Phil checks the water level as we drive through a flooded road
After a soggy, damp night, we moved on from Katherine. The dash down the day before had delayed dinner, and we hardly ate, and we woke hungry and sullen next morning. That aside, we were looking forward to getting a move on and see what all the fuss was about. The Victoria River had been a thorn in our side, an obstacle immovable and for many, the talk of the town. It was the Vic River this, Vic River that. ‘You’ll never make it across… you’ll be at least 6 weeks marooned… might as well go another way (there is no other way)… I remember a time when it was up to the nostril of every man-jack this side of the Nullarbor…’ and we listened and nodded much the way we did when they (a different ‘they’) forewarned us about these floods that have a tendency to occur up here.
Phil takes a picture of the bushland turned raging river
Blithely we vie for having our heads in the clouds or stuck firmly in the sand. It isn’t easy living like that, but necessary, and productive. Had we listened to the ‘they’ we would not have been able to see what all the fuss was about when the Wet hits, nor being so daring to at the drop of a hat dash down daredevil fashion and attempt a bold crossing of this behemoth river during flood season.
Phil triumphantly raises his fists at being able to cross the Victoria river
Recent reports were that the Victoria River was now a metre under the bridge, which was passable, having been two metres over until two days ago, and passable only by boat, if you had the courage to fight not only the swift current but the hungry crocs too. Not knowing what to expect (“it [the river] goes down as fast as it goes up, but it can go up quicker!” they would say enigmatically to frighten us) and it was with some trepidation mingled with excitement that we approached, nervous that it had risen overnight (‘watch yer nostrils buddy!’) but eager all the same to see this huge surge of water in full flood.
We all walk over the Vic Bridge to imagine what the water line was like at its peak height of over 4 meters above the road
It was all clear to cross. The strewn debris and washed-up detritus along both sides of the bridge substantiated where the river had been, but it ran a metre or so beneath it. Submerging some of the ghost gum trees on the banks below, though, and maybe four hundred metres wide, the rich red ochre flood water raced down, and it was hard to imagine how much extra water could make it rise a further six metres to the level it was at its highest point over the bridge. Maybe ‘they’ had a point about the Wet season.
The Adelaide River Inn donates fuel to our cause
The actual bull that Crocodile Dundee hypnotises in the film!
It has to be done, we all did it.
One hundred percent humidity and the stifling heat keeps you wet at all times, the sweat pours down your back and pools around your arse soaking the seat. Legs sticking to the material on the chair and hair greased to your scalp, I mostly feel incredibly sticky, smelling about as attractive as I look and looking about as attractive as I feel under my layer of dirt.
A boab tree with climbing pegs hammered into it
Reflexions in the flooded bush make beautiful links between the skies and the land
A Wicked Camper signature painted door
Living in such a small space for such extended periods of time with two boys means that aromas fester, mutating into unbreathable, putrid, gaseous clouds if left unchecked. Our sleeping quarters, cooking area, washing area, larder and storage space, one unto itself, means that stray whiffs are unavoidable.
It hits you as soon as you open the van door, the smell of deodorant battling with the pungent smell of foist, sweat, feet and fart. Be it shoe, sock, a long forgotten rotten spud down the back of a seat, a soup spillage left to go mouldy, a damp dirty towel gone unwashed for an age or a lentil fuelled fart unable to escape the van due to rain forced closed windows, we have experienced it all. Add to that, the pong of the discernable flavour of carrion coming in from outside and the stifling heat to intensify all the stenches, you have a devils reek of a symphony for the nostrils.
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