Waking up on the east coast of Cape York with the tide right out, the boats high and dry, and an eclectus parrot carrying on at the back of the Unimog over morning coffee. That is the kind of morning that sets the tone for everything that follows. The eclectus is one of the rarest parrots in Australia, found only in the Iron Range National Park and in the Macarith Ranges that run along this coastline. A big, brilliant green and red bird that looks like it belongs somewhere else entirely, and here it was, squawking around camp.

The stretch of country between the Macarith Rangers and Iron Range National Park is untouched. Absolutely magic. The kind of place you can see yourself coming back to for years, working slowly through it with the traditional owners who know every creek, every sandbar and every tree. That is the promise of this part of the world. There is always more, and the people who know it best are right here.

The Lockhart River Aboriginal Community has been on this country for a very long time. Their traditional country, Walangu country, runs from the coast inland through rainforest and across the Cape York peninsula. The families here hunt, fish, gather and move through this country the same way their grandparents did. They welcomed camp being set up on their doorstep for ten straight days, which says everything about who they are.

The day started with the boats. One had been taking on water overnight, so Callum carved a bung for the hull out of a piece of timber on the spot. The moment that happened, the shape of the day was set. "I saw Callum this morning making a bung for the boat out of a piece of timber, and I knew at that point we're up for an adventure."

Once the tide came up enough to launch, the quad bike pushed Callum's boat out through the flats and they were away. The target was jong, the local word for dugong. Dugong feed on the seagrass beds growing on the sandbars at low tide. You find the grass, and you find the shape moving through it. As a non-Indigenous visitor, participating directly in a dugong hunt is not something that can happen, but going along to watch these men work their country from a boat is an education you cannot buy anywhere else.

The seagrass beds sat out on the tidal flats, and the family knew exactly where to look. "Just out on the sand bars at the front here, up at that point there. When there's grass there, they feed on that." The knowledge is that precise, that local. These are sandbars they have been working their whole lives, reading the water the same way every generation before them has read it.

After the water, the next job was spear handles. Callum pulled the boat up at a stretch of bush along the bank and Jack started reading the trees. Spear shafts need the right timber: straight-grained, the right diameter, and it has to come from a tree that has grown clean. Finding one is the first skill. Cutting it correctly is the second. Jack had both.

A shaft was cut, straightened over fire, and explained as it was worked. The fire does the finishing. Get the bark off, apply heat, let it cool, and the timber sets straight. When you get a heap of handles made up you always have shafts at home, ready to point and bind when the right job comes up. That is how you stay prepared in country like this.

On the boat, the dynamic between the three generations was something to watch closely. Jack in charge of knowledge, Callum relaying it through action, Tan and Tate absorbing it all. "Callum in charge up there on the bow pointing. And then watching Jack. Everyone's learning from Jack and Callum. You can see Callum's got the knowledge there too." Everyone exactly where they were supposed to be, doing what their family has always done on this water.

"And just the journey for me to end up here on a boat with these four Indigenous men way out here in the middle of bloody nowhere on the east coast of Cape York. I'd never met these men except for Trazan. I'd never met these men before this trip. And yeah, to be in this wildly remote place with them on their country looking for spear shafts, it's so cool."

Jack Temple is the man to see if you want a traditional handmade spear from Cape York. His spears are built with timber handles cut from the bush around Lockhart River, pointed and bound using yintino, a natural resin worked from a local tree. The finish is functional and precise. These are not display pieces. They are working spears, built the way they have always been built, by someone who has never stopped making them.

If you ever make it to Lockhart River, drop in at the art centre, the library, or the local shop and ask for Jack Temple. You can pick yourself up a handmade traditional spear, a real one, made by the master here on country.

Jack explained the thinking behind different spear types as he worked. A smaller, lighter fish spear needs a wrath, a spear-thrower, to give it enough power and speed through the water. "For a fish spear this size, you need a wrath for these smaller spears." Longer, heavier spears go differently. The thick-scaled fish they were chasing in the shallows need a long, sharp point to punch through. "That's why you need a sharp spear like that. Like longer ones. So you can go deep. Make it thin." Every spear is designed around exactly what it is going to do. Nothing is generic out here.

The yintino resin comes from a local tree, is worked by hand, and binds the point onto the shaft with a grip that does not move. It is the same system that has been in use here since well before any of the gear in a modern tackle shop existed. And it works perfectly.

Out beyond the tidal flats the bombies hold fish, and Callum knew where they were. He jumped in without fins, without a gun, nothing, just checking structure. He surfaced and called it: trout. There was a small school of sladdies sitting down on the edge of the bombie, and then a coral trout poked its head out, swam onto the sand, and held still long enough to take the shot. "He was looking at me head on, head on, head on, and then I just did one more little kick to get that little bit closer and he turned broadside and I got the shot."

The crayfish came next. The crew worked along the rock edge, reading the fingers and crevices. "To that crack. There should be cray in there." And there were. Pulled from the cracks by hand, added to the pile for the cook-up that night. Nothing goes to waste. The reef gives what it gives and everything comes back to the fire.

The barramundi were also running. Working shallow water near the mangrove edge, the barra were aggressive and in good condition. Between the coral trout, the barramundi, the mullet from the flat and the crayfish from the rocks, camp that night ate well. Meals that took the whole day to gather and tasted exactly like it.

One of the points also had a school of queenfish patrolling in calm water later in the day, but the spears were already done and the session was winding up. There is always a fish you do not get. That one stays on the list for next time, with a longer spear and sharper point.

After ten days the fresh water ran out at camp, and that meant moving. Pack the Unimog, get the boat off the water and onto the truck, load the quad bike, and head inland to where the family's camp sits near fresh water. The drive out is not a comfortable one. Cape York does not smooth itself out for anyone.

Getting the quad bike back up onto the Unimog takes a system. Saber recovery rings, soft shackles, and a 6,000 pound winch running through three redirect points. One ring on the winch, one on the frame, one on the bike, out to anchor points on the back of the Unimog. Too steep and too dangerous to ride it up, so you winch it. "It's reducing the amount of strain that goes on the winch. A lot of head scratching going on to get that sorted, but it seems to work pretty good." When you are this far from anywhere, the rigging matters.

Along the road out there was a river that had no business looking as good as it did. Clear water, barramundi bends, glassed-out sections. No fishing rod on board. The whole day had been set up as a hunting trip and the gear stayed at camp. "That'd have to be the best river I've seen this whole trip. And I don't have a fishing rod with me." That one goes on the list. Come back with a rod.

The mangoes were ripe along one stretch of track and the crew made the most of it. The final camp before the road south was spent with the family around a fire, mountains on the horizon, bush burning somewhere off in the dark, and the kind of quiet that only exists when you are this far from anywhere. "I love this place. I'm blessed to do what I do."