GO BUSH II

It Was a Dark and Smelly Night…

At some point during the experience, now a rainy haze, I began to sing aloud to keep myself preoccupied. I know that I went through Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore and Vertigo, but the others I cannot remember. I was exhausted after cleaning out only two tents, and the work became harder as the water level increased and dusk turned to night. Every headlamp I found, I put around my neck, and I wandered through the water with most of them turned on; I must have looked like a UFO to the creatures seeking shelter in the trees.

After two hours of grueling labor, I had moved everyone’s belongings into the road or onto a picnic table, and Peter and John had moved them into the green GO BUSH trailer. Confident is a funny thing; it can get you through the toughest of times, even though it may be based on nothing at all. I had worked through the rain with the hope that, when we had finished loading up the belongings, we would harness the power of the four-wheel-drive and high-tail it out of the horrible Harry’s Hut. I approached Peter with renewed vigor at the completion of my task, my grinning face dripping with water and sweat. “So…” I began, not wanting to actually ask if we could leave. “There’s been a change of plans,” he said.

It turns out that our companion, John, had forgotten the keys to the four-wheel-drive in the bus, which was then being driven by Dave towards Gympie. We could not leave Harry’s Hut that night, and would have to make camp somewhere and weather the storm. Yes, I had volunteered, but not for this. I was VERY unhappy to hear this news. Turns out the adventure would be longer than I expected.

It was getting darker, and the water was rising. We dismantled John’s kitchen tent, an effort that was hampered by renegade boxes of plates and condiments that took it upon themselves to float off towards the banks of the now-raging Noosa River.

The only light left was cast by the two glaring bulbs attached to the hissing propane tanks. They cast yellow shadows on the treeline. All of a sudden, in what I had thought was a desolate campground, the entire regiment of shivering 14-year-olds filed numbly into our campsite. We had overtaken them on the walk to Harry’s Hut (I forgot to mention that earlier). I felt sorry for the poor kids, who had been brought out into the gale to “separate the lambs from the sheep,” in the words of one of their idiotic teachers. Their apparently inept guide told Peter that they were headed to a dock on the Noosa one campsite up so they could be picked up by a coastguard boat. They left, and I urged Peter to go and find out if we could be evacuated as well. Peter seemed keen with staying the night, but I could barely suppress the desperation in my voice as I suggested that he find out about evacuation. He set off about ten minutes behind the 14-year-olds into the bush.

John and I worked to dismantle the broken dining tent, all the while keeping track of the aluminum chairs and plastic cups that John cherished. After an hour of lashing John’s kitchen paraphernalia to a picnic table, Peter emerged from the forest; he clearly had not been evacuated and did not seem in a rush to bring us back to the dock. He related the story of the three boats that had shown up, two from the coast guard and one from the parks department. The coast guard boats, manned by inept volunteers, were dead set on not evacuating anyone, claiming that the river was too dangerous in its overflowing state. The park ranger calmly asserted that he would evacuate the 14-year-olds. Women and children first; Peter, John, and I were apparently not priorities. I had always agreed with the “women and children first” philosophy, but I started to question my own morality. The park ranger had promised to return later that night to get us three musketeers. Peter said that this was doubtful.

Peter learned from the ranger that the toilets were the highest point, and that is where we would be spending the night. In the previous large flood, the water level had reached the floor of the toilet structure, a good ten feet above the ground. I began bringing boxes of food to the toilet structure, decked out in my head-lamp headdress. Our gourmet provisions consisted of several loaves of bread, spicy beer chips, bananas, chocolate and nut muesli bars, juice boxes. With every trip to the toilet I made John reminded me to bring the boxes of wine, as if we were on am outdoor jaunt, and it wouldn’t be as fun without alcohol. Looking back, I can’t argue.

Several trips to the toilets and several boxes of food later, the water level was rising at its fastest rate, and Peter told me to stay at the toilets. John was insisting that he keep track of all of his belongings, not believing that the flood was as bad as the news told. Peter insisted it was, and had to almost command John to think of his own safety. As I waited on the wooden deck of the toilet block, John arrived, but without Peter, who was doing some last-minute lashing. Our toilet base camp consisted of the aforementioned boxes of food, three aluminum chairs, two propane lamps, John’s and Peter’s bags of clothes and sleeping bags, and my sleeping bag.

While we waited for Peter to return from the dark, John took of his raincoat and explored his many pockets. I was turned away from him when I heard the clink-clink of metal on metal. “Oh my,” said John’s deep voice. I turned around to see John holding up a ring of keys, which I quickly surmised belonged to the four-wheel-drive. “They were in my pocket all along.” I could only laugh at this, for the time we could have left Harry’s Hut had long passed, and it was dark as pitch in the rainy night. I assured him that it was lucky he had not found his keys, because we may have become stuck in the water far from the camp. When Peter finally arrived at our urinal stronghold, John said. “Peter, you’ll never guess what I found. It turns out I had the keys in my pocket all along!” Peter glared, then turned and paced up and down the deck. John seemed as amused as ever.

Peter and John changed out of their wet clothing into clean, dry clothing; I had none, and I was chafing something awful on my inner-right thigh. I ended up with one of Peter’s huge hemp T-shirts and John’s pair of shorts. They were old-man-style shorts, coming down to mid thigh, the same material as dress pants. I was going commando. John was significantly larger than I, so I used an elastic laundry-line as a belt. I was clothed in ill-fitting odds and ends, but I was pleasantly dry. We ate banana sandwiches for dinner, and after finishing our juice boxes, John cut off the tops and made wine goblets, from which we enjoyed many cups of boxed wine. John slept outside on the deck, and Peter and I laid our sleeping bags out in the handicapped bathroom stall, Peter next to the toilet, and me with my had at the wall and the toilet at me feet. Strangely enough, it was not smelly, but slightly uncomfortable nonetheless.

I could not sleep, so I sat awake outside for many hours, thinking and staring anxiously at the water level. I could not tell if it was rising or falling, but I stared just the same. At some point, Peter came out and gave me one of his jumpers (sweaters). The night continued. Until day broke.

­Stay tuned for the REAL conclusion. I promise, the next installation is the last. Still to come, “The Morning After.”