“That looks a long way,” Stephen said.
“About another twelve or thirteen k’s. Four hour’s easy walk. We lost about four hours don’t forget.”
“I’m glad we did,” Roger said. “I don’t think I could have walked much further.”
“You should be fitter,” Peter chided.
“I know it,” sighed Roger.
Stephen cut in. “Don’t you break down on us Roger, and spoil our chances of covering the hundred k’s.”
Roger felt anger rise. “I won’t. Don’t worry. I’ll make the distance. As I get fitter I’ll get better.”
“Tomorrow will be worse,” Peter cautioned. “The second day is always more painful than the first. It’s not until about Day Four that your body adjusts and your muscles get into the swing.”
Roger agreed. He knew that. He poured another cup of Milo, stirred it and leaned back against his pack. A cold breeze was now coming off the lake. He wrapped his hands around the metal cup for warmth and sipped.
“I wonder who murdered that man?” he asked.
Stephen seemed to spring to his feet. “Shut up Roger! Don’t talk about it!”
“I was just..”
“Well don’t! Just don’t, do you hear!” Stephen cut in.
“OK. Sorry.”
Graham and Peter exchanged glances and looked uneasily at Stephen. He seemed to suddenly sag and he sat down.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It just got at me.” He began to rummage in his pack.
Roger had a long swig from his cup, feeling both embarrassed and nettled. He was curious! ‘I really want to know who had murdered the old man, and why,’ he thought. He went back over the day’s events in his mind, staring absently out over an arm of the lake at the wall of black jungle beyond.
“Do you think it will be cold tonight?” Peter asked, changing the subject.
“No cloud. Lots of stars. Could be. But we are beside the lake and that will help keep the temperature mild. Mr. Conkey explained it in Geography,” Graham said. He went on to talk about differential heat transfer hoping that the others would forget the body.
Roger finished his Milo. He pulled on his socks and settled to munch a chocolate. It was only about 8pm but he felt very tired. They had all been awake since 5:30 that morning and it had been a wearing day, on the nerves, if not on the body.
Peter made the first move.
“Bed for me. I’m buggered.”
Graham agreed. “Good idea. If we have a good early start we might make up some lost time.”
They dragged their gear into the shelters, unrolled their bedding and prepared for sleep.
“I need a hip hole,” Roger grumbled. Being on a lawn in a camping area meant he couldn’t dig one.
“My head’s downhill,” Peter complained.
“Then turn around,” Graham suggested.
“No. Then I’d have my nose too close to Stephen’s smelly feet.”
After a few minutes of joking and wriggling they settled down.
Roger snuggled into his sleeping bag in an attempt to avoid a persistent cold draught which seemed to seek out the left side of his neck. Then he tried to relax and go to sleep.
But sleep would not come. He was aware of all his little aches and pains but that wasn’t the real problem. It was the body. He couldn’t get the dead man out of his thoughts. Again he relived every moment of the day.
As he speculated on what it must have been like for the old man as he ran for his life down through the pine forest Roger realised his hands hurt because he was gripping his sleeping bag so tightly. He tried to relax, to think of something else, but he couldn’t.
The thought came to him so suddenly he half sat up. If the old man was shot in the forehead he must have turned to face his pursuers (there were two men after him for sure). Roger sank back down and mulled over the scene. ‘They emptied his pockets and dragged the body to the lake. If.....’ He drifted off to sleep.
Lights went out. A radio was turned off. A few voices. A car door slammed. Silence settled on the picnic area, other than the lap of the waves and the wind in the trees.
-----
Roger started to run. But he couldn’t. The weeds seemed to cling around his ankles. He looked behind. Two men in black were flitting through the trees, coming towards him at an appalling speed.
He turned and tried to run again. “No!” he murmured in a strangled groan. “No! No!”
The voice wasn’t his. It penetrated his dream. Other voices intruded; Graham’s voice. ‘Graham will save me from the men in black,’ Roger thought.
“No!” the voice shouted.
Roger sat up, his hair on end from fright. A torch shone. Stephen was sitting up beside Graham, his eyes wide and staring.
Graham’s voice came again. “Wake up Steve. You’re having a nightmare.”
Peter groaned and sat up too. Graham shook Stephen, who started a scream which suddenly cut off.
“Where am I?” Stephen gasped.
Graham turned his torch away. “In your tent with us Steve. You were having a bad dream.”
Roger struggled into a sitting position. He switched on his own torch. Stephen slumped and hugged himself. He looked thoroughly scared.
“The body!” he began. “It came up out of the lake, just a hand, clawing the way they do in the movies. You remember that movie?”
They all did. Roger felt a thrill of terror and swung his torch nervously around. He got another fright. The air was white!
“Fog!” Peter said.
A fog so thick they could hardly see from one end of the double shelter to the other had rolled in off the lake. They shone their torches out into it and talked about the fog because they couldn’t bring themselves to talk about nightmares. Or at least Roger couldn’t and he suspected the others felt the same.
The clammy, moisture laden air made Roger shiver.
Peter swore. “Oh blast and bugger. The fog is all condensing on the underside of the hutchie and dripping on us.”
“We need a fire,” Graham commented.
Roger looked at his watch. 2am. Middle of the ...mind don’t say it! ...The mind did...the Graveyard Watch. He shivered again and shone his torch out into the fog. ‘We will never see anyone who is creeping up on us in this mist,’ he thought. He tried to tell himself he was being stupid. Why would anyone bother to creep up on them?
Stephen was obviously feeling a bit embarrassed at his performance.
“I’m going to make a brew. Anyone else want one?” he offered.
Graham and Peter both said ‘no’ but Roger suddenly felt thirsty. And he needed to go to the toilet badly.
“I’ll join you,” he said. He slipped out of his sleeping bag and pulled his boots on, then crawled out of the hutchie. Stephen crawled out, dragging his webbing.
“I’ll just have a leak,” Roger said. He turned and began walking in the direction of the toilet, his torch cutting a dazzling pattern in the thick fog. He glanced back and saw the black shape of the hutchie and the dim glow of Stephen's torch.
After twenty paces Roger stopped. He knew he didn’t have the courage to go all the way to that toilet up in the darkness of the jungle. For a minute or so he stood uncertainly, listening. Then he turned off his torch and stood staring anxiously into the darkness.
Without the light the fog seemed to close in and to physically envelop him. He seemed to have trouble breathing. With mounting alarm he looked rapidly in all directions. The glow of Stephen’s torch steadied him. ‘I can’t just sneak back,’ he thought unhappily. And he did need to do a pee, urgently.
So he stood there and did it, eyes searching around him in fear; half ashamed at his cowardice and half ashamed at his poor hygiene. As soon as he was finished Roger turned his torch on and walked quickly back to join Stephen.
“Don’t sit down, the grass is soaked with dew,” Stephen warned. He was crouched over his stove.
Roger joined him, dug out his own stove and got it alight. Th
e flames were very welcome but nothing could be seen beyond ten paces. It was eerie.
The two boys stayed up for nearly half an hour talking quietly. Roger nibbled some more chocolate and then they made their way back to their sleeping bags. Both Graham and Peter were asleep, Peter snoring softly.
Roger took off his boots and slid into his sleeping bag again, then lay back, sure he would not sleep a wink. He listened to Stephen adjusting his bedding.
CHAPTER 5
DAY 2 STARTS WELL
“Wake up Roger!”
Roger groaned. He tried to roll over to escape the hand shaking him. Graham’s voice came again. Reluctantly Roger opened an eye. He saw Graham grinning at him.
“Breakfast time, up you get.”
“Bugger breakfast!”
Graham pretended horror. “What’s this? Roger doesn’t want food!”
“Is it cold?” Roger asked, lifting his head to look out of the tent. It was light but everything was still enveloped in the fog.
“No, it’s quite mild,” Graham replied.
Peter and Stephen appeared at the entrance of the tent. Stephen towelled his head and called in, “Come on Roger. Get up or we’ll chuck you in the lake.”
“What’s the time?” Roger parried, hoping for a few more minutes in bed.
“Ten past six,” Peter replied, crouching to move into the tent. A shower of cold drops fell on Roger.
“Oy! Don’t make it rain,” he wailed. He looked up. The inside of the plastic was coated with droplets.
Reluctantly Roger crawled out of his sleeping bag and pulled on his boots. The cold leather soon woke him up. He got out and stood up. As he stretched he was instantly aware of all sorts of twinges and aches from the previous day’s hike. He wasn’t really looking forward to the day’s march.
Graham struck a match and lit a hexamine tablet. That seemed to break the spell. Roger looked around. He could just see cars and other tents but no other campers seemed to be awake yet.
“Go and wash your face. That’ll wake you up,” Peter suggested.
“No thanks,” Roger replied. He dragged out his webbing and squatted to light his stove. A cup of hot Milo cheered him up. He followed this with a tin of ham and eggs and two muesli bars. Then he heated another cup of Milo.
The other boys all included a shave as part of their morning routine. Roger surreptitiously ran his hand over his chin but it merely confirmed what he knew. It would be another week before his downy fur needed a scrape. It gave him a twinge of jealousy, particularly for Graham and Stephen, both of whom seemed to sprout several millimetres of bristle overnight.
Instead Roger concentrated on polishing his boots and then on washing his mess tins and cup. To do this he walked down to a small beach on the edge of the lake and crouched to scoop up some sand to scour the utensils. It was only then, as he felt the relative warmth of the water, that he remembered the horrible events of the previous day.
Instantly his entire body seemed to be covered in goose bumps. He looked out over the still water of the lake. The mist seemed to steam and roll in wisps and Roger was seized with the irrational fear that another body would reach up out of the dark water and drag him in. As quickly as he decently could he swished the sand and water out of his mess tins and stood up.
Roger found he didn’t want to turn his back on the lake but he forced himself to do so, knowing it would look silly to the others if he walked backwards. He returned to the others, trying to appear calm but uncomfortably aware that his heart was thumping hard. In spite of the morning chill his forehead and hands went sweaty.
Luckily none of the others seemed to take any notice. Graham and Peter were busy rolling up their bedrolls. Stephen headed for the toilet so Roger followed him. By the time Roger came out of the toilet the first rays of sunlight were touching the tops of the trees across the bay. The fog had thinned and other campers were up and about. A few hardy souls could be heard splashing in the shallows.
“Looks like another fine day,” Peter said, indicating the cloudless blue sky which was being revealed as the fog thinned.
“Probably be hot later,” Graham said.
Stephen had just packed his sleeping bag. He looked out of the shelter and called. “Come on Roger. Roll up your bedding so we can drop the hutchie.”
“Aren’t we going to wait for the sun to dry it?” Roger asked.
It was Graham who replied. “No. We can be on the road by seven thirty if we move and then we can make up some lost time.”
So saying Graham pocketed his map and quickly pulled out his tent pegs and hauled the sheets of wet plastic off onto the grass. Peter went to help him. Stephen then unpegged the other shelter and dragged it off, exposing Roger’s bedding. Roger didn’t complain. It was the routine in their cadet unit and it was easier to pack up then. He consoled himself with the thought that they weren’t ‘tactical’ in which case everything would have been pulled down and packed before First Light.
Fifteen minutes later the four boys stood with webbing and packs on beside the toilets. From a tap they refilled their water bottles (four each) and had another big drink. As soon as he heaved his pack on Roger was instantly aware of his sore shoulders and stiff muscles. He couldn’t avoid several groans as Graham started marching.
They went up to the main road and turned right. It was a lovely morning, cool and pleasant. In under the rainforest the mist was still trapped and big drops of condensation spattered down in a steady shower which made the road surface quite moist and soft.
Roger felt easier as his muscles warmed up and lost their stiffness. He still found it an effort but he kept up with the others. They were all in a good mood and Graham and Stephen kept cracking silly little jokes.
Half a kilometre further along they crossed Downfall Creek, a real little jungle stream which gushed noisily under the road through a culvert. The road then went east. The sun reached the tree tops overhead and the mist evaporated without the boys really noticing. After fifteen minutes march they came to a belt of pine trees which seemed to go on and on. These were only half-grown and had a lot of secondary growth. The first car of the day went past.
Soon after 8 o’clock they stopped for a few minutes to adjust their gear and to have a drink. Roger peeled off his pullover and packed it. The march resumed. Another picnic area was passed.
Roger looked as he plodded on. That camp ground was also dotted with cars and camper’s tents. The irritating and insistent buzz of a high-powered speedboat engine came from somewhere out on the lake.
Rainforest on the right, pine forest on the left. A curve to the right and a narrow concrete bridge over a crystal clear stream flowing swiftly over a sandy bed. Roger didn’t need to ask Graham its name. The tourist signs told him.
KAURI CREEK.
There was a mowed picnic area on the left and then the road went uphill. Ahead loomed a conical hill clothed in pine trees and crowned with a forestry firewatcher’s tower. The road curved sharply back to the right and the angle of ascent sharpened abruptly. Roger soon felt the strain. In spite of his efforts he fell behind and began puffing and perspiring. His calf muscles started to burn. The road curved back to the left but went on climbing.
There was a road junction on the crest and the others waited there for Roger. Graham pointed behind Roger as he reached them. “Quite a view. You can see right over the lake to Bones Knob and Tolga.”
Secretly Roger couldn’t give a damn about the view but he dutifully turned and looked. “Can ..puff ..can you ..puff ..see Mt Baldy from ..puff ..here?” he asked.
Graham and Peter both looked concerned. They pulled out Silva compasses, ruled pencil lines on the map and checked the Magnetic bearing then stood to look in that direction.
“No. You can’t,” Graham replied.
Roger nodded. He didn’t care. It had given him a couple of minutes to get his breath back. They waited while two more cars went past, one in each direction, before starting again.
It was then
downhill for over a kilometre, with the sun in their faces. Both sides of the road were pine forest.
“I don’t approve of all this pine forest,” Graham said.
“Why? We have to have timber,” Peter asked.
“We do, but not pine trees. We can buy them from all those places like Canada and Finland that have them everywhere. We should plant native hardwoods like Blackbean and Cedar.”
Stephen disagreed. “But they take too long to grow. Pine trees grow in about twenty years.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a State forest. The Government doesn’t need the money. It can afford to wait. It’s wrong to plant rainforest country with a temperate needle leaf. Mr Conkey says pine trees will grow on poor soil and if they are planted on good soil they ruin it.”
“Oh bull!” Peter snorted.
“He said so.”
Roger chipped in. “He’s right, but in this case they didn’t clear the rainforest to plant pine trees.”
Peter turned and waved his arms. “So how did they all get here Roger?”
“A lot of this area was cleared as dairy farms back in the 1920’s. Mum told me. I had a great uncle and a great aunt who had a farm near Danbulla. There used to be a town called that but it’s now underwater in the middle of the lake.”
“When was that?” Stephen asked.
“Don’t you read?” Peter said. “It was on the sign on the lookout at Tinaroo. The dam was built in 1950 .. er 1950 something or other.”
“1959,” Graham provided.
“Yes, so then the Forestry Department replanted some of the old farms,” Roger concluded.
“Still say it should have been with native trees,” Graham replied.
The argument took them all the way to the bottom of the hill. They passed back into rainforest country and crossed a swampy creek on a causeway. After that there were more uphill stretches. The uphill grades weren’t all that high or steep but Roger began to feel the strain. As he plodded along with head down he took out his map and studied it, hoping to find they didn’t have too far left to walk. His watch told him it was just on 9 o’clock.
Behind Mt. Baldy Page 5