No Worries, You’ll Breeze It In
I had decided to go from Canberra to Cape York in August 1987.
There were a couple of minor technical issues.
My vehicle was a $600 Datsun 180B (an insurance write-off). I had little money and no recovery gear. The plan was to travel, in four weeks, from Canberra through Dubbo, Bourke, Barcaldine, Hughendon to Cairns and Port Douglas. To Daintree, across the Bloomfield, to Cooktown, Coen, across the Wenlock and up the “old” Telegraph Track, through the infamous Gunshot Creek to the Jardine and up to the Tip. Then south via the “new” track to Weipa, return for a few days rest up to Canal Creek, before rushing home in two days.
Three weeks before we left, a friend lent me a Tirfor hand winch, and the owners of the bookshop I managed lent me enough money to get to the Cape and back, provided we had no mishaps. I removed the back seats and replaced them with tools, spare parts, tarps, rope, a winch, wire, and strong plumber’s tape.
On Friday, I finished work, packed the car and my dog, Bess, picked up my friend Faye, and we set off on our big adventure.
It took us six days to reach Cairns.
Drama occurred just north of Hughendon when we met a large, angry bull in the middle of the track, snorting and pawing the ground.
The main reason for the cost of my Datsun was the fragile, chaotic front end.
I was worried about this nasty-looking bull. We sat there pathetically whispering sweet nothings to it. I had my hand on the gear stick, ready to go forward, backward, or sideways if necessary, until, with a sigh of relief from us, it tossed its head and disdainfully swaggered away.
We had a long drink to replace the sweat we’d lost and kept going.
In Cairns, we camped just south of Bill Hartley’s Crocodile Park near Oak Beach.
The next morning, we visited it to see how deadly crocs were. A dead chook was thrown near a log, resulting in lightning-fast movement and snapping jaws. No chook. We left with a healthy respect for the reptiles.
I had travelled through Port Douglas about 15 years ago and was appalled at the changes to such an undeserving, beautiful spot. Daintree had also changed; the last time I remember, there was only the pub and a handpump for petrol. This time, we lined up with the tourists and dutifully drove across the river on the barge, trying to, ever so casually, check out the crocs.
We had only driven five or ten kilometres when we encountered the first of many river crossings. Some of the world’s most beautiful country lay before us, but some fellow travellers were uninterested in their surroundings. It was a race to the Tip and back. They drove straight through creeks without checking, just aimed their cameras out the windows of their air-conditioned vehicles to prove they had driven through this wild country.
From the first crossing, our behaviour patterns were set.
Before it, I’d be all hyped up, in full panic mode, while bloody Faye wandered around taking photos, whistling and looking at the scenery. I’d get mad at her for not helping me with my panic. Then the crossing – I’d be calm and concentrating while Faye panicked. After the crossing, Faye would jump around madly singing the Miller-Campbell-Datsun war cry, while I’d be in shock, fiddling with the car.
Later, we were stopped for an hour or so while a rolled Nissan was winched out of a ravine, apparently due to a few too many beers and corners. Our next stop was for another accident: This time, two 4WDs had collided and were parked on either side of the track, the drivers having a yarn while waiting for parts. We stopped between them to ask about the Bloomfield River.
From my side;
“Piece o’ piss, mate! No worries, just wait for low tide, and you’ll breeze it in.”
From Faye’s window;
“No way, a Nissan got stuck there an hour or so ago. You’ll never make it.”
We had come this far, so we decided to believe the optimist on my side, until our first glimpse of the dreaded Bloomfield, when we swapped opinions. After much panic and deliberation, we decided to cross. We watched two 4WDs cross; one nearly got bogged due to bad driving, not the vehicle’s capabilities.
The depth marker showed 1.2 metres, so the air cleaner intake had to be moved. Luckily, the front-end damage had buckled the bonnet nicely, so I could fit a spare radiator hose and a bit of scrounged Falcon tailpipe to the air cleaner to bring the intake near the windscreen. I also tarped the radiator, loosened the fan belt, waterproofed the plug leads and distributor, and placed the winch within reach.
We took a few deep breaths and then went in. Now it was Faye’s time to panic, and she screamed as water spurted to the roof through the loose rubber around the gear stick. I was in a trance, praying to hundreds of gods I didn’t even believe in. Except for a few moments when the tyres spun and lost traction, the lovely Datsun just kept chugging on. A middle-aged couple in a Toyota Land Cruiser came across just after us and wondered who had towed us over. By then, we had stopped shaking and pretended we did this sort of thing every day.
The corrugations to Coen were terrible. We got a flat tyre and lost all the gearbox oil. We changed the tyre and used a broken bottle and the radiator overflow pipe as a makeshift funnel for the gearbox oil. Coen Caravan Park was fantastic, apart from the mozzies. It rained overnight, so I got up for a free shower.
The Wenlock River was a big worry. As we arrived, five campers rushed away and quickly returned with chairs, tinnies and cameras. I chose a different route to the most common one, deeper with a sandy bottom but narrow enough, hopefully, for the Datsun’s momentum to carry it across. My plan worked, but only just; the spectators were quite crestfallen. The Wenlock was the first of many beautiful rivers, but littered to a disgusting degree. We found turds and toilet paper sitting on sandy soil so soft it could be dug into with hands or a stick.
At the junction of the “old” and “new” Telegraph Roads, the sign warned us that the “old” road was definitely 4WD only. The “old” beckoned, and we got bogged within two hundred metres in soft sand. We had the equipment and time to get ourselves out, but were rescued by “Dad and Dave”, our nicknames for a very helpful father and son team, who towed us out with their 4WD and stayed with us until Gunshot Creek. This creek had a long sandy exit on the northern side. Dad and Dave tried first but got bogged. After two or three more tries, Dad lowered the tyre pressures, increased speed, and made it. Faye and I lowered tyre pressures initially and went flat out from the middle of the creek, became airborne at one stage, but got up first go! We felt better about being towed earlier.
A Mitsubishi 4WD with wide tyres took three tries and only made it with tyre pressures lowered. Michael and Dana “Squeaky Clean” were on a three-month Northern Australia adventure, always impeccably dressed and impossibly clean (I still don’t know how they managed it). We left them camped on the creek bank and followed Dad and Dave. They again came to our rescue at Sailor Creek, where a rocky ledge had us scraping the chassis badly. This was the second time they saved us from tedious winching.
After I bogged yet again in thick sand, we camped a few kilometres up the road. The next morning, I rebuilt about seventy metres of track and with help from our air jack (fantastic devices in sand) we continued forever northwards. We stopped at beautiful Elliott Falls for a quick swim but it was crowded so had breakfast at Canal Creek a kilometre up the road.
Despite the challenge of the Telegraph Track, it had incredibly beautiful creeks with clear water and sandy bottoms worth following. I had dreamed of driving through the Jardine, but when we got there, I realised it might be a bit foolish.
After some backtracking, mild panicking and inspired guesswork, we arrived at the Jardine Ferry to greet the immaculate “Squeaky Cleans” and cross in a more civilised manner. Faye drove the Datsun rally-style to Bamaga, which hurt Michael’s male ego intensely, as he couldn’t keep up with her in the corners in his Mitsubishi. We spent the night with Michael and Dana at Red Island Point.
The next day, Faye and I visited Cowal Creek. We thought we’d followed all the signs correctly, but the track just got worse and worse. Finally, we came to an innocuous-looking swampy crossing that looked too croc-infested to walk through. We were too cocky, having made it this far without serious drama. I put our tarp on the front, drove in slowly… and stalled in the middle. Water poured in up to our waists, stopping just at the bottom of the steering wheel. It’s quite a strange feeling sitting in a car full of water, especially when you’re sure hundreds of man-eating crocs are outside.
Faye was chanting a litany of swearwords and blasphemies too obscene to repeat here. She lifted the Tirfor one-handed out to me on the bonnet, and I crossed the five or so metres of water without so much as a wet little toe. Unfortunately, I forgot to connect the winch to the car, so I had to wade back. Although I had used Tirfors for fifteen years, I had to read the instructions six times.
Finally, it worked, and the car was towed out.
We camped for two days, drying everything, replacing oils, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.
The drive to the Tip was anticlimactic, but we took the obligatory photos.
Then, we took the correct route to Cowal Creek, a beautiful spot with friendly locals and cheap food.
We headed south on the “new” road, which was an easier drive but lacked the wonderful creeks. This time, the Wenlock snared us, but we entertained the campers there. When we first got stuck, several people immediately left their seats for cameras, but no one came to help.
After ten minutes, a gentleman in a Nissan with a homemade canopy towed us.
At 7 pm that night, we set up a wet tent in the Weipa Caravan Park and searched in vain for clean, dry clothes. Eventually, we dressed in clean, wet clothes and went out for a counter tea in a freezing, air-conditioned pub.
The next day, Faye and I went for a walk in the mall. But we were stopped by people who had heard about the Datsun. Fame at last! It was amazing – the Australian bush telegraph at work.
We travelled back up to Canal Creek to rest for a few days. On the way, we said goodbye to our friends Dad and Dave, and Michael and Dana. After three glorious days of swimming, eating, and lazing around, we finally, regretfully, headed south to jobs and civilisation.
Although I doubt I’d take a car to the Tip now (I have a lovely old Land Cruiser), it was an unforgettable adventure.
Notes & Update June 2026:
I originally wrote this a couple of years after the trip (probably 1988 or 1989) and found it (on old dot-matrix printer paper) early in 2026.
I transcribed it and then added it to this blog in June 2026.
Some of the details and places I’ve noted in the photo may be slightly incorrect.
Please excuse the quality of the photos. They were taken with a cheap camera at the time and scanned then into this blog.
It was a long time ago when we made the trip.
