Thunder Road by Ted Dawe

there’s got to be a little shelter or something.’
    We set off in different directions, circling the patch, peering into the gloom for something that resembled a shed. There was a sudden clank and I felt a jolt of pain shoot up my leg asI fell down. Feeling tentatively around my heel I found I had stepped on a possum trap. I flicked the torch on again to see a whole line of them glinting off into the distance. Devon almost stood on one as he ran over to me.
    ‘You OK?’
    ‘Great. Just thought I would sit down for a moment.’ I shone my torch on the trap.
    ‘Jesus! Possum traps, we should have thought. Possums, the dope grower’s second biggest enemy.’
    Devon held the torch while I levered the jaws of the gin trap open with my knife. It was an old trap, the teeth blunted by rust … just as well, because there was still plenty of bite left in the spring.
    As we had suspected, there was a little ponga bivouac about the size of a pup tent. In it was a sleeping bag, camp stove, tins of food. Someone had been living there. And recently too: there was a carton of milk. Under the low part, below head height, were shovels, saws, axes as well as fertiliser and aphid sprays … all the clobber you would expect from a serious horticulturist. The most useful tool was a pruning saw: long-handled with a hooked end.
    ‘How many do we take?’
    ‘The lot.’
    ‘We can’t fit that many on the Ford.’
    ‘Then we’ll hide them and make a second trip.’
    ‘Jesus man! Risky.’
    Devon had that snappy tone that made me take notice. ‘It’s all or nothing. Our one big chance … look at this … they’re harvesting, they’ll be gone by tomorrow. It’s a fluke we made it at all.’
    He looked at me. There was no humour now, no touch ofirony. I was impressed … he had a core of seriousness I had rarely seen.
    ‘How shall we do it? Chop them up and put them in bags?’
    ‘No. Just cut them down, bind the stems … the trunks I guess … and drag out as many as we can. We’ll stash them on the side of the road and come back for more.’
    Despite the thickness of the stems they cut very easily. I had felled half the patch by the time Devon had made up two bundles to drag out.
    The moon was up high now and I was able to note a few landmarks as we dragged the bundles through the dense bush. We didn’t speak; there was no stopping. The sweat poured down my back inside my nylon jacket. Just when I was about to call for a stop, there was the road glowing dully through the thick canopy.
    Devon dragged his pile to the far side and laid it in the gorse.
    ‘We want it handy,’ he said, ‘but not too obvious. Anything for a quick pick-up and get away.’
    It was six trips before we had the last of the plants out. We scarcely spoke. The route became worn and familiar but the last hill felt bigger and steeper each time we approached it. I could see Devon begin to sag … he had nothing left in reserve when we made the last run.
    Halfway back I said, ‘Sit down man. I’ll dump these and come back and give you a hand.’
    He just shook his head, too exhausted to say a word, and plodded on. Honour. It must have been some honour deal.
    I looked at my watch. Five-fifteen. It was lightening rapidly. We both tried to run up the road to the paddock where the pick-up was parked but we were so stiff and sore we could barely stumble. The cows were all standing by the gateway waiting tobe let out for milking. Surely any minute now we would hear the sound of the farm-bike. We had to move fast. Devon ran for the Ford and I tried to shoo the dumb beasts back. I was fierce but they stood their ground. They knew the routine; it was time to come out the gate. Devon brought the ute up behind them but they wouldn’t budge.
    ‘Fuck it. Trace, just let them out.’
    So I did. I threw the gate wide and the cows made their unhurried journey down the road. You could almost hear them sighing with relief as they shuffled past. Devon followed them through.