Feral Tracks

By Euan Mitchell

Feral Tracks is based on the true story of a sixteen-year-old schoolboy who ran away from home with four dollars and hitchhiked around Australia.

Daniel's exploits are a roller-coaster ride through a wild summer off the leash, the madness of share-house living, outback mustering of feral cattle, and nightclub excess. Told with driving energy, blunt honesty and dry humor, Feral Tracks shows why survival on the road means growing up fast.

"Mitchell's debut novel is stunning in its breadth of locations, vibrant characterizations and intelligent handling of contemporary issues ... this is an impressive, clever and entirely satisfying book." Viewpoint

“The male version of Puberty Blues.” ABC Radio

"The energy behind Feral Tracks comes from Mitchell's ability to take a year's worth of adventures, spanning the entire country, and to weave them into a fast-moving and engrossing story." Courier Mail

"Despite the tribulations of survival on the road, Mitchell's alter-ego is articulate, intelligent and, most importantly, resourceful." The Age

"Succeeds on all fronts." Sydney Morning Herald

• Language: English
• Publisher: OverDog Press
• Release date: Feb 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9780992504915

Euan Mitchell

Euan Mitchell is a college and university educator who has been writing, editing and publishing books since 1993. He is a former senior editor for a multinational publisher. Euan’s published and indie-published books include fiction and non-fiction titles.

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Contents

Key Locations in Feral Tracks (Map)

Part 1: First Taste

Part 2: Home Truths

Part 3: Freedom?

Part 4: Wilderness

Part 5: Temptation

Part 6: The Reckoning

~~~

FIRST TASTE

1

Feral Flight

FERAL means domesticated gone wild. And that was pretty much our plan for the summer holidays. We were going to do everything our parents feared their sixteen-year-old boys would do. The list included: drink, smoke weed, drink some more, and in the right company, have wild sex at beach parties after surfing ourselves stupid.

It was Boxing Day and me and my best friend, Nick, were being driven to the airport. We were about to catch a plane from the suburbs of Melbourne to the wild west. The real wild west – Western Australia and its capital, Perth. They say it’s the most isolated city on the planet, and soon it’d be the base for our hitchhiking surfari. Anyway, we were desperate to get away from home, to escape The System and go feral before we had to start the grind of our final year at high school. The year when so much would be at stake.

We were sick of hearing how Year 12 would make you or break you. The whole spiel about our careers, our futures and our bloody life options all riding on the following year’s results, like a roller-coaster we’d be lucky to keep a grip on. But don’t let the pressure get to you. Yeah, sure.

Daniel! a voice barked. My daydreaming was shattered. It was Dad. He was at the wheel of our family Holden with Mum sitting quietly in the passenger seat. All Christmas cheer had been spent. The turkey, the carols and the stupid paper hats now seemed as distant as Grandpa’s memories.

Yes, Dad?

Are you listening to me, Daniel?

Yes, Dad.

So you’ll do that for me?

Yes, Dad, I’ll remember to say ‘Thank you for having me’.

Dad shook his head, making a frustrated noise somewhere between a sigh and a snort. You’ve got no idea what I just said, have you? He was used to me stonewalling him. What the olds didn’t know about our holiday plans wouldn’t hurt them or our chances of stepping on that plane.

I looked across the back seat, over the head of my little sister, Fiona. She was zoned out listening to her music. She was also sitting between me and Nick. He was staring out his window at the suburban sprawl of brick-venereal houses alongside the freeway. I could see Nick’s face reflected in the window. He was trying not to laugh. When he saw I was looking at his reflection, Nick rolled his eyes in the direction of Dad.

The bark continued. "Will you do your mother and I the common courtesy of ringing us as soon as Nick’s mother picks you both up from Perth Airport?"

Dad didn’t like Nick’s mum, Paula. He thought she was a bit beneath him because Paula was divorced and liked a glass of wine or three. Dad was a church-going teetotaller, or wowser as Paula called him. But I think the truth was that Dad didn’t like Paula because she stood up to him. Something my own mum never seemed able to do. Or me for that matter.

Yes, Dad. Promise.

We took the exit from the freeway to the airport. I could feel my heart pump quicker as we drove into the car park in front of the terminal. Freedom from the family was only moments away. As soon as Dad pulled into a parking bay, Nick and me jumped out and took our surfboards off the roof racks. Dad opened the boot and hoisted out our rucksacks stuffed with camping gear.

Mum began airing some last-minute doubts as we walked to the departure area. She was mainly worried about what me and Nick would eat during our month away. I suppose you’ll be living on hamburgers most of the time?

Mu-um ... I said, shaking my head. Okay, it was a fair enough question for a mother. But it showed she had no idea what skills Nick and me had learned over the past two years of pitching a tent down the coast most weekends. Not that I would actually want Mum to know anything about us that she didn’t have to. We can cook for ourselves. You know, you’ve seen our compact kero stove.

That little thing?

It’s enough to boil and fry on, I said.

Nick added, And some camping areas will let you build fires.

Mum still wasn’t convinced. But what do you cook?

Heaps of stuff ... like snags, pasta, fried rice, vegies and, if we’re feeling real lazy, we heat up a can of baked beans.

Oh, I see. Mum nodded, but I sensed she wasn’t too happy that her cooking was no longer an essential service. That’s one of the many weird things about parents. They spend years telling you how to do things for yourself, from tying shoelaces to taking a part-time job, then they can be miffed when you show some independence. You think they’d be pleased.

Now, you two, make sure you stay out of trouble, Dad warned.

Another fair enough thing for a parent to say, especially the old man. But, really, he was still annoyed about Nick and me booking our non-refundable plane tickets after only a maybe from each mother. Dad liked to have control of final approvals. He’d love to find a good excuse to sink our plans. But stuff him. Serve him right for hardly being around, for working such long hours.

Besides, me and Nick had earned our own money doing a crappy cleaning job before Christmas. We’d even paid our stinking taxes. Our budgets had left no room for any accessories – just basic camping and surfing gear. So if we weren’t breaking any laws, why couldn’t we spend our money how we liked?

Don’t worry, Nick said, with a grin, I’ll make sure we stay out of trouble.

"That’s what worries me, Nick," Dad replied, not amused.

Nick and me laughed off Dad’s anxious look. Mum couldn’t bring herself to say anything more and was reaching for her tissues. My little sister was still listening to her music as she checked out some airport shops.

Dad always cut things short when Mum started crying. He liked a stiff upper lip. So a few quick kisses and handshakes later, Nick and I were left at the check-in queue, pleased to be off the leash.

Our next challenge wasn’t until we were in the air and the trolley dollies were setting off on their drinks-and-eats routine down the plane’s aisle.

Nick nudged me. Dan, order two beers when they get to us. Nick and I never usually had to buy booze. Helpful classmates mostly bought it for us because nearly all of them were a year older – we’d both skipped Prep.

No way, I said, keeping my voice low. They’re not gonna believe we’re eighteen.

They can only say no.

True ... I had to think for a second. But you’re taller than me, so you order them.

We’re sitting down, dickhead, and anyhow your voice is deeper.

We carried on like this in tense whispers for what seemed like ages. When our turn finally came, the lady looked at me first. I said, in a voice that I hoped wasn’t trying to sound too deep, Two VBs, thank you.

To Nick’s and my amazement, her smile stayed fixed, she opened two cans of beer and just asked for the money. We couldn’t give it to her quick enough.

Maybe she thought we looked eighteen, maybe she just didn’t want any fuss or fallout from a no. Whatever the reason, we fancied our chances of repeat business.

2

Only a Coupla Drinks

NICK’S mum, Paula, was waving at us. She and her special friend, Max the Millionaire, were waiting at our arrival gate inside Perth Airport. She looked great for her age – stylish blonde hair and make-up just right. Still doing acting jobs to help put herself through teachers’ college, following her divorce three or four years back. Still charming men like Max – who looked a bit like Colonel Sanders with his white hair, goatee and spectacles, but beefed up with an open-neck shirt and chunky gold necklace.

There were two sides to Paula, though. One was nice, the other was scary. Nick and me were going to make a big effort to stay on her good side. No way did we want her knowing we’d sunk a few cans before our orders were questioned. Damn chief steward.

So we were walking and talking as straight as we could while we approached the happy couple. Paula was beaming with excitement and looked tanned from two weeks in Perth, staying with her sister and brother-in-law. Max even looked pleased to see us, or perhaps it was just how satisfied he’d been with his Christmas presents.

Paula threw her arms around both Nick and me. However, that’s when her smile took a downward turn. We may have covered our behavior but apparently not our smell. Paula was suddenly quiet and cold – a nice cop ready to turn nasty. Max was left to fill in the awkward silence with polite chatter, like a tap-dancer on thin ice.

A bad memory flashed into my head.

Nick and I had returned after a party one night to find Paula desperately cleaning blood off the rear wooden stairs up to their first-floor flat. During a drunken argument, Paula had beaten her rich banker boyfriend senseless with a metal meat-tenderizing mallet. His nickname was Harry the Hand, on account of his left arm being withered by polio when he was a kid. Nick and me didn’t much like Harry the Hand, but it was a brutal way to be put into hospital. We imagined poor Harry’s hand flapping uselessly as he tried to fend off Paula’s blows.

I obviously had a lot to learn about love because Paula, having beaten Harry the Hand unconscious, then found super-human strength to drag him down the back stairs to her car. She risked her life – and everyone else’s on the road – to drive Harry to hospital. Then she drove home before anyone could say Blow into this breathalyzer. Paula reeked of booze when we found her scrubbing the blood off the back steps and calling for our help to clean up.

That’s why you didn’t want to meet the other Paula. Especially not at Perth Airport when you’ve had a few yourself.

So while we were picking up our luggage, then walking out to the car park, Max tried to smooth over the tension with a long but entertaining explanation about why West Australians were known as sandgropers. Something to do with a state boasting huge deserts, miles of sandy beaches and the effects of too much drinking. This helped us to relax, as though Nick’s and my current condition was simply a way of fitting in with the locals. Paula even forced a smile every time Max looked her way.

Max the Millionaire’s car lived up to his nickname. He led us to a gleaming, gold-colored Lincoln convertible with a white leather-covered hood. A goddamned Yank-tank, like a modern-day gold chariot. It was a hot, sunny Perth afternoon, so Max hit the button to retract the Linc’s roof before we climbed in. He told us to wedge our surfboards in the back seat so they stuck out behind. We wondered if he was always this good-humored about surfboards in his limousine. I wanted to ask if his car had a hidden cocktail bar. It probably did, but now wasn’t the time.

As we cruised out into the sandy suburbs of Perth, Max asked us how things were over in The East. It was funny to hear our side of Australia being referred to as though it was somewhere near China or Japan. But understandable, I suppose, from a sandgroper’s point of view.

It wasn’t long before we reached the beautiful, wide Swan River. There were yachts and motorboats dotting the blue, sweeping views across to the city center and – true to its name – no shortage of swans. Black ones. There was even a billboard for a beer called Swan Lager. These people obviously took their swans seriously.

Our route led us past the leafy university and into the neat little suburb of Nedlands. This was where Paula’s sister and brother-in-law lived, and their house was going to be the base for our surfari over the next month. Max politely declined an invitation from Paula to come inside. He knew to leave while things were still reasonably civilized.

We all waved goodbye from the front lawn while Max drove off.

As soon as Max’s Lincoln was out of sight, Paula’s smiling facade dissolved into a scowl that flashed with a meat-tenderizing fury. How dare you two turn up in such a disgraceful state, she hissed. Then more loudly, How could you humiliate me like that in front of Max?

Nick was cool. He didn’t raise his voice but wasn’t going to take a backward step either. Humiliate you? We were really polite to Max.

You’re pissed and you smell like bloody little breweries!

Look, the hostie gave us each a free can by mistake – so what’s the big deal about a coupla drinks? That was Nick thinking on his slightly sloshy feet, and I was extremely thankful it was him standing up to his mum, not me.

Paula’s tone became sarcastic. How many ‘free’ cans, did you say?

One each.

Oh, spare me the bullshit, she snapped. Do you think I’m an idiot?

Somehow I found it reassuring to hear a parent swear. It made them seem more human. My own mum never swore and although my dad’s savage yelling could be frightening, his words never sank much below damn ignorant mongrel pig.

Then Nick went too far. "Well, you can bloody talk – any more booze and you’ll lose your other kidney."

That was it. You didn’t need to be telepathic to sense a thousand metal meat-tenderizing mallets suddenly rising as one behind Paula’s eyes. As their battle cry began to ring out across Nedlands, we ran from the front yard and sprinted for our lives down the street as Paula tore after us.

What a great way for a couple of Easterners to introduce themselves to this nice Perth neighborhood. I wondered if our hosts were at home, waiting for us all to walk in their front door with presents?

3

Nudists and Quokkas

THINGS had calmed down by dinnertime. Our hosts put on a barbecue. The festering feelings between Paula and us were soon buried under burgers and snags. We used this truce to pump Nick’s aunt and uncle for helpful info about the places we wanted to go.

Our first destination had to be Perth’s famous nudist surf beach in the suburb of Swanbourne. Well, it was famous in our minds. Me and Nick had never been to a nudist beach, so we had fantasies about Swanbourne similar to a primary school kid’s dreams about Disneyland.

At sixteen, sex for us was mostly imaginary and self-administered. Rarely would a girl let you go all the way. Nick claimed he’d done it twice, but only once had been confirmed. My own track record was none. Zilch. Tragic, I know. Too many girls around our age were scared of sex or worried about their reputations, while others were shackled in basements by control-freak parents. And the girls our age who did put out were more interested in real men – you know, the ones old enough to have cars.

So there we were the next morning, striding along the edge of the surf at the start of Swanbourne Beach with our eyes locked on a distant crowd. If our calculations were correct, the blur of beachgoers almost a kilometer away would soon come into focus as stark naked, freely frolicking, nature-loving nudists. Of course we were excited, but we were also a little nervous. We hadn’t really thought beyond making it to the place itself. Now it was dawning on us that we’d have to quickly work out how to act normal among nudists.

Gradually the figures came into focus. It was true – they were naked and romping around right in front of us. Unfortunately, there weren’t as many young female ones as we’d hoped for. Closer up, we started to wish some of the wrinkly and blubbery nudies would put their clothes back on. Still, there were enough great bodies around to keep us entertained. Nick and me put on sunglasses to make our eye movements less obvious.

We reached the crowd at the water’s edge, then turned toward the dunes. We threaded our way through three-quarters of the bodies, before the sand became too hot for our bare feet and we threw down our towels. As casually as possible, we took off our boardshorts and T-shirts, feeling like we might get arrested any minute for just being there. Without speaking, we leaned back on our towels, our eyes going electric behind our sunglasses.

Things were going pretty well, pretending we did this sort of thing every day, until we spotted a girl about eighteen who looked like she’d walked out of a beach-babe calendar. She was by herself and kept coming closer and closer. She just happened to put her towel down right near us. She flicked out her long blonde hair and began to take off her skimpy white shorts and shirt. In what seemed like slow-mo, she revealed a cream-colored string bikini over tanned skin and an hourglass figure. Our jaws dropped that little bit further.

I’m not sure if Nick or me were still breathing at this point. So when she went beyond the usual limits and peeled off her top, then her bikini bottoms, we could no longer contain ourselves – we had to roll over.

It was uncomfortable poking into the sand, but we couldn’t let anyone see how happy we were to be there. Nature lovers don’t always dig natural responses.

An uneasy minute or two passed.

I looked at Nick.

He cleared his throat, obviously tense. "Hey, Dan, dya reckon we lost those ... coins somewhere between here and the water?"

I was just about to say we didn’t lose any coins, nor did I give a stuff right now if we had. But Nick shot me a look and winked. He was up to something. "The coins ... I said, still unsure, yep, somewhere in the sand, I guess."

Then we’d better go look for them.

Was Nick insane? That was the last thing I wanted to do – stand up and expose my throbbing fat.

But Nick wasn’t going to wait any longer for me to catch on. He slid both knees up and underneath his chest, then pivoted himself upright into a low squatting position on his towel. He sifted through the sand with his fingers and started waddling like a drunken baboon searching for peanuts. It was then I noticed his squatting position mostly covered his middle leg from view. Now I realized what he was up to.

It didn’t take long for me to catch up with Nick in a kind of dingle-bangle-waddle parade toward the water. But the sand was becoming way too hot. And it wasn’t only our feet being scorched either. Ow! Oooww! Oooowwww!

Our waddling and sifting became faster and clumsier until we more or less ran into the water. Cool and safe.

I wonder if anyone had noticed?

Nick and I would have to do a whole lot better if we were going to make it with the local girls this summer. But bugger it, we hadn’t expected a fantasy coming true to put us in our places quite so quickly or painfully.

*

Our next chances were on Rottnest Island. It was an old convict settlement turned tourist village about twenty kilometers out from Perth into the Indian Ocean. We were there for a full week, which included New Year’s Eve. Only after we arrived did we discover every campsite and cabin had been booked out months before. So we trudged our packs and surfboards across the dusty scrub and dunes until we found a decent campsite about a kilometer from the edge of town.

We set our packs down in the shade of some tea-trees. A couple of curious creatures that looked like midget wallabies hopped over to check us out. Nick told me they were called quokkas, an endangered species. Cute furry things, but we could also imagine them behaving like giant rats when it came to the food supplies in our packs. So we dug a hiding spot for our stuff and sealed it with bits of wood, bark and clumps of grass. This also protected our things from the burning heat of the day. At night it would be safe to put up our tent and relax in the open.

Still, that was okay because for the best part of every day we would explore the surf breaks around the island’s rocky coastline. The best things about the island were its aqua blue water, fantastic rock pools and wild waves.

In the lead-up to New Year’s Eve, we got to know some of the surfers who we’d seen out at the breaks. By the time the big night rolled around, we knew enough locals to be part of a group taking up two tables in the beer garden out the front of Rottnest’s only pub.

Having the local guys introduce various female friends meant we actually managed to talk to a few girls. We even danced with some as a rock band pounded out songs