For Roger the walk up the railway became a test of willpower. He seemed to quickly tire and was soon walking in a sort of zombie-like daze. Frequent trivial obstacles forced him to keep alert: fallen rocks and clumps of tall grass or small washouts. From time to time the footpath became so narrow they had to walk between the rails but this was annoying as the sleepers were unevenly spaced which made it hard to settle into a rhythm. The sleepers also varied. Some were flat and others rounded. Many were half-rotted with crumbling interiors or had split and jagged surfaces.
The cadets crossed half a dozen culverts and small bridges a few metres long but all the streams were dry. Bare sand and bare rock began to predominate on the surrounding slopes, with grass-tree and straggly, open bush. The railway curved into a small valley where there was no breeze at all and the afternoon sun radiated from the enfolding slopes as from a reflector fireplace.
At the head of this large re-entrant was a larger bridge, ten metres long. The map showed the stream to be Carrington Creek. Carrington Falls was the steep rock face on their left but barely a trickle of unattractive slime was the only water flowing down it. The disappointed boys stood on the bridge and looked gloomily at it.
“Let’s stop and have a break anyway,” Stephen suggested. “We’ve been walking for an hour.”
“Not here,” Graham replied, shaking his head. “Somewhere nicer. Over there where the line curves around that spur. We might get some breeze there.”
The others reluctantly agreed and followed him. Roger had a big drink and set off in a walk that was almost a stumble. Then he nearly put his foot between the sleepers of the bridge. It gave him a small shock and he told himself to keep his wits about him. Slowly he plodded on for another five hundred metres with his head down as they were walking almost directly into the afternoon sun. He licked his lips and wondered if he would be able to push himself much further. Using the back of his hand he felt his cheeks. They felt very hot, making him worry he was getting sick.
And then a faint breeze cooled his sweat. There was a distinct change and he looked up. They were walking in shade. At first he thought it was just the shadow of the hillside on his left but he saw, with something of a surprise, that a huge, jungle-covered mountain loomed ahead. The shadow was cast by a cloud clinging to its top.
The boys walked through a long, deep cutting and reached the end of the spur. Graham called a halt. Packs were dropped and they drank deeply. Roger then observed that the mountain to the west was actually on the other side of a valley a couple of kilometres across. Below them lay the Atherton- Herberton Road. It skirted the lower slopes opposite them as it began its climb up to the pass. The floor of the valley was mostly forest with a patchwork of fields and houses. Away to the north they had a long vista out to Atherton and beyond.
Stephen pointed. “I can see the microwave tower at Atherton,” he said.
“That’s the road to Herberton isn’t it?” Roger asked.
“Yes it is. Remember when we got a lift up it in that old truck?” Graham replied. They laughed at the memory and reminisced.
“I wish I could get a lift up it now,” Roger groaned. “I’m buggered.”
“We must be half way up the range,” Graham estimated, eyeing the slopes on both sides.
“How far have we come?” Peter asked.
“Since lunch? I reckon about four kilometres.”
“Is that all?” Roger said with dismay. “Still, we can stop and camp after another three,” he added.
“We may as well push on to the tunnel and get the next clue. That’s only about four ‘Ks’,” Graham suggested.
Roger groaned. “What’s the time?”
“Just after three. Two hours or so before it gets dark. We could crawl four ‘Ks’ in that,” Graham insisted
“I might have to,” Roger replied gloomily. Wondering if he could walk the distance he sat down and had another drink. He could never remember being so sore and exhausted in his whole life. He felt like just one huge mass of tingling aches and pains. But it was cooler; and he was amazed he had managed to walk so far. To prepare, he had another drink, draining his second water bottle.
After fifteen minutes Graham cajoled them to their feet and they set off again. For Roger the next 45 minutes were the hardest so far. He stumbled frequently. His hobble turned into a limp. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the pack and he trudged along bent over and feeling miserable. There was such an accumulation of little pains that tears formed in the corners of his eyes. But rather than give up he bit his lip and pushed himself on, slowly falling further and further behind the others.
The line curved left and ran South West. By this time they were completely in the shadow of the mountain opposite. A steady breeze was funnelled up the valley and helped to cool them. The railway went through several more cuttings as it led into another steep little valley. Then it curved sharply back to run north along the side of a steep spur. The country was still open: straggly eucalypts and grass-tree, with tufts of dry, greyish-brown grass growing in sandy soil.
A sharp curve to the left through another steep-sided cutting led them around the end of the spur and back to the South West. By this time Roger felt ready to drop. Several times he formed the words calling on the others to stop but some residue of pride kept him from uttering them.
As they emerged from the cutting he wiped sweat from his face and looked up in amazement. The jungle-covered mountain now towered high above them less than a kilometre away. On their right the ground dropped steeply into a re-entrant, then climbed steeply up to the clouds. Level with them, and only a few hundred metres away was the Herberton-Atherton Road, snaking up the other slope through similar dry bush. Above the road the vegetation gradually changed to an open forest of tall, straight trees, which in turn gave way to rain forest near the top.
Roger watched a car buzzing up through the trees until it vanished over a sunlit saddle ahead. A cold wind blew on his sweaty back making him shiver. He stopped for a drink and felt he could not possibly walk another step.
Graham looked back and saw him. “Come on Roger. Not far now. There’s the pass,” he called, pointing to the sunlit saddle.
“How far to this tunnel?” Roger croaked.
“Only a few hundred metres. Half a kilometre at most,” Graham called.
Roger put his water bottle away and lurched into painful motion. He had to grit his teeth against the agony of the chafing between his thighs.
The railway went through yet another cutting and curved left. The road rose above their level. A heavy truck ground up it in low gear. Roger looked up to watch it and saw there was a distinct hill, covered with trees, right in the middle of the pass. The road went through a cutting to the right of it. The railway seemed to aim straight at it.
Then he realized he was looking at the mouth of the tunnel. He gasped with relief and pushed himself on. The railway still ran on a bench cut with the steep drop on the right, the re-entrant rapidly narrowing to end beside the tunnel entrance. The hill ahead and the steep slope opposite were a jumble of grey rocks and grass-tree.
Unaccountably Roger felt uneasy. The hair on the back of his neck bristled and he shivered. He looked around him but there was nothing but ordinary bush.
When they reached the tunnel they halted. The other end was visible about two hundred metres away but the middle was dark. Graham bent down and moved a rock. He straightened up holding a plastic bag containing an oblong of yellow cardboard.
“The clue,” he said.
Roger was so tired he did not really care. He leaned on the side of the cutting and eased the weight of his pack on the rock face.
Graham read the clue aloud. “Seven Pines; Mount Baldy.”
“Bugger Mt Baldy!” Roger cried. “I’m sick of hearing about it.” He felt very dejected and dreaded the ordeal of having to climb the mountain. He had enough. All he wanted to do was lie down. He shivered again.
“Seven Pines?” Peter queried. “There were pine trees back at The Chimneys.”
“A whole forest of them,” Stephen added in a dry tone.
“No, a line of them beside the clearing.”
Graham shook his head. “That is fifty kilometres or more back. That can’t be right,” he said.
Peter added, “There was a line of pine trees at the turnoff of the East Barron Road too.”
Roger was too sick and tired to care. “There were bloody pine trees everywhere!” he cried in exasperation. “Let’s find somewhere to camp, but not here. This place gives me the creeps.”
Graham looked around. “Good spot for an ambush.”
“Will we go through the tunnel or up over the hill?” Stephen asked.
“Through the tunnel,” Roger said. He could face his claustrophobia more easily than he could face the probable pain of dragging himself, pack and all, up that steep slope.
Graham opened his basic pouch and took out a torch. “Might be snakes in here,” he said. He slipped the clue into his map pocket, clicked on the torch and walked into the tunnel.
The others followed. Roger pushed himself upright and hurried after them, wishing he wasn’t last. Ever since being trapped in the old mine at Stannary Hills the previous year he had hated tunnels. Now it took an effort of will for him to follow the others into the blackness.
The tunnel was lined with concrete which was black with soot and lichen. It was quite dry and a strong wind blew on their backs, funnelled by the mountains. The boys’ boots crunched loudly on the gravel and Stephen could not resist uttering chuckles and making loud noises to hear the echoes.
“Shut up Steve!” Roger snapped. He was in no mood to be frightened by Stephen’s silly games.
Two minutes later they emerged from the other end into another deep cutting which curved right. The sides slowly levelled out. Ahead was a line of mountains on the other side of the pass. The sun had just dipped below them but still shone on the upper slopes up to their left-rear.
The railway ran straight for several hundred metres through an open forest of short grass and She-Oaks. Ahead of them a truck suddenly roared across, showing where there was a level crossing.
“Will we camp here?” Stephen asked, indicating the open bush on either side.
“Too close to the road,” Graham replied. “Let’s walk to the level crossing and have a look.”
Roger groaned but plodded wearily on. He now didn’t care where they camped, as long as they stopped.
The south side of the pass was a forested valley about a kilometre wide, a long gentle slope which the railway ran across to the western side of. The highway came down from the saddle on their right rear in a wide, sweeping curve through open grass to cross the railway, then dip down across a small creek before climbing over an undulating ridge to the south. The valley leading to Herberton was much flatter and wider than that to the north of the pass. On either side forested slopes rose several hundred metres to vanish in cloud.
As they reached the main road Graham pointed to a dirt road going off to the west through a dense clump of She-Oaks. “Let’s look in there,” he suggested.
They waited for two cars to race past then walked across the bitumen and along the gravel road. It dipped slightly across a small dry creek and came to a cattle grid in a boundary fence. A sign informed them it was State Forest and entry was only permissible by permit. Ahead the road ran around the lower part of a wide spur through open bush.
“We’ve got a permit,” Graham said. “It’s in the bundle of papers Captain Conkey gave me. I’m sure we are all right. He wouldn’t send us here unless we had approval.”
So saying he led on across the cattle grid and up the gentle slope. As the road curved out of sight of the highway he stopped.
“This will do,” he said. There was a side track there and only short grass. He walked down the track twenty paces and stopped. Roger limped down to join them. Packs and webbing were dumped. Roger sighed with relief and flopped down to lie on his.
“We will need water,” Peter said.
“There is a creek just down there. It might have some,” Graham said.
“Let’s have a look,” Peter agreed.
Graham looked at the others. “Roger, you and Steve collect some firewood while we check the creek. Give us your water bottles,” he instructed.
“Stuff the firewood,” Roger groaned. He closed his eyes and shivered. Carefully he eased his limbs, fearful of cramp. He seemed to be trembling in every muscle. His body felt like one huge mass of throbbing aches.
For five minutes Roger just lay with his eyes closed. Stephen disturbed him when he threw down an armful of deadfall near him.
“Come on Roger. It will be dark soon. Don’t just lie there like a slug!”
Roger opened his eyes. With difficulty he bit back a retort but still felt hot resentment. Slowly he sat up and hauled himself to his feet. Stephen had already walked away. A glance around showed that the sunlight only tinged the top of the cloud on the mountain across the pass. There was also some cloud on the peak to the north of them but overhead was clear blue sky. Evening was definitely upon them and Roger felt a distinct chill in the air. He hobbled off down a gentle slope to where he could see some deadfall near the old railway.
Almost in tears from the effort he dragged back a sizeable dead branch, just as Graham and Peter returned from the creek. Stephen came in with another armful of sticks at the same time.
Graham put down the water bottles he was carrying. “There is water in the creek. Not much, just a trickle, but it smells and tastes OK,” he said.
“I’ll light the fire,” Roger offered. Stephen did not dispute this but dumped the sticks and went off with Peter and Graham to collect more. Roger limped around collecting tinder and tiny sticks for kindling. Then, with stiffness in seemingly every muscle, he knelt and cleared a space on the dirt track. The sticks and logs were sorted into piles of different sizes. A small pyramid of twigs was constructed over a handful of She-Oak needles and gum leaves. One match set this aflame. Roger crouched beside it to carefully add pencil thin sticks and to fan the flame with his hat.
The fire accentuated how dark it had become. Graham and Peter returned and added more sticks to the pile. From out in the darkness Stephen chuckled loudly then called, “Well, I’ve found it. We can all go home now,” he said.
“Found what?” Peter asked.
Stephen walked into the light grinning. With a flourish he held up a huge bone about half a metre long and so thick he could not get his fingers around it. “The Thigh Bone of St Joris.”
This produced a shout of laughter from them all. Even Roger thought it a good joke. It was so obviously a bone from a dead cow that it did not bother him.
Stephen tossed the bone aside and dusted his hands. “Will we eat first or put up hutchies?” he asked.
“Hutchies,” Graham answered. “We won’t feel like it later.”
“I don’t feel like it now!” Roger groaned.
“Why bother?” Peter asked. “There are stars coming out.”
“That cloud on the mountain could build up,” Graham cautioned.
They set to work clearing sticks and rocks from between trees selected as suitable for erecting the plastic shelters. It was nearly dark by then. As the shelters were being tied to the trees Peter bent down and picked something up.
“Sorry Steve. We have a problem,” he said. He held up another large bone. “We have another Thigh Bone for St Joris. One must be a fake. How will we tell which is the authentic one?”
“Ass!” laughed Graham.
“No. Ox,” Stephen corrected.
They all laughed.
As soon as the two hutchies were pegged down the boys returned to the fire and sat down. Roger undid his bedroll and sat on it. Then he unlaced his boots.
“Ah! That’s better,” he sighed as he pulled off his socks.
“Phew! What a pong! Put them on again Roger,” Stephen cried.
Roger ignored him and gently massaged the toes and soles. To his surprise there were no new blisters but his feet were certainly red and tender in places. “My poor feet! How far have we walked today? Must be thirty kilometres,” he said.
“A bit over,” Graham replied.
“At least it is all down hill tomorrow,” Roger said.
“Don’t forget old ‘Baldy’,” Peter reminded.
Roger swore, but only half-heartedly. He felt immensely pleased with himself as the realization dawned on him. ‘I have walked more than thirty kilometres!’ he thought. And he had kept up all day! ‘I will make it through the hike now!’ he told himself. As he rummaged in his gear for food he began to hum happily.
Darkness set in. Apart from the occasional vehicle on the highway they seemed to have the world to themselves. A gentle breeze sprang up. It developed into a very pleasant evening. Only as he was finishing his desert did Roger feel cool enough to put on his pullover.
He ate a huge meal:-Chicken soup, Rice and Savoury Mince, Milo, Peaches and Condensed Milk, more Milo, then a chocolate and another cup of Milo. He slowly relaxed and, while his muscles trembled from time to time, he did not suffer any cramps.
The friends sat around the fire talking for a while but all were tired. By 8pm Roger was yawning. Soon after that he excused himself and moved his gear and bedding into the hutchie he was sharing with Graham. Ten minutes later he was asleep.