Named after the cattle station that spawned the earliest settlement in Mataranka, the Elsey National Park nowadays harbours only ruins of the original homestead, with a more intact second one having been refunctioned into the service point of a modern campground. Conveniently located next to one of two tourist-attracting natural hot springs, the Thermal Pool, it provides the thirsty and hungry for both food and adventure, nourishment for body and soul, and a place to rest and mingle. But tourists are rare these days with the dwindling of the dry season and the looming arrival of the wet. The few that do come, revel in the missing signs of civilisation, roaming kilometres of walking tracks, dirt-roads and river-banks to find crystal-clear water-holes, quiet gorges and noisy waterfalls, surrounded by large palms and pandanus trees, whose Mangrove-like roots allow them to breath in preparation of the several meter rise in water level during the next few months. All along the water the vegetation is thick and green and healthy and it’s hard to imagine that only a few hundred meters away the sandy ground turns bone-dry, the trees shrink in size and number, and the holes in the canopy grow big enough for the burning sunlight to reach the unprotected undergrowth. This change in landscape is drastic and unexpected and beautiful. While the dry zones are mostly populated by lizards, wallabies and birds of prey, hunting silently from way up high, the wet zones are home to an abundance of frogs, snakes and fireflies, with myriads of fish, turtles and crocodiles dwelling in the creeks and rivers. All of these, apart from the fireflies perhaps, were once part of the food palate of the original owners of this land. For nowadays, with a wealth of easy-accessible supermarket meals, the general motivation to go hunting has declined dramatically, reduced to the widespread pastime of going fishing, though exercised more as a hobby then a serious attempt to provide sustenance. The only other hunted animal are probably pigs, who, unintentionally introduced into the Northern Territory bushland together with donkeys and buffalos, but reproducing much faster than either of them, pose a genuine threat to the sensitive ecosystem of the National Parks. Due to an unfortunate incident, during which the local rangers forgot live-caught pigs in their cages next to frequently-visited tourist attractions to die of thirst while voicing their suffering loudly, resulting in a range of very disturbed phone complaints, the former are now left in peace within the boundaries of Elsey National Park, and the latter ones as well, supposedly. Consequently, large herds of the quick and squeaky fellows are now not a rare sight at all. Though technically protected, most wildlife exhibits the life-saving instinct of avoiding humans. Unless by surprise on both sides, entering a wallaby’s comfort zone of about ten meters is only possible after it has become roadkill; sadly, a common fate here, it appears. Even the crocs are shy. During the day, their presence is revealed by the plopping sound when the unsuspecting reptile, disturbed in its nap by the surprise arrival of an adventurous bushwalker, scurries back into the safety of the murky water. As soon as it gets dark though, a strong torch may reveal their plentiful numbers just below the water hole’s surface waiting patiently for the flying foxes to lower down their guards to drink, their eyes reflecting red in the surrounding darkness.