The Hat That Crossed the Creek

It was the summer I turned fourteen, and my dad had dragged our family up to a godforsaken patch of outback Queensland to visit his old mate, Tom Gunderson. Tom had bought this run-down cattle property about thirty klicks from the nearest town, a place that had been a regular stopover for the drovers moving cattle from the coast up to Mount Perry over a century ago. The homestead itself was a relic, all weatherboard and corrugated iron, creaking and groaning like the bones of a long-dead beast that refused to lie down. The locals called it ‘The Crossing’, and for good reason as far as I could tell. The whole place felt heavy, like the air itself was leaning on you, waiting for you to drop your guard.

It was around eleven on a still night, the moon a pale smear behind high clouds, when Tom’s father, Old Man Gunderson, a wizened bugger with eyes like a crow’s, spoke up from his rocking chair on the verandah. He pointed a gnarled finger down toward the gully that cut through the back of the property. ‘You see them old stock pens down there, boy? They ain’t just for the cattle or the horses. You go on down and take a look, if you’ve a stomach for it.’ I didn’t want to seem weak in front of these weather-beaten men, so I grabbed a torch, shoved my hands in my pockets, and headed out into the dark.

The path was nothing more than a track of packed dirt, winding through spindly eucalyptus and thick, crackling grass that brushed my knees. As I got closer to the gully, the temperature seemed to plummet, a chill that bit through my thin jumper and right into my spine. I told myself it was just the cold, that this was typical for a bush night, but I knew deep down it wasn’t. The air felt wrong, like the place itself was holding its breath. I swept my torch across the area, the beam cutting through the gloom to reveal an old caravan, rusted and lopsided, its windows like dark, toothless grins. Scattered around it were bones, lots of them, cow skulls and femurs, bleached white and arranged in random, unsettling patterns, almost as if someone had been playing a game out here, but the game had gone very wrong.

I’d seen enough. My heart was hammering, and I was about to turn and bolt back to the warmth of the house when I caught a flicker of movement across the creek that ran along the lower edge of the property. The creek itself was dry, just a channel of gravel and stick remnants, but on the other side, a figure was walking. He wore a slouch hat, the brim pulled low, and a pair of baggy trousers that flapped around his legs as he moved. He was too far to make out a face, but he walked with a purpose, like he knew exactly where he was heading, and that path led right across the gravel toward me. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. He stopped at the edge of the dry channel, turned his head, and I swear he looked straight at me. In the moonlight, I saw his face, pale and gaunt, but not necessarily hostile. Then he doffed his hat, gave a slow, deliberate tip, and vanished, not into the darkness, but as if he’d never been there at all, leaving only the whisper of wind through the ghost gums.

I don’t remember running back. I do remember bursting into the kitchen, all the blood in my face drained out, my words tumbling like stones, telling them, ‘There’s a man down there, I saw him, he tipped his hat and disappeared.’ Tom’s father didn’t look surprised. He just nodded slowly, his voice cold as the grave. ‘That’ll be old Bill Madden,’ he said. ‘He was a stockman on this run back in the twenties. One night he tried to cross the creek after a flood, horse got spooked, threw him into the water. They found him a mile downstream, his hat still on his head. He’s been wandering this place ever since, looking for his horse, or his way home. He’s not a bad one, but he’s a sign.’ Old Man Gunderson paused, his eyes boring into me. ‘A sign that death don’t always take you away from a place. Sometimes it just keeps you here, on the edge, crossing back and forth, waiting for something you never quite finished.’

That night, I lay in my swag, staring at the ceiling, that chill still clinging to my skin. I never went back to that gully. Not that night, not ever. But as I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard it, the faint sound of a harness jingling, and the soft crunch of boots on gravel, coming up the track from the creek. It stopped right outside my window, and I could have sworn I saw the silhouette of a man in a slouch hat, standing there, watching, before it faded into the pre-dawn dark. To this day, I carry that image with me, the man tipping his hat as if to say, ‘You’re on my road now, boy, and you’ll always remember the crossing.’ And I do. Every single time I see a dry creek bed, I can’t help but look across, half expecting to see that ghostly figure still walking, still waiting, forever crossing a river that no longer flows.