114. Saturday, 24 July 1948. Our transportation, in the form of Norman Fisher of Wenlock, taking the place of his brother, Hughie, whose truck had broken down, arrived sometime after 11 P.M. last night. In order to make the Wenlock trip in one day, we got up somewhere about 4.30 A.M. this morning, loaded up, had breakfast and left Iron Range before 6. The population had not fully waked when we left and, in fact, there is something of a rift developed recently. Bert Connell hit Malcolm Holmes in the jaw because Malcolm let his dogs get into Bert's part of the hut and was a bloody nuisance anyway. Malcolm retreated with speed and Mrs. Connell screamed. That was a couple of days ago and outwardly things are quiet now. The road as far as Brown's Creek is old stuff for us now and from Brown's on, until we reached the Pascoe, it was much the same. The Pascoe, where we stopped for a mouthful of food and a drink of tea, was a pleasant stream about fifty feet wide, bouldery and something of the order of the Mossman River, without the swift current. The trail and the country get more and more arid, sandy soil and sparse trees with few leaves on them predominating. There were no outward events during the trip and we reached Wenlock, known as "the town", about 3 P.M. to learn from Van that a grand party had been planned for the evening and the previous week had been spent in cooking and baking. By the time we had had an excellent meal with another branch of the Fisher family, and set up work rooms and sleeping space, the former in what once was a sort of stable and the latter in a former blacksmith's forge with roof but no sides, it was time for the party. Everybody was dressed in their best, two of the men going to the extreme of wearing ties, which quickly came off. Drinks of rum and fruit juices were served, pleasant concoctions, there was dancing for those who wished to dance and music was provided by a radio and a victrola, the former being interrupted frequently by people who wanted to find out how the England-Australia cricket match was going on. The food spread out was delicious and, as George remarked, brought home to us the things that we have given up and the other things which we have become accustomed to. Joe gave his professional approval but seemed rather upset that they should spoin good rum by adding fruit juice to it. We were all pretty tired and gradually sifted away into our smithy and the party ended somewhere about 11.30. This whole area, once, and even now, being operated fairly profitably, is run by the Fisher family (not related to the Portland Roads Fishers). Three mines, the Casket, the Spotted Dog and the Black Cat, are all producing gold-bearing ore in fair quantity. Old Fisher, the patriarch, has four sons, all of whom are married except Norman, and have children of their own so in time a clan will be built up, possessing considerable wealth and numbers. In a few decades there may be a large population and in a greater time it is quite likely that they will wield considerable influence in North Queensland. The party was to celebrate our arrival and Norman Fisher's birthday; Norman, the one who is not contributing to the population, has been married but his wife left him and is now living with Lennie Somers, another miner who has a place on Scrubby Creek, near Portland Roads. In general, on a superficial estimate, the country, sandy and with its scanty vegetation even now in flames, will not offer good collecting possibilities. I think we shall move on to Coen as soon as Hughie gets his truck in shape to carry us but tomorrow we shall all, in our particular activities, investigate further.