Having said
this, I have had the opportunity to escape to a place called Picnic Beach on
two occasions. The first time, Adrian and I went on our own with absolutely no
knowledge of the area or just what we were in for. The second time, we went
with a mature-aged couple who Adrian vaguely knew from back home in Bega, NSW (we just
happened to be swimming in the same river as them a week earlier) and a
car load of Indigenous people who work with them in Umbakumba; one of which is
a traditional land owner.
In this post
I will share with you a recount written by Adrian the day after our first
adventure. In a post that will shortly follow, I will tell you about our vastly
different experience at Picnic Beach the second time around when accompanied by
a group of Indigenous locals. Please check
back soon as I will hopefully share this within the next few days.
Water bottles?
Check. Fishing rods? Check. Land permits? Check. We slid the freshly printed
plastic cards into our wallets and told Willy (our black lab) he wasn't welcome
this time round. It'd just gone lunch time and we were in high hopes of seeing
something special, just the two of us. 
We plotted our course for Umbakumba on the north eastern side of the island about 40 minutes from home. After passing the airport and driving through the low-level water crossing, the road straightened out and we watched the roadside flora gradually shift from rainforest to low-level eucalyptus forest struggling to gain nutrients in the sandstone soils. Before European settlement, I imagine the whole island would have been in abundance with earthy trunks and woody branches.
We slowly rolled into Umbakumba, going the designated 40km/h. Driving through the open streets, it seemed as though Gemco's maintenance budget mustn't have spanned beyond Alyangula. I imagine that if it weren't for the abundance of Gemco miners, Alyangula would be as basic and tired looking as this small town.
Umbakumba’s
residents are mostly Indigenous folk, with only a hand full of white fellas who
work in the community living in similar houses scattered around. The town has one
very basic food store (with prices even higher than Alyangula), a Centrelink
office and a school resembling a jail with steel roller doors to prevent break
ins and vandalism. After a few minutes, we decided that we’d seen enough and consulted
our one and only poorly illustrated map on how to reach Mamalingmanja (Picnic
Beach).
We took roads
leading to various dead–ends, old dumping grounds or narrow tracks that were eventually
swallowed up by the dense shrubs. We’d almost had enough (I know that Casey
certainly had) but our persistence paid off when we began to follow a track
that took us on a bumpy tour towards the coast.
We encountered our first hurdle when we came to what looked like a shallow
water crossing roughly 15 metres long. My first thought was to jump out and
walk the depth, but with another four-wheel drive quickly approaching, I made
the fleeting decision to jump out and lock the hubs and take the risk. I eased
the front wheels in slowly and cautiously, then, without warning the whole
front end seemed to disappear. Water was washing over my bonnet (which stands
1.5m off the ground). I had a sudden blood rush as the possibility of losing my
Landcruiser to this watery grave filled my thoughts. Nevertheless, I remained
silent for Casey's sake and all I could do was keep power to the wheels and
hope to see the nose pop out of the water. Much to my relief, the crisis didn’t
eventuate as the Landcruiser pulled itself to safety. I almost felt foolish to
have even doubted its capabilities.
We continued our
journey down the narrow train-track like strip of sandy dirt which had a band
of low-lying vegetation neatly maintained in the centre by the frequent traffic
of weekend campers and adventure seekers. With another vehicle hot at our
heels, we became excited as we thought we must be getting close. We reached a
point that allowed for many detours, which is where we lost the other car and
began to doubt ourselves yet again. Before we knew it, we were travelling on a
path which seemed to be less travelled; and for good reason. I was faced with tight
lefts and rights as the track weaved its way through the coastal bush land. We’d
been travelling for 15–20 minutes at about 10km/h before we spotted the coastal
sand dunes towering well over 40 metres. The track abruptly turned into fine-grained
sand and made driving that little bit more difficult.
The thought of no
telephone service along with being ten kilometres deep in thick bush started to
slightly worry me. We were warned that driving alone in bush on the island wasn’t
a good idea, but of course this really only sinks in when you have your own bad
experience. I started conjuring up worst-case scenarios and how I would tackle
them. Catastrophizing is the best way to describe my frame of mind as dramatic images
flooded in. I quickly filed through all of them. Deadly snake bite, crocodiles
and all imaginable creepy crawlies through to spending cold nights in the car
and walking out of the bush with torn clothing and 10-days worth of beard
growth like in the movies.
As we bounced over
built up patches of sand, we could see little glistening triangles of ocean
through overlapping tree branches; much sparser than before. The only thing keeping
us from reaching the ocean was a 150 metre barrier of soft, white sand. Each
car that had driven the same route had left its mark by channeling a deeper trench
into the sandy road. I had no choice but to follow these deep earthworks because
any attempt to change direction would have undoubtedly gotten us bogged. The
wheels sat so deep into the sandy channels that the car was steering itself
through the bush.
Eventually we
reached a fork in the road. A left turn lead onto timber slats laid by the land
council; a system allowing cars to gain more traction than driving on sand
alone. The timber ribbing resembling a cattle grid about 2.5m wide and looked
as though it led directly down to the beach. Much to my amazement, the tire
tracks veered to the right, suggesting that the locals must love a challenge. I
decided not to disrupt my car’s desire to follow along the soft sand and looked
over to see the corners of Casey’s mouth form downward creases in disapproval.
Fifty metres ahead
we came to a sign reading ‘NO ENTRY NO PUBLIC ACCESS’. Terrific! I had Casey
shouting “No, No, NO!” whilst I kept rolling forward; cautious of becoming
stuck if I stopped. I had to start making efforts towards turning my tank of a
car around within the space of a living room. The wheels were throwing sand in
the air as I completed what seemed like a 40-point-turn before heading back
toward the slats. We had a small hill to climb so I started to gain as much speed
as possible. We started well, but slowly came to an agonizing stop. I went
backwards, then forwards, then backwards again. Yes. We were stuck! Casey remained
mostly silent; probably occupying her mind with the same stranded and dying scenario
I had let slip into my mind earlier. I jumped out to see sand engulfing my
tyres. It’s all the way up to the wheel nuts and over the tow ball. I started
digging. I had a method in mind. I’d start leveling out sand on all four wheels
to the base of each tyre and try again. I put the car into reverse and powered
out of the holes until we reached a shallow patch of sand. I put the gear back
into drive and we aimed for the slats that seemed so close, yet so unreachable.
The Landcruiser was screaming in pain, yet wasn’t really moving anywhere. We
started shifting our upper bodies forward and back in a desperate attempt to assist
with momentum. And whatta’ know, we became free! I like to think that it was
in-fact our cartoon-like movements that helped free our struggling heap of
metal; and for our stories sake it sounds much more appealing anyway.
Now that the
visual of a snake engulfing our heads had evaporated from our minds just as
quickly as it had entered moments early, the trip became enjoyable again and I
announced in relief that ‘the worst was over’.
We were greeted by
vast blue ocean as we cruised down onto the beach. The horizon was so wide it
looked as though it was frowning at us. A small freshwater creek marked the entry
to the road where clean, crisp water trickled over a bed of immaculately formed
sea shells before reaching the ocean. It was a picture perfect day so I started
snapping away while Casey quickly got to work collecting various shells, some
of which we’d never seen before. We both took solo dips in the ocean while the
other was summoned to ‘croc watch’ duty. The sun beamed down and the water was so
warm you could swim for hours; had it not been the home of a number of large salties.
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| Casey was happy to be out of the car |
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| Adrian swimming cautiously in croc inhabited water |
Whilst Casey combed the beach happily, I quickly explored the area hoping to find an easier exit. With no luck, I hurried Casey along and we agreed to come back again soon; perhaps with some friends to save us from the stressful ordeal we’d found ourselves in.
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| Casey looking pleased with her shell collection |
This time there was no laughter or jokes as I started the car up. We both kept
our faces forward as I drove towards the timber slats. I started to gain speed
as soon as I could, preparing my wheels for the sandy climb. I gave it all it’s
got and started charging through the sand like a runaway camel. I was gripping
the wheel with all my strength whilst watching the sand fly out from my front
arches. I felt like I should be yelling out words of encouragement like “Come
on, you can do it!” Instead I remained quiet, and focused on keeping my foot
flat to the floor.