The drive from Archer River to Cooktown was quick, aside form a brief stop at Laura for a dip in the pool, and we spent the following day exploring the shops Cooktown had on offer. Cooktown was only about 150 kilometers away form Port, easily accomplishable in a day, but since we were having such good fortune on the 4wd tracks we decided to take the CREB (Cairns Regional Electricity Board) Track from Wujal Wujal (south of Cooktown) into Daintree.

This would, however, easily turn our two or three hour drive into a six or seven hour ordeal. That was okay, though. It’s why we were here, right? . Besides, Glen had heard about Roaring Meg Falls and wanted to check them out for himself. The falls, while hard to get to, would be worth the effort, he assured.

The track was real four wheel drive territory from the word go. It started as a steep ascent into the hills (don’t let that word fool you, they were anything but) and proceeded to continue in a succession of hill (cliff) ascents and descents, all positioned precariously on a narrow, washed out track.And all completed with no brakes. It was a stressful drive, and we weren’t enjoying it at all.

The scenery wasn’t all that remarkable either, maybe because we weren’t seeing the forest for the trees, but then again it was hard to, what with all the trees, and sharp drops into more trees.

We reached the turnoff for Roaring Mig and advanced down the track. And even though we did see the sign for the falls, we never managed to find them. What we did manage, however, was to find a path even more severe than the CREB Track.

But we pushed on, thinking we would find the falls soon, and hours later, tired, hungry, and a touch -just a touch - livid, found ourselves back in Wujal Wujal. We had gone in a complete circle, if not actually achieving this wonder by precise spherical means.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Sue said. This is not the place she wanted to be at eight in the evening.

Glen’s frustration began to set in, too, and he took out his irritation, if not on purpose, behind the wheel of the already crippled Land Rover – a severe combination.

Without much choice, we proceeded on the coastal road, back to Port, or as far as we could get.

Glen bounded down the dirt track – normally a pleasant drive through a lovely rainforest aside equally lovely beaches, but completely lost on us now. It was no less difficult than the previous track, and began taking its toll on the car. After a few particularly hostile holes hit at equally hostile speeds, an awful clanking noise arose from the back.

Too tired to deal with it, we just kept going; every bump like a percussion of metal drums gladly banging away. Sometime before ten we arrived at Cape Tribulation and, after realizing the ferry wouldn't be operating at this hour, stopped at the first hostel we came to. We parked, checked in, and went to the restaurant for a meal. We ate a quick snack, and, in silence, sat with our drinks.

“Sorry about the car, mate,” Glen said.

“What?” I was almost asleep, and the last of my attention was focused on a spider the size of a beach umbrella suspended from the ceiling above our heads.