South of Owaka the Catlins, was a bastion of early industry when forests were 'the enemy'. Nestled near the tide of green were clapboard houses with broken timber fences and walkways overgrown on boggy uneven ground. Early 1930's still hung in the air like the musty smell of damp. A dwelling long abandoned its shredded curtains diffusing the daylight around cracked and dirty window panes, peeling paint flaking off like confetti. The inner rooms were dingy but cosy despite the odd hole in the wall and floor boards where weeds poked through - an overstuffed sofa and chair still had a certain dignity facing the soot-caked fireplace, a child's doll lay in the grate; its eyes round and startled looking. My hand reached out towards the rumpled form but then withdrew. I felt those dead eyes at my back. We retraced our steps and went into the passage that led to the veranda. Climbing back into our familiar yellow car we drove down serpentine bush roads, the odd rusting hulk pushed to the side. One was laden with dozens of old beer bottles; the dashboard thick with years of grime, steering wheel long since gone and upholstery holed by rodents. This place, Progress Valley never progressed much. It was a time warp with old farm and milling machinery clotting the primitive and dank landscape. Back at camp the comfort of the gas cooker and the aroma of steak and onions filled the space in our tent. Over a few drinks we mulled over our day's adventure and planned for another, next day. That night I dreamed I heard a solitary whimper outside - not stirring a muscle for I knew something had followed us back from the old house.