From Fraser Island, our intention was to drive 1,500 kilometers to Cape Tribulation, up on the Cape York Peninsula. We’d be deep in the tropics, well away from developments, nearer to Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea than to Brisbane. Hopefully we’d leave most tourists behind (although tourism is Queensland’s biggest industry, so fat chance of outrunning them all).

We’ve been warned about distances. A friend said, “You want to drive? You must be mad as cut snakes!” But we did want to see a stretch of the Queensland Coast, even if only from a speeding car.

At Fraser Island, we’re just south of the Tropic of Capricorn. The climate is moderate. The coastal plains make good pasture. We drive through cattle country.

People here listen to country music. On the radio, I hear Heather Myles’ “Who did you call darling last night.” She sings, “You come in wearing your half-assed grin...” That kind of sass plays well in Austrtalia.

Farther north, small coastal towns attract little attention from international travelers. For residents, quality of life seems better than in the tourist centers. Locals moor their boats in an uncrowded estuary.

Some of them work at a local smelter. I never thought I would be glad to see signs of heavy industry, but today I find it refreshing to escape tour promoters.

At Cairns, the highway forks. Highway 44, the Cook Highway is the road that follows the shoreline. A plaster statue of Captain James Cook marks the beginning of the road to the Daintree.

Australians seem to have a predilection for large plaster sculptures. Muddy’s restaurant sports a large mud crab.

They’re a great delicacy, mud crabs. You can enjoy a meal of mud crab for $75 AUD ($50 US). That’s for one crab. In San Francisco, you can still get Dungeness crab (the finest crab in the world, for my money) for under $15. I think I’ll wait for the next time I visit the kids.

The Cook Highway is becoming uglified with billboards—surprising given how hard Queenslanders work to protect their environment. They need someone like Ladybird Johnson to give advertisers a good hiding.

For miles, billboards announce the impending appearance of the Giant Mango.

A much-promoted roadside snack hereabouts is the frozen mango. Unable to imagine how it would be satisfying in any way, I didn’t try one.

We’ve made it into the tropics now. Plantations grow pineapples, bananas, and most of all, sugarcane. Endless cane fields evoke the monotony of Iowa cornfields.

As it winds northward, the Cook Highway becomes a sleepy two-lane road. Having left Cairns behind, no major cities lie ahead, and traffic volume drops accordingly. We stop for a picnic on the beach. No high rises, no parking meters; just trees, flowers, sand and water.

Suddenly, the road gives out. We have reached the Daintree River. No bridge. The river crossing is by cable ferry.

For $10 AUD, we roll our car aboard and pass into thinly inhabited tropical rain forest. Ahead—only forty more kilometers of paved road. Beyond, the road becomes an unpaved track suitable only for four wheel drive—beyond the capability of our rented Nissan hatchback.