Day 1

Our little boy, Joe, took his first proper walk at a caravan park in Longreach and then, at each destination as we headed toward the Queensland coast, his confidence grew. In Alpha, at the show, he broke into an awkward jog at the sight of a discarded bucket of chips. In Kuranda, near Cairns, he danced with hippies at a music festival. By the time we reached the Torres Strait he'd officially thrown off his trainer wheels to go hunting for octopus on Thursday Island.

Proud as we are at each advance, travelling around Australia in a caravan with a little boy, who has grown from a baby to a toddler, presents a whole set of challenges. There is no safe space, no backyard or child's play room that he can be locked into while mummy and daddy relax at happy hour. But this is our choice, not his - he needs his space, and so we follow.

We have explored every nook and cranny of every park and free campground that we have stayed in. Jockey wheels are a favourite and so are tool boxes and random sets of shoes. Joe also likes perching himself in other people's camp chairs like an old man after a hard day. He's endlessly curious which means we meet a lot of people, whether they like it or not.

It was on one of these exploratory journeys around a campground in Karumba, a fishing town on the Gulf of Carpentaria, that we met Lucky Rick. Rick had no say in the encounter. Joe just walked into his camp, opened his tool box and began examining his spanners.

Karumba, for those who don't know, is to fishermen what Byron Bay is to backpackers - but the pursuit of pot and free love in Byron can in no way compare to the fanatical pursuit of crab pots and grunters in Karumba. In the town's newsagency there are rows and rows of fishing mags where Playboy and Hustler would usually go - and look where that took Rex Hunt!

When we arrive in Karumba all the caravan parks are booked out. We have few choices but to camp in a paddock out the back of one of the parks for $20 a night. While it's obviously a bumper tourist season, it's the worst fishing season in living memory. Seasoned fishermen have gone days at a time without a bite. The campgrounds are full of grumbling Victorians, who've made the annual pilgrimage north expecting to fill their freezers with barramundi.

Everyone, it seems, has a tail of fishing woe. Everyone, that is, except Lucky Rick. In the three weeks he's been in Karumba he's returned each day with a tinnie full of fish and fresh mud crabs. "The first day I went out I came back with nine or 10 enormous fish," he says. "They were so easy to catch I thought they must have been something useless, like carp, and nearly chucked them back." They were grunters - javelin fish - one of finest eating fish from the estuaries. The following day a dozen boats followed Rick in his little tinnie to see where he set his anchor. "Like flies to s#%t," says Rick. "The bastards were nearly castin' into me boat."

We learn he is a bushie from Central NSW who works for GrainCorp at a dot on the map, near Condobolin. While he loves fishing, he doesn’t actually like eating fish. He gives it away to people in the park and freezes the rest for his mum. Giving it away, says Lisa, must make him popular around the park. "They all talk to me," he says with a grin.

It's not only fishermen, and those looking for a feed, who like Rick. Joe takes an instant shine to him, or, more specifically, to all the stuff he has lying around his campsite. There are tool boxes, barbeques, fishing rods, a generator, and even a chainsaw. There are sleeping quarters to be inspected, white bread to be devoured. Rick doesn't seem to mind the intrusion. We get talking and that night he invites us to go fishing.

Day 1

Our little boy, Joe, took his first proper walk at a caravan park in Longreach and then, at each destination as we headed toward the Queensland coast, his confidence grew. In Alpha, at the show, he broke into an awkward jog at the sight of a discarded bucket of chips. In Kuranda, near Cairns, he danced with hippies at a music festival. By the time we reached the Torres Strait he'd officially thrown off his trainer wheels to go hunting for octopus on Thursday Island.

Proud as we are at each advance, travelling around Australia in a caravan with a little boy, who has grown from a baby to a toddler, presents a whole set of challenges. There is no safe space, no backyard or child's play room that he can be locked into while mummy and daddy relax at happy hour. But this is our choice, not his - he needs his space, and so we follow.

We have explored every nook and cranny of every park and free campground that we have stayed in. Jockey wheels are a favourite and so are tool boxes and random sets of shoes. Joe also likes perching himself in other people's camp chairs like an old man after a hard day. He's endlessly curious which means we meet a lot of people, whether they like it or not.

It was on one of these exploratory journeys around a campground in Karumba, a fishing town on the Gulf of Carpentaria, that we met Lucky Rick. Rick had no say in the encounter. Joe just walked into his camp, opened his tool box and began examining his spanners.

Karumba, for those who don't know, is to fishermen what Byron Bay is to backpackers - but the pursuit of pot and free love in Byron can in no way compare to the fanatical pursuit of crab pots and grunters in Karumba. In the town's newsagency there are rows and rows of fishing mags where Playboy and Hustler would usually go - and look where that took Rex Hunt!

When we arrive in Karumba all the caravan parks are booked out. We have few choices but to camp in a paddock out the back of one of the parks for $20 a night. While it's obviously a bumper tourist season, it's the worst fishing season in living memory. Seasoned fishermen have gone days at a time without a bite. The campgrounds are full of grumbling Victorians, who've made the annual pilgrimage north expecting to fill their freezers with barramundi.

Everyone, it seems, has a tail of fishing woe. Everyone, that is, except Lucky Rick. In the three weeks he's been in Karumba he's returned each day with a tinnie full of fish and fresh mud crabs. "The first day I went out I came back with nine or 10 enormous fish," he says. "They were so easy to catch I thought they must have been something useless, like carp, and nearly chucked them back." They were grunters - javelin fish - one of finest eating fish from the estuaries. The following day a dozen boats followed Rick in his little tinnie to see where he set his anchor. "Like flies to s#%t," says Rick. "The bastards were nearly castin' into me boat."

We learn he is a bushie from Central NSW who works for GrainCorp at a dot on the map, near Condobolin. While he loves fishing, he doesn’t actually like eating fish. He gives it away to people in the park and freezes the rest for his mum. Giving it away, says Lisa, must make him popular around the park. "They all talk to me," he says with a grin.

It's not only fishermen, and those looking for a feed, who like Rick. Joe takes an instant shine to him, or, more specifically, to all the stuff he has lying around his campsite. There are tool boxes, barbeques, fishing rods, a generator, and even a chainsaw. There are sleeping quarters to be inspected, white bread to be devoured. Rick doesn't seem to mind the intrusion. We get talking and that night he invites us to go fishing.

Day 2

And so, at 8am the following morning, Joe, Lisa and I - with Lucky Rick at the helm - set off into the crocodile-infested waters of the Norman River in his tinnie. Rick manoeuvres the boat off the main river and up into a little estuary, with mangroves crowding in on either side, to inspect his crab pots. We pull in one fair-sized jenny (a female crab), but only male crabs are allowed to be taken and so we set her free. Just as I am throwing the pot back there is an enormous splash behind us, just five or so metres from the boat. "What was that?" asks Lisa, knowing the answer before she asks the question. Rick calmly starts the motor. "That was a croc," he says. "A fairly good-sized croc. I think we'll leave the rest of the pots for today." Lisa is squeezing Joe so tightly that I fear his head may pop off his shoulders. She doesn't release the grip until Rick has us back on the main river.

We head for the safety of his favourite fishing spot on the Norman, drop anchor, and chat about life as we wait for a bite. After half an hour a fish bites Lisa's line. She hauls in a small jewel fish that we set free. Shortly afterwards, a huge fish takes my line - huge to me at least - and I eventually pull it in. It is also a jewel fish, 60cm long and the largest fish I have ever caught. We stay a little longer, until Joe gets restless and then head into the shore. That night we dine on fresh mud crab and crumbed fish. Rick gets drunk and tells yarns while Joe sleeps soundly in his cot.

It's been a beautiful day even though our son will remember none of it.