From Charters Towers, Karl proceeded to Townsville, arriving on July 10, 1900, and was greeted by a procession of local bicycle riders. Townsville, at the time, had 14,000 inhabitants and was the fourth-largest shipping port in Australia, ranking after Sydney, Melbourne, and Adelaide. Large quantities of wool and cattle were exported from this port. But upon arrival, Karl’s spirits were deflated; this stretch of the journey had been brutal, as he shared in The Montreal Star:
“It was with a feeling of relief that I reached this place, having safely crossed Australia and knowing I would have a few weeks respite from the grind on my wheel. I am heartily sick of Australia with its rough bush tracks, its dry and parched plains, its withering hot winds and its sandy flats and rocky ridges. The roads of the country are very bad and from McMay (300 miles south) to this port it is extremely rough and sandy.
For fifty miles along the coast, I encountered grass about six feet high growing over the road, making it almost impossible to find one’s way, to say nothing of trying to run along on a bicycle. On one occasion I was trying to wheel along slowly, when suddenly I came to the bank of a creek, and before I could stop myself I went down into the water, which fortunately was not more than 15 inches deep. There were many alligators a few yards down stream where the water was deeper. I splashed over to the side and seized hold of some reeds, which (I found out too quickly) were as sharp as a saw and both of my hands were slashed and cut cruelly before I succeeded in getting to land again.
Alligators, snakes, lizards and all kinds of reptiles are found galore in tropical Queensland. One day while wading across the Burdekin River, I was seen by an immense alligator, who tried to strike me with his tail, but I was too far away for him to reach me.
On the second of this month about dark, I was wheeling across a salt flat, the only track to go by was a cattle pad, which was not too distinct. When darkness overtook me, and I lost my way completely. However, I kept on across this flat, to the bush, a mile or so away, but, arriving there I was blocked. I could not find the road anywhere.
The days are hot here in winter, and the nights cold, too cold to camp out very comfortably, and the only thing left for me to do was to drop my “bike” and walk around until morning to keep myself warm and to keep the dingos from a too intimate acquaintance.
Morning came at last, and at 6:30 it was light enough for me to find the right road, which I discovered was only about a half mile away on my left. I went into town as quickly as possible and got something to eat and I was all right again.”
Karl was ready to get out of Australia.
And, dear reader, I was starting to feel the same.
When I left Rockhampton, I went off-grid for a night, stopping at Cape Hillsborough National Park—where kangaroos, wallabies, and their joeys hop down to the beach at sunrise to feed on mangrove pods washed up by the tide. How could I resist?
From there, I followed Karl’s route north, stopping in Mackay with plans to visit the Whitsunday Islands—a group of 74 islands known for their white sand beaches and crystal-clear turquoise waters.
Except what I wasn’t expecting was the weather.
It was only the end of January, which I assumed was mid-summer. But school was back in session, “high season” was over, and “stinger season” was in full swing.
It’s a sin, really, when you can’t leisurely swim in the warm, bathwater ocean unless you're suited up in full gear or confined to a stinger enclosure to avoid paralysis from box jellyfish. So I stayed dry...except then it started to rain.
And although I managed a brief boat excursion to some of the Whitsunday Islands between windows of dry weather, Mother Nature had other plans.
A bit dejected, I continued to Bowen, stopping for a photo with the Big Mango—a 10-meter-tall “big thing” the town is famous for—and then made my way to Townsville.
By then, local news was full of cyclone warnings for northeastern Australia, the region I was in and planning to stay in for another five days. Flash flood alerts were increasing.
Dear reader, this was all very unexpected. While I wasn’t close enough to a crocodile to swipe me with its tail like Karl, the roads were quickly becoming just as treacherous.
White-knuckled, windshield wipers on full speed, I drove through banana plantations and sugar cane fields, where rivers overflowed and water spilled onto the roads. My GPS rerouted every 30 minutes, bridges were closed, and a 300-km drive stretched into a six-hour ordeal.
I had to make judgment calls at every flooded patch. Was the water too high, the current too strong? Easy enough in theory, but when the alternate route was 4 hours longer and gas stations were scarce, each choice was a gamble.
At one point, I had to double back after passing transport trucks tipped on their sides—reminders that others had made the wrong call. Oh, get me out of here.
At long last, the weather cleared enough for me to reach my hotel in Townsville—a tense, achy, wet mess. I watched the local news, relieved I wasn’t on the news:
https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cvgpvrgezp3o
After a good night’s sleep, I ventured out, yes, in the rain, to the Townsville local museum, where I found photographic evidence of a Kodak shop, though from a much later time than Karl’s visit. Townsville was Karl’s final stop in Queensland. But not mine.
I had to keep going north; my flight was leaving from Cairns. I’d booked a stay in Port Douglas, a lush, tropical town another hour north.
And apart from a few fleeting reprieves, the weather still wouldn’t let up. My GPS estimated a seven-hour drive due to ongoing road closures. The news flashed evacuation maps. I was keenly aware that being an hour north of Cairns could become a problem if the roads didn’t reopen in time for my flight.
Still, I pressed on.
Because if Karl could face alligators, scorching heat, and a night alone with the dingos—surely I could manage a few more tropical storms.
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