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SNOWPOLE THIRTY-EIGHT
Grey mist swirled in swiftly, swallowing the sun,
Daylight glimmered faintly, faded, then was gone,
Fleeing into Hotham the solitary skier
Shuddered with a sudden surge of sour-mouthed fear.
The cruel wind licked about him whispering his name,
Shrieking mindless fury, blinding blizzards came
Drove him stumbling downward, forced on helpless
knees,
Crumpled rag doll spinning, shattered broken skis.
At last the storm abated, sullen clouds hung low,
Searchers combed the gullies probing drifted snow,
Shouts across the silence, echoes rang reply,
Grim horsemen rode worn cattle-pads and cursed the
threatening sky.
A small plane circled Dibbin's Hut, swinging to Loch
Spur,
The observer trained binoculars where movement
seemed to stir,
Elation filled the cockpit as a dim form rose to
stand
Signalling a message with one ice encrusted hand.
'That young feller they found yesterdy' - an old
bloke at Harrietville,
Stared thoughtfully through amber glass at dark
clouds on the hill,
'There's no way he coulda stood upright,
his legs
were both done in,
Yet the pilot swears he walked okay and waved a
scarf at him!'
'The rescue team found no damn scarf or footprints
anywhere,
No trace to even indicate the lad was buried
there,
Now, more'n fifty years ago a young man met his
fate
And died there on the mountain at Snowpole Thirty-
Eight.
I forget his name - from Melbourne - did that air
crew see a ghost
Appear for just a moment when help was needed
most?
The way the weather hit us it would soon have
been too late -
Some-one, something, saved a life at Snowpole
Thirty-Eight!'
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