He tried to glare at me but a smile won out. “You’re still endearing. Though meltdown and stress-fest are two words I’d prefer not to hear again, thank you all the same.”
I laughed and kissed his hand again. “And you’ve abseiled before. It’s not like we have to do white-water rafting to get there.”
Lawson pursed his lips and glared out the windscreen. “If anyone mentions white-water rafting, even in jest, you will see a meltdown. And it will measure on the Richter scale. Just so you know.”
I stifled another laugh. “Duly noted, thank you, doctor.”
Chapter Two
Lawson
I didn’t know what to expect when we met Connor. Jack had said he was a tall man, thirty-one-or-two years old, pleasant enough the few times he’d met him. They had spoken a handful of times over the years at their national park meeting and seminars, though Jack admitted to not knowing him well.
And Jack was right.
He was tall and pleasant . . . enough. He also had sandy coloured hair, a roguish smile, and a striking face. I’d have placed him on a beach with a surfboard before I likened him to inland rainforests and wild river systems kind of guy.
We met them in a car park at one of the many national park’s hiking trails off the Lyell Highway. Connor was out of his vehicle as soon as we pulled up, huge smiles and strong handshakes, and my immediate reaction was to take a step back. He gave off loud cowboy extrovert vibes that were enough to make any introvert want to run and hide.
“G’day, Jack,” he said brightly, shaking his hand. “And you must be Doctor Brighton-Gale.”
Well, he’d learned that quickly after Jack had corrected him on the phone, and now I had to correct him again, which was incredibly awkward. “Lawson’s fine. Nice to meet you.”
Two young off-siders had stepped out of the car, waiting to be introduced. They were mid-twenties, maybe. “This is Vince and Amy,” Connor said. “They’ll be coming along on the trip. Apart from being really good rangers, they can help us carry stuff.”
Nice. Nothing like being called a pack mule in front of your peers.
I made a mental note to ask Jack what his parameters were when saying someone is “nice enough” and exactly what was the enough a qualifier of?
After some uncomfortable small talk about the weather, Connor waved to his park-issued vehicle. It was a big Cruiser, seven-seats, lots of storage. “We can load all your gear into the back,” Connor said. “We can take one vehicle in on the fire trail, and it’ll cut a good ten kilometres off our hike.”
Well . . . well, maybe Connor wasn’t so bad after all.
“This front is coming in by nightfall,” Amy said, gesturing to the already-grey sky. “We need to be over the first bluff and have camp set up before dark or . . .”
“Or what?” I asked.
“Snow makes the ridge impassable.”
Snow. Excellent.
Vince pulled out a map and he drew his finger along the path we’d be taking, from where we stood to where we’d drive to, then the hike. He showed us where we’d camp tonight and where we’d be hiking tomorrow morning to the cave site. It was an intense climb, a popular track with experienced hikers. Not in winter, obviously, because most hikers weren’t idiots. At any other time of year, there’d be cars parked and people about, but not in weather as dismal as this. He then proceeded to explain the abseiling requirements.
Connor’s team was entrusted to bring the abseiling equipment for all of us to minimise our carrying burden, and the way he and Vince checked off their gear list out loud did make me feel better about their competence. They took this seriously, and I was pleased about that.
The cave itself was two thirds of the way up a rock cliff face. It was easier to hike to the top and abseil down than it was to rock climb. The plan was to spend the night in the cave, then abseil all the way down to the bottom to complete the trip. The cliff had three tiers of ledges and there were anchors drilled into each section, making the descent three shorter drops instead of one longer one. I felt better about that.
I had done some abseiling before, at Jack’s insistence. At first, I’d been horrified at the suggestion, but after he’d explained the science behind it—physics and force versus mass and gravity—I understood it and had no issue in taking that first step over the edge.
Since then, we’d done it quite a few times. It was exhilarating and, dare I say it, fun.
Connor pointed his finger guns at me. “Now you did say you’ve abseiled before, right?”
I looked at his still-gun fingers, then at his face, wondering why on earth he thought that was a good idea. “Yes.”
Jack chuckled beside me. “Come on, let’s get our gear and get moving.”
It was just after eleven o’clock, and the grey clouds were already low, the wind was cold, and everything was damp already. And there was a likelihood of snow, in which we were supposed to camp out.
Jack popped the boot of our park-issued four-wheel drive, which wasn’t anywhere near as big as Connor’s, and I glanced back at where Connor, Vince, and Amy were moving gear around.
“I thought you said Connor was nice enough,” I whispered.
Jack grinned and stuffed his beanie into his coat pocket. “Got your beanie?”
I held it up to show him before stuffing it into my pocket, then I pulled my bags closer. “I cannot think of one scenario where finger guns are an appropriate form of communication.”
Jack laughed at that and heaved his backpack strap over his shoulder. “Which is the bag with your lab gear in it?”
I patted the bag I was holding. “He probably does white-water rafting.”
Jack looked at me then. “Who?”
“Mr Finger Guns.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder. “I may not be adept at reading social cues like you, but I’m not naïve enough to know that he thinks I’m a book nerd who won’t last five minutes out here.”
Jack stopped pulling the tent bag over. “Why do you care what he thinks?”
“Because he’s your colleague.” Which I thought would be obvious. “Usually when we go on expeditions, we meet . . . people like me and my colleagues. People who know me, or know of me, and what to expect. But these are your people. I want to make a good impression for you.”
Jack glanced over at the others and made a face. “Well, I’m gonna let you in a little secret, dear husband. I don’t give one fuck what they think of me. I could not care less. I care what you think of me. All I expect from them is professionalism, their local expertise and knowledge, and that they respect you as a lepidopterist. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful he called and notified you of the butterflies. But if he, or any of them, say one word to you that isn’t appropriate, I will set them straight.”
“I can remind people of their manners,” I reminded him. “I’m very capable.”
Jack snorted. “Oh, believe me, I know. But I’m pretty sure Connor wouldn’t understand the big words you use, and I didn’t bring a thesaurus or the crayons to explain it to him.”
That made me smile. “Not even Brennan uses crayons anymore.”