A Beach Town Too Far–Part Two

Yeppoon to Airlie Beach

Departure 10 p.m.

Travel time 6 hours

The trip from Yeppoon to Airlie Beach began with a late-night departure and heavy trepidation. Our train wasn't scheduled to leave until nearly 11 p.m., giving us an entire day to kill and far too much time to think about the logistics of boarding with all our baggage.

The station in Rockhampton was eerily quiet when we arrived, like they’d had already given up for the night. We were the only ones there for a good half hour, so of course I started worrying that the train was never coming. But no, it rolled in on time, and we scrambled to board with all the grace of overloaded pack mules. Which, I guess, is exactly what we’d become. Mercifully, we’d scored RailBeds for this leg of the journey—first-class seats that converted into lie-flat beds—so we made ourselves comfy and promptly fell asleep.¹²

Which would have been perfect, except Rick insisted we set the alarm for 4 a.m. so we wouldn’t miss our stop. We needn’t have bothered. The arrival announcement over the loudspeakers was unnecessarily aggressive and loud. I feel like maybe they were surprised that anyone wanted to get off there.

We disembarked in Proserpine, a town so small it’s basically an overgrown rest stop with a sugar mill. I’d tell you more about “Prossie,” but it was 5 in the morning, so transferring to a shuttle bus and on to Airlie Beach was just a blur. The bus dropped us on the street at the entrance to a very unlit cul de sac in the jungle. “Is this the place?” Bus Driver asked. “Um, sure?” I said.

We dragged our bags through the pitch-black night up toward the end of the street, using our iPhones' flashlights to find a mailbox with the right number on it. Finding one, we trudged up a steep, winding incline that, no kidding, was roughly three and a half miles long. At 6 a.m., we collapsed into the bed in what we sincerely hoped was the right place.¹³

We slept like dead babies for several hours before stumbling into the bright light of day. Airlie Beach was already alive and buzzing. Of all the restaurants available to us that morning, Rick made me eat lunch at Dickie's Dogs.¹⁴

Airlie Beach wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t polished. But with the turquoise waters of the Whitsundays at its front door, who cares? And the town’s lagoon—a massive public swimming pool—offered relief from both the heat and the crowds, should it become necessary. For all its chaos, Airlie Beach was pretty great. Unfortunately, we were only there for four days.

Airlie Beach to Townsville

Departure 5 a.m.

Travel time 3 hours

As you may have gathered, because we were essentially getting on and off the same train all the way up the coast, whatever time we arrived in a town was pretty much exactly the same time we’d be leaving said town a week later. Which means that, yes, we had to get ourselves to the train station back in Proserpine by 4 in the morning for a 5 o’clock train to Townsville. Ouch.

It was all worth it, though, because we were headed to The City of Townsville!¹⁵ I'd been waiting for this since we first mapped out the trip. If I’m being honest, I planned the whole trip around this one. As a devoted fan of The Powerpuff Girls, I couldn’t wait to visit the city so bravely defended by Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup. I’d also secretly hoped that Townsville had continued its quirky naming habit with equally inspired choices like Mesa Mountain, Lake Waterbody, and Creek River. Alas, reality disappoints.

Instead, the citizens of Townsville stuck with unimaginatively naming things based on its geography and a history that leaned heavily into colonial atrocities. The city owes its existence primarily to the discovery in the 1870s that sugar cane grows exceptionally well in the region’s sweltering, tropical climate. The locals were thrilled at just how well it grew, in fact. But upon realizing that cultivating sugar cane was hot, miserable, backbreaking work, the white settlers collectively decided, “Oh hell no.” Faced with doing the work themselves or exploiting someone else to do it, they predictably chose Option B.

Enter blackbirding, a euphemism so vague and Orwellian it almost obscures the grim reality—Pacific Islanders were kidnapped, shipped to Queensland, and forced to toil on sugar plantations under brutal conditions. The rationale? “They’re used to the heat.”

Classy. Robert Towns—for whom Townsville is really named—was a looming figure in the early Australian sugar industry. He owned and operated plantations throughout Queensland and personally financed voyages to capture and recruit Pacific Islanders. He publicly claimed that this “recruitment” was actually a benevolent act because he was bringing “civilization” to the islanders.¹⁶

Professor Utonium would not have approved.

Anyhoo…Townsville is known as the unofficial capital of North Queensland. It’s also known for its oppressive heat. We arrived just as preparations for the annual winter festival were underway. Because summer here is too hot for festivals—or for doing anything, really—the locals save all their energy for winter, which still feels suspiciously like summer anywhere else.

Our place overlooked the esplanade and the beach, which was awesome. Sadly, the pool that had been advertised was a stagnant swamp of algae. Hard pass. But fear not, we discovered a swanky hotel at the far end of the esplanade that offered day passes for their pool, which hosted far less biodiversity and significantly more margaritas. We went twice. In a row.

Townsville wasn’t perfect—few places are—but we loved it. Yes, the summers will kill you, and yes, its historical foundations are ethically dubious. But its esplanade was lively, its winter carnival was a kitschy good time, and its residents were genuinely proud of their little city.

Townsville to Mission Beach

Departure 8 a.m. 8:20 a.m. 8:55 a.m. 9:30 a.m. Whenever the train arrived

Travel time 3 1/2 hours

The train out of Townsville was about an hour and a half late —not ideal, but hardly catastrophic. We arrived at our next stop, a town called Tully, a few hours later. Only three people got off the train, counting us. The tiny station was right next to the two-lane Bruce Highway¹⁷ about a mile from the center of “town.” It was technically staffed by two women, but they both disappeared in a puff of engine smoke the moment my back was turned, leaving us to fend for ourselves.

I called for an Uber once we’d dragged our bags to the front of the station. Did you know that if there’s no Uber in the area, the app will continue to cycle and deliver hopeful messages, like “Hang tight, we’re connecting you with a driver!” and “Almost there, finding your ride now!”? to fill you with false hope. We stood there for the better part of an hour, watching the app spin its web of lies, too afraid to cancel and risk being shunted to the bottom of a list that didn’t even exist.

 Eventually, reality set in, heavy and unrelenting like the Queensland humidity—there are no Ubers in Tully. None. Zero. Zipadeedoodah. What about taxis, you ask? Nope. No one even answered the phone. Sundays in northern Queensland!

Admitting defeat, I consulted Google Maps and discovered the town’s sole motel—the Tully Motel. It was about a half mile up the road, and they had a room available.

“Excellent,” I said. “We’re at the train station now, so we won’t be long.”

“The train station? How are you getting here?”

“I figured we’d drag our bags down the road.”

“Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea. How about I just come get you?”

Enter Pat, the nicest man in Tully and quite possibly all of Queensland. He arrived a few minutes later, visibly startled by our mountain of luggage but too polite to say anything. With some quick reshuffling of his golf clubs, he made room for us and our bags, and we were off.

With an unexpected Sunday night in Tully, we decided to explore a bit.¹⁸ The town, famous for being Australia’s wettest, averages a mind-boggling 13 feet of rainfall annually, with a record of nearly 26 feet set in 1950. To commemorate this dubious achievement, Tully erected a 26-foot-tall Golden Gumboot, complete with a tree frog perched on top. It even has a spiral staircase inside leading to an observation deck. Or so we were told—it was closed when we visited. Even so, it was easily the most exciting thing in Tully.

The town’s sugar mill dominates the skyline—and the atmosphere. Its stacks pump out clouds of sticky-sweet steam that only add to Tully’s relative humidity. Locals call it “the sweet smell of money.” I thought it smelled more like regret with notes of moist gym socks.

We managed to snag a taxi¹⁹ to Mission Beach the following day. Our Airbnb there—a sleek, modern house tucked into a quiet cul-de-sac—was a welcome contrast to Tully's soggy charm. It was a 20-minute walk to the beach, but Mission Beach rewarded the effort. A breathtaking stretch of coastline fringed by palm trees and rainforest, it felt impossibly remote and idyllic. You just had to watch for cassowaries²⁰ as you navigated the jungle paths.

Mission Beach, the town, however, was less enchanting. It's more a loose collection of villages strung along a pothole-riddled road masquerading as a highway. The locals—a mix of barefoot retirees, German backpackers, and hippies—love to call it “quaint.” Which, I suspect, is German for, “No grocery store—too commercial.”

Oh, and aside from that first day, it poured rain the whole week.

Dang! We’re still not at the end of this thing!

Fortify yourselves for the conclusion—grab a cuppa

and a little snack. We're almost done.

Click here for Part III!