We came in the pick-up, clinging to the rails. The loose surface throwing gravel and grit up in a cloud behind us. The dust kicked up and pressed inside but it was good to feel the buffet of air. Dry-mouthed and silent, we gave ourselves up to the journey knowing we would be there by lunchtime.

From the top road we wound down through plantation and scrub. I was studying the thickening growth at the side of the road, one minute thorny-bare, the next fleshy with deepening shadows. The air was hot and acid; mile upon mile of pine forest pushing up to the road and the occasional stray eucalyptus sucking life from the baked earth beneath. The native dwellers clung at the vigorous and tangled road edge, not wasting a minute to cash in on the space and rain and sunshine afforded by the gash of dirt track. For them it was a race. The threat of fire ever present had left its stark reminder. From fire-break to fire-break, whole sections had been reduced to blackened dust and stumps.

The road steepened and twisted deeper down and then opening up from another bend the forest and bush dropped clean away. Stretching out beneath was a prehistoric land. Open to the sky, great rolls of ground covered with deep cushioned growth. The burst of air invited the truck to leap and charge across the expanding fields. But it was an illusion. No vehicle could advance for more than a few metres through the waste deep scrub and the occasional tree fern betrayed a treacherous network of swampy gullies.

Looking back to the road. Not long now. Squinting into the light you could just make out where the road and river would meet. And in moments the thudding and roar of tyres on the sun-scorched track scudded to halt.

Water. Falling carelessly over rocks. Smoothing, a polished shelf. A pool, clear to the sparks of quartz and mica, a metre down at the bottom. The surprise of the road re-emerging on the other side.

One of the men will walk across because that is the way. Strong bare legs wading out along the glass-still water at the edge of the ford. A shout because the water is cold. And then a telling quietness as the male advance party senses the river’s heavy tug and pull. This river has an appetite and one wonders what life has been swept off and digested here. But we follow. All laughing and nervously influencing the wheel. Willing ourselves across. With a few more wrenches and skids up an impossibly rocky reach we stop. The truck is disgorged and we tumble down a half-hidden path onto the river sand.

What a place. Spread out on a dusty old blanket we drink it in. The water at our feet flashes light at us as it drifts past and turns silently back on itself. A fish ring rises in a green pool beneath the rounded rocks. We hear the white noise of the falls, we hear the sizzle of insect life and the occasional glupe, glupe of stones being thrown up and in.