by Claire Dunn
Over the next few days, I learnt how to build a survival shelter from leaf litter, collected rainforest spinach down a wild creek, and had my first go at making fires from sticks. I pounded wattle seed for pancakes, sewed a corner of the hide into a pouch and slept by the fire. All thoughts of the election campaign and what I had to do that week vanished. When it came time for the much-whispered-about night stalking while blindfolded, I baulked. But an hour or so later when I emerged into the firelight, my whole body was electrically charged. I felt more alive than I could ever remember feeling.
On the final evening we gathered around the campfire, laughing and sharing stories. Kate shelled wattle seed while chatting with another woman. I watched her closely. She was attentive to the conversation but held herself back too, as if half of her was engaged somewhere else. Her presence intrigued me. She held a kind of unshakeable groundedness. A power. She seemed privy to secrets that I wanted to know. I casually took a seat nearby, eavesdropping as she told the woman about the year she spent in a primitive shelter in America, the thigh-high snow in winter, the rock-hewn hearth that she huddled next to during the long nights.
“I’m thinking of offering a year up the coast from here, if you’re interested,” I heard her say. I whipped my head around to find her dark eyes boring into mine.
Back at work the office felt stifling, my senses muffled and dull. I kept remembering the needle-sharp brush of fern against my thighs, every faculty pricked in anticipation as I searched blindly for the next step; and Kate staring at me with that presence of hers, inviting, challenging.
An entire year. What would it be like? I fantasised endlessly. No emails, no phone calls, no 5am media releases. No people to please or disappoint. No Magic Pudding-style refilling to-do list. No more feeling like the fate of a football field of forest rested in my hands that day. No more having to dress up in 10,000 different pretty ways the simple fact that we’re fucking up the planet. No more having to remind myself to care that we’re fucking up the planet.
Out there, just a summer breeze on my cheek, the palest of pink dawn skies, the raw truth of splinters in my hands, the scent of soot-soaked skin, the icy shock of the creek on a winter’s morning. Out there, I wouldn’t demand anything but would take only what was offered: the glimpse of a kingfisher feather in flight, a soft bed of grass on the forest’s edge to lie on and watch the clouds tangle and release. Out there, things would be communicated not by words but by feel: string in my hands, bark against my skin.
What would life be like whittled down to the barest of essentials? If I was answerable only to earth, fire, water and air? If my responsibility to the forest was not as saviour or spokesperson, but merely to belong to it? One more creature resting under its broad wing?
I longed to know. I was terrified of knowing.
While the visible me smiled pretty for the cameras and electioneered with seeming gusto, beneath the surface a campaign of equal intensity was being mounted. The wild-haired revolutionaries came to me in dreams, three gypsy women swathed in layers of dark cloth, feeding me steaming bowls of broth from a bubbling cauldron, beckoning me towards them with long bony fingers. I would wake with their smell of ashes and earth in my nostrils, with the faint tracks of their muddy bare feet across my sheets.
What really needed saving here? Was I too busy “saving” something else to see what was dying within? Something just as wild, just as threatened, something only I could save? I had been doing too much talking. It was time for me to listen to what the forest had to say. What it wanted me to do. To immerse myself in its culture, its language, its law.
But that was unrealistic, impossible. The time for wild adventures had passed. It was one thing when I was young, and another when all my friends were packing away their revolutionary caps and getting real jobs, marriage certificates, mortgages, babies. It was a time for consolidation, for settling. I’d be fine, after a break. If I could just get through this election and take a holiday, I’d be ready for the next fight.
*
The breeze has picked up since lunch and wafts over the scratches on my legs, making them sting afresh. It’s less like pain now, just sensation. Tingling. I tune in again to the lilt of Sam’s voice: “Pitch is of utmost importance.” It takes me a few moments to realise he’s talking about roof design. My head is spinning slightly, my breath deep and slow.
I sit up. Everyone is still taking notes. Excusing myself, I pull my hat down and walk out into the clearing. I head out towards an area of the property I haven’t explored yet, the sweat trickling down my thighs. Wandering down a side trail, I stop and lean against a stringybark to scull some water. My gaze lands on a stand of old banksias. The pea green of their new growth sways gently, as if waving me over. Their trunks are pockmarked with age, one dripping with red sap, blood running down a single gnarled leg. Stooping to stand under their canopy, I suddenly feel as if I’m surrounded by a gaggle of bingo-playing women, picking up their skirts and fluffing them out above me at head height. The shade they offer is well endowed but not smothering. Two of the women have linked limbs, forming a natural archway that invites me into their feminine domain. I step through to find a perfect circular clearing bordered by three ancient scribbly gums, all politely pointing their bulbous branches away from me. It’s like a secret cavern – spacious and yet protected, far enough away from camp to feel isolated. “Is this home?” I ask, with my eyes closed. Wisha wisha wisha, reply the leaves in the wind. I’ll take that as a yes. Banksia Lane. My new home.
The sun drops quickly down the western slope of the horizon. With no-one to carry me over the threshold, I waltz my swag under the archway and roll it out under a banksia.
As I settle in for sleep, the forest starts waking. Feathered wings hum and whir in unison above me. There is a yelp, squeak and gurgle from a large hollow in one of the scribblies. I reach out and throw both sides of the canvas swag over me, burrowing in as far as I can, sweat gathering under my arms. Nice forest, good forest. Something scuttles next to my ear and something else crawls up my leg. “Ahh!” I yell, jumping up and swatting wildly in the direction of the crawly. “Get off!”
The bush suddenly darkens, as if frowning at my outburst, the bingo-playing arms morphing into long-nailed claws reaching for me. I don’t want to get back in the swag but feel totally exposed out of it, a sitting duck who has just drawn unwanted attention to itself. The attention of what, though? Come on, there’s nothing here. I shake out my sleeping bag, flash my torch around in false bravado and tentatively climb back inside, blinking up at the bush. This is what you wanted. A hundred invisible eyes bore into me. I squeeze mine shut. Damn, I thought I was getting better at this. It wasn’t long ago that I would cross my legs rather than face the terror of stepping even ten feet away from human habitation into the bush at night to pee. I’d been working on it in the lead-up to this year, training as if for a marathon – making myself walk further, stay out longer, even going on a solo multi-day hike. And it had been getting easier. But this is no practice run, and I’m a twig snap away from dipping out.
A suspended light is coming towards me, getting larger. What the hell is that? My heart is sprinting.
“Helloooooo?” It’s Nikki and Chloe, picking their way down my trail by torchlight. I drop to my swag in relief.
“We heard you yelling and thought you might like company,” says Chloe, with bedding under her arm.
“Oh, it was just a spider,” I say, hoping they don’t catch the quaver in my voice. “But, sure, first-night slumber party, why not? What were you two doing skulking around together, anyway?” From their glance, I can tell Chloe doesn’t want to admit she was fleeing the same night monsters.
Sleep still evades me as flying foxes arrive and throw a wild screeching party overhead. I may as well be in a noisy nightclub. And yet, beneath the bustle of the forest’s peak hour, there is a deep calm, a thrumming silence I ha
ve been yearning for. I’m glad to be awake now. Just to soak it all in.
The half-moon bathes everything in a luminescent glow, our mozzie nets shining like bridal veils, the three brides lined up underneath, silently breathing, waiting, watching.
3.
“TIMBERRRR!”
The sapling creaks and sways but refuses to budge. I swing my foot up on its trunk and push as hard as I can. It gives an indignant creak but clings on. Stubborn thing. I force the saw back into the cut. The tree bites down on it so hard I can’t get it out. In a contortionist act, I push one foot against the trunk again, while reaching between my legs to force a few more abrasions with the saw. I’m glad no-one is watching.
Despite the fact that my first word was “tractor”, I have never been a particularly practical lass. Outdoorsy, yes; handy, not so much. With ballet, drama and tennis lessons, I couldn’t really fit in DIY dolls-house building. Although Dad didn’t bar me from the tool shed, it didn’t cross his mind to teach me the workings of its greasy metal implements. The shed remained the shadowy domain of men’s magic. Unlike my three older brothers, I was never privy to the nether regions of a lawnmower, never taught the Queenslander hitch to tie off a gate with a piece of eight-gauge wire, never shown how to deliver the punishing crunch to a steer’s testicles (I was perched on a fence just out of view, covering my ears against the bellow that would ensue). While the boys were building billy carts, I was collecting flowers with my sister to make witches brews. When the boys were helping Dad build a retaining wall, I was helping Mum prepare lunch. Was I naturally not interested or was this falsely assumed? I don’t have time to work it out now. I’ve got a shelter to build.
“TIMBERRRR!” I yell again, this time throwing my whole body against the thin trunk. It squeals loudly as it leans precariously to one side, releasing a sharp whip crack as the last of the fibres give way and it falls with a bounce onto the undergrowth. Sawing off the top branches, I hoist the log to rest on my hip and head for home like a proud hunter. The log marks a single drag line across the cleared circle I’ve made over the last couple of days. With the mattock as my bulldozer, I’ve peeled the bush back to a patch of earth that’s the size I think my habitat needs to be. Just a few shrubs to go.
I’ve been surprised by how smooth the switch from tree hugger to tree feller has been. It’s been made easier by the fact that I had to remove only two trees each the size of my thigh, and I plan to use them as building materials. But there has been an undeniable pleasure in the marking of my territory, the satisfaction of imposing some order on the chaos of the bush. Chipping up another shrub, I add it to the neat pile. I walk over with the mattock to the last remaining bush and squat next to it. It has nondescript small green leaves, spindly and spiky like most others. I went to remove it yesterday and felt uncomfortable, so thought I’d leave it for today. Crushing up the leaves, I breathe in their sharp tang. I don’t know why, but I can’t uproot it. Funny little thing. It makes my shelter site look like a bald head with a tuft of unruly hair sticking up – or two tufts, if you include the baby grasstree I’ve also left. I grab the folding shovel and begin digging another post hole.
I have a plan (of sorts) now. I tried doing some research before I left, finding one fantastic book on Aboriginal architecture, the only one in an otherwise non-existent genre. While it detailed shelters down to the placement of every stone, the relatively few east-coast examples were either temporary humpies or elaborate village-sized, palm-woven beauties from far-north Queensland. With still no concrete ideas for my real shelter, I’ve decided to cut my building teeth on the only model that I can actually visualise – a lean-to, with two tall front poles, two short back poles and a sloping roof. Simple. I’ll sleep in it while my main shelter takes shape, then convert it to a kitchen. It’ll be like living in the shed while the house goes up. The nearby paperbark swamps will provide the roofing. I reckon it’ll take me a fortnight to knock up, giving me a good six weeks for my proper shelter (we’re meant to finish our shelters within two months), which is plenty of time. Also, it gives me a chance to check out what the others are doing and borrow some ideas of what to do (or not to do).
As I’m methodically tamping down the soil around the last pole, I realise the Y-fork at the top is facing the wrong way. Two steps forward, one step back. I loosen the sand enough to twist the pole to face the correct way, the dark sweaty patch on my lower back broadening. I’ve been starting work not long after dawn, assuming I will want to knock off during the heat of the day, but I’m finding that most days I can push through. My movements become slow, as if underwater, swimming in the humidity rather than resisting it. It’s almost pleasurable. It means I miss the midday group gossip down at the waterhole, but that’s not such a bad thing.
Choosing the straightest pole from my clearing pile, I place it to fit between the back and front Y-forks, making a roof angle of about forty-five degrees. Forgetting the lashing knot Shaun showed me, I instead wind the rope around and around, securing it with a string of granny knots. If you can’t tie knots, tie lots! Done. We’re not allowed to use any metal in our shelters, but store-bought string is apparently admissible. I’ll make primitive string for my real shelter.
I move straight on to digging the next hole. My arms are aching. Everything is aching, actually, but I’m loving the feeling of engaging my muscles, bending my limbs to a task. It feels so good, so natural, to be up and moving most of the day rather than sitting in front of a screen. My mind is just as busy as my body, entertaining me with a replay of events leading up to my departure. I’m catching up with myself, walking slowly back over the scenes that I didn’t have space to really soak in, saying the proper goodbyes I didn’t have time for.
Look at her go, she’s checking the distance between the poles, good thinking. Now she’s starting to dig the last hole. Let’s hope there are no roots there. The commentator is another consistent companion, filling me in on exactly what I’m doing, in case I didn’t know. Maybe it’s a mental form of pinching myself that I’m actually here. I’m actually building my shelter – it’s happening. I smile and pause mid-shovel to take it in. I can’t imagine how different I’ll be at the end of a year of this. Around the fire last night we took bets on who might leave early. I vacillated between Dan and Chloe. No-one guessed me.
*
“COOOOOOO-EEEEEEEEEEEE!” This is our version of a knock at the door. I give a slightly weaker cooee back. Shaun strides in, two climbing carabiners clinking on his belt. He cocks his head to one side, gauging how welcome he is.
“Just seeing how the backyard blitz is going,” he says cheerfully. I think he’s taken a bit of a shine to me, although he masks it with a brotherly concern for my shelter-building abilities. I stand back with him, surveying my baby proudly.
“Whoa, you’ve made those Y-sticks pretty small – you expect them to hold up a tonne of paperbark?”
My eyes narrow as I zoom in on the four poles responsible for holding up the entire structure. “What? They’re wrist size, that should be okay, shouldn’t it?”
The skeleton of my lean-to suddenly looks like Miss Piggy balancing on stilettos.
“Struts, she’ll need struts on those beams.” Struts? I trawl my mental dictionary for a word match. Shaun registers my confusion, picking up a stick and showing me the diagonal support idea.
“She’ll be right,” I reply brusquely, hurriedly applying them after he leaves.
Over the next few days I unleash my inner “Bob the Builder” – every knot an achievement, every problem solved a cause for celebration. I am the muttering master builder, brow furrowed, deliberating on architectural nuances. New neural pathways are being forged, bulldozing through the blocks that say, “You can’t build,” and replacing them with, “How about I use dried bangalow palm fronds to fill in the gap at the base?” Brilliant, replies the commentator. I start writing “Zen and the Art of Shelter Buildin
g” as I go.
Even though I’m not giving any thought to aesthetics, happy to have anything vaguely upright, primitive shelters are the original shabby chic. One morning Shaun and I return from a reconnaissance trip in his ute, down the road to an abandoned logging operation, with a treasure trove of wide and sturdy sheets of stringybark. I remember reading about the pioneers making roofing shingles out of them, but there aren’t enough for that and the work’s too fiddly. Three hours later, with a bit of digging and jigsaw puzzle play, I have walls (in the broadest definition of the word). On a whim, I leave one wall half open for the view. Grabbing a thick piece of flat wood that I found in the log dump, I trim it to fit on top of the half wall. Hello, breakfast bar. I picture myself sitting up to it in winter with a steaming teapot, spreading bush berry jam on homemade damper.
It’s time for a roof. I’m grateful when Shaun offers to accompany me on my first mission into the swamps. I dip one new water shoe into the inky reed-choked waters. The cold swirls up to my shin, and I shiver despite the day’s heat. One more timid step and I’ve entered another world, all sunlight rejected by the dense cover of the paperbarks. Rainbow lorikeets shriek and flap overhead. Sweet nectar fills my nostrils. The water deepens, swishing softly around the base of my knees. A giant spider hangs between two trees above my head. I duck unnecessarily and wade over to where Shaun waits, one hand on the machete strapped to his side. I’m conscious of mine bumping against my thigh. I smile involuntarily.
I’ve always loved paperbarks. I see them as a keeper of the waters, in a similarly revered role as the weeping willow occupies in Europe, but giving off a scent that is uniquely Australian – a summer storm after rain, the first breath of fresh air after a stuffy car ride. I love the grassy green of their slender leaves, which drip down in generous shady bunches along waterways and billabongs. I love the swirling mocha bark, peeling and frilled like a lacy skirt, full of cracks and crevices. As a kid I would write poems and letters on the bark. I love the way they unapologetically occupy an entire area, fully owning their niche, at home both with water up to their knees and with hard-baked sand around them. They are leaders, markers of weather and time – the oozing of rich nectar aboard their bottle-brush flowers signals the change in season from summer to autumn on the coast, drawing flocks of birds and bats at the first whiff of their annual beach holiday.