Published: 7 Feb 2022

Travis’ camp existed of a light canvas sheet as a weather covering slung between trees, a ground sheet and his swag, built high at the edges to avoid sleeping with bugs and other more menacing creatures of the night, such as snakes and scorpions that may enjoy the security of a dark and warm bed. He had heard many stories about such creatures and more than anything they were one part of his adventure that most dissuaded him.

Travis brought to mind his hostel days when all the boys from grade seven onwards were sent for weekend camping miles from town. Friday night after their meal and in darkness they would tote their supplies in whatever they could find and walk for miles across the hills, the gullies, past abandoned and forgotten tin mines of unknown depth, mostly uncovered and waiting for a trip. Once at their section of the Walsh River they would build their own camps out of whatever they could find but nothing kept out the rain that seemed to only come on camping weekends.

In the beginning their camping excursions were supervised but later supervision was left to senior boys with wonder no one suffered more than a few cuts and abrasions. Travis recalled the wildlife; goannas, snakes and wild dogs, a scorpion or two and spiders believed to eat birds but except for a few ant bites, knee abrasions and sunburn the boys returned each Sunday afternoon unharmed.

“What next?” Travis questioned loudly of the vast empty wilderness while standing proud and inspecting his camp.

“A nice cooling swim,” he answered and laughed at the realisation he was talking to himself.

“Better get use to it kid, except for Titch it’s the only conversation you’ll get for a while,” he turned to his horse, “what do you reckon girl?” he asks. Titch flicked her ears at the sound of his voice but had no comment.

Once naked on the baked red earthen bank of the lagoon, Travis’ thoughts returned to Luke and with the image came an inner heat of sexual need which was soon diluted by the coolness of water.

“Fish,” Travis declared loudly. His voice frightening away a small flock of finches that had settled upon the seed spilt from the long storks of brown grass across the opposing bank of the lagoon. They lifted with a singular crescendo to again settle on the spilt seed.

“You may need this.” Luke’s voice returned to him as he had given Travis a reel of fishing line along with a supply of small hooks at the time he purchased his rifle.

“Why, I’ve never gone fishing in my life,” Travis had answered protesting the difficulty in fishing within the beds of dry creeks, although while on holidays at Cumberland Downs the station’s young cowboy Bill Murray, often took him down to the Gilbert River where he had traps for freshwater crayfish.

“There are plenty of lagoons and water holes out there, even a few permanent rivers,” Luke declared and forced the tackle into Travis’ bag of supplies, “and if you don’t mind bony-bream and the odd catfish, they are easy to catch using damper-bread.”

“Luke did say the best time was around dusk,” Travis mumbled as the concept fleeted from his thoughts.

A lone wallaby came to drink at the far end of the lagoon. At first it was wary and waited some distance away from the bank, then feeling safe it cautiously approached, its ears twitching and turning to capture the slightest sound. Travis remained emerged to his neck while watching the animal and wondered if the need arose, could he shoot such a beautiful creature. He remembered Morris and the chooks and his first kill and how that had shocked him. One moment the bird watched in terror as he raised the axe. A moment later its head lay on the ground beside the block. Its eyes glazed, its beak open in silent protest causing him to loose his hold on the birds death struggling feet, allowing it to convulse around the chopping block in a headless dance.

Grab the bugger or you’ll bruise the meat! Morris had shouted from the side.

“Grab the bugger,” Travis spoke loudly into the afternoon sunlight and laughed.

“As mad as a cut snake,” Travis mumbled as an excuse for the man’s cruelty.

Reluctantly Travis had performed the kill and after a lesson in how to pluck a fowl it was prepared for the pot. The episode did revolt him, yet that night he ate its flesh without remorse towards the killing, while future killings came easy. He recalled days on Cumberland Downs with the regular kill and his presence without emotion for the bullock, or revulsion as it was skinned and turned into meat cuts for the kitchen. The animal was but product, no different than a packet of breakfast cereal from the supermarket shelf but he wasn’t doing the killing and as the beast was hoisted high alive and its throat cut he had felt nothing when it bellowed in terror.

Travis moved his arms in the water, sending ripples towards the wallaby which took instant fright disappearing back into the scrub.

“Flighty little buggers,” Travis humoured as he left the water.

“Getting late, I suppose I better build a fire.”

Remaining naked as he collected kindling from around the bank somehow excited him, also made him feel vulnerable. He had never gone naked before, except for showering or changing from one set of clothing to another and of course while swimming with Luke. The warm air flowed around his body and caressed him like lovers hands, soft and gentle, until he could take no more. Even the trees had eyes and the rocks and he was being watched by the whole of nature which judged him disgusting. He quickly dressed and once more felt protected from that judicial frown but time would remove self awareness, rendering nakedness to become as natural as nature itself.

That night was the first Travis had spent alone. He had longed for it since he and Greg Stanley made their pledge to do so. Now it was he who had fulfilled the undertaking and Greg had become neglected from his thought but as the night closed in about, Travis again thought of his once close friend and sorrowed from Greg’s downfall. He wished for Greg’s company but under different circumstance. Greg would be strong and leading, as he had been with his youthful gang. Travis smiled and shook away the credit, ‘Greg wasn’t strong, he was using our strength and once we moved on, he had no strength to call upon,’ yet still Travis wished Greg was with him but not as his mentor but equal in friendship and endeavour.

With the memory of Greg came their motorbike rides. Travis seated behind Greg with the night’s wind taking away their voice even at a shout. Travis’ hands cupped upon open fly buttons and his temptation, wishing to explore further while fear of rejection froze his fingers into clasp.

“Greg, Greg, Greg; You silly bugger, where are you now,” he sighed then forced his thoughts to happier days; Bradley and his stern disposition and Bullock Creek’s thriving population of almost nothing. To Travis it had been a town, a virtual city of overwhelming stimulation.

“Is dinner ready yet wife?” he heard Bradley’s voice come through the rustle of the leaves as it cross the stillness of the water.

“Not yet,” Travis called loudly into the failing light and smiled as the last of that first day’s sun sent weak rays in dusty dance along the lagoon and changed the blue grey leaves to darker shades.

Memories came of other nights, when a storm closed in and passed, giving freshness and voice to every bird and insect imaginable. Then seated at the verandah table under the dazzling glow of a carbide light, or the weakness thrown by a hurricane lamp he and Bradley would enjoy a drink and play cards until the morning’s brightness galloped out of the eastern horizon and once the horses were tended to they would return to their beds and sleep through the heat of another lazy day.

Those wonderful nights when beetles crawled into every orifice conceivable and squadrons of mosquitos perceived as big as blow-flies pitched their intentions and devoured blood. With the rain came termites – white ants, ever flying towards the light to drop their wings and with the morning they would be gone, leaving a carpet of discarded wings to meet the broom, while their destructive tiny bodies crawled into the very timber of the house. They were wonderful times and Travis cherished them dearly becoming the strength that bolstered his enterprise.

It was dark and the fire low and now Travis felt alone. Titch moved about some distance away, her hobbles jingling as she found substance in the long dry grass giving him a measure of comfort but the night was closing in and with its shadow came primeval fear of what lay beyond the sensation of sight. He stoked his fire which only made it worse, as he now felt he was a target in the fire’s glow. He could not see the world but it could see him. He moved away into the shadows and felt relieved, yet it was temporary. Above his head an owl gave call, bringing Travis to his feet reaching for his rife.

“Settle down you silly bugger,” he growled then laughed loudly, knowing there was nothing to fear in the Australian bush but fear itself and this night he had that in spades.

Travis again gave humour at such a silly thought, “spades, why spades? Why not hearts or diamonds or if it came to that why not clubs?” He knew not, nor had he knowledge of the game of bridge from where the saying came but the thought did help to remove the fear from the night; even if but momentarily.

What time it was Travis didn’t know. He didn’t wear a watch and never had and with the fire low and the last of the collected wood burned, all that was left was to crawl into his swag and attempt sleep. He did so but not before stripping his bedding to check for unwanted visitations.

There were none.

Travis pulled his swag high to his neck with both arms well covered, feeling protected in doing so, as if the thin material of the swag could fend off anything that chanced to pass with intention to harm. Now with only his eyes uncovered he watched the dying embers of his fire until it was as black as the overcast night.

Surprisingly Travis slept without waking until the birdlife brought him into a bright new dawn, with realisation he had survived his first night alone in the Australian bush and not one creature of the night, except a large black rhino beetle, had crawled into his bed but before dressing he did check his boots and found what appeared to be a cockroach resting quietly at the toe, which fled into the undergrowth as he hammered the boot’s heel into the ground.

“You could have been a scorpion,” he says to the roach as it disappeared beneath some leaf litter. He hated cockroaches but let it live.

At the Eastern end of the lagoon where water continuously trickled from a spring, the grass was fresh and green. Travis moved his camp to this area so Titch could feed on the new growth. There were also more trees giving greater shelter from the hot afternoon sun, and the spring water fresher for his use.

Travis had no sooner set up his camp in this area when to his surprise a large mob of bullocks, driven by three men on horseback approached the water, stamping over what was his previous days camp. As the cattle took their fill the closest rider spotted the smoke from Travis’ afternoon fire and approached.

“Hey there,” The rider called bringing his mount close to where Travis was standing.

“G’day,” Travis greeted as the rider dismounted on approach.

“You look settled for the duration,” the lean youthful cattleman suggested in his drawn outback voice. His small deep blue eyes twinkled from his longish face, shaded by an Akubra hat that appeared to be at least two sizes too large. His narrow chiselled chin displayed a blond bristle, while his crooked teeth flashed white in the late afternoon sunlight.

“No mate just passing through,” Travis answered and offered his hand in greeting.

The lad took the hand but instead of introduction issued a warning, “you watch that campfire of yours; don’t want half the bush burnt, we’ve already had someone throw a cigarette out of their car over near the Talaroo Road, burned out a couple of thousand acres before it was controlled.”

“I do know how to handle a campfire,” Travis quietly assured.

“Whereya’ from?” the rider asks as he cautiously scanning Travis from head to foot.

“Mareeba originally but of later Bullock Creek and a property the other side of Mt. Surprise,” Travis answered without mentioning Morris by name.

“Where are you off to?” The stranger asks as he gently ran a gloved hand over Titch’s rump while checking the branding, “that’s Roy Brown’s brand I should think,” he suggested in a suspicious tone, he turned back to Travis for his answer.

“Georgetown maybe Forsayth, nowhere in particular; I’m Travis Brown and Roy is my uncle,” Travis answered.

“Joey Gilbert, as in the name of the river – my dad owns Timber Creek Station, are you looking for work?” The stranger introduced himself and settled his mount while loosing his suspicious attitude.

“Not at the moment Joey, I just want to drift for a while. Am I on private property?” Travis asks apologetically.

“No mate the lagoon is on crown land but is the best water for miles.” As he spoke his mount gave Joey a forceful and impatient push with its head to the middle of his back. Joey turned displaying a narrow backside that hardly filled his moleskin trousers holding to his narrow hips by a length of leather knotted at the front. “If you need work dad needs a good stockman.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Travis answered as the youth remounted and returned at full gallop to the cattle, with Titch giving inclination to follow.

“Settle girl,”

Travis held onto Titch until the rider was back with the mob and out of sight.

“You fancy Joey’s gelding do you?” Travis says.

“Too bad for you he’s been nutted.”

“Lucky I wasn’t swimming or Joey would have had an eye full,”

As Travis spoke he realised a measure of disappointment in his tone, as if he would have liked to have been discovered so and immediately he challenged the thought. Was the thought from his self inflicted isolation, or did he feel something towards the lean young fellow he had just met. It appeared of late his sexuality became more corrupt each time he encountered any male of his own age. Travis quickly assured he would never advance on his thoughts and believed it to be but a phase he was going through. Puberty he called it although he understood he was well beyond the realm of puberty while thought by thought he was developing towards acting out the attraction.

Considering it too big a problem and not significant enough to ponder Travis turned his thoughts away from sexuality and the disappearing mob of cattle and Joey’s skinny arse, to the decision he needed to make. How long would he remain at the lagoon? He was enjoying the lagoon’s serenity and still had ample supplies but to remain in one place for an extended time was not his design, even if day by day he began to add rationality to his so call enterprise and found it somewhat lacking in planning, besides at some time he wished to revisit Cumberland Downs and there was also the future meeting with Evan in Forsayth.

‘Evan,’ Travis thought as the last of Joey’s bullocks went from sight, ‘I should never have maid it November because of his school year. Bradley did write Evan had a barney with his father and left,’ a little of the guilt lifted, ‘I had to make it early or the wet would have commenced.’

It was a further three days before moving on became an issue for Travis. Joey once again arrived with another mob of cattle. This visit brought the herd somewhat closer to Travis’ campsite. If it was intentional or not, Travis couldn’t say but it was becoming frequent and close enough to bring realisation his solitude could not be guaranteed and with Joey once more enquiring the length of his stay, Travis decided it was time to move on, even if Joey’s question came more out of conversation and not an obvious wish to remove him from the watering hole, also the cattle were churning the clear water at his end to pumpkin soup along the entire lagoon.

“Catch any fish?” Joey asks spying Travis’ fishing line close by, as his mount drank.

“I tried but didn’t have any luck.”

“Probably just as well they are full of worms,” Joey declared. “Do any swimming?” Joey added.

“Most days, I was just about to do so when you arrived but the cattle have muddied the water,”

“Sorry about the intrusion but they need to drink,” Joey apologised without showing sincerity.

“No worries, I’ll probably move on in a day or two, it’s becoming a little too crowded around here.” There was an intended sting in Travis’ delivery that wasn’t noticed by Joey, who laughed and taking a deep breath removed his oversized hat and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with his shirt-sleave, then turned his mount’s head and at a gallop returned to the cattle.

“Much too crowded,” Travis sighed and fixed his gaze on the slender form of Joey as he manoeuvred his way through his mob of cattle while giving direction to his fellow stockmen. “Cute little bugger ‘though,” Travis concluded with a huff of agreement.

All that day Travis had an uneasy feeling he was being watched but saw nothing. Firstly he thought he observed movement in the undergrowth across the lagoon but on further scrutiny all appeared to be still except for the breeze through the trees, believing it to be one of Joey’s stray bullocks, or a brumby, possibly a kangaroo coming down for water. Even so at intervals he would turn sharply in the hope to catch movement but there was nothing, only an unnerving feeling that from somewhere beyond the lagoon, eyes were fixed upon him.

Towards the late afternoon the feeling dissipated and he felt secure enough to participate of the water as it settled from the churning, finding the ducks had returned at the far end of the lagoon. Slowly he crept along the lagoon’s length, going as far as placing a large lily pad on his head to disguise his approach. It didn’t work. Each time he came within a measure of the ducks they quietly paddle from him, until out of frustration he launched himself out of the water shouting as loud as possible sending the ducks in hurried flight to the west.

With the ducks lifting skywards, a mob of cockatoos screeched back their disapproval at Travis as they settled in the bottle brush trees on the opposite side. Travis left the water and moments later the ducks returned and continued much as they had before. It was then he remembered reading in one of his school books that the aborigines would use a reed as a breathing snorkel and approach the ducks underwater while grabbing their legs. It all seemed much too difficult, deciding duck was defiantly off the menu. Besides recollection of the ducks his father shot each Christmas at Cumberland Downs proved them to be scrawny birds, stringy and full of lead shot and not at all appetising.

During the evening the feeling he was being watched returned, this time even Titch showed an uneasy disposition, then from across the lagoon but somewhat close a native dog howled, relaxing Travis into believing his apprehension was caused by wildlife. Yet he slept uneasy and every snap of a twig or call of a night bird woke him to peer helplessly into the dark moonless night.

With the early sun Travis quickly rose and took stock of his camp, finding some of his supplies were missing. At first he thought Bandicoots had stolen his freshly cooked damper-bread but on discovering two missing tins of baked beans as well as the tin opener he knew that the Australian wildlife wasn’t that clever – but who could it be? Was it Joey returning with the hope of scaring him away from the waterhole? Who could have been so soft of foot to enter his camp and remove his supplies without being heard? He knew not and decided to move on that day but would first return to Mt. Surprise to replenish his stolen supplies before doing so.

By noon Travis had packed his saddlebags and was ready to move out, yet not once during that day did the feeling of being spied upon return and after again checking around his camp he found no evidence of the previous night’s visitor. “Ghosts,” He humoured after taking one last dip in the lagoon’s waters, “Or kangaroo’s that use tin openers,” he mused.

“Hey Titch what do you reckon; ghosts?” He called from the water. With the sound of his voice Titch raised her head from feeding then turned her back towards him, while continuing to graze on the greener shoots that sprung from the moist bank, “snob!” Travis called but the word fell unheeded onto the fly swatting tail of Titch. Travis left the water and dressed. “Come on girl lets head out,” he suggested.

While departing Travis buried a number of cans as he would return for a day or so before trying the next marked spot on Luke’s map but firstly he rode around the lagoon’s perimeter hoping he would find evidence of his thief but found nothing.

“Oh well,” he softly spoke and turned away from Luke’s Lagoon, whoever the thief had been he was light of foot and his need obviously more apparent than that of Travis.

With a gentle click of tongue and flick of reins he moved away in the direction of Mt. Surprise.

Gary’s stories are about life in Australia as a gay man. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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