Just Visiting

by Graham Wilson

  Chapter 16 – A Big River with Crocodiles – Day 27

  Mark said it was a two hours’ drive to Timber Creek. There they would be meeting a small aeroplane to fly them to an airstrip, out towards the mouth of the Victoria River. Again this would be a new experience for Susan whose flying experience was limited to big airliners.

  They had crossed the Victoria River yesterday, near VRD homestead, at a place called Dashwood Crossing. Here it was a big river, but running fresh water. There was only a low flow as it was the middle of the dry season, and it hadn’t rained for four months.

  Susan had marvelled as Mark pointed out a place, high up in the trees, where driftwood was trapped in the branches. He explained that this had come from a big flood a couple years ago, when eight hundred millimetres of rain had fallen in just two days; the remains of a cyclone come inland. Susan said that was more rain than fell in England in a year.

  It was hard to conceive so much water flowing down this placid stream. She realised the Northern Territory was a place of hidden surprises; things outside her imagination, here the unleashed power of nature seemed to be almost any everyday part of life.

  Today they would be heading down this river, to a place near where it met the sea. Before they left Mark showed her a map and explained how, there, the river was huge, approaching a mile wide and that, over the next few hours, the tides in the sea, just beyond, would rise and fall by more than twenty feet. Then, as the water in these vast estuaries adjusted its level, it became a white water river, as seen in movies running out of mountains and racing through a gorge; except here it was huge, brown, full of silt and salt and the land was flat. It was also full of crocodiles, saltwater ones, built on the same gargantuan scale as their river.

  As they drove, Mark told her about their plans. It was clear what they had to do, but less clear why, or who they were doing it for. They were investigating the down-stream reaches of the river, measuring rates of tidal water flow. There was currently satellite data, and flow modelling. Now they needed to cross check the computer predictions against real data from the river at a time when the biggest tides flowed.

  So they had to be on the river in the one or two days before or after new or full moon tides. During new moon tides the sun and moon were in a direct line on the same side of the earth, pulling the oceans together and this gave the greatest flows. People called these the king tides.

  The new moon was in two days, so this meant either tonight or tomorrow was ideal to collect data. Mark decided to do it tonight; the time of the tides in relation to daylight was best. He also said he didn’t want this job to interfere with having a final day with Susan in Kakadu and on the Mary River, before taking her to Darwin to catch her plane.

  They were to measure the flow rates both in and out in the five hours before and after the high tide. It was to be done in a particular stretch of river, near the river mouth. High tide tonight was ten o’clock, so they needed to be on the river from 5 pm to 3 am.

  While there they were to take close up photos of various points along the river, making descriptions of bank structure and type and depth measurements at various points. This needed to be done before dark, when the tide was not high. Today the low tide was about 4 pm—a good time for photographs. Tomorrow’s low tide was after 5 pm, closer to sunset, when longer shadows made photography more difficult.

  A whisper was around that the company was in discussion with the government about construction of a tidal power plant, perhaps a joint project with the Department of Defence, who owned a huge block of land on the north side of the river, land that old timers called the Bradshaw Run. It was very hush-hush, 50% speculation and rumour—the way of most commercial big businesses.

  Mark had been told the absolute bare minimum, just where to go and what to do. The work had come to him via a contact in the Middle East, someone who he had done pipeline work for in the past. They, whoever they were, needed someone they trusted to handle the organisation, logistics, collect the data, and not tell others who might leak it.

  Mark had chartered a flat bottom boat, with three great big outboards on the back. It was stable in the running tide and could be pushed to 40 knots if required, though 10-15 knots was more comfortable. It also had a pile of high tech GIS gear on board, to log their track and record photos and measurements digitally. They also needed to take manual measurements to validate the digital ones, and as protection for equipment failure.

  Last night, after he had agreed to help at VRD, he had arranged to fly to a nearby local airstrip instead of their original plan, which was to meet mid-morning at Timber Creek, going by boat down the river. Now he would meet the two other men and the boat out there, close to their investigation site.

  These men were on their way with the boat, setting things up, waiting for him to arrive. The nearest airstrip was next to the river and an hour’s boat trip from their measurement site.

  Tomorrow morning Mark would meet a company representative at Timber Creek. He would give the representative a verbal report and all the records; measurement sheets, boat logs, along with an external hard drive holding digital photos and instrument records. Every single thing was to be handed over, nothing kept.

  So, for tonight, he needed a technical assistant, someone to write measurements on sheets and keep watch over his high tech instruments. He had a friendly barmaid in Timber Creek on standby, but he hoped Susan might help instead.

  “Of course I will,” she said.

  With their conversation she had barely noticed the trip, but now they were driving into a little town. The sign said Timber Creek. It had a hotel, a few houses and a shop. No much here, she thought.

  Mark pulled up outside the pub. “We won’t stop. I’ll just run in, tell Tanya, my stand by assistant, that I don’t need her now.” He left the engine running and was back in a minute.

  “Tanya is pleased; boats and crocodiles at night are not her thing.”

  Then the town was left behind them and, in five minutes, they were pulling into the airport, not much more than a shed and landing strip.

  There was a single small plane out on the tarmac waiting for them, the pilot standing alongside checking a map.

  In less than five minutes they were taxiing and then soaring into the air, flying alongside a huge river which Susan realised was the Victoria River. Susan sat in front, next to the pilot which gave a superb view. The river swung away and they crossed range after range of broken hills. After twenty minutes they descended again, coming back down above the river. It was a vast muddy torrent, heading to a sea seen on the distant horizon.

  As they flew along the river Susan spotted a crocodile so large that it dwarfed all she had seen before. It was slowly heading downriver, going with the flow, pushing a bow wave before it, its tail slowly waving behind. She pointed it out to Mark who nodded and said, “That is the mother of all crocodiles, I hope it does not want to play with our boat.”

  Soon they reached their destination. As they circled for landing, Susan saw a boat with two men, along a tributary a few hundred yards from the river mouth. That was their pickup, waiting in place to collect them. They made a low sweep over the airstrip checking for obstacles. A mere minute later they were bouncing along it, braking to a fast stop.

  A man driving was towards them in a utility. Mark said he was the Bulloo Head Stockman, Bluey, caretaking for a month. “At a pinch we could have walked to where the boat can collect us but it’s a good mile; very nice of him to give us a ride.”

  They exchanged brief greetings. Then the pilot said. “Must be away; tourists for scenic flights in Kununurra, this evening.” He taxied out and flew off. They watched him for a minute but soon were driving past the station homestead and following the edge of the Bulloo River towards their boat. In another minute they were there.

  As they climbed out Mark shook Bluey’s hand, “Many thanks, I owe you one, next time in town the shout is on me; just tell Tanya I said so.”

  �
�No worries mate, pleased to help, you’d do the same in return. How’re you getting back from here?”

  “Boat will bring us back up the river to Timber Creek when we are done, should be in town for breakfast or thereabouts.”

  Their boat moved alongside the bank, just a few feet of shallow brown water between it and them. Mark tossed his gun case to one of the men on board who caught it.

  A plank, about a foot wide, was dropped from the bank to the boat, then a metal bracket was dropped over its boat end to lock it in place. “Instant boarding ramp, Mark said.

  Susan looked, took a deep breath and walked across, looking straight ahead, with only a slight wobble. Mark took two quick steps and was on board. The boat backed up slowly. It was easier than turning around in the shallow river with the tide ebbing out. Near the mouth they had room to turn.

  They nosed out into the main river channel and felt the current catch. There was a roar as three big motors poured on the power and the boat was skipped across the surface. One man stood up front, keeping a close lookout, while the other steered.

  Mark came over to Susan and put a hand on her shoulder. “How are you travelling? Sorry to rush you so much, I always try to fit too much in. But you seem to take in stride. I like that!”

  Susan smiled back. “Actually I love it; you never cease to amaze me. Is there nothing you can’t do and do well?”

  He laughed, self-effacing, “Not so good at the personal stuff; perhaps you’ve noticed.” Then he said,” We’ve still got another hour’s run down the river till we get to where we need to be. We’re heading for a place called Entrance Island, where the river narrows and splits into two channels either side. The tide is low now and will be at its lowest in just over an hour, so for now the river is placid. Later on it will be a different, particularly around midnight after full tide. It will get dangerous and be hard to keep control in the dark with a raging water flow. We will run through our course and take photos before we start our measurements. I need to have a good look in the daylight, and map out the hazards. It will be much trickier in the night so we need to know where not to go.

  “So now, apart from getting our recording stuff ready, we should have a spell. It’s going to be a long night. There is an Esky with sandwiches and drinks over there; you should eat. Then there is a bunk in the cabin. It wouldn’t hurt to have a lie-down; you won’t get much sleep tonight.”

  Susan sat on the deck, eating a sandwich. Mark was busy unpacking and testing things. He suddenly pointed forward and called, “See out there, a hundred metres at one o’clock, almost dead ahead”

  It was a huge crocodile, almost certainly the one they had seen from the plane, swimming slowly downstream. Mark directed the boat driver to slow; they dropped their speed, the engines barely above an idle.

  They took the boat close to the west bank, “We need to stay downwind,” Mark whispered. Slowly they eased alongside and then ahead of the crocodile.

  It was probably two hundred yards away, maintaining a mid-stream position. In the binoculars it looked huge but, with nothing close by, it was impossible to get any good measure.

  When they were two hundred metres past it Mark directed the boat back to the centre of the channel, directly in front of the crocodile’s path.

  He signalled to cut the engines completely. The boat’s motion died away, now it just drifted along with the flowing tide. Mark took the wheel. With deft touches he managed to get just enough steerage to maintain their line.

  On and on came the crocodile, seeming oblivious to their presence. All remained totally silent as slowly the crocodile approached, never breaking its steady pace, its tail continuing its leisurely wave. Fifty metres, then twenty, then it came past a bare five metres from their boat. As the head drew level with the bow the tip of the tail was still about a metre behind the stern.

  It drifted on by, its swimming continued unchanged. Suddenly, when it had passed by a boat length, something must have given an alert, perhaps a tiny air eddy or a slight noise, nothing they could sense. An increased tail wave was the only sign as it sunk and faded from view. They waited a minute but no further sign was seen.

  Mark signalled to power on again, and in a minute they had skipped past any place where it might have been.

  Susan raised and inquiring eyebrow, “Well?”

  “Well,” he replied, “our boat is 24 feet, I put the croc at 26, 27, maybe 28 feet; I have never seen another one quite that big.”

  As they sat waiting to arrive, Mark told her about another crocodile he knew. “There’s another secretive crocodile on the Mary River, in a place where only I know and go. It is nearly as long and about as wide. I have only seen it twice. We may go there tomorrow. You must have the gift of talking to the God of Crocodiles to bring this one out today. Perhaps, if you call out to the Mary River crocodile, it too will come out to talk to you and we will both get to see it again.”

  It was an eerie thing to say and Susan shivered.