Continuing downhill, she hit the creek and followed it, listening to the tinkle and plunk of the water. She crossed the creek where a log had got jammed, with her arms out like a high-wire performer. She checked the log for footprints. Only hers, still there from the previous week. Entering the first coupe, she marveled — as she always did — at how the small pines looked like a field of Christmas trees. The soil was clumped and compacted underfoot. Kara could still make out the dozer tracks from when the land was cleared. As she walked between the rows, she studied the ground for the signs of her people.

Growing up, she had spent a lot of time on country: camps, day trips, events. Her uncle — now dead — worked as an Aboriginal heritage officer, before all the jobs were farmed out to white archaeologists. As a teenager, she would often spend days helping him and he would pay her, generously. It was a time she recalled fondly, a period of contentment when opportunities were boundless and time seemed insignificant, before the draining veil of responsibility had settled.

Back then her job was to look for stone tools. Her uncle said her eyes were much closer to the ground than his. When she found them, he would take photographs and mark them on a map. He had a unique way of bringing each tool to life. He would explain to Kara how they were formed, used, why they were left the way they were. He told the story of the people who made the tools, and how they moved through country. He showed her where they camped, explained how they hunted. Kara would close her eyes while he spoke and picture the old people going about their lives. When she opened them, she felt like she could still see them. In her mind, they were still there.

She continued now through the pines, pausing a few times to inspect stones. Eventually she came to a dip in the valley where the trees thickened. They reached her chest, some to her head, and she had to force her way through. She stopped once or twice, straining her ears for sounds. She pushed her way into a small clearing and found herself against a wall of chicken wire. It was painted black, and was barely visible. Kara ducked to the ground. Being here didn’t put her in danger, but the forestry workers, if they found her, wouldn’t take too kindly to her actions. She knew from her own research that what she was doing was against the law.

Yeah, the white law.