~~Trekking
He must know best, waving away maps like those at the information centre, whispering to her what a rip-off they were. Even from their earliest emails he seemed a “National Geographical” on so many things, in particular the walking trails. Then he’d taken her into the wilderness photo gallery, full of hushed people gazing at big landscape photographs that made everything look mysterious and majestic. He’d walked around with her making suppressed noises of irritation and disbelief.
‘Look at this – meant to be the showcase of Australian contemporary photographic artists – but see that?’ An agitated thumb is directed towards the images. ‘They’ve been Photo-shopped for sure, so easy to do, most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Whoever’s running this place doesn’t know a good photo. Be no reaction even if it bit them on the arse.’
She’d watched him stride around the gallery, his arms folded. He knew about tons of things, she could tell. Like the way he’d shown that card to the woman at the Hobart gallery and she’d taken them into that special vault. Not open to the public. He’d mumbled something about work contacts.
Now he was walking as though she was just an acquaintance, not continually asking her if she was alright, what aspects of the scenery she liked. Not ignoring her, but just letting her find her own pace and not expecting to keep up a conversation with him. There was no hint of the running commentary he’d given at various exhibitions. The trail was hard; climbing those long, steep inclines with a pack on, into the wind – a lot harder than she’d thought when she’d packed it and tried it on in her bedroom before she’d left. It had felt, then, like something she could heft easily, but now especially when they’d had to slog up the mountain out of the valley to Crater Lake, her pack seemed full of bricks. He’d told her to prepare with a small day pack loaded with telephone directories; at the time this appeared over-kill, now she was beginning to wish she hadn’t been so dismissive.
Straps were rubbing her shoulders too; she would have chaffing later for sure. But Terry had already mentioned that his first aid kit included some lanolin for the inevitable pressure point areas. He’d prepared for eventualities she couldn’t even begin to imagine.
It was funny thinking she was carrying everything she needed on her back; she could put up her tent and crawl in and be warm inside her sleeping bag. But this was getting ahead of herself there was a long way to go yet.
They encountered light drizzle, but it didn’t seem to soak in, just imbibed everything with a damp smell.
She looked up now they were higher, and the track had flattened out; she could catch her breath and concentrate on walking. Run over in her head what had happened so far, like asking a child what part had been enjoyed the most? They’d started off in tussocky grass, button grass, she’d seen it on internet images, but walking here was sensi-surround, nothing like when you gazed at pictures. Later she would find seeds trying to plant themselves in her socks, even breaking through to skin. Terry had said to get those ankle cover things like the men who mow lawns wear. But this had felt too work-man-ish.
She was conscious of the delicate, pristine environment, and wanted to just stop to breathe it in. Began to understand why those ‘greenies’ fought so hard. But you couldn’t just step off into it, everyone was still at a distant, like walking through a film’s panning wide shot. You could not even put your feet onto the ground. This was not like being able to bury your limbs in beach sand. Then run it through your fingers. Yet she noticed small things, how the snow gums had a pattern, a bark patchwork, largely flame shapes. They rested beside a tiny stream; here they could take their shoes off and put toes into the icy water. She felt this must be doing her good; blood or any fluids even that nasty swollen feeling being drawn away. Why hadn’t Terry taken his shoes off?
They had passed some bushfire damage; pale almost colourless windswept grass, craggy rocks and dead trees sticking out of the ground like skeletal fingers. No flesh left behind, just the bones. The tree trunks seemed completely bare and bleached white by the sun in this thin mountain air.
Walking again, she looked up at the track ahead, and the brightly clad walkers strung out along it, all of them made tiny by the landscape’s hugeness all around them. Susan had never seen anything like it. It was just enormous, gob-smackingly vast. No point holding up your phone to get a picture, the place overwhelmed that tiny screen. Even those dramatic images in the wilderness photo gallery fell short of being out here; dropped into a calendar, no, more like a giant frieze. You couldn’t capture even a fragment of its detail. Up at the lookout, grateful along with everyone else to let her pack slip to the ground for a break, she’d gazed out over the vista rolling into its vanishing point and the lake far below them, and felt dizzy, slightly high. The sky seemed to press down and the ground seemed to press up, jamming her in the middle like a tiny speck, a minuscule troublesome piece of dust, like something tossed up from a sea bottom to bother a huge oyster. One step off that fragmented rock edge and you’d bounce like a speck too, all the way down to infinity.
She felt a weird momentary sensation of wanting to jump. The sloping distance was tilted up in a sly magnetic invitation, reached out to pull her over and down. How would it feel? Not clean like bungy jumpers off building or bridge, swan-diving through empty air, but shades of the falling man 9/11 image. Here amid these peaks you’d connect, over and over, breaking with each impact, the agony real and unstoppable. If you jumped it would have been voluntarily, that’s what would stun your friends and family. They would never understand that you’d have had the unflinching courage to step off.
Looking up at the ring of crater above, a rock formation reminiscent of a dragon spine ridge tops. Here stunted trees looked like they are in pain. She can feel it too, being weighed down by the pack, having to lumber that load up again. Susan told her legs to get ready for another round of pain.
She felt defeated, it would be wrong to give up now. This adventure was just beginning, she was so glad to be here. When Terry had brought it up, this seemed too adventurous, too physical, but now she felt her efforts were so worth it, while he had been the catalyst, Terry had begun to become invisible, insignificant. Not even worth a thought when compared with the hot tingle in all her nerve ends. The landscape was impressing her in a way he never would, nor any lover.
That frame of mind was probably why Susan failed to notice that Terry wasn’t with the group anymore. Not really her problem, a missing walker was something for the guides to contemplate and act upon. When his absence finally infiltrated her mind, she just put it down to the whole idea that somehow the majesty of this landscape had taken away his power, reduced him to just another mere human walking clearly gouged trails through this magical country. Or the man had been reduced even further, until no longer there.
Before they had even begun he had been going through her bag tossing out things that she did not need to bring. He was so annoying, grating her nerves as if Terry was someone that knows everything about everything. Would he be throwing things out of their tent, out here, littering up the trail?
This morning they had argued again. She had threatened to wander off, alone. Susan wants to – but that would be stupid. They have paid all that money to do an organized trek. Imagine being lost up here, beyond any mental picturing. No wonder escaped convicts stooped to cannibalism, and returned to their cells rather than stay out here, alone.
Along with whispers about what had happened, where Terry had vanished to, were sinister night noises from invisible threats. Sounds that guides reassured were possums or Tasmanian devils. Susan thought they could keep Terry company better than her, wherever he was.