The Country Side, by Rae Roadley, is a regular column in the Northern Advocate's 48 Hours weekend section.
Think of Aussie's Northern Territory and it's likely you'll also think about crocodiles.
There are two types and they have two main differences. Their snouts are different shapes, which isn't something you'd check in a close encounter, and while the salt water variety, known unsurprisingly as salties, attack humans, freshies don't.
But they might be unimpressed in a bitey way if threatened or frightened. Treat with caution.
Back when our adventure to Darwin was a vague plan – we're soon driving to Perth with friends in two campervans – some former Darwinians told us a golden rule in NT is to swim only in pools with tiled surfaces.
But so far this has proved untrue. During a two night/three day camping trip in the Kakadu and Litchfield national parks we cooled off in many glorious pools which often looked fetching thanks to waterfalls tumbling down nearby cliffs.
Almost all had warning signs which, in essence, said: We catch crocs before the tourist season, but can't guarantee one won't sneak back.
As the farmer and I dried off after one such swim, a woman told us a croc had been seen in the nearby swimming hole. We were tempted to investigate, but figured actually moving towards a croc was stupid.
Our tour guide had already told us about the strength of a saltie's bite which has as much power as, say, a road train at full tilt along the Stuart Highway, the arrow straight road that runs south from Darwin.
I can't remember the numbers, but she compared it with the bite of a great white which sounded comparable to the oomph of the quad bike we saw at a road house. The farmer asked about the gun holder on the back and the lady of the establishment told us they didn't hunt for fun.
They'd sometimes shoot a buffalo to feed the dogs, which I'm picking weren't bichon frises, and in the aftermath of a vehicle versus buffalo encounter the police would ask them to terminate the wounded creature.
We saw a few crocs, one quite large, as we were ferried in a punt around a billabong. The farmer, in a Sir David Attenborough moment, told me the adorable little chicks standing on the water were Jesus birds before our flat-bottomed vessel's captain had a chance.
A vast number of water birds strolled about on giant lily leaves. Back on the road, he also got it right about controlled fires. At first, I thought all the scorched gum trees were bush fire victims, but not so. Even in the national parks, fires are used to tame the undergrowth so a full-blown bush fire doesn't get a chance.
Most of the walks to the water holes were gentle strolls, except the one that saw me getting a serious dunking. Worn boulders, sand, wet shoes. Splash. Everything but my head went under and I was out of the water before you could blink.
My cellphone got swamped, but my unplanned swim involved so many flavours of lucky I can barely count them. Just for a start, a convenient ledge enabled me to scramble for safety and no lurking croc turned me into supper.
The phone vibrated for ages, even though it was turned off. We sat it in the sun and hoped. Then it spent a night enclosed in a bag of rice which, apparently, is the time-honoured way of dealing with a sodden phone.
Finally, encouraged by one of our 12-strong camping team, I turned it on. Like magic, it pinged into life. No chance of that after a saltie attack. Thus we'll approach swimming holes with care, perhaps by ensuring that other people are serving as bait before we dip our toes in.