We stopped for lunch midday by a small creek, where Glen, naturally being himself, returning from a short walk with a little lizard in his arms.

“For lunch?” I said quizzically. “You first mate.”

“Actually,” Glen was saying, “feel his skin. See how it’s fairly rough.”

“Yeah.”

“That makes him a dragon, whereas the skinks have more shiny scales and the geckos have really soft velvety skin.” The girls gave him a touch – the dragon, not Glen.

“He’s really cute.” But after a few times the dragon wasn’t going to have any more of it, and opened his mouth, defensive like, to ward off the prodding fingers. “He’s gonna have you,” Glen said, laughing. The dragon was no more than 8 inches in length, so if he did have them, it wouldn’t be that much of them. “But they don’t bite hard,” Glen went on, putting his finger in front of the dragon to demonstrate his point. The dragon didn’t move. “Ahh, see. He doesn’t want to bite anyway. It’s just a big bluff.” But it wasn’t, and the dragon seized Glen by the offending index finger only moments thereafter.

“Got ya,” the girls laughed.

“Actually, I can’t even feel it.”

Frenchmans Road was, according to the guidebook, roughly 22 kilometers after passing the Wenlock River on the Peninsula Developmental Road. But when we navigated the short spread of track, we were disappointed to find no road. “It says that the road is poorly marked,” Glen was saying after referencing the guidebook again, “so just look for any road around this area.” We continued on a bit, and came across a road marked “No Entry”.

“Think this is it?”

“Don’t know. Hey, Dom, you have the GPS, let’s get that out to check.”

We spread the large map of Cape York out on the bonnet and waited for the GPS to lock a signal. “Here’s where we’re supposed to be, and we are …” I looked at the GPS coordinates.

“… here, right where we’re supposed to be.”

We turned onto the road marked “No Entry”, and by the guidebooks description of Frenchmans Road confirmed that we were going the right direction. There were a few creek crossings – nothing terribly difficult – and we were making good time. But the day was getting on in time, and it was getting dark. We would be forced again to set up camp at night. Before the last river crossing, however, the track deteriorated in quality as it dropped into a valley. This was the Pascoe River, and it was advised not to cross it if the water was more than 700 mm high, as your vehicle may get washed downstream.