Diane Hine (25 July 1956)
Although the sign was vandalized, the paths were clearly marked
with posts. Rather than backtrack overland, they thought they’d risk
the razored coast. The path was soft through paperbarks and hard
to find in sheeted sand and lost on ridges, water-frisked
of softer rock to hard-rock strands. It found a gorge and dipped
inside where ivy twined in damp black earth and quartz veins crawled
up dripping walls like tentacles of fossil surf. It slid
along a shell-grit strip between a tryst of sea and wall,
they hoped the tide was going out; the world was large and they
were small. The cliff was siltstone stacked in layers; staircase cracks
forked left and right, and probing tree roots trod each step to taste
the ores of bedded time. The path ascended fractured slabs
and sliced a saw-tooth banksia grove and though it veered a tad
askant, they saw no other way to go. It met a four-
way well-worn junction, somewhat like the one before. They jacked
their packs with fresh resolve and kicked a sign once more, once more.
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