Every year the horse-feed distributors sent out Christmas hampers to their big clients. Sarah fetched the hamper from where she’d put it aside in the laundry. She pulled back the green and red cellophane. In the basket was a small plum pudding, a mini tub of long-life brandy custard, a tin of ham, smoked cheese, a wheel of brie, dry biscuits, shortbread, nuts, mince pies and chocolates. None of it was oversized or heavy, perfect to take in a backpack, along with a bedroll, a torch, some hipflasks of alcohol, a cup, a knife and fork, more alcohol, and a packet of painkillers for her headache.

Sarah hung up her wet towel, bundled up her bloodied, soiled clothes and took them into the laundry, loaded them into the washing machine.

She slipped a light waterproof coat over her T-shirt and put on a cap.

Tansy was repentant, and also pleased to be doing something she understood. Sarah saddled her. She tugged the girth strap tight and then, before waiting the usual time to take it one notch further, she hoicked it tighter. Tansy probably thought it was a form of punishment. It wasn’t, not even subconsciously. Sarah wasn’t angry at Tansy. The hit to the face had been the catalyst to her cutting the bullshit; heading bush was what she should have been doing.

Sarah stopped a moment and looked at the house. Pot plants along the wide verandah were turning brown. Windows needed cleaning. Weeds had sprung up by the steps. It had been her dream home. An inviting stone ranch with timber windows and a no-fuss aluminium roof. The lawn around it was dotted with young oaks that would one day elevate the property into another realm entirely. Sarah had planted oaks either side of the driveway too. It took thirty to forty years for an oak to make its presence felt. Sarah had believed she’d be there to see the trees mature. So many private thoughts, dreams and aspirations had been taken.

She locked up the house, reversed the float into the shed, uncoupled it from the F100 and parked her ute in the garage. Sarah reached behind the car seats and drew out the rifle she kept there. Her one possession gossip couldn’t tarnish. She unwrapped the rifle from its dusty length of canvas. It wasn’t flashy, the barrel was scratched and the metal was dull, the wooden stock was pale and dry. Few people even knew she owned it. She didn’t have a gun licence. From the glove compartment she took a small five-clip of bullets. She slipped the loaded magazine into her pocket and pulled down the garage door.

Through a gate at the back of her property was a shortcut to the Mortimer Ranges. Sarah bypassed Lauriston’s main street, all of Lauriston’s streets in fact – there weren’t many. Lauriston was a condensed town. If you didn’t live along the main street you lived one mountainside tier above it, looking down onto the rooves of the shops and into neighbours’ backyards. People either fell in love with the mountainous terrain or found it claustrophobic. The ranges did seem to lean in and crowd out the sky. Cloudless blue days struggled to make it all the way down to the street. No matter what time of the year, the chill of deep night began creeping in during early evening, and, in the colder months, mist lingered all day in the valleys and between the trunks of the mountain ash. On the other hand, if a summer was particularly long and hot the bush became so dry that the air seemed primed, pure butane, as though one match lit and held aloft would set the whole lot burning.

There was only one road in and out of town. Sarah lived on the far side, a little way out, in the rolling foothills, where the sections of cleared ground were fertile and relatively flat, and where the parcels of land were bigger.

After last year’s bushfires in the Mortimer Ranges had threatened to sweep over the top of Devil Mountain and race down into Lauriston, many locals had thought about leaving town for good, some had even done it. Sarah couldn’t imagine living anywhere else though. Staying after those fires took some guts. All Lauristonians now suffered an annual bout of nerves when the calendar edged towards the drier months and the arrow on the bushfire warning sign began its steady march around into red.

But not this Christmas – this summer was mild and wet. The bushfire arrow had not budged from the green section. Low Risk. The lead-up to Christmas Day had been pleasant. For the town. Sarah could sense it as she rode Tansy over a crest and glimpsed the main street through the trees. Dappled sunlight softened the storefronts. Damp leaves littered the gutters. Lawns were lush, creeks were running, water tanks were full. The kids outside on their new skateboards, riding their pushbikes, needed jumpers over their pyjamas to keep warm. Chocolates hadn’t melted in Christmas stockings. Beer was cold and trifle jellies had set. No locals would be burdened by thoughts of leaving Lauriston today. Except for Sarah.

She cut across the far end of the local park where three massive mountain ash rose like columns, a preview of what was to come. They were the granddaddies of gum trees. Their leaves formed a canopy far above. Their roots muscled out of the earth and split paths. Bark the size of single-bed blankets and twice as long peeled away from the trunks and collected at the bases, shrouding the fern trees growing there, shading the crop of maiden hair ferns and the lichens and mosses. The three trees stood in testament to the range’s National Park status. In the face of them, and trees like them, the loggers always had been up against it – instinctively and automatically your feet became planted, your head tipped back, your lips parted, your chest opened up, oxygen intake increased, your eyes widened. Naturally, you felt affected. Humans were suckers for big things. If tradition had put Satan’s hell in the treetops, instead of the bowels of the earth, and everyone had to look up when referencing him, he’d be worshipped, Sarah thought. After witnessing last year’s fifty-metre-high rolling fireballs, she’d wondered if the treetops were truly Satan’s home. And God resided in the water. Everything about that fire had smacked of hell.

There were specified circuits that visitors could take through the ranges. Beneath a sign that read ‘Welcome to the Mortimer Ranges’ stood a concrete post with arrows pointing down the different trails, and on a board, weatherproofed behind thick Perspex, was a map of the ranges. The diagram was basic, dumbed down for the general public. Circuits were marked with black dashes and wilderness was splotches of green, ridges were brown squiggles, rocky gullies were indistinct grey sketches, the mountain peaks were a couple of green triangles at the top of the map. Spinners Creek and the other streams were vague blue lines that came down from the mountaintops and faded in and out through the circuits, as though these waterways were half imagined. More care had been taken drawing the manmade landmarks – the bridges and the elevated walkways, the little picnic tables, the tiny figures looking through telescopes, flagging the lookouts. Going by the diagram, you’d think the wilderness was incidental, fuzzy patches of colour on the way to the picnic tables. The scale of the ranges was completely out of whack. Topologically speaking, the map was redundant.

Walkers could choose from a number of circuits, the level of difficulty reflected in the name of each track – Green Gully Circuit, Dogwood Steps Circuit, Devil Climb. Devil Climb came with a warning: experienced bushwalkers only, check local weather conditions before setting off.

Separate from these bushwalks was the Hangman’s Hut Overnight Trek. On the diagram it was marked as an unbroken red line that began with a picture of two figures with backpacks, water bottles, first aid kits and walking sticks. The line continued up, swinging away from the picnic tables and other walkways, becoming thinner and thinner until it reached a small red hut close to the top of Devil Mountain. Printed on a piece of card, glued down beside the hut, was the additional information: Hangman’s Hut CLOSED FOR RESTORATION. See local store or ring Parks Victoria on 13 19 63 for information on scheduled reopening date.

Sarah rode past the map and signs. She continued onto a dirt road. When Tansy relaxed into a ride, like now, Sarah often felt an ache of emotion. The value Sarah placed on her horse’s happiness was rooted in the horse’s past. There were pictures of Tansy that were not framed and displayed on any wall; the swelling and bruising on Sarah’s face told a much deeper story than simply that of a stubborn mare, Tansy had her reasons for fearing the enclosed space of the float. Sarah rubbed a message of apology and understanding into Tansy’s shoulder as they walked.

A short way down the road, they came to a locked gate.

A large sign attached to the wire repeated: Hangman’s Hut CLOSED FOR RESTORATION.

On an older sign was written: Vehicle Access to Hangman’s Hut. Permits Required. 4WD only. Road subject to seasonal flooding. And in slanted lettering and with an accusatory tone: You share this road with horse riders, drive with this in mind. Lastly, on a lighter note: We hope you enjoy your journey to the famous site of bushranger Sid Gibson’s grave at Hangman’s Hut!

Sarah took a key from her coat pocket and leaned down from her saddle to open the padlock. Tansy knew the routine and stood close to the latch. The chain and the lock slipped to the ground as soon as Sarah touched them. They landed with a thud and clink. Someone had cut through the heavy chain.

It wasn’t the first time Sarah had discovered the gate had been tampered with. Once she’d arrived to find the gate completely removed, tossed to the side – a sign of protest. There were plenty of motorbike riders and four-wheel-drivers who resented being locked out, believing it was their right to travel up to Hangman’s Hut regardless of what work was being done there. Even when the track was open, the need for permits was a contentious issue.

Fresh tyre marks showed that a vehicle had recently travelled through the gateway. The link in the chain that had been sliced through was shiny and clean. Sarah inhaled and wondered if she could even detect a lingering trace of diesel fumes. She listened, and thought she could hear a motor revving further up the track, winding its way into the ranges. But a swirling breeze swayed the treetops and the sound was gone.

Sarah returned the key to her pocket and opened the gate. Once through, she dismounted and fed the broken chain back through the gate and positioned it around the latch, the way she had found it. At least that way the gate looked locked, enough to deter the next person who pulled up in a car and thought to flout the rules.

The dirt track bore the marks of repeated horse traffic – hoof marks and dried horse manure. Sarah’s trail riding business had a special licence to use Hangman’s Hut track for its expeditions. That way, the riders could spread out, and it kept the walking circuits free of congestion. Sarah checked her watch. Seven a.m.

Before setting off she took out her phone. But after staring a moment at the screen, Sarah returned the phone to her pocket. It wasn’t the thought of her father’s sermon-like ramblings, it was the fear her mother might answer that stopped her calling them. Growled disappointment was one thing; unspoken disappointment was something else entirely.

Sarah swung up into the saddle and urged Tansy into a canter.