I could hear wind roaring, not too far off, back over my shoulder. It was streaming from the broad northwest, careening up the valleys like venturi, sucking up through vertical channels in the dolomite with such force that it was diverted straight up, past us on the ledge. Grey and grim, the Gullet was turning it up today. Jess threw his bag over his shoulder and offered me his gloves, which I gratefully accepted. “It doesn’t look like it’s going to open up here before sunset,” he said, shrugging towards the baby isolated showers that had been sitting on the range across from us for the last half hour, but were thickening, creeping. “Should we get out of here before that hits, and try the cut-out back down the road?”
I walked where he walked, with my head down, mostly, enjoying the glassy puddles with mottled brown and moss-green bottoms, little patches of melted snow, and an expired snowman with his carrot-nose tumbled on the ground. Here and there, beautifully set stones in sections of the path made it look like the work of a mason, and we pondered the ancient craft. I am frustrated by my inability to identify the sparse trees that are quite thickly clustered, protected from the elements by the rise behind us as we descend. But they are grey wood, have no leaves and look all frostbitten and hibernating to me. I can’t even tell if they are burnt, or dead.
We weren’t particularly lucky with cracks in the cloud, but there were one or two wondrous shimmers that shot through before the muck finally caught up with the sun and damned it for the day completely.
“What would you like to do; keep sitting here and have a beer, or head back to Mole Creek and have one in the pub?” he asked, grinning, as we warmed up in the car.
“Let’s go to the pub – do it for the people of Victoria,” I answered, quickly. My hands were beyond cold, despite the gloves he’d so valiantly surrendered me. Now they finally felt like they were defrosting slowly, and were hurting me so much I was worried he’d see it on my face. But the wonders that surrounded us as we let back down the winds of Lake MacKenzie Road were worth every moment, and I promised myself I’d never not bring proper gloves anywhere in Tasmania ever again. I slid my hands under my thighs, pressing them against the heated seats of the car.
Jess regaled me with stories and adventures of sailing and ski seasons. We laughed and sat in comfortable silences. When we walked into the pub, the locals were friendly, and the kid behind the bar was an absolute credit to his mother. He gave us coins for the jukebox and asked us if we liked fishing, or played any musical instruments? He’d lived in Mole Creek his whole life, had never left the state, and hadn’t been to Dove Lake or Cradle Mountain in all his nineteen years! But he was a frank lad with an honest face, and we were charmed by him, and sat swapping stories with him into the night, both of our elbows on the bar.
Bronni Bowen 