Everybody loves a hot, wet blanket

Up here in the Northern Territory there's no such thing as winter. Southern Ontarians might salivate at the prospect (I hear it’s still snowing there and I feel bad, I really do) but believe me, a perennially sweaty crack does not a happy camper make.

Here we have what’s affectionately known as “the wet” and “the dry” - and clearly there’s nothing dry about my current situation. The girls and Doog don’t seem to mind; however I am wilting like a tulip in July, hence the on-my-ass perch at the base of this waterfall in Litchfield National Park. (That's me holding onto Annie so she can use her mask and snorkel without floating away down the bottom waterfall)

The temperature is a steady 33C, which doesn’t sound terribly difficult, but when married to 95 per cent humidity, it’s like being wrapped head to toe in a hot, wet blanket and trying to breathe through a steaming facecloth while you stand in front of a pizza oven cranked to high.

Melbourne’s 40C days I can sort've handle, like a dry slap in the chest. This is something entirely different, and so excuse me if I sit at this waterfall for the remainder of this trip...