The car passes me twice before stopping at the command of my outstretched arm and raised thumb. A smiling face with dark, long, curly hair looks out the window and inquires where I would like to go. Not that there are many options, the only place this road leads to is Katherine Gorge. ‘Jump in, it’s a nice day for a drive.’ Even though it is not her destination. I’m afraid causing inconvenience but the heat is nearly unbearable, shade hard to find at the side of the road and the swarm of black cockatoos above me insists noisily that I take the opportunity, so I comply.

It's already noon and the Nitmiluk National Park visitors centre at Katherine Gorge is suspiciously empty. Straight up ahead behind the information counter the Spanish backpacker turned staff member looks at me blankly. ‘How long is it to the Southern Rockhole?’ I request without introduction, already knowing the answer but itching to make conversation. In case I don’t make it back. So, they remember me. Even though I always make it back. Reality-biased argumentation, I assume. Patiently she explains and patiently I listen. ‘But it’s dry this time of year.’ Ah, man. ‘Butterfly gorge, this is where you can still go swimming.’ Change of plans. Off I go.

The first three quarters of the trail are horrible. Beautiful, but horrible. It’s the wrong time of the day in the wrong time of the year. Layers of sunscreen mixed with salty sweat irritate my skin. The sun is relentless, the wind still stuck at the coast and not a single living soul in sight. Luckily, the empty-claimed water-tanks are overflowing in reality, and while my body relishes in the hot, stale-tasting liquid, I get a chance to soak in the view with a clear mind. A colour palette, brown to red to orange to yellow to faint green. Pretty and bright and spirit-lifting, even though dry to the bone. A sparse forest of short leave-less eucalyptus trees in a sea of knee-deep straw-like grasses and naked shrubs, growing on sandy patches between boulders and rocks. A snake paradise.

Suddenly the rocks turn into meter-tall walls on both sides, providing cooling shade, and I’m in Butterfly Gorge. And finally, the reality of hundreds of tiny black wings painted with red and white stripes, flapping excitedly, disturbed by my unexpected arrival, has my brain stumble over my ignorance of the significance of this place’s name. The trail leads downhill following the flow of water during the rain-season, currently not more than a dripple here and there, the hints of a creek with crystal-clear water, where it still flows and mossy-green where it is stagnant. Definitely not enough to swim. It ends at a hidden bay of Katherine-river. The ‘second gorge’. Or is it the third? My wariness of crocodiles is overcome by the distant sounds of a group of kayakers taking a rest in the refreshing water. A short dip washes away all the layers on my face and cools my body by five degrees at least. Just when I leave a boat with tourists and an echoing voice comes in view, a deck of tourist watching me curiously as I disappear back into the bush.

Two weeks later, about fifty kilometres north of Katherine, Esther falls under the magic of my outstretched arm. ‘I was afraid what might happen to you, if I didn’t pick you up.’, she admits, while I shove my backpack into the small empty space between the roof and the large cluttered bed in the back of her van. There is a little library in it. I’m fascinated. She drops me at the campsite, where I set up my newly-bought tent for the first time. We didn’t plan to do the hike together, but since our characters resonate well enough the universe has us arriving at the trailhead at the same time, and who am I to contradict the universe? We hike to the ‘upper pool’ and are equally wowed by its sudden appearance at the end of a steep climb and steady sweat. Large smooth boulders, burning our naked feet on the outside, mossy and slippery inside form the pools boundary downstream. Upstream there are steep rocky walls, covered by short, energetic cascades, glittering like diamonds in the sunlight, harbouring a little picturesque oasis of water lilies covered with tiny froglets.

There are three more ‘swimmable’ pools at Edith falls. The lower one is frequented by ‘drop-in’ tourists. Park the car. Walk to the pool. Go for a swim. Back to the car. In and out in less than an hour. Next attraction. Pool three and four, the ‘long hole’ and ‘Sweet water’ require more effort, but also reward better. An eight-kilometres return hike to the latter, makes the swim in there even sweeter, but the lack of humans also increases my fear of crocodiles. ‘The lower pool has two resident ones, rather shy. The ones further up are interestingly smaller in size.’ Explains the ranger enthusiastically. During my two-day stay I make it a habit to tell people. But only after they have taken their dip. At night the light of my headtorch is reflected as red dots over the water’s surface. That must be them. Their eyes peaking out. ‘They can hear your heart-beat. That’s how they know you’re there.’, he tells me the next day. ‘That’s why we always go swimming next to cascades and rapids, to hide in the noise.’ Oh wow, I was so wrong about this.