AN ADVENTURE IN THE KIMBERLEYS

(Or croc-dodging 101)

‘See Australia first’, so the slogan goes. Well, I’ve had a bit of a Captain Cook around the globe and I’ve seen some flash joints. But the Kimberleys are just something different.

A few years back, curiosity got the better of this cat. I’d read a little about the place and felt that I needed to have a squiz. So, I hatched a cunning plan.

After jagging a role as tourist ambassador for West Oz, a friend in the department, Sarah Turnbull, organised a cracker of a trip for me to realise a dream and dominate one of nature’s most awesome formations.

My first move, of course, was to get some of the family involved. So I rang the old boy and the convo went a little like this: ‘Hey, Dad. Would you be interested in a tour to —?’ Before I’d finished my sentence he’d already replied, ‘I’m in.’

Dead-set, he’d go to the opening of a sardine tin. Matter of fact, I don’t know how the old bloke makes a living because he never seems to be at work . . .

My brothers Luke and Joe joined us, too. And Channel 7 sent along a crew of four blokes to record our mission. Ella Yardley, daughter of cricketing great Bruce Yardley, was in Perth to meet us. On the good sort scale, most of us blokes were lucky to hit an even five. But Ella is way up there, and a winner of a woman to go with it.

The flight from Perth to Kununurra took a few hours and it was cool except that the bloke near me had some serious wind issues, Dad! When you’re in a confined space there is always some suffering to be done. The way I saw it, this bloke had sold his arse to the devil or I was getting payback for some of my earlier efforts – possibly karma.

Other than that, no dramas with the landing. And any landing you can walk away from is a good one.

We made our way across the tarmac, and man it was hot. The top end of WA in early March has more sting to it than getting dropped from the starting side. Even the devil would wear sunscreen up here. Bloody hot.

A tour guide by the name of Scotty Connell was waiting for us at the airport. Over the next two weeks we would come to know him as a dead-set, ridgy-didge champion.

He wanders over to the plane with a smile like a half-opened watermelon and says ‘G’day’. We quickly learned his sole mission in life is to introduce the world to the Kimberleys.

That arvo he took us to get settled in and then off to a waterhole for a quick dip. Now, I checked the place thoroughly for crocs but he reckoned we were in fresh water so we were OK. ‘But they can adapt, right?’ It’s not that I doubt him, but . . .

Next was to plan the ensuing few days and we stumped up at a local joint named The Pump House – well named because they tried to pump us full of grog and tucker for several hours.

The actual pump house was part of the Ord River Scheme and since its completion the joint sat more idle than a loose-head at halftime until some bright spark decided to make a top-class restaurant out of it.

The whole mob were there – Simon, Ray, Rowan and Paul from Sunrise, Scotty and Ella from Kimberley Spirit, Sarah from WA tourism and Joe, Luke, the old man and me from Chambers Flat . . .

We sat on the veranda and threw bread rolls into the water for the catfish. Suddenly a big freshwater croc surfaced looking for his tucker – I bloody knew it!

As we fed the freshie a solid diet of bread and butter, off in the distance we could all see a really heavy lightning storm. Scotty reckoned it was pretty close to where we were heading tomorrow – Berkeley River Lodge.

By the Berkeley River

We were up and ready at 7am for the trip to Berkeley River Lodge and you could feel the heat coming out of the ground. We loaded into our respective five-seater prop planes, did the obligatory safety checks and prepared for battle.

Lift-off was cool and the scenery was fantastic. The landforms are like nothing else and had been fashioned over thousands of years by bucket loads of rain and severe drought. Like the people who live here, the local plants and animals are unique to this part of the world, and there’s a flock of them.

The flight took about one hour until we circled around to a small red dirt airstrip behind a series of trendy cabins. Very flash, but we had a few princesses to think about – my brothers.

The landing was cool and so was the modified LandCruiser that was waiting for us. This beast had four levels of seating with a canopy over the top and heaps of room for all your gear. You’ll find a picture of this in the dictionary under ‘purpose built’.

Looking for the landing strip.

We burned off to our selected huts to drop off our gear. And boy, these huts had everything – great view, air con, as well as a courtyard shower and dunny – to make you feel one with nature.

We dropped off our kit and roared into the dining area like we were about to hold up the joint and demanded all their food. Wow, I won’t do the place any justice by trying to describe it but that’s never stopped me before. The dining area looks down on a pool and out to the Timor Sea with 180-degree views to kill for. Check the photo!

The managers, Mick and Kim, treated us like old friends and were too keen to make sure all was spot-on. We sat down to a top feed from the award-winning cook, Troy, and his off-sider Luke – not that they had much competition in the area . . .

After strapping on the feed bag, Mick drove us along the wide sandy beach to the Berkeley River. There, our six-metre centre console tinny was ready for action. Our captain and tour guide Bruce had packed all we could want – a five-star lunch, bait, refreshments, and heaps of rods and tackle.

This boat had some clackers and pretty soon Bruce and his sidekick Matt had us on a spot. The tide was just starting to run in and we all cast towards the creek except for the old bloke. He cast into the deep on the other side. Then bang! This monster queenie leapt out of the water and took 150 metres of line off him in quick time. It wasn’t fair really, the old man’s not the quickest these days . . .

He took his time and after an epic ten-minute battle he dragged in a 1.1-metre monster. We didn’t hear a peep from him either, which meant one of two things – he was either having a stroke after doing the most physical activity he’d done all year or thinking up something to say to make us suffer.

Finally, he broke the silence and proclaimed: ‘Gentlemen, that’s how it’s done. Reckon I might have your job soon, Bruce.’ We caught heaps more that day but that queenie was the winner.

One heli of a good time. I’ll blame this caption on the old man and his dad jokes.

That night we enjoyed a few beers and some red when I noticed some lights about 800 metres away. These lights were moving at great speed at all different angles. I didn’t want to say much in case the wine had been the culprit. But when everyone else spotted these strange lights the theories came hot and strong. As did the relief I wasn’t imagining it.

Most of the explanations were shot down – my brother Luke thought they were reflections from our watches, at night . . . Turned out, they’re an unsolved phenomenon known as the Min Min lights.

Day two of Berkeley River was another buzz. Fishing along the beach, kilometres of unspoilt white sand, croc and turtle drag marks . . . it had everything. A quick dip in the Timor Sea – with lookouts of course – and then into the choppers for some rock pool swimming and high diving.

Again, I can’t speak highly enough of the scenery. Mind-blowing stuff.

After landing on this rock ledge we walked about 30 metres to this large clear rock pool. Luke and I climbed to the point above the pond, ready for a leap of faith. If I don’t have kids it will be down to the fact you need to keep your feet together when you leap from a 20-metre cliff face. Talk about a tackle stinger . . .

I slept off the pain and we were up the next morning at 5am and into the Cruiser to get some fishing done down at the rivermouth. By the time we arrived, the lads had everything set up – chairs, rods and a small fire on the go. As Joe’s fish was first in, they were quick to gut it and threw her right on the fire.

For the next hour we snacked on the first unlucky fish while we reeled in his cousins. The sun was on its way up, so we gave ourselves another half hour before we headed back for a second breakfast. Troy the super chef took off a little earlier as he had to prepare our tucker. He should wear a cape that bloke.

After ripping into the top-class fodder we were given our instructions from the chef for dinner: ‘I want Mangrove Jack and only Mangrove Jack.’ Away we went.

Bruce manoeuvred us up a small creek alive with Jack. You couldn’t miss. Neither could these bloody march flies. They were that big they looked like they had pilots.

The final day was more of the same: fantastic fishing, scenery, food, wine and great service. Do yourself a favour and get there if you can.

But our trip wasn’t over. We were back on the seaplane and headed for Lake Argyle.

Lake Argyle

Lake Argyle is WA’s largest freshwater reservoir. Its construction was part of the Ord River Scheme back in the late 1960s early ’70s.

As our seaplane came into land on the Ord River we grasped some idea of the vastness of the waterway and the humongous effort associated with the Ord River Scheme. It must have been a bigger effort than tackling Jonah Lomu in his prime.

Of course, our main man Scotty was there to pick us up and it wasn’t long before we were back in a boat and on the water.

First stop was at a steep rock face, a good 15-metre leap if you were game. Seeing as though the berries had still yet to descend from our last jump, Luke and I decided it was on. Now, one of my fears is heights and I’ve tried to overcome it by meeting it head on. And I’d convinced myself that leaping off this bloody rock with my GoPro was going to help.

Luke went first and survived, likewise Simon and now it was my turn. I dropped a rock to break the surface as I leapt into the wild blue yonder. Getting back to the surface was a mission, but the tackle was intact so all was cool.

The fishing rods were out in no time and monster catfish were everywhere. So we took a couple back to our digs as a present for the chef.

Thunderstorms were brewing and we were set to head back until two of my favourite words echoed the gorge – ‘Nude jump!’ We climbed to the top of the boat and several deformed humans leapt into the water. We made an instant impact – you could tell by the screams of horror from the crew.

Then we went one better with several individual synchronised ‘dolphin eye’ routines.

Our work here was done.