Page 12 of Down the Track
‘That’s … very kind,’ said Jo weakly. No way was she up for hearing about Yindi Creek’s every family drama and how her own compared.
‘Yes, yes, we’ll sort you out, don’t you worry,’ Ethel said. ‘But not right now, because tonight we’re celebrating. We have a helicopter booked for tomorrow! If that’s not a totally cool way for the three of us to go fossil hunting, I don’t know what is.’
Jo tried to catch hold of Ethel’s enthusiasm. Tomorrowwasa new day, and whynotspend it in a helicopter reminding herself what adventure felt like? Plus, hopefully by then her breakdown or whatever this hot mess of emotion was would be over.
She took in a big breath and let it out slowly. ‘You’re right,’ she said, saying it firmly like it was a scientific fact and not just wishful thinking. ‘A helicopter flight to your property will be awesome. I wonder what we’ll see from up in the air?’
Dot tapped the tablecloth with a plump, sun-spotted finger. ‘Mmm. Perhaps I should mention, Jo—seeing as how we’re on this adventure together now and I know you’re counting on us—since the shingles last year, I’ve got a blind spot. I won’t be seeing much.’
Far out. Jo blinked, then smiled, then burst into laughter that, yes, might have sounded a tad hysterical. This trip had taken a turn into farce. To think she’d spent the plane ride out from Brisbane to Longreach imagining herself in ridiculous scenarios, standing triumphant, thigh deep in an excavation, a skull from a long extinct beast exposed in the sediment beneath her feet.
She’d wanted fame and glory. She’d wanted proof that all the sacrifices she’d made for her career counted for something. She’d wanted Luke to admire her and her museum bosses to sing her praises and festoon her with gold-plated employment contracts. What she was getting was some sort of emotional intervention from two adorable old birds and a bloody expensive chopper ride over some red, red dirt.
‘You can sit on the side of your good eye, Dot,’ said Ethel, bracingly. ‘Now, Jo, since the waterworks appear to be over, how about you pop up and order us all the Monday night special.’
Dot rubbed her hands together. ‘Oh, goodie. And then we can start workshopping your life for you.’
‘Um … and read through your dirt diary for clues. We are going to do that, too, right?’ Jo asked.
‘All in good time, pet.’
CHAPTER
5
By the time Hux had called the airfield in Maroochydore, paid for fuel and thrown some clothes and the dog’s favourite ball into a travel bag, it was past noon. He then spent four hours flying west, with a brief pit stop in Blackall for more fuel when the headwind the meteorology report had mentioned came up as promised. Finally, just as the slant of the vicious yellow ball that had done its best to blind him all afternoon was getting low enough on the horizon to not bother him so much, he was on approach to the airfield that serviced Yindi Creek.
If he’d set off a little earlier, he could have dropped in at Gunn Station where the Huxtables had made their home for three generations. Said g’day to his parents and the sister who’d taken over running the property when all the other siblings had left. She ran some cattle but mostly some sheep, and Regina (or Number One, as she herself preferred to be called) had lately invested in a small herd of incredibly cranky goats. No matter. The family property was only sixty k out of town, and they’d probably know he was back within five minutes of his arrival; the Yindi Creek bush telegraph could have taught broadband internet a thing or two about service.
‘You ready to switch back into outback life?’ he said to the dog, who—fortunately—was content to wear the set of ‘mutt muffs’ Hux had ordered in from the States. Not every dog would be cool with the noise and vibrations of the tiny two-person helicopter he kept, but Possum had taken to flying like a labrador took to sausage. Hux put it down to the life of misadventure the dog had undoubtedly led before landing on the social media pages of the local animal welfare league as a special needs terrier cross rescue looking for his forever home.
Hux lived most of the year in an old weatherboard cottage a block back from Yindi Creek’s main street that he’d bought back when the helicopter business first started paying its way. It was tiny, but he’d renovated it with his own bare hands, which made it feel very much like home. It had screens against the flies, aircon to combat the heat and a dog door out to the back deck so Possum could wander in and out as he chose. It also had—
Crap. In the rush to leave Coolum, he’d forgotten about the burst water pipe waiting for him at the cottage. Which meant no working loo or shower or sink, unless a miracle had happened and the plumber from Winton had been out to look at it. Unlikely, since the last time he’d called, the plumber’s voicemail message had indicated she was in the hospital having a baby and would get back to work whenever she felt like it and not a minute sooner.
‘What are your thoughts on asking Maggie for a room at the pub?’ he asked Possum. ‘It’s that or the sofa at Sal and Charlie’s place.’
TYSON: If the cat doesn’t wake you at dawn every morning, Harry and Lucy will. Also, last time you stayed there those ratbag kids put frozen peas in your boots.
Good point—decision made. Possum twitched one of his flyaway ears and resumed his inspection of the country below the helicopter. Hux followed his gaze.
Red dirt. Sparse scrub. Endless horizon. From up here, you could make out the channels gouged into the plains by the infrequent floods. When a massive rain dump happened in the Gulf Country and the river catchments were overwhelmed, all that water just spilled over the flat, flat land like a rising tide. Slow. Steady. Unstoppable.
There was no flood water in sight now—just ragged strips of scrub marking the mostly dry waterway that had given Yindi Creek its name.
Scrub gave way to galvanised roofing sheets as they neared town. Here, the house lots were laid out in a grid along compacted-dirt streets and you could spot the home owners who’d dug a bore by the green patches. His house was still standing, he noted, the front and back yards looking like they hadn’t seen water for months. Silver-grey bitumen marked the crossing of the town’s two longest streets, but the bitumen cut out abruptly after a few hundred metres or so—to the north, a narrow dirt road worked its way to Overlanders Way just west of Richmond. To the southeast ran the main road, also dirt, out to Matilda Way—a thirty-minute gravel road that was graded pretty frequently by the shire council. From there, you could turn left to head into Winton or turn right to head up to McKinlay, Cloncurry and beyond. Hux could see a road train trundling along, a plume of dust kicked up in its wake: the modern-day drover. Way more efficient, sure, at dragging cattle or sheep from station to market, but nowhere near as romantic as ringers on horseback.
He wondered idly what the road train was carrying. Moving cattle from Windorah up to Croydon for better pasture? Nah, they’d not have used the Yindi Creek Road. A load of sheep to restock a station that was finally showing some recovery from drought? Maybe. He didn’t have his finger on the pulse of the rags-to-riches cycle most farmers endured like his parents and Number One and Number Five did. His brain was too caught up with fictitious storylines.
He narrowed his eyes when he reached the airspace above the small Yindi Creek airstrip. Two helicopters were parked there—the two-seater R22 that was a twin to his own, great for mustering, photography and a quick delivery run to a far-flung station that had a desperate need for low-weight parts like an impellor for their water pump or even just a case of cold beer, and the big, shiny, new R44 that Charlie and Sal had acquired with the help of a hefty loan and some government incentive scheme to kickstart business again after the pandemic. The R44 was the workhorse, suited to sling-work and cargo, aerial shooting and mustering, for fire work and more. Its blades were covered, the bubble cover was shielding the gauges on the dash from the sun, it was tidy and stored and looked exactly as he would expect it to look when not in use.
But the old R22? It was barely in its landing circle. And—Hux was inches away from touching the skids down, so his concentration was split for a second between safety and stickybeaking—no covers. Which would be totally fine if Charlie had just been up in it and had plans to head off again any second, but he’d not. According to Sal, he hadn’t been up in the air since his passenger out at the opal site didn’t show.
TYSON: This doesn’t look good.
Tyson wasn’t wrong. Sloppy procedure and aviation didn’t mix.
As Hux felt his skids bite into the cement of the landing pad, he spotted the office manager, Phaedra, approaching from the admin building. Instead of her usual grin and wave, her face was a picture. The bad kind of picture. The tells-a-thousand-words kind, all of them words he wasn’t going to like hearing.
