A Nightmare On Fraser Island - Part 3

During the night, at God knows what time and more than a little disoriented, I was ripped from the safe haven of sleep by some weird noises that seemed to come from all around the campsite.

Originating from our left, then moving towards the rear and then on to the right, I held my breath and listened wide-eyed at the sound of branches breaking and the noise of several, muffled footfalls around us. Intermittently, a bloodthirsty howl would be released into the darkness of night.

It took a while for me to realise that I was experiencing my first up close and personal meeting with Fraser Island’s most infamous of inhabitants, the dingoes. I listened intently as they sniffed around looking for scraps but thankfully, we had been extra vigilant in locking all our supplies away from the prying, inquisitive scavengers that seemed to surround us. I hoped that there would be no baby-eating going on at our campsite that night either.

After an indeterminable time, they moved on but I have to admit, it took me quite a while to get back to sleep. As I tossed and turned, nervously listening out for more noises, I cursed myself and wondered just how the hell I was ever going to make it through the rest of the night, never mind a whole three-day excursion out in the middle of nowhere, Australian-style?

Another reason for being angry with myself was because I had watched a movie called Wolf Creek a few nights prior to the trip, which was playing havoc with my mind.

Based on the true story of English backpackers killed in the outback it was not exactly the sort of ideal viewing material in preparation for a camping trip in Australia. Before getting back to sleep, my over-enthusiastic imagination provided me with all sorts of scenarios in my head, most of which usually ended up with our long, slow tortuous death at the hands of a mad, Aussie redneck laughing manically in our ears.

Next morning, and with the tent already becoming quite the sauna, I was the first to waken up, this time to the sound of the manic laugh of a mad, Aussie, redneck.

At least that is what I thought at first until I realised it was the weird laughing call of the kookaburra bird serving as my wake up call. Thankfully, having heard it the day before, I was already familiar with the noise, and before my imagination got the better of me, I was able to nip the onset of fear because I have to say that it is an eerily similar sound to the laugh of the mad, Aussie redneck in the movie.

Looking at the time, I was dismayed to see that it was only 07:30 but at least with the advent of daylight, the fears of the previous night seemed childish and embarrassing. I told myself off for being such a big wuss and demanded of myself to catch myself on.

Over a hearty breakfast of tea and pancakes, I told my travelling companions about the dingoes, both of them saying that they had not heard them and looking at me as if I was mad. I questioned my own judgement and wondered if it was the result of my over-active imagination again. To this day, I am quite sure it was not.

We decided that we would move our campsite back down to the beach before going to explore some more of the island, including a return visit to Lake McKenzie, this time hoping to get beyond the car park. The campsite that we had stayed in was nice enough, but as I mentioned before, it was more of a family-oriented place and we were keen to meet up with the groups of backpackers who would no doubt be dotted along the beach.

According to the map that we had, there were camping facilities all along the east coast of the island just off the beach that we had travelled along the previous day and it was there that we headed off to.

Having somewhat familiarised myself to the driving requirements of the island during the more stressful moments of the previous afternoon, I am happy to report that our journey from inland to the coast was quite an uneventful one. My initial fear and nervousness having been replaced with something that could not exactly be described as enjoyment but rather more of an acceptance as to what was required and a confidence that I was able to cope with whatever the island threw at us.

This feeling of confidence was certainly exacerbated by the fact that my passengers seemed to have relaxed somewhat as well, even going so far as to compliment me on my driving; something at the time that I felt just may be a little too presumptuous.

Unfortunately, I was to be proved right.

Things went well enough as we made our way back to the small village of Eurong. I avoided the worst of the conditions with some clever driving and after about 40 minutes, we were back in Eurong where we stopped off at the overpriced general store for some more supplies. Just under 5 AUD for a tin of beans seemed too much to pay for such an item but I supposed it was a sellers’ dream having such a captive market. I wasn’t to be so understanding when I ran out of cigarettes a few days later and found out that they were charging 15 dollars a packet. But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

All set and ready to find our next campsite, we drove onto the beach at Eurong, once again having to negotiate the soft sand on the exit road. Steeling ourselves as we did so, I accelerated towards the beach and with no little effort, I had our car back on the hard sand of the beach and we headed north to find our campsite for the next two nights.

Having established from the girl in the shop that the campsites were located all the way along the east coast along a small road that ran parallel to the beach, we drove for a few kilometres until we came to a spot that we could call home at least for that night.

Safe in the knowledge that we had our campsite decided upon and set up, we would then go and do some exploring of the island, keen to see the many lakes, the ship-wreck of the Maheno located further up the coast and – if I’m honest – to do some more 4WD all be it, in an ALL WHEEL DRIVE vehicle.

We spied an exit road that did not look too bad in terms of the amount of soft sand about. No more than a car’s width and dissecting through the sand dunes, one of our group got out to have a look at what lay on the other side of the small hill.

On his return, he informed us that it was only a short drive through the dunes before we reached the parallel road and that in fact there were a couple of tents already pitched up in the vicinity.

If it is good enough for them, then it would certainly do for us, was the general consensus of opinion, so it was decided that we would leave the beach at this stage.

Lining up the car for a straight run-up to the exit road, I set the car in motion, bouncing through the soft sand, we headed off the beach once again.

What happened next took only a matter of a few short seconds but as I type these words now, I can remember each detail with total clarity. Driving over the summit of the exit road, I saw what my friend had meant. No more than 10 metres ahead was a T-Junction where I would have to choose either left or right. Quickly surveying the soft sand and the ruts that previous vehicles had made I opted for left, because it looked slightly easier to negotiate.

Not wanting to overshoot the exit road, which would have meant hitting the steep edge of the large dune on the other side of the junction; I eased off the accelerator, steering the car to the left as I did so.

And promptly got us stuck.

Panicking, I gunned the accelerator some more but despite the protests of the engine, we could not go any further. My passengers got out and pushing from the front, I switched the car into reverse, and with a lot of effort, and a lot of revving, the car moved back up the exit road a few metres onto some harder hand.

I could feel the beads of nervous sweat forming on my forehead and some trickling down my back as well. Through the windscreen of the car, I could see that my passengers were no more confident of the situation than I was.

A terrible burning smell had filled the car and as I reversed, I had noticed an ominous cloud of black smoke coming from the front of the car, drifting off in the sea breeze. Putting the car back into first gear, I gunned the accelerator and made a second attempt to get off the exit road, figuring that this time I would drive at whatever speed it would take to carry me through the softer parts of the sand.

And the car went nowhere.

I don’t mean “because it was stuck in the sand” type of going nowhere but rather a more worrying “because the car wouldn’t engage into gear” kind of going nowhere.

This was not good.

I put the car back into neutral and then tried again. I re-engaged the clutch, put the car into first and as I released the clutch again, I accelerated.

Still nothing.

The gear-stick went into first ok, it was just that the engine didn’t. Far from being fully au fait with the mechanics of the average battery toothbrush, never mind an ALL WHEEL DRIVE vehicle, even I surmised that we were in big trouble. And yes – I am using the royal ‘we’ here again.

My fellow travellers looked nervously on as I shook my head and got out of the car. The smell of smoke lingered heavily in the air.

“I think I’ve burnt the clutch out” I said despondently. “We’re stuck here.”

Looking at the car, I could see that it was not stuck in sand and placed where it was, it was blocking the exit road, preventing other vehicles from getting past. Although, at this point, this did not seem to be a problem, considering there was, rather worringly, no traffic in either direction as far as the eye could see.

Surveying the scene, we pondered our next move.

Not for the first time on the trip, I cursed my stupidity and wished we had not embarked on this reckless escapade. Especially not in this car – a car who’s owner was not keen at all in the first place to let us take it to Fraser Island.

Expecting a backlash from my passengers at my stupidity, I got quite the opposite. I think they realised that I was feeling terrible enough as it was for what had happened and perhaps even in some way they felt a little guilty themselves.

In the middle of nowhere, on a beach in Fraser Island and with no sign of life in the two tents nearby, we were most definitely stranded, which meant that our campsite had more or less been decided for by our circumstances rather than for its convenience.

With the scorching, midday sun beating down on us and the very, VERY irritating marsh flies biting lumps out of us, there were very little options for us, so two of us set up base camp, with the third member of this unfortunate party setting off down the beach back towards Eurong in search of help.

We tied a bright orange plastic bag to the aerial of the car so that it would be easier to spot from the beach. After a period of about an hour and a half, he returned in a jeep with a young couple from Ireland who had given him a lift back from the tourist information centre located between Eurong and us.

Thanking them for their help, we waved them goodbye and worked upon our strategy to get out of the situation. Having acquired the number of a tow truck guy on the island, it was decided that we would call him to come and see what he could do for us.

However, we had another problem.

Located where we were, none of us had a signal on our phones to make the call.

Resigned to more hitch hiking back in the direction from which he would come, our friend reluctantly volunteered to go see if he could get to a phone to make the call. We would remain at base and look out for people to help us, as well as protect all our belongings that were of course stranded along with us. Perhaps the inhabitants of the tents nearby would be able to help us once they had returned.

That afternoon was a long one for all concerned.

Sitting at our camp and with no means of communication, we sat helplessly waiting for help to arrive. Occasionally cars would pass by on the nearby beach – all of them big, strong, 4WD monsters but none of them passing along the road parallel to the beach that we had camped along.

The minutes passed slowly by, with most of the time spent swatting the bastard marsh flies that by now had become the most hated thing in my world, apart from ALL WHEEL DRIVE cars with their incessant buzzing and their sometimes quite painful bites (the flies, not ALL WHEEL DRIVES).

The marsh flies were everywhere we went. Even going over the dune and onto the beach, they still seemed to follow, all be it in pairs – as if they were doing reconnaissance missions to report to the others.

Apart from these wonderful distractions, the afternoon was intermittently livened up by me trying the car again, to see if it had miraculously repaired itself in the interim. Unsurprisingly it had not – although it did not stop me trying again every half hour or so.

After an eternity of seeking solace from the burning sun and the biting marsh flies, our friend returned in a battered 4WD vehicle along with who we hoped would be our saviours of the day – our knights in shining armour - or at the very least a couple of sensible, helpful, kind-hearted gentlemen. All be it in a battered Mitsubishi 4WD.

Any hopes that we had of a safe and fast rescue, immediately dissipated when we saw the two guys roll out of their vehicle, clutching onto their ‘stubbies’ (bottles of beer), thoughtfully placed in ‘stubby coolers’ (small polystyrene cups to keep the bottles cool).

It was obvious that both of them were utterly and completely wasted.

The driver and the least drunk of the two - but not by much, it has to be said – introduced himself as Peter. He was small, covered in grease with burn marks covering most of his upper torso. He looked like he had not eaten a solid, square meal in years. His unkempt hair hung greasy and lifeless around his face barely hiding a shifty, bloodshot gaze and a rather disconcerting smirk.

His mate was chubby, sunburnt and sported a manic, imbecilic grin and was very obviously only there for the drive and to have a gawk at the stupid, stuck tourists.

Neither of them looked like they would have been able to tie their own shoelaces, never mind help us out of our current predicament.

I exchanged nervous, worried glances with my travelling companions. My mate who had spent all afternoon trying to get to civilisation and then to try and summon some help, shrugged his shoulders as if to say “What? This was the best I could do!”

Chatting later with him, he had a point, as it transpired that he had quite the nightmare since leaving us to go get help but unaware of these facts, I have to admit to being quite unimpressed by his choice of rescue team.

“So – what the fuck has happened here then?” Peter asked, barely containing his amusement.

“I think I’ve burnt the clutch out” I sheepishly replied.

“You think you’ve burnt the clutch out? Let’s have a look” With an exaggerated sigh, he took the keys and proceeded to stagger across the sand to the car. Getting in, he repeated what I had tried only about a dozen times since our vehicle had stopped and unfortunately, once again, the car engine refused to engage into gear.

Getting out of the car, he offered his professional advice on the situation: “Yep – the fucking clutch has had it. It’s completely fucked. This car ain’t going nowhere.”

“Is there anything you can do to help us?” asked our friend, obviously worried about her father’s car and wanting to know how we could get it fixed.

“Well – there’s fuck all I can do out here. Where’s your camp?”

“Over there,” pointing to our tent hidden in the shade.

“You’ve camped here? OK then, best thing I can do is tow the car back and order the parts. It will take a while for the part to arrive and even when it does, it will take a while to fix. It’s an all day job, that.

“How much do you think it will cost?”

“Hard to say – parts are expensive, plus getting it to the island, it’s a big job.” He answered avoiding the question.

“Yeah – so how much do you think?”

“Hard to say but I reckon somewhere between six and seven hundred dollars.”

For the first time, I think we fully appreciated just how bad our situation was.

• We had borrowed and subsequently broken my friend’s father’s car
• We were kilometres away from civilisation, stranded on the world’s largest sand-based island
• We were relying on the assistance of the two most drunken people on the island, if not the planet, for assistance

To say we were dismayed would be an understatement.

Although - even though we were seriously worried and depressed at how bad things had become, little did we know just how much things would go worse….

A Nightmare on Fraser Island - Part 2

…and promptly got us stuck.

Again.

Unsurprisingly, this was not doing anything wonderful to the nerves of either my passengers (or co-drivers as I like to think of them) or I. However, with the words of the wise sage ringing in my head, and with a little pushing from my co-drivers, I got moving again and reversed gratefully onto the harder sand of the beach once more.

At this point, a rental 4WD vehicle containing a family on their holidays from England stopped to have a chat. They had been on the island for three days and had found the going tough, even managing to get their beast of a jeep stuck on a couple of occasions. My recently acquired confidence was shot to pieces.

“Are the roads inland any better?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh no – they’re much worse – it’s really tough going inland.” The father of the family somewhat apologetically informed me. “I think you’re going to struggle in that – for you see Honda CRV’s are…”

“All wheel drive,” I finished for him. “Yes we’ve just found that out the hard way” and I proceeded to give him a brief run down of the recent events.

The look of disappointment on my face obviously affecting him, he quickly suggested, “It looks a bit better going inland at the next town, Eurong.”

“Yes it did - perhaps you could try there?” his wife offered enthusiastically.

Saying our goodbyes and receiving good luck messages from the family, we headed a bit further north until the exit road for Eurong.

True to the English family’s advice, the exit road did look a little better than that at Dilli Village but I think this was more because of the state of the previous exit road rather than anything that was good about the one that we were about to attempt passing through.

Making an elaborate approach from the edge of the sea, I turned the car and lined it up for a direct approach onto the exit road. With the inhabitants of the car taking a deep breath, I gunned the engine into gear and we approached the exit road at speed, bouncing and skipping through the soft sand.

Despite being thrown about the cabin of the car with quite some force, I grimly held the steering wheel and kept my foot on the accelerator, determined to keep a straight line as well as our momentum.

Just as it seemed that we might actually become stuck again, we saw that there was a sprinkler system wetting the sand at the top of the short rise into the town and there were some wooden tracks laid down to assist with grip.

A combination of all this ensured that, not without duress, we made it into the sleepy backwater of Eurong and even better than that, we drove onto some tarmac. All inhabitants of the car felt the relief and as a celebration of feeling the strong, solid surface beneath our tyres; I promptly jumped out of the car and kissed the ground, like some excitable, hairy, Billabong shorts-wearing version of the Pope.

It seemed we had arrived into the centre of Eurong, for what it was. There were a few holiday homes, a convenience store, a bakery, a holiday resort and even other people. After the experiences of the previous hour, it was a good feeling to see some semblance of life about the place.

With the time approaching three thirty in the afternoon, we spied a signpost informing us that we were 17km away from Lake McKenzie, the biggest and most popular lake in the island and with spirits suitably raised by this minor achievement, we took the decision to drive to there, and to set up camp for the night.

After a couple of minutes, this already seemed a rather rash decision.

Our time spent on the glorious security of the bitumen road was very short lived – about 400 metres to be exact, before we were experiencing for the first time, the network of inland “roads” that Fraser Island offers the intrepid traveller.

Little more than a car wide, and with sand as soft as that which had troubled us before, if perhaps a little less deep, we gingerly made our way out of Eurong. Almost immediately as we were going uphill out of town, we met two huge 4WD Jeeps coming in the opposite direction. There was barely room enough for two vehicles to pass, without either driver taking evasive action and as I was not keen to lose momentum, I continued to drive uphill, as the other two drivers moved out of the way, climbing up the side of the track.

It certainly was not the most courteous piece of driving that I have ever displayed (my years of driving in Belgium probably helping me) but thankfully, we got past them without incident and continued our bumpy way inland.

I can quite honestly say that those 17km was the most exhausting drive of my life – and this remember, after a two and a half hour drive to get to the barge, promptly getting it stuck, getting it towed, nervously driving on the beach of Fraser Island, getting it stuck at Dilli Village, getting it unstuck again, making it into Eurong, feeling the elation of tarmac roads only to have it ripped from me almost immediately and then the close call with the two 4WD vehicles.

It was really the most difficult driving I have ever experienced and all this in my friend’s father’s car – his little baby. I was a nervous wreck and an emotional basket case, so Lord knows what it was like for my passengers.

Actually, I do know what it was like for them as their gasps of horror, exclamations of fear and pearls of wisdom all provided me with unwelcome insights into their heads and, it has to be said, not serving to encourage me too much into the bargain.

We teeth-rattlingly jolted, juddered, bounced, lurched, crawled and limped, our way deeper into Fraser Island at little more than a snail’s pace. Up and down hill, round tight corner after another and thankfully without meeting too many other cars along the way, the drive to Lake McKenzie took us about an hour and it was some time just after four thirty when we rolled into the car park with another audible, collective sigh of relief.

I was, however, dismayed at the collection of cars that I enviously surveyed around us, each one immeasurably more suited to the conditions to our own mode of transport.

On the approach to Lake McKenzie we had noticed a couple of signs informing us that there were no camping facilities, even though the information that we had gleaned from the internet had told us otherwise. This was a most unwelcome turn of events but with the tracks so narrow and not wanting to try and negotiate a 3-point turn in these most difficult of conditions, we had reluctantly continued on our way. At least the beauty of Lake McKenzie would prove a welcome respite from the stress of the afternoon.

Asking another English family of tourists how far it was to the lake, we found out it was less than 10 minutes walk. However, with spirits understandably crushed and with daylight probably lasting no more than two hours, thanks to the dense tropical rainforest that makes up most of the inland part of the island; it was decided that we would leave the spectacular views at Lake McKenzie until the following day.

Fraser Island has over 100 dune lakes, as well as the second highest concentration of lakes in Australia after Tasmania. The freshwater lakes on Fraser Island are some of the cleanest lakes in the world. It is a "perched" lake sitting on top of compact sand and vegetable matter 100 metres above sea level. Lake McKenzie has an area of 150 hectares and is just over five metres in depth. The beach sand of Lake McKenzie is nearly pure silica and it is possible to wash hair, teeth, jewellery, and exfoliate one's skin.

Obviously, this was something that we had to come back to.

None too keen to be driving again so soon after having stopped but certainly a lot less keen to be stuck in the middle of a tropical rainforest in the dead of night with no campsite set-up, I reluctantly agreed and off we set again.

Having chatted with another English couple (was there any other nationality on Fraser Island?) we heard that the drive out of Lake McKenzie was better in the direction we were heading – a campsite known as Central Station, located 11 km from Lake McKenzie.

Gradually getting to grips with the driving, I was becoming more comfortable with the poisoned chalice of designated driver and although I was certainly nowhere near being able to convince myself that I was actually enjoying the experience, I nonetheless managed to get somewhat used to the driving and 35 minutes later, we were rolling into Central Station.

According to the information we had, Central Station is the largest campsite on the island boasting such facilities as water, showers and toilets – the kind of facilities that you would expect any campsite to have but this being Fraser Island is not the case, as we were to find out – but once again, I’m getting way ahead of myself.

Central Station was once the centre of the forestry industry when there was logging on Fraser Island, these days this amazing rainforest area houses a display explaining the development of Fraser Island and its various flora and fauna, information centre and picnic area.

Central Station provides a scenic boardwalk through the rain forest along the banks of the Wanggoolba Creek, as well as the aforementioned camping facilities.

Located around Central Station is superb open rain forest and the home to the massive Angiopteris ferns, this species has the largest fern fronds in the world.

Central Station has plantations of a variety of pine tress to which give the camping ground much of its appeal and makes the ideal camping site during the holiday season.

The trees are regarded as one of Fraser Island's biological marvels as the sand they grow in has almost no natural mineral fertility.

The campsite was pretty well laid out, each individual campsite offering a parking space for the car and a raised platform for the tent to be pitched on – and all this in the middle of a tropical rainforest. A large wooden picnic table completed the scene.

Without too much hassle, we had our camp set up and started to prepare dinner. Because the most of Fraser Island is a Nature Reserve, it is prohibited to make campfires. Considering all the dry wood around as well, it certainly wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do either. Thankfully, we were prepared for this, having brought along a rather splendid twin hob gas stove and it wasn’t long before we were dining on a feast of beans, tinned spaghetti and bread, followed up by a tasty Australian biscuit known as Tim Tams.

During dinner and with light fading fast, we were treated to a cacophony of noise, the like of which I have never experienced before, the birds in the trees above us joining together to make their roosting noises before calling it a night. Lasting about 20 minutes, this noise was quite deafening and made conversation practically impossible, such was the volume.

Dinner completed, and the birds finally, quite literally, giving it a rest, we attached the next wondrous piece of kit to our gas bottle, a powerful gas filament lamp that gave us enough light to continue our night – which basically revolved around a deck of cards and a drinking game known as “King of Beers.” Well, when you are in pitch black darkness on the world’s largest sand based island surrounded by all manner of beasties you’ve gotta get your rocks off somehow.

Ah yes, the beasties.

Apart from the noisy birds in the trees, we were treated to the bizarre laughing call of the kookaburra, saw various lizards, spiders, beetles, a couple of rats, and I for one, was woken up during the night by dingoes prowling around our campsite searching for scraps of food.

Fraser Island is known as a haven for these native Australian wild dogs and the local authorities are quite understandably a little nervous about them co-habiting with tourists on the island, thanks to the horrifying incident of a few years ago when a dingo actually attacked and ate the baby of a family holidaying on the island.

All tourists are advised before setting off to Fraser Island on how to treat dingoes. This advice includes not feeding them and indeed locking all food away, not to go to the toilet individually, as well as what to do if confronted by one or more of them.

Scavengers, the dogs will eat anything and as we were there at a time when their pups were being born, we were told to be especially vigilant, as the mothers would be bringing her pups out on feeding missions. Not the sort of thing you have to worry about when snogging a kebab on the way home after a night out back in Northern Ireland…

Having made a large dent in the drinks supply, we called it a night because, well, there’s not much else to do in the dead of night in the middle of a rainforest. Signs in the campsite informed people that no noise would be tolerated after 21:00 and the campsite seemed to be full of families, along with our elderly German neighbours who didn’t speak much English and who had a fully professional set up of 4WD camper van with all the required amenities at their disposal.

However, with darkness falling around seven in the evening, we were quite happily (although quietly) drunk and ready for bed by about 22:30. Sitting there around the picnic table, with our sense of humours returned having a few drinks and smokes, we happily relived the moments of the day and talked excitedly about the events planned for the next couple of days on Fraser Island.

Little did we know, however, as we talked animatedly of our upcoming adventures, just how eventful the next few days would become, because at that stage, our Nightmare on Fraser Island was only just beginning…

A Nightmare on Fraser Island - Part 1

Suitably buoyed by the experience of Australia Zoo, a couple of days later we decided to undertake another adventure, this time of a more daring nature – a three day camping trip to Fraser Island, the world’s largest sand based island, just off the east coast of Queensland, about 4 hours north of Brisbane.

The events that unfolded on this trip are of such a disturbing nature that I would advise those of a nervous disposition to go visit another corner of cyberspace. The online version of Woman’s Weekly, for example, because this will be a no holds barred account of my experiences on this camping trip. A camping trip which I will endearingly forever refer to as Fraser Island – The Camping Trip From Hell.

Read on if you dare…

First of all – a bit of background on the island itself, courtesy of some research on the internet.

As already mentioned, Fraser Island is a large sand island (at 122 km (76 miles) long, the largest in the world) situated off the southern coast of the Australian state of Queensland, some 300 km (200 miles) north of the state capital Brisbane. A popular destination for travelers, Fraser Island was inscribed as a World Heritage Site in 1992.

It has long beaches, rainforest, still lakes with near perfect reflections, coloured sands, ruined ships washed ashore, dingoes and - up until very recently - wild horses.

Roads on the island are no more than very rough sandy tracks, so in order to get about the island you require a 4WD. The east coast beach doubles as the island’s main road and airstrip. Yes – aeroplanes actually land and take off from the beach as you drive along. It sounds like mayhem but it actually works.

The island is mostly national park and only has a couple of tiny settlements, boasting a local community of around 1000 inhabitants but more about the locals in a bit, as I’m getting way too far ahead of myself.

It all seemed too good to be true and a perfect destination for a camping trip for a few days in the build up to Christmas, the plan being to leave on the Tuesday and return on the Friday, 3 days before Christmas Day itself.

First off, the three of us needed a game plan to get to, and subsequently around, the island and my friend’s mother was prepared to generously provide us with the use of her car for the trip. However, seeing as the car was not 4WD we would have to travel further north to get the passenger ferry across from Hervey Bay, landing us on the island in Kingfisher Resort on the west coast.

As well as meaning we would have to drive further north to get a 45-minute passenger ferry onto the island, we would have to go on organised trips around the island at huge expense to see some of the many sights that the island had to offer.

If we had the use of a 4WD vehicle, we could get on a 10-minute vehicular barge to the south of the island and drive about the island at our leisure.

Under some duress, it has to be said; my friend’s father very kindly lent us his baby, a lovely wee Honda CRV for the trip. The only condition her father set was that I, being the eldest and therefore obviously the most sensible, should be the designated driver.

Ok then – because of insurance requirements and that I was the only one over 25 years of age, I got the job of driver by default.

All systems were go – we now had our transport organised and it was with a lot of excitement we set off on our Great Expedition.

First stage of the trip was a two and a half hour drive to Rainbow Beach. This sleepy backwater is the southern access point to Fraser Island. From Rainbow beach, a beach that got its name because of the dozens of different coloured types of sand present there, it is possible to drive your 4WD north along the beach for 13km to a place called Inskip Point where the vehicular ferry makes the 10-minute crossing to Fraser Island regularly from 7am to 4.30pm.

Permits are required to take vehicles onto Fraser Island and to camp and these were to be obtained from Rainbow Beach General Store. Vehicle permits are $30. Camping permits are $4.50 per person per night. Not much at all for a 3-day stay in paradise.

At least it seemed that at the time.

Having purchased our supplies of booze, cigarettes, non-perishable foods and permits, we were all set to make the short trip to Fraser. However, it was whilst buying these supplies that I noticed “The Wall of Shame” in one of the shops. A mosaic of photographs of vehicles that had been stranded in deep sand or caught in high tides and been smashed against some of the rocks on the island’s coast line.

For the first time, I was genuinely concerned at the prospect of 4WD on the island.

At this point, it should be stated for the record that I used to regularly drive a 4WD Jeep in England and would frequently use it to drive onto Southport Beach to walk my dog. I also drove on many beaches back home in Northern Ireland, so had naturally assumed that it would not be a problem.

In fact, the last and only time I got a car stuck in sand was on a beach back home when I was about two and sitting on my father’s lap, I steered the car into soft sand and we needed the assistance of a few locals to rescue us.

Before driving in sand, you are advised to drop the air pressure in your tyres, to make the whole driving experience easier and to avoid the possibility of becoming stuck in the sand. Suitably diligent in this, letting the air out just before getting on the sand, we then joined on the beach at the closest place to Inskip Point, about 300 metres from the waiting barge.

To say that I was somewhat surprised at the view that greeted us as we turned the corner onto the beach, would be an understatement of huge proportions. I stopped the car as we surveyed the scene. The very, VERY soft sand had been dug up into huge ruts, some of which were more than a foot deep. This was very different to anything that I had experienced before, having only driven on the hard sand of the beaches back home.

Well folks, I am sure you can see where I am going with this one.

Having somewhat rashly decided to follow the tracks of a previous car, we gingerly made our progress through the soft sand. However, less than 100 metres of driving in these ruts, I noticed that the ruts got even deeper than I had first seen.

Realising we were going to struggle in this depth, I tried to steer us out of the ruts into less deeper terrain – and promptly got us stuck.

I tried to reverse back, I tried to drive forward but try as I might, the CRV was resolutely going nowhere. Up ahead, the barge was waiting with the guy on the barge frantically waving us towards him. It was no use. Less than 100 metres of driving in the sand and we were already stuck.

One of our party went ahead to the barge to explain our situation to the barge guy as the other two of us looked at the sorry state I had gotten us into - the soft sand in between the ruts being two high for us to negotiate any further.

Our friend returned with Barge Guy, who had obviously seen it all happen many times before.

“Lucky you didn’t get any further, you guys would have been stuck there for the next week” was his helpful introductory advice to us.

“First things first, that’s an all wheel drive you have there, not a FOUR WHEEL DRIVE. These things aren’t built for this kind of driving.”

This, of course, was news to me.

I had simply assumed that because the car had no 4WD gear stick that the advances in modern cars simply meant that the car would automatically switch over to 4WD when required.

How wrong I was.

“You’ve got to drive it fast in the soft sand, too slow and you’ll just get stuck,” came the next pearl of wisdom from our sage.

“Do NOT turn the steering wheel – keep the car going straight at all times. When you get stuck, reverse and go forward and back again. Rock your car out of the sand.”

Following his advice, I tried to do as he suggested, however my earnest attempts to get the car unstuck paradoxically only merely achieved getting the car even further stuck.

Just as things were looking hopeless, a young couple arrived on the scene in a huge behemoth, King of the Road, a true 4WD vehicle. Having arrived at Inskip Point to do a spot of relaxing sea fishing, they were soon running about our stranded vehicle as a 2-person tow team and it was not long before, with all the efficiency and effectiveness of professionals, they had towed me all the way across the beach and practically onto the waiting barge.

Grateful thanks offered, and not to mention a friendly bit of “That’s not a 4WD, it’s an all wheel drive car” bit of advice, which I was already beginning to tire of, we then got onto the waiting barge. To say the whole experience had shaken my two passengers and me would be another understatement of epic proportions. Remember – this was the car belonging to my friend’s father after all.

As we made the short crossing in the barge, the eminent sage that was our barge guy gave us some more advice, including letting more air out of the tyres, which I frantically did as we bounced along in the barge.

“Stay on the hard sand close to the water and you should be fine!” was the last nugget of advice from our friendly barge guy.

Getting off the barge, carefully driving as directed, along the hard sand close to the water, we made our way up along the east coast of the island. We knew that we had to drive for around 30 minutes up the island before reaching some form of civilisation, the first of which was a place called Dilli Village and it was there that we decided we would head inland to find a place to camp for the night and to see more of the island.

Towards the end of the drive, our confidence had returned, or at least mine had, with the beaches on the island proving to be made of stronger stuff than at Inskip Point and right on schedule, we arrived at the exit road to Dilli Village.

It was apparent that the exit roads from the beach were of much softer sand than that which we had been enjoying previously on Fraser Island, however our memories were still plagued by the previous attempt.

Bracing ourselves, we (and yes I’m using the royal sense of the word here) drove off the beach and up the exit road for Dilli Village, offering silent prayers to the God of All Wheel Drive as we did…

A Famous Australian invention??!

I found out recently that Australia, a country famous for its sport, sun, surf and sand can actually boast a useful contribution to the human race.

And no – it isn’t “stubby coolers” (foam cups to keep your bottle of beer – ‘stubby’ - cool in the heat) or eskies (Cool Boxes to the rest of the world) but something all together more humble and perhaps even more practical – the rotary clothes line.

Or so I thought.

Further investigation on the Wikipedia website, shows that the crown and pinion winding mechanism of the Hills Hoist rotary clothes line was invented by Lance Hill in 1945 but the rotary clothes line itself had been invented 55 years before in 1890 by an American.

It was popularised in Australia by Lance Hill and is a common sight in Australian and New Zealand backyards. It is considered one of Australia's most recognisable icons, and is used frequently by artists as a metaphor for for suburbia in Australia.

It is widely (and incorrectly) believed by the public to be an Australian invention.

However, other Australian and American precursors existed decades before it was produced in 1945 in the Adelaide suburb of Glenunga by Lance Hill.

And that’s it.

I hope you’re all impressed by all this research that I am pursuing for you, The Discerning Surfer…

Crikey! – That Australia Zoo is AWESOME!

For those that have been living on Mars for the past few years, Steve Irwin is the charismatic, passionate and hugely entertaining wildlife conservationist, whose “Crocodile Hunter” television series achieved him worldwide fame and not to mention a certain amount of notoriety.

The series shook the watching world as it watched on in amazement at his sometimes death-defying encounters with many of the world’s most dangerous animals, especially those with his personal favourite, the (as we now know thanks to Steve) often much misunderstood crocodile.

The passion that he had, his love of the animal kingdom and his relentless pursuit of conservation was infectious. Anyone who saw any of his TV programs, could hardly forget him, sporting his dodgy blond mullet hairstyle and his trademark uniform of khaki short-sleeved shirt and shorts as he got up close and personal with some of Planet Earth’s scariest creatures; his favourite catchphrase “Crikey!” becoming familiar to millions of households across the globe.

Sadly, a few short months ago, Steve was taken from us through the most bizarre of incidents, being pierced in the heart by a mother stingray protecting her young. A strange way for the legend to meet his maker, especially considering the dangerous situations he had previously put himself in. It was the first reported human death by stingray recorded in several decades.

His death sent shockwaves across the world and the loss was felt no greater than right here in this part of Australia, known as The Sunshine Coast, where he was born and raised and which is home to his Australia Zoo, located less than an hour north of Brisbane, along the Glass House Mountains Tourist Drive in Beerwah.

Having spoken to a few people from this region, I can only compare his death and the subsequent loss felt with the reaction back home in Northern Ireland to the passing away of the late, great George Best.

According to a friend of mine, a photographer with the local press who was asked to cover events following his death, the region has never witnessed anything like the public outpouring of grief as the tragic news broke out.

Right here in Mooloolaba where I type these words, just a few minutes away at Alexandra Headland on the day of the funeral, hundreds of surfers from the region paid a special tribute to the Crocodile Hunter, himself an avid surfer, at a special memorial service.

Forming a huge circle off the beach to remember him, floral tributes were placed in the water.

Staff from the Irwin family's Australia Zoo also took part in the commemoration held during the Juniper Surf classic being staged at Alexandra Headlands in support of cancer charity Camp Quality.

This sounds like a moving and memorable experience and is a measure of the regard that he was held within the community here.

However, in spite of the tragic loss, the man’s legacy lives on in the form of his hugely impressive Australia Zoo.

Originally opened by Steve’s parents Bob and Lyn in 1970 under the name Beerwah Reptile Park, they passed on their love and respect for wildlife onto their children, especially to their son Steve, who had helped his parents since childhood to care for crocodiles and reptiles and to maintain the growing number of animals in the zoo.

In 1991, Steve overtook management of the zoo. In 1992 the park was renamed Australia Zoo. Currently, the zoo maintains more than 1000 animals and 600 staff. Animals and staff alike all seem to be very happy to be there. It is a wonderful environment to be in and zoos all around the world could learn many things from its example.

After the initial disappointment of going to the zoo a couple of weeks ago, where I found out that I had arrived too late for the main event, the crocodile show in the ‘crocoseum’, I made a more successful return visit a week ago along with two friends.

Arriving at 10:30 in the morning, and as clichéd as it sounds, we spent six fun-packed hours exploring everything that the zoo had to offer us, our only regret as we left that evening being that we could not have spent longer at the place.

Upon reflection, I am pleased to report that the decision to postpone the visit until a day when I would actually experience the shows in the crocoseum has proven to be the right one.

The crocoseum is an impressive outdoor 5000 all-seater arena located within the zoo itself. Giving some indication as to just how large the park is in its entirety, the crocoseum takes up less than 5 percent of the place.

For an hour and a half, the huge crowd in the crocoseum were entertained and informed by three shows: “Snakes Live”, “Birds Live” and “Crocs Live.” Each show provided us with very up close and personal encounters with many of these wonderful species.

The experience, however, was not an entirely voyeuristic one, with much of the show’s emphasis placed upon explaining to the onlooker how these animals should be treated and the dangers that their species experience thanks, in most cases, to the threat of humankind. The guides were also very quick to point out the dangers that these animals pose for us, which, in the case of snakes and crocodiles is actually a lot less than you would perhaps think.

I have to say that the shows were a thoroughly enjoyable experience and were of a highly interactive nature - the guy that was doing the PA was constantly walking about with his microphone asking questions to members of the assembled audience.

Through him, we discovered that there were people from all over the world sharing in the experience, with many of the spectators hailing from Europe, the USA and South America. There was even a family who heralded from Tasmania, although being the brunt of many an Australian joke; they might have regretted announcing this.

During the day, we got up close and personal with some very exotic animals but let’s face it, just by fencing an area off in Australia, you would end up with more exotic animals than we would ever hope to see back home.

The day was spent looking at wombats, koalas, possums, a wonderful relative of the emu known as a cassowary, Tasmanian devils, iguanas, skinks, otters, walking amongst tropical birds in a giant aviary, feeding and petting kangaroos, feeding elephants and watching 1 percent of the world’s population of Sumatran tigers at rest and play. Sadly, this amounts to just three of these most beautiful creatures; such is their threat of extinction.

As we watched them in the Tiger Temple, which incidentally is styled on the Angkor Wat Temple in Cambodia, two of their handlers were sitting in the temple with them.

Just as I was thinking that it was quite a cushy job – to be sitting in the afternoon sun, not doing much – one of the handlers explained to us that the team of tigers’ handlers had been spending time with them 24/7 since their birth three years previously in an effort to build up the confidence of the animals – a hugely impressive display of dedication to their vocation.

Such was our enthusiasm and interest in the place; we were still walking around almost half an hour after the zoo closed. As we eventually dragged ourselves away from the zoo, one of the multitudes of staff, a man in his late forties dressed in the famous khaki uniform, asked us if we had enjoyed our visit.

Having said that we had enjoyed it immensely, I then commented on how great it must be to work in such a fantastic environment. His response?

“I waken up every morning and thank my lucky stars that I work here.”

That says it all really…

For more info, check out: http://www.australiazoo.com.au