Cape York – Portland Roads to Kapowar Crossing

Now, we have five hours backtracking to Musgrave Roadhouse, before we turn off to Lakefield, home of barramundi and crocodiles. So, to fill in a bit of time, let me share some fun facts about termites. “Why?”, you plead. Only because they’re bloody everywhere, and if I tell you now, you can use this information to end overcooked dinner parties, and conversations with annoying individuals.

There are several varieties of termite up this way and they fall into two broad categories, subterranean and arboreal. The subterranean termites are the mound builders and the nests come in several different shapes depending on latitude(it seems ). The southern most look like an elephant had a spice Indian curry the night before and not even deserving of a photo. But, as we moved north, they reared up and became mini cathedrals, spiring upwards and imposing on the landscape. Further north again, they narrowed to almost just walls, aligned to magnetic north in order to keep the nest cool in the heat of the day. Arboreal termites nest in living trees and their handiwork can be seen easily on the surface bark.

That didn’t hurt too much, did it? OK. We’ve arrived at Musgrave Roadhouse after an overnight stay behind the pub at Coen. It’s 9:30am. We opted for an early cuppa and headed down Lilyvale Road, destination Hahn River. The road was in good nick and we ‘barreled’ along at a steady 70klms.

We had booked one night at a campsite through Parks and Wildlife, but the directions board was clearly not to scale and we took some time to figure out it was another 2klm along a dirt track to our spot. At 38 degrees and not even high noon, we hid under what little shade we could find. While Ken was away ‘stalking’ some dude in the next campsite, I looked up and there, for only a few seconds, a real live croc just surveying his domain from the middle of the river. Then he slid silently and without any effort, under the water. How ironic!!

The next morning we had a visit from two Rangers, just checking we were in the right spot and the right people. The barramundi had been MIA for a couple of weeks. but the crocs were up and about due to it being mating season. Another hit to one of Ken’s bucketlist to-do’s. That barra might have to wait till another trip.

As we drove to Kalpowar Crossing we joked, if Ken didn’t see a croc here, he never would. We checked in at the Ranger station and then headed down to the campground. There was a big barramundi fishing comp the coming weekend. Every so often a 4WD towing a camper or a tinnie would ease across the causeway and disappear to parts unknown.

Sandwiched between the crocs above the causeway and the crocs below the causeway was about 70 metres of rocky shelves and rock pools fed by river. It was hot and the humidity oppressive. I could not see a logical reason why a croc would drag it’s sorry arse over this, when all the creature comforts were laid out already where they were. Ken would have taken far more convincing, but he was also looking for that sweet relief. We found some stairs down to the river and it wasn’t long before we were lounging in the shallow rapids under a tree and wondering what all the fuss was about. Our next store neighbour Mitch had been sweating it out for a week, spooked by the dire warnings of others and was thrilled to get invited to join us in (relative) safety.

The area around Kalpowar Crossing is dotted with billabongs, some small, some large, some signposted, some not. But the croc warning signs were at every one. We drove a ways and then circled back to a couple of possibilities glimpsed through the trees. At the first one, Ken did see his first, a baby crocodile on a log, but our crashing through the scrub soon had it disappearing under the water.

The second one was much larger and more what a billabong ‘should’ look like. Back at camp and we took to the rapids again with Mitch in tow. He was so grateful for the relief and the company. We had him over for dinner that night and he offered to take us for a look-see up the river in his tinnie early the next morning – an offer we jumped all over.

Three guys in a small tinnie travelling up a crocodile infested river. What could possibly go wrong? Thankfully nothing…this time. I spotted one on a bank and barely enough time to get the other’s attention, and it was gone a second later. Mitch was a dab hand as ‘cruise director’ as he had fished these waters many times before.

“After our run up-river, I scarpered back to the rapids alone and decided to have a look around. Not five metres away hidden behind a fallen tree was a small and deep pool – totally ideal for our needs. Now logic told me that there would not be a crocodile lurking at the bottom. It was barely big enough for a small croc to lie straight, let alone execute a death roll. Still, Ken’s fear and loathing of this reptile had put an illogical doubt in my mind. His resignation to misfortune is like an insidious contagion. I couldn’t see the bottom clearly. What if he was right? Oh, I could hear him now. “See, I warned ya didn’t I, but noooooo you wouldn’t listen. Well, it serves you right!”, as I’m being chomped up before his very eyes. I looked round for the longest stick I could find and started poking into the dark centre of the pool. Damn this hesitation. Use the force, John. It was no use. Giving Ken that satisfaction was a more terrible fate than ending up as an early lunch for some cold blooded ‘killer’. I retreated back to the shallow rapids, full of remorse and self-loathing.“

And that’s where we spent the rest of that day, only coming out when the sun was well and truly in the trees. Tomorrow was going to be our last day, and for me, it almost was – literally.