Skyrail over the Rain Forest

The Path of Luck
By Stan Morse
December 18, 1997

Before leaving Cairns I take the Skyrail into the rain forest. Climbing 2,000 feet up from the coastal plain, my cablecar soon skims over a virgin jungle canopy of palm, oak, ash and fern trees, dotted with white cockatoos.

After several miles, the trip ends in the town of Kuranda, a sleepy tourist-trap. It's quiet, and the locals are low-key; the rainy season is overdue, and the heat and humidity have everyone wishing for the monsoon.

My only disappointment comes in not being able to take the "Scenic Kuranda Railway" back to Cairns. I arrive at the station half an hour before the 2:00 p.m. train, and am told that none of the cars is wheelchair-accessible. Only the 3:30 train has wheelchair access. Not wishing to spend 2 1/2 more hours in sweltering Kuranda, I opt to take Skyrail back down. I'm rewarded with cool mountain winds gusting through the well-ventilated car all the way back.

The next day I have another train disappointment. I'm ticketed to Brisbane on the Sunlander, supposedly one of Australia's premier trains. But when I reach the rail station, it is deja vu the Kuranda Railway. Unlike Amtrak back in the U.S., my sleeper car is not accessible. I'll have to be carted onto the train in a transfer chair that looks like a cheap baby stroller. Worse, the bathroom is down a hallway too narrow for my wheelchair. So for 31 hours I'll have to call a conductor every time I want to use the bathroom. There will be no shower. And finally, I learn that I'll share the tiny cabin with another person. I imagine a smoker, who snores.

It takes less than a minute to decide what to do. I refund my ticket and take a cab to the airport. My flight on Ansett Air ends up costing only two dollars more than the train ticket. I feel good about this decision. But on this day, my life is not to come easy.

As I'm boarding the plane, I leave my two bags near the cabin door, telling the fellow loading me via the aisle transfer chair that I need both inside because one contains my computer. He agrees to make sure they follow me in.

After I'm in my seat I wait for my bags. Boarding finishes. No bags. The captain announces we'll be leaving shortly. Still, no bags.

I waive frantically to a flight attendant, who hurries down the aisle to see what my last- minute emergency is.

"Yes sir?"

"I need my two suitcases. They were back at the end of the ramp. I've got a computer in one and it can't go into the hold. Please!--"

"I'll get them."

He comes back shortly with bad news. The bags are already in the luggage bay. There's nothing he can do. I figure the odds are 50/50 my computer won't survive. I'm angry at myself for letting the bags out of my sight. The two-hour flight seems to last forever.

In Brisbane I take one of the fellows at the gate down to the luggage carousel. I want no doubt about who is responsible if my computer is dead. I extract the computer, turn it on, and it runs. I thank the fellow, and feel incredibly lucky. It's a cheap lesson -- it cost just two hours of anxiety, not $3,000.00 and weeks of waiting for a replacement loaded with my software to be shipped from Seattle.

During my four days in Brisbane, I feel luckier still. Dengue Fever has broken out in Cairns. At least 30 people are infected by the rare "Type 3" strain which can cause hemorrhagic bleeding. It is speculated in the newspaper that mosquitos along the Esplanade picked it up from a backpacker staying at one of the budget hostels. I walked the Esplanade every evening. I could have caught the illness. But I didn't. At least, I'm pretty certain I didn't. Dengue Fever causes high temperatures, joint soreness and pounding headaches. Unless the incubation time is greater than four days, I'm okay. I feel fine.

My final stroke of luck in Brisbane comes on the fourth day. I have a chance encounter at the reception desk with a flight attendant (whose crew is in the process of checking out), and ever- the-self-promoter, I tell her about my travel writing and ask what airline she flies for.

"Air New Zealand."

"Really. I'm going to be in New Zealand in January."

"Oh . . . which island?"

"Both. I fly into Christchurch (on the southern island), then go to Taupo (a large lake in the center of the northern island) for some fly fishing, then I'm in Thames (northern island) for a week."

"Well," she says, writing her phone number on the back of a card, "my husband and I have a house on the southern shore of Taupo. Give us a call when you get there. We do lots of fishing in the summer, maybe we can help."

I've been lucky over the past three weeks on everything important. I made it unscathed through my scuba diving experience (See "Great Barrier Reef" 1 & 2). I missed the Dengue Fever outbreak. My computer miraculously survived baggage handlers and equipment. And I've found a fishing contact at Lake Taupo.

Tomorrow at 6:30 a.m. (Ugh!), I board the XPT train for the Hunter Valley (a wine region three hours north of Sydney). I'm hoping the bush fires which have recently plagued New South Wales won't be raging near Cessnock, where I'm spending Christmas. We'll see if my luck holds.