The cold mornings were my favourite. A thick fog would embrace the lush hillside. Numb footsteps carried me over frost-laden grass. I tossed a stone into the horse trough to break the thin layer of ice. My father would curse at the currawongs. There was no rooster. There were no cranky heifers combing the paddock. We never cared much for livestock. It was nothing but space and solitude. This was our home and it was all we ever needed. There was a chestnut horse named Jacko, and a black dog named Chunder. They never quite got along, but they loved each other all the same. It was the same for us kids. Grant was Jacko. Slow and steady and obnoxious to the core. I was Chunder; a carsick puppy, cute with no purpose. We were brothers out of necessity, not choice.

There was nothing to do, and all the time in the world to do it. I would trudge the muddy track to reach the summit of Mount Warning. Barely a molehill, but back then it was Everest. From the top I could see all of my little world. I could see the mighty Manning snake its way towards the coast. I could see the neighbour's cattle as statues on the riverbank. Some days I would sit on the hill for hours. I would listen to the rapids. I'd imagine every tiny creature darting to and from each eddy. I wondered if the Stone Fish ever left their muddy shelters. I would hear a skyward roar. I would trace a silky stream through the clouds. White wings framed by pale blue. The tail shone a gorgeous red. I'd never been on a plane. What a mighty invention. I imagined the passengers sipping on their tiny drinks, eating their tiny meals and looking out the window. I imagined seeing all I could see from so much higher. How spectacular it would be. I wonder if they imagined me.