We made it to where we wanted to, and now our time could be spent pursuing adventures that could qualify us for dickhead status. If we would encounter any problems – which was not altogether unlikely now because, after all, it was us – we would have at least a story of partial success, and, of course, a marvelous tale of misadventure, disaster and cheating death against overwhelming odds in the bush.

Well something like that, anyway.

We promised ourselves to get back to camp well before eight, among other things to guarantee ample time for burgers and, for that reason, found ourselves now – a complete hour before eight – at a table outside of the restaurant.

“I’ll have a burger,” Glen was saying as the waitress walked over.

“Sorry, can’t do burgers.”

He checked his watch to confirm. “No, you can. It’s only seven.”

“Grill’s not on, mate. We can only do fried stuff.”

A wounded look came over his face. “But we don’t want fried stuff. Come on luv, do us a favor.”

But she would have none of this, and we were forced to make our selection from a list of fried items that weren’t altogether disagreeable, but, as I feared – and later confirmed conclusively – would nowhere near substitute for the burger.

Glen gave a laugh. “Oops.” He was getting back into the Landy on the ferry ride back across the Jardine.

“What did he say?” I asked, in reference to the chat he just had with the ferry operator a few seconds prior.

“Old Ford crossing. There’s a Nissan into the river. Water up to here.” He put his arm to the roof to further expound his point. Then another laugh. “And you wanted to give it a go.”

We were on our way to Captain Billy Landing, but because we had a late departure that morning, and because we stopped off at a number of points along the way to have a quick look about, it was getting dark. Normally we didn’t drive into the nigh; it was difficult to set up camp and cook when we didn’t have at least a little sunlight left. And besides, it was tiring to drive that much, and we had enough time on this trip to not have to. But here we were, namely because the small campsite that we though of staying at was already occupied, and because – we told ourselves as a kind of reassurance that this was, in fact, a good idea – it would give us the opportunity to see some nocturnal creatures. We made our way down the 30 kilometer one-lane track to Captain Billy Landing; a surprisingly difficult drive necessitating the use of low gear and supreme concentration. Our slow rate of advancement was equally the result of the difficulty of the road and the mass of creatures that were drawn to the radiating warmth of the meandering path. We didn’t want to run any of them over.

Our first thrilling encounter of the night – of the trip – was a snake lying in the road. Glen reacted immediately; jumping out of the car and chasing down the furtive snake, now trying to make its way to the safety of the bush. I shifted to evasive maneuvers, driving the Land Rover into a tree.