We needed an overnight escape. A quick run in the HiAce to get out from under the hum of fluorescent lights and remind ourselves why we’ve spent the last few years sleeping in a five-by-two metre tin box instead of doing the sensible thing, the “adult” thing and buying some soul-sucking investment property.
Ninety minutes down the road from Darwin, out past the bitumen and into the prehistoric wrinkles of Litchfield National Park, there’s Florence Falls.
Camping there is simple enough. You can take the old 4WD track if you’ve got something to prove to the dirt, or roll into the 2WD campground as we did and enjoy the luxuries, like a toilet and the dignity of not having to dig a hole at 2 am.
Of course, Parks NT wants their cut before you’re allowed into paradise. You book online, pay your fifteen bucks, and get your permit. Fair enough. Every sanctuary has a gatekeeper.
The best part about going in the wet season is the silence. Most people avoid the place, terrified of the rain, the leeches, and the mosquitoes that carry themselves with the confidence of small fighter jets.
The falls, a short hike from camp, were absolutely losing their mind — roaring, brown, and moving with enough intent to suggest a swim wouldn’t be a dip, but a life-ending commitment.
So, we didn’t swim.
We explored, occasionally stopping to peel the odd, hungry leech from our legs. We drank wine to the soundtrack of rain hammering the canvas awning and eventually fell asleep under a sky so thick and black it swallowed the light. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
Somewhere between the second bottle of red and a well-cooked steak, it reminded us why we’re not done with van life just yet.
The next phase can’t come soon enough.
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