“Creek crossings,” He said. “Lots of them.”

“Oh,” I said, with genuine excitement.

Glen smiled. He knew how much I was looking forward to this.

And the OTL, in this respect, did not disappoint.

“How nice is this!” Glen was saying, jumping out of the car before we had even stopped and diving in off of what was left of the burned out bridge over Nolan’s Brook. I followed a couple of seconds after. “Beautiful,” I thought.

Only 23 kilometers and six creek crossings past Eliot Falls we found ourselves in a seemingly undiscovered paradise; a picturesque stream of perfectly translucent water bordered by very lush and tropical looking vegetation. It was brilliant!

We floated downstream in the swift but gentle flow, congratulating ourselves on our very fortunate find and deliberating if going farther was at all necessary. Then and there, both Glen and I agreed it was the nicest creek we had ever seen. Conceivably, in the category of exceptional flows of water in tropical areas, there may be others that are comparable, but they wouldn’t – couldn’t – get any better than what we were delighting in now. Of this we were certain.

We floated around for as long as we could, but in the end, and under very much protest from everyone, left Nolan’s Brook to join with the bypass road to head towards the ferry, and the tip. I was keen on going through the old ford crossing across the Jardine, but Glen and the girls protested.

“We don’t have a snorkel,” Glen said, “and it’s deep.” And there are crocs, too.”

The Jardine was notorious for crocodiles; its muddy waters making for perfect ambush conditions, which just so happens to be the method of violent subduing preferred to these consummate predators. In 1993 one unfortunate sole was actually taken by a croc while swimming – or, more probably, while walking the ford and hitting a deep patch of water – in the very same area. Probably sent in by a friend, too, “Ah, you’ll be right, I haven’t heard of anyone ever being attacked here.”

After that heartwarming story, I didn’t want to be the one walking our route through the river to make sure it was passable. Something told me Glen, Sue and Fiona would object to being sent through on foot, too.

“Yeah, okay,” I said unhappily, “we’ll take the ferry.”

Well I don’t know what would be worse, actually being taken by a croc or the astronomical 88.00 AUD that we were forced to part with now by the battle ax at the ferry ticketing booth.

“At least the croc would have offered more charm,” I optimistically pointed out.

After a brief and loud, but otherwise enjoyable, trip on the ferry we were across. And, after another forty minutes, up the track in Bamaga – and in the local pub only seconds after that.

“We’ll get some drinks for tonight and head up to Seisia,” Glen said. “It’s only a short day trip to the tip from there.”