Chapter 30 - Bog Life - Part Two

Smash and Possum to the rescue!

A few weeks after the driveway bog incident, Smash and I were out looking for firewood along one of the disused tracks on our block. It was a slow drive, navigating washed out trenches, rocks and fallen trees but a treasure trove of old timber. We collected a good haul, found some larger logs to chainsaw, then decided to call it quits so that the trailer would not be too heavy – which is when we spotted some well-seasoned rounds of ironbark that must have been chain-sawed by the previous owner – literally the hard part done and perfect for the wood heater. On they went.

On the way home, as the track got rougher, I got out to walk in front of the Nissan, to clear some branches and spot rocks. As we entered a gully, I noticed the earth was quite spongey, so I turned around and yelled out for Smash to ‘Stop!’

Anyone who knows Smash will know what happened next. He maintains he didn’t hear me … or see me, standing on the front right-hand side of the car with my hands up making the universally recognised sign for STOP. I maintain we had eye contact – glinty eye contact. Whatever. We were bogged.

This time, there was no tractor nearby to come to the rescue. It was a half-hour walk back to the shed, so we decided to use our finely honed bush skills to get the Nissan (and trailer) out of the bog. At this point, we were not too worried – part of country life and all that – pip pip, jolly good, mustn’t grumble. Within minutes we were arguing about the best way to lay sticks near the tyres. Seconds actually. I wanted to lay them perpendicular to the tyres; Smash wanted to lay them lengthways. I thought laying rocks down would be a good idea, Smash wanted to dig out all the mud. As usual, we each did our own thing, and with the jumbled assortment of traction devices in place, gave the old girl a go. Smash decided he should drive (ie have all the fun), so I stood back with the dogs who’d come running back from their games on hearing the engine start.

And go! Off the wheels went, whizzing around – around and around, shiny with clogged tread, spraying mud. Nissy swayed a bit, moaning.

‘Not moving,’ I yelled, in a helpful way.

Smash cut the engine. The dogs ran off.

‘We need to do this properly,’ Smash said, in an accusing way. I was about to remind him of how we got bogged in the first place, when I remembered I had a 1PM phone call with an editor who was giving me feedback on a book I’d submitted to a competition.

‘Feedback’ is a big deal – the holy grail for aspiring authors and something most publishers withhold like a dangerously addictive drug, as if, by giving you even the tiniest tidbit, you’ll be hounding them for more and more and more, or worse, taking offence and wanting to harm them. I’ve received many rejection letters in my time, and I can tell you, if I get one that strays from the regular form letter, with even a whiff of something personal or specific – I am thrilled beyond belief. I usually read it twenty or so times, twirling my hair, then read it out to Smash, then email it to friends and family, then read it again. It can elevate my mood for days – weeks even, depending on the content. I often wonder if publishers know how much control they have over my mood swings.

No exaggeration to say, I was desperate to hear this feedback on my latest submission and nothing was going to stand in the way of my appointment.

It was 11AM which gave me two hours to get unbogged, back home, cleaned up, and up the hill for phone reception.

We got to work, in unison. Smash dug and dug the mud out from around the wheels while I fetched sticks and small branches. As soon as the holes were dug, they filled with muddy water, which we bailed out, then watched fill again. Our boots got sucked off our feet – like the Big Day Out mosh pit without the fun music part. While working, we talked a lot about duckboards, small shovels and winches that we would definitely have on board the Nissan in future. Finally, after denuding the landscape in a 5 metre radius around the Nissan we had enough vegetation wadded under and around the wheels, so we unhooked the heavy trailer and had another try at getting out. Again, the tyres whizzed around, mud flew. Again, the dogs came running back from their games, stared for a while then ran off. The Nissan was sinking. I had a turn of driving and managed to get it to sink a bit more. We stood back. So much mess. The car had muddy handprints all over it as if a cluster of zombies had crawled through a swamp and attacked it.

11.30AM. There was nothing for it but to make the half hour walk back and get the tractor. We were both quite tired, hungry and muddy by this point. It was a quiet trip other than a few pleasant exchanges about whether Smash really hadn’t seen or heard me telling him to stop.

Back at the shed, Goose headed straight for the fire, I grabbed two bananas while Smash got the tractor. On the way back to the bog, I hitched a ride on the side of the tractor, Possum sat on Smash’s lap and Schultzy, who has never recovered from seeing Smash roll the tractor, trotted behind, keeping a suspicious eye on the slasher. As we rumbled along, I explained to Smash I needed to be up the hill, phone and notebook in hand by 1PM. ‘No problemo, sweets,’ he said, feeling happy now on his tractor. By 12.30 we had a chain on Nissy and Smash put the tractor in reverse. The chain rose out of the sludge and tightened; the behemoth Nissan cameth, with a squelching, sucking sound as it reared up and out of the dreaded bog. Once it was on hard earth, we did the same with the trailer. 12.45PM

I took off, leaving Smash and the pups to follow along at their own pace. Glancing in the rear-view mirror I noticed I had quite a lot of mud smeared on my face and hoped it wasn’t going to be a Facetime call. Back at the shed, I detached the trailer from Nissan, scoring myself a pinched finger from the stupid jockey wheel. I ran into the shed, washed my hands, grabbed my phone, a notebook and a pen then dashed back to the Nissan. 12.54.

It usually takes eight minutes to get to the top of the hill where the phone reception is best. Smash can do it in six, he tells me, every time I mention it takes me eight. I gunned poor Nissy – more mud flew off her as she rattled and rolled the hill. My pen and notebook slid off the seat – I reached for them, took my eyes off the road for one second and hit large piece of traprock that caused Nissy to buck. My head hit the roof and a sharp pain shot through my neck. I changed down gears for the whoo-boys, those mounds of dirt in the track that channel flooding water out to the sides and cause endless fun and sore heads at high speed. Halfway there, I crested the northern end of the hill and turned sharp left for the last leg. 12.58

Up ahead a fallen tree blocked the road. I’d only been along there the day before and the path had been clear. Why now? What was the universe trying to tell me? To give up on my literary aspirations? I yanked on the handbrake and jumped out, ran crazily at that fallen tree and hefted it out of the way, Hulk-like, roaring victoriously. Back to the car – handbrake off. Nissy lunged forward over the bumpiest section of the road, where no bulldozer has been able to work with the traprock. My neck zinged with pain. 12.59. I searched for my phone to see if I had any bars of 4G. No phone in sight. I swore loudly – an expletive broadcast out over the landscape that sent small birds fluttering from trees. I pulled the handbrake on hard and saw my phone looking up at me from between the passenger seat and the hand brake. It began to ring.

Fingers wiggling, I rammed my hand in as far as it could go. On the fourth ring I made contact, pinched the edge of the phone with the tips of my fingers and withdrew my phone, slowly, carefully, holding my breath. 1PM – right on time.

‘Yes?’ I said, touching my hair.

The editor asked if I was okay. I explained as quickly as I could my situation (the consult was to last for 30 minutes and I didn’t want to waste any of it on niceties) and the editor said, ‘Oh nice! I love Stanthorpe. Lucky you!’

After the consult, once my heart rate had slowed and the nerve in my neck had stopped burning, I did feel lucky. There I was, sitting in good ole Nissy, looking out over the beautiful, rugged landscape of the Granite Belt – out of the Brisbane lockdown, breathing clear, clean air. I’d received helpful feedback – actionable advice combined with enough praise to make me sit in happy contemplation for a few minutes before heading back down the hill.

And still the water kept coming down the hills. It seeped out of the traprock, slid over granite and trickled happily down our driveway creating a moat of mud around the shed. We decided to call out the local earthworks expert to discuss our drainage woes. It was pointed out, with typical country candour and economy of speech that until it stopped raining, the ground was too soft to work with, and by the time it stopped raining, we wouldn’t have the problem anymore. So.

Given a wet Spring has been predicted, I have a feeling we will be living with our bogs for quite some time, but you won’t hear me complaining about too much rain – no siree.

The view from here.