Bushbash

by Trevor Lloyd

Mike wouldn’t have realised Dougal was coming. The previous night, the couple had dropped Cheryl’s vehicle at the other end of the track, and arrived late at the Lodge in Tuatapere. Dougal turned up for breakfast. He claimed it was a last minute decision to come with them, after a chance remark from Cheryl at work. Mike said he was welcome to join them. They bundled into Mike’s four-wheel-drive and set out for the start of the walk on the south coast. The first bit was a stroll along the beach, getting used to their heavy packs, breathing in the sea air, loosening their legs on the soft sand, crunching across the drifts of tightly-packed round pebbles. The hard part would come later.

Cheryl was surprised to see Dougal carrying a rifle, on a tramp. He’d boasted about being a hunter, but he seemed to be more an interested observer than an active participant, and Cheryl wondered quietly how he would handle the steep track into Lake Hauroko. She also wondered how safe he would be with a firearm. Dougal explained he had some mates with a permit for the nearby Rowallan Forest, staying at an old building somewhere near the track, and he hoped to link up with them. Maybe they could all bunk down there instead of the DOC huts.

At the junction with the Humpridge Track, they turned right. They were immediately plunged into the depths of the forest. Tall trees rose above them, allowing in only a glimpse of the soft Southland sunshine. The morning air was full of the music of mainly unseen birds. A brave fantail followed them along parts of the uneven path, searching for insects – piwakawaka: a welcome friend along for the journey, but when seen inside a dwelling it could be an omen of impending death.

The forest was an unheralded national treasure, an undisturbed patch of virgin rain forest held in covenant on behalf of local Māori. The palpable spiritual significance of the place added a further layer of mystery, of uncertainty, every fallen tree or other obstacle across the track a warning, every fork in the path an opportunity for things to go wrong. Cheryl paused regularly to listen, feeling the ancient trees talking to her of who-knows-what danger.

They followed a gentle babbling stream, then climbed steeply up a ridge towards the bush-line. They had to stop frequently to wait for Dougal, who didn’t seem to realise he was holding them up. As they broke out of the trees, they were rewarded with expansive views of Te Waewae Bay and across Foveaux Strait to the southern islands. When Dougal reached them, he greeted Cheryl with an unexpected hug, but stopped when Mike gave him a withering stare. Cheryl was surprised. She didn’t know Dougal all that well. She taught English. He taught maths. She had mentioned their impending trip, but they hadn’t discussed the details. Dougal acted as if his presence was Cheryl’s own idea.

From the top of the Hump Range, the trampers had panoramic views of the surrounding landscape. In a grove of stunted beech, down by the edge of the trees, Dougal was excited to see a group of deer. But the views didn’t last. Storm clouds were gathering from the south-west. Even their views of the track ahead were rapidly diminishing, and they were hit by torrential rain and sleet. In this exposed environment, their situation was becoming dangerous. They hurried down into the shelter of the bush. It was still several hours, in difficult conditions, to the Teal Bay Hut.

Dougal suggested they look for the building his friends had mentioned. With few other options available, they followed their unlikely saviour down an unpromising side track. To Cheryl’s amazement, there it was – a substantial building with brown weatherboard walls, a water tank, an iron roof, a good supply of dry firewood, and a radio aerial. There was no-one else about. Dougal never mentioned his friends again. When there was a break in the weather, he insisted on going out to look for the deer.

It was getting dark, and threatening to rain again. Mike went out with a couple of strong torches to look for Dougal. Rather than his heavy woollen brown jersey, he wore his bright blue parka. He didn’t want to be a victim of one of those hunting accidents, he said, knowing Dougal well enough by now not to trust him to identify his target. Cheryl unpacked the food and stoked the fire while she waited anxiously for the other two to return. There was a single shot, but still no sign of the men. Then Dougal returned on his own, with an apologetic smile on his face, uninterested in Cheryl’s distress. He had his own story to tell.

— Second place, Open category, Anna-Marie Chin Architects Writing Competition 2023.