https://greataustralianoutdoors.com.au/hiking-accident-a-reminder-to-prepare-for-the-unexpected/
“Nobody tells you that a helicopter creates a cyclone; that even 30 metres away, the growling wind means you have to cling to a swaying tree trunk as its leaves swirl viscously overhead. Nobody explains that the roar of the blades choke the surrounding rainforest into silence. And nobody tells you that a rescue expedition can take several hours from the time of injury to when the chopper is finally fading into the distance – especially when you have to search for a signal amongst dense rainforest.”
The colour palette, dried. Useless.
Hues draining the landscape,
Slowly. Only the givers noticed, others still
Toiled at Old decrepit displays ignorantly.
Tainted. A sharp dry breath sucking life.
Worn figurines stood bowed,
Empty promise. Bundles of cotton, or
Tissues held above. A shower of droplets from
A posed paintbrush, stroking evasively.
But brushes dry promptly.
Tinges of green emerge. Small decoration
In an elite collection of brown. In vain
It is celebrated, highlighted. Quickly -
Consumed, fading, it is debilitated. So
Elusive. When will the watery outline of chartreuse
Thicken, solidify and purify the painting?
Morph into bold sage - olive - shamrock,
And salvage the ebbing Art?
My therapist reassured me that a trip back here would be a huge step towards closure.
Right now, I’m parked, gazing through my hazy windscreen at the ‘Shining Path.’ Last night, I took the initiative to do a quick search, and according to Wikipedia, the climb is a ‘big wall sport-route’ and is 1500 feet. I’d never done a search on a route before, which is ironic. This is my first time I’m at a route but not to climb. Overall, it just goes to show how much I relied on him to know pretty much everything. Deep breath.
It’s mid-afternoon, so the craggy grey mountain is in shadow, and probably because it’s an overcast Tuesday, my car is the only one in the carpark. I’m a pilgrim, the only mourner at my own funeral. It’s time to say goodbye to my first eighteen years, for good. Another deep breath. I taste the metallic tang of blood and force myself to stop biting my lip.
I’m struck by the face in the review mirror. There's so much caged terror trying to escape those red rimmed eyes. The shadows under them are the bruised remnants of an artist’s careless inky stroke, a stark contrast to the sagging skin beneath them. I search within the reflection’s eyes for strength. But you couldn’t ever buy emotional resilience with a monthly subscription to Urban Climb. I now realise investing all my time and energy into climbing means that maybe, I compromised on other things; things that matter more.
I pull on a jacket and grab a water bottle. Under the driver’s seat, there’s a flash of blue. I pause, frozen. It is my camera case, coated with the grime it has collected for a year in a teenage guy’s car. To say it’s gross is a bit of an understatement.
I guess now is better than ever to finally face it. Gently, like I’m handling an explosive, I extract the camera, and examine the shattered lens with an emotional indifference that I’m sure is setting the old me quaking in his grave.
The camera wouldn’t even check the ‘for parts’ box on eBay.
I flick it on and the last photo taken flashes onto the screen. It’s not one of my ‘trademark’ landscapes, but a ‘memory photo’, hastily shot in one hand whilst climbing.
Red shirt. Salt and pepper hair. Massive grin.
It is of him. My breath catches and I feel the lump in my throat grow so I chuck the camera into the car blindly, and slam the door.
My body remembers the rhythm of hiking better than I expected. I had thought I would have felt some sort of pain in my leg, but surprisingly, it feels normal. I wish it hurt. This whole thing shouldn’t feel so normal. I let the pattern of my boots crunching against the gravel and the repetition of my breathing soothe me as I advance up the track.
It’s only when I’m resting on a little crest a couple of hundred metres from the mountain that I realise that, through the numbness, my hands are pale and stiff, and a freezing breeze is feathering my face. Suddenly, I’m disarmed by a rush of dizziness. The cold is such a foreign feeling. Last time I was here it was one of the hottest days I can remember. The dizziness washes over me until I have no control left.
***
The air is dense and scorching hot. It swells in waves, and fills my throat, bringing my breaths in short gasps.
Most people are at the beach right now, I groan, as I scan the barren landscape. The walk in to this climb is way longer than I’d anticipated, so I hadn’t fastened my pack up properly and the left strap is chaffing against my neck. I don’t need to look to know it’s going to be raw and red.
I swipe at the sweat coating my face and shuffle my pack in an effort to get the weight sitting more comfortably, simultaneously glaring at the red tee-shirt bobbing in front of me. This whole thing should have just been completely postponed until winter.
But then he has the nerve to turn and grin at me. His attitude of pure happiness completely overshadows my annoyance.
I feel my face morph into a smile subconsciously. It’s too hard to say no to his unflappable love for adventure and life in general.
***
I’m racing up the path like I’m competing with the tears that are steadily tracking their way down my frozen cheeks; running away from the good memories of him, because they are so inextricably tangled with the sharp knife of my own regret.
Setting goals for little things is something the he taught me as a child. For the first time in a year, I set one for myself:
I must touch the mountain.
It’s not long before I’m roughing my hand over the slate, squinting up. The winter sun is blocked by a ledge jutting defiantly from the side of the cliff.
A year ago today I was up there.
A year ago he was where I’m standing.
***
I look over and I see a flash of grey hair behind an overhang just below me.
‘Can’t you go a little faster?’ I jiggle the rope that connects us.
My climbing shoes are smearing secure holds, so I take the opportunity to flick my camera on and frame the landscape. I rotate the lens and capture his look of pure concentration as he deliberates the best way to conquer the overhang. At the sound of the shutter button he looks up and the signature smile makes another appearance, even wider now he’s got his hands on the rock.
My legs now pure fire, I grimace back, stuffing the camera back into a case.
It happens in less than a second.
The hold in my left hand breaks off.
My right hand slips-
The rock in the left falls and is in tandem.
I hear the sickening thud of the rock hitting him-
We are falling, our voices threading together, filling the whole valley.
I’m-going-to-die-I-killed-him-we-are-dying-right-now-we-can’t-die-I-can’t-die-die-die-
The jerk of a severed rope.
die-
Contact. Paralysed.
die-
Vividly, I remember sitting at the end of a pew, one leg and one arm fully plastered, face bruised beyond recognition, as everyone sang hymns. Listening to other people give speeches about him that just missed what needed to be said.
With a primal groan, I yank myself from the torrent of memories. I blink, wide-eyed, at the rough rock in front of me, hoping that the indents will morph, transform and I will see his face. I need his love for life right now.
Fuelled by new desperation, I hurtle back down the track. I’m drawn to my car like a moth as soon it is in sight. I just need to see his face. The camera is upside down on the seat, just where I left it. Spider webs stretch across the screen.
What? Why? The brand name flashes onto the screen and then it’s dead.
I did this to myself.
Killed him, broke it, and forgot my own father’s face.
It is raining.
Overhead, there’s a low whine as water is thrown at the regal sandstone house behind me in a lassoing halo while droplets trace muddy paths down my visor.
My stomach clenches thinking about when the rain will stop; in an hour, when the pump wrings the last litres from the tanks. Then, the sprinklers above me will spin and spit to no avail.
This shouldn’t happen.
Normally, I’d lift the radio receiver clipped to the collar of my PPE. “Five-One, this is the ground-crew,” I would bark. Normally, there would be a crew in the first place. And normally, there wouldn’t be a lone fire-fighter standing frozen, sandwiched between a burning valley and an asset worth well into the seven digits. To my father, my home’s value wasn’t even quantifiable.
Thinking about the title ‘fire-fighter’ makes me laugh because it’s still a bit of a stretch. I’d joined the RFS as soon as I turned sixteen, and eight months later, I had just passed my Minimal Skills assessment. I was still the last member of my Brigade that should be facing this enemy.
I imagine how I’d lift the radio again: “Could I get the tanks filled in half an hour?” I don’t even know how far radio-frequencies can even travel. Fifty kilometres maybe? Certainly not the three hundred kilometres to where the truck is deployed, parked facing one of the monstrosities that had ravaged New South Wales for weeks. Everyone had thought the 2019 fire season had been unprecedented, but since the New Year rolled in, the conditions had been spiralling downhill.
Maybe in that truck where my father would be sitting he’d sense those unsaid frequencies; sense that the house he had crafted with his bare hands was the underdog in the battle I was about to witness.
Dad? Have any sort of empathetic sense?
Yeah, right.
Once the hungry blaze tumbling down the hill reaches the valley floor, it’s only a small climb up the other side to where the house is perched. The fire will leave its inky brand behind it.
Just like my words did.
Legs crossed, I’d been a ghost leaning against the frame of the shed door as he frantically shoved torches, jackets and snacks into his duffel bag.
Transparent.
He’d met my gaze finally and I couldn’t bridle the flow of angry words rushing out. His jaw twisted and his eyes had shone, and that was when I’d realised I had more in common with fires than I’d realised:
We burn. We destroy. And we make people speed away in the opposite direction.
Focus. Hurry up!
The sprinklers are my protection, and I’ve blown ten minutes of that cover reminiscing about a whole host of facts I can’t change.
What’s the plan?
There’re more 38mm hoses in the shed – at least three more lengths. Connected from the main tank, they’d reach down to the fire trail, giving me a chance at facing the fire head on. It takes me six tries to slip the Storz fittings together, my hands stiff and shaking within my gloves. I grab the nozzle and rush back towards the break.
In the barren paddock beside me a mob of wallabies hop blindly, their bodies merging into one large mass. Black cockatoos screech overhead, the sound shrill and otherworldly.
The hose in my hand is as limp as a complicit snake.
Damn.
You didn’t turn on the pump, idiot. The metallic taste of blood overwhelms my senses and I notice that I’ve bitten through my bottom lip.
My face is throbbing and my breath jerks when I’m finally showering the ten metre length of vegetation on the opposite side of the track with water. I yank the hose along, repeating the process along the length in front of the house.
Vaguely, I notice the flocks of cockatoos overhead have passed, their chorus fading away to harsh silence. More than anything, I want to be one of them.
I could just go.
Dad would never know.
***
It couldn’t really be said in a text: Hey, you know that house you poured fifteen years of time and money into?
Yeah… It burnt.
I visualise his reaction as vividly as if I was beside him. Unlike me, my old man was pretty predictable.
He’d be on break, standing around in exhausted silence with his crew with a half-eaten sandwich in hand, the weighty atmosphere punctuated only by the static of the radio. His phone screen would light up and the message would glare up at him.
“There’s an 80% chance we’ll be able to save your property,” he’d say that afternoon, on the front deck of a derelict bungalow. He’d barely make eye-contact with the elderly couple huddling together before him. Robotically, he’d explain the crew’s plan.
He’d want to scream at the couple that it wasn’t fair; rail at them that they didn’t deserve this chance, when he hadn’t gotten the same. Their house radiated love; through the window, he’d be able to see grandchildren’s scribbled artwork adorning the fridge.
But so had his.
More than anything, he’d want to do something. He’d radio the sector commander, and ask to be moved to the frontline. His crew’s presence could not be called futile.
He would not allow it.
Later, on-board the flight from Sydney to Brisbane the innocuously neat rows of houses rolling below would make him yank down the plane’s window visor. Unknowingly, his hands would clench onto the seat until they turned chalk white.
The signs at the airport would say “Welcome Home Brisbane Brigades!” But, how could you return home when your home was gone? Click. Cameras chattered around him. His face could not morph into a smile.
An old leather photo album had sat jauntily on the coffee table in their living room for many years. Now, the memories would be blackened, imprisoned in small capsules of ash. The album had told a story, a story of half an acre of bush becoming a flattened expanse of dirt. From the pages, the shell of a house grew slowly; in one picture, you could see straight through into the building, and in the next, crafted sandstone blocks finished the jigsaw. His hands would flutter on the steering wheel as he drove back, as they remembered the familiar movement of shaping the coarse stone many years earlier.
No amount of time would prepare him to see the bones again. He would park his car beside the charred frame of the excavator, and launch himself out of the driver’s seat. His body would feel like bones as well.
Just bones.
Throbbing,
broken bones.
***
Imagining the depth of his pain yanks me back to reality. I swallow the tangy bile infiltrating my mouth.
How could I meet him on the property on which I stood right now after running away when it needed me most? Console him for its loss when it was my choice? Bashfully apologise for the sting of my words when my actions stung insurmountably more?
The thrum of the pump is a strong heartbeat vibrating through the hoses and into my body.
I have to bloody do this.
Time keeps blanking out and regardless of what I do, I can’t focus.
I find myself back at the fire trail;
And freeze.
The flames make an impenetrable orange wall in front of me, a hypothesizing tsunami scarcely ten metres from me. I yank the nozzle open and water streams out.
Elements in conflict; water battling fire.
Suddenly, there’s a massive crash and I drop the hose. A jet of water hits my legs and my shoulder smashes against the dirt - and it is from this vulnerable position that I register the crashing noise was an ancient ironbark. Leaves, hurriedly brushed from gutters hours prior, start to dance in a reckless routine. Skeletal arms protest above, contributing more leaves to the hurried performance.
Aeolus comes cloaked in a dark veil, and his noxious, acidic aura makes me choke. The house, too close behind me, is a hazy outline through the smoke. I bring my knees to my chest and burrow my face into the aggressive material of my pants, blindly reaching to turn off the water pouring from the hose. The inevitable has happened; there’s nothing coming out.
The water showering over me and the house had been a shield. Now it was truly just me.
I could lie here forever.
They would find me, cremated amongst the Pompeiian ruins.
A low blearing sound punctuates my hazy rest and vaguely, I note that my phone, hot against my chest is beginning to vibrate. It’s on the last ring that I fumble to answer the call; my fingers shake like the leaves above me and my eyes struggle to focus on the screen.
You have 1 new missed call from ‘Dad.’
Like I’m moving underwater, I dial voicemail. Twigs and jagged rocks bite my cheek as my head falls back into the dirt.
“Hey, son.” The voice is strong above the lull of traffic in the background.
“We’re on the way to the airport, so I’ll be home tonight. I don’t know if I should tell you this now, or later. Couple of hours ago I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to right now. We almost had a burn-over this morning. The wind changed and…
I know there’s a high fire risk around home at the moment so you’re probably busy…”
I suck in my cheek and bite down. Nothing could be more irresponsible; a measly argument making me feel like I’d be able to do this alone.
“But I really feel like I need to say this now.” I hear him exhale sharply, and I can tell he’s trying to compose himself.
“Mate, you’re pretty bloody awesome. I, I- I love you.” The last sentence is thick, and it sounds like he’s choking on tears.
The recorded message begins to beep.
“To replay, press 1. To call back, press 2. To delete, press 3.”
I hit 1, clutching the phone to my chest. I want to internalise his words, swallow them and trap them inside me.
At fire meetings when burn-overs were mentioned oxygen would leave the room and you’d be able to hear every little rustle of gear.
We’d practiced them endlessly.
Ripping the fuel and drip torches from the sides of the unit. Yanking down the shields over the glass. Huddling under fire blankets on the floor of the crowded front seat with two other people, each person imagining the suffocating heat and the growl of the flames was actually enveloping the truck.
A piercing cry is ripped from my body and thrown at the fire. It sounds like the eerie yowl from a wounded dingo and it shakes me to the core. I hadn’t considered that he might be the one in danger. The stone house that had become his legacy had seemed vulnerable for the first time in my life, but in my mind he was more invincible than stone.
He had almost burned.
The valley throws the echo of my cries back to me and the rawness of it steals more of my breath.
Earlier today, with the truck shaking violently with the force of the fire, with heat licking their bodies relentlessly and the crew praying for their lives, Dad would have thought his son despised him.
The magnetic pull of the house behind me fades away. It no longer requires my absolute attention. Because more stone can be trucked from the same quarry. Plantations nearby to the ones Dad had visited years earlier can sell us timber again.
A second build might even be better than the first.
Love, however, cannot be bought.
I think part of me imagined the track leading from me to the car had been alight the whole time; a barrier between me and safety.
And with his words, those flames have melted and I have permission to escape.