You drive over the *Camden Haven River and into the old logging village of *Kendall. Its a bright spring morning with mist lolling in the *valleys at the base of a looming, rugged hinterland.
There are hardly any other cars on the roads; the kids are at school and the tradies have hooned-off in their utes hours before to building sites around Port Macquarie, 30km away. You cross the railway line and *follow the road between the empty swimming pool and the *tennis courts, past the statue of bush poet Henry Kendall, who gave this place its name. Driving past old, *pastel-coloured weatherboard houses fashioned from planks of eucalypts felled by hand and hauled by *bullocks through this *valley it feels as though youve travelled back in time. You dont take much notice of the odd *person *strolling along the street and they dont notice you why would they, after all?
The road forks in the middle of town, at a monument to the 11 timber-getters and labourers from the village who died in the Great War, and the 34 others who also answered the call. You turn left, up over a steep hill, and then left again, down past the Kendall Showground. Here the bush closes in around the road, a *tunnel of gums. You turn right, up Benaroon Drive, an 80s subdivision huge blocks, each with a hectare of garden around a house nestled at the rear. There are just 13 homes in this long street, their gardens impeccably groomed, but behind the houses and up ahead on this dead-end road, the forest is dark and the understorey a thick tangle of lantana. No one sees you, and if they did, it wouldnt be remarkable; youre just going about your business. The only sound is the chirruping of birds. Ahead, on your right, a grass slope rises steeply, unfenced, from the road. You notice a child in a Spider-Man *costume. Theres no one else around. Its 10.30am on Friday, September 12, 2014.
