Page 13 of Out of Luck in the Outback

There were no tents available. I guess we weren’t the only people without a room. I have a sleeping bag and something Charmaine referred to as a “human burrito sack” over it. It’s black, cozy, and has a built-in pillow. More importantly, it’s not a manger. Beggars can’t be choosers.

Maddox pulls a sweatshirt over his shoulders and pulls the hood over his head so I can’t see his face. I’m wearing something similar given the cold of the desert night, but I’m warm in the rented sleeping bag. “Very real stars,” he says. “The Southern Hemisphere has completely different constellations. Better than ours, if you ask me.”

I’ve never seen anything like it. I reach into my sweatshirt pocket and take out my phone to snap some pictures for my article. This is it. This is my angle. Spontaneous Australian camping without a tent so you can enjoy the stars. I’ll get up tomorrow, find a quaint breakfast spot with cheap coffee and eggs and write about activities here.

“This is a nice surprise,” I mumble, not wanting to raise my voice in the silence of the area. You could hear a pin drop, and the only sound is Maddox’s breath next to me and the rustle of the light wind in the scant brush. “Do you know what they are?”

Maddox scoots closer, and I can smell his laundry detergent and the smell of his rented sleeping bag. Incidentally, both sleeping bags smell like whiskey seeped out of someone’s pores onto the fabric. Once our heads are only a few inches from each other, he points up.

I’m tempted to turn. All I’d need to do is turn my head and my lips would be on his ear. My tongue could slide up his neck and earlobe to see if he tastes as good as he smells. Just a taste. I want the taste I missed the other night.

“That’s the Southern Cross,” he says, snapping me out of my dirty thoughts. Not that I’m the only one having them. He settles his head against mine, and an odd combination of calm and sexual excitement swirls in my nether parts. “It’s turned a little, but if you look hard enough, you can see it tilts to the left. It’s what the Australians used to design their flag.” He moves his finger a little to the upper left. “And that’s Musca.”

“What’s all that cloudy-looking stuff above us?” I ask, my voice husky from awe.

“That’s the Milky Way. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I catch a glimpse at his jawline and the stubble there. “Gorgeous.” I’m not just talking about the stars.

“Are you warm enough?”

“I think I’ll be alright. Why? Is this where you ask to snuggle?”

“Do you want to snuggle? You snuggled the other night.”

“I shoved my feet in your face. At least, I shoved my feet in your face at first.”

He smiles and inhales before grimacing and sniffing the top of his sleeping bag. “You snore in your sleep, just so you know.”

“I do not.”

“I’m not mad at your snoring, Calvert. I am, however, frustrated with how bad these sleeping bags smell. They’re worse than your feet.” He coughs a little and pushes the fabric away from his face. “I’m beginning to think Charmaine hasn’t had them laundered since a hunting lodge rented them and went on a bender.”

I laugh and move closer to him until I’m ensconced in the nook on his chest and under his arm. “I guess sleeping next to each other for warmth wouldn’t be a bad idea. It’ll get colder through the night, right?”

“Sensible of you, Calvert.”

Maddox’s heart pounds under my chest, and I take in the little things about him I missed the other night. The weight of his arm over my back. The way his fingers stroke my hair, lulling me to sleep.

I stare at the sky for a few minutes in silence and think about this trip. Mr. Gosnell never sent me here to become obsessed, but I think I am. I’m obsessed with all of it – Australia, new constellations, and the people. But the stars and the quiet of camping in the bush isn’t nearly as scary as the realization that I can’t stop thinking about a fisherman from Alaska that happens to be sleeping close to me.

Big Rocks

“Doyouthinkthisplace looks a little like Mars?” I ask, stepping off the small rock I was standing on and taking a picture of the clear horizon with my phone.

“There aren’t many places in the world with red soil,” Maddox grunts as he climbs over a small boulder in the trail. At least, I think it’s the trail. We may be off course. The map of the Valley of the Winds hiking area around Kata Tjuta isn’t as clear as my car’s GPS. There’s noturn right heredirection, and I rotate the document we got at a roadside stand, trying to get my bearings.

“Georgia,” I mumble, wiping my hands on my shirt. That’ll stain. In fact, my canvas hiking boots will probably always have a little red tint to them.

“What’s that?”

“Georgia has red clay. Not nearly on this level, but it’s there.”

He smiles, and the shock of his white teeth against the red dust on his face and in his stubble is startling. “Good to know if we’re ever in Georgia together.” He nods to the left, and I squint into the sun in the direction he points. “Walpa Gorge is that way,” he says, pointing to a direction I’m pretty sure is south. Then again, my ability to navigate doesn’t function out here. “It should be an easy couple of hours to the next lookout station if you want to try easy.”

“Easy is good. I’m not from Alaska. The most hiking I do is up Michigan Avenue in search of shoes.”

We head off in the direction of what he thinks is the next lookout, and I take a swig from my water bottle. Thankfully, I brought the industrial size since we’re going to hike around in the heat like this. It may be cold at night, but the day is brutal, especially in the summer. For safety reasons, the trail closes after it reaches a certain temperature. We’ve beat the heat of the afternoon, but I’m not sure how a guy from Alaska is handling the heat. Alton has terrible summers, complete with humidity and violent storms, but Maddox handles the heat well for a guy who’s from a cold climate that rarely gets above sixty degrees.

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