Bonzer Words!: The Skiers
Colleen McMillan tells a spooky tale of skiers crossing the Valley of the Phantoms.
Colleen writes for Bonzer! magazine. Do visit www.bonzer.org.au
The skiers took off oblivious to their impending brush with the unknown. They had gathered, eight of them, four men and four women plus their guide, to cross-country ski in the back- country of Mt. Kosciusko. The eight had met the night before at the chalet for a final check of equipment :- skis cleaned, flattened and waxed, clothing adequate and suitable, day-pack containing necessary food stuffs, dry clothes and emergency gear.
Their bright beanies and colourful jackets stood out in stark contrast to the unrelenting harshness of hard white snow, under the blue of a cloudless sky. Here and there black shadows were etched by skeletal trees and ancient snow gums. They stopped, glad of respite for a morning snack and later for lunch of coffee and sandwiches from their day-packs. Karen noticed their guide was not eating, and as she moved across to offer him a sandwich, she observed he was fiddling with what appeared to be an unusually large combination lock on his black back- pack. It seemed he leapt to his feet as she approached and abruptly refused her offer saying he never ate lunch. She saw a spark of something not quite definable in his clear brown eyes, as he turned and hastily readjusted his goggles.
By mid-afternoon cumbersome clouds pregnant with snow were gathering. A rising wind was whistling and sighing in the ghost gums and the party thought with increasing pleasure of the hut that would be their shelter for the night.
Their guide, as he had done all day, paused from time to time to check his brood and point out features of interest. He paused now to indicate a valley. "Our hut is just beyond that rise, but first we must cross the Valley of the Phantoms." "Why is it called that?" a man asked, but the guide already on his way, appeared not to hear.
Snow falling in fine white flakes caused the group to shiver a little and move closer together. It was then that they noticed their guide was no longer with them. They called him, without success, then in view of the deteriorating weather conditions decided to press on. After all it was unlikely that he'd be lost. He had a compass and they were within a kilometre of the hut.
Bill, an experienced cross-country skier was leading when he gasped and stopped. Before them, hard to tell the exact distance in the growing gloom, a bright disk hovered briefly and disappeared making a faint whirring sound as it rose. Astonished, and as a body they moved towards the spot, but found nothing. Some of the party claimed to be able to see what appeared to be a smoothed circle where "It" had rested, but, if so, already the falling snow was rapidly restoring it to landscape.
A voice called, "Oh there you are!" It was the guide.
"Where did you get to? We were worried," Bill retorted angrily.
He laughed. "This was a little surprise I had for you. Remember I told you this valley is called the Valley of the Phantoms. Well, you just saw one."
"I don't believe in ghosts," a woman said.
He laughed again. "Well, I don't know, they tell me it could be a physical phenomenon of some sort depending on the weather conditions and the light. But right now, ghosts or no ghosts I could do with some hot food."
As the guide stood holding open the door of the hut for the weary skiers to pass through, Karen looked up to thank him—looked into his bright blue eyes.
© C McMillan
