Last Sunday, the persistent rain kept us from our weekly ritual at the Port Douglas Market. Disappointed but undeterred, and because the weather in Mareeba was dry, the dog enjoyed an often-missed treat: a walk along the disused railway track. The familiar track extends thirty-five kilometres, but we usually cover just five.
The space on either side of the removed line lies wide and open, with a highway to our left and houses to our right. Usually, it was a peaceful, uninterrupted walk, but that day there was a subtle unease, which I put down to the dull, overcast skies.
The normally peaceful space felt heavy, and at the first crossroads, a lone white Toyota sat innocuously, but in the distance, a figure stood motionless. The dog trotted along on his loose lead, and soon the open area closed in, with large native trees and scrub on our left which muffled the highway's distant hum.
Speargrass lined the fences of small acreage homes, blocking any sign of habitation, and the only sound was the rhythmic crunch of my feet on the path, which I knew would soon turn rocky.
As we continued, the distant figure remained stationary, puzzling me as I expected they would walk either towards me or away. Perhaps it was a new sign or post I hadn't noticed. I squinted, trying to make sense of the shape. The figure remained unmoving, and I battled with curiosity and apprehension.
With each step, the shape resolved into a square of blue jeans and a beige hoodie, yet remained utterly still. My grip tightened on the leash, a primal instinct urging caution. As the gap closed, the figure assumed a grotesque human shape: arms squeezed to its sides, hooded head bowed as if in prayer or pain. It remained motionless, facing away.
From about five metres, I called out a tentative "Good morning," my voice loud in the quiet surroundings. The figure slowly turned, revealing a man wearing binoculars and holding a phone. A Hannibal Lecter look-alike.
"Good morning," he greeted, mentioning something about a drongo. "Trying out a new birdwatching app," he explained. 'It's hard to read the names.'
We exchanged pleasantries; him mentioning a birdwatching tour to Hastie Swamp the next day. Still conscious of him behind, I finished my walk, and with the earlier unease gradually fading, I hoped the forecast for next week would be fine and sunny and we could look forward to the vibrant stalls, the buzz of conversations, and the aroma of fresh produce and coffee – a stark contrast to today's eerie walk. As I headed home, I reflected on how the familiar could sometimes appear strange and unsettling, and how a simple change in weather could so dramatically alter our experiences.
And as hoped a fine and sunny day is forecast tomorrow.
So see you at the market.
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