Australasia > Australia > Northern Territories > Kakadu National Park > Articles > No Danger

Let’s get the croc thing out of the way first. Everyone always asks - and no wonder. Northern Territory newspapers run at least one croc story a week and whenever a croc does attack the story’s blown up out of all proportion.

Frankly, local tour operators are fed up with the hype. What’s worse is that the hype actually pulls punters who are hanging out to be scared witless.

So here it is. There’s nothing wrong with them. They belong at the top of the food chain. The freshies are harmless (pretty much) and the lethal salties are actively removed from the river we are kayaking on. There have only been two deaths by crocodile in Kakadu in the last 30 years. Not that we’re in Kakadu right now but never mind. We’re nearby. So don’t worry if you fall in - but then again don’t swim here.

The signs? The one’s warning about crocs and not going in the water? Well, if you read them carefully you’ll see some are cautions and some are warnings. Cautions are more severe than warnings. Warnings are just … well, warnings. A hint.

Got that? Feel okay? Feel confused? Definitely feel like not falling in while canoeing at any rate. And there’s no need, really, since we’re on the Katherine River which is wide and gentle.

We catch it not far from the town of Katherine, some 200km south of Darwin, and will ride with it for about 35km of its 400km length. Everything about this part of the world is massive – the cattle stations, untouched coastlines, tropical savannah woodlands, rivers and the gorges. Upstream the Katherine carves through some of the biggest and most spectacular gorges in the country. All 13 of them are collectively formerly known as Katherine Gorge, now called Nitmiluk.

We take a more benign route. What rapids there are barely rate as grade one; one the rapid that does rate grade two, we’re invited to walk around if we want.

The rest of the time our guide Mick Jerram of Gecko Canoeing suggests we look around, really look that is, in a relaxed not-looking way, and let the river carry us. We take this Zen-like message to heart rather enthusiastically and the following day he has to remind us that we do actually need to use those oars sometimes.

But gosh, the looking is good. The sun filtering through the soft green of the paperbarks, the broken-umbrella pandanus aquaticus fringing the edges, the darting of the pretty rainbow bee-eater, sightings of blue-winged kookaburras and sea eagles and spangled drongos and butterflies with occasionally a glimpse of a nutmeg-coloured kangaroo before it hops away. We even come within a metre of a sleeping mob of flying foxes hanging upside down in the pandanus.

The grating screech of the cockatoo decisively wrecks any illusion of tranquility but the cries of the watchdog of forest is said to be the region’s signature sound. To that I would add the soft splash of a basking freshie as it flops into the water just as we cruise past. Sometimes there are three or four splashes in a row. But we are not to be alarmed. Harmless apparently. More scared of you than you of it.

Incidentally Mick doesn’t call them “crocs”. Nor the colloquial “mud geckos” either. Like the aboriginals, he refers to them as animals, as in, “Saw a large/small animal.” The huge croc (animal) traps placed along the riverbank are unnerving but have snared eight salties so far. They come after ‘the wet’ and with any luck there’s none here now that we’re in ‘the dry’.

Evidence of just how wet it was is everywhere, if you look up. Fifteen metres above us the detritus is obvious. Mulch, entire tree trunks, a chilly bin, a barge and even a water tank are suspended in the canopy above.

On land Mick’s quiet competence is so reassuring I completely forget about crocs. There’s something about a man who can start a fire, boil billy tea, cook up a fantastic meal (including remembering to put candles on the tablecloth) and, I should shamefully admit, tidy up the campsite pretty much on his own, that deserves respect.

Besides which, in the water we are too pre-occupied learning how to manouevre the canoe to worry too much. Mick reckons it takes three days to get the vessel completely under control. We only have two days and one night sleeping in a swag under the stars to learn it all.

Unfortunately this also means I can’t help my friend when her kayak flips over and she falls in after hitting the silliest of little rocks because she was too busy talking to me. Minutes after seeing an as-big-as-they-can-get three metre freshie splash into the river.

One thing about those monstrously unfair croc stories though, they do give you the edge when it comes to righting your canoe. My friend flips her canoe back up and heaves her body back in faster than Jack-the-electric-rabbit.

Later, because she’s a journalist, the experience becomes a story. A how-I-escaped-death-from-the-jaws-of a-croc tale, thus undoing all Mick’s hard work as counsel for the croc. The poor man lets out a long-suffering sigh. The media eh. Always at it. Beating up on “animals” yet again.

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