The sunshine that greeted us this morning was unexpected, as though no storm harbouring such a furious deluge of moisture as that we experienced yesterday would give way to anything, even the sun. Yet, Vilis and I cycled in fresh, clean air to Aplin’s Weir, the access to which had been blocked off by orange mesh fence posted with danger signs, which had likely been erected sometime yesterday. Previously, I thought I had run across the pedestrian bridge with the full force of the river pounding over the weir beside me, but I was wrong. This morning, the river was a wild thing, barely leashed by the three weirs spaced along its length below the Ross River Dam. I later learned that all three spillways on the dam would be opened because the reservoir had filled to over-capacity.¹

We, like others, stepped over the sagging orange fence and crossed the pedestrian bridge with spray from the falls spilling over us. The boulders on which, three days ago, young men had braced themselves while fishing, were completely submerged by the raging torrent, although a few adventurous anglers stood on the shore, casting their lures out into the floodwaters. Yesterday afternoon, when we ventured out into the monsoon low to buy groceries, Vilis noticed a rod-holder on a vehicle and commented, “You know fishing’s popular when you see cars with fishing rod holders on them.”

We cycled westward on the south side of the river, our destination Palmetum Park, a botanical garden showcasing palms. Nearing it, we crossed a murky-looking creek in which two dozen turtles paddled and hung in the water, their carapaces brown and elliptical in shape, their necks short, and their heads bearing pale yellow streaks extending backward from the eyes and jaws. These field marks enabled me to later identify them as Krefft’s turtles, Emydura macquarii krefftii. Never before had I seen so many  turtles in one place, and all appeared to be facing the bridge over the creek, as if it held some special attraction.

On our arrival at the Palmetum, I realized I’d forgotten to bring the key for my bike lock, and since we weren’t allowed to cycle within the gardens, I suggested we head to James Cook University (JCU) to check out the path Vilis will use to cycle to work. En route, we rode through pools and streams of floodwaters covering sections of the trail and over a flooded footbridge, the total distance to the uni 8 kilometres from home.

On the return ride, we spotted lotus lilies growing in the river, their enormous pink flowers lofted above the water surface. A comb-crested jacana, a water bird possessing exceptionally long toes, paced back and forth atop patches of vegetation debris riding the floodwaters downstream, and a magpie goose rested on a mat of aquatic plants near shore.

Hungry to make full use of the fine weather after our aborted hike yesterday, we drove to The Strand and once again strolled the beach and sidewalk. It was a common desire, for the waterfront park was lush with people enjoying the sunshine – sunbathers, groups of young women chatting on the grass, families picnicking, children squealing with delight as the big blue bucket spilled its contents of water onto them, and many people strolling, like us. We saw bare feet, sandaled feet, sneakered feet, and feet wearing slip-ons of neon pink and green, one of each. In a collage of motion, people walked, ran, cycled, rode skateboards, or pushed strollers. At Juliett’s, we paused for ice creams and licked creamy, homemade Spanish cherry and chocolate caramel cones while seated at a table among many on an outdoor patio bordered by fig trees with strings of lights wrapped around branches. Seeing those lights made me want to walk The Strand in evening with tropical warmth surrounding me, and those lights – perhaps reminding me of northern Christmas – beckoning.

Reference:

1. Lydia Kellner. City mops up. Townsville Sun. Wednesday, February 3, 2010. p. 3.