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Date: September 8, 2003
It bears repeating a funny comment I heard, "I accidentally signed up
for the extreme adventure (a packaged tour to Kakadu National Park). I just wanted
the regular adventure." In search of a real adventure, I decided to go on
a bicycle-about in the Australian bush:
The sand bogs down my wheels and I slide to a stop in the withered shade of
a eucalyptus tree. Despite having escaped the heat and humidity of South East
Asia, the Australian sun is much more intense. It washes the color out of the
foliage, erases the shadows and the sky is a solid blue lacking the gradation
from the horizon to the zenith. It makes my eyes bug out of their sockets and
magnifies the dead cells floating in the vitreous humor, projecting them on the
sky like flying serpents and balloon creatures. In the background, I hear a low
roar rise and fall, perhaps from the distant bush fire that mars the western sky
and causing flurries of ashen eucalyptus leaves; in the foreground, I hear the
ear splitting buzz of a hundred flies and the rustle of the leaves from hot gusts
of air. I am surrounded by sparse and stunted foliage punctuated with termite
mounds three meters tall. The sun and flies force me to crush myself into a ball
or squish myself into a shadow. My wheels and feet are sunk five centimeters into
the sand. In the valleys I feel rooted to the ground but atop the hills I can
see for miles over the ocean of gum trees, palms and ferns all tinted kangaroo
red from the dust and disappearing over the hazy horizon. I am 100 kilometers
from the nearest city and 20 kilometers from the nearest bitumen road. Aside from
the wheel tracks in the sand, there is no sign of humanity. I feel God has turned
my world upside down and given one shake I'd fall into the never never. This is
the Australian outback.
I continue down the powdery, sandy road. As the road descends into a small
valley, my feet scoop sand with each pedal stroke until the sand deepens and I
bog down again. I calculate that my wheels have ploughed one ton of sand a few
centimeters to the right and one ton of sand a few centimeters to the left. The
four-wheel drive trucks have gouged two trenches into the sand. I walk on the
plateau in the middle where the vehicles scrapped bottom and push my bicycle down
one trench, the wheels sinking into the sand, panniers knocking the wall and my
feet slipping. I follow the tracks of dingoes, wallabies, snakes (I see a baby
brown snake, one the ten most poisonous snakes in the world), and a dozen kinds
of birds and bugs.
When the road ascends a hill of rocky sandstone and quartzite, I begin pedaling
again until I reach my third river crossing thinking of the last sign that mysteriously
read, "Warning. Snorkel advised for river crossing". The creek has dug
itself into the sand and is overgrown with grass and ferns. I can't see any need
for a snorkel or any crocodiles. Before I left, I asked the park ranger if there
were any crocodiles in the rivers. "Aw, just some freshies. You'll be all
right."
"Can I get my bicycle down that road?"
"Aw, that push bike of yours is just a bloody lazy way o' walking."
His gravelly voice, typical of the Aussies, revs into a laugh. "No worries,
mate."
Contrary to the ranger a nearby sign reads, "Saltwater crocodiles have
been known to enter this area undetected." Saltwater crocodiles, or salties,
are the dangerous kind. I visited a crocodile farm a few days ago. First, I fed
on a crocodile burger -- "I'm going to get one before it gets me." --
then I watched the crocodiles feed on chickens.
During feeding time the water was foaming with fighting salties and the air
filled with their prehistoric roars. I saw one dominant male chase a weaker male
up and over a one-meter wall. One crocodile made it ashore, past the dominant
male, to feed on chickens tossed by two men. In one chomp the crocodile crushed
the chicken's bones. In the second chomp the crocodile swallowed the chicken leaving
a bit of blood trickling down its perpetual grin. After three chickens it was
still hungry and advanced on the men until they clubbed it several times on the
snout. Normally, crocodiles are stealthy hunters. From a bridge over a river in
Nepal, I watched the crocodiles slide off the river bank and disappear under a
few inches of water and reappear without a ripple to gulp down a water fowl. And
on the crocodile farm, I walked past a crocodile covered in slime and dust. He
was only one meter away and I didn't notice him until he turned, tracking my movement
and calculating how to get through the fence.
The reason saltwater crocodiles are dangerous is because they will hunt humans.
The tour guide at the farm saw a crocodile lunge out of the water and grab a fisherman
by the head and drag him under, "And like a true blue Aussie, the last thing
he did was throw his beer can at that old saltie." Saltwater crocodiles can't
eat more than an arm or leg at a time so they stuff the corpse in a hole or under
a log where it attracts crabs and fish which provide a smorgasbord for the crocodile.
I walk down the ravine and peer into the foliage and creek in both directions.
I don't see anything but I can't be sure there isn't a crocodile lurking in the
bushes or mud on the far side. The creek runs clear and cool; crocodiles prefer
warm and murky water. I walk up the bank, mount my bike and brace myself to slingshot
down the bank, through the creek and up the other side, minimizing any opportunities
for the salties. For a moment, plumes of water obscure my body and bicycle then
suddenly disappear as my front panniers submerge. During moments like this my
mind thinks in bursts of images and words. There is no time to rationalize or
doubt, a moment of clarity, I could call it. "Too deep. Soft spot. Foot stuck.
Damn. I hope there isn't a croc in here. I should have signed up for the regular
adventure." I splash down. "C'est la vie. I had to try. I wonder if
my panniers are still waterproof." (They're not.) Strangely I am not frightened
or regretful, I even chuckle. If I had a beer can, I'd toss it. "C'mon on
Scott. Games not over." I push my bike up and off me, stand and run out of
the creek, up the bank and around the corner. I don't turn around because if there
is a crocodile I know I will panic and fall.
The sun dries my clothes quickly as I continue up the rocky hills and down
the sandy valleys until I reach my goal, Surprise Creek. I need to camp next to
the creek so that I will have a full supply of water for tomorrow's 105 kilometer
trek to the next water hole.
I thought the "surprise" in Surprise Creek was a reference to crocodiles
but the surprise is millions of flies. I climb the rocks to the top of the stagnant
cascades in search of fresh water. I take off my clothes, wash and begin filtering
the first couple liters of water out of the 20 liters I will need. I am swarmed
by hundreds of flies. I look like a Dalmatian. Just one fly is enough to make
me crazy: buzzing my ears, docking on my lips, up my nose, in my eyes, crawling
over my glasses, tickling my skin, inhaling them, choking on them and eating them.
Now, it is a constant buzz and tickle. I clocked one fly buzzing around my head
at 27 KPH trying to rendezvous with my sweaty face. I can't shake them, if it
gets too windy or I go too fast they simply hunker down on my panniers and wait.
They even sleep there following me for days. Repellent only lasts a few minutes.
The fly's only weakness is that it is extremely skittish. The only effective thing
to do is buy a swag man's hat which has pieces of cork tied to strings that
hang in front of your face and scare away the flies. If you don't have a hat this
is what you do, follow along: Place your hand upright in front of your face. If
you're a bit lazy you can anchor your thumb on your nose. Now wiggle your fingers.
This is the bush wave.
According to the farmers, these are the worse flies in eight years. They say
that because of the drought the dung beetles have died leaving piles of dung for
the flies to lay their eggs. The locals have distinguished several types of flies:
those-little-annoying flies, those-blow-you-know-poof-poof flies, and the ones-that-sting-you-ouch!
flies; I simply refer to them all as __-__ __ flies! The Australian fly is the
most annoying creature I have ever encountered besides myself.
For five hours I have to endure them crawling over my skin. It is too hot
and the shade too sparse to hide in my tent. I make offerings of water, bread
and peanut butter but they aren't interested in these. I even sit next to a large
pile of dung thinking, like Dennis said, "There's gotta be a more attractive
pile of shit around here than me." But, since I have covered my hat and face
with mosquito netting, they're only interested in my crotch. I think I must have
a cult of flies worshiping my groin, "Hail the God of the Two Wheels from
which spring forth the waters of life."
For the rest of the day, I am content to watch the flocks of cockatoos screeching
in the trees, lick the lemon-flavored butts of the green ants and nap in the shade
of the rustling trees. Later, the sun sets behind the smoke of the bush fire lighting
the sky in fantastic colors and soon the milky way comes out of hiding. The flies
disappear. And, I can eat my dinner while watching the wallabies hop through the
woods. It has been a nearly perfect day.
Dedicated to the memory of Grandpa Kenneth C. Stoll (1923-2003).
Goodbye and happy adventure.
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