Chasing waterfalls in Northern Queensland

The Cairns Waterfalls Tour was billed as Seriously Beautiful Waterfalls—a fun-filled day exploring some of Australia’s most famous waterfalls and the beautiful rainforest of the Atherton Tablelands above Cairns. I mean, it was on a bus. With a bunch of people a third our age and twice our fitness level, how could we refuse? We were looking forward to immersing ourselves in rainforest waters and crater lakes—pun intended.

After getting picked up outside the place we were staying, the bus headed south, past Gordonvale with its endless sugar cane fields and towering processing plant. Cane fires used to be part of the theater up here in Cairns—huge, controlled burns set just before harvest to clear out the undergrowth and, more importantly, to evict the assorted murder fauna that had taken up residence. Rats, snakes, feral pigs, spiders the size of salad plates, and the occasional homicidal cane toad—the whole haunted house lineup. Most would flee ahead of the flames, straight into the waiting beaks of black kites, which had learned to treat the burns like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

But the real twist—and the bit that left the cane farmers scratching their heads—was the mystery fires that kept popping up in pristine fields miles from the original burn. There’d be a perfectly normal fire where they’d lit it, and then—poof—some entirely separate patch would go up like a birthday candle, no apparent cause. The farmers had no idea what was happening. The local Indigenous communities knew exactly what was happening—they’d been watching fire hawks light up the bush for millennia and had entire stories, songs, and warnings about the birds’ pyromaniac tendencies. If anyone had thought to ask, they could have skipped the baffled meetings and gone straight to “Your problem is the arsonist raptors,” but history rarely works that way.

Not long after we rattled out of Gordonvale, the guide, Orion, pointed out Walshs Pyramid, a colossal chunk of geological bravado rising 922 meters straight out of the otherwise polite landscape. It’s the world’s tallest free-standing natural pyramid, which sounds impressive because it absolutely is—a perfect, triangular exclamation mark shoved into the horizon to remind everyone that North Queensland doesn’t do subtle. It’s a beacon for the sort of Australians who view vertical punishment as a fun weekend activity—hikers, ultra-runners, and self-styled adventurers who can’t resist the siren call of a steep track, unrelenting sun, and the chance to vomit somewhere super scenic. Every August, they hold the Walshs Pyramid Race, a glorified dash straight up to the summit and back, for no reason other than to prove they can. It’s equal parts fitness challenge and heatstroke roulette, and, unsurprisingly, it’s been going strong since the 1950s—because in Queensland, if there’s a mountain, someone’s going to race up it, probably shirtless.¹

From there, we climbed to the Tablelands and the World Heritage Listed Daintree Rainforest. Spanning just about 460 square miles, the Daintree Rainforest is the largest portion of tropical rainforest in Australia.² To get up there, we took Gillies Range Road, a ribbon of asphalt so aggressively coiled it looked like it was plotted by a drunk snake. It’s arguably Australia’s windiest road, and while there’s no official governing body handing out awards for Most Twists Per Mile, Gillies clocks in at 263 bends over just 12 miles—which is either thrilling or a compelling argument to skip breakfast.

Built in the 1920s, the road climbs over 2,600 feet in less than an hour, linking the coastal lowlands to the Tablelands and making everyone on the bus reevaluate their susceptibility to motion sickness. Somewhere along the way—probably at a point where the brakes were audibly begging for mercy—we pulled over at Healy’s Lookout, which offers wide-angle views back toward the coast and a perfect opportunity to let our stomachs settle.

From there, we wound our way toward Lake Eacham, one of the Tablelands’ two famous crater lakes—lowercase “crater lake,” I mentally noted. Eacham was formed when a steam explosion blew a hole in the earth about 10,000 years ago, leaving a tidy little volcanic basin that slowly filled with rainwater. It’s about 196 feet deep³ and home to beautifully warm, swimmable water and some very friendly turtles. The kids did a little swimming, and we walked around the lake before climbing back on the bus.

During the longer stretches of “just riding”—those stretches between white-knuckle curves and scenic stops —Orion filled the air with stories, mostly about Australia’s well-documented enthusiasm for lethal wildlife. He kicked off with the cassowary, also known as the danger chicken or, more pointedly, the murder bird. Cassowaries look faintly ridiculous like someone crossed a turkey with a drag queen and gave it a hard hat. But they’re alarmingly dangerous, even in a country where most animals already want you dead.

Orion told us about riding his bike to work one morning—he’d grown up in the area—and passing a cassowary a bit too close for comfort. No big deal, he thought, until he got a better look and realized it was a she, and she had new chicks in tow. And if cassowaries are normally territorial, new-mom cassowaries can hit apex-level hostility.

Orion did what any sane human would do—he pedaled faster. Unfortunately for anyone not in a souped-up Mustang, cassowaries can easily run along at 30 miles an hour, which is unreasonably fast for something with feathers. And unless you’re Tour de France material, you’re not winning that race.⁴ Mama Cassowary eventually decided Orion had been chased far enough from her babes to no longer pose a threat— roughly three miles down the road—and turned back to her mothering. Orion pulled over and spent the next week trying to get his breath back.

Our next stop was Yungaburra, a charming little town where the big draw is platypuses.⁵ We hopped off the coach at Peterson Creek, a hotspot for platypus sightings—so well-known that the viewing platform even comes with helpful signage, just in case you weren’t sure what you were squinting at. For such famously weird animals—part duck, part beaver, part spare-parts bin—they’re remarkably good at not being seen. The creek was picturesque, the air was fresh, and the platypuses…were somewhere else. Probably laughing at us from beneath the surface, disrespectful little weirdos.⁶ Despite the promises of the signs, we didn’t see a single platypus. Not a bill, not a ripple, not so much as a dismissive splash. Turns out they’re naturally shy and possibly psychic when detecting tour groups. We stood there for a while before admitting defeat and moving on.

Fortunately, the Curtain Fig Tree was up next, and unlike a platypus, it’s impossible to miss. Tucked away in a patch of endangered mabi forest near Yungaburra, this 500- to 700-year-old rainforest colossus is the kind of tree that makes you feel pretty insignificant. This Curtain Fig started life the way all good strangler figs do—as an opportunistic seed casually dropped by a bird onto the branch of an unsuspecting host tree. From there, it sent down aerial roots—thin, spindly things until they reached the ground and started thickening into woody columns. Over decades, the fig’s roots wrap around the host tree like a botanical boa constrictor, slowly strangling it to death. Eventually, the host tree rots away completely, leaving the strangler fig standing on its own massive root system—a towering latticework curtain 49 feet high and 23 feet across.

But there’s more to the Curtain Fig than just extreme landscaping. The Ngadjon-jii people, Traditional Custodians of this part of the Atherton Tablelands, have long held deep cultural connections to the mabi forest and its ancient trees. The broader Indigenous worldview sees trees like this not just as plants but as part of a living network of ancestors, stories, and spirits woven through the land. In a landscape where everything—from the smallest insect to the mightiest tree—plays a role in the great, interconnected story of Country, the Curtain Fig’s towering presence would have been impossible to ignore.

Oh, and it’s a movie star. Yep. Famous for its cameo in Avatar. If you’ve seen the Tree of Souls, you’ve seen a Hollywood-glam version of this very tree. Apparently, James Cameron saw it and thought, “What if it also lit up and made people cry?” Which, fair enough.

After soaking in the majesty of the Curtain Fig, Orion offered a friendly reminder not to touch anything,⁷ but especially not the heart-shaped, vaguely fuzzy gympie-gympie plant. Officially known as Dendrocnide moroides, it’s more commonly referred to as the suicide plant, and even in a country with a competitive lineup of venomous horrors, this one stands out. It’s a stinging plant covered in microscopic, hollow silica hairs —biological hypodermic needles—that embed themselves in your skin at the slightest contact. The hairs deliver a neurotoxin so ferocious that victims have compared it to being electrocuted, burned, and crushed—at the same time. The pain can last for months or years. And the plant’s hairs don’t break down—they can remain buried in the skin for months, triggering the pain every time you move, sweat, or breathe too hard. Good times, good times.

To illustrate the point, Orion trotted out the legend of the military study, in which a group of unfortunate Australian soldiers volunteered to test treatments for gympie-gympie stings—a patriotic act that immediately backfired. One soldier ended up strapped to a hospital bed for three weeks to stop him from clawing his own skin off, while others described the pain as so severe they couldn’t sleep, sit still, or form coherent thoughts. 

But my personal favorite is the apocryphal hiker story, whispered in horrified tones across campfires and trailheads. According to legend, one poor soul, caught short in the bush, grabbed the nearest large leaf for toilet paper—only to discover, far too late, that they’d just wiped with a live gympie-gympie. What followed was a symphony of screaming and existential regret. While the story’s origins are murky, it feels too on-brand for Australia to be entirely false. I’ll never take Charmin for granted again, I can tell you that.

If Australia’s wildlife doesn’t get you, the vegetation absolutely will.

Our final stop before lunch was Malanda Falls, the first official waterfall on our Wonderful Waterfalls Tour, and—I’m sorry to say—easily the most underwhelming. It wasn’t bad, exactly. Just… there. The kind of waterfall you’d find in a desktop screensaver pack called “Somewhat Scenic.” It’s framed by some perfectly pleasant rainforest, which we didn’t explore, and it flows over ancient basalt lava, which we couldn’t see. There’s a swimming hole, which nobody was allowed to use because, duh, dangerous rocks lurk under the surface, waiting to kill the unwary. There’s some cultural significance to the Ngadjon-Jii people, which—to be fair—probably deserved more attention than the seven minutes we collectively gave it before shuffling back onto the bus.

Malanda town was up next. A rural burg of 2,000, she’s a charmer. Though you do need to breathe through your mouth occasionally, thanks to the thriving dairy industry and the natural musk that comes with it. Lunch was a serviceable slab of Australian pub lasagna next to a pile of fries—sorry, chips. There was a mechanical bull, but after a morning of waterfall-based emotional letdowns and a belly full of pure carbohydrates, no one was really in the mood. With our blood sugar restored, we rolled out of sleepy little Malanda and onto the best part of the day. Actual waterfalls worth posting about!

First up—Millaa Millaa Falls. These are the falls made famous by the ‘90s Herbal Essences commercial in which some blissed-out woman stood under the cascade and, in one glorious slow-motion flick, persuaded an entire generation that shampooing can be a deeply sensual experience. This perfect storm of rainforest, hair porn, and marketing cemented Millaa Millaa in the world’s imagination .⁸ But nothing Orion told us prepared us for how drop-dead gorgeous the falls are. Dang. They totally lived up to the hype. The water spills in a perfect, uninterrupted sheet over a lush, mossy cliff into a deep, inviting pool surrounded by dense rainforest. Several of the Youngs did try to recreate the hair flick. I thought about getting in to show them how it’s done, but I didn’t want to pull a muscle.

From there, we wound our way to Josephine Falls, a scene-stealer at the base of Mt Bartle Frere.⁹ This place is a stunner, with crystal-clear water cascading over smooth granite boulders, tumbling down in a series of tiered pools, each more inviting than the last. It’s the natural waterpark you always wanted as a kid, minus the funnel cake but plus the chance to slip and give yourself a granite wedgie.

The Youngs immediately stripped down and threw themselves into the water, sliding from one pool to the next like human otters. There’s one particularly smooth rock chute—nature’s Slip ‘N Slide—where you can glide down into a perfect emerald pool, splash dramatically, then climb out and do it all over again. It’s equal parts exhilarating and mildly terrifying, especially when you remember that some of these rocks have been polishing butts for thousands of years.¹⁰

I considered joining them—I really did. It was that awesome. But then I thought about the 2-hour bus ride back to Cairns, and there’s nothing worse than sitting in damp swim trunks while your thighs chafe in tropical humidity. So I stood on the rocks, arms folded, proudly dry, taking in the scene with the smug authority of someone old enough to have earned the right to stay on land.

Our final stop was Babinda Boulders and Devil’s Pool, a stunning place that could easily grace a thousand postcards. Babinda Boulders is one of those rare places that is both breathtakingly serene and deeply unsettling. Between the ancient boulders, the swirling currents, and whatever might be watching from the trees—drop bears,¹¹ kangawallafoxes,¹² or just something with far too many legs and a bad attitude¹³— the full Queensland package.

It’s a natural masterpiece with more granite boulders, sculpted smooth by centuries of fast-flowing water and clear, impossibly inviting pools between them. Everything about it whispers paradise, except that it’s also one of Australia’s deadliest swimming holes. Because of course it is.

You don’t swim here—at least, not if you’re smart or have a shred of self-preservation. The water may look calm, but the currents are sneaky and brutal, capable of snatching even strong swimmers and pinning them underwater in rock crevices with no escape. Between the treacherous terrain and the eerie number of drownings, Babinda Boulders has earned a reputation for beauty with a body count.

And if you’re thinking, “Well, that’s just nature being nature,” there’s another layer to the story, one that’s been told for generations by the local Wanyurr people. The legend speaks of Oolana, a beautiful young woman promised to a much older tribal elder. As is often the case, Oolana’s heart wasn’t really in it because she’d already fallen in love with a young man from another tribe, Dyga. The two lovers ran away together and camped beside the creek, thinking their love would conquer both tradition and geography.

It could not.

Their tribes tracked them down, and Dyga was dragged back to his people. Oolana, heartbroken and despairing, threw herself into the creek, unleashing a supernatural tantrum so intense it reshaped the landscape. The earth split open, water churned in a raging torrent, and massive boulders were hurled into the air, landing where they sit today. Oolana’s spirit, they say, never left. She’s still there, searching for Dyga, her sorrow twisting into something darker over the centuries. Some say she calls out to young men, luring them into the water, where her grief turns to a deadly embrace.

But it’s not just a cautionary tale. More than a dozen people—all young men—have drowned here, often under mysterious circumstances, pulled under by currents that seemed calm seconds before. It’s the kind of place where you can feel the weight of the story, even if you don’t believe in ghosts. Whether it’s vengeful spirits, treacherous currents, or bad luck, the message is clear—you can look but don’t touch.

That’s not to say the place isn’t worth a visit—it absolutely is. Babinda Boulders is stunning, even with the specter of doom hanging over it. The rainforest closes in tight around the pools, sunlight filters through the canopy, and water slides over the smooth stones like mercury.

Before we left Babinda, Orion literally treated us to one final taste of the rainforest. Spotting a trail of green ants, he picked one up by its tiny head and, with the confidence of a man who’s done this way too many times, licked an ant’s butt. Seriously. Turns out green ants produce ascorbic acid, so if you pinch one just right and gently tap its abdomen to your tongue, you get a surprising citrusy zing, like a living lemon drop. The best part? The ant survives the mini-ordeal, though probably a little offended.

As we started our long, winding descent back into Cairns, it hit me just how much ground we’d covered —literally and figuratively. It’s hard not to be impressed by how much drama nature’s packed into this corner of Queensland. And none of it—not the waterfalls, not the rainforest, and especially not the ant butt— would’ve been half as fun without Orion. Part naturalist, part storyteller, and all chaos wrangler, he knew something interesting about everything. I mean, I guess it is his job, but still….

So if you’re ever in the area, check out the waterfalls. Pack a swimsuit, a camera, and maybe your last will and testament because the Queensland wilderness doesn’t mess around. Maybe you’ll even be brave enough to lick an ant.