Granddadâs shack through the trees. Two minutes after that the sun is shining like a maniac and Iâm in my room peeling off wet, muddy clothes.
Listen, push me up against a wall, attach electrodes to my genitals and even then there arenât many things Iâd be prepared to swear to. Things Iâm absolutely sure of: a) if I had continued in the direction I was going before the text message, Iâd have missed Granddadâs place â missed it by a country mile; b) well, the second thing is really in two parts. One, thereâs no way I could possibly get a signal that close to the shacks, and two, Iâd turned my phone off on the top of the mountain.
So Iâm not really surprised when I check and find I havenât had any messages since I left Melbourne.
I love all that X-Files stuff on the television. Iâm just not keen on living it. Do you know what Iâm saying?
I have a shower, but only because Iâve got no real choice. Iâm caked in mud and stink like a septic tank.
Granddad is sitting in his spot on the verandah and I call out to tell him Iâm taking the plunge. He grunts something about dinner. Good. I donât like the notion of him looming on a random horizon while Iâm sudding my bits, particularly if heâs carrying the chainsaw.
The water is surprisingly strong and unsurprisingly cold. Not sure what the go is with the solar panel. Maybe itâs just for show. I manage to work up a good lather and even wash my hair. Iâve got scratches all over my hands and legs and I suspect my face isnât crash-hot in that regard, but thereâs no mirror so I canât check. My left foot is bruised and it hurts when I put pressure on it. Other than that, Iâm in decent shape. Already Iâm embarrassed by what went on out there in the forest. I mean, itâs fairly logical. Bad weather, panic about being lost, scuffles in the undergrowth from random Tassie critters, a strong imagination. Plus hyperventilating when I got angry and scared. Itâs no wonder me and the plot parted company for a while.
Still, rolling around in the mud, wild-eyed and scared of the bogeyman. Not a good look. Iâm glad there were no witnesses.
Mr Coolâs reputation remains intact.
I wrap a towel around me and leg it back to my room quick smart. The temperature is doing another nosedive and I donât want to play Russian roulette with pneumonia. I put on as many layers of clothes as I can find and give thermal underwear serious consideration. If I buy them down here and leave them when I go back to Melbourne, no one need ever know. Then again, these things have a habit of coming out. I Know What You Wore Last Spring . Now, that would be a horror story.
Speaking of horror stories, when I finally front up to the verandah Granddad presents me with a plate of burned steak. Judging by the way heâs fossicking in his dentures with something sharp, I figure heâs finished his. There are some sorry mashed potatoes with green lumps, and gravy thatâs thinner than a supermodel. Iâm starving. Iâd have to be to even consider eating this.
âGramps, my main man,â I say, sawing for a quarter of an hour on the corner of the steak. âHow about a different chef tomorrow? Bring a little variety into our diet. Whaddya say?â
âYou?â
I think about slipping a piece of steak to the dog while Granddad isnât looking. I donât, though. The dogâs never done me any harm.
âYes, me. Who do you think I mean? The Naked Chef?â
âWho?â
âForget it.â
I am going to cook, though.
I donât mention my wilderness experiences to Granddad. He doesnât ask, anyway. Not even if Iâd made it to the top of the mountain. Makes me wonder, if I had missed his place, how long it would have taken him to raise the alarm. Maybe heâd have remembered me after a couple of months. Maybe not.
C. Dale Brittain, Brittain