FRASER ISLAND: PART 1

Fraser Island is the largest sand island in the world. Its length is about 120 Kilometers (75 Miles) and its width is approximately 24 (15 miles), It consists of Rainforests, Eucalyptus woodland, Mangrove forests, Wallum and Peat swamps, Sand dunes and Coastal Heath. There are freshwater lakes and rivers throughout.

We’re packed into our seats, starring at each other, strangers, as Rango rounds up the crew—there are seven of us, seated in one of the four 9-seat Jeeps. The previous night we’d split the bill between the seven of us for three days worth of food—steaks, hotdogs, ham and bread and bananas. I’d pushed the shopping cart. It weighed a ton and the wheels wobbled and it steered from the rear like a forklift.

So we’ve established our dinner-club. We’ve got a Brit, Finn, Dutchy, Dane, Austrian, and two Americans—that’s three guys and four girls. That’s Becky from England, Mariel from Finland, Aleksandra from Holland, Josefine from Denmark, Clemens from Austria, and Tom and I—of course—from Idaho (where the hell is that?).  

We drive for 30 minutes like this—looking at each other—and then, climbing from our seats and clutching our bags, we board a ferry. Rango (our guide, and—YES, that really is his name) parks our vehicles on the lower deck and we drift out of dock, headed toward that long white mystery, suspended in the distance amid sea and sea-foam—Fraser Island.

Three days, two nights, four jeeps, 36 people, tents, tables and inevitable drama.

So it begins.

And so does the Canadian guy with the pierced nipples and the pink tank top—drinking, that is.

We reach the shore, and we’re back in the vehicles, moving over uneven ground through the Eucalyptus trees, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and pointing out the windows as we travel through sand in the lowest gear.

Of our group, Aleksandra has the cutest mouth I’ve ever seen, accented by a mole on her upper lip—she’s Serbian, a gypsy by blood, although she was born in Holland. She and Josefine are tight like Popsicle sticks, travel-buddies since Byron. Josefine has freckles and a lip ring and really green eyes, and I swear her heart is solid gold. Mariel is friendly, though quite, and Becky is superbly, flawlessly tanned. Clemens is of medium height and somewhat of a loner, he’s smart and grins a lot.

The first stop is a small lake with an immaculate white sand beach and green water. We splashed and tanned and swam and the sun was out, smiling upon us. I think that this is when I first noticed Katie and Becka, scheming in the sidelines, two masterful obsessors and extremely talented gossips—Irish and Brit—seated beside us.

After awhile we leave, bouncing over bumps, following the leader-car up a step hill and down again onto the beach. The ocean is gorgeous although swimming is prohibited due to sharks and jellyfish. We pick up speed and race across the shore, catching sight of Dingoes and shipwrecks along the way.

Our next stop is a 40 minute hike into the hills of a beautiful forest. There are red trees, twisted trees, and smooth white trees, rocks and sand and shrubs, tangles of vine and brush. All of this opens out into a vast dessert of dunes, miles of Egyptian looking terrain, a dust bowl surmounted by further forest—a breakfast cereal of sand.

Across this vastness we discover the second lake—my personal favorite—it’s small and unimpressive, although the water is cool and perfect and tiny fish nibble at your toes. We spend a magical two hours and start the hike back.

Rango is waiting when we return. He’d been gone gathering clams and has them in a bucket attached between the grill and bumper of his jeep.

The sun is setting beautifully over the ocean.

Next we drive into a small outcropping of trees just off the beach and are introduced to our campsite—a handful of tents, some tables, three grills, a dozen kegs of water and a large canopy. Rango shows us around—four persons per tent—and explains the rules of the game. He points out the dingo sticks—large metal rods used for pissing companions after dark—protection against dingoes—and tells us about the grills and garbage placement and camp safety. Never leave camp without a partner—he says, which I do, of course.

That night after dinner everyone is drinking, banging on the tables, I grab a dingo stick and leave.

The stars open out before me—I’m standing on a vast veranda—the shore feels like the edge of the planet and the waves are gently splashing against my ankles. The galaxy is visible, stripped bare, exposed and naked in all its cosmic glory.

I stand there for a while and then walk.

Dingoes stalk my side, harmless, creeping in the moon shadow at the edge of the dunes. I’m at peace here beneath the stunning sky with its infinite and planetary omnipotence. I’m so small all of the sudden, and so free, and who really cares what time it is, or what year, or what day of the week?

Or money or girls or good looks or books.

Here and now the universe is hanging over my head.

And that was the end of the first day.