Last month we were on a dive boat with Tim Russ (Tuvok on Voyager). And yesterday we had another celebrity diver encounter on our dive at Farnsworth Bank. During roll call, I heard the name “Mia Maestro.” Just as I was wondering to myself why it sounded so familiar, I spotted Nadia from Alias in the galley.

It’s always a little shocking to see actresses in person – they’re so tiny! They always look smaller and younger than they do on TV. Anyway, she was quite nice, and very friendly when I geeked all over her about being a big Alias fan. :)

Since I had so much fun doing ADP last year, I decided to do it again – this time around, as a “safety diver.” It’s kind of like being a divemaster, though without any official certification. There are usually a few instructors present at every class and beach dive, and the safety divers help out: setting floats, giving students one-on-one attention when they need it, doing demos, etc.

The first weekend, I had a nasty ear infection, and wasn’t able to actually dive during the SCUBA portion of the pool. I popped in some earplugs and hung out on the surface, videotaping some of the skills, and helping students with the skin diving parts of class (pike dives, swims, and such).

This past weekend we got down to business, and took the class to Redondo Beach for a checkout dive. The swell model looked totally flat, so we were a little surprised to discover 2-3′ sets when we arrived; the wind had picked up in the morning and driven up the swells. It was a good thing, though: ADP is all about teaching you to deal with surf, after all!

On this same dive last year, I didn’t even make it past the breakers. Granted, they were a little worse than this time around, but I was also just much more scared. This time, I felt totally confident about charging into the surf zone, anchor-laden float in tow.

Everyone made it in without incident, and we spent an hour or more doing skin diving skills at the floats. There are only eleven students this year, and almost as many staff on any given day, so we basically have a one-to-one ratio. I really like having the opportunity to work with a single student at a time, and pass on whatever tips and tricks helped me out last year.

My second time through the surf, I have to confess I got totally owned. Dana and I headed in together, and both came up against a WALL OF SURF: 3 -footer after 3-footer pushed us back, right when we thought we’d found a lull. I was a little embarrassed at getting so totally walloped, but also proud of myself that it really didn’t phase me – I just got up and tried again. What a difference a year makes!

Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to do the SCUBA checkout dive after all – by the time all the skin skills and surf entries were over, we were running a little late for a 1pm appointment at Sealab.

Sunday was a pool day: SCUBA bailouts and skin DNRs. If you were reading my blog this time last year, you might remember how much I loved those. I’m woefully out of practice myself, but I know that I can do it if I try – and I remember how un-doable it seems the first time you’re told to do it! So again, I really enjoyed working one-on-one with people, encouraging them to take the plunge, and helping out as needed on the bottom. (Though I admit to feeling a bit hypocritical doling out advice – but not volunteering to demonstrate myself! Time to start practicing again.)

This weekend we’ll be heading to White Point, which was one of my favorite dives last year: rocky entries and washing on/off rocks, and surfing the channels. I might have to dig up Jeff’s old underwater camera (the little one) and bring it along so that I can illustrate my next ADP blog entry!

The thing about not blogging for a while: you start to feel like you need to catch up on all your stories chronologically. And the longer you wait, the more overwhelming that becomes. Sure, I have time to write about what I did yesterday, but first I really need to write about what I did last month, and last week, and I don’t have time for that… etc.

So, for now I’m giving up on the idea of “catching up” and skipping straight to yesterday. The day of my Star Trek dive.

Several weeks ago, Eugene “Rod” Roddenberry (son of Gene Roddenberry, and if you don’t know who that is you don’t deserve to read my blog) sent an email out to all the local dive clubs. He’s decided to start a Star Trek Dive Club, and their inaugural boat dive was set for the 4th of July.

Well, obviously, sign me up!

Jeff was game as well, and I pestered some friends at work and Ray into coming along. (It’s not hard to find geeks at Caltech.)

So yesterday morning, we piled onto the Peace at 6am for a day of diving at Anacapa with a bunch of Trek nerds. Except, it turned out, we were a little short on nerds! There was some trouble with the Roddenberry Store online booking system, and Rod thought the boat was sold out even though it wasn’t – there were only about 20 of us. A good chunk of those were my friends, and several of the rest were Rod’s family or friends, people who knew him through diving rather than through Trek. I’d been half-hoping we’d see someone attempt to dive in costume. Maybe we can attract more nerds to the next trip.

Eugene “Rod” Roddenberry – straddling the line between cool and geek:

There was an 18-year old guy on the boat who knew Rod through a SCUBA club he funded at his old high school. When I asked him if he was also a Trek fan, he answered that he was TOO YOUNG. Apparently even TNG/DS9/Voyager belong to an older generation. Way to make me feel my almost-30 age.

One thing that made it feel a bit more Trek-ish was the presence of Tim Russ (“Tuvok” on Voyager), who’s apparently a long-time SoCal diver. I tried to keep my inner fan-girl in check, and not be too geeky around him – though I did ‘fess up to having seen him at conventions years ago. He was sociable when approached, but not outgoing. I suspect a decade of dealing with Trek fans teaches you to appreciate your “off” time.

I couldn’t resist one geeky request: my diving-with-Tuvok photo:

Tim turns out to be quite into astronomy, so he happily conversed with my scientist-geek friends. I wonder if his interest in field astronomy predates his involvement with Star Trek, or if it was the result. I certainly know a lot of scientists who became interested in physics and astronomy because of their love for science fiction.

At the end of the day, we each got little goodie bags with Starfleet-logo dive flag stickers, which just about made my day. That, and the hot tub. I love the Peace.

Oh, and the diving was fine, too.

UPDATED: More photos here.

Today I was scheduled to get my first mammogram.

Backstory: my mom had breast cancer in her early (possibly mid?) forties, and has been pestering me to get a mammogram for years, just to have a baseline. And also just in case I have cancer, even though we all know that’s impossible if you’re under 30, at least according to insurance companies. Ahem.

For years my doctor has pooh-poohed this idea. This year, while she was conducting my breast exam, I brought it up again. She was feeling away at one particular spot for much longer than usual, and then said “Ok, we’ll schedule a mammogram.” Er, oooh-kay.

So I show up at the mammogram place today, and they ask why I’m there. I say something non-committal about just coming in for a baseline screening thingy, Mom had cancer, etc, etc. They still seem confused that I would bother if there’s not actually a noticable lump already.

Once I’m in the exam room, the tech looks over my records and says “So, your doctor found a lump in your left breast!” Really? My doctor didn’t mention that to me.

Anyway, it turns out they don’t jump straight to mammograms, at least not if you’re under 30. They do an ultrasound first, and a mammogram only if they feel it’s necessary. This is why I feel cheated: I was all prepared to go have my boobs pancaked, and have something funny to bitch about in my blog. Instead I just got smeared with warm KY jelly and got a glimpse of my insides on an ultrasound screen.

The “lump” is just a ridge of tissue that’s been there as long as I can remember, possibly scar tissue from the lift I got in the real boob to make it match the fake one. (Hey, anyone reading this not know I have one breast implant? Now you know! Not that I’ve ever kept quiet about it…) Either my doctor was just making up an excuse to get me in for a mammogram since that’s what I wanted, or she was genuinely perturbed by it – in which case she could have just said something, and I would have told her it’s normal.

So, two hours sitting around in a “Breast Center” (which, by the way, had the CRAPPIEST magazine selection ever – the best of the bunch was Good Housekeeping; I saw more than one fishing magazing, in a chick-centric waiting room, for crying out loud). One good slathering with goo. One nervous young doctor who kept asking if he was pushing too hard or if his hands were too cold, as if he was used to patients complaining. Zero cysts or lumps.

Doc: “Keep self-checking. Come back when you’re 35 for a mammogram.”

Tech: “Her mom had cancer in her 40s.”

Doc: “Be extra aggressive, then.”

Um, that’s what I was trying to do here, people. Smoosh my boobs already!

Bonus story: the front desk had a big bowl of what appeared to be plastic-wrapped tampons.  It was only on closer inspection I realized they were mints, just elongated and packaged in pink plastic.  Too bad; for a moment there I thought someone had a fun sense of humor.

Financial responsibility?

Screw that, I say; meet my new Precious, a Sony HC3 hi-def handycam in a Light & Motion Bluefin housing with external monitor:

Some of you may recall that after Australia, Jeff and I put a moratorium on spending so we could pay off credit cards for a while. So why throw thousands more dollars into camera gear?

Well, partly because I’m a consumer whore who sucks at delayed gratification, obviously.

Also, for the sake of our marriage. I’ll explain:

We dropped a lot of money last year on gear for Jeff. The new Canon 5D, a housing, and a surprisingly expensive computer monitor. These were all things I agreed to at the time, but it started to really bug me that Jeff got to have his turn – and then when it was theoretically my turn to spend, we had to be responsible.

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve spent money at my instigation as well. But mostly on things that we both get to enjoy; dive trips and the like.

Lately, every time Jeff’s even mentioned a desire to make a purchase of any sort, my hackles have instantly gone up. After all, it’s =my= turn next, and anyway, we’re being responsible. Every money-related fight we had came back to something along the lines of: “well, YOU just spent all that money last year, so you have no say.” Not fair, but hard to help.

We decided to hell with it; we’ll run the cards back up if it’ll even the scales and get rid of one more thing to fight about, and soothe the resentment that I seemed unable to quell or even hide. So far it’s worked like a charm; I feel like a huge weight is off my shoulders, and Jeff’s been totally supportive.

Of course, now we really DO have to be financially responsible for a while. But I think we can handle it, since there’s nothing left to buy. (Except a high definition television, new dive computers, more dive trips…. time to work on that delayed gratification!)

And it was so worth it – you should see the footage from this baby (I’ll try to post some soon). Soooo pretty. My Precious… :)

Last Tuesday, I gave blood in the morning (actually just red blood cells, which takes longer). I felt kind of wobbly and crappy afterwards, didn’t get much done at work, and finally decided to just cash in a sick day and head home early. But on the way home, I was greeted by the sight of an ENORMOUS plume of smoke rising from Griffith Park. This was the view from our apartment:

I decide to ditch my napping plans, and instead grabbed the 5D and headed out in search of a better view. The fire was burning just on the west side of I-5, in the easternmost bit of the park. So the western edge of Glendale was just across the freeway and the LA River from the burn area, and afforded some excellent sights.

Residential neighborhood next to the freeway:

I found a neat little park that bordered the LA River, and which soon became crowded with onlookers, many of whom had extremely fancy cameras with them.

We were only a few hundred yards from the flames, and it was really impressive to watch. A fire like this creates its own little climate zone, with insane winds lashing around in every direction. The smoke plume would lift away from the fire for a few seconds, giving us an unobstructed view – then the wind would push the smoke downhill again and right at us, bringing thick smoke and big chunks of ash. Every time a helicopter did a water drop, we’d get splattered with a mist of sticky stuff (water plus retardant?):

When I got tired of inhaling smoke, I drove into the hills north of Glendale to get a shot with some altitude. Here you can see how the plume headed straight over Glendale:

I took a break from fire-watching to go have dinner in Santa Monica with a friend, but brought my camera with me just in case. On the way home, you could see the fire lighting up the hills north of Hollywood. I took the 5 back to Glendale, which got me up close and personal with the flames dripping down the Griffith Park hill.

I’d stupidly left the tripod at home, and was too lazy and sleepy to go get it and come back, but I decided to return to the park next to the LA River to try and get some nighttime shots by steadying the camera on the car.

I thought I could get even closer to the flames, so I headed further south into a more residential district. It didn’t take long to find a cul-de-sac with a good view; I just followed the other cars full of photographers. One woman was nice enough to loan me her tripod for a few shots, and help me with camera settings (she also had a 5D – I’m not used to ours yet).

All in all, an exciting day. My clothes reeked of woodsmoke, and I felt like I’d polished off a pack of cigarettes, but it was a cool experience.

I’ve got a Pomona alumni event to go to this afternoon, so I came to work this morning in a skirt.  I’m even wearing some jewelry.  In the hour I’ve been at my desk, I’ve had no fewer than FOUR people comment on how I’m all dressed up, like they don’t even recognize me.

I even brought makeup, which I may or may not apply before I head to Claremont.  The first (and last) time I wore any makeup to work, it was just a little eyeliner.  In a meeting with my boss, he stared at me with some concern, and eventually asked: “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”

Sigh.

Jeff beat me to it.

Perhaps I’ll blog a more detailed version.  Perhaps not.  I’ve been quite the blog-slacker lately.

One of the great perks of my job is the occasional trip to Hawaii. Although I usually spend far more time in a meeting room than on the beach, I sometimes manage to tack on a day or two of vacation – which is what I did last weekend. Armed with Lars’s hi-def camera rig again, I flew out to Kona on Saturday morning for a weekend of Hawaiian leisure before starting our meeting on Monday.

I didn’t have any firm plans for Saturday; my plane landed at noon, leaving me with quite a lot of time to kill, and I was a little worried that it would be a lonely and boring afternoon without the company of Jeff. I should have known better: Hawaiians are far too friendly a bunch to leave a traveler feeling alone. I nabbed lunch at Lulu’s, where my server struck up a conversation. Then I spent a while wandering around downtown chatting up random homeless guys and tourists.

As I wandered back towards my hotel, it struck me that I still had several hours left until sunset – why not hop in the car and drive down to Place of Refuge? I’d read that turtles tend to hang out there nibbling on algae in the late afternoon, and that sounded like a pretty good video opportunity.

When I reached Place of Refuge, there were just a handful of tourists left snorkeling off the rocks. The tide was high, giving turtles lots of room for their snacking in the tidepools. Their antics attracted a small crowd, oohing and aahing appreciatively when a turtle got knocked over by an especially high wave, or managed to hold his ground as the water flowed back out to the sea.

As the last tourists packed up to go home, the locals started setting up for the evening. Across the harbor, a large group of hula dancers in Hawaiian dress practiced on the beach. Next to the boat ramp, a guy started playing ukulele and signing in Hawaiian, to an appreciative audience of his friends (and me). Behind where my car was parked, a group of older guys hung out by their pickup truck, and I insinuated myself into their group by virtue of being a fellow smoker. Some were white guys who’d moved to the island years ago and stayed, integrating themselves into local culture; others were Hawaiian born and bred. All wanted to talk about how there was too much development going on, and too many rich people moving in and creating a society separate from the locals. They all welcomed newcomers, but wished it didn’t feel so much like this new community was the one deciding the future of the island. I couldn’t help but sympathize; my flight in afforded an excellent view of the huge tracts of land currently being turned into condominiums all along the coast. According to these folks, it was just as bad down south.

Of course, part of me is dying to be one of those rich people who move to Hawaii. But I’d like to think I’d be the sort to join the local community – they’re certainly friendly enough.

When I got tired of turning down beers (or marriage offers from tipsy Hawaiians), I headed back up to Kona for sunset-watching, complete with more chatting up of random Hawaiians. After dinner and a mai tai, I was ready for bed by 8pm. A small cockroach materialized out from under the fridge in my room, and I vigorously stomped him. I can’t plan to live in Hawaii one day and continue being a weenie about roaches…

Sunday morning I was wide awake by 6am, and didn’t need to be at the harbor until 9. I took my time packing up and strolling around the hotel grounds, chasing lizards with my hi-def camera. Next to the Royal Kona is a beach bar, which turns into a coffee shop in the mornings, so I headed there for breakfast. My previous visits had familiarized me with the overly-aggressive birds, who will sweep down onto your table the instant you walk away from your muffin. But I was surprised by just how fearless they’d gotten; as I toasted my bagel up on the bar, a dove wandered across the bagel cutting boards (mm, healthy) and right up to my hands. Sheesh.

It was a gorgeous day for diving: sunny, no wind, and flat seas. I was thrilled to discover Captain Roger was driving the boat today, and I knew one of the divemasters from previous trips as well. I quickly made friends with the other divers in my group, including a couple from Alaska who mostly dive the cold water up there, and a photographer from the east coast who was on a vacation with his (non-diving) wife. There were about 12 divers on the boat total, including a brand new 10-year-old scuba diver and her dad, who’d just gotten certified together.

We had an auspicious start, coming across a playful pod of spinner dolphins on our way out of the harbor. We didn’t go far; just hung a right and zipped over to Lone Tree Arch, a little bit north of the harbor. On the first dive, our group of six divers followed the divemaster down to about a hundred feet, looking for interesting fish in the rubble that covered the bottom. Heading shallower, we swam through some mostly-open lava tubes. On our way into the first one, we got a close look at a pregnant white-tipped reef shark lying on the sand. After getting sucked out the other side of the tube, we took our time moseying back over to the moored boat. I spotted lots of juvenile coris wrasses, as well as their adult counterparts, a mating pair of surgeonfish, and – briefly – a turtle in the distance.

During lunch, we scarfed down sandwiches while Roger took us out to look for “Easter pilot whales.” No luck there, but it’s still about as pleasant a way to spend an hour as I can imagine – bouncing across the nearly-flat Pacific in the Hawaiian sun, geeking out with other divers.

Our second dive wasn’t too far from the first, at Golden Arches. This site has several nice archways you can swim through (or just hang out in, insinuating yourself into the schools of fish that are doing likewise). In between are large rubbly areas where I always see lots of rock-moving action by coris and rockmover wrasses, and today was no exception. I found one large yellowtail coris in particular who turned out to be a great video subject; after his initial wariness, he let me put the camera practically right next to him while he turned over enormous rocks and blew away sand in search of food.

We also spotted quite a few moray eels on this dive, though none were feeling very perky. There was even a large zebra moray, although we only saw his midsection – the head and tail were buried in a coral head.

During a long safety stop near the boat, I was thrilled to discover two rockmover wrasses who appeared to be mating. They’d sort of poof up their dorsal fins (until this, I’d never realized their dorsal fins were poofable) and twirl around each other before spinning away. Like the coris wrasse, they let me get surprisingly close, but it wasn’t long before they worked their way into shallower, surgier water than I felt like dealing with.

It was a short ride back to the harbor after our two dives, and alas, that was it for my mini-vacation. I met up with my Bruce (my boss) and David (project scientist), and we headed up to Waimea to check into our hotel.

We stayed at the Jacaranda Inn, a lovely, romantic bed and breakfast. Felt a little weird for a work trip. My room was enormous, with a four-poster bed all carved and painted with tropical birds. The shower was impressive. The boys each had a bedroom in a separate cottage, which came with a hot tub.

Interestingly, the rooms did not have televisions. Or telephones. Or wireless, though it claimed to; nor did this self-proclaimed “bed and breakfast” serve breakfast anymore. My room didn’t have an alarm clock, either, so I relied on wake-up calls from David or Bruce (who did have them). It did, however, have mosquitoes – in spades. I sat down to read for five minutes, and got as many bites, so I high-tailed it over to the cottage (which for some reason was mosquito-free) until it was time for dinner. When we got back, I high-tailed it under the covers and didn’t give them any chance to bite!

The second night there was even more exciting bug-wise. First I got to practice my cockroach-crunching some more in the bathroom (this one actually went CRACK when I stepped on it – ugh). I headed towards the bed, carefully NOT examining any dark corners for roaches, but made the mistake of glancing up… and spotted an enormous daddy long-legs dangling from the top railing of the four poster bed. Then I repeated the mistake by looking to the left, and spotted another one up towards the headboard. I briefly considered attempting to squash them, but decided that they’d most likely escape, and then I’d be even more freaked out about where they might be. Plus, if I looked any closer, I might find MORE of them. So I just went to bed and pretended there weren’t spiders two feet from my head.

I won’t bother blogging about work, since it’s pretty boring. That’s why it’s work. Still, cockroach-intensive though my trip was this time around, I was extremely sorry to leave. I like the big island a little more every time I go.

We seemed to pass through the worst of the swells during dinner Wednesday night; by the time we collapsed in our bunk, the boat was merely rolling pleasantly, rather than leaping out of the water. The customary door-banging wake-up call rousted us from our bunks around 6:30am, and everyone began hustling to finish packing their junk and haul it to the back deck.

Goodbyes were necessarily a hurried affair, with the crew eager to get on with their day of cleanup before welcoming the next batch of guests that night. Of course, there was the obligatory group photo before we all disembarked:

After ditching the bulk of our wet and dripping gear at the Holiday Inn bell desk, we were picked up by Sugarland Car Rentals and taken to their office. I was feeling slightly overwhelmed by all the tourist possibilities between Cairns and Cape Tribulation (our destination for the evening), so I was thrilled to discover that Sugarland caters to tourists with lovely little maps showing all the cool places to stop.

Our first challenge, of course, was learning to drive on the left side of the road. Jeff had gamely volunteered to be the driver; I took the position of navigator, calling out helpful instructions like “Now you’ll turn left into the roundabout, and LOOK RIGHT, LOOK RIGHT.”

We’d heard that it’s surprisingly easy to get the hang of driving on the left side, and Jeff did seem to pick up the basics pretty quickly. But it’s the little things that kept tripping him up. For instance, in Australian cars, the blinkers are on the right-hand side of the steering wheel; on the left are the windshield wipers. Think for a minute about how ingrained the “blinker-on” motion is when you’re driving, and you’ll understand why I spent a lot of time saying “Now turn off the windshield wipers and signal.” Also, coming around a bend in the highway and seeing traffic flying towards you on your RIGHT side? Very startling. This led to a lot of (half-joking) yelling “We’re going to diiiiie!”

Our first stop, other than a few “scenic viewpoints,” was at Hartley’s Crocodile Farm. We might not have bothered with such an attraction, except for the fact that they advertised posed photos with crocodiles. Sign us up!

It was overcast and starting to drizzle when we parked at the Croc Farm, and there was no one around as we approached the photo booth, except for the croc handler and Mr. Wiggles, the freshwater crocodile. With no one waiting in line, we were able to chat up the handler for a little while, and get a look at the “spare” saltwater croc kept in a tub behind the counter (to be brought out when Mr. Wiggles started to get grumpy.)

We stuck around for a boat trip through the crocodile-infested lake, where the boat driver lured a big croc up to the boat with a chicken carcass. It was worth sitting through the humidity just to hear the famed “crack!” of crocodile jaws closing on their meal!

After lunch in Port Douglas, we headed on up the coast. The skies cleared up, and the sun lit up the fields of cane on either side, and rainforest-covered hills inland. Towns got smaller and looked more run-down, until we finally reached the ferry across the Daintree River.

There’s an interesting passage in our guidebook describing the Daintree River crossing. The writer mentioned a “strange sense of inertia” as the ferry starts to move, as well as a feeling that you’re crossing into something really different. I’d say he pretty much nailed it on both counts. The ferry creaked across the river on a cable, pulled by enormous wheels. It took a moment to realize we were moving, and that it wasn’t just the normal flow of water I was seeing. The far side is a wall of trees, broken by the landing and a few “Warning” signs about high voltage wires and crocodiles.

The sense of remoteness doubled as we started out along the “highway,” a narrow, windy road with the occasional stream of water flowing across it. Although not very far on the map, Cape Tribulation takes a while to get to when you’re dealing with all those twists and turns, trying to remain on the left side of the road, and watching out for cassowaries.

At length, we reached our destination: Cape Tribulation Beachhouse, on the far north side of “town.” I was a bit dismayed to discover that the “hotel” was basically a bunch of cabins. Like, the kind that you camp in. We hiked downhill to our room, which was quite nice on the inside, but still a cabin. See?

(You can also see how lovely I look, all sweaty and rumpled after a day of wandering around in the sun while slathered in bug spray and sunscreen.)

After making sure there were no insects in our room, we wandered down to the beach for a look at the famed meeting of ocean and rainforest. It was low tide, so we were able to stroll around a bit on the sand, watching little crabs roll sand boulders out of their homes.

We scarfed down an early dinner at the hotel restaurant (outdoor dining – thank goodness for bug spray), then walked back up to reception to meet our tour group for the night: a night walk in the rainforest. No, really. I agreed to go squelching through the rainforest, in the dark, and look for interesting insects. And by “interesting,” I mean “large.” Also, did I mention I still had a cold?

I’d held out some hope of seeing cute mammals, but it was not to be. There were about 7 of us tourists, led along a moderately tricky jungle track by a local nature guide. In daylight it probably would have been an easy walk – and I’m not saying it was HARD, exactly; just occasionally unnerving. Like when the “wait-a-while” vines would grab hold of someone with their little stickers. Or you’d “discover” a root in the track by tripping over it. Or the occasional stream to slog across.

Still, I have to admit the hike was pretty cool. (It would have been cooler if I wasn’t sick. And if there weren’t as many large bugs.) We saw an Eastern Water Dragon (cute lizard), some other kind of monitor lizard, toads, and… lots of bugs. Enormous grasshoppers; wolf and huntsman spiders; stick insects. Most of the critters stood still for inspection and photographs, but my trigger-happy husband did manage to provoke a grasshopper into leaping off into the distance. I was just glad the bug was facing the other direction when he went flying.

After two hours of tromping through the rainforest, I was dripping with sweat and thoroughly creeped out. It was a very happy Anna who crawled back into the air conditioned van. We made a brief stop close to the creek, to look for crocodiles, but there were none to be found.

At checkout the next morning, I mentioned to the clerk how pleased I’d been to not see a single bug in our room. It seemed impossible to me that the cabins could be insect-free given their location; whatever they did the keep the bugs out was clearly working. She seemed a little nonplussed, and protested that they didn’t spray or anything – just made sure to rotate all the rooms out so they never sat empty for long.

Walking back to the car, Jeff started cracking up. Apparently he’d spotted, killed and hidden no fewer than eight bugs in our room, of varying sizes (some large enough to more than freak me out). Gah.

We opted for a leisurely trip back down the coast, stopping at various points along the way for a walk. Up first were some of the boardwalks around Cape Tribulation, where we got a glimpse at the rainforest in daylight:

There was also the mildly-disappointing “Bat House,” where I expected to see, you know, bats. I figured the “Bat” in the name was generic; but in fact it really meant there was A Bat. In the house. There was a small room full of displays about bats, and a young intern sitting behind a desk, keeping an eye on a solitary bat dangling from a clothes-drying rack. I was bummed to learn you can’t hold or touch bats in Queensland; there’s too much threat of rabies in the area.

Continuing our creepy-critter tour, we checked out the Insect Museum on our way out of town. It’s a small, one-room museum, but houses dozens of cases packed with exotic (and not-so-exotic) insect specimens. I was most taken with the live Macleay’s Spectres hanging out on a eucalyptus branch near the entrance. These little guys are chunky enough to seem more like small reptiles than big bugs to me, so I had (almost) no problem letting them crawl around my arm.

After our visit to the insects, we said goodbye to Cape Tribulation and headed back towards civilization. We nabbed a late lunch in Port Douglas, and took a quick walk to the river at Mossman Gorge, but nothing was as interesting as the rainforest had been. (Well, one thing was interesting: after Port Douglas, I got to take a turn at the wheel. We’re gonna die!!!) We squeaked back into Cairns with just enough time left to check in and return our car.