In fact, the numbers are so robust that a limited allotment of trophy-hunting licences are issued annually for punters serious about the heads they put on their wall. But I’ve heard there are dugongs in the protected waters that surround the land, and I’m dying to see one. And a saltwater crocodile, too. Hopefully a real whopper. Fingers crossed.

After we land, our bags are whisked away and we’re handed cool bottles of water. We board a safari-style 4WD and make the half-hour drive down rutted pig paths, passing termite mounds the size of sheds. The wet season is just over; the grasses are still tall enough to hide the Timor ponies and rarely seen sambar deer.

Experienced by those privileged to be in the know, this secretive paradise is at once heartbreakingly harsh (see trophy hunting) but also utterly luxuriant. It’s a fine balance they’ve managed to get right. Forget the trappings of fawning bellmen and stuffy holiday couture; this is the outback opulence of Seven Spirit Bay, and it’s as much about where it is as what it is. In a place this desolate (it’s closer to Indonesia than it is to any Australian capital bar Darwin) you’ll leave behind mobile service totally and, if you’re smart, any white clothing, in exchange for land – and sea – awash in wildlife.

My journey to the Northern Territory’s Cobourg Peninsula begins in the early morning at Darwin’s Pearl Flight Centre, where we board a tiny eight-seater charter plane for the 40-minute flight to the Garig Gunak Barlu National Park. The lodge’s access is limited to arrivals by air or sea, and most of the yachtless choose to fly.

The ranger’s station has just this year become staffed fully by Indigenous employees, shepherding 2260sq km of Aboriginal land under the direction of traditional owners.

Seven Spirit Bay sits unobtrusively atop a steep bluff fringing a boulder-lined and palm-shaded pool that it’s quite difficult to pull myself away from – especially when camps manager Erin keeps replenishing my green-ant gin and tonic without me having to ask. It’s balmy every afternoon, even in the dry season of May, and despite the cerulean blue sea being very look-but-don’t-touch, the pool is an oasis of safe respite.

“The crocs can’t make it up the cliff to get in there,” says Phil, the bush-tucker guide. “Just don’t go walking near the water, and when you’re on the jetty, stick to the middle, not the edges.” Crocodile tracks and body slides are plainly apparent in the grit.

I’ve heard about crocs up here, the beaches and billabongs their playgrounds, and I find myself looking for them everywhere. Logs or crocs? Is that a snoot just above the surface, or a branch? We spot a small school of giant manta rays and a sea turtle periscoping his head towards us before he zooms off. Still no dugongs.

Those beaches, though. The Whitsundays have nothing on them. They’re deliciously aquamarine surrounded by scrubby gums and melaleuca, and it’s a bit cruel that they’re strictly off-limits. Not even just a toe. In addition to the 5m crocodilian friends, the surf holds irukandji and box jellyfish. 

When we do go to do a beach walk that our guide Phil has deemed safe, the water we were planning to cross has turned slightly silty. “We can’t go through there. There’s no way to be croc-aware in that,” he says. We turn back the way we came. I wish I had eyes in the back of my head.

Thankfully there is a lot to do here, or, if you prefer it, nothing at all. The charming octagonal “habitats” where we stay are tucked into the bush with privacy and separation. Air-conditioning and ceiling fans are a lifesaver during the day, but at bedtime, it’s lovely to throw open the louvres and bring the outside in. At night before sleeping I put down my book and hear dingoes crooning and agile wallabies bounding through the dry leaf litter. It’s wild out there.

The resort offers a selection of adventures and excursions that are included in the tariff; 4WD wildlife safaris, sightseeing cruises, birdwatching and, of course, saltwater fishing. We decide we must try it, even though a few of us haven’t fished for decades. Poor Pete, the most patient fishing guide in the world, takes us out to the best spots and helps us bait and cast our lines. “Let it rest on the bottom. Give ’er more slack.” We finally claim victory when my fellow guest, Sue, pulls up a golden snapper, flapping and flipping. I’m not saying it was small, but Phil decided to use it as bait for other fish, so…

Fresh fish is an option on the menu daily, caught right out front by staff or fellow guests. The chef is happy to prepare your catch, which is typically mulloway, snapper or Spanish mackerel. It’s perfectly prepared and hyper-fresh. You can’t go past it.

So, I’d like to say I saw my dugong. That would be a great way to wrap up this story, wouldn’t it? But no, it wasn’t to be. Nature is like that – a fickle mistress of her domain. I’ll just have to return for another look.

The writer was a guest of Journey Beyond and Outback Spirit Resorts.

Originally published as Secret Aussie beaches that beat the Whitsundays