21 August 2011 - Jardine River Ferry Crossing, Cape York, Queensland

Here we are back again to the same excellent value-for-money camp on the south side of the Jardine River, on the route south again after having reached the very top of Australia’s mainland.

This morning we left our camp at Seisia, none too soon for Chris’ liking, nor did I waste too many tears either. Packing up the tent in such a filthy dusty place was no fun; however we have become quite efficient in the setting up and breaking camp each day. As I packed up the linen, I noted with dismay that the sheets, pale blue on leaving the caravan, are now striped and blotched with red dust, as are the towels. My feet are the cause of most of this discoloration, because no matter how diligently I wash them each day, they are red brown within the hour. Such is traveling in the red dust of Cape York!

A fibreglass model of a real one

We headed north toward the tip, pausing at the Croc Tent at Lockabie to admire the signature fibreglass mascot in the fenced yard on the road side. This unusual retail outlet was set up by Linda Rowe many years ago, she being also famous for her crocodile adventures about which she wrote (shades of Barry Crump I believe). She has long since retired and the shop has changed hands several times since, but is still essentially the same; a souvenir outlet for tourists to buy mementos of their great adventure to the top. I who have few demands had been adamant right from the outset of this trip that I wanted a t-shirt from the Croc Tent. Alas, business had been good and the new shipment was still to arrive, so the choices of shirts that I would be seen dead in were limited; I did still however come away with an over priced polo shirt.

We made it to the top of Cape York

We also picked up an excellent little map of the top area which we used to navigate ourselves about for the rest of the day. Signage here on the Cape is abysmal and one simply has to second guess every turn. Armed with the map, we traveled on through the rainforest on a very narrow twisty road, the prettiest we have passed through here so far until we reached the car park, some 34 kilometers from Bamaga. There we donned our walking shoes and walked around the rocks above the mangroves on the beach, then up over the headland to the furtherest point north, marked with a sign that confirms this is so. Two tour buses of tourists were there before us, having their photos taken, but soon headed back to their odd looking 4WD carriers so that we in turn could have our photo taken by fellow hikers. We had made it, and I had the t-shirt (or at least the polo shirt) to prove it!

Our next port of call was Somerset, about fifteen kilometres south east as the crow flies, first to the lovely beach which is sheltered by the long island of Albany. There are basic camping facilities there and had we been keen to sit and fish all afternoon, it might have been worth staying, however Chris is not really a beach person, and nor am I particularly. We back tracked and went up to the top of the hill to see the site of the old homestead, established in 1864 by orders of the Governor of Queensland, to be a sign of British occupancy and also an outpost for beleaguered sailors.

                                                                                                                  

There is a wealth of history here, but little physical evidence left. Some of those stories are:

In 1864-65 Frank and Alex Jardine, sons of John Jardine who was initially placed in charge of this station, herded a mob of cattle and horses overland from Rockhampton to Somerset, taking ten months to do so.

Frank took over the charge of this outpost from his father’s successor, until he was dismissed in 1873. He had to deal with the warring hostile tribes of the Cape and the head hunters and cannibals of New Guinea and the Torres Strait Islands, and of course the abject isolation of the place. He was greatly feared by the natives of the region and came to be known as “debil-debil-Jardine”

He stayed on after the official government residence was moved to Thursday Island, running his extensive cattle properties. He died in 1919 and there is a story regarding his resting place that is refuted by members of the family. It is said that after he was buried, fearful tribesman exhumed his body and reburied him upside down so that his spirit could not escape and haunt the native people in the area. Whether this is true or not, it does illustrate how infamous he was. Despite this infamy the name of Jardine remains an important one in this area; the river besides which we are camped and the National Park just two of these.

We poked around and found little, so back tracked to the Croc Tent and then north to Punsand Bay hoping to find a spot to have lunch. This was also the location of a highly recommended camping ground, advice we had ignored because we wanted one more conveniently placed for the ferry to T.I. We soon discovered that Punsand Bay is the caravan park, or should I say that the other way around? We asked if there was public access to the beach. We were invited to go through and see the beach but thought better of carting our eski past their restaurant. The beach was lovely, but not so much as to convince us we should stay and overnight, so we drove back on the road looking for a patch of peace away from the dust, which did not prove to be too difficult.

The remnants of the crashed DC3

Over lunch we decided that we would not seek further a place in this most northern part of the peninsula to stay the night but make our way south. We detoured back through Bamaga in the wild hope the supermarket might be open on this Sunday afternoon and that we might be able to source more fresh fruit. Alas, the doors were padlocked and bolted, and the village was deserted, so we headed out of the area via the airport road, pausing to visit the wreck scene of a DC3 which crashed in 1945 killing all six people on board. There are several crash sites in the area, however we were not willing to head off in to the bush hunting them out, so carried on along a road that was marked on our RACQ map as being the main route to Bamaga. It is not the road we had come in through; that passing through the settlements of Injinoo and Umagico, and was rough, rutted and more like a farm track. We did start to question our position and so were pleased when we eventually emerged out on to the main road at a familiar point. We were soon back at the Jardine River and across on the ferry to this camp.

House moving on the Jardine

Very soon after we arrived I saw a pilot vehicle arrive followed by a large flat deck truck carrying part of a house. Camera in hand, I rushed over to the road and we were soon rewarded by the spectacle of this very large load moving across the river as the ferry wallowed and struggled to keep direction.

Tonight there are more parties in than last time. We are again sitting in the laundry corridor plugged in to the washing machine power sockets, interrupted from time to time by men as they come to the shower, to speak of where they have been and where they are going and to swap track notes.

We have just finished chatting with a chap from Rockhampton, a keen rugby fan, who with his son and others came to grief in Nolan’s Crossing today. They were towed out and will continue their passive journey tomorrow courtesy of very obliging Victorians. Up to the point of submerging their vehicle, they had traveled very successfully through all the other crossings up the OTR, visited Weipa and Vrilya Point on the west coast on the Gulf (a detour we did briefly consider taking) and generally had an absolutely wonderful adventure, now to be ruined in one dismal splash. He was tremendously buoyed to learn that Robbie Deans has replaced the captain of the Wallabies in the last few days (a fact we gleaned from the day old newspaper purchased on Thursday Island). We were pleased we could do something to cheer the party up.

And here I must refer back to the event we heard about when we were last here at the Jardine River; that of the hoon who flipped his car on the Bypass showing off. As we were erecting our tent at Seisia, a ute pulled in and stopped beside us, the two occupants greeting us like old mates. It turned out they recognized me from this very same spot (here in the laundry). I had asked one where they had come from that day and he had not had a clue. The other had been in the shower at the time, and the whole episode or lack of ability to give a clear answer was the subject of some amusement for the next day.

It turned out that the passenger in the ute was the foolhardy driver of the wrecked car, and the driver was his mate who had traveled up from Rockhampton with his. They were supposed to have been a party of half a dozen vehicles, but in the end, after the rest pulled out, just the two came on. They had had a couple of beers at lunch time that day, and as the police at Bamaga said, there are a couple of beers and there are a couple of beers. Which was the truth? Paul, the older, had rescued his mate from the vehicle and moved all his stuff into his own vehicle and carried on here to the Jardine, worried about his mate. Just two or three days before they had been camped in a very remote spot when the younger one, whom I shall call Jared, had cut himself with an axe, and Paul had had to do some stitching up of Jared’s arm. He spent the night here by the river worried about him and was pleased to find him in basically good form (i.e not dead) in the morning. As soon as the ferryman arrived, they drove on into Bamaga, to the hospital and the police, rang the insurance and so on. Quite frankly it is not looking too hopeful as regards a claim payout, however young Jared can be thankful he came out with his life. So in the meantime the two are now doubled up, sharing their adventure closer than originally intended. They camped next to us for the two days we were at Seisia and sailed across to T.I with us. We liked them immensely and farewelled them with genuine best wishes this morning. Funny how one can judge people wrongly, and quite frankly, I have to confess it is one of my faults. I guess I am too old to change now.

So now as the barking geckos serenade our exit, we shall unplug and head back to our tent for the night, looking forward as usual to whatever the next day’s adventure will bring.