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Published: October 4th 2012
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We were headed up North from Cairns on our way to the tip when we made our way into Lakefield National Park towards Old Faithful Waterhole campsite. The drive in was dry and the roads were well maintained with a few corrugations, I could feel the relaxation spreading through my bones already. The great outdoors, is there any place you would rather be? Our campsite was revealed after a good drive through bushland that was literally burning before our eyes - wildfires everyhwere. I decided not to be alarmed by this and to assume the tough outer shell of a real Aussie bush camper. Besides, we were going to a waterhole which would provide refuge in the event of a full blown bush fire. Eventually, beyond the charred eucalypts and thick smokey air, we found our oasis. Right on the Normanby River.
I took a walk along the river to stretch my legs and enjoy the beautiful sights along the river bank, greenery so lush and what I imagined to be a mulitude of fish for us to fail to catch, yet again. The prospects were exciting and I knew we had made the right decision to stop over at
this campsite. Within 5 minutes of arriving, I had mentally began to transform myself into the bush poet I had always wanted to be and was seriously considering buying an Akubra upon my reluctant return to civilisation. I imagined I would tell the tale of a woman, a free spirit, at one with nature who had finally realised that material posessions were a thing for the weak. I would become famous, at least in Far North Queensland. This was a niche that had not been discovered yet and I was going to leave my nursing career to become Far North Queensland's most acclaimed female bush poet.
As I wandered up the banks of the normanby, thinking fondly of my fallen comrades Lawson and Patterson, I suddenly saw a huge crocodile cruising down the river - which promptly disappeared when it became aware of me. I instinctively froze in Jurassic Park style, thinking of those wise words from Sam Neill,
"It can't see us if we don't move"
and then decided to run away was a better option. I immediately returned to the car and began sizing up the roof racks to fit our double swag tonight. Brad decided I was being ridiculous and we set up
our campsite in the allotted area, right at the top of a boat accessible area of the bank (more like croc accessible, if you ask me). I gazed longingly at the charred forest behind us - maybe I had judged it too early. It now looked like pure heaven to me and I yearned to drag the swag over into the blackened sanctuary away from the river bank. Nervously, I patrolled the area until sun down, checking the boat ramp at even intervals. I froze intermittently when, in the light at dusk, something that looked like a man eating crocodile turned out to be just a log upon closer inspection.
After catching one fish that was too small to eat and spending a bit of time envying our fellow campers in their dingy catching huge Barramundi by the boatful, we lit a fire and settled into our swag for the night. I wanted to sleep with a knife under my pillow in case I was required to get all Crocodile Dundee during the night. However knowing that we only had a tiny pocket knife that should never, ever be associated with Crocodile Dundee's name, I settled for leaving "Doug"
(our shovel) and "Mullet" (our mallet) just outside the swag in case of an ambush. Having had a few (and many more) nervous beers before bedtime, I was feeling good about the prospect of sleeping in the comfort of the swag and knew it was unlikely a crocodile would attack during the night.
After a solid 2 hours of beer induced sleep, I awoke to the sound of crocodile noises echoing down the river back and forth and a rustle of leaves in the campsite. It was then that I realised I was stone cold sober, painfully busting from all the beer and that the presence of Doug and Mullet was no comfort at all. I imagined what the croc's were saying to each other as they began their nightly hunt, ''Get a load of these 2 in their swag on the ground, right near the boat ramp. Did you see their Victorian number plates?! Rookies..." With the canvas top of the swag open, I began a careful survey of the campsite with my torch through the fly wire as Brad slept on. The noises were getting louder and I had decided. I was out. I had lost my nerve and couldn't remain in the swag any longer. With adrenaline flowing through my veins, I woke Brad from his comatose state and told him I was bailing, quickly unzipped the swag and made a stealth dash for the car tripping on Doug on the way, and stubbing my toe. I hopped my way over to the car, feeling like the leading lady from Jurassic Park as she escaped from the Velociraptors, where I cammando rolled into the front seat of the car.
There I endured a very uncomfortable night, waking up numerous times with my feet in the dirty dishes bowl full of dishes that we had decided to do tomorrow and then hidden away from the crocs in the passenger seat. It was stifling hot in the car, but opening the window seemed to only attract mosquitoes.
"Why have they not invented fly wires on car windows for such situations?"
I thought in pure frustration as I shone the torch over to the camp table where the insect repellent sat arrogant and untouchable. Upon climbing in the packed back seat for a more comfortable night sleep, I managed to dislodge a strategically balanced rubbish bag of empty beer cans which then preceded to cascade down around me like a rainstorm from hell. I remained busting for the entire night, unwilling to leave the comfort of my beer can, dirty dish, mosquito infested save haven. In the morning as the sun rose, I sat in the front seat wrapped in a soggy towel I had found for warmth, crossing my legs in anguish needing to pee, just waiting for enough daylight to properly examine the campsite.
Finally, the sun was up and I could escape. After a quick toilet stop, I jumped back into the swag next to a snoring Brad who rolled over and said, "I thought you were going to the car..."
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