I haven’t seen you since 2003, the year my oldest nephew was born, the year Johnny Cash died, the year that Mars passed closer to the earth than it will until 2287. I am surprised to suddenly understand that I was certain I would see you again.
We camped at Walsh’s Falls, arguing about Don de Lillo’s The Names (you thought it was travel writing, I thought it was magic realism), about The Night Air (I didn’t see the point), about cooking potatoes in foil (you called me bourgeois), about air mattresses (I called you bourgeois), about blaming your family for your issues (your father did sound like a cunt though). We argued about the length of time it took me to get back to the Falls from Atherton through the rifle range. We argued about how far from the river we could use soap.
Riding to Chillagoe we argued about whether it was safer to walk the Lappa Hill, what water was likely to be potable, and whether the Chillagoe Hole was green from limestone or arsenic. At Almaden Pub we toasted my new nephew in Toohey’s Old, and then fought about whose turn it was to pace set, and whether I was too slow a pace setter. On the outskirts of Chillagoe, by the marble quarry, we argued because I had set too fast a pace.
St Kilda was playing someone or other in some code of football as we camped that night, and you insisted on demonstrating plays with rocks on the riverbank and listening to the game on the shortwave. I wanted to listen to the doco about Mars passing close to the earth, the reason that we were heading up the Walsh.
Far from any humans on the Walsh, swarms of cream coloured butterflies billowed from the ti-tree, we ate turtle (arguing about the ethics of doing so), we fought over reading material, and we watched the skies after forced all-day marches to find river junctions and water holes. We argued about the topo maps photocopied in the Mareeba library that you had highlighted yourself, I thought inaccurately. We argued about where we had hidden the bikes (I was right) and the correct river fork back to the Chillagoe cemetery (you were right).
On the Culpa Rd we camped by Koombooloomba Dam on an old logging track and argued about whether the snakes in the crumbling causeway were taipans (in retrospect I am pretty sure you were right and they were). We argued because neither of us wanted to explain what we were doing up there should one of us get bitten and die horribly. We argued about when Bloomsday was, and about the way I packed panniers (insufficiently neatly).
You said the stone bridges on the long downhill run into Cardwell reminded you of The Bridges of Madison County, and I accused you of having appalling taste and too close an attachment to the sentimental. The last night in Cardwell, when we discovered Johnny Cash had died, courtesy of a Radio Australia, I teared up over Long Black Veil, and you threw the accusation back at me.
As I packed to get on the bus back to Townsville we argued about whether I needed to deflate my tyres and turn the handlebars around (you only deflate the tyres if you’re flying, so they don’t explode).
Over the years I saw traces of you in strange places. When I finally unpacked the last box of books three years after I moved to Liston I found your copy of The Bridges of Madison County, but gave it to a visitor so I did not have that kind of shit in the house. Once, in an op-shop, I found a copy of your brother’s play, and wondered if I should try and track you down to tell you. In 2018 I thought about you when I heard a report that the Baal Gammon copper mine had poisoned the Walsh. A couple of months ago I heard Helen Garner on the radio, and mentioned to a friend that I knew one of the members of the class that she had talked to about sex.
I haven’t seen you since 2003, the year my oldest nephew was born, the year Johnny Cash died, the year that Mars passed closer to the earth than it will until 2287. I am surprised to suddenly understand that I was certain I would see you again.
Quollgirl 