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Copyright 2012

Matt Eliason




The sun beat down on rocks that reflect the heat. Another bead of sweat formed on the man’s brow and slowly trickled down into his eyes. The burning sting briefly interrupted the throbbing pain coming from his contorted thigh. This pain is only surpassed by the anger he feels for being in this hopeless situation.


It was a name that had appealed to him at first. That and the promise of fishing some almost untouched water. Crystal Creek. Clear flowing streams were hard to find in this remote northwest and coast of Australia. Of course the water hadn’t been clear when he arrived, Experience had told him that clear water and mangrove creeks that cycle through big tides don’t go together, especially not this stumpy backwater. Crystal Creek was nothing more than a string of freshwater pools above the tidal reach that were the remains of the recent wet season and a muddy brown watercourse ebbing between cliffs of jumbled sandstone. The creek was almost strangled at its mouth by dense mangrove stands; it was only big tides that kept it alive.

The man had driven hundreds of kilometers from the nearest
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