I was just six years old, still young enough to be cute, yet old enough to grind down my father by simply insisting. ‘I want to climb Mount Pix with you and Jim and Len.’ The aforementioned were my oldest brothers, Jim the grand old age of 17, with a Brylcreemed slick of brown hair, and blond Len 14.
I had nagged my way into the big grey Pontiac. My father’s intention, I now think, looking back, was to park the car at the foot of the western-most peak in the Stirling Ranges, and leave me there while he and the big boys climbed their way to the top.
But I was having none of that.
From our farmhouse 30 kilometres north, Mount Pix appears a heart-stopping shade of blue. It is longer than it is high, and I have always thought its silhouette was like the cupid’s bow drawn in red on a lady’s lip.
Close up, you can still imagine the shape of the bow, but the blue has changed to the sage green of knee-high vegetation with the stolid grey of the granite sub-stratum.
Dad and the boys were each standing at a car door, leaning in to retrieve wet-weather gear, thermoses of tea, and other equipment suited for a hike in the hills. They set off along the kilometre walk to the base of the mountain.
My sandals were not suitable for the grass underfoot and leaves and stalks scratched viciously at my thighs. As I struggled to keep up, I realised quickly that the team was not about to accommodate my laggard progress. Their intent was to lose me in the early stages of the hike.
The mountain loomed before us. As the climb became steeper, the going was a bit easier. It was mainly rock at my feet and the fauna grew sparser. At 30 kilograms, I discovered my advantage over my heavier siblings. I scampered up behind them.
As I climbed, I discovered a new vantage of the mountain. It was unfolding like a vast paper toy: Mount Pix had more than one peak!
‘Stay there and we’ll collect you on the way back,’ Dad called over his shoulder. They disappeared over the first peak. I followed. For a moment, the way ahead deterred me. Beyond this first peak, the ground fell rapidly away. There was a deep valley and beyond that, an even higher peak. Was this the top of Mount Pix?
I stumbled down towards the valley, my family small sticks on the upward climb opposite. Soon, they disappeared over the top. There was another peak beyond this one.
The point and bumps of the Cupid’s bow were unfolding to be three of several peaks.
I was in fact getting tired. I remembered that Dad always fabricated a suitable hiking stick by snapping a branch off a jam tree. I looked around for a tree.
I made my stick and tested it. I was now alone in this enormous valley. Should I turn back? No, this mountain is not going to beat me. I pressed on upward with my stick working well.
The blue sky rose from the peaks either side of me. A pair of wedge-tailed eagles circled above. A willy-wagtail suddenly chatted nearby, making me jump. Something slithered in the undergrowth. My experience suggested that a bobtail or similar small lizard had produced this noise; my imagination conjured up a large snake.
I looked towards the peak, searching for the reassuring figures of my family. But they had gone over the peak. I stumbled up the hill. I thought, if I run fast enough, I will find them.
Puffing hard, I reached the next peak. From this peak, like the first, the ground fell away steeply at about 45 degrees before rising to an even higher peak. A vast empty vista of the mountain’s inside. My heart beat even faster. I wanted my Dad, but he had vanished. Can I catch up?
Then I wondered how many preparatory peaks there were before the final peak. I hadn’t thought that a mountain might go on opening up like Dad’s accordion.
If I go on, I might miss them on their return trek.
If I turn back into these huge mountain folds, I might get lost altogether. Tears ran down my face.
I will go back, I decided. I’ll pick out my outward path exactly and follow it religiously. I had to circumnavigate the slithering noise, but then I would concentrate on retracing my exact steps.
As I pushed on up the steep slope, the sky went black. I wondered if it was going to get dark, nighttime dark, but the cloud covering the mountain burst into torrents of cold rain. My t-shirt and shorts were suddenly drenched. My sandals slipped on the slick granite. My stick slipped out of my hand.
I had a picture of my body rolling down the slope, bumping and breaking bones as it went.
Suddenly, strong hands lifted me and there I was, safe up on Dad’s shoulders.
Two hours later, I was drying in front of the kitchen fire, naked. My pyjamas were in the oven, warming. Behind me, my parents’ comforting voices, an edge to my mother’s.
‘But, Roy, you couldn’t just leave him floundering while you went on. You were thoughtless. He’s only six.’
Then Dad’s calm laconic reply, ‘But he’ll learn from it, Joan. Probably remember it all his life. ‘
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copies of my memoirs SKerricKs are still available from me: $22.50 + $15 postage in Australia. Email TedWitham1@gmail.com
Mind Journeys 