Damn it, where did he go?
No idea. I had him in my sights, and then… Gone!
In my hands, my favorite camera—a Canon EOS 1500—shuts itself off.
“Wow, camera,” I mutter. “Talk about being judgy.” It hasn’t beenthatlong since I last got a glimpse of my subject, has it?
To be fair, dragonflies are notorious for their ability to seemingly just disappear in the bush, no matter how focused you are on their dance in the air. But this particular dragonfly?
My heart thumps a little faster, and I bite my bottom lip harder.
I’d planned to spend the day trekking, hiking, and crawling around the wilds of the Hartley Ridge region searching for the endangered and illusive Brush-tailed Rock Wallaby. That wastheactualfocus of my last university assignment ever. So I wasn’t prepared for a lone—and very energetic—Giant Dragon to buzz past me.
I’m not, however, going to ignore a gift horse in the mouth.
Gift dragonfly? Giftpetalura gigantea?
Thispetalura gigantea, AKA the South-Eastern Petaltail, AKA the Giant Dragonfly—capitals earned and deserved, thank you very much—is making my life tricky. Exciting but tricky.
Finding it when it’s considered almost extinct is a rush, given my zoology degree major is in endangered species, but finding it here? Halfway up the side of Talisman Peak is nowhere near its normal swamp habitat.
Squinting into the vegetation around me, I draw in a steadying breath.
It’s here somewhere. I can hear its massive wings beating over the squee of cicadas.
Something dark buzzes past my face so close I swear the displaced air tickles my nose.
There!
Locking my stare on the dragonfly that’s darting about as if to mock me, I scramble to my feet, raise my camera to my face, and?—
“Crap!” I mutter, waking up my camera as I continue to track the dragonfly in the air.
A part of my brain registers the pinky-golden glow of dusk, the deep shadows stretching around me, over me. But another part of me knows if I get a photo of apetalura giganteainthispart of the Blue Mountains, atthiselevation, onthismountain, the followers of my little Instagram account dedicated to photographing all creatures, great and small, will go absolutely nuts.
And I’m going to get that photo.
No way am I going to let a dragonfly beat me.
Is it really about making a few thousand strangers happy, or more about proving you’re not a disappointment?
Hovering a few feet away, the insect seems to wait. Taunting me…
Sucking a slow breath, I raise my camera—ready to go this time—compose the shot and?—
The dragonfly darts away.
“Bastard,” I protest, scrambling after it. Gripping my camera tightly in one hand, I dodge the blades of wild grasses and low branches in my path. The dragonfly zips from side to side, following its own invisible path up the incline.
Thank God, I’m relatively fit. Running for the bus almost every morning has its benefits. As does working at an indoor rock-climbing facility where I have to scale the various walls most weekends to rescue little kids showing off at birthday parties. Otherwise, this goddamn dragonfly would?—
“Shit,” I burst out as it disappears again.
Stopping, I scowl at the annoying Australian bush and then blink at the dirt road I’m on. No, not a road. A track. Where does it lead to?
It leads up, Waverly.
My father’s voice whispers in my head, his thick Californian accent as mocking as the dragonfly.
