That evening he met his eldest girls at a restaurant by the tightly packed waterfront. They ordered drinks, food. It was July. Black frost covered the cobblestones and an Antarctic wind was tearing through the streets. Ned shifted in his jacket, flexed his toes. He noticed how tired Sally and Grace were. Thought they might be hungover, or were studying too hard, but once they’d downed half their glasses the reason for their exhaustion came out: they’d spent the day walking in the mountains, and the trip hadn’t gone as they’d planned. In the city the weather had been overcast but mild, and they’d driven west without concern. A ranger at the station near the start of the national park had told them there was a ‘light dusting’ of snow at the summit. They’d thanked her and kept driving, marvelling at the icy slabs by the side of the road. Oohing at the dark mist on the peaks, thinking nothing of what it might mean. Northern daughters to their core.

At the start of the walk they’d skirted a lake easily enough. Cracked thin films of ice over shallow puddles with their boots. The track then led them upwards to a rocky plateau, which they were to cross before descending through a weak forest of snow gums, back to their car.

When they reached the plateau it was covered in blanking whiteness. They saw the first trail marker in the distance, pushed through the snow towards it. Saw the glint of the next one. Kept thrashing their knees forward, fuelled by Sally’s obstinacy, her implacable drive. Grace quiet in her wake. At the third marker the snow was at thigh height. They couldn’t step on it without crashing down, rolling their ankles. They turned around, but could no longer see the markers behind them. Snow was falling again, gentle and thick, filling their tracks. They conferred, argued, despaired. Pushed on.

What should have been a two-hour walk lasted most of the day, as they churned through the snow, swaddled in mist, aiming for a forest they could not see. They ran out of food. Their noses stung. Their legs began to prickle. It was only when they stumbled into an invisible stream, trickling beneath the snow, that they were saved. Following its course meant plunging their boots into icy water with each step, water that found its way through their boots into the fibres of their socks, but it also meant they would inevitably find trees.