Brandon Lewis peered out of the window of the Cessna 182S at the vast expanse of red earth below, but only for a few seconds. He truly suspected his iron concentration was all that was keeping the small aircraft in the sky. If he took his eyes off the way ahead, in all likelihood the tiny plane would plunge from the sky like a shot duck and that would be the end of both him and the pilot

“First time?” asked Pete, the tanned and sun-withered pilot.

Brandon smiled nervously, eyes riveted on the way ahead. “Can you tell?”

“Only from the way ya fingers are leavin’ indents in the dash,” he said before chuckling.

The plane hit a small patch of turbulence.

“Oh my…shit!” said Brandon, gasping.

The pilot reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be right. A wind pocket. Get a couple more before we land.”

Brandon wished Pete would just put his hand back on the controls of the plane—where it belonged.

“So you’re a chalkie, are ya?”

“A what?”

“A chalkie. A teacher.”

Brandon nodded. “Yeah. It’s my first year out.”

He could see Pete nodding from the corner of his eye.

“They always send you young’uns up here. No one else’ll come.”

Brandon glanced out of the window and mumbled, “I don’t blame them.”

They hit a second patch of turbulence and the plane bobbed up and down, the nose of the aircraft dipping slightly before levelling off again. Brandon thought he’d throw up. His concentration was now split between keeping the plane in the air by sheer willpower and stopping himself from painting the interior with his breakfast.

When his stomach had finally settled Brandon chanced another look out of the window and realised how beautiful the desert was. It stretched as far as the eye could see, nothing but bright red earth punctuated by round clumps of pale green.

“What are all those things down there?” he asked.

“Spinifex grass.”

Brandon nodded. He’d seen it perfectly represented in Aboriginal paintings as dots, for that’s exactly what they looked like.

They flew over a dry creek bed lined on both sides by ghost gums, a type of eucalypt with beautiful, pale grey trunks and gracefully curving branches of dark green leaves. There was not an animal in sight, due, no doubt, to the intense heat, which Brandon could feel radiating through the windows despite the air conditioning.

An hour after flying out of Newman, a major mining town in the north of Western Australia, Brandon laid eyes on the first signs of civilisation he’d seen since they’d been flying. It was a small cluster of buildings, perhaps a dozen, dissected by a single road that curved through them. Three smaller roads, barely tracks in the desert sand, branched off them.

“Is that what they call a station?” Brandon asked, speaking of the vast properties in this part of the country held by graziers.

Pete laughed. “Nah, mate. That’s Gunnanilla. That’s where we’re headed.”

Brandon felt his heart wither and die. That’s Gunnanilla? That’s where I'll be spending the next ten months?

Perhaps the plane plummeting from the sky wouldn’t have been such a bad thing after all. 2: The Boss

Brandon climbed out of the plane.

The intense heat hit him like a slap in the face. It almost took his breath away. Further along the baked earth of the crude runway a heat haze was shimmering.

“You must be Brandon.”

The man moving towards him looked to be in his late thirties. He was reasonably attractive, apart from a slight overbite, and had dark hair, clipped at the sides and much longer on top so his fringe flopped down over one corner of his forehead. He was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved, collared business shirt. His deeply tanned arms and legs were hairy.

“Yes,” replied Brandon.

“Mark Petersen.”

Brandon smiled as he wiped away the sweat that had already formed on his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mark. It sure is hot out here.”

Mark laughed. “You’d better get used to it.”

Brandon smiled weakly.

Meanwhile, Pete had unloaded Brandon’s cases, one of which contained clothes and the other a jumbled collection of toiletries, shoes, books and stationery.

Mark took both cases and headed towards a large, white four-wheel drive that was parked at the entrance to the runway.

“Have fun,” said Pete as he disappeared around the other side of his plane.

Brandon couldn’t tell whether the pilot was trying to be funny or not.

“See you later,” he called back. “And thanks.”

Brandon turned, wiped his forehead again and trudged down the clay track to the car.