Peter held out a water bottle. “You two take all our water. You might need it and we can easily get more. There may not be any on top of the mountain.”
“Catch some of this bloody rain in a hutchie if we have to,” Graham replied, “but thanks anyway.”
So both Stephen and Graham refilled all four of their own waterbottles, then had big drinks from Peter’s and Roger’s waterbottles. It took twenty minutes of quick work in the flickering light of their torches before they reached the point where everything was packed except the shelters. As there was another heavy shower of rain at that time they huddled under them. Stephen sat and shivered, half from the cold and half from fear of what might lie ahead.
‘I hope they can’t see I’m scared,’ he thought. Memories of encounters with dead bodies on other hikes rose in his mind to cause him to sweat with nausea. He was now bitterly regretting that he said he would go up the mountain. ‘Bloody Roger,’ he thought resentfully. ‘Why can’t he go up instead?’
Stephen knew that the rain would make his glasses useless within moments and he considered using that as a reason to suggest that maybe Peter or Roger should go up instead. But having thought that he flailed himself mentally. ‘You bloody coward,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t be such a weakling.’
With that he crawled out into the rain and stood up to take down his hutchie. “Come on, let’s get on with it. There might be injured people depending on us.”
There were grumbles but the others got up as well and began taking down their shelters. It was the work of moments, the shelters being tied to trees only by slip knots. As Stephen folded the wet plastic sheet he smiled at the memory of something he had been told by an old army instructor: ‘If you don’t like folding a wet hutchie on a cold morning then don’t join the army!’
“I don’t think I will either!” Stephen muttered as he stuffed the wet bundle into the top of his pack.
“What did you say?” Graham asked.
“Just grumbling,” Stephen replied. He buckled up the pack then swung on his webbing. “We ready?” he asked.
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Graham replied, swinging on his own webbing. Stephen swung on his pack, grunting at the weight and at the feel of the clammy shirt on his back. Cold rainwater had already begun seeping down his collar. He stuffed his hat on his head and adjusted the chinstrap to hold it on.
Graham also swung on his pack, then took out a pair of secateurs, before bending to pick up his torch. “I hope my batteries don’t go flat,” he commented, pointing the beam into the wall of surrounding jungle.
“Take mine just in case,” Roger offered. “One torch should be enough for Peter and me.”
“Thanks Roger,” Graham said, taking the offered torch and placing it in a basic pouch. All four of them wore their army webbing and packs. There was a pause while Roger adjusted his pack. Stephen sensed that the others were just as reluctant to split up and head off into the blackness as he was.
Graham checked his watch. “Nearly nine O’clock,” he said. “Let’s get going and see if we can get to the top by daylight.”
“Good luck!” Roger said.
“Thanks. See you then,” Graham replied. He turned and walked to the edge of the jungle and began searching for the easiest way through the wet tangle. With a sigh that was almost a shudder Stephen followed him.
CHAPTER 2
UP THE MOUNTAIN
Within a minute of starting Stephen began to have serious doubts about whether it would be physically possible to climb the mountain. Ten paces into the entangling blackness had him snagged half a dozen times on vines and tree roots. Even though Graham led the way using his torch, and was snipping away tendrils of ‘wait-a-while’ vine, Stephen found himself hooked up and brought to a standstill.
He was very familiar with ‘wait-a-while’ with its thousands of vicious little barbed hooks, so immediately stopped to cut himself free. He knew that he could not break the tendrils easily. Flesh and clothing would rip long before then. Using his torch and secateurs he carefully clipped off the offending tendril, then moved to catch up to Graham, who was still pushing on into the blackness.
A glance over his shoulder did not reassure Stephen either. A flicker of dim light indicated where Peter and Roger were hurrying off along the road. Even as Stephen looked the light from their torch vanished, leaving him feeling very alone and anxious. Dread was building up and the fear gripped firmly at his chest and throat. He found it took a physical effort, aided by an exercise in willpower, to keep on moving. Strong instincts now cried out for him to call on Graham to give it up.
Somehow he managed to keep moving, and to keep his mouth shut. Instead he concentrated on trying to avoid getting his pack and webbing snagged on the thousands of tree trunks, roots and vines. These seemed to reach out and snatch at him and he found himself caught a dozen times in as many paces. To make matters worse Graham drew further ahead and Stephen could not see which way he had taken. To compound matters Stephen’s glasses became covered in drops and also started to mist up with condensation on the inside.
After another few minutes Stephen had to call out. “Graham! Graham! Stop! I can’t see properly.”
“You need to see the eye doctor and get glasses then,” Graham called back.
Stephen was in no mood for Graham’s flippant humour. “Just shut up and wait for me!” he shouted.
“OK, keep your shirt on,” Graham replied.
Stephen made his way slowly forward to where Graham stood. At every step he had to move his torch beam around to check where he was going to put his boots, and to see if a vine or small tree was going to snag him. Knowing that large red-bellied black snakes lived in the rainforest did nothing to help. Stephen dreaded stepping over the numerous logs and moss-covered rocks. A snake could be lurking under every one, or even among the thick, mulchy leaf-mould that they were walking on.
At every step Stephen found his boots sinking ankle deep in the deadfall of leaves and sticks. He hated this, expecting a snake to latch onto his boot or leg at any moment. But he found he could not concentrate his torch beam on the ground, searching for the two red eyes that might warn him. When he did this he was snagged in the face and hat by vines. After a few more minutes, and being twice lacerated by wait-a-while, Stephen stopped worrying about snakes and just trudged fatalistically on.
Memories of other nightmare hikes through the rainforest made it harder. He knew exactly what to expect- and he was not disappointed. ‘That time I got lost in the jungle near Kanaka Creek was the worst,’ he thought, remembering a time five years earlier when he had become separated from the others and spent the night in the jungle alone. That had been a terrifying experience and caused him to tense with anxiety just at the memory.
His mind told him not to be silly. ‘There are no tigers or anything like that in the North Queensland rainforest. It’s not darkest Africa or the Amazon,’ he told himself. There were wild pigs but he also knew that attacks by them were very rare. That fact didn’t help either. ‘I wouldn’t even see a pig until it hit me,’ he thought unhappily. Mental visions of being torn open by the razor sharp tusks of a huge boar almost paralysed him for a few minutes.
“Stop scaring yourself stupid!” he muttered. “The most dangerous things, apart from the snakes, are tiny mites that carry scrub typhus.” With an effort Stephen made himself relax. He had smeared mite/tick repellent on his clothing before the hike and had faith it would work. Then another possible hazard moved to the forefront of his distressed mind.
‘Cassowaries. The Bump Track comes up over the Cassowary Range. That must mean the bloody things live in this area!’ He had only ever seen cassowaries in zoos but was still concerned. The huge flightless birds stood taller then him and had massive three-toed feet with huge talons on them. He had a vivid image of a cassowary crashing out of the blackness to rip open his stomach. ‘I’d never be able to outrun one, particularly in this bloody jungle,’ he thought unhappily.
Once again he came to a gasping standstill and had to call out to Graham to slow down. Stephen found he was panting heavily and was sweating, despite the altitude and rain. The two friends stood in the drizzle for five minutes while they recovered their breath.
“Bloody hard work!” Graham commented.
“Bloody hot work,” Stephen replied, wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. As he did something squelched and he moved his hand to feel. The instant he touched the rubbery, slimy thing he knew what it was, but that didn't stop him shuddering with revulsion.
“Bloody leech! Get it off me Graham,” he cried. Stephen hated leeches with a passion, even though he had suffered hundreds of them in the past and knew that little harm would result from their bites.
Graham did as he was asked. Both then shone their torches over themselves and each other, to discover two on Graham and three more on Stephen.
“I’m not enjoying this,” Stephen said grumpily.
“Nor am I, but we’ll survive,” Graham replied. He began snipping a wait-a-while which blocked their path.
“How far do you reckon we have come?” Stephen asked.
“Not far,” Graham replied discouragingly. “I reckon we've only come a few hundred metres. We haven’t even begun to climb yet.”
Stephen groaned at that, but hitched his pack up and set off after Graham. Within ten paces it became obvious that Graham was right. To Stephen’s surprise they began going downhill. It was only across the side of a re-entrant with a small creek at the bottom but it was very steep and hard work. It took nearly half an hour to reach the bottom. Here they halted to ‘de-leech’ and to wash their faces and drink.
“This water should be alright,” Graham said, sipping at it from his cupped hand. “It has just flowed down the mountain. There’s nothing up there to pollute it.”
Stephen agreed. He knew they might need all the water they could get later so forced himself to drink deeply. The water was cold and clear and tasted quite pleasant. He took off his glasses and washed his face, then put his glasses back on, only to find he had smeared something on the glass. At that he swore aloud and seriously considered giving up.
“What’s wrong?” Graham asked.
“Glasses. I can’t get them clean,” Stephen replied.
“Use your hanky,” Graham suggested.
“It’s wet,” Stephen replied clenching his teeth with anger and frustration. He knew the best way to get the glass clean was with toilet paper. He had some in his basic webbing, wrapped in plastic so it would be dry, but he knew it would be futile. ‘They will just get dirty again within minutes.’
Pulling his chinstrap more firmly under his chin he gestured to go on. Graham turned and began cutting his way up the other bank. That was very steep and Stephen soon stopped worrying about his glasses or anything other than forcing his muscles to keep climbing. The boys had to haul themselves up from tree to tree, their boots scrabbling to find a purchase on the loose, wet leafmould and wet tree roots.
After a few minutes of that Stephen was panting heavily and perspiration was trickling out of him. He found the moss and lichen which grew on the tree trunks and roots to be slippery from the rain and it became a physical battle to get a firm grip before heaving himself up the next metre or so. Time and again he found his pack or webbing snagged as he tried to do this and he was reduced to swearing and struggling, his temper boiling.
After a time Stephen stopped worrying about snakes, centipedes or pigs and just grabbed blindly at logs and tree trunks to find a solid handhold. His hands and arms became slimy from the mulch and moss and he was sure his clothes must be filthy. ‘And torn!’ he thought unhappily as some spiky plant ripped his sleeve. ‘Mum will have a fit when she sees me.’
A hundred metres and half an hour later they came to some level ground and paused for a short break. Graham leaned on a tree. In the light of his torch Stephen could see that there was blood on Graham’s face and on one hand.
“We can stop till daylight if you like,” Graham suggested.
Stephen shook his head. “No. Push on till the batteries in our torches go flat. Then we can stop.”
Graham nodded. He pulled out his map and studied it, having to continually wipe water drops off the plastic case as he did. His face told Stephen the story even before he spoke. “We’ve been going over an hour and I reckon we have only come half a kilometre.”
“How high have we climbed?”
“I’d be guessing but I’d say about eighty metres.”
“Eighty metres!” Stephen cried, aghast. “How high do we have to climb?”
“About five hundred,” Graham replied. “We started just below five hundred and the wreck is up near the top.”
“Oh bloody hell!” Stephen moaned, now deeply regretting his impulsive stubbornness.
“We can stop. It’s fairly level here,” Graham said.
“No. Keep going,” Stephen replied.
“OK,” Graham replied. Once again he set himself to snipping a track through a clump of wait-a-while. Stephen took a deep breath and followed.
The climb became a living nightmare. Stephen could barely see and just stumbled and blundered behind Graham. Dozens of times his hands were spiked by prickles and thorns and droplets of blood oozed out and smeared away in the rain. His torch began to noticeably fail as well. He shrugged and kept going. Everything just looked a smudgy black blur anyway, with the flicker of the torch beams hindering as much as helping.
Wait-a-while snagged him badly and his yelp of pain brought Graham back to help free him. Soon after that a savage bite on his hand made him cry out again.
“What’s wrong?” Graham cried anxiously, directing his torch beam back on him.
“Something bit me,” Stephen replied. Waves of stinging pain began coursing up his left arm. Then he was bitten again. He yelped loudly and pulled his hand away.
“Stinging tree,” Graham said, shining his torch on the heart-shaped, serrated-edged leaves beside Stephen.
At that Stephen calmed down. Terrible fears of being bitten by a snake had been surging through him. Stinging tree was alright. He knew it could kill people who were allergic to it but equally knew he wasn’t. He had been stung too many times in the past. Now he swore and then began to cry as waves of nauseating pain went up his arm.
“You going to be OK?” Graham asked anxiously.
“Yes, keep going,” Stephen replied. Gritting his teeth he forced himself into motion again. The awful climb was resumed. Stephen found he was shivering from the pain but it slowly subsided, coming in distinct waves. Heavy rain added to his misery, all but blinding him as it splashed on his glasses.
More vines, endless tripping, stumbling, bruising and snagging of clothing and equipment. For another hour they battled on upwards until they began to descend into another steep creekline. At Graham’s instigation they stopped on the downslope, sitting on their packs while the raindrops dripped ceaselessly on them. The sound was so loud it made conversation difficult, not that Stephen felt like talking much anyway. Both turned off their torches to save the batteries and Stephen found it very scary.
After ten minutes Graham checked his watch. “Just gone midnight. Peter and Roger should have reached a phone by now.”
“So we should hear a helicopter soon,” Stephen grumbled morosely.
“Not in this rain,” Graham replied.
The boys sat in silence for ten minutes. Graham then said, “I’m getting cold. Do you want to camp or go on?”
“Go on. We can stop and brew a hot drink next time we find somewhere flat,” Stephen replied.
“Good idea,” Graham replied. He hoisted himself up and heaved on his pack. Stephen did likewise, swearing as it got caught on a tree as he did. The struggle was resumed.
During the halt Stephen’s torch batteries had recovered somewhat but the beam soon dimmed again till it was just a feeble glow which could barely detect tree trunks. Stephen found himself caught on more and more on snags. Then
he slipped on the steep slope, sliding down on the slushy deadfall till a tree stopped him.
Swearing and cursing he struggled to his feet, helped by Graham. Then Graham slipped in turn. To Stephen’s annoyance he heard Graham laughing. ‘The bugger!’ he thought, ‘He’s enjoying this!’ That made him give a wry smile. ‘I suppose it will be something to look back on.’
With that thought to comfort him he continued on down. The sound of running water now drowned out the sound of the rain. They came to a small creek gushing down a narrow, rocky bed lined with ferns. Once again they stopped to drink and wash their faces before setting themselves to scale the slope beyond.
There was then another half an hour of sweating and struggling to get up the steep slope out of the creekline. In spite of all their exertions the impression was that they did not seem to be getting anywhere. At last Graham called another halt and studied the map.
“I see what the trouble is,” he said. “The compass bearing we are following runs almost directly up this creek. We had better get out of it if we can.”
“Which way?” Stephen asked. He didn’t really care. Exhaustion was now setting in and he felt dizzy and sick.
“To the right. There is a more gentle slope shown there.”
Stephen did not dispute this. He just grunted and followed Graham as he led the way up into the blackness. Another half hour of straining and pain followed.
At last Stephen’s torch gave up. The feeble beam died to just a dim glow in the bulb. Graham’s torch was also noticeably weaker.
“Graham!” Stephen called, seeing he was being left behind.
It took two more shouts before Graham heard him above the sound of the rain and the wind in the trees. He came slithering back down to him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Torch is dead,” Stephen replied.
“OK, hang onto my pack and we will find somewhere flat to rest,” Graham replied.
Stephen did so but it was painfully slow and led to much swearing and cursing as both got continually snagged. At length Graham dropped his torch and it went out. They stood in the darkness and Stephen had to suppress mounting panic. Graham bent down and scrabbled in the leafmould till he found his torch He tried to get it going, twisting, clicking and even hitting it but it remained off.
Secret in the Clouds Page 2