I was crossing the boundary between Darug and Darkinjung land as I crossed the river. Wiseman’s was on Darug land. Where I was going—the campground—was on Darkinjung land. I was glad I knew that now. It made me look at the river and see it doubled: the river I’d seen before, plus this new one.

Darug and Darkinjung would have visited each other. Bark canoes. I’d read about those. And they probably swam across too. The current looked strong today, the tide pouring downstream. But if you picked the right time it would be an easy enough swim.

Off the ferry, it was turn right along the road that hugged the base of the cliff. There’d probably always been a track here, so the Darkinjung could get along the river. I was looking out for the road that branched off up the escarpment. The Darkinjung, too, would have wanted to get up onto the plateau where I was going. The white man’s double-grooved track probably followed the course of an ancient path.

Feeling the nose of the car tilt up the steep dirt track, I felt a moment’s apprehension. Not long before, some hikers had nearly died up here, confused by the deep gullies and sharp ridges of this dry stony wilderness. They’d been found, but only in the nick of time.

I made sure that the water bottle was where I packed it, and still full. I wished I’d remembered to check the pressure in my spare tyre. The mobile was no use to me here: the peaks all around cut off the signal. I was on my own. Even Wiseman stayed behind at the ferry.

The first part of the drive seemed almost vertical, the road screwing its way up. At the top it flattened, the landscape opened out. The vegetation was thinner and pricklier, the air astringent, almost medicinal.

From this high point I could see miles in every direction, and everywhere it was nothing but ridges and gullies, ridges and gullies, each one woolly with bush, bluer and bluer into the distance.

I stopped the car and got out. The waiting silence swallowed the sound of the engine. A crow mocked me from somewhere: caar, caaar, caaaaar. The sky was a pale empty blue.

Wilderness. This was what wilderness was.

I could see an outcrop of rock that promised an even greater vista, but I had to force myself to leave the road. Only twenty metres, I told myself. What are you scared of? It was hard going. At every step I had to push a bush aside, or loop around a fallen tree, or detour to avoid a thicket of saplings. At times an opening looked like a path and tempted me to follow it, but it always ended in another thicket.