Set in Bicheno, Tasmania, in 1969, The Gulch draws readers into the fractured world of John Mallory, a man whose promising future as an architect was buried beneath the weight of the Vietnam War. Emerging from the brutalities of battle, his body is scarred, and his soul is ravaged—haunted by wounds that no one can see and no words can name. John returns to the windswept coastline of his youth, seeking peace in the wild edges of Bicheno—a place where granite boulders, draped in orange lichen, stand like ancient sentinels against the sea. But the land he once knew is steeped in untold secrets and the forgotten stories of the first people who walked there long ago. In the raw and unyielding embrace of this landscape, John hopes to find solace, though the land, like his past, holds more than he is prepared to face.

Solace, however, proves elusive. The Burgess family—wealthy and enigmatic—pulls John into their orbit, commissioning him to design their coastal home. It is an offer he cannot refuse, but one that plunges him deeper into the tangled histories of the land and the family that seeks to inhabit it. As he sketches the lines of their new world, he begins to uncover old ones—forgotten tales of love and loss, of a land that once belonged to the Indigenous people, stories etched into the earth as indelibly as his scars are etched into his soul.

Then there is Rachel—vivacious, unpredictable, and as captivating as the landscape itself. Her presence shakes the fragile quiet John has wrapped around himself, setting in motion events that shatter the solitude he so desperately sought. Beneath Bicheno’s serene surface, the past stirs. The ghosts of Vietnam, the weight of unspoken history, and the land’s ancient whispers rise together, threatening to consume him. Yet, in the shadows of memory, John finds a flicker of redemption—a path toward healing, but only if he can learn to listen to the voices of the past.

As John’s story unfolds, it reveals a haunting meditation on legacy, survival, and the fragile thread that ties us to the land and to each other. The novel resonates with a deep reverence for the Indigenous connection to the earth, offering readers a narrative that is both intimate and far-reaching—where the echoes of war and time weave together in a tapestry of love, loss, and resilience.

The Gulch is a meditation on survival and memory, on the wounds we carry and the stories we inherit. It asks readers to look back and listen to the voices of the past, to honour what has come before, and to reckon with the legacy we are bound to protect. Martin’s tale of John Mallory is one of profound beauty and aching loss—a reminder that the land itself holds the power to heal, if only we are willing to listen.