That night the heavens had opened and it rained for 12 hours solid. We did play plenty of cards, but you can only do that for so long. We also had some entertaining visitors – a noisy pita (beautiful bird) and really cheeky native mice that were so comfortable with our presence that they ate right in front of you and one even rested on Dave’s foot.

Despite all this, we couldn’t stay out of our tents all night. We went our separate ways through the rain and waited to see how we’d all fare through the night.

I’d have to say I didn’t sleep well – it’s not comforting to feel water moving underneath you – no way I’d want a water bed – but everybody’s sleeping concerns paled when it came to what Paul had experienced.

Paul’s tent had developed a solid leak and he’d had to abandon it. In the end he headed for the only dry place available – the pit toilet. If that sounds a little unpleasant – add in the fact that the manual water flushing system appeared to have broken and that there was bound to have been quite a lot of toilet activity before we’d even arrived at the site.

Still not bad enough? Imagine then that you’re huddled in a smelly pit toilet, damp and hardly having slept at all and then one of your walking buddies turns up and want to crap in your bedroom. Things don’t get much lower than that.

My respect for Paul went up hugely that morning – largely because despite all of this – he kept smiling … unless it was grimace ….

The walk from Mulligans Falls to George’s Point mostly takes place along the beach, but you have to get to the beach first. I’d done the walk the night before and it had been pretty straightforward, but the overnight rains had changed things. Dry creek beds were now full-blown streams which we ended up wading across. My sandshoes had already been near death – this killed them.

Nonetheless, we made it through and then walked for about an hour up to Mulligan Creek. This creek was the reason why the tide affected when people could be picked up. It was tidal and had to be low enough for people to cross.

Our timing was such that we had to lay-up for a while. Thank God for Peter’s tarp, as the weather continued to be rather unpleasant. The rain had eased but the wind was still not our friend. The cards came out and we even built a seat from old car tires (yeah, there was plenty of bizarre flotsam and jetsam on this beach).

Eventually we made it across (after a brief close encounter with a sting ray) and trudged to George’s Point, where we met up with four fellows (2 x father-son combos) who we’d seen walk past us and wade through the Creek earlier (with the smallest boy clearly suffering wet-crotch syndrome along the way).

That night passed without incident, and in retrospect, the decision not to walk through wasn’t a bad one. At the very least it had given us some amusing stories – Paul’s sleeping arrangements should go down in history. We made it across to Lucinda (via boat), to Ingham (via charter bus), had an awesome hot breakfast, arrived at Townsville (via coach), made it out to the airport (via taxi) all in good time for our flight – which then ran hours later.

Apparently they’d had two plane malfunctions and because of cost-cutting they had to fly an engineer up from Brisbane. At least we had the cards, though there’s nothing quite like hanging around airports for hours, and hours, to drive one slowly mad. I even got to do it in thongs since my shoes were a damp, stinking mess.

Still – it all ended well and all that remains is to hand out the following awards:

Crookest Camper – Dave

Worst Joke Telling – Peter

Loudest Snorer – Dave (took out gold, silver and bronze - though he did get some serious competition from one of the fathers at George's Point)

Most Extreme Sleeper – Paul

Best Dead Mountain Goat Impression – Chris

Gourmet Camper Award – shared jointly by Peter and Dave (they even had their own portable chairs and a selection of spices!)

Best Lesser Spotted Furtwangler Spotter – Paul

Arsiest at Cards – Chris

Most Offensive Farting – four-way tie

Dave’s health was still presenting some concerns so we opted to stay another night at Zoe Falls, which wasn’t such a hard decision as the area is really stunning. Beside it was great not to have to lug the packs for one day. And to top it all off, we ended up being the only ones staying at Zoe Falls that night.

We explored the area, wandered along the miles of stunning beach and even went for a night walk to spot wildlife. Unfortunately, the most common thing we saw was the cane toad – and it appeared to be pretty thick in numbers.

I should mention that the previous night, probably due to a lack of coconuts, we had broken out the pack of cards and began to play 500. This was to be the start of something. We would play more hands of 500 that I had ever played across the entirety of my previous life. It was often a lifesaver when we were cornered by the weather (this was to come) or stuck in an airport. I’d have to say I had my fair share of good hands.

The next day the weather had taken a turn for the worse – quite cloudy, though no rain, which was a blessing. We headed off to Mulligan Falls – another place of real natural beauty. The walk was not that long, but it had its moments and it was probably a good thing it wasn’t  a hot day. We arrived at the Falls just on lunch time and met up with the group of blokes who were decamping.

At this point I should say that we really needed to revise our view of them. They turned out to be friendly and offered some interesting advice. They said that if we wanted to it might be possible to catch an earlier boat off the island .

This led to the only moment of potential disagreement on the entire walk, with a couple of us tempted to see if we could head out a day early (the boat pick-up point was a couple hrs walk away and we were now at the end of the track that wasn’t quite as stunning). We also had mobile phone signal. So, a call was made to the boat operators to see if we could be picked up tomorrow evening. The short answer was no – the tides were wrong – if we wanted to be picked up it would have to be tonight or tomorrow morning.

Again – a difference of opinion. The lure of a warm dry bed if we caught the morning boat had certain appeal. Again, check the phone. According to the weather sites it was going to be pretty miserable for the next day or so. Again – more debate. In the end it was decided not to go because Dave still wasn’t feeling great.

I decided to go for a walk to the beach to clear my head, which was about a 1/2 hrs walk away. I took a rod along. On my first cast I pulled in a nice sized trevally but with the weather heading the way it was I decided cooking fish wasn’t the order of the day, so threw it back. I should mention at this point that Dave had also caught a trevally back at Zoe Bay, which we’d decided to use for bait – though without success.

Standing on the beach, alone, with the weather closing in, the waters in front of you mirky, and the knowledge that there could be crocs around, has a strangely motivating impact. I decide to head back and try and beat the weather. I failed.

We arose to the gentle sounds of nature – the warbling crying of the lesser spotted Furtwangler and the visceral rhythm of Dave coughing up his guts. The young couple had already packed up and gone and we decided to follow suit not long after. The biggest challenge was the tide, which was quite high and we knew we’d have to clamber over rocks now, rather than walking along the beach.

The Thorsborne Trail which we were following is certainly a marked route, but it’s fair to say there are times it takes a little finding, especially with the tide in. Eventually we found what we were looking for and clambered up a steep hill.

As the trail seemed to peter in and out of existence we decided we’d been following a trail, blazed by some poor misguided fools, to nowhere, so we turned back. After some debate we took a more coastal route – much rockier. Again after several clamber-filled minutes we decided that perhaps the original route was the right one after all, so we rock-hopped our way back again – this time to really give the original route the going over.

Ten minutes later, after some good solid yakka we found ourselves surrounded by trees, though sadly the same could not be said for the trail which had truly ended deep in the scrub. They say perseverance pays off, but they are talking out of their arses.  It was at this point, and not at the multitudinous more convenient earlier points (like the start, for example) that Paul decided it might just be useful to check the track notes. There, write large (possibly in six-foot letter of fire, possibly not) was fairly blunt advice about where the track was (which was exactly where we weren't). Some females might be tempted to say that this was typical male behaviour - failing to read the instructions before blunder in to the unknown. But that would be cruel. Factual, yes, but definitely cruel. So, back down we went again and tackled the coastal rocks yet again. This time we found the track and soldiered on.

It’s probably forgivable to take the wrong track every now and again, but to take the same wrong track twice (having bailed on the right track), with track notes in your backpack, well that’s just plain embarrassing.

Today was truly the hardest of the walks. It was long and there were plenty of bloody steep upwards climbs, liberally peppered with bloody steep downwards climbs. It seems that long arduous walks go through certain conversational stages are follows: Stage 1 – everybody chatting away; Stage 2 – conversation a little sparser but still upbeat; Stage 3 – telling jokes (this stage always finishing with a really bad joke); Stage 4 – outbursts of vague laughter as we try and recall what really was funny about the jokes; Stage 5 – silence, broken only by short, sharp expletives.

It was on one of the downward sections that I proved to be quite a mountain goat – though sadly one of those mountain goats that are found dead at the foot of cliffs. A rock moved underfoot and I came crashing down. Fortunately, nothing was broken. I would demonstrate this dead-mountain-goat-like ability again later in the trip to prove it wasn’t just a fluke.

Along the way we met up with the two couples from Little Ramsey and the group of blokes that had passed through. The blokes did manage to rub us up the wrong way. Perhaps it was the way they indicated that this was just a doddle (they referred to it as a gentleman’s walk and then told us about all the other walks they had done) or perhaps it was the way they called us the entertainment when we arrived – either way we kindly put it down to them being a pack of knobs.

Because the tide was up we, along with the others, had to wait at North Zoe Creek – which was tidal, though the real clincher wasn’t so much the water as the fact that there could be crocs in it. Crocs are an amazingly effective disincentive to wading.

Once the river had dropped sufficiently we ploughed on to Zoe Bay and Zoe Falls. The beach there, and the scenery, were once again spectacular. This would turn out to be the most hiker-filled night of the walk as we met up with people coming in from the south. 22 people in all stayed at the campsite that night, though we had got in early and secured an isolated spot with its own table.

We settled down before taking a stroll up to Zoe Falls, which were really attractive. We even snuck in a fairly cool swim before we bunkered down for the night.

Again, bocce was off the radar courtesy of a dearth of coconuts – this time the group of blokes had cleaned up any in the vicinity to see what they could get out of them. Dysentery if we were lucky.  

We arose before the sparrows had even given into flatulent urges – Dave coughing his guts up in an early and shameless attempt to claim the Crookest Camper Award. We filled up our water bottles at the nearby creek and then began our journey to Little Ramsey.

We had chosen to add an extra day or two into the walk and this meant we were on a fairly short leg. Along the way Paul kept us well up to date with all the different birdlife in the area. He really was a font of knowledge and this added to the whole experience. There were eastern robins, bee eaters, brahminy kites and other assorted birdlife. He did admit to having gaps in his knowledge, though they weren’t apparent (apart from a reference to something like the lesser spotted Furtwangler, which I suspect lived only in Paul’s imagination – damn fine plumage though).

As the novice walker I was really trying not to look a complete tool, coupled with the fact that I’m nearly as far from practical as Tony Abbott is from winning a popularity contest, meant that I was up against it. So what should I do along this leg of the walk? Lose a damn drink bottle. This is really poor form and it wasn’t helped by the fact that one of my other drink bottles leaked like Julian Assange. Yep – tool central.

Anyway, Little Ramsey was a beautiful location. Sprawling beach, good campsite, lagoon, fresh water stream. After we had set up camp, had a meal (cheese, crackers, some form of meat – a fare that we had yet to tire of – that day would come later) we set out to explore. At some stage during this time a young couple walked into camp from the north.

We were deeply impressed to note that the woman seemed to be carrying the bulk of the camping gear. This, we realised, was one of things lacking in our preparation. We’d packed camping gear aplenty and more food than can possibly pass through the human body in a month – yet nobody had though to bring along a Sherpa – especially a young female Sherpa. This would definitely be reviewed before our next walk.

Chatting with them revealed that they were taking turns with the big backpack and that they were  on a much tighter walking schedule than us. They were a really likeable couple and we’d strike up a friendship with them.

A little while later another really pleasant couple also walked into the camp and they turned out to be good company as well. Better still – they had found my drink bottle – woo hoo. A slight redemption on the tooledness front.

A group of young men – 6 in total – also drifted through, heading further south for the night. More on them later.

That afternoon we toyed with fishing, Dave in the lagoon – me on the beach. The beach did provide some healthy bites, but no fish – BUT it offered far more than that. As I was casting out into a fairly small pool – open to the sea but largely surrounded by rocks – a turtle popped its head out of the water. Peter was nearby and I called him over. Sure enough we both spotted the turtle – but in a slightly different location. Moments later, another head appeared and we realised that there were two green turtles in this small pool. Curious, we watched the turtles come face-to-face. There followed some intriguing flipper-waving and then they either had a disagreement or made love – things were a bit unclear on this front (much the same for people when you think about it).

We ran back and called the others – Dave, Paul, the two other couples- and all managed to spot the turtles. That was one of the highlights of the trip.

We also took the time to write a message on the beach to the elusive Mike. This amused the other campers who had to wonder who-the-Hell Mike was. I shared their doubt.

I must mention the eating arrangements. I had packed standard dried food – not necessarily appetising but effective. Dave and Peter had not. They had bought herbs and spices, oils and freeze-dried, home-cooked mince. Peter even had two cookers running!! Admittedly they were having to carry what looked like their own body weight in food, but they certainly ate well. As I consumed my commercially bought, dried and reconstituted thai curry chicken I watched them with envy. Would this lead to some sort of Lord of the Flies moment later in the walk? Only time would tell.

We settled down for the night, reflecting on a perfect day, with the only downside being a total lack of coconuts.

So, we’d had a fairly rough night’s sleep courtesy of all the 21st parties, but we were comforted with the knowledge that there must be some teeth-achingly bad hangovers out there. The weather was average to begin with and then turned to fairly solid rain on the bus trip from Cairns to Cardwell. Hardly the most promising start. We watched the rain fall, and half-watched, revisited, that old movie Ghost on the bus’s DVD player. Patrick Swayze really can’t act, and neither can Demi Moore, but Whoopi was gold, again.

The good news was that the weather cleared as we approached Cardwell and after a wander and a rewarding food encounter with an unexpected pie vendor we found ourselves on the boat heading to Hinchinbrook. Woo hoo.

We were dropped off deep in the mangroves and there followed a boardwalk and a backpack repack before we were standing on this beautiful, totally unpopulated beach.

What I don’t think any of us truly realised was just how mountainous the island was. We had talked about doing a side trip to the top of Mt Bowen – a mere 1,100 metres in height. That doesn’t sound nearly as high on paper, but looking up at the mountains that were high enough to have acquired their own bank of clouds, that we couldn’t even see the top of, we very carefully shelved the plans and decided that they looked much more awesome from a distance. And they were.

Our first day was a relatively short walk to Nina Bay, via a detour up Nina Peak (a modest 300 m high). The view from here was sweeping – eastward across the beaches and out to sea, westward, back across the mangroves.

It was all downhill cruising from there and soon we were standing on the beach at Nina Bay. We had it to ourselves all night.

The tide was out and the beach was large and flat. You could see that the tide would come in a huge distance and could easily catch you unawares. No wonder all the walking advice mentioned making sure the tides were right.

We set up camp and then went wandering. We had been told to keep an eye out for saltwater crocs. Curiously, this was one piece of advice we had no problems following. I suspect there wasn’t a salty within cooee the entire trip but if there was, boy were we ready for it. There was a brief moment when Peter and I definitely saw one, but it turned out to be a submerged log cunningly designed to look like a croc.

That night we consumed some of our cask red wine and decided that there must be some kind of game that lent itself to involving coconuts, which were thick on the ground. After a failed attempted at ten-pin bowling we settled on coconut bocce (or boule if you’re French).

The competition in this newly formed sport was both fierce and chaotic, made none the easier thanks to the fact that the coconuts came in all shapes and did whatever they wanted to once bowled. They also had a habit of burying themselves in the sand with a sickening thud if given elevation. From the pack Peter emerged as a true coconut bocce king – a skill that would, no-doubt, be sadly unrecognised by the rest of the world. If only it was an Olympic sport.

Heading bedwards we agreed that coconut bocce would be a feature of the rest of the trip. Sadly coconuts would not be, and Peter’s newfound talent would wither on the vine.

SORE FOOTNOTE: No matter how satisfying the red wine is do not give into the temptation to play coconut soccer.

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

If someone had said that to us at certain stages of the trip we’d have made sure they never found the body. Some may wonder why our story begins before we even set foot on Hinchinbrook Island, but the truth is that the journey before the journey had its special moments.

Everything thing did go smoothly until we got to the hotel in Cairns. At this point it’s time to introduce the central characters in the adventure.  The trip organiser was Dave, and flying up with him from Sydney were his brother, Peter, his close mate, Paul, and me, his brother-in-law. The fifth and final member of the crew, Mike, another mate of Dave and Paul, had arrived on an earlier flight. I’d never met actually met Mike, though Bernadette assured me I’d love him (a phrase that is always likely to attract some tasteless scrutiny on an all-boys walking weekend).

It was only when Dave rang Mike to see where he was that we encountered our first hiccup. Mike was still in Sydney! He’d got the wrong weekend and was currently at his son’s birthday. But would he find some way to join up with us later? Only time would tell.

After we’d recovered from our disbelief we decided to find a camping shop as there were some supplies we still needed. The desk staff at the hotel advised us that the best shop was about 20 minutes’ walk away, though there were a couple of shops that might have what we needed closer at hand. We opted for the top recommendation. We chose poorly.

20 minutes later, walking some fairly ordinary backstreets, we stood opposite a shop that had clearly closed down. We stopped a couple of locals and asked them about Ray’s Outdoors. They told us that Ray’s had closed and a BCF had opened up about 2 kilometres further up the road. There followed some colourful observations on the local knowledge of hotel staff and we turned around and retraced our steps.

To add to that we finally found what we were looking for, at inflated prices, in a shop literally just around the corner. Oh, did we just chuckle about that.

Things did take a distinct upturn from there. We enjoyed a pleasant beer and then chose a wonderful Greek Restaurant. It was just coincidence that the restaurant was being promoted by an attractive Swedish lady. I mean blokes simply aren’t that shallow. We really did like the look of the menu. Honest.

The meal was fantastic and the waitresses were charming. Even the older restaurant manageress made us feel special and told the staff to look after the boys. We all allowed the delusion of our youthfulness to persist, whilst neatly ignoring the fact that the kindest thing you could say about our ages was that they made very impressive test batting averages. And the food really was top shelf. Honest.

There was, of course, a final twist to the night. It turns out that, being a Saturday night, the Hotel we were staying in was one of the places to have a party. And more than just one. Five 21st parties to be precise, and a hen’s party for good measure. Boy did we chuckle about the noise they made – all night long.

The night held one more amusement. I decided I’d like some more milk so I went down to the front counter to ask for it. They didn’t have any, but the good news was that they had milk up at the third floor. It was only as the lift doors opened on the third floor that I realised that this was the floor where the five 21st parties and the hen’s party were going on. Standing at the counter of the bar in my tracksuit pants and a daggy t-shirt, surrounded by intoxicated bright young things and then walking away with a tea pot of milk probably wasn’t one of my finest alpha-male moments.

What would the next day hold?

And finally, a quote from that wonderful author, Terry Pratchett, on travel:

'And I don’t hold with all this giving things funny names so people don’t know what they’re eating,’ said Granny, determined to explore the drawbacks of international cookery to the full. ‘I like stuff that tells you plain what it is, like ... well ... Bubble and Squeak, or ... or...’
‘Spotted Dick,’ said Nanny absently.  (WA)