Scribe Doug Silke
After 2 months of rough 20 plus knot seas, keeping the local fishermen in port, and their catches down, the first weekend in September promised a great weekend. Slotted into a calendar full of items that seemed to take up too much time was a 50km trip up part of the Queensland coast, but I had no one to go with. Not to be daunted, having recently carried out a beaut little exercise - falling out & clambering back into the canoe in a 25 knot sea - off I went.

Departing from a delightful little beach known only to the locals, which was crowded with shacks now threatened by a resort proposal, and at one end of ‘4 Mile Beach’ where the tide goes out for miles, my little orange Lettman slalom kayak; fitted with compartments, skeg, deck cords, and pump, headed north with the prevailing wind of this time of the year (5 - 10 knots today).

I set out initially to explore the coast and creeks, but found only one significant waterway entering from mangroves surrounding the hillock I had come from; it was as bone dry as a sandy mangrove mud patch could be at  low tide. After two more hours of paddling I took to my legs to investigate the 4th & final creek for the day. An old Nuffield tractor/trailer combination chugged up to check crab pots in the short backwater behind the beach.

The map showed that I was now travelling parallel with a promontory (Cape Palmeston) 10km long, in places only 3/4 km wide; with some long beaches and the Three Temple Islands on the windward side. The bay formed on the other side being almost completely filled with mangroves and mud flats. My tractor driver friend persuaded me not to try to find a way across the narrowest point into the mangroves, although he knew of a couple of places where it was possible (via tracks he had cut long before the area was declared a National Park). So I took to the water again, heading directly for Temple Island. The Temple Islands stand about 3km off the coast. Temple Island, 1 km
long, is sparsely but evenly covered with grass, with small stunted eucalypts scattered sparsely around slight hollows, the usual she-oaks lining the rocky edge of the low island just out of reach of the tide. Mid Temple and Little temple by contrast are smaller, higher, cone shaped, with steep slopes and short cliffs diving down to wave eroded rocks. Rain forest hugs the lee side, trimmed neatly by the wind at the demarcation line where grass patterned with yellow everlastings and bush orchids began.

A quick lunch and a glance from the top of Temple Island, and I left the island to its owner, a Sydney doctor who has built a house and airstrip, as I had no permission.

Mid Temple was quickly circumnavigated and a route picked out up the steep grassy slopes to the top. I had a great view out to sea until, carefully by-passing a spider as big as my hand, I crawled into the rain forest. Once inside walking free of undergrowth except for vines, I could not see any view of the coast as is so typical in rain forest. I disturbed the large white seabird previously clearly visible from the sea below, and from the top of a scrub turkey’s pile of rotting humus 6ft deep, was able to see its nest. Three turtles played in deep water in a wide cleft in the rocky coastline below.

It was just high tide, and I moved on towards Little Temple, with its many varied seabirds circling above, to be amazed by the rapid turn around in the current, already 11/2 knots. Patches of small standing waves developed around rock obstructions, and a disconcerting sideways drift became obvious as the island neared. Circling the tiny peak showed only one way up via a short rock climb with plenty of jug-like holds for security. I was glad of a rest in the cooler confines of the rain forest at the top, out of the strong sun.

The currents were now heading north in my direction (ebb current is northward along the coast inside the reef), being boosted locally by the island restrictions, so after a fast ferry glide to Temple Island I continued northward. Small beaches scattered with the inevitable shacks were pretty in the late afternoon sun, some populated by a few people brought in only by 4WD or trail bikes. Rounding the Cape, I looked for coconuts on a date palm (coconuts are not as prevalent here as they are further north) then climbed the hill marking the end of the promontory. The Temples could be seen, and the 1000ft high ex volcano called Mt Funnel whose skyline marks the limit of the National Park was prominent. Now the water of Ince Bay previously behind Cape Palmeston are visible also, and a good beach to camp on.

After an awkward carry of my heavy boat over 10m of sharp rocks to catch the receding tide, I paddled over very shallow water to where the sandy beach rose steeper with only a short carry to ensure security of goods and chattels from the high tide. I must be away from this campsite within 12 hours time or I may be forced to carry the boat a long way to water.

Fishing had not been very successful, I had missed the tide, and my lures for trailing behind the canoe had been too heavy and snagged rocks. My tiny barracuda turned out to be a Long Tom; I could not believe the layer after layer of tiny razor sharp bones. Vegetarian meal that night.

An hour late onto the water next morning, so I towed the canoe a few hundred yards out into the middle of a pool, paddled to the other side, and crossed a small pebbly bar to the sea. I was lucky to have a sandy, not muddy, bottom to walk on. Ince Bay was very shallow as low tide approached. I had hoped that Cape Creek, supplying water to much of the tidal flats, would be navigable, but it was also dry. Continuing, I crossed a sand bar reaching some 5km out into the bay, just scraping the bottom of the boat amidst waves some 3 inches high!!! It was very calm.

Eleven km from my campsite and I reached Glendower Point, whose 60ft cliff shows unusual orange and yellow colours, topped by a crew cut layer of short eucalypt forest and ‘black boys’ (or kangaroo grass). Another couple of short climbs and I wander over to Taffy Island nearby, past the 10ft aluminium fishing dinghies. Oysters were not good bait, so I collected more to make two dozen (from rocks I later learned were an oyster lease) to take home.

Against a 1 knot current I pushed the last 10km home in two hours, where my daggy torn grey trousers, and old longsleeved nylon shirt drew glances from the other tourists lining up to board their coach, at Sarina beach.