Behind Mt. Baldy (18 page)

“We will hitch a ride with the
first car that comes along,” Graham replied. They went on down the slope and
stepped out onto the road.

“I want to see what they dug up,”
Roger said.

Graham gave a wry grin. “They’ll
have it with them Roger,” he replied dryly.

“Yes I know, but I still want to
see.”

Stephen wasn’t amused. “Don’t be
bloody silly Roger. It will waste half an hour while we walk back there,” he
said irritably.

“I still want to see,” said Roger
stubbornly.

Graham looked at his watch. “We
can’t afford the time.”

Roger was adamant. “You go on.
I’ll catch up. I’m going back to look.”

Stephen sneered.
“You!
Catch up!” he cried.

Roger ignored him. He swung off
his pack and, forgetful of his sore hand, dumped it in the bushes beside the
road.

Stephen swore and said. “This is
bloody ridiculous! We’ll never finish this bloody hike. I’m going on.
Bugger Roger!”
He looked at the other two. Peter shrugged.

Graham took off his hat and
ruffled his hair,
then
shrugged and said, “You two go
on ahead. We will catch you up.”

Graham’s pack joined Roger’s in
the weeds and he strode off after him. Peter shook his head and Stephen started
to criticise Roger and then Graham for allowing Roger to come.

Roger did not look back. He
walked as quickly as he could, unhappily aware that he had caused friction.

“I can’t help it. I’ve got to
know!” he told himself. It was further back to the turnoff than he realised, at
least three hundred metres and several bends. He heard footsteps behind him and
glanced back to see Graham. Seeing him gave Roger a spurt of gratitude and
affection.

When the two friends reached the
track junction they paused for a moment to listen. Roger was puffing and
sweating and the excitement seemed to press against the sides of his head and
narrow his vision. All he could focus on was the old timber track. He began
walking along it as fast as he could.

Only when he rounded the bend
near where the vehicles had been parked did he slow down. There was no-one
there, but a litter of empty food cans and other refuse marked where the men
had eaten a meal. The sight of such anti-social leftovers roused Roger’s ire.
‘Bloody grubs!’ he thought angrily. He turned to Graham and said, “Bloody poor
guests these. Just walk in and turn the place into a pig sty!”

Hoping to find a clue Roger bent
to look at a tin but it was only a normal can of ham purchased locally, nothing
foreign about it.  Even so he carefully picked it up.

“Are you going to tidy up?”
Graham asked.

“No. I thought it might be useful
for fingerprints,” Roger replied. He extracted a plastic bag from his basic
pouch and slid the can into it.

“The cops can come here and get
this stuff,” Graham pointed out.

“Yeah, I know, but you never
know,” Roger replied. He looked around the area where the vehicles had been
parked but saw nothing else of interest. Then he led the way past the track
junction to the fallen tree.

“That’s where Stephen and I hid,”
he said, pointing down the slope. The memory made him get goose bumps as
awareness of what an appalling risk they had taken sunk in.

They made their way past the
fallen tree, over the low rise and down into the overgrown clearing. Roger
walked straight to the newly dug hole. Even before he reached it he could see
they would find nothing and his disappointment was strong.

The hole was less than a metre
deep and about two metres in diameter. Around it the clay was spread and trampled.
A scattering of cigarette butts marked where the old man had stood watching.

Graham frowned. “Well this
doesn’t look very exciting,” he said flatly.

“It doesn’t look finished,” Roger
replied. “It looks like they just stopped and left it.” He scanned the
disturbed soil for some sign of regularity which might have indicated where a
box or container had been prised out but there was none.

“So what was it?” Graham asked as
they discussed this.

“Search me,” Roger replied. “But
it looks to me as though they didn’t find anything.”

“Or if they did, it wasn’t very
big, and now they’ve got it and gone on. Let’s get going ourselves,” Graham
said. He turned and walked back the way they had come.

Roger turned regretfully and
followed, his eyes searching the shrubbery for any clue. Seeing nothing he sped
up to catch up to Graham, who was striding along.

In less than ten minutes they
were back where they had dumped their packs. Peter and Stephen sat there
waiting for them. 

Stephen gave Roger a sour look
and muttered.
“Bloody waste of time and energy.
You’ll
be complaining you can’t walk any further in a few minutes Roger.”

Graham snapped at him. “That’ll
do Steve. I wanted to look too. It’s only just after seven thirty so we haven’t
lost much time.”

“Twenty minutes,” Stephen replied
angrily. He got up and pulled on his pack.

The boys set off in silence with
Stephen in the lead, then Peter, Graham and Roger. It was another cloudless day
and they passed through patches of sunlight and dappled shade as they walked. The
road went steadily downhill and had several tight bends in it.

After about ten minutes rapid
walking Roger spoke up. “We are going the same way as those men went. What do
we do if we see them again?”

“For Christ’s
sake Roger!
Give it bloody rest,” Stephen retorted.

“Calm down Steve,” Graham
interjected. “It’s a fair question. We just act normal and say we camped up a
side track, which we did.”

Stephen muttered something and
conversation lapsed again. Roger’s feelings were already depressed when he also
realised his body hurt. Stephen had been right. He did feel as though he didn’t
want to walk any further. He bit his lip and hitched his pack up; then gritted
his teeth as pain shot through his left hand. Once again he’d forgotten his
stinging tree. Determined not to give Stephen another chance to imply anything
he forced himself to keep up and tried looking around to take his mind off the
pain.  In a bar of sunlight he noted several butterflies whose wings were
a brilliant blue. He saw a bright green caterpillar on a leaf. Beside the road
he noted strangler vines, lawyer vines and assorted dangling lianas.

He managed to keep up.

After a while the walking became
mechanical and the various pains blurred into a dull overall ache. The road
went on downhill, winding through dense rainforest along the side of the ridge.
There was no view other than along the road. The jungle hid everything else.
Roger became bored with it.

The road turned north, crossed a
small creek down which water gushed noisily; then it curved right to a clearing
where there was a car park and a National Park sign.

MOBO CREEK CRATER it said. Roger
pulled out his map and located it. It was obviously another of the extinct
volcanic craters which dotted the Tablelands. Having seen several he wasn’t
particularly interested in this one. A walking track led off down steps into
the rainforest.

“I’m going to have a look,” Peter
said.

“We haven’t got time,” Graham
replied.

“If we have time to walk back to look
at a little hole dug by treasure hunters we have time to look at a big hole dug
by nature,” Peter replied evenly. He turned off and headed for the walking
track. The others came to a stop. Roger stood, chest heaving, wondering if he
should drop his pack.

Peter dumped his so Roger did
likewise and followed the others.

All four went down the walking
track and Roger had to agree with Peter that the detour was worth the effort.
The track led down to a most delightful pool with a crystal clear jungle stream
flowing in from the left under a little footbridge. Another stream plunged over
a waterfall into the pool on the far side.

The cadets washed their faces and
had a drink.

“I vote we have a swim,” Graham
said.

“No. Too cold and take too long,”
Stephen replied.

“What about washing clothes?”
Peter asked.

“No!” Stephen answered. “We’ve
all got a spare set. We can’t keep stopping like this. We’ve only come three
kilometres. We are a whole day behind.”

“We still need to change and I
think we should have a bath,” Graham persisted.

“And I don’t,” Stephen snapped.

“We do pong a bit,” Peter said
mildly. 

Stephen glared at him but said
nothing. Peter turned to Roger. “What do you think Roger?”

“Well, I, er,” Roger stammered.
He didn’t want to cause more problems with Stephen. Hoping to find an excuse he
looked back up the hill. “Somebody might come,” he said at last.

“We will go downstream a bit,”
Graham said, pointing that way.

“Our packs are at the top,” Roger
said. He didn’t want to take sides against Stephen.

“Oh! So what? It’s only a hundred
paces,” Peter said in exasperation.

“Anyway I’m going to have a wash.
You others can go on and I’ll catch you up,” Graham said. He set off back up
the track.

The others followed in silence.
The track with its numerous steps got Roger’s heart really pounding and despite
the cool of the jungle shade he started to sweat profusely. At the top Graham
grabbed his pack and set off down at once. Peter followed. Roger picked up his
pack but Stephen kicked viciously at the gravel, swore and sat down.

Roger hesitated,
then
asked in a conciliatory tone, “You coming down Steve?”

“Bloody swim! This is stupid!
Here we are half way through the third day and all we can do is stop at every
excuse. We have only just covered one good day’s walk and we keep wasting
time!”

Roger stood uncertain whether to
stay or go. He wasn’t sure what to say so he said nothing. Stephen looked up
and their eyes met.

“Go and have your bloody swim!”
Stephen spat.

“You may as well join us,” Roger
replied, trying not to get upset.

Stephen looked away, sniffed then
looked at his watch. The sunlight lanced down on them. Roger wiped sweat from
his face.

“Come on Steve,” he persisted.

Stephen got up and swore again. Then
he grabbed his pack. “May as well. We aren’t going to make this hundred
kilometres. We may as well just give up and enjoy ourselves.” Muttering angrily
he set off down the path.

Roger followed, worrying that he
had done more harm than good. They found Graham and Peter undressing on a tiny
beach twenty metres downstream where the water gushed and gurgled over
boulders.

Graham pulled off his boots and
looked from Stephen to Roger. He gestured upstream to the waterfall and pool. “This
reminds me a bit of that pool above Stoney Creek
Falls
where we had the swim.”

Roger shuddered and broke out in
goose bumps. It did too. He didn’t want to be reminded of that terrifying
experience during a hike to Kuranda two years before.

The boys spent the next half hour
having a swim, rinsing their dirty socks and dressing in clean camouflage
uniforms. The water was ice cold so they didn’t stay in long. Roger was acutely
self-conscious of his physique and painfully aware of all the bruises, chafing
and scratches which mottled his white skin. The cold water made the stinging
tree bite throb with agony. When Stephen went off into the scrub for a while
Peter asked, “What’s wrong with Stephen?  He hasn’t said a word, he just
scowls.”

Roger related their conversation.
Graham’s face clouded with concern. He looked at his watch. “Strewth! Nine
fifteen. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having
fun.
We’d
better get a move on.”

Stephen returned as they quickly
dressed. “What’s the hurry?” he asked.

“We need to get moving,” Graham
replied reluctantly.

Stephen curled his lip. “That’s
what I said. We’ve wasted nearly an hour here.”

“Half an hour,” Graham replied
defensively.

“More, three quarters,” Stephen
snapped back.

“What does it matter? We all
needed a wash, and I feel much better,” Peter replied.

Roger finished tying his damp
socks to the back of his pack and looked at his friends. He hated it when they
argued.

Stephen persisted. “You’re right.
What does it matter? We can’t finish in time. I’ve had this. I’ve hated nearly
every minute of it. It’s the worst hike I’ve ever been on. I think I’ll just
phone my parents to come and get me when we find a phone.”

The mention of a phone reminded
Roger of the need to contact the police. He opened his mouth to remind the others
but thought better of it. The four stood in uneasy silence for a minute.

Graham spoke at last. “Suit
yourself. I still reckon we can do it. It’s worth a try.”