It’s a Long Way to the Top

(Travelling North – the 2004 A.R.S.E. tour – from Cooktown to The Top)

Text by Sharon Betteridge

Photos by Rob Mercer, Sharon Betteridge and Peter Groenewoud

With thanks to my paddling buddies (in no particular order): Rob Mercer, Andrew Eddy, Peter Groenewoud, Richard Birdsey, and Vince Browning, without whom this trip wouldn’t have been the same.

First Day Jitters

“He pushed his mind through and pulled his body after. …” I could hear Richard and Rob’s voices as I dozed off to sleep. Richard was reading aloud from a thick paperback. Rob interjected every now and then but I was too weary to listen properly let alone perform the mental gymnastics that would have been required to enter their conversation. I was deeply exhausted by the heat, the long day’s paddle and the anxiety of setting out on such a long trip in such a remote area. But my subconscious picked up this phrase and little did I know then how it would keep replaying over in my head on days when I felt too tired, or the conditions got too tough or the distance seemed too long. It was to become my mantra. Tonight however I rolled over and was soon in a deep sleep - dreaming of the long journey ahead.

Keeping Australia On the Left

Looking at the map it seemed straightforward enough: paddle more or less east out of the Endeavour River, turn left and keep heading north until you run out of coast. But we knew that there would be times when due to distance or haze or rain we wouldn’t see land. As well as the four big bays * that we would need to cross; island hopping, finding suitable campsites, returning to the mainland, and navigating through reefs and shoals would necessitate the use of accurate navigation tools and methods. So it came as no surprise that for several months before the trip our living room floor became a sea of charts that reached from the entrance to our living room through the kitchen to the back door; and that many evenings were spent marking out bearings, distances and approximate travel times. Notes were added from previous expeditionary logs, tide charts and topographic maps; plans were discussed, and finally an itinerary was set.

Our Island Homes

Our first crossing was to the Turtle Group of islands. It was dead calm as we launched from Cape Flattery. “The only wind we are getting is the one we are creating by paddling into the still air,” declared Vince authoritively after a short while and I for one had to agree with him. It was hot. The water was clear and shallow, colourful fish darted under our kayaks. Rounding the tall dark brown buttresses of the Cape a long sweep of dazzling pure white sand abutting a tall green mountain range came into view. The beach seemed to go on endlessly but we finally reached Point Lookout and like Captain Cook over two centuries previously, on a similarly clear day and at the same time of year, we too could ‘look out’ to the reef and islands and understood why Cook had named this headland so. From here the Endeavour’s route would take them out through a gap in the reef to the safety of deeper water. However, with our craft’s shallow draughts we had little concern for either running aground or forging ahead into the afternoon sea breeze that had sprung up. So, after crossing the shipping channel we took a more northerly course through the maze of reefs and islands. At first a barge crossed our path and then as the seabed shallowed and its make up altered from sand, to sea grass, to reef, we were accompanied first by dolphins, then dugongs and finally turtles – the namesake of the group of islands where we were to spend our first night offshore.

Camping

“I guess it’s going to be grade 10 campsites all the way,” said Rob early on in our trip planning “on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the best” he added. And so we all pictured beaches backed by arid scrubland providing limited shelter from the sun’s intensity and buffeted by the prevailing southeasterly winds. But, sheltered behind rocky headlands in a grove of trees or on beaches facing north, nothing could have been further from the truth. Such was the beauty of the area that on most days we would launch early, paddle until mid afternoon and enjoy the remaining hours of daylight on land.

On Coquet Island we camped on a concrete slab under the navigation light tower on the northwest spit - the only clear, flat spot on the island. A steep climb up the rusting tower provided CDMA phone reception. We catch up on news from home. Richard reads, Vince bakes a damper, Andrew desalinates some water, I write in my log, and Rob and Peter cast their fishing lines. “It’s like primitive life” Vince observes, “Everyone has something to do”.

At Wilkie Island we find a cool lunch spot where we listen to the beautiful birdsong being played out in the neighbouring mangroves. Rob interviews us and even now when I listen to the tape played back the birdsong is paramount and, so strong is the association that I can replay all the feelings, smells and coolness of that afternoon nestled in the damp sand and sheltered by overhanging branches.

At Cape Sidmouth we see evidence of a trail of destruction brought by a not so recent cyclone as it crossed the coast: a path cleared of trees, littered with debris and an almost intact timber dinghy left high and dry. Behind the campsite is a grove of stunted paper barks. I haul myself up a small quartzite over-hang to a flat area where ochre coloured termite mounds stand two metres tall. I sit and watch. Their hues at first intensify and then fade through to pale lemon as the angle of the setting sun’s rays become more oblique.

The giant rounded pink granite domes of Cape Direction provide a sheltered lee shore to pitch our tents. An afternoon of scrambling over grassy tussocks dotted with rounded rocks to a high vantage point afforded 270-degree views to the north and south providing us with a glimpse of the remoteness of the Cape. A lone aluminium dinghy motors passed after a day’s fishing, its occupants acknowledge us and we wave in reply. These are the first people we have seen since Cooktown.

The Ones That Didn’t Get Away

“ The sea in this country is much more liberal of food to the inhabitants than the land; and though fish is not quite so plenty here as they are generally in higher latitudes, yet we seldom hauled the seine without taking from fifty to two hundred weight” (Captain Cook in “Captain Cook in Australia” “The journals of Captain James Cook edited by A.W. Reed.) And so it was that on most afternoons, using spinning reels and lures, Rob and Peter hauled in a more modest feed of fish from these pristine waters: Queen fish, Trevally, Mangrove Jack, Mackerel, Barramundi, Golden Trevally…and on one afternoon delighted us all with an entrée of the largest sweetest oysters we had ever tasted. Whether sautéed with garlic and ginger or eaten sashimi style with soy sauce and wasabi these marine delights augmented our humble fare of pasta, rice, grains and dried vegetables.

We are sailing, we are sailing, across the water, across the sea

It was an overcast blustery day. With sail up I was skidding along daydreaming when I heard Vince taunting Rob with “bet I can get the fastest top speed”. We became like a group of school kids arguing over who could go faster. The ride was certainly exhilarating as we pushed our limits. On landing we checked our GPS’s to find all our individual top speeds were over twenty kilometres an hour but it’s Vince and Rob who proudly took out the line honours each clocking a touch under thirty.

Making Tracks

Paul Caffyn was right when he said Cape Melville reminded him of Old Nick’s marble winnings. Millions of rounded granite boulders piled high form the entirety of the headland and even more rounded granite boulders heaped up confronted us as we rounded the Cape. It looked like a recreation of a 1960’s sci-fi movie and I half expected to see a rocket landing and some form of alien life come out to meet it. Later on the beach Richard points out some tracks: four distinct claws astride a long meandering depression. This is certainly no alien and I am glad we are camped further along the beach and well above the high tide mark. We carefully place the kayaks around our campsite and set our tents up nestled within their midst.

It was late when we arrived on Stainer Island. The day that had started early and windless had after five hours of relentless paddling saw us lunching under a navigation marker on Wharton Reef. At this rate, I figured it would take us until ten o’clock at night to reach the mound of sand two metres high and roughly the size of a football field that the charts mark as Stainer Island. I wondered whether our navigation would be accurate enough in the dark not to miss it altogether. However on launching after lunch a strong wind sprung up, our speed increased, our estimated landing time became earlier and we all noticeably relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the day’s paddle.

We pulled our boats up under the lone she oak tree. I went for a walk. I couldn’t see land let alone our starting point in the Stanley Owen Group. Half way round my circumnavigation I stumbled across some fresh tracks: two sets of flipper marks in the sand. I look above the tide line and notice a mound of sand. On closer inspection I could piece together the story: a female turtle had hauled her heavily laden frame up the beach, laid her eggs, and then covered them before returning to the sea. I stood silent for several minutes in awe hoping we just might be lucky enough to witness the fledgling turtles journey down the beach to the sea.

Barrow Point looked like a real croc venue: mangroves flanking a small muddy bay. With evening approaching and a quickly falling tide we decided to land while we still had some water under our hulls. We set up camp quickly. Later we eat our fill of oysters, and consume a huge dinner of fresh Barramundi in ginger accompanied by coconut and lemon grass rice, washed down with a slurp of ‘Chateaux Le Box’ that Vince had procured from some yachties. We shuffle off to bed thinking little of the cloven hoof marks and deep holes we had dodged when setting up our tents and are soon lulled to sleep by the wind rustling the trees overhead and the lapping of water across the mud flats. A few hours into our slumber I am abruptly awoken. I hear some yelling followed by a deep thud and then a squeal. Had a week in the wilderness turned our co-paddlers feral? I urge Rob to find out what is going on. It turns out that we are camping over a dining area for a family of wild pigs and Vince and Richard are chasing them away hurling both abuse and logs at the intruders. Fortunately for us Vince has a good aim and we don’t hear from the pig family again that night.

And Then There Were Four…

Like Captain Bligh we too stop at Restoration Island to rest and recuperate.

Although communication and transport links have improved, I suspect that that the landscape here has changed little since Bligh’s time. From seaward a tall wooded mountain range flanks the coast and a remnant rises abruptly from the sea creating Restoration Island. On its northern shore thousands upon thousands of years of wave action have created a sandy spit. Here tufts of coarse grass and numerous palm trees hang on tenaciously. The resident caretaker, Dave, is jumping about waving and yelling that we are late. Using two-way radio a local pilot has been giving Dave regular updates on our whereabouts and by his reckoning we are overdue. I think he has forgotten our mode of transport is non-motorised. After showering we are given a guided tour of the island. There are water tanks, an old slab floor partly eroded by the sea, a vegetable garden, a shed, a satellite dish, a wind generator, a fibreglass two room cabin, his ‘home’ and an outdoor guest bedroom with ‘en-suite’. Dave is an avid collector and as well as displays of small trinkets and shells, larger flotsam can be seen in the beams and wall panelling of the buildings or stacked up ready for his next project.

Rob and I snare the en-suite accommodation and the others pitch their tents under the stars.

We are two-thirds of the way through our trip and are on schedule. We fish, cook, eat, help Dave with the chores. Richard is called home urgently. It is fortunate there is an airport nearby and Dave motors him to town in his dinghy. From there Richard organises a lift to the airport and his kayak waits for the barge to ship it to Cairns.

Vince has itchy feet and fears losing momentum. He decides to continue ahead of us. From our original group of six we are now four – Rob, Peter, Andrew and myself. We stay another night.

Watering Holes

The rounded granite rocks of Cape Melville prove to be suitable shelter from the scorching midday sun. We drink from a fresh water spring beneath a boulder marked H2O in large lettering and fill our water bags. As it is only a short paddle from both Bathurst Bay and the water tanks on Flinders Island our need for water isn’t desperate but at any opportunity we restock our supplies.

Round the corner at Bathurst Bay, if you are energetic, you can walk along the four-wheel drive track to a water hole. As well as being good for drinking it is reported to be safe spot to take a dip. However, I wasn’t going to test that theory.

Ussher Point provides another opportunity to fill up. From seaward it looks like a desert oasis complete with swaying palms and green grass. Rivulets of water flow down the sand resembling a delta, only in miniature. This fresh water I suspect flows from some underground spring welling up through a softer spot in the rock.

There are few places we camp in close proximity to four-wheel drive tracks. As well as Bathurst Bay, Captain Billy Landing offers such a place to scavenge for water. On arrival we befriend a four-wheel drive family. Here Rob’s smooth talking enables us to procure 10 litres of water, a few yarns and some apples – the first fresh fruit we’ve had for weeks.

Crocodile Rock

“Watch out for those short-legged swamp doggies… my neighbour’s prize bull got taken by one just last week.” Cautionary tales like this from the locals just whetted Vince’s appetite for some excitement. For the rest of us it just made us more cautious. But with Peter, it just made him jumpy. When Rob decided to manoeuvre carefully onto the beach at Captain Billy Landing, Peter thought he heard Rob say, “ be careful of the crocs” and he took some convincing that it was a rocky not a ‘croccy’ landing. Meanwhile Vince was filming his own exciting documentary on nearby Hannibal Island. After his successful target practice on Barrow Point with the resident pigs he decides that throwing a log at the resident croc would ensure an afternoon of excitement. This incites the croc into action: leaping into the air, attacking the log and turning it into sawdust. All this is captured on video. As it was getting dark Vince realised he had no choice but to share the only bit of flat land on the island with the toothy critter.

Who Said We’d Never Make It

“Maps, especially simple ones, can offer very hospitable and kindly portraits of a place. Maps of the Torres Strait cannot depict the powerful currents rushing between the islands, the strong wind, the numerous reefs…” (Paul Theroux The Happy Isles of Oceania.)

After crossing the shallow shoals of Newcastle Bay we land through low surf at the beach adjoining Fly Point. Two landcruisers pull up. Their occupants pour out and offer us sandwiches, sweets and coffee. I gladly accept their hospitality and am more than happy to chat with them while Rob, Andrew and Peter make a hasty climb up the trail to the top of the headland. From there they can see Albany passage. The chart indicates it flows at seven or more knots so we want the current, tide and wind all to line up. I secretly hope it doesn’t and we have to wait for the morning’s tide. This would give us a chance to camp at Summerset Bay and explore the old homestead and surrounding grounds. They return triumphant. While the channel looks like a seething mass of whitecaps and tumultuous water at the moment – when the tide turns we will be able to scoot through at well over15 kilometres an hour. After some very tricky maths to work out the tides Andrew is exuberant announcing that at 14.16 the tide will turn. So at 2.10 pm I wave goodbye to our new- found friends. As we launch they drive to the top of the headland to video our progress. Albany Passage became a bit of a blur. I didn’t even get to see Summerset Bay.

My disappointment however soon turns to elation. I see the unmistakable boils and whirlpools where the east flowing Arafura Sea and the north flowing Coral Sea collide. The sign reads: “You are standing at the northernmost tip of the Australian continent”. Emotions overwhelm me. It’s a heady mix of excitement, relief, and pride. I drink it all in as I am pushed and pulled by both my mind and the currents.

Later when we pull into the caravan park at Seisia the management and occupants are waiting our arrival. It turns out they have all been treated to a viewing of the video footage and want to know more about our trip. We spend the night entertaining them with our tales, calling home to family and friends, and toasting the end of another successful “A.R.S.E.” trip.

Please consider:

Cape York is the most remote region on the Australian east coast. It requires complete self-sufficiency. July and August are considered the best months for kayaking as crocodiles and marine stingers are less active although ever-present. Throughout the dry season (including these months) fresh to strong southeasterly winds persist, sometimes without respite, for weeks at a time. Once you leave Cooktown there is a real possibility that it may be impossible to return against these formidable trade winds. You need to have the skills to paddle in steep following seas and a reliable roll. Detailed planning, first aid skills and the right equipment to deal with three to five weeks of isolation are essential.