‘It’s okay,’ I say, managing a smile. ‘It’s been a long time. I ought to be over it.’
She goes to the bathroom while I step outside. The porch is already in shadow and the air is cool. I sit on an old wooden chair and watch a rosella feeding on the bird tray. I watch it pick up a seed and crack it deftly with its beak, tucking the kernel into its mouth with its knobby grey tongue and then discarding the husk. Jess comes out and sits beside me. The birds are so accustomed to us they don’t fly away. I watch the light over the water on the channel. When Emma comes out, I’m settled and calm. She touches my face with her hands and runs her fingertips over my lips. I am so easily undone by her.
‘Come on,’ she says, taking my hand.
Inside, she kisses me and releases my passion all over again.
When her strong brown hands are on me and when I can feel the boldness of her curves, she is mine and I am hers.
21
In the pale light before dawn on Friday morning, I guiltily desert Jess, leaving her at home with a large bowl of dog food and an enormous placatory bone. Then I collect Emma and we hump piles of gear into my car: tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mats, an esky full of food, and milk-crates containing gas bottles, plates and pots. Emma tosses in an old rucksack weighed down with climbing equipment, as well as a rope and two harnesses. With her things added to mine we could be going for six weeks, not just overnight.
We drive north out of Hobart. At the wheel I am fizzing with excitement. Emma sits beside me, my hand warm on her knee. The sunlight is spreading across a watery blue sky. Nothing could be better.
The campground at Freycinet National Park nestles beneath the jutting rocky peaks of the Hazards. It’s dotted with contorted old banksias, their bark as thick and wrinkled as an old man’s skin, and it’s rimmed by an arc of golden sand and softly lapping waves that hiss gently on the shore. As Emma and I step out of the car blue skies and cool air wrap around us. Honeyeaters dart between banksia flowers, twittering.
We’re alone in the campground, so we can pitch our tent wherever we like. It all looks fine to me, but Emma fusses over flat ground and aspect until she settles finally on a spot beneath an ancient, gnarly banksia. We make a game of putting up the tent, flicking each other with tent poles and having mock fencing duels with the pegs. It’s been a long time since I played like this with another person.
After organising our camp, we make tea over a small gas stove and have something to eat. Then Emma hauls out her climbing pack and lays her gear on a tarp. She tosses me a pair of funny little rubber shoes and tells me to try them on. They’re as tiny as women’s ballet slippers, but somehow I manage to cram my feet into them and stand up. Emma laughs, telling me to stand straight and to stop looking so awkward. She says I’ll see how useful these shoes are when we’re climbing; for now, it’s a relief to change back into my runners. Next she pulls out a harness she has borrowed from a housemate, and I adjust the leg loops—my thighs are clearly not as bulky as those of the owner.
Once she has sorted out her gear, she packs everything away again and we drive through the coastal bush, winding onto a gravel road that takes us to a carpark above a small cove with golden sand. We’re some distance above the beach, and I can see two people strolling along the water’s edge. At each end of the beach are mounds of rocks painted red with lichen. The air is still and the steady rushing sound of the waves rises up to mingle with the smell of dew on the damp bushes.
Emma leads me along a tiny path that branches off the main beach trail, winding through prickly scrub and over rock slabs until we arrive at the base of a smooth granite dome. The view from here is stunning. Above and below us and stretching around the headland are sheets and domes of granite. The sea laps energetically at the lower rocks, and to the north I can see the couple still walking on the beach.
We unpack and wriggle into our harnesses. Emma clips an armoury of metal equipment around her waist and then tugs on her climbing shoes. As she moves, the belt makes a pleasant clinking sound. She has a furrowed look of concentration on her face as she goes over everything again, making sure she has all she needs. She seems capable and confident, calm and in control. It’s both reassuring and sexy.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Let’s check you out.’
She tests the fastenings on my harness. Then she starts teaching me how to tie a figure-eight knot, but I stop her, showing her I already know this, at least. When I went south, we had to learn some basic climbing knots, how to rope up for glacier travel and how to rig a pulley. I use knots for work too, tying loads, securing tarps. Still, Emma seems surprised. ‘I thought you’d have forgotten all this,’ she says.
‘I’m good with knots, and I’ve worn a harness before, but I’m not comfortable with heights. I’ve never been climbing.’
She grins. ‘You’ll be all right.’
Concentrating, she watches me tie in to my harness, and then she hooks me up to a big camming device she has placed in a crack near our feet. It expands to wedge itself tightly in the crack.
‘I’m not particularly heavy,’ she says. ‘And even without this you should be able to hold my weight if I fall. But I prefer to be safe and make sure we have backup.’
I like backup too, especially when I’m off the ground. Emma ties herself into the free end of the rope then shows me how to thread the rope through the belay device attached to my harness, and how to feed out length as she climbs. If she falls, the belay device will lock the rope so I can halt her descent. There’s a trade-off between having the rope too tight or too loose. She wants enough slack so that I’m not pulling on her as she ascends, but not so much that she’ll fall a long way if she comes off the rock face.
I have to be ready, she says, and I have to watch her all the time. She’s not planning to fall off, but it’s important that I’m prepared if she does. Then she runs through climbing communication, all of which sounds funny to me, but she says that after a couple of times it will become automatic; climbing is a dangerous sport and it requires a thorough and pedantic approach. Watching Emma’s serious face I have to resist the urge to kiss her.
Now we are ready to begin and I have so many things to think about I barely notice the view. I start to get nervous. The rope is in my left hand, running through the belay device to my right hand, which is ready to tighten the rope at any time. Emma gives me a final check over. My palms are sweating.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Climbing.’
I feed out some rope and watch her inspecting the rock for finger- and toeholds. She reaches up to a tiny ridge, sticks her toe in a little crack, makes a few swift moves and is already a couple of metres above my head. How did that happen so easily? Emma pokes a camming device into a crack above her and tugs on it firmly once it’s in place. She snaps a clipdraw into it and pulls on the rope. ‘Rope,’ she puffs. In my anxiety, I am holding on too tightly. Quickly I feed out some slack and she clips the rope through the hanging carabiner.
‘Good,’ she says, wedging her hand in the crack next to the camming device. She pauses to inspect the rock above and plan her next moves. ‘What you have to remember on granite,’ she says, ‘is that the footholds may not be obvious. It’ll seem scary at first, but if you put your weight on your foot, you can use friction to help you step up. This climb is not too steep, so take your time and you’ll work it out.’
Right now, this seems overwhelming to me, so I focus on watching her instead. Shifting a little on her foothold, she reaches up, brings up her feet, and in no time she is ten metres above me, stopping to look for the next suitable crack or crevice to insert another piece of equipment for protection. It looks amazingly easy, and my heart swells with the excitement of watching her.
She’s good at this—carefully placing her feet on the rock and cleverly using her body to gain elevation. She moves smoothly and expertly. Even so, my hands are slick with sweat and my feet are damp in my runners.
Eventually, she climbs out of sight. Somehow it’s easier not
watching; instead, I listen for her directions and pay out rope as she needs it. The clinking sound from above tells me when she is moving again.
Glancing below, I see the sea swelling and frothing over the red rocks. Small puffy clouds have appeared on the eastern horizon and out to sea a bulk carrier is moving slowly north. Standing on this dome of granite in the warm sun, I can smell the rock; it’s a dry hard smell, quite distinct from that of dirt. It mingles with the sweat of my fear, reminding me that I am yet to climb.
Soon Emma calls that she’s safe, and I take myself off belay then sit down to jam my feet into the tight little shoes. I lace them firmly and tie my runners to a loop on the back of my harness. Emma is pulling in the rope from above; soon it will be tight and then I will have to climb. I check my harness and knots for the tenth time. It’s a long way down if I fall. The rope tugs on my harness.
‘That’s me,’ I say.
‘Is that you?’ Emma yells. ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Yes.’ I try to muster a bigger voice. ‘That’s me.’
There’s a pause before Emma’s voice floats down again. ‘On belay.’
So this is it. My heart is in my mouth. ‘Okay. Climbing.’
Emma tugs reassuringly on the rope, but the rock wall above me seems blank, with nothing significant to hold on to. A long time seems to pass and I haven’t made a move. My feet are already killing me in the tight shoes.
‘Are you all right?’ Emma calls down.
‘I’m not sure how to start,’ I say, wiping my arm across my forehead to dislodge the sweat.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Look up a bit and you’ll see a little crack. Can you get your fingers into that?’
I grope around to find the crack and push my fingers in, scrabbling for something to grasp.
‘Slide your fingers along. There’s an edge in there you can hook onto.’
A couple of seconds later, I’ve found it.
‘Now, look down and across to your right a bit. There’s a ledge you can put your foot on sideways. Place your other hand flat against the rock, push up on your right foot and pull with your hand in the crack. That’ll get you off the ground and you can look for something else.’
How can she remember all these nuances of the rock? I try to follow her instructions, psyching up with shaking legs, and then I take the first move off the ground. I feel air all around me. I grapple around for another handhold and find one, a reassuring lump near a crack.
‘Did you find that jug?’ Emma calls.
‘What’s a jug?’
‘A big handhold. Did you find it?’
‘I think I’m hanging on to it.’
‘Good.’
As I move slowly up the rock face, I find several solid locations to place my feet and there are plenty of cracks and edges to cling onto. I’m breathing like a windstorm, huffing with each breath. I try not to look down.
‘Make sure you unclip the rope from the clipdraws as you go and pull out all the gear,’ Emma reminds me. ‘I don’t want to have to climb back down to retrieve anything.’
Unclipping and pulling out the equipment is harder than it sounds. On trembling legs, I have to maintain my balance, hold on to rock with my left hand and try to wangle the rope out of the carabiner with my finger and thumb. Then I have to work out how to remove the gear—a camming device or wire with a blocky sinker on the end of it—and hook it into a loop on my harness. After removing the first piece, I feel exhausted.
‘How are you going?’ Emma calls.
‘I think I’m okay,’ I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.
‘I’ve got you.’ Emma pulls up on the rope. ‘Do you need a rest?’
‘No,’ I pant. ‘I’ll keep going.’
Still out of sight, Emma gives me instructions and makes helpful suggestions, and I make slow progress up the rock face. She seems to know when to call out and when to leave me alone to work it out myself. Always, I am conscious of the voluminous feel of air and space around me, of the awful drop below me, the headiness of height, my tenuous grip on the rock face.
Eventually, I drag myself over a ledge and there’s Emma, sitting about three metres above me.
‘You’re nearly there.’ Her smile is luminous. ‘How is it?’
‘Great,’ I puff.
‘How did your legs go? Did you get sewing-machine leg?’
I remember one point, when I was partway up the rock with my right leg shaking uncontrollably.
She smiles knowingly. ‘It happens to us all.’
She points out some good footholds and finger cracks for the last moves, and I finally haul myself up onto the rock beside her.
‘Sit down and have a rest,’ she says. ‘It’s beautiful up here.’
I lean back weakly against the rock and look out across the flat expanse of the sea. The beach is a sheltered cove below. I didn’t realise we had gained so much height.
‘Look at the light on the rocks,’ Emma says. ‘I just love all those oranges and reds. Impossible really—such bright colours in nature.’
We sit together a long time, eating the snacks we brought and drinking water. I’ve sweated buckets.
‘I generally prefer to keep my feet on the ground,’ I say.
‘But how do you feel now?’ Emma asks.
I notice the unweighted feeling of my body, the spreading looseness of my mind, the pleasant sensation of cool air on hot sweat.
‘Euphoric.’
‘That’s why it’s fun,’ Emma says. ‘You feel more alive. The hardest part is learning to block out the distance below you. You have to delete it somehow, so that when you look down, you don’t register how far you could fall.’ She catches me shaking my head, and smiles. ‘If you see the height, you’ll get vertigo,’ she says. ‘It paralyses you. And then you can’t climb. All you’ll be able to think about is the risk, and you’ll miss out on the buzz. But taking risks is part of climbing. The trick is to take only calculated risks. Then you can look up and out without worrying about falling. It’s all about enjoying the ride.’
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. And it seems to me she’s not just talking about climbing. She’s talking about life.
That night, sated, mellow, every muscle aching, we drink red wine with dinner. The shared experience, the dark around us, the campfire with its glowing embers and gently flickering flames, the wine—it all breeds an atmosphere of intimacy.
Emma admits she’s finding it difficult to apply herself to grinding through all the data she collected last season. All she can think of is the news that comes dribbling back from Mawson Station. It’s like an addiction, the way she has to dash into the lab each morning and check her emails to find out what happened overnight. After a few seasons she thought she’d be over it, but the yearning is as strong as ever.
‘It’s the freedom,’ I say. ‘The distance from normal routine and responsibility.’
Emma shakes her head. ‘I have routine down there. Every day is routine. Rugging up for the cold. Checking the weighbridge. Catching birds. Water offloading. Data entry . . .’
‘But you’re not hemmed in to ordinary life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t have to go shopping. Or buy petrol. Or clean the house.’
‘I suppose that’s part of it,’ she says. ‘Life isn’t very ordinary down there, is it? It does have its own routine, but each day is special and there’s something different to look at. Like a leopard seal hauling out on the sea ice and scaring the hell out of the penguins. Or a skua hanging around the hut trying to steal the soap. Or a visitor you didn’t expect making a trip out across the sea ice for dinner and a glass of wine.’
I watch Emma’s face glowing in reminiscence. Her cheeks have a red sheen from the fire. She stares into the flames and there’s a soft smile on her lips. I feel the warmth of the wine in my veins.
‘I’m leading you astray,’ she says. ‘You were normal and stable before you met me, weren’t you?’
/>
‘What’s normal?’
‘Were you thinking of Antarctica every day? Every waking moment? Like you are now?’
It’s not Antarctica I’m thinking of every waking moment. ‘I’m thinking of you,’ I say.
Emma laughs. ‘You’ve got things mixed up in your head. Me and Antarctica. You can’t separate us. You can’t think of one without thinking of the other.’ She’s gazing into the fire again, her eyes glistening in the liquid light.
‘You don’t have to go,’ I say.
She looks at me blankly.
I say it again. ‘You don’t have to go south.’
‘Everyone wants to go south.’
‘If you want to settle back into life here, you could find something else to do . . . You could get a job at a university.
Research, or something.’
‘Who said I want to settle?’
‘You’ll have to eventually. You can’t keep going south forever.’
‘Why not?’
‘Eventually you’ll want a normal life.’
‘I don’t want a normal life. And neither do you. That’s why you’re here with me. Because you want to go south again.’
She doesn’t understand. Being with her is about much more than wanting to go south. I like being with her. I like the feeling of her body wrapped around me. Her smell. Doing things with her, even climbing. The possibility of Antarctica is an added bonus.
‘I like you even without Antarctica,’ I say.
She shakes her head. ‘No, you don’t. You’re wrong. It’s Antarctic magic that has drawn you to me. If it wasn’t for that, I’d just be another person in the street. And do you really think you could work with me down there?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
I hesitate. ‘I’m not very imposing.’
She laughs and winks at me. ‘I don’t mind a bit of imposition.’
I pretend to ignore the hint. ‘I’m talking about the workplace. I’m not a bulldozer. There are ways to work things out.’
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