Last Week in Oz!
Hinchinbrook Island
For me the ocean has always possessed a hypnotic captivation. While not entirely dissimilar to the hypnosis of a crackling fire (though prohibited in most national parks in Australia), the ocean is less demanding of attention and entices me with a subtler, more patient charm.
What better way, then, to spend my last full week in Australia than hiking the remote Thornsborne trail on Hinchinbrook Island National Park, the largest island national park in the country. The 32 km trail runs north-south (hikable in either direction), never straying far from its charming coast. In fact, all but three (of the 11) campsites on the island are concealed in the edges of its stunning beaches.
I had been looking forward to hiking this trail solo: few distractions and plenty of time for reflection on the five incredible weeks in Australia. Arriving at the north ferry, I found I would not be so solo. A quiet German girl had just learned her hiking partner was laid up with an injured leg, and she was not eager to traverse the track alone (crocs, snakes, bats, who can blame her). Being the gallant gentleman that my parents had raised, I suggested she join me for the trek, and who could resist that offer?
On this trek my packing seems to have taken after my mother’s; without proper time to sort out all the superfluous gear from Adelaide and the Atherton adventure my pack was disastrously heavy (though I thought I may just be out of shape). The attendant responsible for transferring our packs onto the ferry confirmed my suspicion when he asked if I was smuggling lead bricks onto the island. I estimate the weight was near a spine-compressing 55 lbs, once again making me eligible for all the rides in kiddie land.
Unwittingly, I had picked the best time of year to visit the island. November’s threats of heat and rain cause most of the tourism on the island to instantly drop off from the maximum capacity of forty people a day (in early spring and winter), to only nine all week in our case.
Even with an overloaded pack, the trail never proved too challenging. The schedule of a five days and 32 km was enough for a relaxed lazy pace. Though as usual, I had a tendency to power through the hikes at a supercharged pace, but that just gave me more time to frolic along the vast beaches, lounge in the fresh water swimming holes and savour incredible views of the mountains (the island is home to the 7th highest peak in Queensland).
With ample free time, I fancied myself a regular Don Quixote, though my palm trees were his windmills. Tantalized and tormented by the ubiquitous coconut palms I’ve tried nearly every conceivable method to dislodge a nut, even jousting armed with a bamboo lance, though much like the true Don Quixote my failure was perpetual.
My hatred of mosquitos now burns with the fire of 1000 suns (much like the nearly global hatred of the Yankees). Mozzies (mosquitos) are even more ubiquitous on the island than palms. Stand still for more than a few seconds and you will find yourself in a buzzing biting cloud of mozzies dive bombing and strafing away while you lumber about like a giant primate (unfortunately, without a hairy coat for protection). It didn’t take but a few minutes until I completely sympathized with poor King Kong, though the elation when sending a squadron of mozzies to their doom was superbly satisfying. Death to all mozzies! (Note to Chris and Carrie: maybe bring some mosquito coils for around the campsite at night?)
The German was a nice enough hiking partner, though not quite as relaxed as one should be while trekking in paradise (even less relaxed than me). Rather than relax and bask in the idyllic scenery while waiting for tidal creeks to subside, she would rather slog on through, even at high tide. A slight sense of humanitarian responsibility had me following along. Subsequently, I was exhibiting the bowl-legged swagger, borne not of manly bravado, but the dreaded saltwater chafe (you may know it as the “hockey walk”). The only respite was the freshwater pool below the falls at the end of the day’s hike.
I regret that I wasn’t able to attack the two mountain trails off of the track, one summitting Mt. Bowen, and the other Mt. Straloch. The later of which is the site of a WWII bomber crashed during an electrical storm. Much of the wreckage is undisturbed from its original state and I would have loved the chance to investigate. Hiking the trails is strictly forbidden among solo hikers, and even groups need permits for these side trips. Had I known the German would be my partner I would have certainly given them a shot.
Even still, the trek was spectacular. The hike is not overwhelming, and there was never a shortage of clean fresh water from the cool mountain streams (never needed to purify the water either). Supposedly one of the best hikes in Australia (I have little to compare it to), I would recommend it for anyone in Queensland. Though you may want to hike it soon, I hear a rumour an infamous developer is trying hard to get his hands on part of the island.
Pics will have to wait until a more cooperative connection.
