Stephen snorted. “White Falcon! Probably just the local Real Estate Agent showing some prospective buyers a farm,” he commented.
Roger bit his lip. He felt silly and ashamed of his weakness. He unscrewed the top of another water bottle and drained it.
Graham nodded with approval. “Drink some more. You look very flushed,” he ordered.
“Out of water,” Roger croaked.
Peter passed him a water bottle. Roger had a mouthful and passed it back. “I’m OK now. I was just excited. Come on. Let’s find a phone before they get away.”
“Relax. They will already be in Atherton mate. By the time we find a phone they will be miles away. We will just go on, nice and steady,” Graham replied.
They resumed their walk and in five minutes a house came into view, a modern brick bungalow of the ‘5 Acre block’ type. The boys went in and knocked. A grey haired lady cautiously answered the door. When Graham removed his hat and politely asked if he could phone the police she assented. He dropped his pack and webbing.
“You blokes stay here. I will do the phoning.”
Roger met the lady’s gaze. “May we fill our water bottles please?” he asked. He really wanted to be the one to phone but accepted that Graham was the senior; and the lady wouldn’t want them all trampling through her home in their sweaty uniforms.
While the lady led Graham inside the others went to a tap to fill all the water bottles. Roger filled Graham’s as well. He drank until he felt bloated, then refilled his own.
In five minutes Graham was back. “The Inspector wasn’t there but they promised to pass on the message,” he explained.
Roger felt a sharp disappointment which he knew was unreasonable. But he felt better knowing the message had been passed and after a drink and rest. He was perspiring freely again and realized he must have been getting heat exhaustion. Heat exhaustion! In mid-winter on the Tablelands! He looked up. Still not a cloud to be seen except for the few blobs of cotton wool on the mountain tops to the west.
The boys thanked the lady and walked back out onto the road.
“What about lunch?” Stephen asked.
It was 12:40 Roger noted. Only a hundred metres further on two dirt roads turned off on the left amongst a stand of trees; one up the slope and the other through a gate to a house. At the junction was a grassy area well shaded by the eucalypts.
“This will do us,” Graham said. “It’s not as private as I’d like though.”
“It’ll do. I’m starving,” Stephen replied. He dropped his pack and the others did likewise. Roger sat on his pack and rummaged in his webbing for food but he did not feel hungry. He decided on a tin of peaches, some biscuits with apricot jam, and a cup of coffee.
“Boots off. Air your feet,” Graham ordered.
Peter groaned. “But I will have to move then,” he complained in an aggrieved tone.
“Why?”
“Because of the stench from your gungy feet!”
“Bite your bum!”
They all laughed. Roger took off his boots and socks and stretched his toes. It felt better at once. He examined his feet and renewed one piece of sticking plaster but was pleased to note there were no new blisters. Using a spoon he ate the peaches from the tin. Already he felt much happier.
While sipping his coffee Roger pulled out his maps and began to calculate how far they had walked.
Graham swallowed some food and called, “How far do you make it Roger?”
“Eighteen kilometres,” Roger replied. He felt proud of the achievement.
“That’s about what I reckon,” Graham agreed.
“Nearly time to find a camp site then,” Roger said.
“Another seven. Let’s make it twenty five.”
Roger grimaced. “Till I can’t go any more,” he temporized.
Peter sat up. “How far is it to that tunnel?”
“Only six in a straight line,” Graham replied.
Stephen leaned over to look at the map. “Which way are we going? Up the railway or along the road?” he asked.
“The road is further,” Peter said.
“By a lot. Be all that awful traffic too,” Roger replied.
“I vote we go up the railway,” Graham said.
“Let’s wait and see what it is like,” Stephen cautioned.
At 1:30pm they resumed their march. Only a hundred metres further on the road crossed a small creek which was flowing. It was only ankle deep but was crystal clear on a sandy bottom.
“Oh! I wish we’d known this creek was here,” Peter said.
“Let’s stop and have a wash,” Roger suggested.
Graham shook his head. “No. We’ve only just started again and we’ve still got seven kilometres to go. Besides, there are bound to be more creeks running off these mountains,” he vetoed.
The others grumbled but continued walking. A large truck roared past powdering them with dust, followed soon after by a car from the other direction. They passed more new houses of the suburban type, crossed another creek and went up over a steep little spur which reduced Roger to heavy panting.
Just over the crest they came to the railway. They stopped and consulted their maps and studied the line. The rails were rusty and the sleepers were grey from age and weather but there were not many weeds. Another vehicle raced by along the road, throwing up more dust.
“The railway,” Graham said emphatically. He started along it.
Luckily there was a footpath beside the ballast which made walking easier. The line curved right in a gentle climb along the side of the mountain. Dry forest; a mixture of dense stands of She-Oaks and more open areas of Eucalypts, closed in their view. The boys could only see along the line with occasional glimpses of the mountains ahead.
As soon as they were away from the road Roger felt a peculiar sense of isolation. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he had vivid flashbacks to that memorable hike down the Kuranda Railway two years before.
Stephen spoke up. “Remember when we walked down the railway from Kuranda?”
“Shut up Steve. I’m trying to forget that,” Roger replied. He shivered and looked up the mountainside on his left. It was just ordinary dry bush. Nothing unusual. Nothing to worry about. But he still had the urge to keep looking behind him and wished he wasn’t last.
MAP 2: HEBERTON RANGE & MT. BALDY
CHAPTER 23
THE HERBERTON RAILWAY
For Roger the walk up the railway became a test of willpower. He seemed to quickly tire and was soon walking in a sort of zombie-like daze. Frequent trivial obstacles forced him to keep alert: fallen rocks and clumps of tall grass or small washouts. From time to time the footpath became so narrow they had to walk between the rails but this was annoying as the sleepers were unevenly spaced which made it hard to settle into a rhythm. The sleepers also varied. Some were flat and others rounded. Many were half-rotted with crumbling interiors or had split and jagged surfaces.
The cadets crossed half a dozen culverts and small bridges a few metres long but all the streams were dry. Bare sand and bare rock began to predominate on the surrounding slopes, with grass-tree and straggly, open bush. The railway curved into a small valley where there was no breeze at all and the afternoon sun radiated from the enfolding slopes as from a reflector fireplace.
At the head of this large re-entrant was a larger bridge, ten metres long. The map showed the stream to be Carrington Creek. Carrington Falls was the steep rock face on their left but barely a trickle of unattractive slime was the only water flowing down it. The disappointed boys stood on the bridge and looked gloomily at it.
“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.”
Behind Mt. Baldy Page 23
