Five Day Creek -A journey through rain, ridges, and the quiet pull of the wilderness.

The Valley Beckons

The valley had been calling to me for some time. Every visit to the escarpment, I’d glance down, southwards—and feel drawn in.

It looked remote. Isolated. Unknown.

I became obsessed. I studied topographic maps. I searched for any mention of the creek online. Eventually, something surfaced. Canyoneers had begun descending into the gorge from the Cascades Walk.

Their stories—especially how they climbed back out—fascinated me. I watched YouTube videos, studied routes, and cross-referenced with maps.

I had leave coming up. I committed.

Farmland along Five Creek road

First Contact

I mapped a route to trace the creek’s course. Then I drove out to explore the lower reaches—where Five Day Creek joins the Macleay.

The hills there rolled gently, dotted with grazing land. But as I drove upstream, the valley narrowed. Forests thickened. Eventually, a Road Closed sign stopped me near Snake Creek.

I inflated my raft and walk-paddled upstream. The water was incredibly clear. A platypus surfaced briefly. I saw the biggest bass I’ve ever encountered—It reminded me of the barra I used to fish for in remote NT streams.

It wasn’t deep, but deep enough. I floated quietly between riffles, letting the place settle into me.

I returned from that trip with a new idea. Instead of following the creek all the way down into farmland, I would start and finish at Point Lookout, creating a remote wilderness circuit.

Descent from the Escarpment

I camped the night at Thungutti, then rose the next morning and started my journey from the Robinson Knob carpark.

The first stretch followed a well-maintained vehicle trail. A few kilometres along, I left the road and began heading off trail down a ridge.

The bush was open, easy to navigate. Near the top I stumbled upon an old gravel dump—dozens of deteriorating bags half-swallowed by leaf litter.

I pressed on.

The ridge was easy to follow—just stay on the high point. It steepened. Rocky and narrow, but walkable. Cliffs appeared to either side, but I never had to scramble.

Eventually, after many hours of descending, I heard water—then saw it. Five Day Creek, shimmering below. I dropped directly into the valley.

The slope was covered in loose scree. I tried grabbing branches, but many were tangled with thorny vines. I slipped and eventually just let gravity take me.

I reached the bottom, surprised to be unhurt. The water was crystal clear—the clearest I’ve ever seen.

I stripped off, waded in, and let the cold water wash away blood, sweat and dust.

High in the headwaters of Five Day Creek

In the Creek

Camp is simple

Flood debris from Cyclone Alfred was caught high in the trees. Massive trunks lay toppled. But the forest was magnificent—towering trees, lush undergrowth.

I walked a few kilometres, then set up camp near a clearing. A marsh snake basked nearby on a rock. That night under my tarp, I watched glow worms shimmer on the riverbank while my legs cramped and spasmed.

It rained lightly through the night. But the tarp held strong. I stayed dry.

The next day was overcast and still. The bush along the creek was dense. Every step showed the power of recent floods—scoured banks, stripped foliage, fresh rockfalls.

I stopped to admire a massive gum tree clinging to a cliff. At my feet, I saw something odd.

The remains of a bullock dray, recently uncovered

An old bullock dray axle, with a timber wheel hub still attached. Buried for who knows how long, likely revealed in the last flood. I pondered how it had made its way to this resting spot.

I kept walking. The creek began a rhythm—deep pools in tight gorges, followed by shallow flats. Some pools were too deep to wade. I climbed around them where I could.

In the sandy sections, I repeatedly saw cow tracks. Heading upstream. We must have somehow missed each other.

The Drift Begins

The rain intensified. I made the decision to inflate the raft.

Floating downstream was peaceful. The water was higher now, and I could drift through more sections. My legs thanked me.

Some wider spots were blocked with logjams. I portaged when I had to, dragging the raft and pack around the tangled timber.

I found a wide, flat bank above the water and made camp. A python lay nearby. I set up away from him.

Rain fell steadily. I bathed again and lay under my tarp, dreaming of a fire I couldn’t light.

That night, my mattress deflated. I searched by torchlight but couldn’t find the hole. Eventually I gave up, lay flat on the ground, and still slept well.

Cooking up some food while airing my feet

Leaving the Gorge

By morning, the creek had risen further. I drank coffee from a bag and loaded the raft.

The flow was faster now. I was able to spend more time in the boat rather than walking.  I scraped bottom in spots but stayed aboard.

There were a few gentle rapids. Fun, easy. Then a newly repaired road came into view—civilisation’s edge.

The creek flowed through paddocks now. Cows watched from the hills. The water, still clear, no longer felt drinkable. Manure lined the banks.

I passed old farmhouses and new tiny homes. Water pumps reached into the creek. On one verandah, people sat unaware as I floated silently past.

It felt oddly intimate. Like drifting through someone’s forgotten memory.

Eventually, my GPS said I’d reached my exit point.

I pulled out, lay in the sun, and dried my gear. An azure kingfisher hunted from a branch nearby.

The Final Climb

The road back to the escarpment was long. Steep and unrelenting. I hiked upward all afternoon.

Rain returned. I paused beneath a tree, made coffee, and watched two lyrebirds scratch at the trail.

As I climbed higher, the rain eased into mist. I passed a few driveways, then entered cloud.

My plan to camp at the top was foiled. Heavy machinery had turned the track into churned clay.

I knew of a National Parks house nearby. It was empty. Lights on. I made camp in the carport, drew water from a dam, and cooked dinner.

Still couldn’t find the leak in my mat—but the ground felt good anyway.

Mosquitoes hummed all night.

Old signs mark the way

Diamond Flat and the Last Push

The final morning was grey and drizzly. I crossed Diamond Flat, a former farming area now owned by National Parks.

Low cloud wrapped the plains. It felt like a dreamscape.

After the tight gorge below, this openness was freeing.

But one final climb remained.

Not the longest, but the hardest—because I was tired. Waterlogged. Slower.

I moved quietly, watching every moss-covered boulder, every flash of lyrebird feathers.

Eventually, I reached the car.

Still raining.

But nearby was a dry shelter. A fireplace. A place to sit. To rest. To remember what the water, the forest, and the rain had given me.

The endless fall of rain and cattle along Point Lookout Rd

If you would like see some moving images from this adventure, there is a video available here.