Birdbrain (12 page)

On the banks of the brook, on both sides near the path openings, the undergrowth has been worn away and the ground is covered with nothing but a carpet of eucalyptus leaves. I can only begin to imagine how merciful the shade of a large tree must feel after crossing Southy from the other direction across the scorched plains of buttongrass. Louisa River is fairly wide and deep, and even the sound of the flowing water has a cooling effect. But we are damp and dirty, and I’m shivering — still.

I can't see anyone else, and I think to myself that other people are hardly likely to turn up as it must be pretty late already, but as I shrug off my rucksack by the bottom of a tree Jyrki looks at his watch and his expression softens and brightens.

‘Eight and a half hours! Bloody hell, we
are
a pair of
troopers’

Eight and a half hours. So it can’t be much more than four o’clock.

Even Jyrki sheds his rucksack and eyes up potential spots beneath the trees. ‘What about over there?’ he says, pointing to a fairly level clearing further along the brook where it looks as though there are tree trunks to sit on.

‘I’m going to get out of these boots first.’ Without waiting for Jyrki’s response — he never takes his boots off until we’ve set up camp — I sit down on the tree root and start unlacing my Meindls. Right enough, you could wring water from the hiking sock on the right foot. And I wring it tight, and a fair amount of lukewarm dirty water dribbles between my fingers. My thin liner sock has changed colour and now features a brown print of my heel, my toes and the ball of my foot.

I remove the insoles of both boots and put them out to air. I’m well aware that the boots won’t even be close to dry by morning. If I had some newspaper there might have been some hope. I can’t waste my pamphlets on this. And we can’t make a fire.

I put on my Crocs and walk off after Jyrki. He’s standing in a larger clearing, big enough for a couple of tents, and points to a comfortable-looking bed of leaves between the trees. ‘That looks like a good spot — but if there are lots of people on their way we might get some neighbours.’

‘Does it matter?’ I ask, and Jyrki starts to explain something about once camping near someone who snored like a road drill, but I’m not listening any more, because I can see something.

It’s small and transparent and curved, and it has a blue screw top.

The wombat bottle.

It’s lying on its side on the ground, half covered by the bushes, and its inner surface is covered in a thin film of condensation, like a bottle that has been empty for some time.

‘Very funny. Very mature. A real masterclass in growing too attached to inanimate objects,’ I say and kick the bottle.

When Jyrki turns towards me, a look of confusion on his face, and sees the bottle, to my surprise his expression doesn’t change to that of a mischievous little boy who had just played a really good trick but to one of genuine astonishment, almost shock.

I pick the bottle up from the ground, but my voice is no longer as angry and accusatory as before because there’s something so wrong with his reaction. But the words still come out the same.

‘I mean, where the fuck has this suddenly sprung from? Your pocket?’ Jyrki lifts up one of his hands as if to hold me off as I shake the bottle in front of his face. ‘I don’t understand. I really don’t understand. If you dropped it when we were leaving Deadman’s . . . someone could have picked it up, brought it out here then got tired of carrying it.’

‘Nobody at Deadman’s was going the same direction as us.’

‘Well, they could have arrived after we went to bed.’

‘And left before we woke up? No, when we woke up it was still dark. Nobody in their right mind would set off for Ironbound in the dark. Besides, you can’t exactly avoid noticing other people on that path. Jesus, I mean, if someone’s overtaken us they’d have had to fly.’

Jyrki’s mouth opens.

‘So you might as well own up,’ I continue, slightly unsure of the situation, as Jyrki still seems genuinely baffled.

Suddenly he grabs the bottle and thrusts it close to his face. ‘How do you know this is even the same bottle? It’s a Qantas freebie, for crying out loud. Everyone travelling to Tasmania flies with Qantas. Every other person must realize a quarter-litre bottle might be handy on the road.’ Jyrki is laughing now, relieved.

‘The label on this one is torn off in the same way,’ I say, a little helplessly.

By now a mocking tone has crept into his voice. ‘Right, as if the label doesn’t eventually fall off every bottle that gets held under water on a regular enough basis. Labels don’t tend to tear off in particularly individual and creative ways. And look at those scratches. Did your bottle have scratches like that?’

I lean my head forwards and look. Fair enough, I don’t remember the couple of lengthwise scratches. It’s as if this one’s been scraped across the stones at the bottom of a creek or handled by something sharp.

‘Still, it’s quite a coincidence,’ I say, my voice now somewhat subdued.

It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream — making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams . . .

—                  
Joseph Conrad,
Heart of Darkness

I could see my breach in the air at Narcissus Hut:. Wearing a pair of thermal tights I’d bought in Te Anau, made partially from possum wool, and three layers of clothes, I gingerly clambered out of my sleeping-bag. Last night the temperature had clearly dropped below freezing. It would probably have been much warmer in the tent than on these chilly bunks. But the first time we wanted to erect the tent all the decent spots had been taken. It’s a good thing we were sleeping on the upper berth — you’d think the lads downstairs would give off at least a little warm air.

My bladder had reached bursting point; I absolutely had to get up. I pulled my hiking trousers over my possum pants and wrapped my coat around my neck as a fourth layer, shoved my feet into my hiking boots; I couldn’t be bothered to tie them up but stuffed the laces beneath the tongue. The duck-boards led down to the outdoor loo, which, like all the toilets at Overland, had been built on a set of supporting poles like the most regal of thrones. And the throne wasn’t occupied! Hallelujah!

In my coat pocket I found what was left of a packet of tissues. What luxury it is to be able to pee
and
wipe. Crouching in the bushes, no matter how much you did the cha-cha-cha on your haunches, a few drops always made their way on to your panties, and after a few days they really started to whiff.

When I stepped outside I saw that the clouds had broken and for a moment the sun lit up the misty slopes of Mount Byron, gilding them, and it felt as though I were looking at their dew-soaked, untouched glory only a few minutes after their very creation.
Morning in Tasmania.
I was witnessing daybreak in Tasmania. Those ordinary words felt suddenly real, so real that I felt butterflies at the bottom of my stomach.

At the same time I was vaguely amused, having a 24-carat aesthetic awakening on the way to the bog, surrounded by the smell of human shit.

Overland Track was the most famous and most popular trail in Tasmania. It was like the Great Walks in New Zealand — in high season it can be impossible to get on it because there are only a certain number of berths along the route. Thankfully luck was on our side. When we arrived in Melbourne, Jyrki went straight online and found a starting date with four free spaces left. A few clicks of the mouse and a few hundreds dollars later we had ourselves a hiking licence.

We caught the bus as soon as we got off the Spirit of Tasmania, and the journey to our starting point at Cradle Mountain took just over two hours.

Overland was majestic and wonderful, of course, but all the while I could see a strange undefined fire burning in Jyrki. Desolation and untouched nature, the dizzying scenery, the incredible purity of the air — it had everything. But it also had organized group hikes for people with matching hats and water flagons covered in adverts; it had purpose-built paths; it had huts kitted out with all mod cons; recommended daily legs that were sensible to the point of humiliation. All the while Overland was hinting, whispering to us; this virgin island has so much more to it, somewhere further on, something purer and more innocent, untamed by restrictions, regulations and unnecessary mollycoddling.

It was a bit like if I was Overland, and while we were dancing together Jyrki was always looking over my shoulder, somewhere into the far corner of the room, where a more appealing woman, even more tailor-made for him, was gyrating seductively. And I would have that stinging feeling of not being enough for him because there’s always something wilder, something more mysterious elsewhere. In the arms of a man who can’t appreciate the jewel he’s got — and Jyrki always wants what he can’t have — what he’s holding tight to his chest at that moment just isn’t enough.

Back in the cabin Jyrki had set up the stove, and the water in the pot was almost boiling. Our bag of food flaunted its emptiness, but it didn’t matter because in an hour’s time we’d take a boat to Cynthia Bay, where we’d be able to get some proper food. And then the bus back to Hobart.

Jyrki was chatting to Jonas, a Swedish guy, who was telling him all about some trail along the southern coast. Jyrki’s eyes lit up.

‘South Coast Track? There was something in our guidebook about that.’ Mike, an older man in the cabin who had entertained us every night by criticizing other people’s equipment, joined the conversation.

‘Compared to South Coast Track, Overland is a walk in the park. Southy is where you can really show what you’re made of.’

Our water came to the boil, and I interrupted Jyrki, who by now was pretty excited. I took a sachet of instant coffee and two small muesli bars from our lood bag. It was all we had left. We stirred our coffee and opened up the muesli bars.

Jonas looked first at us, then our bars, then us.

‘Is that your breakfast?’

We nodded.

Jonas shook his head. ‘I’ve always known you Finns were tough, but I didn’t know you were
this
tough.’

Jyrki burst into a happy laughter, so happy that the syrupy oat flakes almost flew from his mouth. He was the one who had calculated our food for Overland. To the gram.

The brat is pulling toffee popcorn out of a giant bag, stuffing it into his gob in great heaped hand- fuls. He’d cram it into his face with both his fat little paws if he didn’t need one of them to hold the bag. He’s giving it a go, though, squeezing the sack against his chest with one chubby arm and shovelling the light-brown clumps in behind his teeth, holding the other arm crooked like a spastic. He can’t even be bothered to chew properly; his cheeks and the tops of his gums are bulging, and while he’s chomping away a mixture of spit and toffee with white crumbs swimming in it dribbles out of the corners of his mouth.

The shiny rustling bag is made of slippery material, and the kid’s hold on it is just awkward enough. Mummy is looking through the shop window at a dress that’ll never fit her as I walk past and jerk my knee. I knock the little punk right in the back. His arms flail in shock, and the bag flies into the air in a magnificent curve, popcorn falling across the shitty street like snow churned out beneath a plough.

I’m already a few metres away, lighting up a smoke. By now the sprog’s howling so much his head might explode, and the remains of the toffee popcorn in his mouth are spilling out over his chin and down his front. His voice cuts through everything; it’s better than a fire alarm. Passers-by turn to gawp as the kid leans his head back and bawls, wails, yells his lungs inside out until he’s purple in the face.

Mum stares helplessly at the goodies strewn across the pavement, then looks at her little urchin’s snotty, twisted face.

‘Dear oh dear, how did you manage to do that?’ she simpers.

The brat crouches down and tries to scrape up the popcorn from the street, but Mum grabs his arm and yanks him up, setting off another wave of screeching from the little shit’s slimy popcorn-filled mouth.

‘Don’t cry, dear. Let’s go and buy you some ice cream,’ Mum gibbers, and the kid shuts up in a flash as if someone had switched the off button.

‘A ginormous ice cream,’ the obnoxious offspring says.

‘Any kind you like,’ replies Mum and leads the metre-tall monkey to the nearest place that will dispense some instant carb-comfort. A flock of pigeons and sparrows has gathered around the spilt sugar bomb on the street, picking at it frantically with their beaks, their eyes glancing sneakily to the sides as they gobble up their sweet treat.

You shouldn’t really wash your clothes in the creeks, but Louisa River is large with plenty of flowing water, and she’s not using soap, so I turn a blind eye as she rinses her socks. She hangs them on the branches of nearby trees and tries to find a spot along the riverbank still bathed in the rays of the setting sun.

As I cook some food, she sits mending the seam of her trousers with duct tape, cack-handed endearingly.

It’ll soon be dusk.

I use the wombat bottle as a tooth mug. I rinse my toothbrush and hand her the bottle.

When she starts brushing her teeth I ask her for some paper, tell her I'm going for a pit stop. She raises her eyebrows: either she hasn’t understood or she thinks the use of motoring terminology is strange and out of place for someone who enjoys spending time surrounded by nature. She mumbles something incomprehensible with the toothbrush in her mouth and digs around in her pocket, and instead of a packet of tissues she hands me a yellowy-brown sheet of paper.

I stare at it. A religious pamphlet.

She shrugs her shoulders. She removes the toothbrush from her mouth, and, squinting, says if I think this is neither the time nor the place for blasphemy, I can wipe my arse with a stone.

When the terrain is nothing but mud and rock faces, with no prospect of a break in sight, no real rivers to cross but only paths running with water that you have to negotiate, you forget to drink enough. You forget to drink when it’s snowing, and it’s not the least bit warm; you don’t remember that your body is losing fluids all the time, even though you’re freezing your tits off in the wind.

Dehydration has built a nest in my head, rhythmically pecking and scratching away behind my temples.

Apart from falling over on the pavement and grazing my knee as a kid, the greatest physical torment I’ve endured as an adult has come in the form of hangovers and the occasional bout of period pain.

Compared with this, the minor muscle aches I had experienced after our first stretches at Queen Charlotte seem positively enjoyable. I remember asking Jyrki if he had any painkillers. He said he was saving them in case we seriously sprained anything. Used in the right place, they could make or break the whole trip.

When Jyrki comes into the tent I turn on to my side and face away from him. If I had wings, I’d wrap my head deep inside them and spend a moment breathing in my own comforting cosily stuffy scent.

After sleeping in the overcrowded peak-season cabins in New Zealand you might think that moving into the tent would create an altogether new sense of intimacy — there we would lie, in the cosy, tight green embrace of the tent walls, in our very own space, warmed only by our very own breath and the glow of our very own body heat.

I imagined it would be easy and natural to turn to her, kiss her, slowly undo the zip on her sleeping-bag or gently stop her as she’s getting ready for bed. Put my hand on her naked back and move it higher and higher; caress her cropped hair, press my lips against her neck.

How come it’s so damn easy when we meet up for the first time in two weeks, but it’s so difficult now?

Maybe it’s because there just isn’t time for things like romance in a routine like this. We haven’t agreed on the logistics, and there’s no space here for improvisation. How can you undress seductively when there isn’t even enough room to kneel up properly?

And what about the practical side of it? Soon there would be blotchy secretions all over the sleeping-bags and the silken bag liners. Every last piece of textile we have with us has some other important function, too. And imagine getting up in the middle of the night to wash downstairs with a mug and some cold stream water.

But she wouldn’t say no. She’s never said no — to anything.

At first I thought she was one of those rare women who don’t use their pussy as a bargaining chip. But as time went on I realized that her cheerfully consenting to anything and everything was something even craftier: if you never give the other person reason to feel unsatisfied you end up wielding even greater power.

Just thinking about this causes unavoidable action in my trousers. It’s been a while, because you can’t exactly get down to business in berth accommodation. I have to put the guidebook to one side, curl up next to her and kiss her ear. She smells faintly of sweat and strongly of woman.

She mutters something indistinct. I can hear floating tears echoing around her sinuses.

I tell her I just wanted to say goodnight.

She utters an almost inaudible goodnight.

The forest around us clicks and crackles.