Mick talked passionately about the treatment of Australia’s Aboriginal people and pointed to some books he was reading, “These three books substantiate how the Aboriginal people have been victims of the greatest oppression in Queensland since Day One. And if you scratch the surface of most Queenslanders, you’ll expose racist attitudes.”
He justified my fear of the lack of like-minded people in this part of the world. On the other hand, meeting someone with similar values was reassuring, this early in my trek. It was also a reminder of how easy it is to be prejudiced. I felt ashamed for being so quick to assume I knew what type of person he was; and humble in the face of Mick’s courage in speaking out against the racism. He reckoned he’d made his point well enough that the locals around him basically ‘avoid certain subjects’.
I could have easily stayed chatting all day with Mick but cup of tea and breakfast over, it was time to walk on. The donkeys and I continued from Rossville at a great pace. We arrived at the next Trail-designated camping place at midday which I felt was too early to camp. The BNT is not a clearly marked trail as such. Rather it is a route, for use by trekkers with or without pack animals, along which campsites have been negotiated with property owners.
I pushed on to a farm called Auravale which I had been told was once a hippy commune, “Now only one family lives there, with no power, no phone, no tap water and no walls… but the people are really nice and would welcome a trekker.”
The turn-off was 22 kilometres from Rossville. Shortly after five o’clock a narrow track to the left came into view with an old sign indicating Auravale. In two more kilometres, according to my information, we would reach the farm.
It was late autumn with dusk upon us as we turned into the thick rainforest shrouding the narrow track. In about 300 metres we reached a deep river, its bed strewn with round stones up to 30 centimetres diameter, too slippery and unstable for the donkeys. In the thick forest with darkness falling there was no question of looking for another crossing.
I quickly tied the donkeys each to a tree and waded across the river, slipping and stumbling over the smooth, curved rocks. I raced to reach Auravale before all was blanketed in darkness. It was the longest two kilometres I’d ever walked. Around every bend I expected a clearing where I would see a welcoming house with lights on—forgetting there was no power.
For 25 minutes I walked and ran along a very rough track until hitting deep mud where the thick adjacent undergrowth permitted no way around it. I squelched through mud almost over the top of my boots for about 20 metres until back on dry ground. Now I was really freaking out. Even if I could find a way for the donkeys to cross the river, the mud would be impossible for donkeys’ little hooves so I couldn’t get them through to Auravale anyway. I had no idea what purpose I could achieve but something within me pressed to continue.
After the mud, the track through the forest was a little more open and 15 minutes jogging brought me into a clearing. Peering into the darkness I could make out a building, but it didn’t look lived in. There were no lights anywhere and it was now too dark to try to reach it because I couldn’t even see where I was putting my feet.
On the basis of having been told that people live there, I stood still in the darkness and called lots of times, “Hello! Anyone there?!”
To my relief, a torch light finally appeared, behind which were a young woman and a girl. We couldn’t see each other’s faces, but I introduced myself as did Fiona and her 10-year-old daughter Sam. They led me by torchlight to their house with its roof and no walls. Fiona lit a kerosene lamp so we could see each other and introduced me to her partner and other children. I was fascinated at how they lived. I was happy to live mostly outdoors for nine months but rough dwelling was their way of life. They collected water from a well, cooked over an open fire, used kerosene lamps for light and slept on the floor on mats that could be moved according to the direction of the wind when it rained; and leaning against the timber frame supporting the roof was a spade with a roll of toilet paper hanging on a timber peg beside it.
I elucidated my predicament with my donkeys on the other side of the river they couldn’t cross, two kilometres back.
“It’s three kilometres to the road,” corrected Fiona, “and only one place to get across the river.”
“Yes, and even if the donkeys could cross, there’s no way they could get through the muddy stretch. I have no idea what to do. The forest was too thick to camp on the roadside and now it’s pitch dark anyway. Do you happen to have a miracle in your pocket?”
Fiona smiled. She did have a miracle! She would drive me back to the donkeys. From there she would guide us with her headlights to a run-down empty house where I could squat for the night. It was only about a kilometre along the main road.
“You’re lucky,” she added. “It’s just been made liveable by a young couple who’ve been staying with us. They’ve had enough of the remoteness and lack of facilities here and decided to leave. As far as I know though they’ve not yet moved into the house near the road.”
With Fiona’s dog running behind, we followed the winding, bumpy track until we got to the river where I jumped out of the vehicle. The donkeys panted, snorted and strained on their tethers. They needed no encouragement to get out of the creepy, dark forest. The moon had not yet risen and Fiona drove behind, headlights illuminating the track.
We turned left onto the main road and continued for another kilometre until Fiona tooted, stuck her head out of the window and called, “Look! Lights on!”
She directed me down a driveway. At the lighted house we were greeted by Bill and Lali, an attractive and exceedingly healthy-looking couple in their early 20s. They had moved in already and were cleaning up a ghastly mess in a large chest-style freezer that had been abandoned a couple of weeks earlier by the previous tenants. Switching the power on they discovered the freezer was operational and were keen to keep it. The downside was that it was still full of meat.
“You were lucky,” said Lali screwing up her face. “We only got the putrid meat buried half an hour ago.”
The young couple made me wonderfully welcome amongst unpacked boxes. Bill cleared a space for me and my stuff in a room off the veranda; Lali fed Fiona, her children and me on freshly made tofu burgers.
I felt overwhelmed with gratitude and amazement at my good fortune. The donkeys had a small paddock in which they could spend the night untethered. I had an empty room to myself, conveniently located off the veranda where my gear had been unloaded. I spread out my sleeping mat and bag on the floor, and accepted Lali’s offer of a pillow.
I slept without stirring until after six o’clock. This meant a late start to the day. My meditation was accompanied by my young hosts’ choice of fairly loud music as they took advantage of power for the first time in two years. After a cup of tea and breakfast, they took time out from their unpacking to watch me pack and load. The two of them sat on the veranda with a big pot of tea between them, chatting and asking questions about donkeys and trekking.
By the time we left Auravale it was 11 o’clock but I was in no hurry. We’d done 34 kilometres the day before, had only a short distance today and the usual heat at this hour was tempered by the first cloud cover since Cooktown. However, the day was longer than expected because of the number of cattle grids across the roadway. Every grid involved finding and opening the gate that landowners are obliged to provide for people with animals to be able to continue on the public right-of-way. Getting around grids generally meant negotiating thick, armpit-high grass and weeds blocking farm gates which were apparently never intended to be opened or closed. When we finally arrived at Ayton, it was half past three and pouring with rain.
I was looking for ‘Ayton Caravan Park’ as recommended in the Trail guidebook. Just past the Ayton sign was Bloomfield Camping and Cabin Park.