Wilkin Valley (Christmas, 1963)

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WILKIN VALLEY (Christmas, 1963) .Geoff Aitken, Hilary Clingin. Ron go thisaway thataway down-this stream Fayle, Barrie Noyce.) is the South Branch? Pause-food from fixed fingers-then longer in time yet, People in the south are generous. When downstream stumbling through bush, trip we left there we stayed for several days here, trip there, pull over this log. on stations absorbing warmth from the what great task this is up in itself, around sun and from the fats of hospitable gorge stumble on, stumble on, wet, cold, kitchens, but that was at the end. When rain, where is the end, on through the we arrived it was thus too as we came bush strangling, catching, grasping, the from Mrs Quaiffe's fresh cream and eggs end is here, no, here, no, here, yes-we breakfast, staggered slowly in the sun emerge to pine copse at Young Forks, across. meadows with unaccustomed warmth, fire, food, exhausted, dry sleep. weight packs, kicking broken yellow playball discarded in a field and which Rest and washdaylike drying in that now took us for miles up the Wilkin how pleasant sun the day before going River. The sandflies at Kerin Forks up the North Branch, on up the river forcing us away and up the dismay of on one wet after one fine day- -on, looknever-ending twisting track a thousand ing for hut, it was there but we missed feet into Siberia-lighting our first meal it-camping at Waterfall Creek near fire and the sun left us. head of river-deer not used to humans (?) walked through our campfire smoke, And in the morning sun walking up the Hilary and Geoff go stalking-and bevalley of parched grass to Top Forks. tween days of rain up Young's Ridge and stopping to eat chocolate, raisins, and survey our land of mountain tops and cheese-looking up at mists Awful, see over hidden valley a pass, next day Dreadful peaks and crags vertical- we shall be in the Blue River, but it is water cascading into space- Geoff, fresh, not to be-then circling, wheeling keas bounds on up the river to look at Runun- attack, first one, then reinforcements culus Pass finds it impasse and runs by diving down upon us showing red underlooking ahead down the valley as we lie wings from camoflage surface and curved behind a bluff out of the wind-all on wicked beak, again and again they pass then down to our camp past 400 deer within two or three feet as Geoff hurls rank upon bank dead army dropped rot- stones at them-and we leave this place. ting in gruesome pose now nothing but Blowflies have been our meal-time smell and insult to life-the lengthening companions but they are gone, sandflies line of four reaches its home. constantly eating at us-now we declare We must go on and up into unnamed war, our rain-soaked refuge is at stake. Christmas Day Valley-pausing by water- Smoke. fall to eat-listen to sirens glad singing. Green leaves on billy lid. rocks splashing, Hilary alone there and Choke. at one-to join our silent curious hunter In tent enclosed. friend, the only only other human in- Peace, as last bodies- crushed-fall to habitant, we never know his name. floor and bodies stripped relax to contest Christmas is when all people come to- by card and chess in nothing filled tent. gether and share, his venison, our choco- Rain enduring. lates, nervous appreciation. our cele- And we, thwarted once more, leave bratory balloons remain shyly hidden. this place in cold and rain crashing on The weather broke and we ran around leaving distance in time to Young Forks to get over Gillespies Pass to the Young where a mad orgy of song and dance River before things became too bad- takes place in the cullers' hut, rhythmic bad-struggling, panting, head down into stomping driving cold out and heat inmist and rain, head down though through brewing soup, fiddling with numbed fatigue-look up, infinte saddle, look up, trembling fingers-on down the river search for ever disappearing leader, where sun comes out-cows wait for us, we is he, which way did he go, which way for them till force of numbers overcomes should I go, up, despair, panic, pant, one timidity and they run past-on to foot must go in front of the last, sweat meadows in the sun and out comes that into rain, along deer paths, even they little yellow broken ball blad as it nears don't make it straight, which one, where, its home- symbolical-and as night falls where are they-filly loped on but we are back in that great southern hosfatigued too-up, chilled, wet. sweat. pitality goodness, listening to rain on tin oh-smooth, level soft snow and down. roof and cooking fresh meat over fire. precipitous wet grass in mist and rain. -BARRIE NOYCE.