2021-11-05 -37 144

Location

In a field in Keilor North

Participants

Expeditions

Outward

A terse missive from my superior arrived early on Friday morning. "Secret mission. Make contact with special agent Lachlan. Recon 37.68942S 144.80039E before 2400." My heart sank. Another one, deep behind enemy lines. What were these missions in aid of? What was the bigger goal? Each time, a point in a field, by a creek, along a lonely road, of no apparent strategic importance, seemingly chosen almost at random. This destination, around 12 miles northwest of my current location, and once more, on a blank space on my map.

I got a message to my assigned partner, Special Agent Lachlan, a younger man renowned for great stamina and fortitude in the face of harsh conditions, almost impervious to the cold. He was stationed a few miles west, down in the Ascot valley. We would rendez-vous at 1600 hours on the banks of the Maribyrnong River, at the site where a ship had wrecked many years earlier. It was rumoured to be a pirate ship, although I was dubious of the story's truth.

Last minute duties held me up, and I was running late when I finally saddled my steed, Olaf, recently reshod. He was a solid workhorse of uncertain lineage, capable in all kinds of terrain, though certainly not the quickest. We set off, following the major road westward, a heavy movement of troops giving me a sense of unease.

At the rendez-vous, Lachlan, mounted on his nimbler and certainly quicker thoroughbred, greeted me and led the way. To save time, we took a direct route, across the hills, then down to a quiet path along a pretty creek. I had never been this way before. In another time and another place it would have been a wonderful place to picnic.

Emerging from the valleys, we began following the Old Calder Road, until our discomfort at such numbers of troops forced us to seek shelter on a side road, attempting to remain conspicuous. Soon, however, we would need to cross the newer Calder Road, a vast road where thousands of troops moved steadily. An ancient Roman viaduct was our crossing, allowing us to survey the scene from safety above.

We were almost at the recon point. Usig my compass to carefully triangulate, we could see the point, lying unobtrusively in a fallow field. However, before it lay a single cottage. Were its inhabitants home? Would they question our purpose for being there, block our path, or worse, raise the alarm?

We crept forward, discovering a locked gate down a laneway, which with some difficulty we were able to coax our mounts past. Just then, I caught sight of movement to my right - three mounted cottagers, heading our way, staring earnestly in our direction. Not a moment to lose, we spurred on, anxious to avoid any interaction.

Into the field, our progress slowed by mud fresh from recent storms. In the distance, an airfield, but no planes flying today. We hurried as fast as we could to the point. Once more, no clear reason for such precise coordinates was evident. However, orders were orders. We each took several exposures in various directions, so if we were separated, at least some would survive.

The cottagers were still visible in the distance, although now we realised they were beyond a fence and unable to reach us. We turned to begin the journey home. Would we return safe?

The return

For safety, we chose a different route for the return journey, preferring to follow the creeks and valleys and avoiding the major roads. Again, we took in beautiful views across the top of a valley before descending down into it. An unexpected ford presented a brief dilemma. It was difficult to gauge the depth, and our horses baulked at first, reluctant to wade into the swirling current. But we needed to get through or face a long detour. I urged my faithful mount through, his sure footing having no trouble in the event. Lachlan had to dismount, leading his through on foot.

Our journey forward became more difficult, as it became apparent that our maps lacked precision about the paths we hoped would lead us to a bridge and back to safety. A wide path became narrower and narrower, little more than a rough goat track through grass and thistles. The wreckage of some old machinery lay forlornly down the slope.

At one point the path disappeared under the river, compelling us to find another way around. Eventually it petered out altogether into swamp through which even our steadfast horses could penetrate no further. Our options were grim. A long journey back up the river, hoping to find another place to cross? Or leave the path and attempt to make our way up the steep sides of the gorge. Far above us, a magnificent bridge spanning the entire gorge, but could we reach it? It was sure to be guarded, and two men ascending out of the gorge was sure to arouse suspicion.

Reluctantly, we began the climb. Fragments of old path proved illusive, as we ducked in and around trees, ever upwards, until emerging onto a road whose way was blocked by several enormous boulders. Who had placed these here? And why? What vehicles would ever seek to travel this way? We squeezed our horses through the gaps, hoping not to find out the answers to these questions.

It soon became clear we were in a quarry. It was now early evening, and the quarry was closed, with us trapped on the wrong side of two very large gates. Lachlan spied a hole that someone had created in a fence, and with some exasperated grunting, was able to coax his horse through. I widened the hole further to allow mine through, and we were on our way.

Just at that moment, a mounted patrol headed our way. I gritted my teeth, frantically trying to think of a cover story. Were we perhaps lost travellers, having stumbled through the quarry by accident? Or did we in fact work there, and had just remained after normal operating hours to attend to some unfinished business. Before I had a coherent story, the patrol veered off into a side road, into an overgrown property filled with all manner of strange equipment, decaying in the sun.

A quick scramble through undergrowth led us finally onto the bridge, and back into familiar territory. Our tired horses performed wonderfully, recognising their surroundings and pushing on without needing guidance.

Relieved at having survived the experience Lachlan invited me to dine with him. He had plans to join his sister and his lover at a local tavern. I was delighted to accept. We were later than expected, but would still be able to meet them.

We stopped quickly into his barracks to post the negatives. He changed for dinner, and lent me some more appropriate garments, rather than my grimey riding clothes. The dinner was delightuful, marred only by his lover's accidentally taking a large mouthful of a very spicy sauce - in my tiredness I had failed to explain what the sauce was that accompanied the thinly sliced potatoes. It was, however, a fine conclusion to the day's adventure. Would the next one end so well?