#175: Camp

Peter flicked the indicator on. The corrugated dirt track and difficult to drive on with his rust-bucket of a car. Because the suspension was so worn out, he felt everything.

Peter’s jawbone vibrated, so he wound down the window and let the evening air flood in. The scent of eucalypt trees was sweet. How long had it been since he was last in the bush?

This campground was on the bend of a river. The morning sun would follow the line of the creek to the east and then fall behind the hill, leaving everything in this small valley in shadow most of the afternoon.

As a result, people preferring the campground downstream. Families with caravans and generators filled every square inch and kids on miniature trail bikes zipped in between everything.

Peter stopped at the ridge, surprised to see half a dozen vehicles parked neatly. From up here, he could see the sun just above the canopy, but below, it was dusk-dark.

A large camp fire raged while over a dozen men stood or sat around it. Next to them there was a single large tent without flaps on the side had a single line of trestle tables down the spine.

Surrounding the mess tent were tents neatly arranged around it as if they were the numbers on a clock.

A large 4WD appeared in his rear-view mirror. The large oversized headlights flashed, insisting Peter drive on.

He crept down the dirt track that led into the campground. He’d have to do a u-turn and go to the larger campground.