Epic For An Old Man Or Six Days In One.

EPIC FOR AN OLD MAN
or
Six Days in One.

It all began, really, on our previous visit to Hinchinbrook. We were sitting in a rare bit of sunshine, waiting for a batch of scones to bake in our camp oven, when I noticed something strange – a couple of people heading our way FROM Mulligan Creek. As they drew nearer I remarked, "They look tired." TIRED? They were absolutely exhausted! Staggering, clothes torn and soaked (they saw our canoe, moored, and swam across to it before they discerned us), bodies scratched and bruised by their ordeal. A fisherman had deposited them on Zoe Bay and had not picked them up as promised. When their food had run out they decided to make a bid for Dungeness – some one told them they could "walk around the coast". Without a proper map, they attempted this, only to be rebuffed by the rocky headlands. Turning inland, they were caught up by the rain forest, became so weary that they abandoned their rucksacks and camping gear. For three days, without food and a super-abundance of water, they struggled on, until their luck changed with the sight of a moored canoe. For here were dry clothes, hot drinks and food, although the girl was too exhausted to even touch our lovely, fresh, brown scones. Their luck was again in, for J. spied three fishermen, in a small power boat, landing just by Middle Creek, who, when they had recovered a little, sped them over the bobbing waves to Dungeness.

26th September 1979

In sailing round Hinchinbrook with John, I had left the canoe up in the bushes by Mulligan Creek. But we were held up at Zoe Bay by wind and weather, and it became apparent that we would not be able to return to the canoe before Saturday. I did not consider it safe, in its present position, from purloining by the week-ender people, so decided to hide it across the creek, and up another tributary. Jillian got out the map – "It's further than Diamantina," she cautioned. I thought of a footnote of Peter Reimann, one of the stalwarts of old, but kept my counsel. Accordingly, at 6.00 hours I was on my way: slowly, as I always set off, but in half an hour I was atop the Waterfall. The creek flattened, and I made good time, until less and less it finally petered out into a swamp. I thought the next step might not be to my liking – a saddle between two creeks, which, Hinchinbrook-wise would sprout Banksia and Blackboy Grass, a combination that could deter an elephant's progress. Sure enough, I had guessed right, and, after half-a-year of leg-wearying toil (my watch only registered a HALF HOUR)

I literally fell into a depression with pleasant rocks in it. What was also most gratifying, a faint trickle of water oozed its way northwards: it could be the source of the creek I was seeking, disorientated from its easterly flow as per map. The map was wrong - it turned east, opened up into rain forest with its curtains of wait-a-while. But I was moving in the right direction, and headed not the rain showers - anyway I was wet, for, clinging to some roots along one side of a ravine, I had taken hold of a rotten one, which crumbled in my hand and precipitated me backwards into a deep pool. One of the obstacles was a lovely 70 ft. sheer waterfall and once more I had to resort to the bush. Eventually the creek opened out into Sandy Bay. (my naming). Ten forty-five - happiness - for Time was all important: a hurried drink and biscuit - surely an hour would get me to Mulligan Creek, only 1 1/2 kms. away as the crow flies. But no self-respecting crow would travel the route I did: large stones, boulders, rock faces, deep zawns and high forays into the scrub, all perched above the tossing sea. Ordinarily I would have revelled on the sun-warmed handholds, but I was losing that immensely precious, Time. Even Tide was against me, for, when I finally arrived, half an hour out in my calculations, Mulligan Creek was twice as deep and twice as far across as I expected. Not being in the Water Baby class, I hesitated: but if I did not swim across, my journey was in vain - my conscience urged me not to chicken out! I stripped off and floundered across - easier than I expected. I took the canoe out, found a piece of flat wood to act as a paddle, and, after a false start, hauled it on to a rocky hideaway. All I had to do now was to get back in what was left of daylight.

Even going mightily, when I arrived at Sandy Bay, the clock reported me an hour "in the red". Wet as it was, the soft sand looked somnabularly inviting, but all I could spare was a bare 15 minutes to eat, drink and rub down a sharp boot nail that sliced into my foot. Showers were now the order of the day, but, with unusual haste for me, I stormed up the creek, almost flew up the streaming rock by the waterfall, and I certainly had not time to heed the wait-a-while.

Oh, great! I was making up time: but my hopes were dashed when it came to cross the "saddle". No friendly sun to direct my bearing to an nth degree - I had to do it on dead reckoning - I was half dead, anyway, before a dell opened up with the joy-bell peal of a trickle of water, going in the right direction, pointing the way to Zoe, and safety from the gathering gloom. This was better going - my Tricounis clattered a well-remembered tune of old as I surged down the open creek. The top of the Waterfall, 18:00 hours and I felt jubilant - almost home - shall be on the beach in half-an-hour. All procrastination, for an unlucky shower had made the rocks of the Waterfall horribly wet and slimy under my tired hands, and necessary caution slowed up my wary descent. How pleased I was "in nails", or it would have been impossible. Time meant nothing now - light and vision were of paramount importance. Less than a kilometre now to the Red Tent: the trees thickened and the leafy path dwindled into a black cavern - I knew I had missed the path only by the growth I banged into. Back I went until I could just see the trodden leaves and had another try to find the Stygian clearing, but I came adrift again, made for the creek where it was a little lighter, and finally made the beach by clambering over the thickets of mangrove roots. A few metres more and I could rest my old aching bones, don dry clothes and imbibe hot drinks to the depth of my desire. And I certainly would not argue with Peter Reimann's remarks, "Zoe Bay to Mt. Diamantina and back is a long, hard day".

Six Days? - well that unfortunate couple took three days to go one way: ipso facto, it would require six days for the return journey. Alas, I never found any abandoned rucksacks and camping gear!

H. Kershaw.