JULY 23 - 25

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Doctor Dispatch, Telegraph Trail

Thursday, July 23; Alice Springs

Ironically, those who stayed on at the niteclub made breakfast in the hostel dining room, while Denise and I slept in and missed it. They didn't look too chirpy though, several being the worse for drink. Gossip abounded over breakfast about who had made moves on Steve the previous night, for there were two girls, Silke, an Austrian, and Polly, who was English, who had competitively fawned over him for our entire trip. We called them the Klingons. Steve was having none of it while he was working, but now that the trip was over, we were curious to see if anything would develop in the drunken darkness of the niteclub. As it turned out, Jane claimed that Steve had been hitting on her, but that she had stopped him dead in his tracks. Chev commented that Steve probably would have used his trademark phrase if he had managed to entice Jane into his swag, i.e. "Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride." Even the hangover victims broke up laughing at that one.

Justin and Jane said their farewells as they left to catch a plane, marking the beginning of the dissolution of our group of newfound friends as they trickled out of Alice. Denise and I were due to leave that night on an overnight bus that would take us further north to Katherine and Darwin. But we had the day to explore Alice Springs, so we consulted our guidebook.

Alice Springs is a town with a status greater than its size would suggest. Only 25,000 people live in Alice but that is all it takes to make it the undisputed capital of the outback; there are fewer than 40,000 inhabitants within a 1000km radius of the town. Given its remoteness, I was surprised to find that it was a clean, modern, and prosperous place, not the rusty dusty shanty town that I had been expecting. Although the Anangu Aborigines had used the waterhole at Alice Springs for thousands of years, the European-style town only took hold after a repeater station for the Overland Telegraph Line from Adelaide to Darwin was established in the area in the 1870s. After a rail link to Adelaide was completed in 1929, the town grew further and the tourism industry evolved as visitors to the region used Alice as a base from which to visit Uluru and its lesser-known neighbours. Alice Springs is more remote than Coober Pedy but seems less so, and although heavily dependent on the lifeline of goods which much be shipped to the town, the shops are stocked with the latest products and fashions. The streets are wide and laid out in a tidy grid, with a pedestrian mall in the neat retail district. The first significant number of trees I had seen in a week lined the residential areas. Hardly anybody looked like Bob Barford or the members of his Aussie Outback band, although the significant Aboriginal population of the town is apparent. Another myth I had held about Alice was that it is always hot and sunny there. Not so. It was overcast and mild as Denise and I ate breakfast at two cafés in the centre of town. (She ordered from one, I from the other; we sat outside at adjacent tables on either side of the chain separating the contiguous cafes). Afterwards, Bernice, an English girl from our Wayward trip joined us and we walked a few blocks to the Flying Doctors base and museum.

The small and innocuous Flying Doctors building belies the important role that the Flying Doctors play in outback medical care, as we learned during an introductory video on their operations. It was strange to see the real documentary version of the television drama that had screened during my school years. Not surprisingly, the real doctors and nurses were a lot more believable than the actors and actresses on the tv show; thankfully their accents were less irritating too. The documentary included testimony from a former patient about the excellent service that the Flying Doctors provide. The outback station hand had been doing some fencing hundreds of miles from anywhere and was trying to knock a post into the dry, hard ground. He was using a shovel, holding it upside down and striking the post with the metal edge of the scoop at the base of the handle. Unfortunately, on one of his strikes, one of his fingers came between the top of the post and the edge of the shovel, and he managed to lop half of it off. There was nothing to do but pick up his severed fingertip and holler at his mate to call the Flying Doctors. The mate had to be shown the independently-minded fingertip before he would believe our narrator. The Flying Doctors swooped in and the finger was saved and healed, although from the close-up we saw, I didn't imagined that he would be featuring in any hand cream advertisements in the near future.

The Royal Flying Doctor Service (RFDS) Alice Springs Base is responsible for servicing an area of over a million square kilometres. With an operating radius of 600 kilometres from the base, the Flying Doctors can evacuate a patient from any point in their domain of responsibility within two hours. Pretty impressive. We listened to a presentation by one of the nurses at the base and got to peer through a window at the live dispatcher who was studying logs and issuing directions into his radio in front of a huge wall map of central Australia. The assortment of coloured pins scattered across the map may have indicated the location of planes, the scheduled routine destinations for the day (the Flying Doctors hold regular clinics at remote sites), the status of makeshift runways, or a dozen other things. It certainly looked impressive. We got to ask the nurse questions ("Hello Miss, I'm developing a strange rash, and am wondering if you...") and then we browsed around the small museum and gift shop before heading back into the centre of Alice.

In the afternoon, Denise and I walked a few kilometres out the far side of the town towards the old telegraph station, the first permanent settlement by Europeans in the area and the cradle from which the town grew. The path took us alongside the dry and sandy Todd river basin, which was littered with a number of unsightly empty beer cans, bottles,


The Todd river basin: prime drinking territory.
boxes and wine casks, pointed evidence of Alice's alcohol abuse problems. We arrived at the Overland Telegraph Station, a compound built next to a spring from which the town took half of its name. The "Alice" half came from the wife of the man in charge of constructing the overland telegraph line, Mr. Charles Todd. He already had the river named after him, so generously "gave" the springs to his wife. Denise and I intrepidly discovered (by reading an information panel) that the springs aren't springs at all, but a mere "window in the water table." Its a good thing the early settlers were a bit dodgy on their geology, or they could have ended up living in Alice Windowinthewatertable.

We were shown around the compound by a friendly lady who enthusiastically told us about the projects that had restored the station buildings to what they would have been like in 1900, 18 years after the telegraph line first went into service. We ambled through the post office and the battery room, past the blacksmith's forge and the buggy shed, and around the station master's residence and kitchen. We stopped for a cup of tea and a


Telegraph Station Trucking Co.
freshly-made scone in the small kitchen of the barracks, where a motherly woman in period dress cooked and brewed over a large old wood-burning stove. The cool stone walls and floor proudly echoed our conversation, for there were no other customers to disturb the solid silence. The honest, hard-working feel of the kitchen entranced and relaxed me, and I felt more comfortable and at home than I had in a long time. Perhaps it was something in the scone.

We walked back into Alice by a slightly different route, passing the nondescript American satellite tracking station at Pine Gap, which seemed to be monitored itself by the local Retired Services League (RSL) club opposite. I dare say the old cadgers weren't letting the Yanks get up to anything they shouldn't be doing. We climbed to the war memorial on top of Anzac Hill and admired the view over the town to the southwest. The edges of the town were easily visible, and all that was beyond was empty desert. It looked vaguely like Las Vegas without the lights, the shows or the casinos, if such a thing is imaginable.

We rejoined some of our remaining Wayward gang and supped on a Mega Meal Deal at Pizza Hut, taking so much advantage of the phrase "all-you-can-eat" that I wouldn't doubt if the promotion was axed the minute we had paid our bill. After bidding our friends farewell, Denise and I lugged our backpacks over to the McCafferty's coach terminal to catch an overnight bus to Katherine. After checking-in, we had a surprise encounter with John and Suzanne, friends of ours from Sydney who, travelling with Suzanne's brother Michael, "just happened to be in the area." So random, so completely random, that I didn't even believe Denise when she recognised Suzanne, even though I had seen her too. My mind was happy to play the "far away from everything familiar" game and refused to recognise other people as anything but strangers. The trio were going on the same bus as Denise and I, but continuing on farther than we were, attempting the marathon journey all the way to Darwin. We compared notes on our travels so far and talked about times and friends in Sydney. So began the trip. We had the usual lecture from our coach crew about the air vents, the toilet, the off-duty driver's space, the food restrictions, and the spring-loaded toilet door. As if that wasn't enough to make me go to sleep, they began showing the movie "The Preacher's Wife." No increase in volume from the omnipresent loudspeakers could keep me awake for that one.

Transit Trials, Tropical Transition

Friday, July 24; Alice Springs - Katherine

I woke just before 3am to our driver's slow monotone announcement that we were arriving in Tennant Creek, where we would break for half an hour at the transit centre (i.e. the bus station). He spoke irritatingly slowly, like a record playing at the wrong speed. One ... word ...every ... few ... seconds... as if he had started making the arrival announcement too early and was trying to drag it out while we covered the remaining 20 kilometres to the town.

I had read about Tennant Creek before leaving Sydney, and was looking forward to seeing if it was actually as big of a dump as was described. The mining industry that had fuelled the local economy had dried up, resulting in a poor and stagnant town some 500 kilometres from Alice, its closest neighbour. Allegedly Tennant Creek's pubs now support the economy, as well as providing the town's excitement, for bar brawls are commonplace and somewhat expected.

The transit centre didn't disappoint. It was awful. Bus stations aren't usually homely places, but at 3am they are particularly unappealing, and this one was pretty unappealing to begin with. The sheltered sodium-lit forecourt that we emptied onto stank of spilled diesel and exhaust fumes and reverberated with the noise of our engine. A few pitiful, strange, and suspicious-looking characters loitered around the doorway to the centre's main hall and idled inside. The harsh fluorescent interior was indestructible - the bare white walls, tiled floor and plastic furniture were ideally suited to the 24-hour centre. Most of the chairs were stacked up and chained together. Besides the shifty characters, the only other people in the station when we arrived were two local McCafferty's staff and a shopkeeper. The fact that the small and dark shop/café was open at 3am was testimony to either the struggling local economy, the meanness of the owner, or both. I was willing to give credit to the guy for working in such a godforsaken place in the middle of the night, for times must truly have been hard to warrant him remaining open until 3am just to sell a few cups of hot chocolate to budgeting travellers. However, I fear that he was not a happy or satisfied man - the evidence was written all over the shop. Literally. Rough, handwritten notices announcing the proprietor's pet peeves hung on grimy walls, peeling pillars, and stickered windows - "Do not use the café as a walk-through to the transit centre," "These tables are for use by paying customers only," "Do not remove these chairs from the café," "Hot water is for customers only. If you have not paid for it, you are STEALING from me." He had also taped a couple of newspaper clippings to the front of one of the display cabinets. One highlighted how retail personnel were honest and hard-working and often went beyond the call of duty, especially in the face of difficult circumstances or customers. The other clipping tried to make the point that if you enter a retail establishment of any kind with a negative attitude, you will leave with a bad impression of the place, regardless of the quality of the establishment or the service you receive. The owner was obviously trying to convince his customers that although his shop/café was grimy and overpriced, it was their own fault, either through their actions or their attitude. The last notice I saw stated "The customer is always right, but please consider the person serving you." Overall it sounded like the man was having a trying time running his business, although I wasn't surprised given the typical clientele of an all-night bus station.

Unfortunately I had plenty of time to observe and contemplate the place. Our half-hour stop crept towards an hour without any sign of our drivers re-boarding. After sipping a cup of hot chocolate with Denise and assessing the shopkeeper, I got back onto the bus and tried to sleep, but the engine had been shut off and it was too quiet. The sounds of coughing, whispering, and tossing from the other drowsy passengers were too close and I was too restless. I went back into the station and sat at a table. By now the bums had become almost familiar, losing the threatening demeanour I had initially attributed to them. I tried to sleep by laying my head on my folded arms. I dozed in and out of consciousness, seeing nothing, but occasionally overhearing snatches of conversation from the McCafferty's folk - apparently we had to wait for the connecting bus from Townsville to arrive before we could continue. I dozed some more. At one point I contemplated exploring Tennant Creek. I got as far as the edge of the transit centre and looked up and down the main street. Nothing moved. The only lights and sounds came from occasional vehicles hurtling past on the Stuart Highway outside the town. It looked like something out of the Twilight Zone. I didn't venture any further - I didn't want to miss the bus if the coach captains decided to take off. But I need not have worried. We ended up waiting in Tennant Creek for almost two and a half hours. The Townsville bus finally showed up, the appropriate transfers of passengers and packages were made, and we pulled out. The coach captains offered no apology or explanation for the delay, but launched right back into the details of how to flush the toilet and how to get the seats to recline. I tried to get comfortable in my cramped space. I must have succeeded to some extent, for I when I woke up, the sky was brightening and we were stopping at a roadhouse. This was a stay-on-the-bus stop, made just to pick up or deliver a package. The coach captains were not mandated to count the passengers before taking off again, so although it was possible to run to the bathroom, it was a risky operation that required considerable speed and exceptional timing. One of the passengers found this out the hard way when the driver started up and began pulling out without him. If it weren't for other passengers yelling at the driver to stop, the guy, who was by now running frantically after us, would have been stranded. To be left behind at a greasy roadhouse in the arsehole of nowhere is a fate I would not wish on anyone, especially if the roadhouse was anything like our next stop. We pulled into the HI-Way roadhouse outside Daly Waters at breakfast time. The drivers were (of course) given priority and served with complimentary platefuls of cholesterol, while I contemplated the poor, overpriced food and concluded that I'd rather go hungry. The dirty toilets and unfriendly staff made the place even less appealing, and made our half hour stop seem like an eternity.

The morning dragged on, punctuated by bouts of drooling sleep and the exasperating clamouring of a handful of teenage fools at the back of the bus. The landscape had changing during the night. There were no more vast expanses of desert and scrub. The highway had become enclosed by curtains of delicate-looking trees, and bright grasses sprouted here and there along the verges. The climate had changed too, it was now warmer and more humid. The transition into the tropics was obvious, and I was surprised at what I conceived as a sudden change, but reflecting on it as we approached Katherine, I realised that we had covered close to 1200 kilometres since the previous evening.

We arrived into a hot and sunny Katherine at about 2pm. The Stuart Highway narrowed to become the town's main street, and I spotted the first palm trees of our trip growing in the traffic islands that ran down its centre. Katherine looked vibrant and modern, a clear sign that we were emerging from the outback of central Australia and falling under the blanket of influence of Darwin and the territory's coast, now a mere 350km to the north. Denise and I planned to spend two nights in the town so that we could take a full day to explore Katherine Gorge, a beautiful canyon carved out by the Katherine river about 30km northeast of the town and the central tourist attraction of the area. The local populace of 11,000 souls depend heavily on tourism, but are also sustained by the business generated by the nation's largest airforce base at Tindal just outside the town, which keeps an eye on Australia's Asian neighbours to the north.

Before arriving in the town, my only knowledge of Katherine was that it had suffered heavily during the 1998 wet season flooding of the Katherine river. Holidaying Irish friends of Denise and I had been stopping over in Katherine at the time the river overflowed its banks, making the roads impassable, leaving them with no option but to stay as the water levels rose even further. Over a few days, the floodwater spread to cover 70% of the town and they were forced from their low-lying hostel to rough accommodation in one of the local schools with many other townspeople. Fresh food was donated by local food outlets and Woolworth's after one of their trucks bound for Darwin was stranded by the flood. People lined up for hours in the wet heat to collect what was available from the Air Force staffed distribution line. The water level finally peaked on January 27th, when it had flooded the main street up to the level of the lamps on the traffic lights. The last official measurement by the water level gauges before they were damaged by the huge volumes of water recorded the river level at 20.4 metres. Entering Katherine, I saw just how tall the traffic lights were (almost 2 metres) and was in awe at the massive amounts of water that must have existed to almost bury the town completely. Our friends had to eventually be airlifted by military helicopter to Darwin from where they continued their holiday, but for the residents of Katherine, the ordeal was far from over.


The January '98 flood is long gone, but it's not forgotten.
Rotting and rancid refrigerator contents, flooded supermarkets and dead animals (both pets and livestock) posed a risk of disease. The Air Force and hundreds of volunteers assisted home and business owners with the cleanup. In many cases buildings had to be gutted with machinery and the rubble and ruined fixtures dumped. The town's essential services such as power, water and health services were restored with much hard work, and in the longer term, businesses were offered grants and loan packages to re-establish themselves. Almost six months later, I could see no evidence that the town was ever anything but hot, dry, and sunny.

Dressed in several layers suited to an Alice Springs climate, I started sweating almost as soon as I stepped off the air-conditioned coach. Tired and irritable, and with a growing animosity towards McCafferty's coach lines, I was in no mood to carry my heavy backpack through the hot streets of Katherine looking for our hostel. Thankfully I didn't have to. A lady in a minibus was waiting to pick us up. She whisked us a few short blocks to our clean and cheerful hostel, a converted motel with eight bunks in each gloriously air-conditioned unit. There was a swimming pool too. We napped and lazed around for the afternoon, did some food shopping (the first real supermarket since Adelaide!) and booked a canoe for the following day's trip up the gorge. As we quietly relaxed by the edge of the empty pool at sunset, dangling our legs in the water, I happily anticipated this new phase of our trip, which I had impulsively labelled "the hot and sweaty part" on our itinerary.

The highlight of my evening was a game of table-tennis with Yoshi, a Japanese guy from our dormitory, on the hostel's patio. I don't remember who won, but his name lodged itself firmly in my mind because of its association with one of the outlandish characters in Nintendo's Super Mario Kart. In the video game, Yoshi is a diminutive asexual driver who yelps and squeals and wears an enormous white mushroom hat covered in red polka dots. The real Yoshi wore no such headgear, and his competitive driving skills were an unknown, but we had a very enjoyable knockabout until one of my wild shots resulted in the ball disappearing into the bushes. We left the searching to an enthusiastic little girl and her younger brother who had been eyeing our game enviously.

To celebrate our transition into the tropics and our arrival in a town where we could conceivably go out and party at night, Denise and I were both in our bunks and fast asleep by 10pm.

Glorious Gorges, Karma Kayaking, Captivating Cascades

Saturday, July 25; Katherine

We caught a bus to Katherine Gorge at 8am. The gorge is part of Nitmiluk National Park, and we were dropped off at the park's visitor's centre, where we intended to orient ourselves and find something to do for the morning. We had only been able to book a canoe for the afternoon, as all the full day canoes had been reserved by others. Although disappointed, we had made a plan to hike one of the park's trails that led along the cliffs overlooking the gorge, and return by 1pm to collect a canoe. Our visit to the visitor's centre took all of ten minutes, spent mostly looking through a photo album of the park during and after the January floods. We had seen other similar photo albums in businesses around the town - every flooded shop and institution worth its salt seemed to have a collection of pictures showing the damage that was revealed by the receding water. The photos of the flooded gorge meant nothing to Denise or I since we didn't know what it looked like on a regular day, but there were a few images that drew forth exclamations; one photograph showed the terraced balcony of the visitor centre itself with a heavy torrent of muddy water flowing alongside it. Denise and I had been out on the balcony moments before and I had found it difficult to pick out the river from the surrounding woodland, it was so small and so far below us. The innocent looking Katherine river we looked upon had risen 12 metres above its dry season level during the floods, which was six metres more than its usual wet season peak. I went back outside to try and grasp the immensity of the deluge which immobilised the park and the town. Standing on the terrace, it seemed impossible that the river could ever reach the level of the balcony - if the water was so high, then it must have turned all of the forest below me into a huge lake. Most of the trees would have completely disappeared underwater, while the highest trees would have been just breaking the surface. Other photographs provided further evidence of the water's assault on the woods; they showed canoes from the nearby boatshed stranded randomly in the upper boughs of trees where they had been deposited when the water level dropped. They looked comical, like giant pea pods trying to outgrow and devour the tree on which they were perched.

We decided on a trail to hike and took a map, but things went downhill very quickly. Metaphorically that is, not physically. Physically we didn't go anywhere at all, that was the problem. We couldn't find how to get from the car park in front of the visitor's centre to the beginning of the trail. Some explorers we were! The map was more of a hindrance than a help, but after a couple of false starts, we stumbled across the correct path which led us down towards the boatshed, from where our chosen trail began. It was only just after 9am, but already it was so warm that we rested in the shade of trees near the shed while contemplating the hike ahead. From where we sat we could see and hear the morning rush of other visitors picking up their reserved canoes. After about ten minutes the queue had eased and the attendant had started into her muffin and morning tea, so I casually inquired as to whether there had been any full day canoe cancellations or no-shows. We were in luck. Somebody's broken alarm clock or missed bus had turned into our opportunity. By this stage, Denise had almost resigned herself to hiking, but with some persuasion she produced the extra cash needed to upgrade our rental. Within ten minutes we had packed our lunch and our cameras into a watertight barrel, collected our paddles and pushed off the jetty. The sturdy green canoe was just large enough for the two of us and the barrel. I sat at the front, and Denise at the rear. Between us, we wore a good portion of the contents of a bottle of sunscreen to protect against the sun to which we were now unavoidably exposed. We pointed upriver and within a few hundred metres were enclosed between the steep walls of the gorge.

Katherine Gorge is a winding twelve kilometre canyon that is naturally divided into thirteen distinct smaller gorges by shallow rapids, perpendicular fault lines, and the individual geological characters of each gorge. Day canoeists could not expect to get much farther than the third or fourth gorge, although overnighters could camp and continue up to the thirteenth gorge over a couple of days. We were glad to hear that the upper sections we would not reach were less magnificent and less navigable than the lower sections through which we planned to canoe. We entered the first gorge alone, for rush hour on the river was over; all of the upriver canoeists were far ahead of us and out of sight. The glistening river was about 50 metres wide, and flowed slowly against us. Long stretches of straight river and gentle bends lay in front of us. On our left, a steep cliff fostered bushes and trees growing from crevices at the most bizarre angles, while hanging onto the last shadows of the morning. On our right, the treed slope rose away from the river more gradually, and was lined along its rim by the trail we had intended to hike. How much better it felt to be gliding along the river as a part of the gorge rather than just a spectator!



After some initial problems, an agreement is reached with which everybody is happy: Denise sunbathes, Dave drives.
Our initial steering left much to be desired. To avoid other river traffic, particularly the occasional cruise boats which ferried other tourists up and down the gorge, Denise was anxious to keep to the right of the river as instructed by the attendant at the jetty. Despite having the river to ourselves, we started out hugging the southern shore. I was paddling a course to try and keep us from getting tangled in hanging branches and running aground, while Denise's efforts kept us firmly pointed at the riverbank. She had far greater leverage than I, being at the rear of the canoe, although I didn't realise that for a while. At first I was convinced that there was something dragging out of the canoe and pulling us to the right, but a cursory inspection revealed nothing, so I began to contemplate the fact that my girlfriend was effortlessly out-paddling me, turning the boat to the right despite my strongest efforts to the contrary. My self-esteem took a nose dive, an event which manifested itself as a tendency to blame Denise for our slow progress. A few sharp words and disagreeable sighs passed along the length of our canoe, but things improved significantly when we agreed to take turns paddling alone for several minutes at a time. This worked out especially well, as the off-duty paddler could sit back, relax, and enjoy the magnificence of the gorge as it drifted past, while the on-duty paddler was free to navigate his or her own course without interference. A couple of times we stopped paddling completely. The ripples made by our paddles would quickly disappear and silence would descend, allowing us to fully concentrate on the sights and smells of the vast gorge before us, the warm sun on our bodies, and the teasing breeze that tugged at our t-shirts.

We headed steadily upriver for close to an hour until we came to the top of the first gorge. The water became shallow enough so that we could see the rocks sitting just below the surface. Ahead of us, we watched a group floundering about while trying to drag their canoes up between the rocks of the shallow rapids, getting soaked in the process. We chose to carry our canoe around the rapids, although this was no easy task either, for the canoe was quite heavy and the route was boulder-strewn and slippery in places. Once we had the craft back in the water above the rapids, we rewarded ourselves with an extremely melted and malleable chocolate muesli bar. We continued into the second gorge, whose towering red walls presented a spectacular contrast to the gentler first gorge. The river narrowed. We were truly hemmed in, dwarfed by the vertical cliffs and passing frequently into deep shadow even though it the sun was high in the sky.


Transient, insignificant humans.
Here and there sandy banks spread out from the base of the cliff walls, but landing was prohibited (to the tune of $500 on the spot) because the banks were recognised crocodile nesting areas. Ah yes, crocodiles. Apparently there were freshwater crocodiles lurking in the water around us. But lurking is a rather sinister term. They were probably more likely to be just minding their own business, which included staying out of the way of humans. If I had reason to believe that any of their larger cousins, the man-eating saltwater crocodiles were about, I would have happily spent the day hiking. Our guide book had said that saltwater crocs are virtually unknown in Katherine Gorge; I mused on whether a "virtually unknown" saltie could tear flesh apart as well as a regular one, but I saw no evidence of crocodiles of any kind. Denise said that she saw a crocodile's eyes peeking above the water's surface some distance away, but it looked like a branch to me. We didn't investigate the alleged sighting any further, but I refrained from leaping from the canoe as we traversed the deep, dark channels of the second gorge.

Here and there, trees grew from clefts in the vertical rock face, arcing grotesquely to reach the light. The trees also carried the dead weight of foreign boughs, branches, and even entire trees which had been deposited there by the receding waters of the January flood. Presently we reached the rapids dividing the second and third gorges. They were far easier to negotiate than the earlier rapids, so I waded up through the refreshingly cool water between the boulders, dragging the canoe behind me (Denise had obligingly disembarked onto the bank). We paddled steadily up through the third gorge, and by midday had reached its end, marked by two sets of fast-flowing rapids with sharply varying depths. By this stage I was eager to jump back into the refreshing water, so I stripped down to my shorts and half-swam, half dragged the canoe upstream. Denise looked on from the bank while I battled the bottlenecked flow, straining to keep the canoe from tipping over.


Guiding the kayak up through rapids between the third and fourth gorges.
The whitewater rushed all around, trying to topple me from my precarious footing on some slippery underwater rocks, and succeeding more than once. I enjoyed it immensely, so much so that at one point I sat down in the middle of the rapids and tried to wedge myself between the boulders to make a human dam. The water only flowed higher and faster over my back, determined not to be slowed on its race downriver. It was glorious.

A long, rocky, and shallow stretch of river beyond the entrance to the smaller and wider fourth gorge marked the highest point we reached on our river trip. We beached our canoe and climbed up onto some rocks, where we uncorked our waterproof barrel and enjoyed a sumptuous lunch (garlic and chive dip-flavoured sandwiches) in the warm sunshine.

Before heading back down the river, we splashed about in a quiet pool where the naïve water collected before it was thrown suddenly through the rapids. The trip back was superb. The sunlight was not so intense, causing the red hue of the gorge walls around us to deepen until they were almost glowing. It was cooler to paddle too, and since the current was with us now, we drifted along almost effortlessly. We had allowed plenty of time for the return trip, and I was relaxed to the point where I half-imagined that the entire day was all part of some wonderful dream. I would glide down the river in this trance until we hit rapids whereupon I would have to guide the canoe through the shallow cascades. My mind and body would race to the other extreme, where adrenalin rushed and muscles strained, fighting against the fast-flowing water which threatened to tip the canoe over. It was late afternoon when we finally arrived back at the jetty. My body was ready to return to dry land, but my mind wanted to keep floating down the river, like Huckleberry Finn drifting down the Mississippi. My day on the Katherine had jumped right onto the "best experiences of my trip" list, sharing the billing with my guilty ascent of Uluru and the night-time kangaroo-chasing I had done with Robert on the back of his quad bike. Natalie Merchant sings a song with 10,000 Maniacs which begins with the line "These are days you'll remember' I sincerely hoped that I would.

Back in Katherine, Denise and I went to see a movie in the newly opened three-screen cinema. The newspaper advertisement had read "Dress Regulations Apply," so I began to worry when I found spaghetti stains on my t-shirt and shorts as we approached the cinema. Would my sandals make the grade? Apparently so, for I made it into the theatre unmolested. Waiting for the feature to begin, Denise amused both of us by assessing the other people sitting around us; the nervous young teenagers in front of us, the family outing on our left, and the guy sitting on his own at the right end of our row. Denise hypothesized that he had been stood up by his date on account of the gallons of aftershave which diffused from his direction. We didn't get to see if she turned up or not for the lights went down and the film began. Well, not quite. First, an advertisement for every last business in Katherine was paraded onto the screen before us. The ads were the simple low-budget types, with a single static picture accompanied by a suspiciously enthusiastic voice-over. When the same lady's voice was just as enthusiastic after the thirtieth ad, I began to doubt her sincerity and wondered if "Bob's" really did have the best tool hire rates in the Northern Territory.

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