I will not
complain. I will not look too grateful when they slow down and suggest a
breather that is clearly for my benefit. I will keep up. I will not say things
like just leave me here to die. I will be grim of purpose and clear of eye. I
will not pee down my leg and come out of the thicket all damp. I will carry my
share. I will not say nerdish things about bird life that show me up as someone
who has read books but never been anywhere.
It is OK
going in, and up. Crossing the river and wandering along the banks is pleasant.
We don’t even get any shots off, because there are other people in the area. There
are no goats, not even spoor, and few prints except for possums. Going down
again is harder on the body and treacherous with it. Here the track is as wide
as my boot. Someone says, I’m glad I
didn’t bring my son, he would have got too scared. One slip down the bank and
you’re dead in the river.
The world
closes in. Through a brown tunnel I see a mere circle of grass and stones. I
drop down and work my way crab wise along the bank. I can hear the river
running and my heaving breath. You have
lost the track, someone says gently. If you put your foot back down a bit you
will find it. What track, I think stupidly. All I can see is where I will put
my next limb, as I am now on all fours. It is like looking through a telescope.
You’re beginning to panic, someone says. Yes, thank you. I keep going.
These are
good guys. They don’t crowd me and they don’t say anything sentimental or
encouraging. They don’t distract me. They just wait and lend me their presence.
After all, if I fall I die. They can’t save me.
They are
also kind enough not to say anything afterwards. I’m shaking as I walk out. The
mind has maxed out the credit card of the body.
