Xavier and I reached the end of the sealed road by midafternoon. Cooktown, a village of 1,500 at the southern edge of the Far North, slept uninterrupted under the tropical sun, another former mining town full of dilapidated Victorian-era structures set at the junction of a crocodile-infested Endeavor River and the Coral Sea.
We didn’t take that patchy, 100-mile detour because we sought beauty or adventure. Rather, we wanted to benefit from Cooktown’s status as the last serviceable outpost before the isolation of the wild cape above and to profit from a few days in the last vestiges of civilization it offered before the six weeks of rough travel that lie ahead. We set up camp under a patch of eucalyptus trees which lined the cliff above the ominously named Quarantine Bay, then headed back into Cooktown proper.
The subtle strangeness of the town showed itself that evening. It possessed the thirsty character common to the central deserts, despite its location at the northern end of a lush rainforest. Fine, red aeolian dust coated the edges of the road and clung to my skin. The few locals we crossed looked us over but didn’t hold eye contact long enough to exchange the customary G’day.
We stayed in town for dinner. A nameless restaurant, which boasted a mix of “Italian-Thai” stood lonely on the banks of the wide river. Although the menu held little appeal, the ability to eat food we had not cooked ourselves was its own kind of luxury, so we squeezed around a small table on the narrow porch. The incessant dinging of the pokie machines inside rang out through the open window and kept the dog from settling.
After our forgettable dinner, Xavier drove us back along the bumpy road to our campsite. The sky glowed with fiery hues of red and orange that bled into the azure sea. We hopped out of the Landcruiser, determined to hike down and see the last light on the beach. But the dog had other ideas.
Nose to the ground, she made off in the opposite direction, towards the middle of our campsite. She was caught in the throes of obsession and ignored our calls. I grabbed her collar and pulled her off her discovery so I could have a look.
The foul odor caused my nose to wrinkle. “It’s a turd. Dingo?”
Xavier, who considered himself as something of a strong-stomached poo professor, moved next to me. He poked at the offensive deposit with a stick. “No. It’s human.”
I grimaced. “How? There’s no one around. And why?”
He shrugged. He scooped up the disgusting gift and buried it. By the time he finished, the last stripes of color disappeared from the sky. The dog snored in my camping chair. Defeated, I squeezed into the tent for the night.
The bright sun beating down on the tent woke us. I unzipped the fly and stepped out to stretch my legs. My nose wrinkled, again. Another noxious deposit awaited, same spot, and, according to the professor, same human. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want to know. The donor’s message was plenty clear.
We packed up our campsite and hit the long dirt road towards the Far North.
