The morning is dazzling. A light frost has settled on the car in the night; the gold stars and comets on the tarp glisten. After clearing the windows, Charles climbs in behind the wheel. Sean, in the passenger seat, is stiff and tired. Now he has some space to relax, his body feels heavy and his head foggy but his soul is satisfied with work well done. He hasn’t bothered to shave and he has toast crumbs in the corner of his mouth. Charles pushes the map into his lap, ‘You can be navigator,’ he says. ‘See that cluster of small lakes, that’s where we’re heading. The anabranch is a chain of lakes and probably only flows as a stream after big rain.’
The whiteness of the paper hurts Sean’s eyes; he reaches into the glove box and rummages for a pair of dark glasses.
Some navigator he turns out to be. The morning sun has a hypnotic effect and he is soon dozing.
They drive on a sealed road for some time; the engine hums and there is a feel of rubber on bitumen. When Charles is certain Sean is asleep, he slides a Willy Nelson CD into the player. With no conversation and a familiar song in the background, he resumes his reverie, where he’s an independent filmmaker. This reverie has become episodic. He is now up to the part where Bryce Courtney is trying to pin him down on a commitment to direct a film adaptation of his latest novel. And so time passes.
Sean stirs when he feels the car pull over and hears Charles’s voice, ‘OK navigator, lets look at the map, there should be a way into the anabranch about now.’ Charles reaches for the map, which has slipped off Sean’s lap and onto the floor. He gives it a flick. ‘Ah, there we are. We’re close.’ He pulls back onto the road and sure enough, in less than a kilometre there’s a dirt road on the right and a rough hand-painted sign that says ANABRANCH.
The moment they’re off the bitumen Sean’s spine straightens and his eyes snap open. Wide-awake now, he’s out of is comfort zone but in the capable hands of his friend. The road is well graded and there are puddles to the sides. The landscape is flat and treeless; there are no signs of grazing animals. Grey rotting posts looped together with rusted and broken barbed wire mark the boundaries.
After a while, the way narrows and the puddles stretch across the road. They’re driving on clay now and Sean can feel the car slipping out from under them. ‘When you’re driving on wet clay,’ Charles’s voice is raised, ‘it’s important to keep up the pace and not use the brakes or you’ll skid.’ Sean is beginning to feel uneasy but he doesn’t want to say anything. It is after all only twenty minutes since they left the bitumen.
They slow to a halt. There’s a gate across the road and on it, is a sign. It says PRIVATE PROPERTY. Charles grins expectantly at Sean who doesn’t budge. ‘Well out you get and open it. It’s tradition. The passenger does the gates.’
‘But it’s private property.’
Charles explains, ‘In the bush it’s an accepted thing to cross private property as long as you leave the gates as you find them.’
So Sean begins opening and closing gates but not without some feeling of unease. As they drive, the road dissolves into a track of deep muddy potholes. The wheels spin, the bottom of the car grates and more than once they skid out of control. Charles is happy, ‘This is bush country,’ he shouts. ‘This is the kind of driving I like.’ Sean’s knuckles are white from gripping the safety belt across his chest. Charles glances across at him. ‘Don’t worry. When we get to those lakes you’ll see; it’ll be worth it.’
At last the ground rises a little and they drive onto hard earth. Charles pulls on the handbrake and switches off the ignition. There’s silence. Sean opens the car door and steps out into it. His shoes on crack dry twigs and his jeans make a frruup sound when he walks. Charles says, ‘Here, you’ll need this,’ and tosses a hat in his direction, then leads the way down towards the lake.
Set into the bare, empty paddock this small depression of water is a focus for thriving life. Around the perimeter grow ancient gums. Here and there massive branches have fallen. The men have to climb over them to get to the water’s edge. Sean stands on a dead bough, watching. In the hollows of the branches, he sees birds flying in and out, and in the silt build-up, behind the fallen timber, he sees nurseries of eucalypt seedlings - the next generation.
Fish! Sean spots them first. He calls out to Charles, ‘Look at this, the lake’s teeming with fish.’ Charles squats on the broad log beside his friend and follows his gaze into the water that doesn’t look so inviting on close analysis. The fish writhe and roll about in the grey soup. Sean is excited with his discovery ‘They’re huge. Murray cod?’ Charles recoils.
‘Carp.’
‘So.’
‘Bloody feral fish.’
‘That’s not their fault.’
Charles can feel his good mood changing – fast. He straightens up with a grunt.
‘Let’s walk the loop – up onto the high ground, and back to the car. See what else there is. Then we can drive a bit further up the system.’
In retrospect, Charles wondered why he hadn’t seen it earlier – too preoccupied with driving, negotiating the slippery tracks and supervising the opening and closing of gates. They’re in a moonscape. Half a meter of topsoil has been washed and blown away leaving dead trees perched on roots like gnarled wooden fingers. The earth is pitted with rabbit warrens and their feet crunch on bones. Thousands of rabbits must have made this place their home. At a safe distance, two foxes join in the walk. They tumble over each other, race and pounce and roll. He’s disappointed – pissed off. He’d put a lot of thought into this part of the trip and had been looking forward to it. ‘This place has been stuffed,’ he says.
As they walk back to the car, there’s no more talking. Charles is prickly. Sean thinks of the signs that said so clearly, PRIVATE PROPERTY. ‘I think we should turn round and go back the way we came.’
‘Why?’ Charles’s eyes narrow.
‘Because the track is wet and boggy, it’s private property and you reckon the place is stuffed.’
‘But there are more lakes, this is the first of a chain. Further on we’ll meet up with another track. And private property be buggered. No one owns the foreshore of a water way.’
End of discussion. They drive on.
It’s a mistake. It’s mid afternoon when they find themselves in the centre of a claypan with spinning tyres. Sean could have said I told you we should have turned back but he swallows it. Charles feels a little rush of happy adrenalin. The country may be stuffed but at least it’s throwing up a bit of adventure.
He tries reversing. The tyres spin again. He says, ‘It’s alright. I know what I’m doing.’
Sounding cocky, thinks Sean.
They both get out of the car and walk around it inspecting each wheel. Clay tugs at the soles of their shoes. Charles says, ‘I’m going to try giving her a push. You never know you’re luck. Put it in first and plant your foot on the accelerator.’
Sean does as instructed. The engine roars but the tyres can get no purchase on the slippery clay. Leaving the motor running he climbs out of the driver’s seat to look under the car – they’re now in it up to the axels. Charles appears behind him, he is sprayed from head to foot in terracotta. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ll dig it out.’
Sean has still not said a word.
Two hours go by. The situation is not improving – the light is fading, there’s no wood nearby to make a fire, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. ‘Digging isn’t the answer,’ says Charles. ‘I’ve got to get something under the wheels that the tyres can grip.’ His eyes flick up to the tarp that wraps the puppet theatre on the roof of the car. The gold stars and comets glimmer in the light of the setting sun.
‘NO! You are NOT using the tarp. Use something of your own.’
‘There is NOTHING.’ Charles is sure the tarp is the answer. ‘We can wrap the puppet stuff in garbage bags to keep the frost off.’
‘NO!’
‘Do you want to spend the bloody night here?’
The tarp comes off and half a dozen black garbage bags are tucked around Sean’s gear.
‘OK,’ says Charles, ‘I need the jack. We’ve got to get the car up and the tarp under the wheels.’
‘I don’t have a jack.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t have a jack?’
‘I don’t HAVE A JACK. I lost it ALRIGHT!’
The beautiful red and gold tarpaulin is scrunched up and shoved under the wheels as best as can be managed.
‘Stand back.‘ Charles calls out as he climbs in behind the wheel. ‘We’re outta here.’
The car doesn’t budge.
He switches off the engine and swinging himself out of the car faces Sean, defeated. ‘That’s it. We’re bogged.’ I’m sorry. We’ll have to camp the night here and get help in the morning.”
Sean feels himself soften. After the hours of engine revving, spinning tyres and muddy shovels, this acknowledgement of defeat is a relief.
They drag the swags from the back of the car. Sean produces a cask of red wine and a couple of tins of Spam. They lay their swags side by side facing west so they can share the wine and watch the sun set. Then fully clothed, filthy, and wearing balaclavas, they wriggle into the warmth. The Spam is awful and the wine drunk from enamel cups, is chilled and tasteless. But whatever the day has dealt them, they are now more than compensated – the sky is breathtaking.
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