Half an hour’s flying brought them to the Aboriginal community of Mapoon. This was easy to identify, located as it is on a narrow peninsula on the seaward side to the large estuary of Port Musgrave. Willy ticked it off on his map and returned to staring out at another fairly boring looking strip of sandy beach backed by swamp and scrub.
Andrew came and stood looking through the porthole in front of him. Willy noted his continual glances from a chart he held to the coastline outside. “What are you looking for Andrew?” he asked.
“A place called ‘Flinders Camp’,” Andrew replied. “I presume it was used by Matthew Flinders back in 1800 or 1801 during his circumnavigation of Australia.”
Stick, chortled with laughter and called, “You hear that Marjorie? Another circumcision of Australia!”
Willy glanced at Marjorie, who blushed but giggled. His mother then called, “No more talk like that thank you!” That caused Willy to blush and pretend he had not heard. Instead he looked down, hoping to see some sign of the camp. But he saw nothing.
Andrew shook his head and said, “No sign of anything. That must be the Pennyfather River down there and that means we are past it. Never mind, we will be passing Dyfken Point soon and I want to see that.”
“Why?” Willy asked.
“Because this is the first piece of Australia’s coast that we know for sure the name of the sea explorer who charted it,” Andrew replied.
“Who was he?” Stick asked.
“A Dutchman named Willem Jansz or Jantzoon, back in 1606,” Andrew replied. “He was the captain of a Dutch ship named the Dyfken. Dyfken means ‘Little Dove’. He is credited with being the first European to discover Australia.”
“I thought that was Captain Cook,” Stick said.
“Captain Cook! Fair go Stick. He wasn’t even the first Englishman to visit Australia. All he did was chart the east coast. He is important because he gave a good report, which was something Jansz did not do for this part of the coast,” Andrew replied.
“I can see why,” Norman commented. “Nothing down there but sandbars and swamp.”
Willy could only agree. As they discussed this the beach ended in a very obvious cape, a very large bay opening up to port. ‘Albatross Bay,’ he noted after studying his map. As they passed the end of the point Mr Jemmerling came on the intercom to inform them that they were detouring to overfly the bauxite mines and port of Weipa.
For the next fifteen minutes Willy was given a bird’s eye view of the huge open cut bauxite mines and the rail system that hauled the red ore to the bulk loading facilities at Weipa. The ‘Catalina’ then did a wide circle, allowing Andrew a good look at the huge bulk ore carriers moored in the Embley River and Willy a clear view of the Weipa Airport. Further inland he could just make out the runways, taxiways and buildings of the huge Scherger RAAF Base. ‘We aren’t allowed to fly near it,’ he thought.
Then it was on down the west coast, the turbulence slowly getting worse as the air heated up. Mr Johnson took the ‘Catalina’ up to 2,000 feet to ease the bumps a bit. The beaches began to alternate with low cliffs of red rocks.
“Bauxite,” Willy’s father explained. “That is the ore they use to make into aluminium.”
“That is Pera Head, that rocky cape,” Andrew said, adding, “The Pera was another Dutch ship that sailed past about 1623. She was with another ship called the Arnhem. The captain was Jan Carstenz.”
“Arnhem!” Stick said. “Does that have anything to do with Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory?”
“Yes it does,” Andrew answered. “Arnhem Land was named after the Dutch ship, which is named after a Dutch town.”
“I thought Arnhem was an Aboriginal name,” Stick commented.
“No, it is Dutch,” Andrew assured him.
Norman now added, “Arnhem is the town in the Netherlands where the British paratroopers tried to capture a big bridge over the river Rhine during World War Two.”
“The ‘Bridge Too Far’,” Willy said. “I saw the movie.”
“That’s the one.”
The next place of interest, after many more miles of boring sandy beaches and uninhabited scrub, was the Aboriginal community of Arukun at the mouth of the Archer River. As they flew off southwards across a vast area of mangroves and melaleuca swamps Andrew said, “That is one of the places where Jansz had some of his crew killed by the Aborigines. He wrote in his report that it was all just a huge swamp full of black savages, mosquitoes and crocodiles, so the Dutch were never interested in setting up colonies or trading bases in this part of the world.”
Willy could only agree with his assessment. ‘Even now it doesn’t look very hospitable,’ he thought. ‘Certainly no place to crash.’
A few minutes later they passed another cape, this time a wide, bulge in the flat coastline with yet another twisting, swampy river pushing through sandy shallows into the sea. Andrew pointed and said, “That is Cape Keer-Weer. That is Dutch and means ‘Turn back’, or ‘Turn again’. It is where Jansz stopped exploring and went back to Batavia.”
‘Dutch again!’ Willy thought. ‘I wonder what happened to Jacob van der Heyden? And what was he looking for?’
There followed another half hour of flying over vast stretches of sandy beaches and swampy flats. A cut lunch was served by Harvey and Mr Hobbs: sandwiches with cold fruit juice. As he nibbled at the ‘ham, cheese and tomato’ Willy kept looking out. Inland the savannah woodland stretched away unbroken until lost in the misty haze of the interior. “We are moving into that vague area where ‘The Peninsula’ becomes ‘The Gulf Country’,” Norman explained. Over the years he had travelled extensively through the vast area of flat plains. “In ‘The Wet’ this whole area just becomes one gigantic, muddy lake, for hundreds of kilometres,” he explained.
They flew over the very isolated Aboriginal community of Pormpuraaw. Willy noted and airfield and a collection of buildings and a lonely dirt road that wound off eastwards through the bush. His map told him that it connected with the Peninsula Development Road at Musgrave Station over 200km away.
Then there was more lonely scrub, mudflats, saltpan and swamp until they reached the mouths of the Mitchell River. Here Willy spotted several more large crocodiles. The saurians were basking on mudflats and slithered quickly into the brown, muddy water when the aircraft approached. ‘Saurians,’ Willy told himself. ‘Big, slimy reptiles.’ Then he remembered that the missing motor launch with ‘Gator’ Smith and his crony on it had been named the Saurian. ‘I wonder where those murderers have got to?’ he mused.
It was now 1:30pm and the course was changed to fly inland to follow the Mitchell River. As they crossed the coast the turbulence increased quite dramatically. Mr Johnson called to inform them they were climbing to 5,000 feet. Willy thought that a good idea. ‘Nothing much to see anyway,’ he decided, noting that the area below seemed to be just more winding river channels in mangroves, backed by huge swamps and areas of flat heathland or claypans.
He also noted that clouds were starting to appear; fluffy balls of cumulus, mostly at about 2,000 feet. The Catalina flew over the Aboriginal community of Kowanyama, significant because, unlike all the others, it was not on the coast. There was a spider web of dirt roads there and more signs of human settlement. Willy noted that there was a road all the way from now on, winding across the swampy flats and crossing dozens of winding creek lines. The homestead of ‘Rutland Plains’ station slid by underneath, a twinkle of iron roofs in a vast sea of hazy green.
Then it was on to ‘Dunbar’ Station. Willy began to get bored because of the sameness of the country. He also found it much harder to keep track of progress on the map because the features were so numerous and so similar. “You could easily get lost flying out here,” he observed.
He noted that the clouds were thickening up. The number of cumulous clouds grew significantly in a very short time. They also showed signs of vertical development; the tops billowing and growing upwards as thermals pushed from within. The
aircraft began to buck and swoop quite noticeably. “Ten thousand feet,” Mr Johnson called.
So up they went again. Now Willy found it hard to pick out details on the ground and he lost track of where they were in the vast sameness of it all- just flat bush and winding, braided river channels and hundreds of dry creeks. The only thing he was sure of was that the Mitchell had very little water in it and that its bed was now mostly white sand studded with millions of trees.
An hour droned by, Willy half nodding off. The turbulence prevented this but he found that he was becoming heartily sick of the loud roar of the radial engines. Marjorie was looking very pale again and Stick went off to the toilet several times. Willy thought this was to be sick as he came out looking very green and drawn. He went once himself and enjoyed stretching his legs and looking at different parts of the aircraft.
As he came out of the toilet Willy met Mr Jemmerling, who was coming down from the flight deck. Mr Jemmerling smiled but looked quite haggard to Willy. The aircraft was buffeted so badly by the turbulence that both had trouble staying on their feet and had to brace themselves against the sides of the corridor. “Hello young Willy. Would you like to go up to the flight deck for a while?” he asked.
“I’d love to,” Willy replied. “That is if you don’t want your seat.”
Mr Jemmerling shook his head. “No. I’m feeling a bit worn out and am going to have a little lie down for half an hour. You can take my place.”
“Thank you sir,” Willy said. After Mr Jemmerling had made his way into his sleeping cabin Willy walked forward. As he did the plane dropped suddenly and he experienced that peculiar sensation of weightlessness, to be almost immediately replaced by the need to brace his muscles to hold him up as the aircraft was lifted just as quickly. With some difficulty he hauled himself up the narrow stairway to the flight deck. ‘Getting a bit rough,’ he thought.
As he climbed up onto the flight deck Willy looked out through the front windshield- and got a shock. Seemingly filling the whole windscreen and directly in their path was a gigantic cumulonimbus storm cloud!
CHAPTER 20
A NASTY SURPRISE
As his mind registered the massive size of the storm cloud Willy experienced a spasm of what he was ashamed to admit was fear. ‘Holy Mackerel!’ he thought. ‘Surely we aren’t going to fly through that?’
Before he could open his mouth to ask the question the aircraft dropped so suddenly he had to cling to the arms of the seats on either side. Willy felt himself go cold and saw that the co-pilot, young Hec, was wrestling with the controls. He steadied the machine, just before an updraught pushed it up again. The pilot, Mr Johnson, saw Willy and turned to him. “Hello, are you a navy cadet or an air cadet?” he asked.
“Air cadet. I’m going to be a pilot,” Willy replied, his eyes scanning the instruments and noting that they were still only at about 9,000 feet.
Young Hec laughed and said, “Good for you! This will be good practice for you then.” He then turned to Mr Johnson and said, “Ok now?”
“Yes, don’t get too close,” Mr Johnson answered, turning to look at the massive cloud, then back at Willy. “You buckle up young fella. This could get a bit bumpy.”
Willy lowered himself into the seat behind Hec and did up the seat belt. This took a bit of doing as the aircraft was now pitching quite alarmingly. Once again he wondered if they intended to fly into the storm cloud but even as he did the ‘Catalina’ began a gentle turn to starboard.
From up on the flight deck Willy had a much better view and saw that the massive cloud they were turning to avoid was only one of a whole line of similar storms. These extended in a rough north-south line as far as he could see in either direction. He noted that they had formed over a change of terrain. Below the clouds, half hidden in rain, were the beginnings of hill country.
Another vicious bump sent Willy’s stomach into his mouth and he gave Mr Beck an anxious grin. Mr Beck looked tired but managed a smile back. Then Willy studied the massive storm cloud. It was, he knew from Geography lessons, a cumulonimbus, a thunderstorm cloud. This one even had the classic ‘anvil head’ shape at the top. Willy could see the top of the cloud billowing up and then spreading out as it met a layer of different air. Wispy streaks of cloud were starting to stream away from the very top.
He estimated that the top was at least 30,000 feet high. It towered up so high he had to bend his neck right back to look at it. The bottom was so low it looked to be dragging along the jumble of small, rugged hills in the savannah. He knew this was an illusion, that the usual height of the cloud base was between 1,000 and 2,000 feet. The base looked flat and he knew strong winds were being sucked into it. The ferocious updraught was clearly visible, the middle of the cloud a seething, tumbling mass of billows.
From the direction they were approaching, with the sun shining directly on the cloud, it was a brilliant white, reflecting so much glare Willy wished he had his sun glasses on. There were only hints of grey and purple at the sides and base. Higher up there were touches of yellow and orange which made the monster amazingly pretty. Right up in the wisps streaming from the anvil head Willy noted a tinge of green.
‘Ice or snow,’ he thought. Snow never reached the ground in tropical North Queensland. Instead it melted on the way down. Sometimes, at this time of year at the end of the dry season, the rain from high up did not reach the ground either but evaporated on the way down. Lightning flickered inside the cloud and even as Willy looked he saw a bolt stab down from the base. He knew that aircraft flying into storms like that could experience such violent turbulence that they could suffer structural failure. Light aircraft even have wings torn off. So he was relieved that they were turning to avoid the threat.
The whole storm was only about 10 kilometres wide but it was overlapping more storms behind it. No clear path to the east was visible. That got Willy staring anxiously out, seeking for a safe gap. Both the pilots were doing the same. Mr Johnson saw Willy’s anxious face and said, “Don’t worry son, we aren’t going to fly into that. If we can’t find an easy way through the gaps we will turn back and land.”
Hec wrestled to restore the plane to an even keel as it shuddered and swooped. Then he laughed and said, “You remember young fella, when you are a pilot; in the tropics never fly into something you can’t see through.”
“I’ll remember,” Willy replied. He smiled, knowing he was scared but also enjoying the thrill of it.
As they flew around the side of the storm Willy saw that there was a gap several kilometres wide between it and the one echeloned behind it. The ‘Catalina’ kept on slowly turning, circling around behind the storm. As they did Willy was enthralled by the spectacular changes of colour. Seen from the back the thunderstorm became a mix of grey, purple and black, shot through with streaks of lighting. Up near the top and on the sides there were patches of brilliant white, orange and yellow and right at the top the whole anvil was shredding away, torn off by strong winds in long streamers of dark grey.
To starboard the next storm cloud was half in shadow from its giant neighbour but the right half was white and grey. To Willy it was awe inspiring. The sheer scale to the storms made him uncomfortably aware that aircraft and modern technology still had definite limits.
Once clear of the second cloud a course to the east was resumed. Willy noted that there were a few scattered clouds in the distance but otherwise the sky was clear. The air became smoother and flying became a pleasant sensation once more. He also noted how the shadows of the huge thunderstorms stretched for many kilometres to the east. Between the shadows were long strips of country that were brightly lit by the afternoon sun, giving a wonderful light and shade effect on the ranges of hills.
The country they were now flying over was a particularly rugged area. From the air it gave the impression of being chopped up into rugged squares like a giant block of chocolate, except that the hills were a bright yellowish green dotted with the darker green specs of trees. It made him wish he had
his map with him. Out of curiosity he asked Mr Johnson what range it was.
“Those hills are called the Featherbed Range,” Mr Johnson replied. “I suppose it was just the old pioneer’s idea of a joke. They are the roughest lot of hills I know. You wouldn’t want to have to try a forced landing down in there.”
Willy could only agree. It was truly awful country. Out to his right he could see the course of the Walsh River winding through this rocky jumble. The valley of the Mitchell was in gloomy shade to the left. Ahead a peculiar, flat-topped mountain came into view. It was not very high but stretched right across their front and was fringed with steep cliffs which glowed like molten gold in the afternoon sun.
“What mountain is that sir?” he asked.
“Mt Mulligan,” Mr Johnson replied.
Willy had heard of Mt Mulligan but never been there. “It was an old mining area wasn’t it?” he queried.
Mr Beck answered that. “Yes, coal. First there was gold mining nearby in the valley of the Hodgkinson. There was a town connected by a railway to the Cairns Railway at Dimbulah. It is the site of the worst coal mine disaster in Queensland’s history. Back in 1921 that was. The mine exploded- coal gas- and killed everyone in the mine- about ninety men I think.”
Willy stared down at the spectacular mountain with renewed interest. As they flew over the eastern escarpment of the plateau he glimpsed a couple of buildings and a scatter of ruins, roads and tracks down in the valley beyond. ‘I must explore that one day,’ he resolved, thinking that from a light aircraft, lower and slower, would be ideal to start with.
They flew over the dry bed of the Hodgkinson, which, when it had water in it, flowed North West to join the Mitchell. Mr Beck pointed out the scatter of buildings and ruins that marked the old gold mining towns of Thornborough and Kingsborough. As Willy tried to see these clearly Mr Jemmerling re-appeared beside him. “Thank you young Willy, but I’d like my seat back now.”
Coasts of Cape York Page 24