a long weekend at Perisher · Snowy Mountains · September 2026
Day One
Six people, one question, asked from the kerb before the engine was on and answered, eventually, by a fire.
Jindabyne · Snowy Mountains · Thursday 3 September 2026
Eight minutes past seven. All six, the fire lit, glasses already in hand. “Made it.”
The first message of the weekend was sent at twenty-five past twelve, one minute after the first photograph, and it was Are we there yet? They were not. They were standing next to the car, in sunshine, grinning. It is the question that carried the whole afternoon — asked by the front seat, filmed by the back seat, and finally answered at eight minutes past seven by six people standing in front of a wood fire holding glasses. The answer was Made it, which is the only answer that ever counts.
Twenty-four minutes past twelve: two grins, two pairs of sunglasses, one car, and the kind of blue sky that makes a long drive look like a good idea. The question that would define the day was asked sixty seconds later, before anybody had so much as found first gear. Nobody has said where this was, and the log will not guess — on the evidence it is the start, and the last time anyone stood still until dark.
Everything from the next six hours was shot from inside a moving car, which tells you how the afternoon went. At twenty-three past four Jane pointed her phone at the sky, then at the driver, and sent both with the line that names the day: the main question in the car trip was ‘are we there yet!!!’ Three exclamation marks. Somebody in the back had a laptop open on what looks very much like another itinerary, which is one way to pass the time on this one; the voice note that came with it was recorded three times and never got past five seconds, so the story is still owed. At nine past five the back seat reviewed its own accommodation and filed it as Business Class, which is generous, and which the front seat has not been asked about. Two more clips out of the side window as the hills came up and the light went gold, and then it went altogether.
Everything sent from the road on Thursday, in order. The log has added nothing; it did not need to.
At twenty-five past six the road was still dead straight, the sky had gone the colour it goes, and the message said still 15 min away — the first time all day the question had been answered with a number. Forty-three minutes later came the photograph at the top of this page: six people, a wood fire, and glasses that did not take long to fill. Nobody looks like they have been in a car since lunch, which is the point of a fire. Whatever the first night turned into after that, nobody has sent it yet. The lake is for the morning, and the question, for once, is off.
