had an ever-changing appearance as I tried various handlebars, saddles, tyres, and forks. I bought and sold bags to find the setup that worked for me and my particular need for things to be exactly where I wanted them to be. I visited BIKEPACKING.com every day over a morning coffee, reading about the latest adventures from around the world and studying the “Rigs of” series in great detail. I employed a coach to develop a training schedule at the gym to get my body ready. My normal weekend hit-outs at the local mountain bike park parted ways in favour of rides with a focus on elevation, distance, and hike-a-bike. I discussed the idea of riding the Hunt with friends, family, and even strangers. I considered, reconsidered, and obsessed over every element of it. My brain would not stop.
Eventually, the day arrived. With bikes packed, food and water onboard, and freshly baked cookies from our mum, Marty and I rode away from our hometown with our sights and minds set on Melbourne. The first half of day one was filled with conversations about the adventure ahead, what we were looking forward to the most on the ride, the challenges we were going to face, and, more importantly, what our first meal and beer would be once we hit Melbourne. We were getting a little bit ahead of ourselves, but these chats helped calm the first-day nerves as our legs found their rhythm.
Day one reminded us that we were heading deep into the Australian wilderness: we saw platypuses, kangaroos, snakes, deafening cicadas, deer, and wild horses. Whilst we were eating dinner at our first campsite, we watched as a dingo strutted back and forth around our camp, sniffing out what we were having for dinner and howling through the night in search of a partner. We were out there.
After a couple of days out on the course, we started getting into a good routine. We woke up with the birds and packed up camp as efficiently as possible whilst discussing the plan for the day ahead. I analysed the course map on my phone for water points, long climbs, and good spots for snack breaks. There were times when Marty and I would have to make decisions about the day together, discuss whether we aim for our end-of-day campsite goal or push on to further ourselves along the course and make the next day easier. These decisions always worked out well for us, and we would always comment that each decision we made felt like the right one. We were backing ourselves as a team, and it felt good. Our bodies were feeling great. We were eating well, moving forward, and taking in the sights with smiles on our faces, often in awe of where our bikes were taking us.
The fifth day out on the course arrived after some broken sleep. After pushing further the day before in blistering heat and hunting for a suitable spot to make camp late in the day, we had to set up camp on the side of a lightly used 4WD track that was also in the middle of an active game trail. During the night, I was awoken by an almighty short and sharp scream that echoed through the mountains. I had never heard anything like it before, and my mind was working overtime to work out exactly what was surrounding our tents. Marty must have sensed I was awake and reassured me it was just the deer communicating to each other that something strange was in their environment. Cheekily, it seemed that the deer sensed each time I was nodding off to sleep and would sound their haunting alarm again. Sleep never came that night.
Bleary-eyed, we set off to Omeo, the unofficial halfway point of the Hunt 1000, where we could resupply, wash clothes, and fuel the body with some decent food. It was a welcome break, and with phone reception, it gave us a chance to assess what was on the horizon for the next half of the ride. My mind turned to a 66-kilometre section known as the Cobbler Track, a gruelling 3,170-metre climb that takes riders to the top of the Mt Buller ski resort. I checked the weather to see what sort of conditions we would be tackling it in, and it wasn’t looking good. The forecast was for heavy rain. My heart sank.
Our good luck with the weather up to this point was about to change, but I was hoping the forecast was wrong. After repacking our bikes with fresh supplies and freshly washed clothes, we turned in early in our hotel room. Surely, a good night’s sleep was on the cards, but unfortunately, my brain couldn’t switch off. The thought of tackling the Cobbler Track in soaking conditions had me wired. I could sense some anxiety starting to build—something that has plagued me for quite some time.
After an early start to coincide with the opening of the local café, we left Omeo well fed and caffeinated and started the long road climb to the Mt Hotham ski resort. A few hours in, a truck pulled us up to notify us that a sinkhole had appeared in the road up ahead, and we wouldn’t be able to get through. My mind started to shift a little, and things started to feel odd as we saw cars coming back towards us that had passed us moments before. When we were able to get some phone reception, we checked in on The Hunt group chat and were informed the course darts off the tarmac just before the sinkhole—it was business as usual.
Following a long day of climbing, we made it to the highest point on the course before we ducked off onto the Twins Jeep Track, where we made camp for the night at one of the most impressive campsites I have had the privilege of pitching a tent on. As the day came to an end, we looked over layers upon layers of mountains that make up the Victorian High Country. Marty was trying to identify the well-known mountains in the distance as I sat on and observed with my mind on the Cobbler Track, which we would be at the foot of in less than 24 hours.
The next morning was routine. We packed up camp and headed off on the Twins Jeep Track, unaware that this would be one of the more challenging sections of the ride so far, not only because of the impending weather but also because the surface quality meant that full concentration was needed for navigating the track. This was highlighted a few kilometres in when I had a fall trying to cross from one side of the 4WD track to the other to find a smoother line through the baby-head rocks. My front wheel slipped out from underneath me, and before I knew it, I was on the ground with the contents of my feed bags strewn out like a neighbourhood garage sale.
As I picked myself up, I felt a little twist in my ankle. It was nothing major, thankfully, but then I noticed my fork rack had snapped a bolt and was swinging around, which needed repairs before continuing. Looking back on it, this is when things in my head started to unravel and doubt started to set in. A couple of hours later, the looming clouds opened up with the promised rain. Within a few minutes, I was completely soaked through. I made the mistake of not putting my light rain jacket on and relying on my vest to keep me warm; my inexperience started to show itself.
The rain got heavier and heavier, and the ground became thick and claggy. The kilometres were slow, and my tired legs started to burn with the extra effort needed to push forward. My bike’s drivetrain was coated with a layer of grit, and every pedal stroke created a grinding noise to the point where I was using precious filtered water to try and clean the chain and cassette. As we rode on, the muddy trail under our tyres turned into rivers, and our disc brakes sizzled with the falling rain as we tried to control our bikes through the challenging terrain. There were sections where the descents tipped past 20 percent and we had to dismount and tackle it on foot. The surface had become incredibly slippery, with some very close calls as we guided our heavy bikes down the steep gradients.
As we pushed on into the late afternoon, we started to think about what sort of condition the campsite was going to be in with the amount of rain that had settled in. The nights of setting up camp in dry conditions were definitely behind us as the rain had well and truly set in and would be constant for the next few days leading into the Mt Cobbler to Mt Buller section of the Hunt 1000. In the dry, most people tackled that particular stretch in about a day and a half. This was all playing on my mind as we pushed on through the rain.
When we were within a few kilometres of the campsite, we were waved down by some other riders who had taken shelter in an old shed on a property. We debated whether to continue riding to the rain-soaked campground or huddle up under the dilapidated shed. Eventually, given the soggy and testing conditions, we decided to take advantage of the shelter under the shed, which I’m sure the local rat population probably wasn’t too happy about. As we started unpacking our gear, we discovered rain had seeped through everything, and most of our gear was soaked. Marty’s tent, his dry oats (which had turned to cold, claggy porridge), and my warm clothes were all victims of the relentless rain. With the weather outlook being rain, rain, and more rain, all of our belongings would be wet from here on in. The rain was set to continue for another five days, when we were due to reach Melbourne. My heart began to sink.
I sat in the dank shed looking out as the rain fell around us, and the sound of the rain against the rusty roof sent me into a negative trance. My mind turned to thoughts of navigating hike-a-bike sections of slippery clay while rivers washed down the 4WD tracks. My stomach started to churn, and my chest was feeling tight—all signs that anxiety was taking hold. With the other soaked riders crammed in the shed and discussing their exit strategies, I struggled to find the space to calm myself down and bring my thoughts back to what I had trained so hard for leading up to this ride. My anxiety became more than I could bear, and I asked Marty if we could ride out to the closest town rather than push on in the wet and challenging conditions. After some discussions (and a bit of a breakdown from me), he agreed to join me on the ride to town the next day, which would be our last day out on the course.
A couple of days later, I was home. Instead of completing the Hunt 1000, I was back to where it all started all those years ago; I became a dot watcher and watched others push on in the conditions I couldn’t face. The looming feeling that I had let myself down and, more importantly, the feeling I had let my brother down wouldn’t leave me for some time.
Whilst the end of our ride arrived with the emptiness of unfinished business, in hindsight, there were so many positive things to take away from the experience. The beauty and remoteness of the Australian high country, the clear rivers where we sourced water, the small handful of people we met along the way and shared the trail with, and the satisfaction of getting to the top of a long climb. However, my most important takeaway was the time spent with Marty. Our friendship and bond grew in those challenging days out there on our version of the Hunt 1000. For that, I am so grateful. Thanks for an incredible ride, Marty!
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