Sunday, 8 August 1943. Again a day of packing - it is impossible on this sort of job to put out roots anywhere, even if one wanted to. We were favored with a visit from one of the police constables this morning, who told us there had been a theft of sixteen 44 gallon drums of gas from the airport during the races and that old Joe Fisher of Wenlock was under suspicion. Knowing him, it does not seem possible but I suppose we shall never hear the end of that story and really there is no place here for it. Shortly after the constable had left, young Joe Fisher and a lot of the Wenlock folks came out to bid us goodbye. With them were some Cook- town people who had flown up for the Races, whom we shall meet again in two weeks or so. It is perhaps time for us to move out as there is talk among the blacks fo devil-devils wandering around after dark, with one big bright eye, our head lamps. I think these boys would run from, rather than spear, a devil- devil, should one approach them, but you never can tell. The program of work for the Rocky Scrub has been made out and is attach- ed. It carries right through to our arrival at Cooktown. Until we get back from the Scrub we shall be completely out of touch and no mail will reach us; I am going in to Coen tonight to take some which will go south by the plane next Thursday but of course we shall not be able to get anything on the plane the following week. There should be quite a pile of stuff awaiting us on our return. Monday, 9 August 1948. What a day, what a day, and of course our fine new schedule is knocked as high as a kite. Since I shall be writing no letters for best part of a couple of weeks, I can give myself a little more leeway in this and can be a little more expansive perhaps than I have heretofore. Our little world turned upside down last night but we did not know it then. Len and I went in in the evening to make sure that everything was set. The report was that five pack horses, three riding horses and a boy would leave first thing in the morning, a guide had been arranged for with the police (all these things being done by our agent, Herb Thompson) who would come out in the truck before 9 A.M., we would load up, leave by 9 and reach the Peach River in one day. It would all be attended, what had not already, said Herb, so Len and I returned to camp lively and rejoicing. Then came the first por- tent - we learned that Joe had gone to Coen to say goodbye to people. We turned in with some misgivings and on getting up this morning there was no sign of Joe. However, expecting the truck and guide, and hoping against hope that Joe would return under his own steam, we completed our packing and got everything ready. By the way, the guide was a boy who had been through to the Peach about ten years ago and was supposed to know a track that was rumor- ed to exist. By 10 A.M. there was no sign of anything so Len started in to Coen. By 12.30 there was no sign of anything at all so I started out for the place. I had gone about a mile along the trail when I heard the sound of a truck in the distance. I stopped and sure enough it contained the lad who was to drive ut, the guide, Joe in a drunken stupor and Len. Herb Thompson had done nothing whatever so Len arranged for the guide; Joe was found in one of the bedrooms in Herb's "hotel" with a bottle of whiskey empty beside him and had been thrown bodily into the truck without even waking. To complete the ensemble, at that moment the horse-boy cam wandering along. He had been xt out to camp but decided he would go back to Coen "to buy something for his wife". He was shanghaied and dumped into the truck beside Joe, we all reached the Bend, loaded up and started.