Behind Mt. Baldy (34 page)

“Let’s stop and have a break
anyway,” Stephen suggested. “We’ve been walking for an hour.”

“Not here,” Graham replied,
shaking his head.
“Somewhere nicer.
Over
there where the line curves around that spur.
We might get some breeze
there.”

The others reluctantly agreed and
followed him. Roger had a big drink and set off in a walk that was almost a
stumble. Then he nearly put his foot between the sleepers of the bridge. It
gave him a small shock and he told himself to keep his wits about him. Slowly
he plodded on for another five hundred metres with his head down as they were
walking almost directly into the afternoon sun. He licked his lips and wondered
if he would be able to push himself much further. Using the back of his hand he
felt his cheeks. They felt very hot, making him worry he was getting sick.

And then a faint breeze cooled
his sweat. There was a distinct change and he looked up. They were walking in
shade. At first he thought it was just the shadow of the hillside on his left
but he saw, with something of a surprise, that a huge, jungle-covered mountain
loomed ahead.  The shadow was cast by a cloud clinging to its top.

The boys walked through a long,
deep cutting and reached the end of the spur. Graham called a halt. Packs were
dropped and they drank deeply. Roger then observed that the mountain to the
west was actually on the other side of a valley a couple of kilometres across.
Below them lay the Atherton- Herberton Road. It skirted the lower slopes
opposite them as it began its climb up to the pass. The floor of the valley was
mostly forest with a patchwork of fields and houses. Away to the north they had
a long vista out to Atherton and beyond.

Stephen pointed. “I can see the
microwave tower at Atherton,” he said.

“That’s the road to Herberton
isn’t it?” Roger asked.

“Yes it is. Remember when we got
a lift up it in that old truck?” Graham replied. They laughed at the memory and
reminisced.

“I wish I could get a lift up it
now,” Roger groaned. “I’m buggered.”

“We must be half way up the
range,” Graham estimated, eyeing the slopes on both sides.

“How far have we come?” Peter
asked.

“Since lunch?
I reckon about four kilometres.”

“Is that all?” Roger said with
dismay. “Still, we can stop and camp after another three,” he added.

“We may as well push on to the
tunnel and get the next clue. That’s only about four ‘Ks’,” Graham suggested.

Roger groaned. “What’s the time?”

“Just after
three.
Two hours
or so before it gets dark. We could crawl four ‘Ks’ in that,” Graham insisted

“I might have to,” Roger replied
gloomily. Wondering if he could walk the distance he sat down and had another
drink. He could never remember being so sore and exhausted in his whole life.
He felt like just one huge mass of tingling aches and pains. But it was cooler;
and he was amazed he had managed to walk so far. To prepare, he had another
drink, draining his second water bottle.

After fifteen minutes Graham
cajoled them to their feet and they set off again. For Roger the next 45
minutes were the hardest so far. He stumbled frequently. His hobble turned into
a limp. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the pack and he trudged along
bent over and feeling miserable. There was such an accumulation of little pains
that tears formed in the corners of his eyes. But rather than give up he bit
his lip and pushed himself on, slowly falling further and further behind the
others.

The line curved left and ran
South West. By this time they were completely in the shadow of the mountain
opposite. A steady breeze was funnelled up the valley and helped to cool them.
The railway went through several more cuttings as it led into another steep
little valley. Then it curved sharply back to run north along the side of a
steep spur. The country was still open: straggly eucalypts and grass-tree, with
tufts of dry, greyish-brown grass growing in sandy soil.

A sharp curve to the left through
another steep-sided cutting led them around the end of the spur and back to the
South West. By this time Roger felt ready to drop. Several times he formed the
words calling on the others to stop but some residue of pride kept him from
uttering them.

As they emerged from the cutting
he wiped sweat from his face and looked up in amazement. The jungle-covered
mountain now towered high above them less than a kilometre away. On their right
the ground dropped steeply into a re-entrant,
then
climbed steeply up to the clouds. Level with them, and only a few hundred metres
away was the Herberton-Atherton Road, snaking up the other slope through
similar dry bush. Above the road the vegetation gradually changed to an open
forest of tall, straight trees, which in turn gave way to rain forest near the
top.

Roger watched a car buzzing up
through the trees until it vanished over a sunlit saddle ahead. A cold wind
blew on his sweaty back making him shiver. He stopped for a drink and felt he
could not possibly walk another step.

Graham looked back and saw him.
“Come on Roger. Not far now. There’s the pass,” he called, pointing to the
sunlit saddle.

“How far to
this tunnel?”
Roger croaked.

“Only a few
hundred metres.
Half a kilometre at most,” Graham called.

Roger put his water bottle away
and lurched into painful motion. He had to grit his teeth against the agony of
the chafing between his thighs.

The railway went through yet
another cutting and curved left. The road rose above their level. A heavy truck
ground up it in low gear. Roger looked up to watch it and saw there was a
distinct hill, covered with trees, right in the middle of the pass. The road
went through a cutting to the right of it. The railway seemed to aim straight
at it.

Then he realized he was looking
at the mouth of the tunnel. He gasped with relief and pushed himself on. The
railway still ran on a bench cut with the steep drop on the right, the
re-entrant rapidly narrowing to end beside the tunnel entrance. The hill ahead
and the steep slope opposite were a jumble of grey rocks and grass-tree.

Unaccountably Roger felt uneasy.
The hair on the back of his neck bristled and he shivered. He looked around him
but there was nothing but ordinary bush.

When they reached the tunnel they
halted. The other end was visible about two hundred metres away but the middle
was dark. Graham bent down and moved a rock. He straightened up holding a
plastic bag containing an oblong of yellow cardboard.

“The clue,” he said.

Roger was so tired he did not
really care. He leaned on the side of the cutting and eased the weight of his
pack on the rock face.

Graham read the clue aloud.
“Seven Pines; Mount Baldy.”

“Bugger Mt
Baldy!”
Roger
cried. “I’m sick of hearing about it.” He felt very dejected and dreaded the
ordeal of having to climb the mountain. He had enough. All he wanted to do was
lie down. He shivered again.

“Seven Pines?”
Peter queried. “There were pine
trees back at The Chimneys.”

“A whole forest of them,” Stephen
added in a dry tone.

“No, a line of them
beside
the clearing.”

Graham shook his head. “That is
fifty kilometres or more back. That can’t be right,” he said.

Peter added, “There was a line of
pine trees at the turnoff of the East Barron Road too.”

Roger was too sick and tired to
care. “There were bloody pine trees everywhere!” he cried in exasperation.
“Let’s find somewhere to camp, but not here. This place gives me the creeps.”

Graham looked around. “Good spot
for an ambush.”

“Will we go through the tunnel or
up over the hill?” Stephen asked.

“Through the tunnel,” Roger said.
He could face his claustrophobia more easily than he could face the probable
pain of dragging himself, pack and all, up that steep slope.

Graham opened his basic pouch and
took out a torch. “Might be snakes in here,” he said. He slipped the clue into
his map pocket, clicked on the torch and walked into the tunnel.

The others followed. Roger pushed
himself upright and hurried after them, wishing he wasn’t last. Ever since
being trapped in the old mine at Stannary Hills the previous year he had hated
tunnels. Now it took an effort of will for him to follow the others into the
blackness.

The tunnel was lined with
concrete which was black with soot and lichen. It was quite dry and a strong
wind blew on their backs, funnelled by the mountains. The boys’ boots crunched
loudly on the gravel and Stephen could not resist uttering chuckles and making
loud noises to hear the echoes.

“Shut up Steve!” Roger snapped.
He was in no mood to be frightened by Stephen’s silly games.

Two minutes later they emerged
from the other end into another deep cutting which curved right. The sides
slowly levelled out. Ahead was a line of mountains on the other side of the
pass. The sun had just dipped below them but still shone on the upper slopes up
to their left-rear.

The railway ran straight for
several hundred metres through an open forest of short grass and She-Oaks.
Ahead of them a truck suddenly roared across, showing where there was a level
crossing.

“Will we camp here?” Stephen
asked, indicating the open bush on either side.

“Too close to the road,” Graham
replied. “Let’s walk to the level crossing and have a look.”

Roger groaned but plodded wearily
on. He now didn’t care where they camped, as long as they stopped.

The south side of the pass was a
forested valley about a kilometre wide, a long gentle slope which the railway
ran across to the western side of. The highway came down from the saddle on
their right rear in a wide, sweeping curve through open grass to cross the
railway, then dip down across a small creek before climbing over an undulating
ridge to the south. The valley leading to Herberton was much flatter and wider
than that to the north of the pass. On either side forested slopes rose several
hundred metres to vanish in cloud.

As they reached the main road
Graham pointed to a dirt road going off to the west through a dense clump of
She-Oaks. “Let’s look in there,” he suggested.

They waited for two cars to race
past then walked across the bitumen and along the gravel road. It dipped
slightly across a small dry creek and came to a cattle grid in a boundary
fence. A sign informed them it was State Forest and entry was only permissible
by permit. Ahead the road ran around the lower part of a wide spur through open
bush.

“We’ve got a permit,” Graham
said. “It’s in the bundle of papers Captain Conkey gave me. I’m sure we are all
right. He wouldn’t send us here unless we had approval.”

So saying he led on across the
cattle grid and up the gentle slope. As the road curved out of sight of the
highway he stopped.

“This will do,” he said. There
was a side track there and only short grass. He walked down the track twenty
paces and stopped. Roger limped down to join them. Packs and webbing were
dumped. Roger sighed with relief and flopped down to lie on his.

“We will need water,” Peter said.

“There is a creek just down
there. It might have some,” Graham said.

“Let’s have a look,” Peter
agreed.

Graham looked at the others.
“Roger, you and Steve collect some firewood while we check the creek. Give us
your water bottles,” he instructed.

“Stuff the firewood,” Roger
groaned. He closed his eyes and shivered. Carefully he eased his limbs, fearful
of cramp. He seemed to be trembling in every muscle. His body felt like one
huge mass of throbbing aches.

For five minutes Roger just lay with
his eyes closed. Stephen disturbed him when he threw down an armful of deadfall
near him.

“Come on Roger. It will be dark
soon. Don’t just lie there like a slug!”

Roger opened his eyes. With
difficulty he bit back a retort but still felt hot resentment. Slowly he sat up
and hauled himself to his feet. Stephen had already walked away. A glance
around showed that the sunlight only tinged the top of the cloud on the
mountain across the pass. There was also some cloud on the peak to the north of
them but overhead was clear blue sky. Evening was definitely upon them and
Roger felt a distinct chill in the air. He hobbled off down a gentle slope to
where he could see some deadfall near the old railway.

Almost in tears from the effort
he dragged back a sizeable dead branch, just as Graham and Peter returned from
the creek. Stephen came in with another armful of sticks at the same time.

Graham put down the water bottles
he was carrying. “There is water in the creek. Not much, just a trickle, but it
smells and tastes OK,” he said.

“I’ll light the fire,” Roger
offered. Stephen did not dispute this but dumped the sticks and went off with
Peter and Graham to collect more. Roger limped around collecting tinder and
tiny sticks for kindling. Then, with stiffness in seemingly every muscle, he
knelt and cleared a space on the dirt track. The sticks and logs were sorted
into piles of different sizes. A small pyramid of twigs was constructed over a
handful of She-Oak needles and gum leaves. One match set this aflame. Roger crouched
beside it to carefully add pencil thin sticks and to fan the flame with his
hat.