To the Northernmost Point

The next morning, the last sentence from the night before became the first job of the day.

We had to get Roger back out of Elliot Falls before anything else could happen.

Knowing the track helped only in a limited way. There were fewer surprises, and I knew exactly which washouts were waiting. Light drizzle had made the surface darker and more slippery, so we went back into the same quiet routine: Steph ahead with the handheld radio, me moving Roger one small correction at a time.

There was no dramatic wheelspin and no heroic moment. That was the aim.

By the time we reached the broader dirt road, the tension left almost all at once. Roger had done an incredible job again, and from there Cape York opened into corrugations, dips, cattle, snakes, lizards and long stretches of changing bush.

Across the Jardine

By the time we reached the Jardine River ferry, it felt like the next proper step north.

The crossing itself was almost comically short. We drove onto the platform, the ferry moved across and a moment later we were on the other bank. The return ticket cost $160.

It was a lot of money for a small distance.

Looking at the river, the ferry made sense. It looked deep enough to remove any romantic idea of a crossing, even before considering that driving across without the ferry was not permitted. This was crocodile country, and we were travelling in an expensive, heavily loaded 4WD at the far end of a peninsula. Paying for the ferry was the simple part.

Once we rolled off, the country felt different again.

Wild horses appeared beside the road. The vegetation became greener in places and the final section north felt separate from everything below the river. We were in the final stretch to the Tip.

A Windy Night at Somerset

We stopped at the Croc Tent, the well-known souvenir shop. We looked through the souvenirs, I bought myself a station shirt, and we asked about places to stay. Somerset came up in the conversation, so we drove out to check it out.

The view made me want to stay before we had properly dealt with the conditions.

The campsite sat beside an exposed stretch of coast with water in front of us and very little between the tent and the wind. We both liked the place. The disagreement was about where to put ourselves. I wanted to stay close to the water; Steph suggested a spot a little further back from shore. She noticed the heat, humidity and gusts. I noticed the view.

We stayed.

In hindsight, Steph had the better assessment.

The amenities were not in a condition we wanted to use, so we relied on our own setup. As darkness arrived, the water disappeared from view. The wind kept arriving in uneven bursts, pressing against the rooftop tent and moving anything outside that had not been secured properly.

Then I started reading about crocodiles.

This was a poor choice.

I knew the advice: keep well back from the water and do not leave anything interesting near the shore. We had set up closer than ideal, and once it was dark that detail became hard to ignore.

None of that helped once the camp was dark and every sound had to be interpreted without seeing its source.

A scrape somewhere outside became nerve-wracking. A heavier movement in the wind became harder to ignore. Each time the tent fabric shifted, I listened for what might follow.

Steph slept better than I did.

I knew that a crocodile was not climbing into the rooftop tent. I also knew we camped close to shore in a place where large crocodiles existed. Those two thoughts kept taking turns all night.

Breakfast at the End of the Road

Morning made the campsite look completely different.

The darkness and unidentified noises were replaced by open water, a broad view and coffee in early light. The wind was still present and the night had not cooled down much, but in daylight it was easier to handle.

It was Tip day.

The drive towards the northernmost point narrowed through rainforest. Branches closed around the road and the route felt more enclosed as we moved closer. There was no grand arrival gate. Just a carpark at the end of a track, with a view that looked far too good for a carpark.

The only other person there was leaving as we arrived.

For a while, we had the place to ourselves.

We did not walk straight to the sign. We opened the back of Roger, pulled out breakfast and stood beside the dusty car looking towards the water.

That scene is clearer than the formal milestone.

The tailgate was our kitchen bench. The air was already warm and sticky. Roger carried red dust from the drive north and everything we needed for the year. We ate without rushing and looked at a place we had spent weeks moving towards.

It was not cinematic. There was no speech and no big emotional reaction.

We were simply very happy to be there.

The Northernmost Point

The walk to the sign was only around 700 metres, and it crossed rocks, small rises and exposed sections beside the water. The wind made the drone difficult to control, even though photos from the area often make it look calm.

Another couple arrived and walked ahead of us. That solved the small question of who would take our photo.

At a viewing platform before the sign, we waited our turn and exchanged cameras with the other couple. By the time we reached the actual sign, it was just Steph and me again.

We stood at the northernmost point of mainland Australia and gave each other a high five.

Only once we stood there did I start thinking about the road that had led us there. The delayed moving truck in Freshwater. The wrong hose. The fog into Kangaroo Valley. Wet camps, tyre pressure discussions, sand, corrugations and the slow realisation that Roger could take us much further than we had previously driven ourselves.

Now the car was waiting in the final carpark at the top of the mainland.

I had watched footage of a crocodile moving through that exact area only two days earlier. That stayed in the back of my mind whenever we stood close to the water. It did not spoil the place, but it stopped the moment becoming too relaxed.

We took the photos, looked around for a while and then walked back to Roger.

Heat, Wind and the Punsand Bay Tarp

Punsand Bay felt more sheltered than Somerset as soon as we arrived.

Our site was excellent, and the camp had a relaxed tropical atmosphere. Putting the tarp up was the right decision. The mistake was assuming we could do it casually in that heat and wind.

It was the middle of the day. The heat had settled over the campsite, the humidity was high and enough wind remained to make a large piece of fabric difficult to control.

We laid everything out, positioned the poles and started tensioning the ropes. A gust arrived before the setup was stable.

Two pegs came free. One broke. The tarp folded and dropped much faster than we had raised it.

For a moment we just looked at it.

Then we started again.

By the time the tarp was finally secure, both of us were wet with sweat and short on patience. The job had not been technically difficult. The conditions had simply removed our energy one small step at a time.

We sat down and did nothing until we could move again.

The pool eventually restored us enough to enjoy the afternoon. We played gin rummy, had a drink and looked over water we could not safely swim in. It felt a little like a tropical island resort, except for the crocodile warnings.

That evening the camp served pizza. I briefly considered whether I should volunteer near the oven, then remembered that proper pizza dough requires more planning than arriving in the afternoon with opinions.

The pizza was surprisingly good.

Not as good as ours, obviously.

The cold beer was excellent as well.

Turning South

Rain moved through overnight and into the morning. We spent the next day around camp, repeatedly reconsidering whether to stay another night or begin the drive south.

There was no external deadline. That made the decision less straightforward rather than more. We considered the heat, the humidity, the campsite, the distance to the next stop and our energy. We looked at the map, then stopped looking at it.

That was one of the stranger parts of travelling for a longer time. We could be somewhere genuinely beautiful and still find the fault within minutes. Too hot. Too windy. Too many insects. Too exposed. Too busy. Too quiet.

Most of those complaints were true, but they were never the whole story. Wind meant fewer insects. No people meant no generator nearby. A quiet place could feel peaceful in the afternoon and slightly strange after dark. A beautiful campsite could still be too hot to sleep properly.

At the same time, we had to keep reminding ourselves what we were actually doing. We are taking something like a mini retirement, sitting under a tarp near the top of Australia, writing the story while looking over the water.

That did not make home feel less important. If anything, being away made the Northern Beaches and our friends feel more special. A good campsite is not the same thing as home, even when the view is excellent.

By Tuesday morning, the plan to stay had lost support from both of us. Night temperatures were still above 27 degrees, the tent had held onto the heat and there was not much left we wanted to do at camp.

So we packed up and turned Roger south.

Once we were moving, the mood changed immediately. The air conditioning was on, the difficult northern push was behind us and we had a full day of road ahead. We turned the music up before the red dirt had properly started.

John Williamson’s Cape York Peninsula became the discovery of the day. It was almost too perfect for the moment. The first time through, we listened. The second time, we laughed. By the third, both of us were singing along with far more commitment than the song probably deserved.

Slim Dusty followed. Some lyrics had not aged especially well, but on a long dirt road we were not analysing them very seriously.

Southbound, the road felt different. On the way north, every kilometre had taken us towards something uncertain. Now we recognised enough of the route that the unknown had gone. A rough section was something we remembered rather than something we imagined.

What surprised us was the traffic. Only days earlier, heading north, we had sometimes driven for long stretches with barely another car in sight. Now touring vehicles appeared regularly. Fallen trees from the storm had been cleared and the road looked as though it was being prepared around us for the busier dry-season flow.

Bramwell Junction Roadhouse had been the planned stop. We reached it shortly after midday, checked the distance ahead and kept going. There was not much debate. We felt good, had daylight and had nothing planned other than driving anyway.

The next hours were quiet. The music became less loud. The audiobook returned. We stopped paying attention to each kilometre and let the road accumulate behind us.

By the time we reached Coen, the long day had caught up with us.

We inspected the free camp beside the road first. It was available and would probably have been fine, but neither of us had much enthusiasm for it. The camp beside the Exchange Hotel required less effort and offered dinner within walking distance.

Decision made.

The Exchange Hotel also came with the obvious “(S)Exchange Hotel” joke. After a full day in the car, this was much funnier to us than it would have been at breakfast.

We ordered a chicken parmi and a steak burger. The food was okay. The campsite was okay. Nothing went wrong and nothing needed solving.

That ordinariness was good.

The days immediately before had included the Elliot Falls track, the Jardine ferry, a sleepless night at Somerset, breakfast at the end of the mainland and the sign almost to ourselves. Coen asked nothing from us except to park, eat and sleep.

By bedtime, the northernmost point felt strangely distant.

It was still only one long day behind us. In our heads, it already belonged to a completed part of the trip.