Things go wrong
“Where are the keys?” I asked, ferreting about in the glovebox as we neared the padlocked Tasmanian farm gate after several hours of driving. I looked questioningly at Zeke, who was at the wheel. He looked at me sheepishly.
“HAVE you got yours?” he responded. “I think I left mine in the gun safe at home.”
We’d arrived that morning on the overnight ferry from Melbourne, laden with gear and expectations. This was not the right start to our long-awaited deer hunting trip into the middle of the Tasmanian high country! The curse of Murphy seemed on us.
It was my first time to the property in years, but I figured the weighty bunch of keys I was carrying for my rifle case, ammo boxes and other hunting
