Death of a River Guide by Richard Flanagan Page B

more scrubby type of bush that had grown in consequence of repeated firing, all tall gums and silver wattles. Aljaz was no longer sure exactly where he was. A little past where the Walls of Jericho rose up white and striking on a close mountain tier, Aljaz sensed that the punters were unhappy. It was cold and drizzling, yet despite the rain that had arrived soon after lunch the river had not risen an inch. With the river so low their progress remained slow, there being little or no water running over boulders and logs, and the rafts constantly ran aground. Then the guides would have to jump out chest-deep into the river beside the rock or log, grab hold of the deck lines that ran around the pontoons, and reef the raft this way or that, getting all the punters to sit on one side so that their weight worked with the guides’ hurting, aching arms to free the raft up and get it moving again. It seemed the worst of both worlds, this paddling a shallow creekbed of a river while the rain fell upon them, heavy and mocking. After three days of hard work the punters were exhausted and wanted to know how far it was to that night’s campsite. But for the moment Aljaz did not know where he was. After a further hour’s paddling they had not arrived, and it was about then that he realised they had missed the campsite altogether. His eyes had searched the riverbank intensely, hoping that through the sweeps and drifts of rain the telltale little pebble bank with a log sticking out above would be obvious against the backdrop of dense dank greenness. But he had somehow missed it. Perhaps the log had washed away in a winter flood during his absence of so many years.
    The punters were even more unhappy when Aljaz told them they would have to paddle for another hour to reach the next campsite, called Hawkins and Dean. He would rather have used the campsite in between, known as Camp Arcade, but there had been reports of it being infested with wasps that summer, so no one was using it.
    Another hour of dreary paddling in the growing gloom of late afternoon. The punters’ resentment faded into a dull determination to simply get to the campsite. Aljaz scanned the riverbank, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t miss this one as well. Suddenly he leant back and reverse-swept his paddle to swing his raft towards the riverbank. He yelled to the Cockroach’s raft, pointing at the bank. They landed, tethered the rafts, and Aljaz and the Cockroach went off to explore the site while the punters waited for their verdict. The guides climbed up the steep bank and disappeared into the rainforest. The Cockroach knew that something was wrong. There was no path up to the campsite, and the campsite, apart from a level platform of sand ten metres up from the river, was difficult to recognise.
    â€˜Shit a brick,’ said the Cockroach. ‘No one’s camped here for years.’ It was true. In only a few short years the rainforest had reclaimed the tent sites. A hardwater fern grew up through a small patch of charred earth that Aljaz recognised as a firesite. Blackwoods and celery top pines and myrtle seedlings and freshwater ferns crowded what were once cleared areas. Here and there trees had fallen across the sites levelled for tents and new growth rose up from the fallen trunks staggering toward the distant sun.
    Aljaz shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s nothing between here and the gorge,’ he said. ‘We’re stuck with it.’ The Cockroach was annoyed at Aljaz’s choice, and Aljaz sensed his annoyance and it only accentuated his own feeling of encroaching depression. For his memory of the river was being destroyed by the natural world of the river itself.
    They went back down to the punters and told them, inadequate as the campsite was, they were staying there the night.
    â€˜And tomorrow?’ asked Sheena.
    â€˜Tomorrow?’ said Aljaz. ‘Tomorrow’s a breeze. Tomorrow we are set up for a