Mate, you don’t know the half of it (part 2)

“So, we’ll just hook up the Hilux to the Patrol, snatch it out… should be 15 minutes. Hopefully.” Riley put on a brave face, but there was an undercurrent of worry in his usually optimistic demeanour. Seven hours in a mosquito-ridden mud pit will do that.

Skip forward half an hour. The Hilux is positioned on a slippery swamp bank, engine revving, wheels spinning, slowly sinking into the soft ground, a taut snatch strap failing to budge the Patrol at all. We gave up. Time to cut our losses, drive the Hilux out, and get the Patrol in the morning. Clemo put the Hilux in gear and started forward. Nothing. Two cars bogged.

The daylight view of our midnight pain.

We launched into manual recovery again. Cursing, digging, dragging, levering… the only thing that we didn’t do was blame. At 4am, Geoff wisely rounded us up, grabbed some food and led us out of the swamp to make a fire and regroup. The warmth of the fire dried the mud on our clothes and skin, which was a welcome feeling. We snacked and hydrated, gazing into the flickering orange and red, mostly lost in our own thoughts.

Click! My mental tape caught up to the present. Some of the boys had headed back to the Patrol to get swags and snatch a few hours of sleep. I declined, not wanting to ruin my swag with all the mud, instead stoking the fire and unsuccessfully trying to use the smoke to ward off the mosquito swarms.

My fire wasn’t as big as this, otherwise I’d have been safe from the mossies…

As dawn broke, I went for a walk. Standing on a dried-out mud pan, I listened to the dawn chorus as I watched huge water birds gliding around the nearby lake. The mud pan was criss-crossed with pig, buffalo and bird tracks; evidence of the abundance of life in the tropical north. The rising sun scared off the mosquitoes and I returned to the fire, dozing for half an hour on the bare ground near the coals.

Heading back into the swamp, we resumed the recovery efforts, but were interrupted almost immediately by three more cars passing. This time, we were lucky enough to meet some awesome blokes with an electric winch. Within minutes, they’d dragged us out of the swamp. Things were genuinely looking up: we were free, the cars were OK, Bathurst wasn’t far off and the sun was shining. We negotiated the remaining crossings without any problems and bashed along the rough track towards our destination.

The final leg was a short drive across a wide, dusty salt pan. I was sitting in the back of the Patrol when Smithy and Riley looked at each other worriedly. Riley stuck his head out of the window and yelled to stop the car. We jumped out and looked under the car. The panhard rod, which controls lateral wheel movement, had snapped, chewing into the rear tyre and rendering the car undriveable.

Dismay, dejection and dust.

I was craving nothing more than the chance to rinse the mud off my body, drink some water and get some much-needed sleep. Instead, we left Smithy and Lily with the tent, the remaining water and a pile of food and hit the long road back to civilisation in search of car parts. We’d get to Cooktown, hit the mechanic for a panhard rod and tyre, and be back the next morning at the latest. Of course, I didn’t know the half of it… (part 3 here)

Mate, you don’t know the half of it (part 1)

“I hope this is the worst night of the trip.” Clemo looked morosely into the small fire we’d built. Caked in mud from head to toe, mosquito bitten and exhausted, I could only mumble agreement. The sky was showing the first hints of a new dawn, offering hope of a respite from our ordeal. Little did we know, we were only scratching the surface of the misadventure to come.

Battle camp road (click to enlarge).

I mentally rewound 11 hours, to 5:30pm the previous evening. The sun was dropping toward the cloudy horizon over the 4WD track to Bathurst Bay in Australia’s tropical north. We’d cruised through the rich reds and greens of Battle Camp Road, turning north through African-style savannah to aim for our destination. Having forded a couple of crossings, with evening approaching, Clemo confidently drove into a long, boggy section of the track. It was sliding along at a good rate until the very last section of the bog; bam. Stuck, too far to snatch out with the waiting Patrol.

“Trouble here!”

Spirits were still high as all hands started the recovery effort. Digging, chocking, improvising a winch with our hi-lift jack – in vain. As darkness closed in, the mosquitos appeared. We decided to execute a daring cross-country move with the Patrol to get it into a retrieval position. Starting into the bog, Smithy tried to hit a hard left into the trees, but slid and the ground collapsed under the tyres. Two cars bogged.

The lads plan their attack.

Four hours into the saga, lights were spotted to the side of the swamp. A car appeared on the dry ‘chicken’ track (to avoid the swamp – if only we’d known) and we tooted, flashed and waved for it to stop. Clemo and I charged off down the swamp track to chase them, blundering along with only weak flashlights to illuminate our path.

“Mate… we’d better be careful here.” It was a simple statement, but I realised what he meant: we’re running along the edge of a salty lake, in the tropical north, at night… my mind filled with visions of crocs, water buffalos and feral pigs looming out of the darkness. The car hadn’t stopped near us, so we ducked and weaved through the vegetation for almost two kilometres before we emerged onto the road in the glare of their spotlights. Shading our eyes from the glare, we appealed for help.

Mud is the new white.

“Naaaah… the owner of the caar ain’t here… don’t wanna bog it without ‘im, ya know? Aan gonna go stab some pigs, ya know, don’t wanna let the kids down…” I nervously fended off an inquisitive hunting dog while the drawled words from the thickly-set driver sunk in. We’d encountered a carload of the biggest rednecks imaginable – think Deliverance – and they were going to leave us stranded.

Trudging back to camp, we broke the news to the rest of the boys. A little stunned and a lot livid, we decided to focus on freeing the Hilux. We dug, we dragged, we chocked, we levered and we pushed. Inch by inch, metre by metre, we made progress. After jacking the car up and plugging the tyres with as much wood as we could find, Clemo took the wheel with five of us ready to push from behind.

Geoff and Clemo manning the shovel.

“One! Two! Three! PUSH!” We braced in the mud and leaned on the back of the ute. The wheels bit into the ground, the body pulled free and mud started flying as the car slid forward. One more heave and it was free – painting my whole body in mud as it spun on the loose ground. We chased the car euphorically, tripping and scrambling as we watched the mud-flecked tail lights drive away onto solid earth.

It was midnight. The Hilux was free; now we could use it to pull out the Patrol, find somewhere dry, share some beers and laugh at our mistake. Easy, right? You don’t know the half of it… (part 2 here)

Tip of the Oz-berg

We made it. Through bogs, breakdowns and bogans, we enjoyed sunset at the most northern point in Australia. Want to share the moment with me?

A stunning sandy beach, York Island and the directional marker... yep, we're there! Click for the full size!

This is my 200th blog post (woohoo!) and it’s a short one; expect a proper rundown of the many shenanigans of the past two weeks as soon as I get a chance to put them into words!

Birthday in Bamaga

It’ll be my birthday tomorrow, and hopefully we’ll be up in the far, far north by then – Bamaga beckons! The Cape has been an epic adventure so far, with enough stories in the past 5 days to fill a month-long trip. Hundreds of photos, lots of dramas, amazing, diverse scenery… it’s going to take a lot of catching up when I get back to civilisation!
Not much in the way of ‘net access, though, and I’m all out of stored blogs, so don’t expect to see much here for the next week. Later!