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Whitsunday Paradise

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The weather forecast for our five-day Whitsunday kayak was bad enough to generate a discussion of postponing the whole trip. Fortunately, no one wanted to pull out, and the forecast proved to be wrong.

After much organization to ensure we had enough food and water to last 5 days, we were picked up with our kayaks by a ferry for a scenic ride around the bottom of Whitsunday Island. An hour later we unloaded onto the white powdered sands of Whitehaven beach, world-famous for good reasons, where we set up camp. Then, eager to make the most of our time, we paddled across to a nearby island to spend the late afternoon snorkeling around a headland.

It quickly became obvious why the Whitsundays are so popular. In between kayaking, we had plenty of opportunities to do short hikes and snorkels, each viewpoint and beach with its own unique beauty.

Only on one morning did it pour down in the predawn hours. The rain stopped just long enough for us to semi-dry, eat breakfast, and pack. It then pelted on us once we were out at sea in our double kayaks. A delightful experience. Our waterscape was shrouded in mist. Pale luminescent spheres pinged off the olive-green water around us, the heavy drops seeming to bounce off the ocean’s skin.

Although the view from the northern lookout over Whitehaven beach is to die for, our most spectacular walk was from Crayfish Beach up to a viewpoint on the third evening. One of our group, a fit determined engineer, was pregnant, but undaunted by the 1-hour hike to the top, as she climbed steeply over rocks and tree roots, wearing thongs.

At the top were interrupted 360 views of Whitsunday and Hook Island, and we were treated to a spectacular sunset. The whoop-whoop-woos of several peasant coucals echoed across the tops of the forest canopy. With the sun below the horizon, we descended along the craggy backbone of Whitsunday Island almost in the dark, the sky streaked orange and red all around.

On our final morning, we had a spare couple of hours before pick up from our campsite, a sheltered sandy cove. To kill time, we paddled to revisit a nearby beach and filled our now-empty food bags with rubbish. It was sad to see a couple of these smaller more windswept beaches covered in plastic.

After our pickup arrived to return us to Airlie beach, we were reminded of what the Whitsundays means to so many. We shared our small barge with 3 scantily clad Brazilian couples. Already tipsy at 9 AM, they’d missed their assigned collection time and our barge was forced to do a repeat trip. Crates of alcohol and empty bottles were loaded. The gorgeous girls gave everyone an eye-full, with their tiny bikini tops, and their slim G string bottoms openly displayed as the breeze fluttered tiny skirts upward, Marilyn Monroe style. With our salt impregnated hair, clothes, and our zinced faces, we looked worse than poor cousins, even though that was not how we felt.

Our captain dashes our self-satisfaction at leaving the beaches cleaner than we found them when he tells us that the big freighters from overseas dump much of their rubbish overboard in the nearby shipping channel to avoid some of the hefty disposal fees due on docking.

‘Another couple of weeks it will all be back there again,’ he says, ‘But good work anyhow!’

Boots and All

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As camping spots for the Jatbula hike in the Northern Territory were booked out within an hour of their release, we felt fortunate to get a last spot, despite it being the end of season September heat. On the day before we left, our reconnaissance paddle in kayaks along the Katherine Gorge in 40 degrees centigrade had us concerned about how we’d manage the 5-day hike.

Advice about not hiking in the hottest part of the day and that we should consume a lot of electrolytes came thick and fast. Only the temptation of swimming holes and waterfalls near camp sites kept us motivated. It didn’t take long before Jen developed a boots-and-all approach to swimming holes along the way. To be honest, many of them were merely water puddles. Jen concluded they weren’t worth the effort of undressing for.

However, the campsites were gorgeous. Our first night above Biddlecombe Cascades won the award for scenic beauty with crystal clear ponds at the top and a cool, deep rock pool between the high and low sections of the waterfall.

It was amazing how fast even those of us who are not early risers adapted to packing up camp in the dark to avoid hiking in blistering afternoon temperatures. Each morning, at daybreak, our 6 humpbacked silhouettes climbed away from the relative cool of the water source. Any murky pond along the way was invitation us to dip our shirts, hats, or bodies into it. Without them we’d have been sad vegemites; with them, we were chirpy hikers on a mission. Our destination campsites were along water-holey sections of the Edith river, lined with lily pads and lotus flowers.

On our third evening, a gorgeous gang of red-tailed black cockatoos kept us company, their melodious calls filling the air and drowning out the cawing of the crows, who waited patiently for opportunities to raid the campsite. None of us lost any food, but Darcy’s gear gained a few extra holes.

We must have swum with freshwater crocodiles, although none of us were lucky enough to see one. The rangers assured us that their scarier saltwater relatives were absent from all but one waterhole along the way, where we’d been warned not to swim. Strangely enough, none of us had any inclination to do so. Etched in my mind is the memory of a news article, where a Kakadu tour guide took 2 of his female travellers for a swim across a lily-pond lagoon. The girl at the back felt the water displacement below her before the crocodile surfaced just ahead to pull her friend under. I’ve always thought it’d have been fairer had the croc chosen the guide instead.

There was no stopping our intrepid crew on our last day of the hike, when temperatures dropped to an icy 36 degrees centigrade for the hike past Sweetwater to Edith falls. I was sad to return to the concrete carpark for our pickup to take us to Katherine’s city-lights. Anyone who has been there will understand my meaning.

A submerged view of Norfolk Island

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As the plane descends through a wispy layer of cloud, I get my first glimpse of Norfolk Island’s pine-covered slopes emerging from miles of deep blue ocean, and I’m reminded of its isolation. A cluster of historic buildings huddles along the island’s southern edge,  along with an intriguing stretch of snorkelling terrain sheltered by a rocky wall. On its ocean side, crested waves foam and pound, but the inside channel looks safe enough and opens into the wineglass shape of Emily Bay. On my first snorkel, I’m to discover this scenic alcove is lined with coral and inhabited by a surprising variety of tropical fish.

Along with snorkelling, scuba diving was the last thing on my mind when I booked a trip to Norfolk, so it was a last-minute impulse to throw in my thickest wetsuit, mask, and fins the day before I left. On an equally tardy Google, I discovered the Norfolk Island diving Facebook page. Mitch responded quickly to my request, and he told me that he takes divers out when his daytime job finishes.

On a sunny morning, I head down to the Kingfisher Pier, where Mitch greets his group of 4 divers with a cheerful smile. His subsequent efficiency instills confidence. The process of boat launching both here and at Cascade pier on the north side involves a crane. As we balance on the boat while it’s lowered into the Pacific Ocean, a couple of divers crack jokes about the foaming swell all around.

Our dive site is only a short ride away, next to where rows of waves break over an exposed rock plateau. As always, the water is calmer below the surface. Down here, the visibility is excellent, and the topography is jagged and surreal. Rocky underwater pinnacles rise out of ledges. Submerged channels lie below. A vast shoal of fish hangs in the water above us. Behind them is a changing mosaic of swirling bubbles below the breakers. A reef shark zigzags through the currents with more energy than the sharks encountered in the warmer waters of North Queensland. 

Like the shark, I fin hard, buffeted by the currents between channels and rocky outcrops. I’m glad for the excuse to keep my body temperature up, as I’m wimpy enough to find the 22 degrees centigrade water uncomfortable. It’s strange to be cold but at the same time surrounded by stretches of healthy coral and brightly coloured fish. Banded pharma fish have spaced themselves territorially apart and they jealously guard their coral bommies. They swim aggressively toward my mask and only veer away at the last moment when they realise I’m not giving in to their bossy behaviour.

As we ascend for a safety stop, a school of inquisitive trevally starts to encircle us. Their numbers swell until a silvery spiral of fish surrounds us. A fantastic end to a great dive.  Back on deck, Mitch serves up mugs of much appreciated hot tea. Meanwhile, his off-sider teases him about his extensive marketing budget that amounts to nothing more than his Facebook page. Considering how easy it was to find him and then dive with him, I reflect he has made quite a sensible choice.  

Sharks @ Holmes Reef

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Our divemaster, Caitlyn squeals with delight, as she comes up off the back platform.

“Oh my god! There are about fifteen sharks under the boat.”

Almost everyone on board is within earshot. Moments later, we’re frantically struggling back into our still-wet dive gear. As I’ve got a head start on Pete, I grab a mask and kneel on the small back platform with my head underwater to confirm what awaits us. 

Most of the sharks are swimming circles just above the sandy floor. In amongst them, are 4-5 whoppers, sleek plump grey silhouettes casually cruising back and forth.

Photo by June Zhang

“What’s the verdict?” asks Pete when I return for my dive tank.

“Heaps of them!” I answer as I clip my buoyancy jacket into place.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” he says. “They’ll still be there when you get in.”

“Not necessarily. They might get scared off.” I reply. Sadly, patience never was one of my virtues. I try not to look as if I’m in a rush as I lug my gear to the entry spot along the side of the boat.

“I’ll wait on the surface,” I shout as I drop the few feet off the boat into the water. Caitlyn is already a few metres below the surface. She hangs off a rope, her eyes glued to the sharks below. At 5 metres, I wait briefly for Pete, but Caitlyn has swum out over the sharks to find a safe spot on the sandy slope beyond. I follow her and we settle in to watch the sharks  

Photo by June Zhang

Some of the big sharks are bronze whalers, and the even larger ones are silver-tips, whose bulkiness suggests they’d mean business if they chose to. They’re far more intimidating than the usual reef sharks and are not afraid of enlarging their circuits over the sand to approach closer to us. Before long, the other divers have caught up and taken spots on the sand just behind us.

Photo by June Zhang

The last diver descends almost straight down into the crowd of sharks. He’s a new diver and seems unfazed by the associated danger. As he swims out of the fray, facing away from the sharks, his legs are pumping behind him. My thoughts go along the line of – I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Although most sharks are quite wussy and frightened by bubble-blowing divers, it’s sensible to face them and not take unnecessary risks.

I’ve barely finished my thought when a silvertip shark of which he’s blissfully aware approaches from behind. Caitlyn is the closest, and she launches herself forward, hurtling toward the shark with her fingers jabbing the water. Her don’t-mess-with-me attitude turns the 2.8 metre shark. At the last moment, it loops sideways away from both divers.

Photo by Jan Pope

I’m seriously impressed. It’s all very well for the macho boys to brag about their shark interactions, but to see Caitlyn go into battle to protect one of them is quite something else. When I tell Pete later that she will feature in my next blog for her bravery, his response is predictable.

“Oh, and am I in your blog for taking the responsibility of logging your details every last dive of this trip!”  

Photo by Jan Pope

Just so we’re able to label this as a designated shark location, we discover a leopard shark at rest on the sand toward the end of our dive. These beautiful sharks are always a treat. This one allowed us to approach closely before it gently lifted off and swam lazily away.

The Green Gulley Track @ Oxley Wild Rivers

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If you enjoy multiple creek crossings, with the water occasionally at waist level, then the Green Gulley Track is definitely for you. On our first day, my friends and I walk the first 17 km of our 65 km hike along a forest track with views across the Apsley Gorge, until the trail began to descend toward our first hiking shelter. From here it descends steeply down to the Green Gulley Creek and the first few crossings before a second shelter. We stay wet the entire 3rd day and wade back and forth across the creek over 30 times, following the fern lined Green Gulley Canyon. The water is crystal clear and we’re surrounded by rocky outcrops. The sky remains clear and sunny, but temperatures go below freezing at night due to a mid May cold snap.

On the third night, Cass, Lidia, Jen and I choose to sleep outside under a shelter and find it no colder than the tin lined shacks, though we layer up with layers of thermals before squeezing into our down sleeping bags. I keep my beanie on and it makes all the difference.

The same evening, Penelope the possum steals a plate off the table in full view of everyone, but fails to make it up the nearest tree with her prize, which is empty anyhow. More of a problem at nights is the plague of cute melomys mice. Our packs are hung from convenient hooks and our food stowed in safes, but the mice determinedly scamper along their miniature highways following beams along the tin walls. Other hopeful mice scurry across the floor searching our boots for food. They settle down fairly quickly though and allow us to sleep peacefully.

The Oxley River Park was originally cattle country sold to National Parks, and it has some interesting history as well as remnants of old stockyards near the heritage huts that we used. Life on the land in this remote location would not have been for the faint hearted. The terrain is steep and the creek unpredictable. We saw 2 large red bellied black snakes, so I imagine similar creatures would have added to the perils of the settlers’ lives.

A couple of us get a glimpse of the rare brush tailed rock wallabies that still survive in this area. Apparently 90,000 pelts were traded in a single year back in the day. It’s no wonder everything has become rare! Only when I hear figures like this can I truly grapple with how much has been lost.

On our last day, we are feeling fit and do a steep 600m ascent to meet the ridge-line without missing a beat. It’s frosty cold and our packs much lighter so we don’t even break a sweat. Back at Cedar Creek Hut, our spirits sink. A rat has eaten its way into the back of the car in search of food and done considerable damage to the back seats. But at least we’re not in North America and it was not a bear.

The Little Things

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We are all told it’s the little things in life that create meaning.  In theory, I’m aware of this truth, but it’s still taken me ages to entirely grasp the concept in all its reality.  Though, I appreciated it regarding the people closest to me and my lovely clients, I had difficulty applying it otherwise.

Underwater experiences can be just as elusive as those on terra firma. We hanker after whalesharks, mantas and rays, and maybe even a marine mammal colony when exploring in cooler waters.  Far too many hours are wasted trying to get a thrilling glimpse of marine life that often hurtles by so fast the experience is quickly over. If the sensational creatures aren’t around, we go for numbers and chase after vast shoals of fish and bait balls.  Meanwhile, we blithely swim over the top of a multitude of treasures, oblivious to their beauty.

When always on the hunt for the dramatic, it’s easy to be disappointed. I’ve always enjoyed the underwater critters. Let’s face it, who wouldn’t be ecstatic to see a pigmy seahorse. However, I failed to focus on the finer details.

My friends and I were hard to satisfy, and no matter how amazing our trips were, we were always planning the next bigger, better one. We agonised over how the other group of divers saw things we seemed to have missed. If we’d only swam that way, done this, tried that. Why weren’t we faced in the right direction during the 2-second window when the dolphin swam by? This missing-out mindset was before I discovered we all live in our own slightly warped realities with our frequent exaggerations and different mental viewpoints!

As I got older (please not me), my previously good eyesight lost its edge. About the same time, I noticed that one of my girlfriends had stopped bragging about not needing to wear glasses to read.  The upshot was that the small critters – the ghost pipefish, the tiny blennies, nudibranchs, and other midget versions of life grew gradually fuzzier. As everything is slightly magnified underwater, it took me longer to notice as the scenery blurred and the submarine world seemed to lose some of its beauty. My mood deteriorated somewhat as I downgraded the natural world from sublime and surreal to merely scenic!

I finally weakened and admitted it was time to buy a bifocal mask. On my next scuba dive club trip to Papua New Guinea, my headspace improved significantly. It was hard to believe how much little stuff I’d missed, and not only due to my altering eyesight, though I suddenly wondered if it had perhaps never been great for the close-up critters. I had previously overlooked the finer detail because of my lack of mental focus, and could have realised that my eyes needed help even earlier. I appreciated the macroscopic life like never before and understood what I’d previously passed over. My appreciation of each minute miracle went through the roof.