Guess it's hard for others to see..

Monkey boy stood in front of the old pub, the lights were off inside. He wrapped at the door, no answer. He tried again this time successful. Joe the publican, a tall strong character stumbled wearily out from back in the live in quarters, flicking the switch on the wall as he made to the door. Meanwhile 20 odd clicks up the road I wrestled at the wheel, my eyes were growing tired. I had been on the road for about 4 hours now, battling the sweeping curves on the South West Hwy back towards Perth. Periodically slowing down enough to pass another small failing town. Lumberjacks moved unhurried up the street exhausted and confused. “Wanted: Customers no experience required apply within” I read, I considered turning around for a picture.. But instead I kept driving straight on out of town.

It was Monday night and I imagine Joe was busy relaxing out back in front of his television when Monkey Boy arrived. He’s a grand fellow though, salt of the earth - or maybe business was to slow to pass up a quick exchange with some townsmen in need of quite ale. Either way he had set up the bar and switched on the Foxtel by the time I arrived. Out road side the dim light flickered within the deteriorating sign, signally me to turn off. Inside Monkey Boy and another old farmer sat at the bar. Middies have downed, they feverishly talked about the recent harvest. Monkey Boy had only just cut the tractor’s heart the day before. He goes on. On the wall hung a large picture of a cow, ribbons strung around its girth. I took a stool, and ordered some beer. Monkey boy and I laughed casually as we shared an indecent swag of adventure, and well, miss adventure. I realised it’s been a while since we last caught up. I guess the time had come and we had both gone our separate ways.

Sunday, before all this madness begun I was comfortably sitting with James at the old Narrogin Hotel, top end of the South West. We had just finished a three day walk following some over grown railway formations which winds through the felled Jarrah of old, and had hitched our way back into town. Over a few beers we talked restlessly about continuing on, flog work off and take up the 930km track permanently till we hit Albany. Where to after that.. Hell maybe hitch across the border out east.. The Flinders Range, the Great Ocean Walk, Paddle the raging torrents of the Franklin, Its idealist, it’s perfect I though excitedly. But tomorrow we had to work. By the third pint the idea of work wasn’t sitting right with me, I sighed, and suggested to James we should head down south and catch up with the Intrepid Two. He laughed, agreed and passed it off like the rest of our conversations. But it was far too late for me and I was bent on the idea, time to head off, first thing.. Well after another pint.

“Work” he argued. To consider such oppressing obligations and responsibility! I filled a bag with some food and packed the car, fare welled James and hit the road. The plan was to follow the South West Hwy though the old timber towns and out across to Pemberton. A stiff drive for a late afternoon and a belly full of James Squire, I pulled into the bottle shop and grabbed a case of beer. The afternoon smelt sweet with the fresh cuts of hay, the sun burned a bright pink and orange though the smoky clouds which lay across the grassy plains, Hastily, I worked the needle on the Speedo cutting my way south, all the while clutching a bottle with an invigorated grip.

I started thinking for a bit and wondered where I’m going with all this. Mum had always warned me away from my reckless mates, “They’re no good, the lot of them” she would argue. I paused for a moment, and for those few seconds the passenger seat seemed oddly out of place, empty…. “Bad influence”.. The words repeated, as if she was right beside me. I pushed the pedal to the floor and smiled contently. Alone, I burned off into the warm evening sun.