KALBARRI
Z-Bend: Gorge: Abseiling: Chris The VB Man
Murchison river, mucky, slow at this
time of year, slow among river
red gums, among casuarinas:
river through the red Tumblagooda
sandstone, old, hard, cut
deep, and a cliff, its ledge,
the drop down, that winks,
it seems to wink, wanting us:
and we fix our harnesses and Chris
loops the rope through the
anchor and coils both ends
and throws the coils over the
descent route: ‘who’s first?’
he calls:
and we wait as Bronwyn positions
herself and ropes cautiously
over the edge and we peer
down at the sand and tumbled
boulders, wave at Diesel Derek
below, brakeman, and follow
one by one, turning so as to
face the cliff, rope in one
hand through a leathered
glove, legs apart and knees
slightly bent, leaning back
on the rope, and walking
backwards, releasing the
brake slightly:
then over, stepping down as the rope
slides, as it rips and gruffs
through the figure-of-eight,
pushing with one’s legs at
the overhang, slanting back,
letting the brake-rope run in
smooth bursts, remembering
to keep one’s free arm clear
of the rope:
and so to engage the rock, the cliff,
the fall, minding the rules,
yielding to the anchors, the
nylon, as we take the route,
dodging the fissures, clefts,
and juttings, the tumours,
that lure, prowl, and heeding
the rigour, the clout of rock,
the burn of the friction of
resistance, the weakness
of flesh:
we paid forty dollars for the pleasure
and we want value and so we
do it again and again until the
sun turns, beats, biting, and
the red gets hot and the cliff
shakes in the bareness, the
utterness of the heat, sneers
with eyes of flame, and Diesel
Derek flexes his mechanic’s
hands: ‘too dangerous now,’
he shouts, ‘we gotta quit:’
and at last we watch from below as Chris,
leader, lover of Victoria Bitter,
bobs as he tacks, frogging down,
his pack bouncing at his back:
anyone for a VB?’ he asks