Sidetrip

Any information we had ever read on the Bloomfield Track contained graphic warnings about impassable river crossings, vehicles being washed away, bringing adequate water and food in case you were lucky enough to only suffer a stranding, watching out for scary man-eating wildlife, etc. For years this coastal dirt road was the only land route to Cooktown, a place Jorge has been wanting to visit for the past five years. I don’t know why. Why does a man climb a mountain? We didn’t make it last time we were here basically because I am a big chicken, although at the time I just blamed it on the kids. With his birthday around the corner and a new, supposedly safer, paved inland road available and a piece of property to look at in the vicinity, I relented.

The Developmental Road starts out with a giant billboard showing which segments of the road are open, so it’s still a challenging ride, paved or not. We made it up there without incident, enjoying the one sight, the mysterious Black Mountains, along the way. These are disintegrating mountains, no more than gigantic piles of black boulders, where people have been lost crawling among the bazillion caves formed by the rocks (which instantly made me want to go do some exploring of my own -- I’m only a chicken when it comes to things that might eat me) and where the wind blowing through the rocks makes strange moaning sounds and pilots report strong air disturbances from the updrafts.

We spent the night in Cooktown -- named in honor of, who else, Captain Cook, when he beached his ship Endeavor there for repairs after running aground on a reef off the part of the coast he named Cape Tribulation -- and about ten minutes the next morning surveying the town. That’s all it took: Butcher, baker, bank, post office, hotel, done. We spent a little more time on a croc-infested scenic walk on our way to the cemetery to check out some of the area’s notable burials, timing it just right, at low tide, when you can somewhat safely cross the swamp. Jorge unknowingly dropped the truck keys in the mud when he was forced to carry Elle on his back. Several yards behind him, I spotted them by chance, narrowly averting disaster, as I shuffled along staring at my feet ignoring the ‘scenic’ part of the walk after Elle nearly stepped on a small venomous looking snake (the incident which inspired her reluctance to walk.) Lots of “Accidentally drowned” and at least one “Accidentally taken” (grabbed by a crocodile in other words, though I would think that would have been more of an “On purpose.”) We found Mrs. Watson and her son Ferrier’s grave. The unfortunate Mrs. Watson made her home on an Aboriginal sacred sight and one day the natives attacked her and her two Chinese servants. She escaped with the surviving servant and her infant son in a large cooking pot, floating around from coral island to coral island, keeping a diary for about a week before they all died of dehydration.

After all that fun, we headed to look at a 20-acre piece of property that sounded interesting and ended up enjoying a swim in the high-altitude, crystal clear, croc-free Wallaby Creek that borders the piece. With about four hours of daylight left, we calculated we had enough time to make it back down the Bloomfield Track.

Wrong.

“Harrowing” doesn’t do it justice. Even with four-wheel drive, some of the climbs were so steep we barely made it up. Then it started to sprinkle, making the clay roads sickeningly slick. Throw in numerous “Fast Moving Water” warning signs depicting a car being swept off the submerged roadway, sections of road completely washed away, sheer drops on both of the Track, a map that didn’t quite match up with the route, and nightfall, and you’ve got yourself a pretty nerve-wracking ride. And all this on a good day for the Track. I can’t imagine anyone attempting it in the rainy season. But dusk is a great time for animal spotting. We saw clouds of sulphur crested cockatoos, horses, wild hogs, and a seven-foot python that made us wait, burning up our last bit of daylight while he rested in the road. Grice had to give him a poke to get him moving or he might have been there all night.

We finally reached the paved part of the road at Cape Tribulation and stopped at one of our favorite resorts to inquire whether the ferry was still running and if not, if they had rooms available. The boat was still operational, so after a dinner at the resort celebrating our survival, we crossed the large, water-dwelling-reptile-infested Daintree River on the always frightening pontoon ferry boat before finally arriving safe and sound at home.

Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.

-- Shakespeare (Measure for Measure)