The Tip is a Tip but the Tip's Worth the Trip

The tip of the trip

Why, when there is something truly worth visiting, do Australians make such a monumental job of uglifying it? Apparently, in peak season, the easy road up to the tip sees well over 6,500 cars a month. Add the fly ins, the tour groups, and those that avoid chicken tracks, and there are a lot of people anxious to travel a long way just to tick the tip off their bucket list. My issue is, and it may  be unimportant to most, but I don’t need to know that Tracey, Mark, the DiDinato family, the


DiDinato dickheads

Tazzie Boyz, Stewie, Foxie, Brett, Shayla-Raye, the Hoskin family, the Brentwood Boys, Macca, Wacca, Shakka and his dog Brewsta etc etc etc also got there. I certainly don’t need to share the experience with their non-decomposable, cyclone strength toilet paper and Four XXXX Gold cans. Have a bit of pride people.

 

Sunset at Umagico

At the northernmost part of mainland Australia, there is no signage indicating where to walk. There are no toilets, there are no seats. There is nothing speaking for the (apparently) significant indiginous culture or (allegedly) important European history of the place. There is the remains of a resort of sorts, and a beautiful, wide, white beach. There is also a lot of graffiti and a heap of rubbish. Apparently, in peak season, you have to queue up to get your photo taken at the sad and desecrated sign. We had it to ourselves; just us and a dirty shrine of autographed rubber thongs, now there’s a tradition I call Australian! Give me strength! If anywhere was screaming for a bit of local initiative, if ever there was an opportunity to give the community in Bamaga something to do, it would be here.

 

Oli and his goliath half a fish

We stayed on the beach at Umagico looking over the Torres Strait and yes it was a magical spot. We took a boat over to Thursday Island, ate fair Thai food, and fished a bit. I got a Spanish mackerel, and Oli half a coral trout, with a shark conveniently letting go of the fish before Oli could get it into the boat as well. Our guide Tom, with his wispy moustache and indications of private education, moved around the boat the way Sara moves around a kitchen (her words). After that, we really didn’t know what else to do. The cape is without an operational tourist information centre, choosing to rely on mud maps handed out by some bloke who lives in the “Croc Shack” on the road to the tip. No surprises, but we didn’t stop there because we didn’t want to feel obligated to buy an “I Survived the Trip to the Tip” t-shirt. Maybe we should have. Nick Linton, get up here and straighten this place out!

 

Trentham Falls south of Cooktown

Still, we had survived the trip to as far North as we could get and loved its’ beauty, now we really were headed South and home. Cape York is known for its bird-watching, and Oli had created lists of birds he wanted to see with the result that he dictated the schedule back to Cairns. Visiting Iron Range and Lakefield National Parks we camped in rainforests, beside rivers and in woodland. For the first time, the processes associated with making and breaking camp didn’t wear us down, and the tents survived their first taste of serious rain. Plenty of driving, plenty of water, but plenty of wildlife too, and most of the birds the Big O wanted.

 

Ivy at Cape Tribulation

Cooktown was an interesting and windy stop, the towns’ effort to give its’ visitors something to do and see in sharp contrast to Seisa and Bamaga. Great fish and chips too, and more than enough properties and businesses for sale if you have a hankering for a sea-change. Having had no trouble with the Bloomfield track, another 4WD adventure that has succumbed to asphalt, we returned to the Daintree we’d briefly encountered with the FannNoonans, and camped in a field at Cape Tribulation surrounded by backpackers in Wicked vans. The next morning, a spot opened up under the trees and Sara burned what rubber was still left on the tyres getting the car in to bags the posi. We carried the tents across and settled in to explore at leisure.

 

Oli at Mason's swimming hole, Cape Tribulation

That was okay for half a day, then there was some serious touristing to be done. One croc tour would never have been enough so we chose the mob that promised more for less. Luckily, they delivered in spades and if the administrative staff wasn’t enthusiastic, the guides were brilliant. First off was Peter, aka Mangrove Man. He took us out twice that day, making a special effort to look after Oli having heard the Kingfisher Camp saga. His shtick was almost identical morning to afternoon, and we now know almost too much about mangroves and bad Irish jokes. We also went twice to the Daintree Discovery Centre, but sadly only once to the organic bio-dynamic ice cream shop. Ivy connected with several leeches, Ned saw a wild pig but didn’t chase it this time, and Sara spotted our first cassowary. Another croc cruise the next morning on the way back to Cairns, this time with Lex, a local whose mum still lives on the dairy farm he grew up on. Crocs, snakes, frogs, flowers, birds, and a dead calf all delivered with local flavour and not a hippy in sight.

 



 

 

 





Ned finishing his undie run strongly



We found the hippies the next day at the Kuranda festival outside of Cairns. However the real reason we went was to participate in the second annual undie fun-run. I was disappointed Sara sat this one out especially given how well her birthday present 5 pack has been holding up, but Ned was determined to take her place. We three boys set off in tasteful boxer shorts to appropriately little fanfare and tackled the hilly 3.5k circuit. Could have been worse, there was a fat Englishman running in a pair of saggy blue y-fronts! We all managed to stay well in front of him! We then watched a bikie with no front teeth come in a narrow second in the sausage eating competition, listened to some reggae, avoided buying anything at the craft market, and set off back down the hill to Cairns having adopted a bat at the bat rescue shelter and naming him Barney. Who’s the fastest bat in the world? The Barnes is of course!



The Barnes (the bat, not the whippet)



 H