While the Balloon-Armed Lady repacked, Christopher glanced at his watch. 1 am. Theirs was the only plane.
Bill helped them grab their luggage and took them to the EXIT.
Their worried parents were waiting outside. Dad gave them a big hug . Mum checked their bags. ‘ We heard about the bomb-scare.’
Christopher looked through the glass at the grey plane. Security staff were checking all over it. ‘Flying is usually fun, but...’ said Christopher thoughtfully. ‘Let’s not tell Aunty Viv about this.’
Amy nodded. Aunty Viv might never leave them alone at the airport again. Then they’d never be UMs again.
‘Don’t worry. Unless you break your leg and have to be flown out by helicopter,’ added Dad. ‘You’ll be walking the Milford Track with us for the next four days.’
Christopher loved the idea of flight-seeing in a helicopter. But it’d be better without a broken leg!
Chapter 2
Tracking and Tramping
’Don’t step back!’ warned Amy.
Christopher’s climbing boot landed on the tube. The top popped. Toothpaste squirted over his rainbow laces.
‘Yuk!’ Christopher tried to wipe it off. White paste stuck to his fingers.
’Lucky it wasn’t superglue,’ said Amy.
The lakeside hall was crowded with bags, piles of clothes and people in brightly coloured leggings with heavy boots. They were cramming things into backpacks the guide had given them.
‘Mine is 108,’ Amy opened her navy backpack. She unzipped a small pocket.
‘What’s this?’ She pulled out a damp , folded paper with worn edges.
Christopher wiped his boot sideways on the mat leaving white streaks. ‘You’re reading it upside down. It’s 801.’
Amy twisted the bag around. The numbers were painted white on navy. The shoulder straps had been mended recently.’ You’re wrong. There aren’t 801 walkers on the Track at once.’
‘Probably the rest lost their backpacks, or fell down the mountain or went heli-hiking or...’ Christopher didn’t like to be wrong when others could hear.
‘108,’ repeated Amy.
Christopher squinted at the legend. He knew all about maps. The scale was 1 to 15,000. The close contour lines meant it was steep.
‘Guess what the crosses are,’ said Amy hurriedly. She didn’t have a clue.
‘Where someone took a photo,’ suggested Christopher.’ Or planned to take some.’
Amy counted the crosses. ‘Lots of photos.’
‘Take out everything you can do without,’ interrupted Zoe, the guide. ‘Remember, you’ll have to carry the pack.’
Christopher took out his toothbrush, and left the ‘ Crash’ computer game.
‘Let’s share teeth gear,’ he said to his twin.
‘Yuk. Not the brush. Toothpaste’s okay. If there’s any left.’ Amy slipped the map into her pocket. Later, she’d work it out.
He unzipped a side pocket of Amy’s bag. As he tried to push the toothpaste down, he left a white smear. And there was something already in there!
‘Who did this belong to?’ cried Christopher. It was a chocolate wrapper.
‘Haven’t seen that brand before. One square left.’ He ate it.
‘That might be poisonous,’ warned his sister. ‘Or past the use-by date or...’
Christopher read the label.’ No white or brown sugar. It’s diabetic chocolate.’
‘Someone from the previous trip left them by mistake. Usually we check. ‘Zoe quickly ran her hand inside the pocket. She pulled out a torn-in-half photo, just showing a trekker’s legs against a signpost with M on it.
Shorts, bare legs and climbing boots. Male or female? It was hard to tell. The photo was blurry and damp.
‘Maybe this will identify the owner?’
Amy wondered about trekker No 108 before her? Was it like the aircraft’s fake bomb? Something left behind by mistake? Or was it deliberate? Any other clues? She checked every pocket. On the inside, hidden away, she found another zipped pocket. Unzipping it, she felt inside.
‘Look!’ A flat watch in the shape of a bird. A copy-watch. One of those cheap fakes of famous brands. The ex- No 108 must have been the greatest Loser of all time.
‘We’re looking for a lost bird-lover who likes chocolate. Should be simple.’
Christopher laughed. ‘Who wears navy shorts and climbing boots, like millions of others.’ He peered at the half photo. ‘With not-very-hairy legs.’
Zoe took the watch. ‘Kea birds are the local thieves. They pinch everything that isn’t locked up. You’ll meet a few up the track. Bird smugglers try to get them out to sell for high prices overseas.’
Quickly Zoe slipped the kea watch and photo into her pocket, suggesting she’d keep them until the end of the track.
Was Zoe trying to hurry them along or was she covering up something about the kea watch? Would she know from her list who was on the earlier trip? Or would another guide have taken them?
‘D’you know who was 108 before me?’ asked Amy.
‘Have to check the list back at the hotel.’ Zoë tightened the re-sewn straps on Amy’s backpack and changed the subject. ‘The bad news is you carry your own gear. The good news is you don’t need much. The huts have drying rooms.’
’What luxury! Take that out.’ Mum pointed to the ‘Crash’ computer game.’ You’ll see it again in four days.
Here, put my spare battery in your pack Amy.’
Mum and Dad had to carry their cameras and sound equipment too. Plane passengers and The Loser might leave things behind, but Dad always double checked his gear. Sometimes he triple-checked.
Around the hall, people were re-packing. Extra clothes could be left behind in name-tagged cases. These would be flown to the hotel at the end of the Track.
‘Ready?’ Mum weight-tested her pack.
‘Careful of Claud,’ fussed Dad. Claud was his best camera. ‘Don’t get it wet.’
Usually, the twins flew in after their parents finished their work. But this trip was to be different. Christopher had forgotten how much Dad fussed when on a big job.
‘Here, a freebie. ‘ Zoe offered a cap ‘Explore with Dr Al. Each trek, we have a celebrity walking with us. Fans come just to walk with the celebrity.’
‘If a celebrity is someone famous,’ Christopher put the bright blue cap on, back to front, ‘can I get an autograph signed ... on my cap?’
‘Why not? Ask Dr Al. Last year a rugby fan got Big Jon to autograph his neck.’
‘Unreal, ‘ Christopher wondered if it had hurt. Pens were sharp. ‘ Big Jon was on our plane .’
‘Really?’ Zoe looked surprised. ‘ He has so many fans. One fan even tattooed Jon’s face on his shoulder. It wrinkled when he flexed his arm muscles.’
‘Slip these in your bag.’ Mum gave Christopher two birthday candles. They were number shaped. ‘They won’t make much difference to the weight.’
‘Who’s turning seven?’
‘Seventy. Day after tomorrow. Dr Al. Hide them. He’s coming this way now.’
Smiling, the tall, thin man shook hands with their parents. Dad said,’ These are our twins.’
Dr Al peered at Amy’s name tag. ‘ Hi. We’ve both got an A in our names.
His face had lived-in wrinkles. His body moved easily. ‘Amy? There was a famous woman flyer called Amy Johnson . She flew around the world. Were you named after her?’ His eyes twinkled.
‘I don’t think so.’ Amy shook her head. Christopher Columbus was a famous explorer but her brother wasn’t named after him either. Names were your parents’ fault.
When she turned twenty-one, Amy might change her name. You could pay money and choose a new name. Aunty Viv said it cost about fifty dollars. It just depended how she felt about being Amy then. Perhaps she might beco
me Stormy Night or Sherlock-ina or something more interesting. At school, there was a girl called Sahara. Having a desert named after you was ace.
‘Dr Al, my name’s Stan, ‘ interrupted the man with the yellow and orange striped leggings. Stan was pushy. Immediately you knew he was going to say something about his own name. And he did.
‘Stanley was a famous explorer in Africa,’ said Stan, tugging at Dr Al’s arm.
‘True,’ said Dr Al. For a famous person, he listened a lot. But unless you walked away from Stan, you had to listen.
Dr Al stood listening politely to Stan rave on about himself, himself and himself until Zoe rescued him. She was checking on people’s packs and personalities. Guides were paid to be friends, even to bores like Stan.
‘Warm gear which dries quickly is good.’ Zoe changed the subject.
‘Cotton T-shirts get wet and you get cold. Wool dries quickly.’
‘I’ve got cotton T shirts too,’ said Stan eagerly. ‘As well as my yellow leggings.’
‘What a dork!’ thought Amy.
Stan stroked his chin which needed a shave. ‘Designer stubble will keep me warm too. Whiskers don’t weigh much.’ Stan looked at Amy expecting her to laugh. Amy realised Stan thought he’d made a joke.
Then, as Stan counted his money into his bum bag, he dropped his passport. The pages fluttered open.
Christopher picked it up.’ Here you are,’ The pages had opened at the photograph.
As usual, Christopher glanced at the picture. Then he took another look. It was not Stan’s photo in the passport! The face was much rounder and had a thick beard and glasses.
‘Thanks.’ Quickly Stan zipped the passport into his bum bag.
‘That was yours, wasn’t it?’ asked Christopher quickly.
‘Of course,’ Stan gave him a strange look. ‘Luckily we won’t need papers for the next four days. Or money. Away from everything.’
Was he pretending to be someone else?
Christopher decided to watch Stan very closely.
And who was the Loser who had owned the map with the crosses?
As they walked, Amy was determined to check out those spots.
Chapter 3
Feet Fleece
‘In an emergency, we use the heli-pad. We fly injured walkers out to hospital.’
Zoe explained about the three sleeping huts, a day’s walk apart. Each of the guides had a radio, so they knew where people were on the Track.
‘Do groups catch up and pass others?’ Amy noticed the benches already set up in rows from the previous group photo. She didn’t like being this organised. Neither did Christopher. They liked being U.M.s better.
‘Organised groups leave a day apart. We stay at the lodges. But there are some Freedom Walkers who stay at sleeping huts inbetween.Their numbers are controlled. They cook for themselves. They also carry all their own gear. It doesn’t cost them as much.’
‘I’d rather Freedom Walk,’ decided Amy but it was too late.
‘Time for our group photo,’ said Zoe cheerfully.’ Sit on the bench or stand behind.’
Mum and Dad hated having their photos taken too. They’d rather ‘shoot’ other people, on film, of course.
‘Smile. Say cheese.’
‘Sex,’ said Christopher. His teeth showed unevenly. One was missing..
‘What did you say?’ Mum’ d switched from photographer to parent again. That’s why the twins preferred travelling as Unaccompanied Minors. When parents travelled with you, they kept making comments like,’ Clean your teeth’, ‘Speak properly’ or,’ ‘Tidy your backpack’. If there were an Ultra -Tidy Person -Award, Mum would win it.
‘Christopher, did you say sex?’ Mum persisted. ‘Or six?’
‘Six,’ in New Zealander.’ Christopher pushed back his John Lennon frames.‘Kiwi language.’
‘Wait a minute,’ The woman hauling her golf bag, tripped and the heavy clubs started to fall . Christopher grabbed them, just in time.
‘Quick thinking son.’ The golfer, hugged her clubs as if they were a pet.
‘Are you weight- training on the Track?’ asked Stan.
‘Leave your clubs with the other heavy bags, Gertrude. We’ll send them on,’ advised Zoe.
‘I keep details of all the courses in my lap top,’ said Gertrude. ‘I’ll send that on too.’
‘Golf courses?’ asked Amy.
‘Yes. Got some great computer games ‘Golf Galore’ and ‘Hole in two.’ Would you like to play ... er ... Amy ? I love anything to do with golf.’ Gertrude peered at name -tags.
By now, all trekkers were wearing name-tags. Even the Japanese mountaineering club had their names in English.
‘My son’s a Rock Doctor, you know, ‘ continued Gertude, not speaking to anyone in particular. ‘He walked the Track recently.’
’Does he look after pop singers?’ asked a puzzled Stan.
‘Or sick rocks?’ joked Amy.
‘He’s a geologist.’ Gertrude threaded a chain through the heads of the clubs. She padlocked the chain.’ Mustn’t lose my favourite clubs. He finds rocks and valuable minerals.’
Cartoon characters were stuck on her golf-club covers . Christopher had seen them before on the baggage carousel. She must have been on their flight? Surely, nobody else would have golf- covers like that!
‘Why did you come to New Zealand?’ asked Stan.
‘My son said I should walk the Milford Track. He came on business and had such a rich experience. He loved what he found. So here I am.’
Stan had been staring at the bulging golf bag. ‘Play golf a lot, do you?’
‘Most of the time.’’ Then Gertrude joined the group photo.
Turning around, Amy recognised Rugby Top pulling the cap right over his face. He was at the back as if he didn’t want to stick out. Gertrude stood next to him.
Both had been on the same plane, Christopher realised. But they didn’t act as if they knew each other. From a planeload of passengers , Christopher could picture most faces.
‘Amy, d’you remember seeing Big Jon before?’
She nodded.
‘D’you remember seeing those golf clubs on the carousel?’
She nodded. ‘So what?’
‘They don’t act as though they’ve seen each other before.’
‘Perhaps they don’t look at faces like you do.’
‘But with the bomb scare, wouldn’t they take more notice of other passengers? And talk about where they were going?’ Christopher asked,’ Did you see Stan on our plane? He has an Australian passport. Even if it doesn’t look like him.’
Amy shook her head. ‘ Why should he have come from Sydney? On the plane, we didn’t tell everybody we were going to walk the Milford Track with our parents. Why should Big Jon and Gertrude tell everybody? Just because they came on the same plane doesn’t make them friends. They mightn’t have anything in common.’
‘They both like sport,’ said Christopher quickly.
‘D’you know who he is?’ Excitedly Stan pointed to Big Jon who was tightening the shoulder straps on his backpack.
‘Jon. It’s on his name tag.’
‘Yes, but do you know WHO he is?’ persisted Stan.
Amy shrugged.
‘The best front-row ever. One of my sports heroes.’
Stan seemed to have a few heroes.
‘Could you autograph this, Big Jon?’ Stan fumbled in his bum bag. ‘A ticket for your game next week in Auckland. Would you sign the back of it?’
‘You’re lucky to get one. They’re sold out.’ Big Jon’s giant ham-like hand wrote on the back of the ticket.
‘Yeah. I won a double ticket in a competition. Part of my prize.’
‘Is rugby your favourite sport?’ asked Amy politely.
Big Jon smiled. ‘No. F
ishing is. But in New Zealand, rugby is a religion. Kiwis talk rugby all the time. It’s a bit hard to get away from the game.’
‘Rugby players are heroes here,’ interrupted Stan.’ At home, we play Aussie Rules or soccer.’
Christopher picked up that clue. Stan must be from one of the southern Australian states. Probably Victoria, the home of Aussie Rules.
When Zoe read out names and countries, there were thirty-six people from all over the world: England, America, Holland, South Africa, Germany, South America, Singapore and Japan. But there were only a couple of New Zealanders; Big Jon and Dr Al. He was an international explorer. And Big Jon had just returned from playing in South Africa.
‘We always give trekkers a copy of their group photo at Milford Hotel on the last day. Your names and countries will be printed on the back. Autograph them if you like.’
As guide, Zoe counted them a lot. Thirty six people. Twelve countries. Amy liked to know stuff like that. She collected stamps and might be able to swap for some unusual ones. Luckily, stamps didn’t weight much.
Neither did the phone cards or basketball cards she was collecting.
‘I’d like two copies of the group photo,’ said Stan fussily. ‘ Proof. So my friends know where I’ve been.’
‘They’re free.’ said Zoe. “Only one each.’
Amy glanced at her brother’s face. ‘ Just because you don’t like him, doesn’t make him a suspect,’ warned Amy in a whisper. ‘ There’s no mystery. Nothing has been stolen. Nothing is lost. We’ve even found a few things.’
’Only forgotten gear in backpacks. And a passport photo that doesn’t match.’ Christopher felt he needed a mystery to keep him interested for the next four days.
Over at the shop, Stan was buying two of everything. ‘Feet fleece, ‘ he showed them proudly.
‘Wool for your toes?’ asked Hiroshi.
Stan stuffed bits of the white fluff between his pink, hairy toes. Then he pulled on socks and his climbing boots.
Most of the group were wearing the same brand and colour. The only difference was that for a man, his feet were small.
‘You’ve been fleeced, Stan.’ Big Jon looked at the wool.
Fleeced Page 2