I had only intended to stay three days but at the end of the third day I really didn’t feel like getting back in the kayak, so I took an extra day to chill before leaving on the last leg. It was hard to leave the ‘Dog Box’ but I couldn’t stay all week.
On my last evening in Darwin we were at the ‘Ski Club’ beer garden when I spotted three Nadgee kayaks on top of a car. I wandered over and found out they belonged to a group of scientists who were heading to the Kimberley to do some wildlife studies. They were going to use the kayaks to get them around the coast for the two weeks they were there. We optimistically made some loose plans to meet up should we be able to contact each other, but the Kimberley is a big place and unfortunately it didn’t happen.
I left Darwin on 23 June, refreshed and keen to explore the final leg of the expedition. It was a 60-kilometre day to Port Patterson, where I looked for somewhere to camp. The first opportunity I had was a little island that was marked on my map as ‘Military Use, Out of Bounds’. I decided to have a look anyway as the military often get some good spots to play in. I walked up the dunes and surveyed the island. A scene from a World War II movie was laid out before me. There was not a living thing beyond the outer rim of the shore, it was all bomb craters, burnt-out vehicles, and lots of signs advising you not to go exploring in case you stepped on something that goes bang. Okay, I was off, heading quickly for the next island with a beach.
I set up camp and had a good night’s sleep, feeling secure that the steep 3-foot-high sandbank I’d set up on would protect me from Mr Crocodile. However, in the morning I noticed croc tracks passing just 100 metres from my tent, heading towards the ocean. The island was long and thin, and the croc had walked across the narrowest part to save him swimming around. When I set up camp I was happy that my tent site, being elevated, was safe as far as crocs approaching from the ocean went, but I never considered one walking across the bloody island and coming up behind me.
The next few days of paddling were uneventful, with calm weather and minimal currents. I sometimes had a problem finding a convenient landing spot for the night’s camp as the beaches were often guarded by mud flats or reefs at low tide, but there was usually something not too far away that could be found at the end of the day, especially as I was becoming less fussy about where I would make camp.
On 27 June I arrived at Tree Point at the mouth of Port Keats, about 300 kilometres from Darwin. Peter Osman had arranged for a food drop at Port Keats (Wadeye) with the park rangers who look after the area. When they found out the food drop was for a kayaker who would be ‘dropping by’ to pick it up, they offered to come out to the entrance of Port Keats to give me a lift down the river. I struggled with the ethics of this for … Well, not at all really. The idea of paddling 30 kilometres up a river to pick up some more lentils, only to have to paddle back out again the next day, didn’t appeal to me at all. So I was happy to call them and let them know I would be making my way upriver the next morning, and we agreed to meet up on the water.
Next morning dawned and I had a slowish start, thinking I’d give them a chance to get to me quicker and that would mean I’d get my lift sooner. Hardly the attitude of a hardcore sea kayaker, but if I was going to get a lift I might as well make it a decent one. I’d only paddled up the river for about an hour before they found me. As we made our way towards Port Keats, I could see why the rangers offered to come and pick me up. Closer to Port Keats the river got quite narrow with steep muddy banks laced with mangroves and a steady parade of crocodiles sunning themselves. Without the lift I would have been paddling under both banks, which closed in to 3–4 kayak lengths wide, while crocs sat on the top looking down on me. That would have been very scary; in fact, I would have more than likely turned around and headed back out to sea without my supplies.
There was a lot of interest from the rangers about my trip but mostly they were concerned about me and the crocs. I was told that while I was soundly sleeping at Tree Point the night before, a croc took two dogs a couple of kilometres from my campsite. I was even more grateful for the lift after learning that, and it’s obvious when you know the area that paddling into Port Keats is not a good idea. The rangers put me up and looked after me well. The next morning they drove me to Injin Beach to see me on my way, which was a far better option than towing me back out down the river.
When I looked at the maps and charts for the section from Port Keats to Wyndham, it was hard to plan with any certainty where I could find places to land. There were strong currents running through the gulf and the massive flow from the rivers, still full from the Wet Season, added to the confusion of the water. With the labyrinth of waterways created by the river deltas, there were many crocodiles in the area, but hopefully they would stay upstream and not be a bother to a kayaker out on the ocean.
Joseph Bonaparte Gulf is called ‘Blown Apart Gulf’ by the locals because when those southeast winds pick up they really blow and, along with the currents, the waters get roughed up. So I was looking at strong currents in crocodile-infested waters with very limited landing opportunities along this stretch.
I left Injin Beach and got a taste of what the currents are capable of when I turned the headland into the gulf. There was plenty of water moving around Pearce Point colliding with reefs and sandbars. It was close to slack water at low tide and there was no wind, so it was as calm as it gets, but I got a feel for what could turn up.
I made it to Fossil Head, just about the last headland, before it all dropped away to muddy estuaries. My landing attracted a few local boys, who ran around from the other side of the headland to see who I was. They soon got more than they bargained for when I gave each a big bag or one end of the kayak to carry to the beach. They soon lost interest after that and drifted off.
From there I paddled to Turtle Head across what looked like a giant chocolate milkshake. There was so much movement in the water that dense clouds of sediment were being thrown up to the surface as the rivers tossed the murky waters out to sea. The swirling, dark water was very unnerving and, not being able to see the low coastline, I lost confidence in my compass course. Thinking I was being washed out to sea, I resorted to the GPS. Then for no reason I lost confidence in the GPS and adjusted my course to head further inland, eventually making out the very low shoreline just where it should have been in the first place.
The fears of being off course were all in my head. Even though the compass and GPS told me otherwise, I was convinced I was no longer in control of where I was going, and once that thought had planted itself in my mind it became a powerful force. It would have been easy to give in and follow my corrupted sense of direction, but in the end you have to question and justify what you are doing before it goes too far. I’ve had arguments with my compass before while navigating mountains in fog and on long kayak crossings where there is no sight of land. Despite these previous disputes and the dangers of heading in the wrong direction, it’s hard to give back control to the compass; that’s how convincing the fears can be.
I got to Turtle Head Point just after low tide and was faced with a very long, muddy trek to reach the sand of the beach. The insects were fierce, attacking me before I had even got out of the kayak. I tried using the wheels to ferry the loaded kayak but they soon clogged up with mud, so I had to pack them away. The tide was coming in and starting to accelerate across the mud. I grabbed my bags of gear and tried to pick the least muddy track to hard sand, but after just 50 metres I turned to see the water lapping at the kayak. I put the bags down and returned to the kayak just as it was starting to float. I then had to half-drag, half-carry the kayak across the mud, all the while watching the tide race ahead of me at such a pace that the sea made it to my bags before I did.
Then the 20,000 starving insects that hadn’t already discovered me got word I was wearing only shorts and had both hands full—their dinner was served. I repeated the relay a couple of times until I had out-run the water and was safely above the high-tide mark, by which time everything wi
th six legs had eaten.
I had a look around as I caught my breath. It didn’t look good. I was on a sand spit that reached out to a rocky headland. The sea was going to crawl up the beach from both sides, leaving me about three kayak lengths of dry sand to camp on at high tide. It was the highest tide of the month this particular night. I could see where the previous night’s high tide had reached, and I knew it would be higher than that. I looked back and water now covered my tracks across the mud. I was wondering why I hadn’t just waited an hour then paddled in on the incoming tide when I saw a 3-metre croc patrolling the coast.
Turtles were nesting, and they usually make for the beach on the highest tide of the month because they can get closest to the sand just above the high water mark and lay their eggs. The crocs know this and are active at this time, looking for a crunchy turtle snack as the egg-laying females make their way onto the beaches.
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I had no choice; there was nowhere that looked any better. I gathered all the driftwood I could find to make a low barrier around the tent on three sides then placed the kayak across the remaining side, my equivalent of circling the wagons. I knew the few branches I’d piled up would not stop the croc but I hoped it would make enough noise to wake me up in time to heroically run away.
I figured the croc would wait until high tide when he would only have a few feet to cover before he got to the tent. High tide was just before dawn, so I set my alarm for a couple of hours earlier in a bid to get the jump on him. As I made dinner, I could see the top of his head out on the calm sea. I walked 100 metres down the beach to wash the pots and he followed me, slowly manoeuvring in as I washed up at the water’s edge. It only got tricky when he dropped below the surface to creep closer and I lost track of him. It was the quickest pot-washing session of the trip, and I’m pretty quick most nights.
There was no issue while the tide was out because the croc would have to walk almost 500 metres to get to me, so I slept okay until my alarm went off two hours before dawn. I shone the torch out over the water, looking for his eyes reflecting in the light, but there was nothing. I settled back down but was unable to sleep and just lay listening to the sounds of the night, which were mostly the insects waiting for me to get out from my tent to provide breakfast.
Then, in the first light of day, I saw a shape just off the beach. It was no more than 50 metres away in the low surf right below the tent … I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to be moving up the beach with the surf and then lying on the sand until a bigger wave obscured its movement up the beach. Shit.
I wasn’t worried about him getting the jump on me now that I’d seen him, but how the hell was I going to get off the beach with the croc so close? I’d have to carry the kayak to the water’s edge, go back and get my bags, then load the kayak. That would give him enough time to position himself and decide which bits of me to eat first and what to save for dessert. But I couldn’t hang around hoping he’d go away, as I’d soon run out of food and water; besides, he had all the time in the world, I didn’t. I knew I would have to make a move.
As the morning light got better I looked out again and saw my crocodile was actually a tree, with its roots catching on the sand making it roll irregularly. I looked up and down the beach for miles. It was the only tree in the water for as far as I could see and it just happened to be outside my tent on that morning.
With no crocodile to contend with, or slimy portage through mud to the shore to tackle, I was in good shape as I headed off. Things continued to go my way, as I found the current was with me during the morning. I was moving at 10 kilometres an hour without trying too hard.
Towards the afternoon I made for a likely-looking island for the night’s camp. I got there close to low tide and landed at the only place I could, a muddy estuary with mangroves up by the shore. I was about 400 metres from any campsite but this was as close as I could get as the rest of the coast was rocks. I pulled up, got out of the kayak and immediately sank up to my knees in the mud. Then I noticed the track of a croc that must have just dragged itself down to the water. It was quite a large track. The tide hadn’t finished going out and the track went all the way to the edge of the water. That meant the croc must have left just as I arrived. There was only one way in and out of the bay so I must have paddled over him as he swam beneath me.
I surveyed my potential portage to the high-tide mark 200 metres away. It started on the mud, then required pushing through mangroves, tottering across rocks which were covered in slippery crud, until finally heaving the gear across the beach, up a 4-metre bank and, bingo, onto the croc-proof safety of flat ground above the high-tide line. It would be hard enough to do this when I was carrying nothing but my bags, but with a kayak balanced on my shoulder it would get really tricky. It may not seem like anything to get worked up about but there would be serious consequences if I injured myself, such as twisting an ankle, which would be easy to do. The tide was coming in and was around 7 metres. Whatever injury I had I would have to get to high ground and abandon any kit still on the beach. But if I had left my PLB in the kayak, I would have to crawl back over the rocks, through the mangroves and through the mud to retrieve the PLB. I could then set off the PLB and crawl back to high ground before the tide caught me. Then, if the PLB worked—and don’t forget I’d had two fail on the trip so far—I could expect a helicopter rescue which would mean I would have to leave all my gear behind and the trip would be over. All because of a risky portage.
There were many instances where I had to pay attention, because any injury would have meant the trip was over. I was often tired, hungry and thirsty at the end of a day, but I always made sure I paid attention, kept alert and took the safe option, which allowed me to continue the next day.
In the end it took about an hour and a half to get my gear to safety. My portage wasn’t helped by the many birds making a huge racket as they competed for real estate and hunted for food all over the island and surrounding waters. Later that afternoon the tide was in, and from my vantage point I could see the croc was sneaking his way through the mangroves towards the birds on the shore. On my little rise I was out of his reach, and wasn’t too bothered, but kept an eye on where he went. He must have been the one that made the tracks I’d seen when landing, and was about 3 metres long. As I was cooking dinner I heard the sound of his mouth snapping shut. It’s an unmistakable noise, two perfectly fitting jaws coming together with great force. The constant chatter of terns and gulls and the honking of the pelicans stopped completely for about five seconds; it was amazing. I hadn’t realised just how much noise they were making until they shut up. I imagined them looking around, all trying to figure out who had just become lunch. Then they started up again and the croc slid back into the mangroves.
I passed the border back into Western Australia with only a slight sense of progress being made. In vain, I kept a lookout among the scrub for a monument, sign or pole that celebrated the invisible line that man had put across the country, separating the Northern Territory and Western Australia. It was then that the size of the state of Western Australia started to become tangible in my mind. When described to me in kilometres, it was just a number that really did not resonate. However, being in the flat, warm waters of the tropics and remembering the cold, stormy area from Cape Leeuwin onwards into the Great Australian Bight, I had a real grasp of the distance.
It was a bit late in the trip to get a handle on the scale of things. When described as a 17,000-kilometre paddle, I could somehow dismiss the actual distance by splitting it up into manageable sections, then putting them back together when planning.
Perhaps a more realistic description of the distance would have been: ‘You will travel from where the sea is warm and calm, with dugongs frolicking, where there is no discernible winter and summers are hot and humid with regular cyclones. You will continue south, so far south that the sea and wind will be cold all year round and huge surf and storms can be expected on waters where a
lbatross glide. The distance between these two areas will represent one-quarter of your journey.’ That may have meant more to me than the number 17,000.
As I moved into Western Australia and the western shores of Joseph Bonaparte Gulf I started to see the rocks, cliffs and hills of the Kimberley. It was a relief as I approached Lacrosse Island to leave behind the low, muddy, croc-rich area of the gulf and find I was paddling across clear waters towards sandy beaches flanked by rocky headlands. The paddling was much more pleasant as I could hug the coastline with its interesting rock formations and many safe landings. The clear water was less forbidding than the unknown, unseen and sinister side of paddling over Milo-coloured seas.
The welcome change in scenery was a distraction, but my mind was preoccupied with working out options if the food and water drop I was expecting had not been delivered to Lacrosse Island. I had every faith in Peter Osman’s organisational skills and reliability, but I also knew how serious the situation could become. I had not been able to find drinking water since Port Keats and was down to just a couple of litres, which I would normally use during cooking and to get me through the night. I had about a day’s food left, but would have to use the precious water to rehydrate it. So if I got to the island and the food and water wasn’t there and I imposed severe rationing, I would have enough water left for one more day’s paddle, sustained by a couple of meagre muesli bars.
With my one day of paddling I could head south to Wyndham, but I had been told it was easy to get lost in the many channels leading 90 kilometres to the town and it was likely there would be loads of exciting moments with crocodiles. Or I could head north and hope to find a fisherman or sailor who stayed still long enough for me to catch them and ask for some water.
All the Way Round Page 24