GO BUSH

This has been written at different periods of time, from Friday, April 3 until now. This is a long post, but the most epic one yet. You have to read it.


World Hold On

From Byron Bay, we travelled north to Cooloola, a section of Great Sandy National Park. “Cooloola” is the Aboriginal, onomatopoeic word for the sound made by the wind rustling though the Cyprus pines. Our guide was John Sinclair, known as “Mr. Fraser Island” for his 30 years of campaigning to protect Fraser Island. He knows the island better than anyone else; John Sinclair is to Fraser Island and Cooloola as Geoff Mosley is to Tasmania. Since 1988, John has been running his own tourism company called GO BUSH Safaris, focusing on Australia’s World Heritage Areas. He also runs trips to other places, and this year alone has run trips in Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia.


I’m Fingering the Goanna…

Well maybe that’s why it’s so upset. Our campsite at Cooloola was called Harry’s Hut, because of some guy named Harry who builed a hut there once; the hut is still there. Our campsite bordered the pristine Noosa River, which I went swimming in daily despite warning of fallen trees, sharp rocks, and bull sharks beneath its cool waters. Our common camping area consisted of a large tent under which we hung out, ate meals, and fended off mosquitoes. John Sinclair, better known as F.L. (fearless leader), loves the rugged, bush lifestyle, but refuses to sacrifice the comforts of the conventional kitchen. Thus, he organizes full-course meals in the bush, and he’s even written a cookbook on cooking in the bush. John’s campsite culinary plans produced the likes of a sweet pumpkin soup, buffet-style spring rolls, and ginger melon fruit salad.

Another occupant of the banks of the Noosa River is the goanna, a large lizard about two to three feet long, with scaly grey-black skin and bands of dark yellow. Their claws are long and their many-toothed bite is deadly; they are scavengers, so the bacteria in their mouths can cause deadly infections in their bite victims. One night, some food was left out in the kitchen tent, and it was eaten by the goannas by morning. Peter asked who had put away the food the night before, but when no one confessed, he said, “Right now, I’m fingering the goanna.”

As the Great Sandy National Park’s name suggests, much of the area, including Cooloola, is on large sand dunes. Sand of a variety of colors makes up the soil for all of the vegetation. Our big day was spent canoeing down the Noosa River to Camping Site 3, where we hiked to the impressive Sandpatch. After two hours of canoeing, we arrived to the site and went on a long hike. At the end we reached the Sandpatch, a huge area full of sand dunes. The vegetation ceased, and there was nothing but sand all the way to the sea, a desert amidst a lush forest. The whole group ran to the top of the tallest dune and looked out to sea, the town of Noosa, and the mountains beyond. On our canoe back to camp, Sarah Peters and I earned the title of Buccaneers from John Sinclair when I got bored and started splashing other boats. John and Dave, the self-proclaimed Queen’s Navy, decided it was their duty to stop us. Overall, a fun and exhausting day.


The Great Flood

Our last full day in Cooloola started like any other. We got on the bus, left Harry’s Hut, and headed toward Rainbow Beach, about an hour away from Cooloola. While we enjoyed morning tea at the beach, it began to rain. Peter spoke to Laura about the incoming inclement weather, and made the call that we would go back to Harry’s Hut, collect our gear, and head to Brisbane and stay in a hostel for the night. Group morale was up! The unexpected end to the merciless barrage of mozzies each night was a welcome decision. By this point it had started to rain harder, and we boarded the bus back to Harry’s Hut.

The nearest civilization to Cooloola are the small towns of Kin Kin and Gympie (yes, Gympie). About a half and hour from these towns, there exists a sign for Harry’s Hut, from which it is about 13 kilometers of winding, dirt road to the actual Harry’s Hut. We drove through the rain, with Dave at the wheel of the bus and trailer, until we came to a tree plantation, several kilometers away from the Harry’s Hut sign. The road was masked by a large expanse of running water, running through the trees from one side of our path to the other. The water’s depth was imperceptible to the eye, so Peter got out and waded in, quickly walking up to his thighs in the brown water. There was no way that our bus and trailer would make it through the depth and current, so a few of stepped out in the pouring rain and turned the trailer around, our feet sinking into the sticky mud. A rain-drenched Peter boarded the steps of the bus when we were all back on and explained the situation. The group, with Dave at the wheel, would drive to Kin Kin and get rooms for the night. Peter and John would go back to our campsite at Harry’s Hut and collect everyone’s belongings, load up the green GO BUSH Safari trailer, and high-tail it out of there in John’s four-wheel-drive. “We can take only one volunteer,” rasped Peter.

At the time I was standing up, dripping with rainwater from turning the trailer around. Immediately I felt a knot of excitement in my chest. There was a pause; no one spoke and people stared at each other. Perhaps only in an effort to break the silence, I said, “I’ll do it.” Before I knew it, Peter, John, and I were walking away from the familiar bus I the pouring rain. I saw Dave and the group drive away out of the corner of my eye, and turned to see my companions wading into the river that had blocked the bus’s passage. Clad in boxers, bathing suit, shirt, North Face jacket, and my decaying LL Bean sandals, I headed off after them.

I was high off of adrenaline for the first half hour of the journey, as we walking through the rest of the tree plantation, then an open field, beneath more and more rainfall. Our trio had frequent laughs, with stories from Peter and ecology lessons from John. It was only when I asked how far it was to Harry’s Hut that I began to regret my decision to volunteer. “It’s about 14 kilometers from here,” said John matter-of-factly. “With an average walking pace of 3.5 kilometers per hour, and a quick march at 6 kilometers per hour, I believe we could go at 5 kilometers an hour. It should only take us three hours to get to Harry’s Hut.” And so it did. During portions of the trek, I felt as though I were in a dream, and no actions I made would result in real-life consequences. The constant, repetitive rain produced a numbing, meditative effect in me, and the three hours blurred together into one long, wet memory.

Some highlights of the trek include uncomfortable chafing on my right, inner-thigh, various water-levels and terrain, rocks, mud, sticks, branches, gray sky. At one point, Peter pointed out a poisonous whip snake sliding through a nearby puddle, saying we should keep our distance. John, ever the naturalist, promptly wandered over to where the whip snake had been, quite eager to inspect it. I was happy to stay behind Peter.

As we approached Harry’s Hut, nearing the end of our trek, the water covering the ground became deeper and deeper. A sense of foreboding filled us all as we entered the campsite and surveyed the damage already done by the wind and rain. Our big common tent had collapsed under the weight of the water that had collected in its tarp, the metal support beam at its center bent under the pressure. John’s previously-tidy kitchen tent was in disarray, with boxes carrying different things sitting in five inches of water.

I began the arduous task of removing everyone’s belongings from their tents, while Peter and John managed the kitchen tent and campsite. My upbeat mood quickly decayed as I realized how heavy the water-logged backpacks had become. The sun was falling quickly, and it became extremely difficult to see inside the tents, most of which had collapsed in the gale. With each of the eight tents that I approached, I was greeted by many little crawling insects that had taken refuge from the rising waters on the dry sides of the tents. I began working methodically, and quickly my repetitive tasks put me into a trance; I concentrated not on the details of what I was doing, but only the ultimate goal of removing all of the belongings from the tents. I would grab whatever bag I could and stuff clothing, toiletries, and whatever else I could find into it, all the while looking out for any item that could be irreparably damaged by the water; laptops, notebooks, and journals became my priorities.

Will Alex survive the rising waters and extremely dark night to come? Will the trio be washed away by the raging Noosa River? Will they have enough food to survive until rescued by helicopter? Tune in next time, for the exciting conclusion of “The Great Flood!”